#he was the first and without him the rest would not be where they are now

[moonstruckme]

Hi Mae!! Hope you’re doing well💖 sooo last weekend, for the first time, I suffered a terrible migraine that landed me in the er (hated the idea but the iv meds on the other hand… lifesaver 🙏) although I’ll admit I was a nervous wreck (they had to call my bf in to help hehe) so I was wondering if you would be willing to write reader kinda going through the same thing with doc!remus, emt!marauders or fwb!doc Remus (loved the last fic you posted about it!!), whatever makes you the happiest!🤩 love you queen ✨🧡

I'm sorry about your migrane lovely! Ty for requesting

cw: hospital, reader is nervous about needles, vomit, nausea, migraine

emt!marauders x fem!reader ♡ 1.5k words

The damp smell of paper is comforting, though the warmth of your own breath blowing back on your face makes your eye throb all the way to the back of your skull. You’re so focussed on not vomiting you don’t even realize the car has stopped moving. 

James rubs your back. “We’re here,” he says, voice considerately soft. It sends painful reverberations through your head anyway. 

A whimper slips out of you into your paper bag cavern. 

“Let me have that.” Sirius is being quiet, too, though the bag crinkles some when he takes it from you. Your seatbelt clicks off. “It’s okay, you’re not going to be sick. Come on, lovely.” 

You crack your eyes open. Every muscle in your face clenches instinctively at the barrage of sunlight. Sirius waits outside your car door with his hand held out. 

“I don’t want to,” you mumble. Not exactly eloquent, but apt enough. 

Sirius’ mouth pinches with sympathy. “I know. It’s gonna be shit at first, but it’ll be good for you in the end, alright?” 

You hesitate. It’s difficult to think past the pulsing ache in your face and temples, past the taste of bile on your tongue. You know that it’s not your boyfriends’ first time dealing with a migraine, and they probably have a good sense of what warrants medical attention, but you feel strongly that staying where things can be still and quiet is the far superior option. 

“Trust us,” James murmurs. 

You take Sirius’ hand. He helps ease you out of the car, James hovering behind you, and delivers you straight to Remus’ arms. Remus holds you against him like you might crumple without the support. It’s a founded fear. 

“Want to try these?” he asks, transferring a couple of rubber earplugs into your palm. “Might help a bit.” 

You hum your thanks, pressing them in. You walk into A&E with Remus and James on each side of you and Sirius taking up the rear like they can shield you from it all. 

Sirius is right. It’s fucking shit. 

The earplugs do something, perhaps, but not much to deaden the noise of the emergency department. Voices overlapping, machines beeping, some baby somewhere wailing its head off. Anxiety sits in the air like a thick mist, and the low buzzing of the fluorescent lights amplifies it all. 

Your nausea surges. “Bag,” you mumble, but in this environment you’re too quiet for anyone to hear. 

You clamp your jaw shut and try to breathe evenly as Remus walks with you tucked close to his side. Eventually, you squeeze your eyes shut, letting him guide you the rest of the way into a small, curtained-off room. 

“Bag,” you try again. James hands it to you—Sirius seems to have peeled off at some point, you don’t know when—just in time for you to bend over, retching. 

“Oh, my love.” Remus gathers a few flyaways back from your face. One of your earplugs falls out. James grips the side of your bag, too, making sure you don’t drop it. “You’re alright, let it out. We’re done going anyplace.” 

Your temples feel like they’re bulging the whole time you’re emptying your stomach into the paper bag, but eventually you’re finished. James ties it off and drops it in a wastebin. 

“Come here,” he coaxes, helping you up onto the table. You tent your legs in front of you, pushing the aching side of your face into your knee. It helps, strangely. James kisses your shoulder. “That’s it. No more moving, I promise.” 

“Alright, we’re all registered,” Sirius announces as the curtain pulls open. You must flinch visibly, because he lowers his volume, Remus’ hand landing between your shoulders. “I’ve filled out your forms—in fucking record time, if I do say so myself—so we’re all set to get you started on some meds, gorgeous. Where’s the—did we throw up again?” 

“Yeah.” You can hear the grimace in James’ voice. “Can we get another bag? Just in case…” 

“I don’t think I have anything left,” you admit. 

“Okay,” Sirius says smoothly. Remus has begun massaging the taut muscles of your neck, your boyfriends’ combined caring wrapping around you like an embrace. “That’s alright, we’ve got you. Let’s have some medicine, yeah?” 

There’s a good amount of shuffling around. Remus’ hand stays on your nape, but you hear equipment being moved, something crinkling and something else squeaking. When you eventually risk opening your eyes again, Sirius and James are nearly done setting up and you find you haven’t completely emptied your stomach, after all. 

“No,” you moan. 

James blinks up at you. “Angel, this is going to help.” 

“I don’t want an IV,” you say. Pleading, but already your sinuses are throbbing with defeat. 

“You can’t have anything oral if you’re going to throw it up.” Sirius looks you in the eyes. His gaze is steady, if not a tiny bit pitying. “It’s going to make you feel better, I swear.” 

“It’s going to hurt.” You start to cry. You’re already dealing with enough hurt. Between the bright lights, and all the noise, and your eye socket feeling like someone is trying to hammer an ice pick through it, you really feel like anything more could do you in. You don’t think you can take it. 

“It only hurts for a second.” James is pleading now, too. He gets up on the table with you, maneuvering himself until you’re sitting between his legs, the warmth of his body wrapped around you. Remus continues soothing the pain at the base of your skull. “Trust us, sweetheart, please. We wouldn’t have put you through all this if we didn’t think we’d be able to help.” 

“Sirius is good at this,” Remus murmurs. “Let him.” 

You sniff, throbbing and nauseous and overwhelmed, but hold out your arm. Sirius presses a kiss to the inside of your wrist. 

“We’re gonna take care of you,” he promises, wiping the crook of your elbow. “Close your eyes, baby.” 

You push your face into your knee again and let Remus’ gentle fingers ease the tension in you. Between his hand on your neck, James’ arms wrapped around your shoulders, and Sirius probing at the inside of your arm, all the contact should worsen your sensory overload, but your boyfriends’ touches ground you. Remus shushes you gently when the needle pricks your skin, though you don’t make a sound. 

“There we are,” Sirius murmurs, still messing with your arm. “Doing so good, almost done. And…that’s it.” 

He flattens a piece of tape with his thumbs. When he pulls your fingers to his mouth for a kiss, you squeeze his hand. 

“Thanks,” you mumble. 

“Anytime, sweetness.” 

“You are good at that.” 

Sirius laughs, trying to quiet himself halfway through. “Well, I am a professional. Did no one mention that?” 

You hum weakly. 

James sets his lips to your shoulder. “You did good, angel. The medicine should kick in soon, okay? Just bear with us a little while longer.” 

You lean into him in thanks, and you wait. You all wait, practically unmoving, you tense with pain and your boyfriends tense with their own torment. You’re the quietest stall in the hospital. 

The meds don’t work all at once. It’s a slow, seeping sort of relief, and you don’t even fully register it until you notice that you’re not pressing your face into your knee as harshly. You don’t feel the need to create your own ache to supersede the one already there. The taut muscles at the base of your skull aren’t so taut anymore. 

You let out a breath. 

“Yeah?” Remus murmurs. 

“Yeah.” 

James plants a happy kiss on your shoulder. “How is it?” he asks. “Scale of one to ten.” 

“I think…probably a seven? But it was a nine before.” 

“That’s good, sweetheart.” You can hear the smile in his voice without raising your head. “It should keep feeling better.” 

You take another full breath. It feels good to do it without worrying you’re going to trigger your nausea again. 

“Want to try laying down?” Sirius asks softly. 

You nod, letting yourself list to the side. James helps you down the rest of the way. Sirius has pulled up a stool to the side of your little cot. He presses his thumb and forefinger to the top of your nose, just under your brow bone, and pushes gently. Something almost like a whimper escapes you. 

“Okay?” he asks. 

“Yeah. Feels good.” 

“It’s because his hands are so freezing,” Remus teases. You think you hear the soft sound of a kiss landing on Sirius’ cheek, but Sirius’ hand never falters. He slowly works his way upward, drilling little circles in the center of your forehead before setting his thumbs to both of your temples. You feel the wound-tight knot of your head softening and unspooling. 

“Think you might be able to go to sleep?” Remus hums after a while. 

“I don’t know if I can help it,” you reply. You’ve been weathering this for days, the pain relentless and taxing. You’re exhausted. 

“That’s good, lovely. Get some rest.” 

“Will you…” 

“Yeah. We’ll be here.”

[amie-one]

"while he bites on his necklace so it won't hit my face,"

___________________________________________

It was your usual weekend night where you would found yourself loafing at the coach, wrapped in your favorite thick blanket while watching an episode of a Netflix show you've been keeping fermented in your watchlist for months.

And you did all of these while missing your boyfriend.

It's been about two months since Kwon Soonyoung enlisted to the military in the active duty services. He would contact you sometimes but it has grown lesser and lesser these day. Not that you're complaining as you have grow accustomed to it.

Though it's pretty difficult for you to adapt since he's the type to overshare almost everything and anything related to his life, so your daily seems a bit empty without all of his useless TMI he thought you need to know.

As the show reached the mid mark of the episode that even you had started to yawn, you heard the sound of your security keypad beeping from the outside.

What the hell?

You froze on the couch, heart racing before you whipped your head towards the door.

Robber? No. Why would a robber enter a house by entering your house passcode?

Then, a stalker? Damn it!

You urged yourself to think fast as you launched yourself to your feet and slowly padded towards a corner where a baseball bat was resting against the wall of your home. Perfect weapon for a self-defense, you thought.

The door creaked open and you had your bat out ready to welcome whoever intruder passing through the door with a pounding chest.

Only for you to caught yourself frozen in the next minute.

Because there he is, Soonyoung stood in the doorway, one duffel bag in one hand. He was still in his tight olive green that clung to his frame that you haven't touched in months, one you've been missing lately.

He looked at you like he hadn't seen sunlight in weeks. In fact, you were to him.

"Surprise," he said. "Though I would say what an interesting way to welcome me,"

You didn't say a word. The bat dropped to the floor as you walked straight towards him. The slow steps turn into a light jog as you finally launched yourself into his arms as he voluntarily threw his bag away to welcome you in.

Your arms wrapped around his nape, along with your legs tightening around his waist, clinging on him like a koala. Soonyoung chuckled before he also buried his nose into the crook of your neck, inhaling your scent he has been missing a lot.

"Miss me?" He asked.

"Idiot," You murmured. "More than you think,"

You barely remembered stumbling into the bedroom with your lips on each other and clothes hastily discarded to the floor. Everything was blurred until what was left is his heat and his body above you.

His rhythm was deep, slow and steady. Each thrust he drawn out like he wanted you to feel how much he missed you, how long he has waited for you and your touch against him again.

Your fingers curled into his back, nails digging deep into his now slightly tanned skins, drawing blood that cause him to hiss from time to time. Your breathe coming a little sharp at every rolls of his hip against yours.

But then you finally noticed it.

The dog tag chain that currently swinging between your bodies. You've felt its cold metal kissing the slope of your chest at first, then bouncing off your collarbone, then :

Flick!

Your cheek.

It kept swinging everytime he thrust.

Clink!

Your chin.

Clink!

Nose.

Tap.

Right on your lips.

It was so ridiculous that you let out a helpless laugh between moans. "S-Soonyoung, your tag-"

He paused to glanced down at your face, watching it swinging before it lightly smacking you on your face again.

"Oh, sorry..." He chuckled. His fingers then grabbed the chain and bit down on the tag.

Just bit it in between his teeth. You can even see his jawline slightly flexing as he did.

Your breath caught in your throat, your brain totally went short-circuited.

The tag no longer swung like it did before. It hung, tight and stretched, the metal glinting under the dim light, his eyes locked on yours, daring you to keep looking at anything else but him.

"Are you gonna focus now?"

You gasped, clutching at his shoulder.

Holy shit.

___________________________________________

A/N : yea i feel a little bit crazy after seeing that comment on tiktok. Anyway, made my debut finally yay

[flowergirl1243]

soft launch season - [part two]

SUMMARY: when Lando Norris' notorious party boy reputation may be too far out of control to save, you step in to save his image (and maybe his heart).

PAIRING: lando norris x fem!reader

part one part two part three part four part five part six

ACT 2: THE THEORY ERA

Liked by oscarpiastri, mclaren and others lando slower days. better mornings.

user8 WHOSE HAND??

user9 ok soft launch. we see you

user10 you used to be fun 🙄 ↳ user11 no this is romantic as hell don't stop lando

They were at the marina.

She’d asked if he wanted to walk. He said yes without thinking, then spent the next twenty minutes regretting how fast he said it.

They didn’t talk much at first.

The marina was half-lit, sky dimming to that deep, moody blue just before it slips into black. The air smelled like salt and engine oil and late summer. Waves lapped at the sides of the boats, soft and rhythmic. Everything around them was low, slow, quiet.

She walked beside him, not quite brushing shoulders, but close enough to make him aware of her with every step. She wore something simple, white linen pants, a tank top, a sweater tied around her waist. Hair pulled back, skin glowing from the last of the sun. He hated how he noticed every detail.

They weren’t touching. They never really were. But it always felt like they almost were.

Lando shoved his hands into his pockets.

“So what, you just walk around the marina for fun?” he asked.

“Sometimes,” she said, her voice calm. “Good place to think.”

He side-eyed her. “You invited me. Kind of defeats the purpose.”

She just gave him that look again, the one where her mouth twitched like she was hiding a joke, but her eyes stayed steady. “Maybe I wanted company.”

That word made something shift in his chest.

He looked away. “You’re hard to figure out.”

She smiled in a way that said she knew all his secrets. “That’s the point.”

They stopped near the edge, where the dock curved outward and the water looked like glass. Lights from the moored boats rippled on the surface, casting reflections that wobbled and stretched. It was stupidly beautiful, and Lando hated how aware he was of it. Or maybe he just hated how aware he was of her.

She sat down on the edge without hesitation, feet dangling over the water. After a second, he followed, close but not touching.

A breeze swept in from the coast, cool enough to make her pull the sleeves of her sweater over her hands. Lando tried not to stare as she tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, her profile soft in the half-light.

“This feels too normal,” she murmured.

He glanced at her. “Too normal?”

She shrugged, eyes still on the sea. “I thought fake dating a Formula 1 driver would be a little more…I don’t know. Flashy.”

He smiled. “You want paparazzi and champagne?”

“Not really. But I wasn’t expecting you to be quiet.”

“I’m not quiet.”

“You are with me.”

That hung between them for a second too long.

He cleared his throat, suddenly aware of every inch of space between them. And more than that, every inch they weren’t touching. Which was ridiculous. He wasn’t trying to notice that. It just happened.

“Maybe I just don’t have anything to say.”

She turned her head slowly, resting her chin on her knee. “Or maybe you’re scared if you say something, it’ll start to feel real.”

His heart stuttered.

But she didn’t say it like a challenge. She said it like a passing observation. Like she wasn’t even talking about him.

Still, he didn’t know what to say to that. So he didn’t say anything at all.

They sat in silence again, and it wasn’t awkward. But it wasn’t comfortable either. It was something else. A space with too many sharp edges and not enough words.

Eventually, she stretched her arms behind her, leaning back on her palms.

“So…” she said, slow and casual, “when do you think we have to start, you know…acting more convincingly?”

He blinked. “You don’t think we’re convincing?”

She smiled, but it was tight. “I think we are. I don’t know if they think we are.”

He nodded, unsure if they were still talking about the public anymore. Or if that had ever been the point.

“I guess we’ll have to be more obvious,” he said.

“Guess so,” she echoed.

And neither of them moved.

He hated interviews. Always had.

Not because they were hard, they weren’t. Say what you’re meant to say. Smile when you’re supposed to. Keep the edge off. Stay likeable. It wasn’t rocket science.

But lately, the questions had started shifting. Less about racing lines and car setups. More about…him.

Today wasn’t any different.

He’d just stepped off the pit wall after quali, still in his race suit, half-zipped, sweat cooling on the back of his neck. The sun was brutal, and his mind was still half on the lap he’d botched in sector three.

But the interviewer had that look, the 'so, let’s talk about your personal life' glint that made his stomach turn.

“Fans are saying you’ve mellowed out a bit this season,” the interviewer started, microphone up, grin too polished. “Anything to credit that to?”

Lando smiled. Just a little. Just enough.

He could’ve dodged it. He could’ve made a joke, shrugged it off, said something forgettable.

But instead,

“I don’t know,” he said, eyes flicking away for half a second. “Maybe I just figured out what matters.”

The interviewer’s eyebrows went up, like he hadn’t expected that much honesty. “She watches your races?”

Lando exhaled through a smile. “Sometimes. Not always.”

He looked out past the paddock, toward the crowd, toward the edge of the garages where team staff filtered in and out. And maybe if he wished with his whole might, she might be standing there with her soft smile that promised everything will be alright.

But she wasn't. He was here in Miami, and she was back home in Monaco. And then in a brief moment of lapse, he repeated something she had told him on their third 'date' together.

“She says she prefers the parts where I’m standing still.”

There was a beat of laughter, polite, surprised, genuine.

The interview wrapped soon after, just a few more technical questions before they thanked him and moved on. But Lando stayed there for a moment longer, tugging his suit back up over his shoulders, jaw tight.

He shouldn’t have said that. Or maybe he should’ve.

He didn’t know anymore.

All he knew was that she’d hear it. Whether someone sent her the clip or she found it herself, she’d see the way he said it. The pause before the smile. The softness in it.

She’d know he wasn’t acting.

And that was what scared him.

Because the second she realised it, really realised it, he didn’t know what she’d do.

But he knew he’d already crossed the line.

1 voicemail from lando [1:04]

"hey, y/n. [pause]. I don’t know if you watched the race today. Wouldn’t blame you if you didn’t. Honestly, I kind of hope you didn’t. I wasn’t great. The car was fighting me the whole time, and I wasn’t really…in it.

I know I probably shouldn't be calling, or whatever, but [pause] I just...miss you. Is that weird of me to say? I don't know.

Everything is just so loud here. You’re the quiet in my head, if that makes sense. Probably doesn’t. I’m tired.

You weren’t there. I could feel it. It’s stupid. Sorry, I just wanted to talk to you. Even like this. Uh, yeah. [pause] Bye."

Hello, my angels! Here is part two of this series, yippee!! If you have any ideas or suggestions for other things I could do or any requests do let me know! Also, if you want to be added to the taglist let me know! Thanks so much for your support!!

Also in honour of Lando winning today, I may do a double update! taglist @sol3chu, @charlesgirl16, @motorsp0rt, @imdyinghelpplease, @vampgege

[hcvney]

“ After Everything ”

After surviving the games, you find Dae-ho again—this time in the quiet of his apartment. What starts as a reunion turns into something deeper.

-

Rating: 18+ (explicit, nsfw)

Pairing: Kang Dae-ho / player 388 x F!Reader

Setting: Post-Squid Game, modern setting

Warnings: mutual pining, unprotected sex, praise kink, overstimulation, creampie, dirty talk, body worship, aftercare

-

It had been days since the Games ended. The chaos, the deaths, the silence after that final moment.

But what stuck with you most was the way he looked at you before it ended.

Like he was already imagining a life after.

“My place is near that corner noodle shop with the flickering sign,” he’d said, barely above a whisper, when the guards turned their backs.

“If we make it out… find me.”

And now… you had.

You stood in front of his door, heart pounding, fingers curling into your sleeves.

Would he even want to see you again?

But before the anxiety could sink in deeper, the door opened.

And there he was.

No uniform. No bruises. No blood.

Just Dae-ho.

Plain black tee. His hair down — soft against his face, no longer slicked back like in the games. His eyes widened when he saw you.

Then slowly, lit up.

“You… actually found me,” he said, breath catching.

You smiled. Nervously.

“You told me where you lived. I remembered.”

He opened the door wider without hesitation.

“Come in.”

-

The place was small, quiet — but clean. Warm.

He gestured to the couch, and you sat. You could feel his eyes on you, but they weren’t calculating like during the Games. They were… soft.

“How are you feeling?” he asked, sitting beside you.

“After… everything.”

You let out a breath.

“Still trying to believe it’s real. That we’re not in a simulation or about to wake up in the dorms.”

He nodded slowly, his gaze locked on you.

“You look different,” he said quietly.

You turned to him. “So do you.”

He smiled. “Do I?”

“Your hair’s down. You seem…”

You trailed off.

“Alive?” he offered with a half-laugh.

“Free,” you said.

He looked at you then — really looked.

“You were the only thing that felt real in there.”

The air shifted.

You didn’t know who leaned first. Maybe both. Maybe neither.

But when his lips touched yours — slow, careful, almost afraid you’d vanish — it was like breathing for the first time.

And then… it deepened.

His hand cupped your jaw. Yours slid to his chest. The tension built naturally — no rush, just relief. Like everything had been bottled up from the first time you looked at each other in that brutal world.

His body shifted closer, heat between you both rising, kisses turning desperate — until his forehead rested against yours, breath shaking.

“I’ve wanted to do this since the first night you sat next to me,” he whispered.

You touched his cheek gently, thumb brushing over his skin.

“Then don’t stop.”

He let out a breath like he’d been holding it for years.

And then — he kissed you again.

Deeper. Stronger. Everything else blurred.

-

His lips didn’t leave yours for a long time.

The couch shifted beneath you as he leaned in closer, his hand moving to the side of your neck — gentle, but possessive. Like he couldn’t believe you were real, and didn’t want to take the chance.

You gasped slightly when his other hand touched your waist. He paused.

“Is this okay?” he whispered, lips brushing yours.

You nodded. Slowly. Breathlessly.

“I want this too.”

That was all he needed.

He pulled you in again, the kiss deepening — hungrier now. Still careful, but there was something behind it: a need that had been starved for too long. You didn’t feel scared. Not with him. Not here.

Your back hit the cushions softly, his body sinking above yours. The space between you disappeared—his chest pressed flush against yours, skin to skin, heat rising between every breath.

Every brush of skin, every low breath and shift of closeness was desperate in its own way — not just about touch, but about being alive.

Your hands found his chest, his shoulders, his hair — which was soft now, falling around his face as he kissed down your neck and whispered your name like it was something sacred.

When the moment finally grew heavier — when the rhythm of your kisses slowed but deepened — he pulled away just slightly, forehead against yours.

“You’re the only thing that kept me human in there.”

“And you’re the only one I trusted,” you whispered.

His mouth moved over yours, then to your jaw, trailing kisses down to the sensitive spot just beneath your ear. You gasped when his tongue grazed it—he smiled against your skin.

Your hands slid under his shirt, feeling the sharp lines of his torso, the ridges where hunger and muscle met. You could feel his heart racing beneath your palms. He sat up only to tug the shirt off, revealing everything, every tense breath—before his mouth found yours again, rougher now.

You wrapped your legs around his hips as he pressed his body to yours, grinding down just enough to draw a moan from you.

His name left your lips like a prayer.

“Dae-ho…”

“I need you to say it again,” he murmured against your lips.

“Need what?” you asked breathlessly.

“My name,” he whispered. “Only you say it like that.”

You cupped his face, guiding him down for another kiss. “Then I’ll say it all night.”

That was all it took for him to lose the last bit of restraint.

Your shirt came off, and his eyes locked on your chest, gaze darkening. The way he looked at you wasn’t lust alone—it was hunger laced with devotion. As though he were worshipping something sacred.

“You’re so beautiful,” he murmured, brushing his thumbs over your nipples through the thin fabric of your bra, making you arch into him with a soft gasp. “You don’t know how many nights I thought about touching you like this.”

He reached behind you to unclasp your bra—his fingers surprisingly gentle despite the urgency—and you helped shrug it off your shoulders, leaving you bare beneath him.

Dae-ho let out a low breath as his hands slid over your breasts, kneading softly at first, then rougher as your thighs shifted beneath him.

He leaned down, lips wrapping around one nipple while he teased the other with his fingers. You cried out, threading your fingers into his hair, your back arching beneath him, your hips rising up to grind against his

Your were soaked by now, the ache between your thighs sharp and pulsing. He clearly felt it too. The way you kept shifting your hips against the growing bulge in his sweats made him growl into your skin.

He groaned into your mouth as you pulled him closer, the sound low and guttural, vibrating deep in his throat.

“You drive me insane,” he murmured, dragging his lips along your jaw, down your neck. “Do you know how long I’ve wanted this? Since the Games… since before the final round.”

You nodded, breathless. “Please… don’t stop.”

his length grinding against you through thin fabric. You arched beneath him, eyes fluttering, mouth parting with a shaky moan.

He grunted. “You feel… so good. I can’t—”

He kissed down your stomach, tongue flicking over your navel as he slowly pulled your pants and underwear down together, exposing you fully.

You parted your legs for him, and he settled between them, hands gripping your thighs. When his fingers slid through your folds, testing how wet you were, you whimpered and grabbed the cushion behind your head.

“God… you’re soaked,” he muttered. “Is this all for me?”

“Only you,” you said, breath hitching as he circled your clit with two fingers, just enough pressure to make your thighs tremble.

He leaned in, placing a kiss just above your hipbone, and then another—closer to your center. But instead of diving down, he pulled himself back up, letting his body settle over yours again, his sweats now shoved low on his hips.

You felt him—thick and hard—pressing against your entrance as he lined himself up.

When he entered you, it was deep and slow. He hissed through his teeth, clutching your hips like he might lose himself completely. You cried out softly, your body molding to his like you were made for this moment—for him.

He stilled once he was fully in, pressing his forehead to yours, both of you trembling.

You kissed him again, moaning into his mouth as he began to move—deep, slow thrusts that filled you completely, every drag of his hips hitting the sweet spot inside you. The rhythm wasn’t rushed. It was intentional. He wanted you to feel every second of it.

“Dae-ho—fuck—don’t stop,” you whimpered, your voice already wrecked

His forehead was pressed against yours, sweat dripping down his temple. “You’re taking me so well, baby. So perfect… God, you feel so fucking good.”

Your legs wrapped around his waist, heels digging into his lower back, silently begging him to go faster. He did. His thrusts turned harder, more urgent, and your breath turned to gasps, soft cries of his name every time he drove into you.

“Say it again,” he panted. “Say my name.”

The combination of his cock dragging inside you, thick and deep, and his thumb working relentless circles over your swollen clit had your body tensing beneath him. Your walls fluttered, tightening with each stroke, and you could feel it—your orgasm coiling hot and fast in your belly, just about to snap.

He could feel it too.

“Dae-ho… Dae-ho, I—I’m close—”

“That’s it,” he groaned, hand sliding between you to rub tight circles over your clit. “I wanna feel you lose it on me. Come on—let go.”

His words pushed you over the edge.

You cried out his name as the orgasm slammed into you—white-hot, full-body, blinding. Your back arched off the couch, thighs shaking, mouth open in a desperate moan as your pussy clenched around him, pulsing in waves.

“Fuck—just like that—” Dae-ho groaned, barely holding on.

He didn’t last long after that. The way your body clenched around him, how you moaned his name —it pushed him over the edge.

You felt him throb inside you as he slammed into you one final time, hips stuttering, his breath catching on a curse as he came—hot, deep, filling you. He gasped your name into your neck, his entire body going tense, then softening as he spilled into you, riding the last waves of his high.

His whole body trembling as he held you tight.

Burying his face into your neck, whispering broken things—your name, I love you, I missed you.

His arms didn’t let go. Not even after.

-

Warm sunlight peeked through the thin curtain. Soft, golden, and quiet.

You were curled into his side on the couch, one of his arms around your shoulders, the other resting gently at your waist.

Dae-ho’s eyes were still closed, but his grip tightened slightly when he felt you shift.

“You’re still here,” he mumbled, voice thick with sleep.

“I wasn’t going anywhere,” you said, barely above a whisper.

He opened his eyes slowly and looked at you. Messy hair. No tension in his jaw. Just peace — the first time you’d seen it.

You reached for his hand resting at your waist and held it tightly.

“What now?” you asked.

He was quiet for a second.

“I still don’t know,” he admitted. “I never thought we’d make it out.”

You nodded. “Me either.”

“But… if I have to figure it out,” he continued, turning toward you, “I’d rather do it with you.”

He gave you a small, tired smile. The kind you hadn’t seen during the games. One that was just for you.

“I used some of the money already,” he added. “Quiet place. Rent for the year. Cleared my debts. Still have enough left to disappear if I need to.”

“And you?” he asked gently. “What’ll you do with your share?”

You looked down, thoughtful.

“Start over, I guess. Somewhere quiet. Somewhere I can actually sleep through the night.”

He nodded.

“Then come back here anytime,” he said. “Or stay. I wouldn’t mind.”

He squeezed your hand.

“After everything we’ve been through… you don’t have to survive alone anymore.”

You leaned forward and kissed his cheek.

“Neither do you.”

-

[levilover-thefirst]

Thinking about Levi dying before you do

After the war ended, both you and Levi continued to live together, sharing the same bed, the same life. It could have been a dream that came true. But cruel fate decided to prove Levi once more that nothing lasts forever, that death might fall upon people at any time, even during the newfound peace. Loved ones could always be lost.

It wasn’t about you, though. Somehow, despite the endless injuries and trauma you had to deal with throughout your life, you lived in perfect health. Still strong, still hardworking, still determined to help rebuild the destroyed world.

It was about Levi. With the Titans gone, the Ackerman power disappeared too. And without it, his fatigued body started to give out on him, unnoticed at first.

Of course, many chores and everyday tasks became challenging due to his damaged leg, but it was bearable. Levi learned to use the wheelchair, although begrudgingly. After a few months of healing, he could walk short distances using a cane, too. It wasn't the end of the world, he liked to remind himself. Because, in fact, the world did not end on that day, so he kept pushing forward.

Time went on, and sometimes it felt as though Levi's age was catching up to him. There were no sudden changes, nothing too concerning - just some less appetite, some more exhaustion. Getting out of bed felt almost impossible at times, each sore muscle begging for more rest. But it was understandable, considering the number of stressful and terrifying events he had to endure in life. He was just tired, that's what he kept telling you every time you asked if something was wrong.

Your worry began to rise after Levi caught flu for the first time, a nasty type at that. You've never seen him this sick, bedridden with a fever high enough to push him to the edge of consciousness. You stayed with him the entire time, applying cold compresses to his overheated skin, trembling hands folded in prayer for him to get better. Eventually, he did. But it wasn't a full recovery, even though Levi kept stubbornly assuring you that he was fine. Your concerned eyes saw how much paler he got, how his breathing was more shallow than what you remembered. As if the illness didn't really leave, just hid somewhere deep and kept biting from within. You tried to talk about it, but he would just wave you off and kiss you on the forehead to calm you down. It didn't work. His lips were chapped.

From then on, not a single month passed by without Levi getting sick. You knew something was wrong, but he refused to see a doctor, couldn't bring himself to bother them with his state, which wasn't the worst. It was not that bad. Some people needed a doctor much more than he did, and Levi would much rather lie with a raging fever than be an obstacle on someone else's way to health. Because there weren't many doctors left in this world. Because somewhere nearby, a child could be losing their mother to illness, and that's where doctors are needed the most. Not here, next to him. Pressuring him did no good. The built-up frustration would always end with a fight between you, who wanted to take care of Levi the best you could, and him, who was scared. Of vulnerability. Of weakness. Of the intense worry settled in your eyes.

Levi's wellbeing spiraled downward just a few years later. One of the frequent colds turned to bronchitis. Then to pneumonia. Both of you had a feeling that it was bound to happen, that sooner or later Levi's health issues would take a turn for the worse. But neither could say it out loud, too scared that spoken words might somehow bring the grim future a few steps closer. And then there it was, right there with you, with the doctor who finally came, not because Levi agreed to their visit, but because he couldn’t oppose it anymore. He didn’t have enough energy to speak, shallow breaths being the only sound leaving his dry mouth.

He wouldn't say much even if he could, though. As his state began to deteriorate, he grew more and more distant, trying to push you away. Trying to protect you from the fruitless life you were doomed to have if you stayed with him. You deserved much more than what he could give you, especially now. But you stayed anyway, of course you did. You and your loyalty. Your unconditional love. Levi's chest tightened the more he thought about it. Did he deserve it?

The doctor explained Levi's state to you in a hushed tone, told you that his immune system didn't work properly and couldn't fight the infection. That there used to be effective treatment methods, but the ongoing crisis caused by the rumbling made them completely unavailable. Easing the pain and discomfort was the only thing left. These words cut through your heart mercilessly, but you kept your composure. You had to, for Levi. In order to bring him comfort, you had to fight off the tears, fight off the distance he set between you. You had to be brave, even if it would break you.

And so you spent every waking moment right next to him, no matter how hard it was, no matter how much Levi wished for you to leave and find happiness somewhere else. You kept smiling sweetly, sweeping strands of hair from his face. Proving to him that he could never push you away, you would always find a way right back. It filled him with an overwhelming feeling of gratefulness, but it was bittersweet. He was forced to face his biggest fear - you being left alone. Without him to look after you anymore, to make sure you were safe. Just you and a huge, still foreign world. He knew you were strong; you could survive anything. So full of empathy, you would easily find support and love in other people. But what if someone hurts you? So many terrible things could still happen. And he wouldn't be there.

These thoughts kept him from sleeping, tormenting him every day and night. But eventually, Levi became too weak to dwell on them, too dizzy to form coherent thoughts or even keep his eyes open. He did his best to concentrate on your presence, your soft hands on his cheeks, quiet whispers into his ear. Sometimes he couldn't tell if he was awake or asleep, your affection being just a part of his dream. Things started to feel diluted, indistinct. He lost track of time and didn't know how long he'd been in this state, stuck between reality and some other, distant place.

One evening, just after the sunset took the last rays of light from the room, Levi suddenly stirred. An urgent need to see you, to take a good look at you, brought him back to his senses immediately. He opened his eyes and searched for you with blurry vision, blinded by the candle burning at his bedside table. You were right next to him, as always, sitting at the edge of his bed, head resting lightly near his chest. Levi mustered up the strength to take a deep breath and say your name to bring your attention to him. It came out as a quiet croak, but you heard it clearly. As your eyes met, you smiled the most beautiful smile Levi had ever seen. It moved him deeply, made him feel that he had to tell you something, quickly, right then and there. But what could he possibly say when his head was a mess, shreds of thoughts rushing chaotically through his mind? How could he say anything with his mouth completely dry, his tongue tied and numb?

Levi's breath quickened; he felt he had to hurry, even though he didn't know why. Yet still, nothing came to his confused mind, so he just stared helplessly into your eyes. That's when you took his hands into yours and, with the same unwavering smile, told him you love him.

Instantly, Levi calmed down, tensed muscles relaxing. You love him. Of course you do. Seeing your face, hearing you say these words was all he needed. You love him, and that was all that mattered. He sighed and closed his eyes again, finally content, finally comfortable. You love him, and that was the only thought left in his mind as he drifted off back to somewhere far away.

[starlightkun]

soulbound ➺ j.sc [teaser]

➺ teaser word count: 1797 | full fic: 23.6k ➺ genre: two bodies one soul au, enemies to begrudging roomies to lovers, acquaintances of extreme inconvenience, fluff, humor, some hurt/comfort, there’s some moments with probably more horny energy than is warranted (sungchan and reader r always bickering/squaring up and sometimes it gets physical and everyone’s just like… uhm… that’s not how ppl fight y’all…), not actually a soulmate au bc even tho reader and sungchan technically do share a soul it’s not an inherently romantic thing in this world ➺ warnings: FLAWED CHARACTERS, reader and sungchan r both kinda mean to each other at the beginning (see first genre tag please) for sympathetic(?) but also not great reasons, reader does something knowing it will inflict physical pain on sungchan (i once again refer u to the first genre tag), descriptions of physical pain and injury, one scene with blood/needle/hospital depictions ➺ estimated release: saturday, july 5, 2025 3:00 p.m. eastern time

“I have a job interview tomorrow, by the way,” you stated from Sungchan’s passenger seat, eyes focused on the passing buildings. He had gone to the gym this morning—bright and fucking early as always—which meant that you unfortunately had to go as well, since his gym was just far enough away that if he went alone, the distance would start putting stress on your soul. Sometimes you walked on a treadmill, but usually you sat in a corner on your phone until he was done.

“First I’ve heard of it,” he snorted.

“It’s your day off, stop bitching.”

He rolled his eyes. “What time?”

“Two. You’ll have to dress professional.”

“Yeah, right. I’m not interviewing.”

“But if I have to have you walk in with me, you can’t look like a fucking slob,” you pointed out.

“I’ll just wait in the car. Where is it?”

“Inverness & Wildwood.”

“You’re shitting me.”

“No, I’m not.”

“You’re not going.”

“Yes, I am,” you insisted.

“No, you’re fucking not,” he retorted. “It’s the next city over.”

“I haven’t interviewed yet, I don’t know if I’d even get it.”

Sungchan pulled into his driveway, putting the car in park but not turning it off as he shot you a withering look, pointing to the house in front of him. “Y/N, we still live with our parents because we couldn’t agree on a dorm or apartment complex to move into in college.”

“So you’re going to force me to live with my parents for the rest of our lives?” You asked incredulously.

“You can’t force me to move somewhere!”

“I’m sorry I have career aspirations past the part-time job we got in high school!”

“You don’t even have to come to my job, but you’re expecting me to fucking move for yours!”

“I didn’t say that!” You were seeing red now. “Don’t put words in my mouth!”

Sungchan, meanwhile, looked like he was about to rip his own hair out. “It’s in another city, how exactly do you expect to work there without me and also without us fucking dying?”

“This isn’t fucking fair!” You grabbed the door handle and got out of the car.

Sungchan turned the car off and got out too. “Tell me about it,” he muttered.

“I hate you! I hate you! I hate you!” You yelled, slammed the door shut, and stormed off towards your house.

“I know!” He called after you derisively.

Angry, hot tears burned your eyes and rolled down your cheeks as you fumbled to unlock your front door. You slammed that door shut too in your fury, ignoring your dad’s ‘good morning’ as you ran upstairs to your bedroom. This was so fucking unfair. Your whole life you were going to be stuck to a fucking underachiever who was apparently content with keeping the both of you living with your parents forever, never pursuing any dreams or aspirations beyond working at the place that you’d worked at since you were sixteen. What did you do to deserve this?

The car ride to the gym in the next morning was silent. You had your headphones in before you opened the car door, not even bothering to give Sungchan a ‘good morning’ or listen for if he said it to you. You stared out the passenger window with your arms crossed over your chest for the entire drive, wordlessly unbuckling and getting out once you arrived. After his workout, you followed him outside and got back in the car. Except he didn’t reverse out of the parking spot.

Finally, you looked over at Sungchan to find his eyes already on you, fixing you with an expecting look. He motioned for you to take an earbud out. Rolling your eyes, you did so, then waited for him to say whatever he wanted.

“Silent treatment?” He questioned, arching an eyebrow.

“It’s not like we’re friends,” you huffed, moving to put your earbud back in.

“Hey, wait,” he stopped you. “I’m sorry about your interview, alright?”

“Whatever, just forget about it.”

Sungchan buckled in and reversed out of the parking spot. “Isn’t there another firm like that in town? By the mall? You could see if they’re—”

“I said forget it, okay?” You snapped.

He held one of his hands up in surrender, and you put your earbud back in.

With one final adjustment of your blazer, you left your room, hurrying through your house. Your parents were at work, thankfully. You locked the front door behind you and walked right by your car parked out front. Sungchan’s was in his driveway, and you quickly turned down the sidewalk away from his house.

Halfway through your subway ride, you felt a twinge in your head, and grabbed the ibuprofen you had in your purse. You knocked back a couple tablets to keep the pain at bay. Your fingers drummed an anxious rhythm on your knee as you watched the electronic sign for your stop. You were on your feet before the doors opened, rushing out ahead of the other passengers.

A knot formed in your stomach when you emerged from the subway station into daylight, and not from nerves. You swallowed down the nausea, grabbing a ginger chew from your purse and continuing on.

Smiling at the older gentleman who held the door open for you on his way out of the building, you entered Inverness & Wildwood right as a sharp pain started up in your chest. You breathed through it, approaching the receptionist with a calm façade. You gave her your name and interview time, then followed her directions to the restroom that you had asked for.

After locking yourself in a stall, you rooted through your purse for the other pill bottle you had in there, for emergencies. Unfortunately, there was nothing to fully prevent soulsickness—aside from constantly being near Sungchan—but souLOXin could dull the symptoms for a little while. Shaking one of the red and black capsules out into your palm, you made a mental note to put in a refill later; you had less than a handful left. You swallowed it right as you got a text.

[sungchan 👎🍅: where are you?]

You turned your phone on silent and put it in your purse along with the pill bottle.

By the end of the interview, the pain in your abdomen had returned, and you gritted your teeth as you stood up to bow to the three interviewers and thanked them for the opportunity. One informed you they would let you know by the end of the week, and showed you to the elevator. As soon as the doors had closed and you were alone, you let out a groan, clutching your stomach and leaning against the wall for support. You composed yourself again when a ding! rang and you were let out into the lobby once more. Pressing on through your throbbing headache, you rushed down the sidewalks back to the subway, desperately taking another couple of ibuprofen tablets.

Standing on the platform waiting for the next train, you continued to take deep breaths, digging your nails into your clammy palms to distract yourself. Finally, it arrived, and you forced your way in as the doors were still opening. Dropping down into a seat, you let your head fall back against the window behind you and your eyes flutter shut.

Your guts finally started unwinding and the pounding in your head started dulling as you approached your stop. When the announcement was made, you got up, trudging off behind a few other passengers. Halfway back to your house, you were no longer nauseous, you just felt like you were getting over a bad cold—essentially, like shit.

Sungchan’s car wasn’t in the driveway, which you noted in the back of your mind as you walked into your own home and straight up to your bedroom. You eventually checked your phone after getting into your pajamas and crawling into bed.

Four missed calls from Sungchan and a dozen texts total.

[sungchan 👎🍅: y/n]

[sungchan 👎🍅: hello??? i can see your car]

Two calls in a row.

[sungchan 👎🍅: where the fuck are you]

[sungchan 👎🍅: don’t tell me you went to that fucking interview anyway]

Another call.

[sungchan 👎🍅: omfg y/n pick up]

[sungchan 👎🍅: im being so fucking fr rn pick up]

Another call.

[sungchan 👎🍅: im going to kill you if we die rn]

[sungchan 👎🍅: get the fuck back home right now im not kidding]

[sungchan 👎🍅: what the hell is wrong with you]

[sungchan 👎🍅: i just took my last poppys but if ur not back before it wears off im coming to get u idc]

Poppy—the nickname for souLOXin due to the coloring of the capsules. Sungchan always ran out first, the effects wearing off sooner for him than you for as long as the two of you had been taking it. According to the limited studies that had been done, there was some indication that men may metabolize it quicker than women, and of course the fact that he was a gym rat presumably did nothing to help in that department.

[sungchan 👎🍅: if u don’t call me in the next ten minutes im going]

[sungchan 👎🍅: ur the fucking worst that’s it im omw to inverness & wildwood. if u see this and ur somewhere else CALL ME]

He sent that last text six minutes ago. With a sigh, you reluctantly hit the phone icon next to his contact. The first ring didn’t even finish before he picked up.

“Where the fuck are you?” He demanded in lieu of a greeting.

“Home,” you deadpanned. “You can come back.”

“God, you are fucking impossible!” The sounds of screeching tires and car horns were audible in the background. “You went to the interview, didn’t you?”

You shrugged even though he couldn’t see it.

He must have taken your silence as a yes. “Fucking—Was it worth it? Huh?!”

“We lived, stop being so dramatic,” you scoffed. “Big tough guy can’t survive a little stomachache?”

“This time it was a stomachache. And what if I didn’t have any poppys?”

“That would’ve been your fault,” you snorted. “I’m not your mommy, you need to keep up on your own meds. Go get a refill since you’re already out.”

“They’re supposed to be for emergencies, Y/N, not when you want to just—”

Your phone buzzed in your hand, and you pulled it away from your ear to see that there was another call incoming. Just in time, too, you didn’t have it in you to get lectured by Sungchan right now.

“Sorry, I’m getting another call,” you interrupted whatever he was saying loudly, not even bothering to attempt to sound actually apologetic. “Bye!”

⤷ masterlist

TEASER TAGLIST

@annenakamura @bee-the-loser @dejundesign @lotties-readings @ppddpjdr @reiofsuns2001 @snowyseungs @tearinka @yoursyuno @yutasputa69 @winkeuu

[a-hermit-pining]

LaDs Men When you Return from Dead

AN: Sorry Xavier nation but I could not think one for him. This is born out of my Red Rising read. I fooking love characters like Darrow. (Sorry Caleb)

Pairing: LaDS boys (minus Xavier) x gn reader

Genre: Hurt, angst, vengance

TW: Violence (kinda dark 🤷🏻)

Ingredients: 75% vengeance , 20% rage, 5% insanity

My Fav: Rafayel

(I don't own any of these character)

Background:

In the final moments of your consciousness, you see a hand.

One that doesn’t strike, but undoes. It tears you open, unleashes your heart, and unravels you with the gentlest of touches.

You claw at it. At them.

Your voice is hoarse, fading. “Stop—” you try to speak, but only blood answers, gurgling at your lips.

“Please…” Your plea drowns in agony as the world begins to dim. As your body folds inward. As the pain swallows you whole.

And then....You are gone.

Laid into the warm embrace of the earth. Not in peace, but in illusion.

The soil drinks from your split-open chest. Your blood soaks deep, sacred and cruel.

Your death becomes a gift. Begets life for millions.

Your warmth soothes the earth’s restless core. A final kindness forced from you.

And somewhere far above, the world breathes easier…

Never knowing the price it paid.

Caleb:

He did it for peace. For the world. Because they said there was no other way.

He held the dagger in trembling hands and whispered your name like a prayer, before driving it into your heart.

And then he stayed. Long after your breath left your body. Long after the light dimmed from your eyes.

He buried you beneath the willows, in soil that had never known blood. He marked the grave with nothing—no stone, no name, just silence. Because if the world ever learned where you rested, it would never stop digging.

Your heart was meant to be fuel. Too powerful for one life. Born to feed the Earth, to balance the scales.

He was meant to end you. But instead, he loved you.

And now, years later, he sees you again.

A shadow in the mist. A scythe in your hand. Eyes glowing faintly, like the embers of the day you died.

You don’t speak. You don’t have to.

The world tilts. His breath vanishes.

It’s you. His Pips. His heart. The weapon. The universe itself. The grave he dug with his own hands.

His knees give out. He drops, laughter cracking out of him like broken glass. High, hollow, uncontainable.

He failed.

He was supposed to end you.

And yet, here you are.

Alive. Unbroken. And returned.

He doesn’t know why you’ve come. To forgive. To destroy. To finish the story.

But he knows this: If you raise the blade against him, he will not run. He will not beg.

Because life without you was his penance. And death at your hands?

That would be mercy.

Rafayel:

He is lost. Not dazed. Not broken. Lost, in the deepest way a soul can be.

You find him on the shores of the Whitesand Bay, where the sky bleeds into the sea. He is little more than a ghost wrapped in flesh.

Hair tangled. Skin greyed with salt and frigid winds. Lips cracked, still mumbling fragments of songs the sea once sang through him.

He doesn’t look at you. Doesn’t see you. His eyes are glazed.

You step forward. Waves lap at your calves. Salt stings the cracks in your skin, but you don’t stop. You can’t. You kneel before him, trembling fingers threading through his matted hair.

“Rafayel…” your voice is a broken prayer. No answer. He rocks in place, arms wrapped around himself, clutching something invisible.

You cup his neck, gently. Pull your forehead to his. “Return to me,” you breathe. Nothing. But then... A flicker. A pulse beneath your fingers. Faint. Familiar.

You press closer, trembling. Not from the cold. From memory. “The Chosen of the Sea God demands justice,” you say, your voice low and sharp. “I demand vengeance.”

Still, no spark in his eyes. But his breath hitches. The first disruption in his otherwise machine-still form. You lean in, your voice cracking with fury. “Come to me, Rafayel.” Not a request. A summon.

You press your hand against his chest. Right where the bond was first carved into flesh. Inked not with runes, but with blood and worship of another time.

You whisper the words of evocation. And the mark beneath his collarbone, long dormant, burns faintly beneath your palm.

“I call what is mine,” you snarl. “Soul-bound, storm-marked, sea-born—I call you back.”

His lip trembles. His fingers twitch.

“I don’t want your love, Rafayel,” you growl, face inches from his. “I want your rage.” You kiss him. Not out of desire. But power and claim.

"Awaken, my revered,” you whisper. “Answer my worship. Return to me, or I will tear open the sea itself.” The wind howls in answer. You press your forehead to his. Breath shallow. And then, his hand lifts. Slowly. fingers graze your cheek. And grip.

He is trembling. His breath ragged. “I saw you,” he whispers. “In the waves. In every storm. In every scream the ocean tried to silence.”

You say nothing. Because he’s not fully here. Not yet.

But the sea begins to rise. And as the tide surges.

So does he.

Eyes burning now. Not with love. With vengeance. The bond has answered.

And the drowned god walks again.

Zayne:

A heart made of ice cracks not from fire, but from a single drop of water.

Zayne is gone upon your return.

Dead, maybe. Erased, certainly. As if he followed you into death… and chose to stay.

You look for him in shadows. In memory. In the ruins of his apartment. In the hospital he once worked in, now owned by a stranger.

There’s nothing left of him but dust. The world moved on. It buried your love like it buried you.

But you didn’t stay dead.

You returned. And now, in every mirror, every pane of glass, you see him.

Not as he was. But darker. Sharper. A wolf wearing a familiar skin.

And one night, he steps out of the reflection.

He pins you to your bed, ice pick raised, aimed at your eye. His eyes, Zayne’s eyes, stare down at you.

You twist. Shift your weight. Get on top. Knee to his gut. You’ve fought worse. You’ve died. This? This is just another ghost.

"Where is he?!" you scream, teeth bared.

He struggles. But he’s not the real Zayne. This version is built for combat. A weapon.

But you have died. And death leaves its mark.

You dig your knee deeper into him. Grip his hair. Slam him back. Your blade flashes, pressed against his neck. One more inch and this doppelganger will be nothing but blood and apology.

"Where is my Zayne?" you demand again, voice cracking. “Tell me!”

He smirks. Programmed to provoke you.

You see it now, what they did. They made a monster in his image.

To torment you. To finish the act they failed to. To ensure your love becomes your execution.

But he made one mistake. He underestimated your grief. You knock him out with the hilt of your blade. Hard. He crumples like a marionette with cut strings. You kneel beside him, panting. Shaking. Your chest aches with fury and sorrow.

You will keep him. You will use him. You will rip your Zayne back from the edge of existence. Drag him from whatever place they buried his soul.

This one, this twisted mirror of him, will help you. Because if he wears your love’s face, then he will kneel when you command. He will bleed for your cause.

And when you find the real Zayne...

Gods help them all.

Sylus:

You parry the blow too late.

The fist connects with your ribs. A brutal thud, and you feel something crack. You fly backward, slamming into the bleachers. Wood splinters. Pain flares. The world tips.

You can’t breathe. Your mask is slipping.

The crowd roars, unfeeling and merciless. You hear them above the ringing in your ears. Blood rushes through your skull with a roar. You taste iron and sweat.

He comes for you again, your opponent. The masked serpent. A fighter who favors his fists over the sword he was given. His eyes, red and wild behind the steel mesh of his helm.

You raise your blade out of instinct, not hope. It’s no use.

His hands find your throat. And squeeze.

The world narrows. You’ve lived through worse. Hunger that made you eat leather. Silence that lasted so long you forgot how your voice sounded. A name that was taken from you and never returned.

Death is familiar. Almost kind. It would be easier to let go.

Your fingers twitch. Your mask slips. And then...Crack.

He slams your head into the wood. Stars bloom in your vision. The world blurs. The crowd roars louder. The taste of blood is thick now. You’re fading.

Then—air. Sudden.

He stops.

You blink through your broken helmet, expecting a killing blow. Instead, you see his fist frozen in midair. Inches from your face.

His breathing is ragged. “You live,” he whispers.

You don’t understand.

His mask is tilting. His knees hit the ground. He crawls towards you. No better than a beast. “You live…” he says again, voice cracking.

And in the haze of concussion, pain, and blood, something stirs in you too. Because those eyes...those maddened, tear-bright eyes, were once warm. Once familiar.

You flinch when he reaches for you, and he stops. There’s silence now. The crowd holds its breath.

He stares at your face, now half-exposed, your mask broken and slick with sweat and blood.

“I thought I lost you,” he whispers. “I thought they killed you.”

You say nothing. Can’t say anything.

Your ribs hurt. Your head pounds. And yet, your heart slams wildly, not from fear, but the tenderness in his gaze.

He knows you. Or worse, he once loved you.

You watch as something ancient and terrible blooms behind his eyes.

Wrath. Not for you. But for the ones who took you. Who made you forget. Who made him fight you.

And the arena falls silent, because they all feel it too. The serpent has remembered his name. And the Reaper is no longer alone.

[livvymd]

✶ ࣪˖࿐ *best friends.

꣑ৎrequest: heyyy i love you’re writing!! i was wondering if you could do a story about george and reader being best friends but unusually close like REALLY touchy and flirty but deny everything?first time asking anything so sorry if this is bad don’t feel any pressure to actually do it 😭😭. but yeah that would be amazing!! wouldn’t mind smut btw 🙈🙈

You and George were best friends. Everyone knew that.

Or, well, that’s what you both said while you were curled up in his lap during movie nights, your legs thrown over his, your head tucked under his chin while he scrolled tiktok with one hand resting on your bare thigh, his thumb absentmindedly tracing slow, warm lines over your skin as the blue light flickered across both of your faces. His chest rose and fell beneath your cheek, steady and comforting, the faint scent of his body wash clinging to the soft fabric of his hoodie where your nose was pressed, your breath warming the spot through the cotton. His other hand occasionally lifted to swipe the screen, the faint sound of videos layered beneath the hum of the heating and the occasional creak of the sofa as you adjusted yourself, pressing closer into him without thinking.

“That’s literally my best friend,” you’d comment under those tiktok edits people made of you two, clips from vlogs where he hugged you from behind, arms locking tight around your waist, your laugh ringing out as you nearly dropped your coffee, or when he pulled you into him when you were laughing too hard to stand straight, burying your face in his chest while his hand slid down to rest low on your waist, his fingers splayed and pressing in a way that felt a little too intimate if you thought about it for longer than a second. The way he pressed his nose into your hair when you weren’t looking, inhaling softly before pulling away with a small, private smile, was captured in shaky phone camera quality, frozen in a single frame that people would slow down to point out in the comments, but you’d just roll your eyes, screen warm in your hand as you scrolled past.

Just friends, obviously.

It was even funnier when George would stitch those clips saying, “Internets mad, she’s just my mate,” while you were literally sitting on his lap, your arms around his neck, your fingers absently playing with the hair at the nape of his neck, both of you trying not to laugh as he pressed his cheek against yours for comedic effect, the soft bristle of his stubble brushing your skin, your smile wide enough that your cheeks ached. You could feel the vibration of his laugh against your chest where you pressed into him, feel the way his hands squeezed around your waist when you wiggled, trying to get comfortable.

Yyou didn’t even notice it anymore, the way you’d put your feet on his thighs when you sat across from him, pressing your cold toes against him while he pretended to scowl before covering your feet with his warm hands, thumbs rubbing absent, comforting circles into your ankle bones. The way he’d slip a hand under your hoodie to rub circles into your hip when you were cold, the pads of his fingers hot against the thin material of your pyjama shorts, sending a quiet shiver across your skin as you kept your eyes on the TV, pretending you didn’t notice the way his fingertips pressed gently, grounding you. The way you’d call him baby by accident, your voice coming out soft and warm as you asked him to pass your phone or remind you what the plan was for tomorrow, so often that it wasnt even an accident anymore, slipping out with the same easy familiarity as his name.

You’d changed in front of him countless times, usually while he lay on your bed, phone in hand, sprawled out with his socked feet hanging off the edge, giving commentary between scrolls, the glow of the screen lighting up the soft smirk on his lips.

“Bit of a dead outfit that,” he’d say, eyes flicking up at you from under his lashes, that teasing glint there as he watched you pull a hoodie over your head, your hair sticking up with static, making him snort.

Then grin when you threw a sock at him, the fabric hitting him in the chest before bouncing onto the duvet, his low chuckle filling the room, warm and close.

“Shut up, you’re literally wearing the same grey joggers for the third day in a row,” you’d shoot back, rolling your eyes as you adjusted your top, catching his gaze in the mirror across the room.

“Yeah, but I look good in them,” he’d shoot back, smirking, his voice dropping just a touch, eyes flicking down your body in a way that made your stomach do a weird, warm flip you always ignored, the heat creeping up your neck as you turned away, your pulse quick in your ears as you tried to keep your expression neutral, pretending it didn’t feel like the room had gotten smaller, closer, quieter, just for a second.

Just friends.

One evening, it was raining, and George didn’t want to go home.

He’d sprawled himself across your bed, one arm tucked under his head, the other lazily holding his phone above him, hoodie half off his shoulder, the soft stretch of his collarbone peeking out against the dark fabric. His hair was a mess, curls sticking damp to his forehead, the scent of rain and the cold air clinging to him as droplets dripped from the ends of his fringe onto the pillow. Every so often, he’d swipe up on a video, that stupid little smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth, teeth sinking into his bottom lip as he held back a laugh, his thumb tapping idly against the screen in a rhythm that matched the soft drumming of the rain against your window.

You were fresh out of the shower, towel wrapped around you, warm steam still clinging to your skin, leaving your hair damp and sticking to your shoulders as you padded back into your bedroom, the floor cool beneath your bare feet. The scent of your body wash mixed with the crisp scent of rain filtering in through the open crack in the window, the chill in the air brushing against your heated skin, making goosebumps rise along your arms as you stepped further into the room.

George glanced up, pushing his curls off his forehead with a flick of his fingers, grinning lazily as his eyes flicked over you, “Didn’t even dry your hair properly, did ya?”

You rolled your eyes, shifting the towel higher on your chest as you walked past him to your dresser, droplets of water sliding down your legs in thin, glistening trails. “Didn’t even take off your shoes, did ya?” you mimicked back, letting your voice carry that soft, playful bite you always used with him.

He lifted his foot, showing you the socked sole, his ankle flexing as he wiggled it at you, smirk widening, his eyes bright with amusement. “Took ‘em off at the door, actually,” he shot back, a teasing lilt in his voice.

“Dickhead,” you muttered under your breath, but your lips tugged upwards despite yourself, the word coming out softer than you intended.

George just chuckled, low and easy, the sound rumbling in the quiet room, eyes flicking back to his phone, though you could feel the way they lingered for a moment, a beat too long, before he looked down.

You didn’t think twice as you unwrapped your towel, the soft fabric falling in a heavy heap at your feet, warm air ghosting across your freshly showered skin, leaving tiny goosebumps in its wake. Your back was turned, hair dripping water down your spine as you rummaged through your top drawer, fingers brushing over soft cotton and lace as you searched for a bra, the quiet rustle of fabric loud in the stillness.

You’d done it before. He’d seen you in bikinis, your skin slick with sunscreen and saltwater, towels wrapped low around your hips as you pulled on hoodies over your swimsuits, laughter spilling from your lips as he rushed you to leave. You’d stood in your little matching sets, one sock on, one sock off, pulling on jeans while he lay sprawled out complaining, “Hurry up, we’re gonna miss our train,” his voice muffled into your pillow.

But this time, the room was quiet.

You could feel his eyes on you, heavy, hot, dragging over the curve of your hips where they dipped into your waist, over the faint shimmer of water droplets gliding down your back, following the trail along your spine until they disappeared beneath the soft swell of your hips. You coudl feel the heat prickling at your neck as you bent to grab a bra from the drawer, the cool air brushing against the soft swell of your chest, your hair swinging over your shoulder as you glanced down, pretending you didn’t notice the way the air had changed, how the silence felt thick, pressing, like the moment was stretching out, waiting for one of you to breathe.

And you could feel it, the way his gaze traced every inch of you, warm and unblinking, your skin tightening under the weight of it, your heart thumping loud in your ears, a soft, slow heat pooling low in your stomach that you tried, desperately, to ignore.

Just friends.

Obviously.

You caught it in the mirror, the way his phone was frozen in his hand, the screen’s glow lighting up the stillness of his features, the way his jaw tensed so subtly, the muscle feathering beneath his skin, lips parting just slightly like he’d forgotten how to keep them closed.

You saw the way his joggers shifted, the unmistakable twitch of fabric over the outline of him, the small, involuntary jerk that betrayed everything, and the way his hand immediately moved, fingers pressing down as if adjusting himself subtly, like he thought you wouldn’t notice, like he thought you’d still believe the easy lie of best friends.

Your heart thundered, a heavy, pulsing thud that echoed in your ears, heat flooding between your legs before you could even process it, your breath catching in your throat as your eyes stayed fixed on his reflection, on the soft flush crawling up the column of his throat.

“George..” you said softly, pulling your arms through your bra straps, the clasp still undone, the fabric resting against your skin as you turned around to face him, your hair dripping water down your chest, catching in the lace.

His eyes flicked up, wide, dark, like a guilty teenager caught stealing glances, his adams apple bobbing hard as he swallowed, fingers twitching against the phone still resting limply in his hand. “What?”

You smirked, letting the corner of your mouth curl as you took your time to clasp your bra, fingers moving slow, deliberately fumbling with the hooks, letting your chest shift subtly as you adjusted the straps, your eyes locked on his, watching them dip down before he forced them back up to your face, pink blooming across his cheeks.

“Oh, nothing,” you teased, your voice light, feigning nonchalance as you stepped into your shorts, tugging them up slowly over your damp thighs, the soft cotton catching on your skin before you pulled them higher, letting the waistband snap lightly against your hips with a quiet, sharp sound that made his eyes widen, the flush creeping all the way up to his ears.

His eyes dragged down, helpless, hungry, before they snapped back up to your face, cheeks flushed pink, lips pressing together as he tried to control his expression.

“Shut up,” he muttered, but his voice was hoarse, strained around the edges, the words soft, cracking slightly as they left him, and he couldn’t stop looking at you, eyes darting down and up, down and up, breath coming a little faster.

You padded over, bare feet silent on the floor, stepping between his knees where he sat on the edge of your bed, the fabric of his joggers brushing softly against your shins as you stood close, so close that you could feel the warmth rolling off him, the scent of rain and the faint trace of his cologne drifting up to meet you.

Your hand reached out, fingers sliding gently through his messy curls, the strands soft and damp under your touch as you pushed them off his forehead, your thumb brushing across his temple, down to his cheekbone, feeling the heat there, the way his skin burned beneath your fingertips.

“You’re so red,” you teased gently, your thumb brushing over his cheekbone, catching the edge of the flush spreading across his skin, the softness in your voice belying the sharp, quick thrum in your chest, the heat pooling low in your stomach as his eyes fluttered shut for a moment under your touch, breath catching as you traced your thumb down to the edge of his jaw.

“am not,” he shot back, but his voice was soft, nearly breaking, eyes flicking between your lips and your eyes, dark and desperate, his breathing uneven. His hands hovered at your sides like he didn’t know where to put them, fingers twitching, clenching and unclenching against the fabric of his joggers, knuckles pale.

You tilted your head, letting your thumb trace the corner of his mouth, your skin brushing over the soft prickle of stubble on his jaw, the faint scratch of it sending sparks down your spine. His lips were warm under your touch, parted slightly, breath hot against the pad of your thumb as you traced along the edge, your stomach flipping, tightening with a warmth that settled low, heavy and wanting, the air in the room suddenly thick, hard to swallow.

“George,” you whispered, softer this time, your voice catching around the syllables like it was the first time you were really saying his name, letting it mean everything it always had, everything you’d tried to hide.

His hands lifted, fingers finally finding you, gripping your hips, thumbs pressing into the dip of your waist, hard enough that you felt the imprint of them through your shorts. His fingers dug in, pulling you closer, dragging you flush between his knees until your thighs brushed his, the heat of him radiating against your bare skin.

“Don’t look at me like that,” he breathed, voice rough, ragged at the edges, eyes pinned to yours, wide and pleading.

“Like what?”

“Like you want me,” he muttered, jaw tightening, the muscles feathering under his skin, his eyes dropping to your lips again before flicking back up, voice low and strained, “Don’t, if you dont-”

“I do,” you said, before you could stop yourself, your voice soft but steady, the truth breaking free, raw and heavy in the charged silence.

The air cracked between you, the denial you’d both wrapped around yourselves like a blanket for so long finally tearing, the weight of it falling away, leaving only the thrum of your heartbeat in your ears, the sharp inhale he took as the words sank in.

His eyes darkened, his grip tightening on your hips as he tugged you forward, pulling you down into him with a desperate, helpless force. You fell into his lap, your legs moving to straddle him instinctively, the fabric of your thin shorts riding up as you settled over him, your knees bracketing his hips, your hands bracing on his shoulders, fingers curling into the soft cotton of his hoodie.

You could feel him, hard beneath you, pressing up through the soft grey fabric of his joggers, thick and unmistakable, the heat of him searing through the layers between you, pushing against the thin, damp cotton of your shorts. Your breath caught, a sharp, shaky gasp slipping out as your hips shifted, the movement sending a spark of heat through your core, your thighs tightening around him, pressing closer.

His breath hitched, loud in the quiet room, his hands flexing on your hips, pulling you down harder against him as you felt the full length of him pressing up, hard and heavy, trapped between your bodies. You could feel the way he twitched beneath you, the subtle, desperate jerk of his hips upward meeting the involuntary roll of yours, your clit catching against the seam of your shorts, sending a sharp, aching pleasure through you that made your stomach tighten, your lips part on a quiet, shaky breath.

His eyes were locked on yours, dark and hungry, his chest rising and falling rapidly, breath mingling with yours in the scant inches between your faces, the scent of rain and him wrapping around you as you felt every inch of his hardness straining against you, so close, so hot, so impossible to ignore now that you’d felt it, pressed directly against the aching heat between your thighs.

“Fuck,” he whispered, breath shaky, eyes fluttering shut as the word slipped out, rough and raw against the silence.

You leaned in, slow and deliberate, pressing your forehead gently to his, the warmth of your skin radiating between you, your nose brushing his in the faintest, teasing touch. Your lips hovered, barely touching his, close enough to feel the tremble of his breath mingling with yours, electric and tight.

“Say it,” you whispered, voice low and urgent, like a secret only the two of you shared, like the whole world had shrunk to this fragile, trembling moment.

“What?” His voice was thick, unsteady, barely above a breath, like he was afraid to speak the truth aloud.

“Say you want me too.”

His hands clenched your waist tighter, fingers pressing under the hem of your shorts, skin warm and trembling beneath his touch. His eyes snapped up to meet yours, burning, dark, fierce, raw vulnerability flickering there, a desperate need.

“I want you,” he said, voice breaking as if admitting it cost him something deep, like he’d been holding it inside, aching to say it for longer than he could remember, the words catching in his throat but finally, finally free.

You smiled, breathless, a soft laugh bubbling up from somewhere deep, trembling and light as you finally closed the last inch between you, lips meeting his in a kiss that was gentle at first, a feather-light brush, tentative and searching.

But then George’s hand slid up your back, warm and insistent, pulling you impossibly closer until your bodies were flush, every nerve alight. The kiss deepened, his tongue slipping past your lips, tasting you, hungry and raw, as if he was devouring every part of you in that moment.

You moaned softly, the sound low and breathy against his mouth, fingers tangling in the thick curls at the nape of his neck, tugging lightly as if to anchor yourself. He groaned, so so deep,guttural even, and pulled you even closer, crushing you against him so your chest pressed to his, heart pounding, hips grinding slowly down against the undeniable hardness pressing up beneath you.

The kiss was messy, desperate, years and years of stolen glances, quiet touches, denied feelings crashing down between you like a storm breaking free. You kissed him like you were starving, like every second without this was a lie, like you were finally, irrevocably allowed to want him the way you always had, raw, aching, and utterly relentless.

Your lips were swollen, tender and tingling, your breathing ragged, each inhale shaky as it filled your chest, your exhales brushing warm across George’s throat. Strands of your hair clung to your damp skin, sticking to your cheeks and collarbone, your flushed chest rising and falling as you sat straddling him, the heat between you so thick it was almost suffocating, both of you barely holding it together.

Your bare chest pressed flush against him, skin to cotton, your nipples dragging across the soft fabric of his t-shirt with every shaky breath and tiny movement, sending sparks of sensation down your spine, your thighs tightening around his hips. You barely registered the way his hands had moved, angelic in their gentleness, tugging your bra off and letting it fall to the floor without a word, his touch so light you barely felt it, lost in the haze of want clouding your mind.

But you felt the way your nipples brushed and caught against him, dragging over the soft, worn cotton stretched across his chest, each movement shooting a sharp, delicious ache through you, leaving your skin pebbled, sensitive, desperate for more.

You rocked your hips down, a slow, deliberate grind, dragging yourself over the hard, thick line of him pressing up through the soft fabric of his grey joggers. Even through the layers, you could feel the heat of him, the way he filled out the fabric, thick and hot, pressing perfectly against the soaked material of your thin shorts, your wetness clinging to the cotton, sticking to you with every drag of your hips as you ground down harder, chasing the friction.

“Fuck..” he groaned, head tipping back against the wall, curls brushing against it as his eyes fluttered shut, lips parting around a shaky breath. His hands gripped your hips tighter, fingers digging into your skin, thumbs pressing into the curve of your waist, trying to hold you still, trying to control himself, but the way you rolled your hips again had a broken, needy sound tearing from his throat, a sound you felt vibrate where your chest pressed against him.

“Don’t-” he choked, voice hoarse, breathless, jaw tightening as he clenched it hard, trying to suppress another moan that threatened to slip out as you rocked down, dragging your wetness over him, the pressure building with each slow grind.

“Don’t what?” you teased softly, your voice low, breathy, warm against his ear as you leaned in, your lips brushing the sharp line of his jaw, pressing a soft kiss there before trailing down, finding that sensitive spot just under his ear, the one you’d always noticed made him shiver when you hugged him from behind. You kissed it softly, then let your teeth graze it just slightly, feeling him gasp beneath you, his hips jerking up involuntarily.

You rocked down harder, letting your hips press and roll, your clit catching perfectly on the ridge of him beneath the fabric, the pressure hitting just right, making your breath stutter, your eyes fluttering shut as a soft, broken moan slipped from your lips against his skin, the heat between your legs pulsing, throbbing, desperate for more.

“Don’t do that unless you’re gonna-”

His voice broke, cutting off in a strangled, desperate moan when you rolled your hips again, slow, deliberate, your soaked heat dragging perfectly over the thick, hard ridge of him beneath his joggers, darkening the soft grey fabric where your bodies pressed together. The wetness was obvious now, sticking the cotton of your shorts to your folds, leaving nothing hidden, every slow grind sending a sharp ache through you, your breath catching, your thighs trembling from the slow, dirty friction.

You pulled back, just enough to see his face, needing to see him, needing to watch him fall apart beneath you.

His brows were pinched together, that soft furrow of pleasure and restraint, trying so hard to hold on, to keep himself together. His mouth was parted, lips swollen and red from your kisses, slick with spit, a small shine catching in the low light as his breaths stuttered out in shaky, uneven pants. His jaw was tense, sharp lines shifting as he clenched and unclenched, trying to keep quiet, trying to stay composed, but failing with every slow drag of your hips over him.

His eyes. God, his eyes. they were glazed, heavy-lidded, pupils blown so wide the blue was nearly swallowed up, only a thin ring remaining, dark and glassy as they tried, desperately, to stay on yours. They flickered down helplessly, dropping to where your bodies met, the sight of your hips rolling down, your wet shorts dragging across the thick, obvious outline of him, making his breath hitch, his lashes fluttering before he forced them back up, meeting your gaze with a dazed, wrecked look that made your stomach flip.

He looked drunk on you. Ccompletely gone, the soft pink flush creeping high on his cheeks, spreading down his throat, sweat gathering at his hairline, dampening the messy curls that clung to his forehead. His lips trembled, a small, breathy sound escaping as you rolled your hips again, a whimper that he tried to swallow down but couldn’t.

“You like this, baby?” you whispered, voice low, teasing, letting it drip warmth between you as your hips rolled again, slow, controlled, making sure he felt every slick drag, every press of your clit catching on him, the pressure perfect.

Your hands slid up his chest, dragging lightly over the fabric of his t-shirt, your nails scratching lightly, feeling the heat of him underneath, the way his chest rose and fell rapidly, the way his muscles twitched under your touch as you moved.

His eyes flickered down, glazed and dark, watching where your hips moved, where your body pressed down against him, the fabric of your shorts soaked and sticking to your folds, dragging over him in slow, filthy circles, leaving a dark patch of wetness on his joggers that spread with every roll, every grind.

“Fuck, yeah, I- fuck, don’t stop,” he groaned, voice breaking, so wrecked it made your thighs clench, your core pulsing with need. His hands flexed on your hips, gripping tighter, dragging you down harder, guiding you into him, his own hips bucking up just slightly, a desperate, uncontrolled jerk before he caught himself, chest heaving as he tried to slow down, to savour the way you felt, the way the moment stretched hot and thick between you.

You smirked, leaning in, pressing your lips to his in a slow, open-mouthed kiss, your tongue brushing against his, tasting the soft, helpless whimpers he let out against your mouth. You rolled your hips again as you kissed him, the friction building, slow and delicious, making your thighs tremble around him, the pressure between your legs coiling tighter, sharper, with every grind, every shaky breath, every soft, broken sound he made beneath you, drunk on you, completely undone in your hands.

“Lay back,” you murmured against his lips, your breath warm and shaky, your mouth brushing his with each word.

“What?” he asked, dazed, pupils blown wide, eyes unfocused for a moment as if the words weren’t sinking in, too lost in the heat of you.

“Lay back for me,” you repeated, your voice soft but firm, your hands sliding up to his chest, pushing gently, feeling the hard thump of his heartbeat beneath your palms.

He let you, like he couldn’t even think to resist, falling back onto your pillows with a soft, breathy sound, his curls splaying out across your sheets, dark strands catching the glow of the lamp, haloing around his flushed face. His hands stayed on your hips, fingers gripping softly as you stayed straddling him, sitting up fully so he could see you.

The way his eyes darkened made your breath catch, your chest tightening as his gaze dragged over you, slow and hungry, tracing every line of your body, the curve of your waist, the soft swell of your breasts, your nipples tight in the cool air, the way your hair stuck to your damp skin. His eyes dropped lower, following the movement of your hips as you rolled down on him again, slow and deliberate, leaving another dark, soaked patch on the grey fabric of his joggers where your wetness spread across him, dragging heat through your core with each shift.

“Jesus Christ…” he whispered, voice rough, breaking around the edges as his chest rose and fell rapidly, his breath warm and uneven, lips parted. His hands slid up your waist, warm and trembling, callused fingertips dragging across your ribs before cupping your breasts, the heat of his palms sinking into your skin. His thumbs brushed over your nipples, the touch soft but sparking sharp pleasure through you, making you gasp, your back arching into his hands, your thighs tightening around his hips.

“You like watching me like this?” you teased, your voice breathy, laced with the warmth curling low in your stomach as you rocked your hips down again, slow, letting him feel every inch of you, the thick, hard line of him pressing perfectly against your soaked folds through the thin fabric, catching on your clit with every drag, sending a sharp, delicious jolt of pleasure through you that made your eyes flutter shut for a moment.

“Yeah,” he admitted, breathless, his voice soft but desperate, as if the words were being pulled from him, “Fuck, I love it. Love seeing you on top of me, baby.”

His eyes were fixed on you, dark and blown wide, the green swallowed up by black, his gaze dragging down to where your hips moved, the way your wetness stained his joggers, the fabric clinging to him, outlining the hard, thick length of him pressing up against you with every slow grind. His hands moved, thumbs circling over your nipples again, making your breath stutter, your hips grinding down harder, the friction perfect, your wetness slicking the fabric, the heat building with every drag.

You whimpered, a soft, broken sound tearing from your throat as your hips moved faster, the rhythm picking up without conscious thought, driven by the sharp, desperate need building inside you. Your hands braced against his chest, fingers curling into the soft fabric of his t-shirt, feeling the heat of him beneath, the steady, frantic thump of his heartbeat matching the pounding of yours.

You rode him through his joggers, each roll of your hips sending jolts of pleasure shooting through you, your clit throbbing with every grind against the thick, hard line of him straining against the damp fabric, the friction slick, dirty, perfect. You could feel every ridge, every twitch, every desperate throb of him pressing up against you, hot and heavy, dragging over your soaked shorts, your wetness spreading, sticking the fabric to you as you rocked down harder.

“Feels so good…” you moaned softly, your voice breathless, catching on the end as your head tipped back, your hair falling down your back in messy waves, sticking to the sweat gathering along your spine. Your back arched, your chest pressing forward, your nipples dragging across the fabric of his shirt with every bounce, sending sharp, electric sparks through you as you moved faster, chasing the high coiling tight in your stomach.

“Yeah? Feels good?” he panted, his voice rough, wrecked, every word punched out around shaky breaths. His hands slid back down to your hips, gripping tight, thumbs digging into the soft flesh as he guided you, helping you move exactly how you needed, pulling you down harder, grinding you against him. His own hips lifted just slightly to meet you, tiny thrusts that made the friction sharper, deeper, pulling a groan from his lips that made your core tighten, your clit pulsing.

“Fuck, you’re so pretty,” he praised, voice low, reverent, his eyes glued to you, pupils blown wide, dark and hungry as they followed every movement. He watched the way your breasts bounced with each roll of your hips, the way your stomach tightened, the way your face twisted in pleasure, your lips parted, your brows furrowed, your eyes glassy with want.

“George…” you whimpered, his name falling from your lips like a prayer, rolling your hips down harder, dragging your clit against him with each grind, the friction hitting that perfect spot that made your thighs start to tremble, your breath catching in your throat as the pressure built higher, sharper, your orgasm creeping closer with each desperate rock of your hips.

“That’s it, baby, just like that,” he encouraged, his voice low, ragged, the words slipping out between soft, helpless moans, “Ride me, yeah? Ride me just how you like it.”

Your eyes snapped open, locking onto his, and the moment hit you like a wave. the intimacy of it, the way he was looking at you, the heat, the softness, the pure need in his eyes as he watched you fall apart on top of him. It made your stomach tighten, your hips stuttering as you ground down harder, chasing the edge you were dangling over.

“Fuck, George, I’m gonna- ” you gasped, the words breaking as your hips stuttered again, the pleasure cresting, washing over you in a hot, sharp wave that left you trembling, your thighs shaking around his hips as you came, grinding down hard, your clit catching on him again and again as you rode out your high. Your nails dug into his chest through the fabric of his shirt, your breath coming in quick, broken gasps as you whimpered his name, your vision blurring with the force of it.

“Good girl, fuck, that’s it, baby, that’s it,” he praised, voice low and warm, eyes fixed on you, full of so much raw, open want it made your heart stutter. His own hips lifted to meet yours, letting himself get lost in the moment, chasing the friction, the heat, as his hands slid up your back, holding you tight, pulling you down.

He kissed you, hard and deep, his tongue sliding into your mouth as you whimpered against him, your body still trembling, every nerve alight, the taste of him, the feel of him, anchoring you as you rode out every last wave of your orgasm in his lap, your hips moving slow, desperate, grinding against the thick, hot length of him pressed up between you, the wet, messy drag of it sending aftershocks pulsing through you as you kissed him, letting him swallow your soft, breathless moans.

You rolled off him, your thighs still trembling, breath coming in soft, uneven puffs as you lay down next to him, the warmth of him radiating beside you. Your hair fanned out on the pillow, strands sticking to your damp skin, your body still humming, oversensitive in the best way.

You turned your head, looking at him, and he turned too, his curls messy, sticking to his forehead, his cheeks flushed pink, lips parted as he caught his breath. You leaned in, pressing your mouth to his in a soft, slow kiss, tasting the warmth of him, the softness of his lips, letting it ground you in the quiet after the storm.

But you paused, your eyes flicking down, catching the dark, wet patch spreading across the front of his grey joggers, the fabric clinging to him, a puddle visible, the dampness unmistakable.

“Wait, when did you- ” you started, your eyes wide, blinking in confusion, your brain trying to catch up.

“I finished really close to the start,” he admitted, his voice low, still breathless, the words slipping out on a sheepish exhale. Then a grin spread across his face, that stupid, boyish grin that made your heart ache, eyes crinkling, curls bouncing as he let out a small, breathless laugh. “That was fucking hot.”

You stared at him in disbelief, your lips parting, a soft, incredulous laugh bubbling up, unable to process it as you glanced back down at the obvious wetness staining his joggers.

“How didn’t i notice?” you asked, blinking, your voice soft, teasing, your heart still thudding in your chest as you looked back at his flushed, happy face.

“I tried not to show it so you could keep going,” he confessed, his voice softer now, more vulnerable, eyes flicking up to meet yours, warm and earnest, “I just wanted to make you feel good. I didn’t even mean to, it just.. fuck, I couldn’t help it.”

The sincerity in his voice, the soft, pink flush on his cheeks, the way his eyes were shining, made your heart swell, warmth blooming in your chest so suddenly it almost hurt, your lips curving into a small, fond smile as you reached out, brushing a curl from his forehead, your thumb tracing over the soft skin of his temple.

You leaned in, pressing another gentle kiss to his lips, lingering there, feeling him smile against your mouth, the moment quiet and warm, the air between you soft and intimate, the afterglow wrapping around you both as you lay there, tangled together, unable to stop smiling."

[colouredbyd]

hello !! i absolutely adore your marauders fics so much :)

i was wondering if i could request a remus lupin x fem reader fic (reader is an animagus) where they’re in a relationship with eachother however recently remus has been very sassy and sarcastic with her (i am a firm believer in sassy remus lupin, i hc that he can be so annoying sometimes 😭), and reader is getting really fed up with it so she punishes him by transforming into her animagus form (her animal could be a cat or a rabbit, i don’t really mind) and she gives him the silent treatment by glaring at him menacingly as her animagus

i just think this would be such a funny and petty way to get back at remus 😭

Cattitude Problem

Remus Lupin x fem!reader

summary: in which remus has been insufferably smug all day, pushing you to shift into snickers, your sleek orange cat animagus, to escape his relentless teasing. leaving him to try and win your forgiveness while keeping your claws at bay, but it seems snickers (you) has her own mischievous plans to drive remus just as mad as he has driven you.

warnings: mild language, persistent teasing, light emotional tension, pet behavior, affectionate stubbornness, reader being extremely stubborn and petty, lots of ignored apologies, verbal sparring, emotional vulnerability, occasional sarcasm, remus being a sassy little shit, remus pov where he is so in love, reader's animagi is called snickers, fluff.

w/c: 3.8k masterlist

Remus has been insufferable all morning.

Which wouldn’t be unusual if it weren’t for the fact that you actually love him— which, unfortunately, makes everything worse. 

Because when someone you love spends the entire day being casually, infuriatingly smug, it doesn’t hit like a joke. It lands like the sting of a rubber band snapping against your skin: quick, deliberate, and just painful enough to make you flinch.

It started at breakfast. You’d woken up late, your hair had declared mutiny, and the last slice of toast had vanished without a trace. Still half-asleep and already on edge, you’d muttered something—less a complaint than a sigh scraped out of frustration. 

And Remus, seated across from you in infuriating serenity, calmly buttering his toast like he had all the time in the world, had the nerve to say, “You’d find mornings easier if you actually prepared for them the night before.”

That was all it took. One sentence, spoken casually and without a care, and somehow you wanted to launch the entire plate at his head.

You didn’t. Mostly because you still had a shred of dignity. And partly (entirely) because Remus Lupin, infuriating as he was, looked so bloody handsome.

Even sitting down, he somehow managed to tower over everything. One arm slung across the back of his chair, legs sprawled like he owned the bloody sun, and a piece of toast held delicately between his fingers like it had earned the right to be touched by him.

You were not proud of the thought, but God, you would’ve traded your soul to be that toast.

Golden and warm, pressed to his lips, held like it belonged there.

You weren’t proud of it. But there it was.

You’d looked at him then, waiting for a smirk, a wink, something to break the tension. But he didn’t even glance up. Just folded the edge of the Daily Prophet like he hadn’t said anything at all.

And the worst part? This fucker knew he was dreamy. Knew it in the smug little way he wore sleep-soft curls and slouchy cardigans, like the universe had handed him beauty on a silver platter and he hadn’t even bothered to say thank you.

Which is precisely why it had been barely an hour since he woke up, and already he was getting on your nerves instead of your pants.

Unbelievable.

And that was only the first strike. The rest of the morning followed suit.

In Defense, when your wand sputtered and your spell tangled mid-air before fizzling out completely, you stumbled a step back, catching yourself on the edge of a desk.

Remus didn’t laugh. That would’ve been too kind. He just tilted his head and said, “Close,” in a tone that made it perfectly clear it wasn’t.

Later, in the corridor, when you claimed—accurately and with mounting exasperation—that one of the staircases had shifted mid-step and nearly launched you into the abyss, he simply blinked.

You stood there, arms crossed, waiting.

When you finally snapped, “What?”, biting down the urge to throw a shoe at him, he only shrugged.

“Nothing. You’re just… you.”

And somehow, that was worse than any insult.

Now it’s evening, and he’s back in the common room, perfectly at ease as if nothing had happened. He sprawls in his usual chair, a blanket draped casually over one knee, a book balanced effortlessly in one hand.

You linger in the doorway, jaw tightening without conscious thought. His eyes lift, as if drawn by the very weight of your silent ire, and he meets your gaze with that infuriatingly placid expression he’s worn all day—calm, unreadable, and utterly maddening.

“You’re still sulking, then?” His voice is low, smooth, laced with vague amusement.

You say nothing.

He flips a page like it’s the most natural thing in the world and adds, almost as an afterthought, “Hope you found the scarf, by the way. Would be a shame if you lost another thing you swore you didn’t misplace.”

Your fingers twitch, restless and sharp at your sides.

You don’t know what irritates you more—his words, or the effortless way he delivers them, offhand, like he’s commenting on the weather instead of poking at your temper with a feather.

You step further into the room, arms folding across your chest like a shield.

“I didn’t lose it,” you say sharply, voice tight.

“Mhm,” he replies, turning the page with an air of practiced disinterest.

You wait for an apology, a joke, something—bloody anything.

But there is only the soft rustle of parchment and the maddening scrape against the corner of the page as he folds it back into place.

He doesn’t even bother pretending to be interested?!

“You’re doing that thing again,” you say, arms still crossed tightly over your chest, your voice taut with the frustration you’ve been holding in all morning.

He barely lifts his head but arches an eyebrow, that infuriating smirk playing at the corner of his mouth. “Which thing exactly?”

“That thing where you act like you’re listening, like you’re actually paying attention to what I’m saying, but really you’re just waiting for me to exhaust myself—waiting until I give up on arguing.”

He lets out a quiet chuckle, almost indulgent, as if this bickering between you has been rehearsed a thousand times before. 

“You know, you usually do,” he says softly, with a tone that drips equal parts amusement and quiet certainty.

You narrow your eyes and press, “Do what? Wear myself out? What exactly do you mean by that?”

His smile widens just enough to reveal the smugness beneath. “I mean you get so worked up, so tangled in your own frustration, that before long you’re done. You stop fighting, because you’ve run out of steam.”

His words settle in the air like a weight you hadn’t expected, sharper than any insult you could have thrown.

Fine, Remus.

There is only a long breath you never fully take, and with a sly tilt of your head, you shift.

The room falls silent, as if holding its breath in anticipation.

You curl into yourself, bones reshaping and fur sprouting in a rush of magic.

Your limbs shorten, claws extend, and the familiar sleek orange coat of Snickers, your Animagus form, ripples across your skin—every graceful line and stripe settling into place as you become the cat he knows so well.

You leap lightly onto the arm of his chair, your paws sinking into the worn fabric with deliberate grace. 

Settling yourself, you curl your tail once around your body and fix him with a gaze sharp and unyielding. 

For once, Remus does not respond immediately. He simply studies you, and for the first time all day, the usual smirk falters.He exhales quietly, a low, resigned sound, and drags a hand across his mouth before casting a sidelong glance at the flickering fire.

“Right,” he mutters, more to himself than to you, “she’s shifted.”

You flick your tail in acknowledgment, then resume your silent vigil, watching him as though he stands before a court of judgment.

Remus reaches for his tea and takes a slow, deliberate sip without meeting your eyes. “This feels deserved,” he admits softly.

At first, he cannot take it seriously. 

You, curled up in the unmistakable shape of a very unimpressed orange and white cat, seem like a temporary protest.

He’s seen this before. When you’re annoyed, you shift into your cat form—not just as a silent protest, but as part of a well-rehearsed routine. 

Usually, you curl up around him, all sleek fur and sharp claws, until you wear yourself out and reluctantly shift back. It’s your way of saying, I’m mad, but I still need your cuddles, remmy.

He knows this too well. He’s certain you’ll return to yourself once the storm inside settles. Ten minutes, he thinks, then everything will be exactly as it always is.

He turns back to his book.

But five pages later, his eyes drift upward, and there you are still perched—ears half-flattened, tail twitching with a slow, venomous rhythm, unwavering in your silent verdict.

You look deeply offended and this close to filing a formal complaint against his entire existence.

He blinks at you, then smiles, slow and fond, like he finds this ridiculous in the way one finds an angry kitten ridiculous — all teeth and noise and absolutely no threat.

“Oh, dovey,” he murmurs, setting the book aside as he leans forward in his chair, a slow smile curling at the edges of his mouth.

“You’re so cute when you try to be mad.”

His fingers reach toward you gently, expecting a reluctant purr or at least a half-hearted flick of your tail.

Instead, you hiss.

“Right,” he says slowly, pulling back like he’s just remembered you have claws. “Okay. So we’re really doing this.”

You turn your head away with all the dignity in the world, as if further conversation is beneath you. Then you hop off the arm of the chair and stalk across the common room, tail high and every step dripping with carefully performed indifference.

Remus watches you go, utterly baffled.

He blinks, then stands, his hand still tingling from where he nearly touched you.

“Love,” he calls after you, voice cautious but already softening at the edges. “Alright, alright, I may have been—slightly unbearable today. But you’re still being dramatic, aren’t you?”

You say meow nothing, of course. Instead, you leap onto the table beside the sofa, where his books lie neatly stacked—or at least they did—and with one light, deliberate flick of your paw, you send the top one sliding off the edge.

It hits the floor with a solid thump.

Remus opens his mouth. No sound comes out.

You knock another.

And another.

Then you pause, watching him.

“You wouldn’t,” he whispers.

You blink at him, once, as if to say try me.

The last book falls.

Remus exhales, somewhere between horrified and awed, and watches as you stretch lazily before padding toward the corner of the room — where his favorite sweaters are folded in a pile beside the laundry basket.

He sees your eyes narrow.

He sees your paws flex.

He knows exactly what’s coming.

“No, no, no, wait!” he blurts out, nearly tripping over the rug as he scrambles forward.

“Please, please don’t! Not the lambswool! That one’s… it’s—well, it’s my favorite!”

You’re already there, tail flicking with that slow, inevitable menace, claws just barely unsheathed.

He throws up his hands in surrender. “Listen, listen, I’ll do anything! I’ll buy you a lifetime supply of cat treats, I’ll give you the comfiest spot on the couch forever, just please don’t shred the jumper!”

You raise one paw, slow and deliberate, sinking your claws just an inch into the collar of his softest jumper.

“Okay, okay, I’m sorry!” he pleads, voice desperate now, eyes wide like you’re holding his wardrobe hostage.

“Truce, ceasefire, I’m on my knees here! Just… please don’t ruin the lambswool!”

You hold your paw there a moment longer, claws teasing the fabric, eyes locked with his like you’re daring him to breathe wrong.

You retract your claws slowly, then hop down without a sound, sauntering away as if you’re entirely above the violence you almost unleashed.

Remus lets out a soft, barely audible breath of relief and mutters something under his breath about being emotionally held hostage by someone with whiskers.

He thinks that’s the end of it.

It is not.

Because not even thirty seconds later, you’re perched on his desk—the very surface of his work—tail swishing lazily over stacks of notes and essays, eyes locked onto the glass bottle of ink teetering dangerously close to the edge.

“No, Snickers, no!” he says immediately, stepping forward, voice sharpening with panic. “No, no, no, don’t even think about it—”

You think about it.

Then, with one deliberate paw and zero remorse, you bat the ink bottle clean off the desk.

It lands sideways, splattering ink in a dramatic black arc across his half-finished essay. The ink bleeds into the parchment with the slow devastation of spilled wine on white carpet.

“Oh my god, Snickers!” he screams out, voice cracking slightly as he rushes to the desk, grabbing useless scraps of parchment to blot at the disaster. 

“Do you even understand what you've just done? That was three nights of research. I footnoted.”

You turn, tail flicking, eyes gleaming with mischief.

He moves faster, reaching to catch you before you can leap off the desk.

“Love, wait—don’t—”

But you hiss sharply, a low warning rumble vibrating from your throat, claws flashing just inches from his outstretched hand.

Remus freezes mid-reach, eyes wide.

“Okay! Okay! I’m sorry, Snickers,” he says hurriedly, hands up like he’s defusing a bomb. 

“No scratches, please! I’m on your side—I just don’t want my essay to look like a Runes class went wrong.”

He crouches at the side of the desk eyes soft and serious as he meets your unrelenting glare.

“Alright,” he begins, gentle, breath catching slightly. 

You’re still glaring, tail curled neatly around your paws, but he looks at you like you’re the moon dragged down to earth just to ruin him.

 “I know I’ve been insufferable today. I know. You have every reason to be angry with me. I was smug, and sarcastic, and far too pleased with myself, and instead of stopping when I saw it bothering you, I kept going—like a complete idiot who thinks being annoying is somehow endearing.”

He lets out a breath, eyes not leaving yours, not even for a second.

“I thought I was being clever. I thought teasing you was harmless. I thought… that making you flustered would make you smile eventually, because you always do. But I wasn’t charming today. I was cruel without realizing it. I didn’t mean to be. But I was, and I hate that.”

You blink once—slow, regal, unreadable.

Still, he takes it as hope, and he continues.

“I shouldn’t have called you dramatic. I didn’t mean it in the way it sounded. I meant dramatic the way feelings are—when you love someone so much, everything feels bigger. You care so deeply, so fiercely, and sometimes I forget how easy it is to hurt you when you’re trying not to let it show. I made light of that, and I made you feel small, and there is nothing I regret more right now.”

Your posture doesn’t change. Still tall, still elegant, still completely done with him.

But he’s already too deep to stop.

“I love you,” he says, and this time it lands like something sacred. 

“I love you more than being right. More than whatever was in that essay. Honestly, I’d write the entire thing again—by hand, twice—if it meant I wouldn’t have to sit here with you looking at me like that.”

He lifts one hand slowly, fingers curling slightly toward your ears.“Please, Y/N, come back to me.”

And that’s when the door swings open.

“Oi!” James’s voice hits the room like a Quaffle through a windowpane. “Dovey’s here, isn’t she?”

Sirius steps in beside him with the ease of someone who expects trouble and knows exactly how to enjoy it. He surveys the wreckage — the spilled ink, the fallen books, Remus kneeling in defeat — and then clocks you on the desk perched high up, still glaring, still regal.

Sirius grins, slow and dangerous. “Y/N?”

You meow, cheerfully, like nothing is wrong. Like you haven’t spent the last hour hissing and orchestrating the emotional collapse of the person who loves you most.

James lights up like a bloody Christmas tree. “Knew it.”

He opens his arms without hesitation, and you—utter traitor—leap gracefully from the desk into his chest, tucking yourself into the crook of his arm with an actual, audible purr. A purr. As though you haven’t spent the evening exacting revenge with the elegance of a queen and the precision of a general.

Remus watches, stunned.

Watches as you blink slowly up at James, all soft and lazy, your gaze half-lidded with practiced affection. And he knows exactly what that means in cat language.

He’s seen you give it to him a hundred times.

Only now, you’re giving it to bloody James.

And Remus is the one glaring.

Sirius reaches out and strokes behind your ears, chuckling as you lean into it like you were born to be adored. “You’re really working the drama today, sweetheart.”

Remus sits on the edge of his bed like a man exiled from his own kingdom, a book open in his lap and completely unread, his eyes fixed somewhere between the page and the small orange-and-white blur tangled in Sirius’s arms.

He turns a page every few minutes just to keep up appearances.

He is sulking. Completely, utterly, unapologetically sulking. From the corner of his eye, he watches as you roll across James’s lap like royalty, pawing lazily at the cuff of his sleeve before hopping effortlessly into Sirius’s waiting arms. 

Sirius accepts you with a grin, like you’ve never once shredded a sock in passive-aggressive protest, murmuring praise and dragging his fingers gently behind your ears as though you’ve earned every bit of affection.

You purr, loud and deliberate. Your tail curls around Sirius’s wrist like a silk ribbon drawn tight, and then comes the softest, most calculated meow he’s ever heard.

It sounds smug and pointed and designed specifically to unmake him—full of pride, absolutely, but still so stupidly cute it makes something in his chest ache.

It’s unfair, really, how bloody adorable you are. And all he wants—desperately, irrationally—is to hold you. To bury his face in your fur and keep you close.

He flips another page. 

Sirius traces a thumb down your spine, slow and affectionate, and Remus—who is definitely not watching, and definitely not fuming—tightens his jaw and exhales through his nose like a man suppressing ancient fury.

And yet he says nothing, just sits there, shoulders too straight, like he is not currently being excluded from the most intimate feline cuddle session Hogwarts has ever seen.

It goes on like this for an hour.

An entire hour of tactical silence, purring treachery, and the steady sound of Remus Lupin quietly losing his mind.

James eventually falls asleep first, snoring lightly into the crook of his arm. Sirius remains where he is, his hand still lazily carding through your fur, but his eyes have gone soft and drowsy, his words slowed, fading into silence.

You’re still curled into him, your breathing steady now, the rise and fall of your little frame barely perceptible, your tail twitching only once before it stills completely.

And then, gently, with all the quiet reverence of someone who understands how sacred you’ve become in that moment, Sirius lifts you into his arms.

He stands without a word. Pads over to Remus. Pauses in front of him like it’s a peace offering.

“She fell asleep,” Sirius murmurs. “Properly asleep. Been purring like mad, figured she might want to be with you now.”

Remus looks up. His heart twists.

You’re nestled in Sirius’s arms like the embodiment of warmth itself, your fur soft and glowing under the flicker of firelight. Your face is tucked into your paws. You look defenseless. You look peaceful.

Sirius lowers you carefully into Remus’s arms, and something in Remus aches when you instinctively nuzzle into his chest, still half-asleep, still warm from being adored.

Sirius doesn’t say anything else. Just nods and turns back toward his own bed, collapsing into it.

Remus adjusts you slightly, letting you rest against his sternum. Your small form is a ball of orange and white, impossibly soft, your breath a feather against his collarbone.

And for a long time, he just sits there.

Then, gently, he lifts a hand and gently strokes behind your ears, fingers moving barely there.

“I’m sorry, love,” he whispers. 

“For all of it. For being smug and stupid and talking to you like your feelings were inconvenient. For thinking I was funny when I was just being a complete git. For not noticing how close you were to snapping. You deserved better than that.”

He smooths his fingers down your spine.

“I hate that I made you feel like you had to run away from me just to be heard,” he continues, voice barely audible. “I hate that I pushed you so far you thought being a cat was the better option, and I know you’ve forgiven me in the most dramatic, theatrical way possible, but just in case any part of you is still a little mad — I’m saying it again. I’m sorry, Snickers.”

His other hand comes up, resting carefully over your back, not holding you in place but simply resting there.

“I’ll do better. I’ll listen. I’ll stop trying to be right all the time. And I’ll never — never — say you’re dramatic again. You are... overwhelming, yes. Important things always are. You take up space in my life that I never want to give back, and I adore you for it.”

He exhales, his thumb stroking softly over the spot between your ears.

“I love you,” he says again, and this time it lands like truth. Quiet, warm, real.

For a moment, nothing changes. You stay curled, still pressed beneath his chin, your breathing slow, deep.

And then you open your eyes.

Golden and gleaming and terribly alive, you lift your head just slightly and look up at him, your yellow cat eyes meeting his, unblinking for one long beat — and then, slowly, with that feline elegance that says everything words never could, you blink. Once. Twice. Long and deliberate.

He lets out a quiet, disbelieving laugh, soft with relief and disbelief all at once.

“Oh, love,” he murmurs, a smile tugging at his lips. “If you’re going to turn into a cat every time we argue, the least you could do is let me pet you.”

You narrow your eyes instantly. Then, without moving from his arms, you unsheathe your claws by a fraction and tap them meaningfully against the fabric of his jumper.

He Laughs again. “Alright, alright. Sorry, message received.”

Satisfied, you curl tighter against him, nose tucked into the curve of his neck, your breathing steady, your purr deep and content.

Remus doesn’t move at first. He simply holds you, cradling your small form like something rare and impossibly fragile, his fingers resting protectively along your spine, as though even a breath too sudden might break the spell and scatter you into smoke.

In that moment, his heart feels impossibly full—so heavy with love that it almost aches. He’s never been happier, never more certain that you are everything he wants to hold onto, everything worth fighting for.

And then—seamlessly—you shift.

A quiet exhale, a shimmer of magic against his chest, and you’re back. Warm and real and unmistakably you, curled in his lap with your cheek still pressed to the hollow of his throat, your breath soft against his skin like nothing has changed at all.

“Hi, love,” he breathes, voice warm and stunned.

“Hi, Remmy,” you whisper, eyes barely open, voice thick with sleep.

“Hi,” he says again, a little breathless this time, like he still can’t believe you’re real.

You nuzzle closer, arms looping around his waist, body curling instinctively toward his warmth.

“Am I forgiven?” he asks, his voice barely above a whisper, his thumb brushing lightly against your cheek, gentle and uncertain.

“I’ll do anything you want.”

But inside, something curls tight and trembling in his chest, a quiet dread laced with all the things he’s too afraid to name. He waits, not daring to speak or move, because he doesn’t know what you’ll ask for next — and it terrifies him, in a way nothing else ever has.

Not because he doubts you, but because he doubts himself. Because if you ask for something he can’t give, if your forgiveness slips, even for a second, through the cracks in his hands, he knows he’ll fall apart trying to reach for it.

He is not built for losing you.

Not to James, not to time, not to silence, not even to one of your moody afternoons when you ignore him for an hour just to prove a point. Even then, even in those small, petty standoffs, his mind races.

Because the truth, the horrible, unspoken truth, is that Remus doesn’t know how to exist in a world where you are distant.

He’s smug and sarcastic and impossible, the king of casual remarks and maddening glances. But all of it, every last bit of it, is just a flimsy curtain he hides behind — a way to mask the simple, aching fact that he’s yours.

Utterly and pathetically yours.

Even when you're mad. Even when you're claws and narrowed eyes and sharp little hisses of warning, especially then. Because beneath every hiss is a heart that hasn’t stopped choosing him, not once.

And gods, he loves you for it.

He’s a bastard, sure. But he’s your bastard. And the thought of not being—of you turning your gaze elsewhere, of that soft affection in your voice belonging to someone else, even for a heartbeat—undoes him.

And even if you don’t say it, even if all you do is blink at him with tired indifference — he’ll still be here.

Because no matter what, Remus cannot stop loving you. 

Your voice breaks through the haze of his thoughts, quiet and half-lost in the fabric of his jumper.

“Anything?” you hum, soft and slow, the syllables slurring slightly with sleep.

His smile wavers, flickering with tentative relief. “Anything, dovey.”

You fall silent for a moment, resting against him like you’ve never left, because in his heart, you never really did. Then, softly and sincerely, free of any trace of your earlier fire, you murmur—

“Can you make a spell that turns me into a toast?”

Remus stills. “I’m sorry—what?”

You nod, eyes closed. “I wanna be a toast.”

There’s a beat of stunned silence as he looks down at you, utterly baffled.

“I—why would—love, why would you want to be a toast?”

You sigh, sleepy and serious. “You looked so happy eating it this morning.”

Remus stares at you for a long, silent moment, torn between concern and complete adoration.

Then he lets out a soft laugh, presses a kiss to your temple, and whispers, “Alright. I’ll see what I can do.”

[ebodebo]

shoot to kill mini series | vol. lll seven-thirty

previous post

dry humping (thigh grinding) & threatening (not to reader)

“have you seen my black heels? the ones without the strap?” you ask simon as you walk into the living room, bare feet padding against the vinyl floor.

simon glances away from the television to see you adjusting your earrings. his gaze drifts down to the short black dress your wearing.

it fits like a glove, and the hem rests mid-thigh—long enough to be considered decent, but short enough for him to conjure up the dirtiest thoughts.

“i haven't,” he answers, eyes shamelessly looking over your cleavage. “where are you going?”

“on a hot date,” you smile, tilting your head to look at him straight.

simon’s brow quips. “are you?”

“mhm,” you hum in agreement, slipping on a different pair of heels. “with some guy i met at the coffee shop downtown,” you say, checking your lipstick in the small mirror hung in your living room.

“some guy?” simon echoes your words. “you even know him?”

"not really," you shake your head as you reach for some lip gloss to apply.

he lets out a dry laugh that makes you glare at him. “yeah, that’s great,” his sarcastic tone is unmistakable.

“that’s the point of the date. to get to know him,” you urge, still glaring at him. “you worry too much, simon,” you insist, turning to look at him with an accusatory expression.

“you don’t worry enough,” he shakes his head, poking his tongue into his cheek when he sees you swipe your finger across the corners of your lips to clean up your lipstick.

“that may be true, but at least I know how to have fun,” you say matter-of-factly as you swipe your purse off the counter with your coat. “i’ll text you if he ends up being a weirdo,” you affirm, hand hovering over the door handle.

“you call me,” simon insists, his tone slightly gruffer than usual.

“you got it, big man,” you joke, throwing up a thumbs-up before stepping through the front door and gently closing it behind you.

you have a smile on your face as you make your way out of the apartment complex, with your purse swaying over your shoulder and your heels clicking against the flooring.

you decided to wait just outside the complex's entrance so your date wouldn't have to meet simon.

at least, right off the bat, anyway.

he can be quite intimidating, so this was really better for everyone.

you stand against the brick wall, swaying in the slight breeze, feeling a surge of nervousness and hope wrap around you.

this is good.

great, even.

you would get good food, a chance to meet a nice man who is interested in you, and if all that fails, you could at least get drunk on wine.

it would also give you a chance to get simon out of your head, or at least to forget that one night a few days ago when you used him as a human sex toy while he was sleeping.

you cringe at the thought at least a hundred times daily, but tonight you could try to suppress your perverted tendencies by talking to someone other than simon.

you glance at your watch.

7:30.

you let out an impatient sigh but held onto hope like a lifeline. he was only fifteen minutes late. it wasn't the best first impression, but it wasn’t that bad.

maybe traffic was bad?

maybe he didn’t text you to let you know because his phone died?

ridiculous in hindsight, but it did soothe you.

that is, until 7:30 turned into 7:45, then 7:56, and finally 8:05. you refuse to wait on your aching feet any longer. honestly, you shouldn't have waited until 8:05; you were feeling generous, but even generosity has its limits.

you turned on your heels, feeling embarrassed with tired feet as you walked back into the building.

you felt like hurling at the thought of simon asking you what happened, and you would have to relay the humiliating news that your date had flaked on you.

choking down the bile that bloomed, you turned your key in the keyhole, opening the door to see simon perched on the couch, his eyes moving to look at you instantly.

you softly close the door and toss your keys into the bowl. "stupid asshole stood me up," you mumble, shaking your head without him asking.

“oh, sweetheart, i’m so sorry,” simon gruffed, noticeably upset. “guy is a dick for standin’ you up.”

“yeah,” you nod, shaking off your coat to hang it up. “what are you watching?” you ask, hanging your purse on the hook before moving to the living room.

“just a football match. you want to watch one of your bakin’ shows?” he prompts, already grabbing the remote to hand to you.

“thanks, but that’s alright. we can watch this,” you say with a half-smile, walking over to plop yourself onto the cushion next to him.

you feel an instant sense of relief as you sit beside him, your legs lightly brushing against each other.

the small act made you feel like a schoolgirl with a crush on an older schoolboy, the one all the girls wanted, but he had chosen you.

tossed his cigarette to the ground to kiss you behind the school, making your skin burn as you stood on your tiptoes to reciprocate the kiss with your eyes closed.

“you alright?” simon’s words interrupt your stream of thoughts. you turn to look at him, so close, with a tilted head and a lopsided grin.

“yeah… i… i,” you stammer, trailing off, and before you think, you quickly turn your head to kiss his lips.

they taste like cigarette smoke and bourbon, just like you thought they would.

you pull away, eyes widening as you meet his intense stare. “sorry… that was weird.”

“not as weird as me livin’ in your home when mine is right next door,” he says with a cheeky smile as you bite your lip. “you like me,” he accuses, tilting his head back to watch you squirm.

“i… well… you—you like me,” you insist, pointing a finger at him.

“i do," he says, not trying to resist. "that okay?

“yeah… yeah, that’s alright,” you say, leaning deeper into the couch, staring at the television screen. “now what? should we have sex?” you murmur absentmindedly.

simon lets out a dry laugh. “easy, tiger. let’s take it slow. let me show you my moves, yeah?” his hand brushes against your cheek as you turn to look at him.

you nod as you press your lips back to his, savoring his taste on your tongue. he lightly brushes his lip across your bottom lip, which makes you whimper against his mouth.

he can’t help the way he grabs your waist, hoisting you to straddle his big thigh. you can feel the hard muscle grinding into your cunt as you continue to kiss simon sloppily.

he dips his head to hover over your ear when he sees your eyes crinkle as you try to grind against him discreetly. “feel as good as you remember?” he grunts, his warm breath fanning your skin.

"what are you talking about?" you ask, licking your lips, unsure what he means.

“oh, sweet girl. you don’t have to lie to me,” he grabs your hips and rocks you against his thigh. you sputter a moan as you grab his shoulders for stability. “i was awake.”

you flick your eyes down to his and notice that he is staring at your lips. you start to say something, but his grip on your hips is firm as he presses you against his thigh once more, causing another moan to escape your lips.

“felt you against me. gettin’ me all wet,” he mutters against your cheek, as he helps grind your now aching cunt against his thigh. “got yourself all worked up, yeah?

“fuck… simon. i—i didn’t know you were awake,” you try to sound more embarrassed, but, honestly, you liked it more.

he was watching you cop a feel of his leg, clearly vexed; otherwise, he would have jerked away from you.

“don’t worry, sweetheart. i jerked myself off while you got off on me. twice in a fuckin’ row. you were slick against me, moanin’ my name. how could i not?” he murmurs, and you can feel him smirk against your hot skin.

you’re practically putty in his hands, panting as he speaks. his cracked lips glide across your jaw and neck, whispering all the right things while you feel his thigh, firm and large beneath you.

“been waitin’ for this, you know?” simon presses a wet kiss to your cheek as you whine feeling yourself get closer to the edge. “feelin’ this greedy pussy rub against me once got me addicted. i fuckin’ crave you now,” his tongue licks a stripe across your neck.

“i need you to kiss me,” you pant through labored breaths, your orgasm blooming heavy.

simon grabs the back of your neck with one hand, his other still digging into your hip, pressing his lips to yours in a deep kiss, one that has his teeth grazing and spit swapping with yours.

your body convulses against his thigh, as you moan loudly into his mouth, your orgasm all-consuming.

you rested your head on simon’s shoulder, still breathing heavily as he spoke. "sorry about your date, sweetheart,” he coaxed, his fingers brushing through your hair.

you nuzzle against his shoulder. “don’t be. i got to make out with my hot neighbor instead,” you laugh.

“mhm, what a coincidence,” he begins, making you glance at him. “i did too,” he says with a stupid grin that you can’t help but smile at.

it’s not that you wished the date had happened since your night ended up being better than expected; you just want to know what happened to the jerk.

why would he stand you up like a dick?

you thought he was interested at the coffee shop; he was so attentive to the conversation that he even bought you a coffee and a pastry.

sweet girl, you had no idea that the dog that lurked in your home was the reason your date went up in flames.

shortly after you left, simon found the guy's number written on a piece of paper on the fridge, held in place by one of his magnets.

how could you be so trusting to think that he wouldn’t find the number and sabotage your date?

simon barked his orders over the phone to the guy, something along the lines of, “this is me being nice. i’m telling you to cancel that date and you best keep this between us or you’ll be seeing me. and i don’t shoot warning shots. i shoot to kill,” or something...

looks like your dog was the exception to that saying, “all bark, no bite.”

others may be too feeble to make good on their threats.

but not simon.

he’d make good on his promise and some.

he’s no bark, all bite.

[athenalvss]

pls more wally i beg

CAN YOU TWO STOP FOR SECOND? ( Wally west! )

summary: Young Justice's most sticky couple never leaves each other's sides.

pairing: Wally west x fem!reader

open request - Wally masterlist

⤷ Wally West is the clingiest guy ever, and I can both argue and argue, he always has some part of his body touching yours. If you're in the living room, his arm is around your shoulders. His head is resting on your lap. And if it's the other way around, you're either sitting on his lap or you have your head resting on his shoulder.

⤷No one has seen one without the other in weeks, you are almost Siamese, and on the few occasions when you two were in different places you knew each other's location, more than once the girls asked Wally where you were so they could go out together, or Dick sent you messages when Wally didn't answer.

⤷ Another option if you're not together is to send each other memes, selfies, stickers of you hugging, and lunch photos with the text "I miss you," even if you've been apart for half an hour. Wally once sent you almost 100 messages in one afternoon, and they were all "I love you" with different emojis.

⤷ You celebrate ALL the dates, really every one you can think of. Monthly birthdays, first “I love you,” first date. First time you beat him at Mario Kart. You have more celebrations than the national calendar. Wally always makes handmade cards and buy flowers, and you always make him themed food: cakes, cupcakes, sandwiches, whatever he wants. And M’gann cries every time she sees you guys being so cute. Conner really hates you for all of this; he wouldn’t even dream of doing something like that.

⤷ Wally and you definitely make couple shirts. I mean, not only do you wear matching outfits, but you referred to those shirts as one that says “If lost, return to Wally” and the other “I’m Wally” with silly drawings that you both made.

Everyone was gathered in the common room when Wally came running in with you holding his hand, as always, laughing at some inside joke that no one else understood.

Wally was wearing a white t-shirt with huge letters that said: “I’m Wally 😎⚡” And right below, a silly drawing he made himself: a little stick figure with orange hair running at super speed. And you, of course, were wearing yours: “If lost, return to Wally ➡️” With an arrow pointing straight at him when you were standing next to each other (sooo, always). Below, the same stick figure, but now with you hugging him, and lots of poorly drawn hearts around it.

"What... what's that?" Dick asked, stopping mid-stride as if his brain was rebooting.

"Oh!" Wally said, happy to be consulted. "Our couples' shirts! We made them last night on our date night."

"Did you make them?" Artemis chimed in, gritting her teeth.

"Yeah! Wally drew the stick figures, I did the letters. Teamwork, baby!" you said, proudly nudging him.

"No wonder they're so... ugly," Conner muttered, his arms crossed, without looking at them.

"I love it guys!" M'gann interrupted him cheerfully while giving Conner a dirty look.

⤷ In the middle of a mission, in the tower, during training. Actually, especially during training. Aqualad tries to talk to you two seriously and about the problems your actions can cause if you don't focus and train properly, but Wally is stroking your hair while you give him small kisses on the cheek, still looking at him as if he were the sun.

⤷ You two are unbearably happy together, Dick quietly admits, seeing you together gives him diabetes. You're always laughing, touching each other, saying "I love you" at the most inappropriate moments, but he would never allow the two of you to separate; it would truly be a sin if you weren't together.

⤷ Hearing the strange lines Wally gives you really baffles them, because it's not like he just starts delivering his lines or anything, you say something and he just continues with something clever. Sometimes they're good, but other times he thinks it was good, and you just let him believe it and give him a kiss.

The team was gathered, reviewing the upcoming mission. Kaldur spoke seriously while Artemis played with an arrow between her fingers, Conner leaned against the wall, and M'gann was making cookies in the kitchen, floating with anxiety. Everything was normal, until you and Wally walked in hand in hand, walking as if you were on a date in the park.

"What happened to your forehead?" you asked, raising an eyebrow and stopping in front of him. "Did you hit one of your own vibes again, babe?"

"Shh, let's not talk about my defeats," he said in a dramatic tone, placing a hand on his heart.

You looked at him with a mischievous smile, in that syrupy tone you only used with him. "Your eyes are so green and bright today... like kryptonite."

And without wasting a second, without even making eye contact with anyone else, Wally replied, smiling with complete confidence: "Then I'll be your Superman's kryptonite... and I'll make you weak."

Dick frowned as if he'd heard something in another language. Conner wore a look of genuine horror. Artemis dropped the arrow. Kaldur didn't even know how to continue speaking. M'gann opened her mouth to say something but decided against it.

Meanwhile, you just smiled at him like he was the cutest thing in the world and kissed him on the cheek.

"That was terrible, wasn't it?" Wally muttered, suddenly a little unsure.

"No… it was perfect" you whispered, even though you both knew you were lying.

"PLEASE," Artemis blurted, dropping her arms in frustration. "Would you two stop doing that in front of everyone! You're killing us!"

⤷ You have playlists for each other, he made one with songs that reminded him of you and you have a long list of happy songs that you definitely think belong to him, he also has a couple's playlist for when you're together listening to music and sharing headphones.

⤷ Despite all the constant complaints from the team about being a somewhat clingy couple, everyone would like to have a relationship like yours. You're always together, you can't get enough of each other, you really have a great dynamic, and you know how to read each other to keep it working.

[yeiwo7]

Do I wanna know?

Summary: Training is fine, if it wasn't with the one guy you wanted the most. Yet, he? Would barely care about you, just awkwardly stoic and slightly distant. Almost everyone, but him, knows you love him.

Pairings: Fushiguro Megumi x Reader

Word Count: 4k

Genre: Fluff, one-sided love, foolish Megumi, Silly Gojo, training with the awkward boy, slight injuries, nothing serious, his doggos love you.

.................................................................................................................

Perhaps it was a terrible idea to sleep through an uncanny amount of alarms only to wake up a solid TEN minutes before morning training.

The schedules here were fuckass, students sort of had a clue on what will happen, although much of the activities mattered on the teacher's—*cough cough* Gojo's—mood. On this refined morning, where even the Sin decided to sleep in behind greying blankets of plush, cloud warmth with the silky wind gently fanning his face.

Freshening up as much as you could, more like lamenting and dreading this day's possible events as you brushed your teeth, gazing into your own tored eyes.

It hasn't even been long since you enrolled here, yet the people are suprisingly easy to get along with—I mean, after a few rounds of life-or-death missions—who wouldn't feel close to their comrades? After sharing blood, sweat and intresting insults towards botched faced curses.

At first, they were all pretty intimidating. All except for that pink headed guy who bears odd reseblence to Togepi.

Took a while longer to fully warm up to the rest of them, it was quite the challenge especially with that D1 yapper Mr.Onigiriismywholepersonality upperclassmen.

However, the most challenging individual out of them all was none other than that supposed pretty prodigé.

Leaving your room, to down a quick glass of chilled water before having to deal with everyone. Procrastinating till the very end, not that it would mstter bring a few minutes late anyways, what's the worst that could happen?

Peaking your head over the side, spying on the training grounds to check if anyone was there, although the steady bickering had given that away long before you even had to reach the mere dreadful vicinity of the training grounds—which weren't even bad—you just were not the most athletic person, so obviously one would not be fond of such a  sweaty places.

Humming in confirmation to yourself that that beloved teacher isn't there, yet. Ready to tirn on your heel, to walk back into the kitchen for another glass of water, or to grab your phone from your room, although by then you would be terribly late, a certain stern sisterly voice called out to you.

Groaning in defeat, as your legs automatically U-turn and head down the steps to greet the rest. Posture slouched and still rubbing your eyes awake to better see their bullshit in HD quality.

The first to greet you was the overly friendly Itadori Yuuji, without his help you'd still be a reclusive hermit. Tackling you into a hug, as the two of you almost tumbme over fron the sleed of which he ran to hug you.

Then peeling this boy off of you was none other than your shining knight in pearl armour; Kugisaki Nobara. An older sister figure alongside Maki, they doted on you in their own ways. Nobara always dragged you out of your room to socialise, while Maki helped tremendously with your training and physique. She taught you most of the moves you could probably pull off.

Almost obsorbing you into their arguement, slipping out you stood listlessly beside the two, awkwardly positioning yourself next to the king of nonchalance, which is a huge ass fucking LIE, Megumi Fushiguro.

It was the only safe spot truly. Not that he would protect you from the other two or anything, no, nah, not at alll. He's rather awkward, the air is always stiff when the two of you are near each other. It's unbareable.

He always stands so tall, with his head helf high, oddly sharp jaw which goes into contrast with his soft cheeks that one would simply have to resist taking a bite out of. Although that would be impossible, it's like Eve taking the apple. His eyes trail after the rather reckless bodies which were currently having their own pre-spar showdown, throwing words around haphazardly. Such pleasant blue eyes, not as intense as Sensei's, but lulling enough to have you swim for longer than necesssry.

There it is. That deep voice of his. At first, it sounded fake. So fake infact you had asked the others about it and they replied it's just how he is...and yes, that's his real voice. He had muttered a "Good morning" under his breath and shuffled a little further away from you.

To you? It had ways been like that, for the past six? seven? months you had known him he's always been so distant and quick to pull away. Not one to speak to you in group, let alone single settings. He would rather the abyssal silence deafen both of your ears than to ask a simple question or to engage in useless small talk. Never maintaining eye contact. What's worse is he wouldn't even look at you when you speak. Just gazes in the opposite direction, as if anything else could be more intresting than what you have to say.

To him? His life is on the line right now. If he stood statue-esq, still as a tree on a windless day his cover would have blown. It's a miracle how the other teo have yet to figure it out, although he would rather "WITH HIS TREASURE, I SUMMON" than to actually tell his closest friends that the blush that shamelessly spreads across his cheeks are not from the running, or sparring. That when he looses his breath, or words, it's not because he's tired, but because he is distracted. All too caught up in the way his brain slowly processes the way you stare at him.

It has him short-circuit. He is done for.

The last thing he needs is to be put on the same missions as you, or to be in your general space for longer than a minute without an escape route—because trust me when I say—he will combust.

The first few days he was iffy and weirded out by you. Why did you demand this almost foreign feeling from him? He felt worried, yet the more he was able to diagnose his cause, the worse his syptoms became.

Then the beloved teacher spawned out of no-where. He wore casual clothes, ditching that crusty, sweaty blindfold for some crisp vision. "GOOD MORNING CHILDREN!" He beamed, appearing right behind Fushiguro, who seemed to have been dozing off. Scaring his own son a little in the morning.

"GOOD MORNING, GOJO SENSEI!" Only one person had the mental capacity to match this beaming teacher's morning energy. Pretty sure they both had less than three hours of sleep, collectively.

The rest of us groaned a greeting with a pleasant smile. He stood next to the pretty guy, so of course he was in your line of sight. Not your fault that while muting out whatever Gojo sensei was saying, observing the boy infront of you.

If only you noticed that someone else seemed to have taken note of this one-sided affair.

Clapping his hands, the teacher announced. "Alright kids, now as for your morning training you will have to spar with the person I assign you too!" He grinned, heavily emphasizing that I.

Meguni felt this growing dread blooming in his chest. Huffing to himself, already aware that his fate has been sealed.

Gojo did a beautiful pirouette pointing both  hands to Yuuji's direction, who was jumling and popping off the ground. Then, his hands panned from the kid who's probably high on some drug to...

Megumi's heart dropped, Nobara chuckled and the next you felt was the ground swallowing you whole with an extra added weight burying you.

While you lay, pushing and bickering with Yuuji on the ground, Gojo and Nobara shared a knowing look then glanced towards Fushiguro. Who seemed awfully stiff, jaw clenched and eyes spilling more emotion than normal.

Walking up to him, Nobara patted gis shoulder. "Don't worry, bro, I feel ya."

He shot her a rather confused look. To which she remarked. "Oh, shut up-"

"I haven't even said anything."

"Doesn't matter. I wanted to be paired with heeerrrr." She whined. An oscar winning actress.

Meanwhile, Yuuji pushed himself off of you, offering a hand to help you up. Glaring him down. Standing up on your own and crossing your arms had him shaking your shoulders, apologies spilling from his mouth, until he promised something he would inevitably regret later.

Now his shoulders slouched, as he stood a few feet away, facing you. "No, wait! I take that back-"

"No take backs! You PROMISED that you'll sing and dance to any song I choose." You stood triumphantly, hands on your hips, grinning at his forseen demise.

All the while Yuuji groaned, long and drawn out in a drained sing song voice. "There goes my dignityyy~" Then the teacher clapped again, commencing the training session.

After an hour of getting your ass handed to you by Yuuji, who just giggled everytime you threw an insult at him. "WHAT THE HELL-" He shrieked.

Oh, how the turns have tabled. You chased him down. Tackling him onto the ground and perching yourself onto his back. Now it was your body weight burying him face first into

the dirt.

"Oh, c'mooonnn! I'm dying down here! You're kinda heav-AH! M'SORRY" Yuuji screamed, begging for his life after you slapped his ass really hard.

"Aww, what's that? Can't hear you." You chuckled, feeling content with this session. Between the two of you, it was obvious that Yuuji was stronger physically with his freakish inhumae strength, yet he always held a soft spot training with you. Not with Nobara or Maki though, he won't ever admit it, but he's scared to shit from them. He's afraid of you too, just can't help being nicer. He sees you like a younger sister, someone to protect. Unlike Maki and Nobara, who are strictly older sisters.

Now, by routine there would be a thrity minute break then partner swap. Chugging some water and doing streches with Nobara, while arguing with Yuuji in the shade is a comforting dream.

Yuuji, sparked up. "OH! Speaking of breakfasts," he giggled devilishly, nudging Megumi's side. "Me and Fushiguro, here, were discussing what I should eat this morning and he said that I should eat some of that blue box cereal-"

Pondering out loud, you muttered. "Blue boxed cereal...Wait, isn't that Nobara's favourite-"

She lunged at him, pulling his left ear. "SO, YOU'RE THE REASON WHY MY CEREAL'S BEEN FINISHING QUICKER, HUH?" She reprimanded, veins popping.

"WHAT? ME?" He pitched his voice higher, clearly offended by this accusation. Soon, that defense dissolved unto whining. "I literally tried it todaaayyyy, it was Fushiguro who reccomended it to me!"

She sent a glare his way, to which Fushiguro raised both hands feigning innocence. "Before you rip my ears off, it wasn't me." His smoother voice was laced with an underlying of mischief. Then, he pointed his left index towards you. "Saw her on multiple occasions, though."

Your heart rate increased by an unnatural speed when he loomed at you with that mean look swirling in his eyes. 'Why's he doing this?' You thought, as blush brushed upon the plump of your cheeks as you sheepishly smile at Nobara.

Trying your best to play it off by adopting a sarcastic tone. "Oh no~ The scheme's up." Extending your hands towards Nobara, wrists facing up ready to be cuffed.

She turned to look you up and down before concluding to lay onto your lap. "She can, you two can't-"

"THAT'S UNFAAIRR!"

"Oh, shut it you whiny baby. You're just jealous of me, Itadori. I have won the favour of our Queen Nobara."

"She's right."

"Oh c'moonn, not you too Fushiguro!"

"Since you kids seem to be getting along so well, time for round 2! However, it'll be boring if we just throw some fists around, so how about this? There'll be two teams so~ Nobara and Megumi are the hunters, or seekers I guess, and you two will be the prey." Mr.crustyblindfold spawned out of no where, like a sudden announcement.

He ruffled my hair and handed me a slip of paper. Then he walked over to Yuuji and handed him a slip of paper. Although it looked more like a talisman of sorts, imbued with cursed energy.  "Hunters have to destroy the paper slip before the end of round one, which will last an hour. You kids have the whole of jujutsu tech to run around in. Prey have a head start of one minute..." Drawing his voice out, he checked the time and the phone flashed 9.30AM. "Timer starts NOW!"

Your steps faltered, watching Yuuji take off you made booked it. Sprinting after him, although you had started with a delay, somehow you have surpassed him to the point that you have no fucking clue where you are. The woods surrounding this school aren't nightmare-ish, just dense.

Deciding that you've run enough, it was time to rest up. Too tired to climb a tree, you decided it was best to just hide behind a thick trunk of wood in some bushes and wait it out. The aim was to last an hour, there's still time right? Besides, it felt like you'd been running for atleast five minutes, so a little rest wouldn't hurt.

Crouching down, you made sure to be well hidden. Feeling your pockets for your phone to check the time. "Fuck, it's in charging." Groaning, you rolled your eyes and slumped against this hunk of wood. Muttering to yourself, since a yapper never rests. "They'll probably agree on sending Nobara after me anyways...heh, she'd have a hard-time finding me." You dozed off.

Thirty minutes ago, Gojo had let the hunters free shortly after the two of you. "Alright, Fushiguro, here's the plan: I'll go after Yuuji, since she'd probably expect me to go and look for her, so strategically it would be great to have the element of surprise." Nobara pitched the idea as the two were jogging into the woods.

"Alright, but, uh..."

"Something wrong?"

"I, uh...no, not really. He didn't say anything about not using our cursed techniques, right? I'll have the demon dogs search with us." The two dogs emerged from the shadows and ran off in roughly the same, straight direction.

"Right! Ha, this'll be easy."

The two jog in some more awkward silence. Mainly both were scanning the area around for any trace of clue pointing to a certain direction.

Nobara thought the timing would be right. "Y'know, I've been meaning to ask you, why are you so cold with her? Well, not exactly cold—don't give me that look—more like distant? You like her or something?"

The answer he had prepared as rebuttal sank deep back into his throat. Suddenly, he felt naked, embarresment creeping up his neck.

His silence was enough an answer.

"Hmm, some advice on how to win her over, talk to her and behave like you want her, but not in a creepy way."

He just stared at her in disbelief. Did she think he was an alien or someone that's never been inlove before? "It's not my first time, y'know? I've seen enough examples in movies, documentaries and stuff."

In full earnesty, she gawked. "Really? You?" Laughing, before noticing that the black dog headed left, while the white one seemed to have dissapeared into some bushes.

The two hunters parted ways.

Trailing after his divine dog, mind wandering to that enchanting smile that graced those, slightly dry, plush lips. Such lively joy in your eyes, your voice was a dangerous weapon to his solidarity. What bothered him lots, was how he wasn't the one to make you smile or laugh.

He never could.

Anytime he would try to start a conversation or just simply greet you his voice would crack and the scentences would die mid talking.

He hated it.

Hated how incapable he was.

He wanted to jump onto you and embrace you like that. To practise training and spar with you for an hour would be a blessing.

Gojo sensei had sent the two of you on missions before, but each time you would talk to him, all he could muster were short answers. Because Megumi knew himself enough to not give away his dignity. Make a fool out of himself, by stammering at the mere mention of his name through hour lips.

He could barely make eye contact with you because Megumi knew that you would see just how much he yearns for your love.

Yet he feels so sour when Yuuji ends up being the one to make you laugh. Goofs off with you, gets tk talk to you without stammering or getting shy.

Why isn't Yuuji affevted by yoir sheer besuty?

Megumi would never understand amd doesnt want Yuuji to ever understand the idea of being yoir boyfriend.

That was Megumi's dekusion, and his alone.

An odd stirring of leaves and breathing could be heard from beside.

You felt a cold tip nudging into your cheek, stirring you awake. Ready to scream, your fight of flight response kicking in jumping up from out of the bushes, only to catch a glimpse of the creature that woke you up. It was one of Fushiguro's shikigami.

Leaning a little forward to observe the wolf? a bit more. Watching as it approaches you, licks your hand and circles around your feet happily.

A childish, giddy joy bubbled within your heart...until the bubbles popped as you heard footsteps approaching. You cursed yourself out internally. 'Nobara? No...if the shikigami are here then that means...fuck.'

Ready to break into another sprint, it was as if the puppy had read your mind it halted your movements, slowing you down. That smart doggo was swirling between your legs and circling you too many times, worrying you about stepping on its paw.

The footsteps drew nearer and nearer and you were ready to accept fate as is, until an idea sparked. 'What if I attack first?' Waiting for the right moment of him nearing you.

You threw a jab at him, which he dodged with ease. He threw punches and tried kicking you just as many times as you kicked him. Everytime he stepped closer you took three steps back.

After one successful dodge, your shoe got stuck on a protruding root, causing you to fall onto your back banging your head against the ground and accidentally scraping your hand against some really harsh terrain which made them hurt and bruised.

Megumi sat himself down onto your thighs, to restrict movement. Leaning himself forward he extended a hand, palm facing up.

His face had redened insanely. He pointed his index up first. "We can take this the easy way," blush crept onto his cheeks. "or the hard way."

"Try me." You smirked, leaning in closer to him, while gripping that paper in your hands. He scooched further up your body, freeing your legs. Now he wasn't using your body like some cushion.

He simply leaned in so close you could feel his breath fanning your face. He tickled you a little on the sides, which was enough to let go of your hands as upright supports, allowing him to push you into the ground, hands pinned above your head. "You love playing with me, don'tcha?" Megumi whispered.

You were stunned beyond belief. Was this really the Fushiguro you knew? Stammering a confused. "W-What?" The air felt so warm all of a sudden.

"I-uhm, fuck, erm...could you give me the paper, please?"

"This slip? No." You smiled at his bashful face, even on top of you, he looked graceful. His voice was so soft you would squish his cheeks.

He freed one of his own hands, holding you down with his left, while poking around inside your little fist with his right. "C'mon~ open up."

"Were you always this talkative?" The silence felt odd.

"Yeah"

"Why do you always avoid me?"

This question caught him off guard, glancing down at your adoring face he felt himself shrink, his dignity shrivel up into a paper ball to be thrown into the trash. "I..."

Taking this as the perfect opportunity, you swiftly wrapped you legs around his waist and tumbled to the side.

He let out a gasp, watching you sit on top of him, positioning yourself on his lap.

He sat up.

Finally freeing you hands, you were about to get up, until you felt his arms hold onto your waist. It was a soft grab, a caress, nothing forceful and harsh, he just held onto you

It would be a lie if he said he was fine.

A lie if his heart wasn't about to combust on site.

A lie, if he said that he didn't want to kiss you, hold your cheeks dearly, wake up in your embrace, and lull you to sleep.

He has dreamed of such impossibilities since the day he learned of your name. He's been taking literal notes about your interests, your habits, things you want in a partner, everything.

"Fuuckkk, I don't know what's wrong with me these days, I just know that you're the cause."

"...so you think I'm your problem?" Serving a judgmental side-eye.

"Pretty much." His blue eyes bore into your soul with an underlying yearnful look that had you weak in the knees.

"Elaborate, would you?"

"Huh? Sure, i mean uhm..." He wondered, for a bit, on whether he should or not, but at this point he is desperate and whipped. "I feel extra warm and bothered on the inside, makes me feel jealous of the most random shit and you're like a mind infection."

You giggle, tilting your head to question him. He was blushing hard. "Mind infection? Hm, I guess you're also a mind infection to me. All I can think about is you and what I could talk to you about that wouldn't bore you, what your preferences are and stuff."

"Well..."Fushiguro got flustered. Gasping from shock, you teased him. He hid his bashful face in the crook of your neck, embracing. "I like listening to rock and reading non-fiction."

"Oh, I like reading, too! And besides, I love listening to you talk about those stupid games and nerdy stuff you read. You could never bore me, for all I care, you can talk about those silly idols and I would still listen."

You sat there, amazed at his beautiful voice. "This is probably the most you've ever spoken to me! Wow, you're finally being kind again."

"Damn it, m'sorry if I've been a douchebag. I have a hard tine trying to express myself and you are quite the threat to my mind and heart."

"I can tell, it's alright. I'm not good at it either." With the paper in your left hand, caressing his face with your right.

Megumi started gently kissing the skin of your neck, occasionally slipping a few praises and softly exhaling.

A distraction tactic.

As he slid his long, slender fingers into your fisted right hand, prying them apart and tearing that piece of paper with a little bit of force.

You gasped in shock as he smiled against your neck, lifting his head up leaning in so close that the tip of your noses touch.

"I win. You loose."

"Back to short sentences, are we?-Ow! My hands hurt because of you."

"I'll take you to Shoko-san then. First, get off of me."

"Yeah, I would, if you'd let go of me first."

He gasped a little 'oh' and murmured an "Ah, oopsie~" before letting you get up to pet his divine dog. He stood up and leisurely started walking back towards the school, hands in his pockets, with you in tow. 

After a few minutes of peaceful quiet walking it finally fucking clicked for you.

"Holy shit, did we just confess?"

"I guess, yeah...I don't know if I wanna know your answer yet."You felt your heart shatter a bit. "How about we get to know each other first, hm?" He continued reasoning. Hearing the footsteps gallop behind him, he turned to face you. "Then again, I'll probably still be too busy being enamoured by you, so you shouldn't worry much." He pinched your cheek and walked off, leaving you in a whirlwind of confused emotions.

[firelilyfox]

Forgiveness Denied

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x fem!reader Summary: Right after the funeral, Bucky disappears without a word. You set everything to find him, clueless why he left. Wordcount: 1k Warnings: hurt/comfort. angst!. tears. guilt.

___________

He disappeared for several days.

Everyone on the team was very worried about Bucky after he got out of the dust in one night and fog action. Without saying goodbye. Each of your breaths felt like your last, it hurt so much not to know where he was.

After the rest of humanity had returned out of nowhere and the world was spinning at an indefinable pace, nothing was the same.

After Tony had given his life for us, nothing was like before.

The grief had burned into the bones of all of us, paralyzing us and making it almost impossible to look forward.

"Have you heard anything new?"

Sam crossed his arms in front of his chest and looked at you shaking his head. “I'm really sorry, kiddo. He seems to have been swallowed by the ground. Not even Friday could track him down.”

Cursed Winter Soldier experience. If anyone knew how to leave no trace, it was James Buchanan Barnes.

Steve entered the room and let his worried gaze wander over the flickering screens. Data from surveillance cameras was compared on each individual. Facial recognition. Everyone is looking for Bucky. All programmed by you.

"When was the last time you slept?"

You sigh in annoyance. “I can do that when I find him. Until then, I won't be a blind eye anyway.”

“I understand how you feel. We're all worried about him. But it's no use looking for him this way. He will show up when he's ready.” Steve put a hand on your shoulder and squeezed it to signal you that you were not alone with your fear for Bucky.

"Why did he disappear in the first place?" Your voice sounded small and broken.

You feel the tears gather in your eyes, try in vain to blink them away and look back at Steve and Sam. They gave each other a telling look.

"What? What do you know?”

Sam cleared his throat and shifted his weight from one foot to the other. "I only have the assumption that he has his reasons for it. As annoying as this old man may be, he does nothing about the affect.

“I know Buck. Even then, he always dealt with his problems with himself. However, disappearing is also new to me. Especially because he disappeared right after the funeral," Steve added.

"Do you think it would be possible ...?" You didn't need to finish the sentence to know that your train of thought would be confirmed by them.

Just thinking about it made you sick.

Even if it took a lot of persuasion from Steve and Sam, you finally agree to give yourself a break from the search. To eat something - or rather to stare at the lovingly prepared casserole of May Parker and finally to throw it away.

You slip into your room, close the door quietly behind you and let yourself slide down it with your eyes closed. Your heart cramped painfully in your chest. Tightened your breath and made you feel like you were dying a little bit.

Where is he? Why did he leave without saying anything? Was he okay?

The lump in your throat got bigger with every second. You open your eyes and drive together in fright. There was someone sitting on your bed. You could only distinguish a silhouette in the darkness that remained motionless on the edge of the bed.

You would recognize the shadow everywhere. "Bucky?"

He didn't answer, didn't raise his head to look at you. His elbows were supported on his knees and he continued to stare at the ground between his feet.

You get up, sway briefly and run to him. You sink to your knees in front of him, the tears now flowed uncontrollably down your cheeks and left wet marks on your skin.

“Are you hurt? Bucky, what happened?” The words just bubbled out of you. You touch his hands and notice that they were wet. Strictly speaking, his whole body was dripping. He was wearing a suit. Still the suit he wore at the funeral. Bucky smelled of rain and he was completely soaked.

"I'm fine," he murmured.

You bend your head to catch his gaze, which was still fixed on the ground. You gently put your hands on his cheeks, he allowed it.

"That's not true."

He smiled sadly. "I know." Bucky looked at you and you realized how red his eyes were. He must have cried for hours to look so carried away.

"What happened?" you repeat your question, quieter this time.

Bucky hesitated. You could feel his jaw tense under your fingers. His cloudy, blue eyes tried to escape your gaze, but always found their way back to you.

Finally, he raised his right hand and wiped a tear from your cheek. “I didn't know what else to do. For me it was always just fight or flight. I couldn't fight, so I fled.”

"You ran away because you couldn't apologize anymore. Am I right?” you whisper.

Bucky stiffened and looked at you as if moved by thunder. "Where - how do you know that?"

“Steve and Sam made me think. I was too busy looking for you that I didn't ask myself why.” You put your hands flat on his chest and then slowly let them wander up to his shirt collar. "But it makes sense."

He nodded silently. "I'm sorry to give you such worries, doll. I wanted to keep you out of my mess.”

"Don't say that." You move closer to him, so that you now kneel between his bent legs. "Bucky, your mess is my mess. I'm here for you. Always. I'm sorry you felt like you had to run away.”

His Adam's apple jumped as if he had to swallow a lump in his throat. "It's just... I wanted to apologize to him. Tony. For that I took - that I took his parents.“ His voice sounded rough and quite scratchy from emerging tears. "I wanted to make up for it."

„Bucky-…“ 

No more words were needed. You wrap your arms around his neck and pull him to you. Bucky didn't hesitate and returned the hug.

Hard.

The pressure with which he held on to you almost took the air to breathe, but you allow it. He buried his face in the crook of your neck and began to sob.

With steady movements, your fingers ran through his hair and you pressed your lips gently to his trembling shoulders. So you stay for some time. You let him find comfort with you and he let you hold him. A silent contract between two hearts.

As he slowly detached himself from you, he took your face in his hands and looked at you extensively. "When was the last time you slept, doll?"

Without a doubt, you gave off a miserable appearance with dark circles under your eyes. You brush a strand of hair from his forehead. “I could ask you the same.”

Without a word, you rise. Bucky got rid of the soaked suit and you wiped off your clothes. You crawl under the duvet, snuggled together and let the darkness envelop you like a protective bubble.

Bucky held you as if you were his anchor and you clung to him. Your leg snaked over his hip and your fingers drew soothing circles on his bare back. After a while, you feel how his breathing calms down and became more and more even.

Only when Bucky had fallen asleep, you also allow yourself to find peace.

_________________

Thank you so much for reading! All interactions are highly appreciated (but please don't copy my work)

Bucky Barnes Masterlist

[juyofans]

Hi.. since you asked me to finish this reblog i am back.. (also because i hold this fic dear to my heart so. Let me reread) doing this the cat way! it's 8:40pm on a monday night and i'm listening to billie eilish!!

i mentioned in the first version of this rb that i could already tell this fic was gonna be good from the first sentence. i still agree with that btw!! i feel like it emulates Doom so much like yeah we're cooked bro LMASOWIEJFLWE

it doesn't matter anymore. you've lost the chance to figure out what it had meant.

this is like me forreal right now bc sunwoo's just another ex to me now. HELP

you've been selfish for long enough, you think, indulging in pleasures that should have never been yours. and no matter how tightly you want to continue clinging onto sunwoo's sweet words and empty promises, the little voice in your head drowns it all out in the end. 

FUCKKKK. what yall know about Selfishness (i say as they drag me into the void. the void where gravity!yn and fid!jungwon sit together)

also like. rereading this is reminding me of how i used all of this to cook up that hanahaki plot. i was like She needs to face her consequences and then i proceeded to come up with the most torturous plot ever im so sorry jungwon

you can practically feel the pensiveness in the buzzing. the bated breath, the knit brows, his finger tapping on the table as chanhee waits for your voice to replace the dialing tone over the speaker. you have half a mind to just let it ring.

yeah bro only you can make the sound of a phone call so torturous FAWKKK

something in your chest sparks, a flicker of a flame that lends itself to “we both know—” before you cut yourself off, catching the growing volume and thickness in your voice before chanhee can pick it out and lay it bare. “we both know it was never going to work out like how we wanted.”

the imagery... cat exploding gif..

Sorry i dont know how to do serious reblogs like this. I think u already know how i feel about ur writing though

(heat surges to the bridge of your nose, pressure builds at the back of your eyes. those three minutes had passed, so it was okay now, right? it was okay to let go?)

i forgot if u continue this imagery throughout the rest of the fic but the heat.. the flames.. Ugh...

“ah, i see,” jihoon nods faintly, a spitting image of a cool class representative, and you stifle a snort beneath a hidden smile. as if jihoon didn’t only just get accepted into yg entertainment two months ago. he’s lame as always.

HELP MEEEEDKWJELKFEW dont clock him like that

songs were stories, after all, even without the lyrics. like putting together parts of a puzzle and assembling it piece by piece, it was your job to find what part of the story was untold and fill in the missing words.

me trying to meet the word count on my cover letter for spotify (Sorry.)

sunwoo nods as he hurries to scribble down a few words onto the sheet of paper. the puzzle piece clicks into place. “that’s what i was thinking too. like there’s still something left to remember even if it’s all over, like…” “like even in the hurt, it’s still—“ “—love.”

subtle foreshadowing.. trips over a rock.

sunwoo insists again, but you can sense his fight against his heavy eyelids growing closer by the second, the yawn that he stifles every time he pauses, so you force down the confession, keep your wish tucked away within the flickering candlelight. he would know, right?

NOOOOOOODIWEJFEWJFLKWEFEW geumanhaja..

you contemplate, humming. “birds of a feather?”

JUNGWON i scream as u lock me in the wips closet.

but it wasn’t not really your sunwoo anymore, was it? not really. not since he became more than that kid in the practice room with a pen between his teeth and a metronome in his hand, not since he became synonymous with the brand his name was attached to. and it was unfair of you to expect those kinds of trivial things from someone so far out of your reach now, right?

tigger walking away sad gif..

“i mean, i’m fine,” chanhee says, a hint of ‘of course i take care of myself, who do you think i am?’ in the retort, “but.” he pauses, taking a breath, and you can tell he tests the words on his tongue before he speaks them. “are you sure it’s me you’re worried about?”

CLOCK IT.

the shirt scene is too long for me to copy paste but i just wanted to say you're my thirteenth reason and i will really be reconsidering my lack of commitment to sunwoo because you're making me miss him

"you and me together forever" LIKE HELLOODIWJEFLKJW. dont piss me off. i miss him and his stupid carefree childish energy like there's no thought behind his eyes

ugh i feel like this fic is what i tried to emulate in fid and it didnt really work out like that FUCK its ok i already posted it so i have to live with this regret.

“how could you!” he exclaims, pulling his hand away. “ye of little faith…” sunwoo’s voice goes grave and solemn. “don’t you want to see me in a sexy apron.”

now..hold on.. lightbulb flashing..

“if it doesn’t…” you don’t want to speak it into existence—they’ll do well, they have to. you try to form your words carefully, deliberately, so that they’ll be spoken correctly and convey exactly what it is you mean, but it all comes poorly anyway, clumsy and messy as you trip over your own tongue. “you don’t have to…you know.” your mouth goes dry. “stay.” 

FUCK. FUCKKKKK. the way u phrased the middle sentence. ugh..

sunwoo is a star, you think—no, you know. you’ve known for quite some time now, how he was bright and shining and meant for things lightyears away from anything you could ever see, and yet here he was instead: inside your apartment late at night in your bed, talking about how he was ready to fall back down to earth to be with you. like you were tying him down to somewhere he was never meant to stay, he was never meant to be.

its giving my sunwoo healing fic (that will probably never get finished.. shibal..)

currently reading the voicemail scene and ugh. UGH..... he's so unknowing in this fic and it makes me so sad. i wish i had voicemails like this irl and not ones from the lady from my bank asking me to sign up for a credit card again

i want to know what ur reasoning was for framing the scenes like this. like ik they're before and after but like the specific reasons for where each scene is bc they dont seem chronological yk. or maybe u already mentioned/implied it in the fic but im too lazy to read into it MMSDLKJWFEW

the swingset scene is giving tornado warnings FUCK.

also spotify is giving me the worst soundtrack as i read this btw like its really happy music and idk where its coming from but i dont feel like changing it

maybe it’s the way it brings you back to that classroom and that swingset and everything you know you can never go back to; or maybe, despite the voicemail that you still come back to on the loneliest of nights and the wrinkled shirt that remains crumpled in the corner of your room, a part of you knows that the salt in the wound would be nothing compared to digging an even deeper, uglier wound in a cut scabbed over. that’s only what it could feel like, if you listened to him before you were ready. 

the scab imagery.. lets all just k!ll ourselves okay..

and usually when you wake up from a good dream, you fall asleep again soon after, just to catch the traces of the dream before it’s gone forever. but you’re trying, slowly in your own way, to not do things like that anymore. after all, eventually the shirt needs to become just another shirt, and your voicemail will one day go back to having no more recordings saved. 

me core (but im not healed im just indifferent about everything now)

it’s all wrapped up in pretty lyricism and intricate metaphors to keep the listener guessing for the true meaning, but you’ve always understood him best when it was through song

FAWKKK WHAT SONG IS THIS. is this something real that he's written or were u just making up stuff.. might be a fake fan for not knowing his solo songs

and yet you were the one who had smeared the paint before it could finish drying, the one who had felt so alone in watching the wear of a bridge you had deemed impossible to save. and at the end of the day, maybe the fault fell partly on both of you, stepping onto that unsteady footing together with the rope of the bridge fraying with the weight of time, but you were the one who had taken that last step to the other end without him even knowing.

fuck my stupid baka life.

lit match in your hands, you had burned that bridge for what you’d perceived to be the greater good, to destroy it before it could collapse and take both of you with it. an act of cowardice disguised as selflessness, you’re left to stare at nothing but the ashes and cinders you had set aflame. but in the wreckage, only after everything do you finally understand what that indiscernible emotion was in his eyes when he looked at you, what he had meant that night by choosing to love you.

HELL YEAH FLAME IMAGERY

your lip trembles as you press the phone harder to your ear, heat surging to the bridge of your nose, the back of your eyes. you try to keep your voice steady but it comes out watery instead, words spilling over before you know it. “hi. it’s me.” and despite everything, gravity fails, just for an instant, and you and sunwoo collide into each other once again.

^ my honest opinion reading that btw

erm i dont know how to end these. i feel like i've already said too much but like. ur worldbuilding is really good or whatever.. kicks rocks.. u made me want him again i hate it here

gravity (is the distance between you and me)

kim sunwoo x gn!reader

you tell yourself that this is for the best, that you’re only doing what needs to be done. even if it hurts now, even if it never stops hurting, maybe this is truth you’ve been running from this whole time. maybe this is just acceptance. — or: you break up with sunwoo because you love him, because you refuse to let him fall back down to earth with you; everything that follows after is an inescapable gravity.

idolverse!sunwoo x non-celeb!reader, exes!au, mostly reader-centric // 13.6k // angst with a teeny bit of fluff in between // told in alternating past and present timeskips, vaguely canon timeline but don’t look too close // 🪐fic playlist (for full experience)

if you enjoyed the fic, please leave feedback!

prologue. (love is…)

it occurs to you on a sunday night, the second-hand of the clock only a few ticks away from midnight, that this was never meant to be.

you try to not hear echoes of sunwoo’s voice in your head, admonishments scolding you gently to go to sleep, but it plays in your head regardless. truthfully, it had always sat on the edge of nagging, but you supposed that when it was him, it ended up more endearing than anything else: the pout in his lips, the scrunch in his brow, the worry in his eyes as he'd brush a strand of loose hair out of your face. 

there was always something else in his gaze, something you could never quite pinpoint—like he saw something you couldn't, like his gaze had stripped you bare of everything you'd put up to protect yourself. you try not to chase the rabbit's trail thinking about it, shoving the ghost of the memory beneath a quick, heated blink of the eyes.

it doesn't matter anymore. you've lost the chance to figure out what it had meant.

you almost laugh at the reminder; it seems you haven’t changed, even now. greed had always been your deadliest sin, despite everything. you want, and want, and want.

you want what you can’t have, you tell yourself, but you stop at the thought. that's not it. 

pause, rewind, play.

because the truth of the matter is, you just want what you don't deserve. you don’t deserve this—the sun-soaked kitchens, the teasing glances, the rhythmic sway in each others' arms as you wait for the rice cooker to beep, your timer set for the oven to ring, the world to finish turning from gold to dark blue to midnight. it's softness that makes your lungs collapse in on themselves, tenderness that burns your skin from even the gentlest brush.

you've been selfish for long enough, you think, indulging in pleasures that should have never been yours. and no matter how tightly you want to continue clinging onto sunwoo's sweet words and empty promises, the little voice in your head drowns it all out in the end. 

it's not supposed to be painless; it's rational, practical, inevitable, but so is snipping off the dead leaves off your plant after they've died, tying a tourniquet to a limb before cutting it off to prevent the infection from spreading. 

(it's for his own good. you should have done this a long time ago.)

so you pick up your phone, send a single text message to sunwoo, and wait; your knuckles turn white with the knife in your hands, like the first press of the blade to your skin. tie the knot tight, grit your teeth, you can never go back to what once was.

it's 12:03AM when your phone lights up again, eyes burning in the brightness. you can only watch as you bleed.

after. (love is sacrifice.)

chanhee calls you monday, the morning after.

it’s not so much that you weren’t expecting it, moreso that you were hoping that you’d be proven wrong, that maybe chanhee could have let it go, let it all play out without any extra fuss, but thinking back on it now, you suppose the mere thought of that was already a hopeless endeavor. phone vibrating on the counter, the caller id blares ‘choi chanhee’ in big white letters, predictably incessant. 

you can practically feel the pensiveness in the buzzing. the bated breath, the knit brows, his finger tapping on the table as chanhee waits for your voice to replace the dialing tone over the speaker. you have half a mind to just let it ring.

after all, what more could he really say? it was all over and done with, and he’d just be wasting his breath trying to convince you otherwise. but still, your phone continues to ring, and despite your better judgment, your finger slides to accept.

(if you were going to start it, you might as well go until the very end of the aftermath.)

“hello?”

chanhee lets out a sharp breath, his voice falling to a hush. “are you serious?”

not even a ‘hello’ back, you lament silently. your bottom lip catches between your teeth, nail picking at the loose skin on your thumb as you try to form a reply on your tongue. “about what?”

he calls out your name in response, exasperated. you can practically see the wrinkles knit tight in his forehead, each word stressed more than the last as he continues to scold you. “don’t play dumb with me,” chanhee retorts. “did you seriously break up with sunwoo?”

ah. straight to the point, as expected. you shift your gaze to the clock on the wall, focusing on the rhythmic ticking as it works its way through a new hour. your breathing slows to match, heart steeling, your voice thinning out into something you know you can control. “he told you?”

he scoffs, harsh breath crackling over the speaker. “he didn’t need to. he’s locked himself in his room since last night and won’t talk to anyone else. it isn’t hard to figure out when you were the last person he called.”

the influx of questions almost come pouring out before you bite your tongue—doesn’t he have schedules today? do you know if he slept last night? did he even eat at all since then— “oh,” you manage to breathe out.

“what are you doing?” he asks plainly. it’s a simple question, and it’s one you don’t know how to answer.

“i…” you chew your bottom lip, eyes picking out a small scuff on the side of your coffee table. funny, you don’t remember it being there before you had moved. “i’m not sure what you mean.”

“don’t do that, you know exactly what i mean,” chanhee counters back. “why did you break up with him? and don’t give me some bullshit excuse, because we’d both know you’d be lying.”

the clock continues to tick on the wall, and you drag your eyes over to it once more, its needle in a constant state of motion. three minutes. you could unravel the truth to chanhee in three minutes, at least the parts that really matter. choi chanhee is many things—nosy, opinionated, a gossip, but he isn’t tactless. no matter who he ends up spilling his complaints to about you and sunwoo and this entire situation, you know not a single word from his lips will ever reach sunwoo’s ears. no matter how close you and chanhee are, you would have ended the call then and there if you weren’t certain of it.

“it’s for the best,” you say softly, and it sounds so simple when you put it like that. like the nights toiling over sending that final text were all for nothing because this was just how it was meant to be, like you were just fighting the inevitable.

“you can’t actually believe that.”

something in your chest sparks, a flicker of a flame that lends itself to “we both know—” before you cut yourself off, catching the growing volume and thickness in your voice before chanhee can pick it out and lay it bare. “we both know it was never going to work out like how we wanted.”

you tense, waiting for chanhee’s incoming rebuke, but he goes quiet for a few moments before trying to speak again, slowly and carefully. “what happened?”

“nothing happened,” you stress, shaking your head, and you smear over the memory that flashes by, the hurt and loneliness that fades into nothing more than streaks of color and silence. “i just did what i should have done a long time ago.”

“you—”

“i have to go, chanhee.” choke it back. hold it in. “take care of him, okay?”

chanhee makes a noise of protest, but you hang up before he gets the chance to say anything more. you try not to look at the clock on the wall again—you already know those three minutes had passed a long time ago.

(heat surges to the bridge of your nose, pressure builds at the back of your eyes. those three minutes had passed, so it was okay now, right? it was okay to let go?)

on monday morning, six minutes past ten, you sit tourniquet-tied in a pool of dried blood of your own making, and you cry.

before. (love is youth—)

it all starts out as whispers at first.

rumors of a new transfer student spread quickly through the halls, jokes about new competition within the school said just as easily and nonchalantly as discussing the new main course added onto the lunch menu, or the latest news about which celebrity they think would make it onto dispatch headlines within the next year. it’s routine, at this point, their gossip becoming just another common occurrence during the school year. all of it is just too familiar, too predictable, your classmates’ voices droning on in your head as their gossip goes through one ear and out the other.

the new kid gets introduced during homeroom first period, and the whispers grow to a murmur. the clacking of the drumsticks from a couple kids in the back of the class stop, and the boys playing guitar in the corner of the room go silent, eyes bright and watching.

he introduces himself as kim sunwoo, an applied music major, and you wonder if he’s just another kid wanting to fulfill their idol dream—a trainee? a trainee-wannabe? there certainly weren’t a lack of those in the applied music department, and at a school like hanlim, most transfer students ended up being one of the two. repressing a sigh, you bury your head inside the crook of your arm, slumping against your desk. as if there weren’t enough empty desks scattered around the classroom belonging to students skating by their classes in favor of trainee and idol life.

you’ve heard too many whispering aspirations from other trainees about gaining fame and popularity, thousands of adoring fans loving them through their music, but you know it never really is about the music—it’s always just a means to an end, not that you could really fault them for it. everyone was working hard in different ways for their dreams, but after months of being paired with and surrounded by people who were barely around and hard to reach with a noticeable lack of passion for the same music you came to hanlim for, you’ve grown a little tired of it all. 

even the class president, park jihoon, couldn’t be excluded from that nasty habit. with more absences than attendances on his record, you had to wonder if all that struggle as a trainee at such a major entertainment company was worth it. but still, at least he tried his best at his job whenever he was here: leading the class, keeping everyone under control whenever they inevitably got frisky, and—(your eyes catch him walking over to the sunwoo’s desk and introducing himself)—making small talk with the new kids.

“where are you from?” jihoon asks, head tilted curiously. “seoul?”

sunwoo nods, and from the bits of conversation you overhear from a few desks away, it’s just as you guessed. the transfer to hanlim was only to get him one step closer to becoming an idol. you can see it all so clearly, another empty desk, another dream of wanting fame.

“are you in a company, then?”

“no, i…” sunwoo rubs the back of his neck, shaking his head half in a stupor. you can practically hear his thoughts in his poorly-veiled expression, the culture shock of the applied music department in a school like hanlim striking him swiftly. “not yet, i’m looking for one now.”

“ah, i see,” jihoon nods faintly, a spitting image of a cool class representative, and you stifle a snort beneath a hidden smile. as if jihoon didn’t only just get accepted into yg entertainment two months ago. he’s lame as always.

the boy sitting behind sunwoo chirps in after, asking him questions and starting up conversation along with another kid in their column. chin rested on your hand, you turn your head towards the window again, tuning out your classmates in favor of watching the clouds outside drift slowly along with the wind. 

(he was planning on being a trainee, after all; there wasn’t really a point in becoming invested in someone you knew you were never going to see much of again.)

except, a couple of weeks later, your teacher announces a month-long songwriting project, and sunwoo’s name gets called out next to yours as random pairs are chosen as partners. he meets your eyes from across the room, giving you a small nod of acknowledgement, and you try not to let the apprehension show on your face when you give him a polite smile in response.

you don’t even know if he knew how to write lyrics.

“so we’re writing lyrics given our assigned theme, right?” sunwoo asks after class, chair pulled up to your desk as you brainstorm for ideas.

you nod, peering over at his sheet cautiously. “do you have any ideas on how to start?”

“well,” sunwoo starts, lips pursed as he taps his pencil on his paper. “the theme is ‘love,’ right? so we could do anything about that, but…”

“it’s too broad of a topic,” you finish, frowning.

“yeah,” his eyes flicker to yours, mouth gaping open slightly, his eyes a little wide. “exactly.”

you hum in thought, a few seconds passing in silence before you pull your wired earphones out of your pocket, offering him an earbud after. you figured if you were partners, you might as well work hard together. “let’s start with this, then,” you try. “what do you think when you listen to it?”

songs were stories, after all, even without the lyrics. like putting together parts of a puzzle and assembling it piece by piece, it was your job to find what part of the story was untold and fill in the missing words.

sunwoo furrows his brows, leaning closer. the earbud wire dangles precariously over the desk, headphone jack connected to your phone in the middle. breath held, you try to ignore the close proximity in favor of focusing on the chords, the bass, the melody. even with just the guide melody, each note sounds like a confession, like a secret waiting to be unveiled, wanting to be stripped and laid in the open.

“it’s a sad song,” you comment, breaking the silence, “but it’s like…it sounds like there’s more to it than that?” you let the question hang in the air, looking at him half-expectant.

“it almost sounds…” sunwoo begins, trailing off as he mulls over his words.

“bittersweet?” 

sunwoo nods as he hurries to scribble down a few words onto the sheet of paper. the puzzle piece clicks into place. “that’s what i was thinking too. like there’s still something left to remember even if it’s all over, like…”

“like even in the hurt, it’s still—“

“—love.”

before. (love is lonely.)

party streamers littered on the floor throughout the living room, the metallic gold strips of paper and plastic scattered amongst silver glint in the darkness, catching in the lowlight. balloons of all different types of assortments were sprinkled throughout your apartment as well, regular colorful latex balloons floating above your couch and set atop your coffee table and fallen beneath your stools, while the fancier balloons had been pinned on an empty wall of your kitchen, ‘happy birthday’ with an extra exclamation mark and heart balloon spelled out in big bubble letters.

sat at the kitchen table, you watch in silence as a small candle flickers in front of you, placed in a single cupcake that your friends had insisted on saving for you after the party. 

(for when he calls, they had said gently, pushing the cupcake and the unopened candle towards you. you can blow it out with him, make your birthday wish together.)

it paints you orange, the soft glow just warm enough for you to barely feel it as shadows dance on the table. ten minutes away from midnight, you hold your breath, something in your chest deflating as you close your eyes, readying yourself to blow out the candle.

your phone lights up, ringing; you scramble to salvage what lingering traces of hope you have left.

you try not to think too much of it when the incoming call shows up as a voice call rather than video like it usually is, but your greeting slips out a little too quickly, too obvious to tell that you were waiting for him to call. “hi, sunwoo.”

“hey,” sunwoo greets back, words spoken slowly, his voice tracing the edge of a drowsy rasp. any trace of bringing up the voice call goes out the window. if this had been any normal circumstance, you would have teased him for mistapping his screen, playfully badger him to switch over to video call so you could see him in all his bare-faced glory. (but then again, a small voice in the back of your mind interrupts,  if this were any normal circumstance, he would have just been here instead of across the world.) you push the thought away; a small drop of wax begins to melt down the candle.

“we just got back to our hotel,” he tells you, and you can see it clearly almost as if you were there. the contents of their luggage messily splayed about the carpeted hotel floor, outfits for tomorrow draped on the chairs, and dirty clothes piled in a hamper in the corner. you can faintly hear a shower being turned on in the background, and sunwoo comments on it before you can ask. “can you believe this? changmin-hyung kicked me out of the bathroom as soon as we came into our room,” he complains, and you know that his lip is jutted out in a pout of indignation at the injustice of it all. “he said that i’d take too long and use up all the hot water if i went first.”

“well…” you chide softly, a smile faint on your lips. “he’s not exactly wrong, sunwoo.”

sunwoo whines, and you can hear him kick the sheet on the mattress. “you’re siding with him?”

“sorry,” and you don’t sound apologetic in the slightest. “you know i can’t lie.”

he grumbles something unintelligible as you breathe out something resembling a laugh. silence lulls for a few seconds, your shadow long on the tabletop, and you try to harden the twist in your gut, gathering the courage.

“i—”

“today—”

you stop, and so does he.

“oh, you go first,” sunwoo offers, but you hesitate, offering back.

“no, it’s okay, you go.”

sunwoo insists again, but you can sense his fight against his heavy eyelids growing closer by the second, the yawn that he stifles every time he pauses, so you force down the confession, keep your wish tucked away within the flickering candlelight. he would know, right?

“no, i mean it—what were you going to say? how was your day? how was the flight?”

there’s a moment of uncertainty where sunwoo tries to decide whether or not to continue the exchange, but he gives in eventually. “the flight was good,” he begins, albeit still reluctant. “the plane food was better than usual, surprisingly.”

you hum in acknowledgement, encouraging him to continue.

“and i fell asleep an hour in and—chanhee-hyung,” he interrupts himself, suddenly remembering. “i fell asleep and chanhee took these photos of me and—”

“were you drooling?” you guess, sympathetic.

“how did you—i mean no! i was not drooling!”

“chanhee’s newshots will never lie, you know.”

“ugh,” sunwoo groans. “remind me why you’re friends with him again?”

you contemplate, humming. “birds of a feather?”

(chanhee had actually sent you the photos earlier this morning, along with the text “happy birthday, here’s a loser as your gift.” he followed it up with an additional message of “your loser…i guess.”)

“oh, speaking of birds,” sunwoo adds, “that reminds me. i saw two ducks swimming in the river today. mandarin ducks, i think.”

“oh?”

“yeah.” his voice grows quieter, almost embarrassed as he mumbles, “they reminded me of you.”

you go still. you try to fight the hardened knot in your stomach from softening and twisting further. he’s just a hopeless romantic, you tell yourself, but the knot wrings tighter, creeping up into your chest the more you try to not think about it. mandarin ducks, the symbol of love.

(“they mate for life, you know?”)

sunwoo tries to change the subject, ears surely burning red as he stammers his way to the next topic while half-muffled into a pillow. “anyway, i didn’t call you too late, did i? it’s three a.m. over here, and i wasn’t sure. i didn’t wake you up, or anything?”

your ears ring as you swallow hard, eyes burning as you look at the clock on the wall. it ticks, once. “no, it just turned midnight here.” 

(you suddenly remember that chanhee had sent you another message afterwards, one that you never opened properly to read. “he’s said happy birthday to you already, right?” you had wanted to open it when you could respond with a “yes.”)

“oh, okay,” sunwoo smiles over the phone, love and affection still tangible even through the tiredness in his voice, the drowsiness that permeates through the speaker. “that’s good to hear. you should probably sleep soon, though, i don’t want to keep you up too late.”

“yeah,” you say, barely audible. were you expecting too much? “changmin should probably be done by now, too.”

“hey,” he frowns. “you okay?”

“yeah, i’m okay. just tired,” you tell him, tight-lipped as you smile.

“we never got to talk about your day,” sunwoo mentions, a reminder with gentle insistence. even on the verge of sleep, he was still trying.  “i’m free after dry rehearsal, so we can call again tomorrow night? i wanna hear about it first thing.”

you draw in a breath to agree, but something else slips out instead, the one thing you had tried to keep contained since the beginning. maybe you had brought this upon yourself, holding out for it until midnight slipped between your fingers, the hope in your chest slowly unfurling. you wonder if it was obvious, the remnants scattered at your feet.

"sunwoo," you call softly. the line goes quiet. you almost regret it, the words catching in the back of your throat when you try to speak them, but you imagine what it would be like if you forced your tongue to form them anyway, awkward and wooden and hurt. “i…” it was my birthday, today. did you know? did you forget?

by the kitchen, the big trash bag tied to the outside of your trash can is filled to the brim with plastic cups and paper plates. there’s still wrapping paper you need to throw away left on the counters, leftovers that need to be transferred and stored and put in the fridge. you wonder if you would have felt better about the hassle if sunwoo was there with you—to toss an empty cup into the open bag from across the room, to listen to you talk about your favorite memories from the celebration, to turn off the final light with you at the end of it all. like the old times.

even on call, he could have done most of those things, maybe even save you time from giving him a chiding look when he’d inevitably miss throwing the cup into  the trash bag by half a foot. he never really had to be here, he had just always been with you, in one way or another.

but it wasn’t not really your sunwoo anymore, was it? not really. not since he became more than that kid in the practice room with a pen between his teeth and a metronome in his hand, not since he became synonymous with the brand his name was attached to. and it was unfair of you to expect those kinds of trivial things from someone so far out of your reach now, right?

so the question remains a lump as you swallow it down—close your eyes, blink back the tears, it's your fault in the end, anyway—and smile. "no, nevermind. you must be tired, you should sleep soon."

“are you sure—“

“bye, sunwoo.” 

you watch as the reflection of the flame trembles in the small pool in the center of the cupcake; the wax has long since melted onto the frosting. you blow it out, and the candle leaves only a trace of smoke curling in the air in its wake—silent, alone.

it wasn’t so much that sunwoo had forgotten your birthday, but it was everything that it encapsulated, everything it makes you realize. how he was so much bigger than this, than you, how you shouldn’t have expected him to remember every little thing when he already has so much on his plate and a hundred more important matters to worry about. didn’t you hear the rasp in his voice? the exhaustion that coated each word? how he still took the time to call you at three a.m even after a full day of work and schedules?

you place the melted candle into the trash, carving out the tainted top with an extra knife lying on the counter. don’t be a bother. don’t hinder him with needless things.

the next morning, sunwoo calls in a panic, hurried apologies blurring all his words together in a flurry as he frantically promises to make it up to you when he comes home. you tell him it’s fine, you knew he was tired and busy and you didn’t want him to worry about it, but the soft assurance can’t hide the underlying hurt that splinters between him and you.

and he does keep his promise when he returns. the day after the plane arrives home, sunwoo’s first order of business is to insist on a full day spent together, making it his mission to be at your beck and call the entire time. he showers you with countless presents from his trip overseas and twice as much affection for each day that he was gone, but even underneath all the cheery smiles and excited banter, you can’t shake the feeling from that night. the mess on the floor, the shadows distorted in orange light.

it never really is quite the same, after that.

after. (love is a martyr.)

life goes on; it always does.

not much changes, at least nothing that isn’t glaringly obvious. you throw yourself into your work like you always have, going to countless songwriting camps and workshops, sending in drafts of songs to a&r teams of various companies only to be rejected then revised and then offered again for other songs and artists by other companies, a continuous cycle that seems to blur all the following days together. the only difference is that your phone stays eerily quiet—no scheduled ding at lunchtime reminding you to eat, no pictures shared throughout the day, no good night phone call to lull you to sleep.

though, you still talk to chanhee from time to time, if only because of his persistent insistence on the matter.

“we’re recording tomorrow,” he mentions, voice crackling over the speaker. you pause for a split second over a half-open cardboard box, hand faltering over the frayed edge of the flap. you’d only recently gotten around to unpacking the rest of your boxes from your move months ago; it wasn’t as if you were too busy to get around to it, but you suppose a part of you wanted to prolong the finality of it all, whether consciously or not. and on this wednesday afternoon on a day off, you figured it was better to do it now than never at all.

you let out an “oh”  in response, grabbing a few things from the box and placing it on the floor to reorganize later. “another comeback?”

chanhee’s chair squeaks as he hums, leaning back. he was in his practice room at the company—you can tell by the way he doesn’t whisper his words to you like they were a secret kept and hidden away. not like whenever he calls you at the dorm, careful of what wounds may open up again if someone were to overhear. “the teasers should be released soon.”

“you seem busy, lately,” you comment distantly, placing the phone on the table and setting it to speaker as you collect as many mini decorative plates and bowls in your hands before you stand up, ready to place them in various places around the living room and kitchen. remnants of the afternoon’s rain slips down the window glass, clouds casting the sky and your apartment a wash of dull gray. “first the tour, then a japanese album, now a comeback—are you sure you’re okay? you’re still taking care of yourself, right?”

“i mean, i’m fine,” chanhee says, a hint of ‘of course i take care of myself, who do you think i am?’ in the retort, “but.” he pauses, taking a breath, and you can tell he tests the words on his tongue before he speaks them. “are you sure it’s me you’re worried about?”

you place a bowl down on the windowsill a little harsher than you mean to. “chanhee.”

“sorry.”

chanhee at least sounds apologetic when he says it, but he interrupts the silence that falls soon after slowly, tentatively asking. “you’re going to listen to it though, right?”

you swallow hard, breathing out a long sigh as you pick up the phone again, holding it to your ear as you speak. “of course i am. did you even need to ask?”

“no,” he replies, a second’s pause where you think he shakes his head. “i just wanted to hear it from you for certain. to hear that you were still listening to us.”

 ‘to sunwoo.’ the words go unspoken, lying heavy in the air. it’s almost cruel, the way chanhee picks and pulls at the confession you have hidden like a wound just finished scabbing over, especially when he knows your answer just as well as you do. of course you would still be listening to sunwoo—that’s what you had promised him, way back when.

(the memory flashes by in an instant. the chill of a cool spring night, the squeak of the swing, the dim golden light of the street lamp above. you can still feel it, sometimes, the condensation slick on your fingertips, the bite of cold metal through your palm—the warmth, in spite of that.)

a small part of you whispers, what were promises really worth, in the end? you aren’t the same person you used to be, and neither is he. sixteen is a far cry from where you are in your twenties, the weight of the years lived through making you let go of the things a teenage-you wouldn’t have ever dreamed of—and that was normal, letting bits and pieces of your past selves be carried away by the passage of time. you know the same holds true for him, too.

but still. even if everything else had changed, you feel like it’s your duty, almost. to always be listening to him till the end.

“i have to go, chanhee,” you tell him, quiet. he makes a small noise over the phone, and before he can apologize, you interrupt with a small, “you’re fine. i just need to finish unpacking my stuff, and i promised myself i’d finish it all today.”

“you still haven’t unpacked?” he asks, baffled. “it’s been months?”

“i know,” you sigh, giving a little shrug. “i’ve just never gotten around to it. that’s why i have to finish it today or else i know i’ll never get back to it again.”

chanhee tells you to take care of yourself, to which you dryly remark to focus on following your own advice first and you say your farewells goodnaturedly, pressing to end the call.

it’s like a switch flips, silence falling almost immediately throughout the apartment, the heaviness in your chest weighted down even further in your solitude. you run a finger along the textured edge of the cardboard flap again, staring blankly at the items still wrapped tight in the box. a breath—in, then out, and then you blink it away, getting to work.

the box of posters and prints gets emptied out first, a roll of tape by your side as you hang up any remaining decorations that you’d left to a later affair when you’d first moved into the apartment. afterwards comes the books that you shelve carefully in alphabetical order in the small slot beneath the tv, then the living room curtains, the pack of postcards and holiday wishes kept in a tin case for safekeeping, the old journals you wrote in years ago and never looked back on since. you sometimes wonder if you should just throw them away, but you could never bring yourself to do it; you try to chalk it up to being too attached to the idea of the memories, even if you could never truly look at them again.

you heave the final box into your bedroom, hours later, huffing as you set it down in front of the drawers. sliding the bottom drawer open, the crumpled pile of clothes stuffed inside stares back at you. outside the window, golden hour peaks through your blinds, the sunset shedding just enough light for you to see in the dimness of your room. you crouch down onto the floor, knees knocking against the wood as you slowly take each article of clothing out, one by one to refold.

it was all clothes that you could afford to spare a second glance at, old shirts and pants that you never truly wore on a daily basis, clothes that were kept as another ‘just in case.’ and like the postcards and the journals and everything else in those boxes, the clothes crammed in that small space just seemed like something you kept choosing to not look at, to refuse to address in any way but in brief memory. you had told yourself that you’d always come back to it whenever you’d unpack the rest of the box of clothes, but looking back on it, maybe that was just a way of comforting yourself amidst the avoidance.

still, in the faint darkness of the room, you take each shirt out carefully, smoothing out the wrinkles and folding each crease to be in its proper shape. you had forgotten some of them existed, drawing out a small smile when you see the old mickey mouse shirt your mom had gotten you on her trip to disneyland, the student-made shirts from your high school graduating class, the club shirts you had joined in college. each refolded shirt gets stacked onto a pile beside the box, a reminder to go back and put the clothes from the box back in the drawer as well, but when you pull out the last shirt jammed in the far end of the drawer, you stop.

it’s nothing special, really, just a faded pink t-shirt with what seems like some semblance of a barely legible logo printed onto the front, but you clutch the fabric between your fingers, a memory from long ago surging back.

(“sunwoo…”

“yeah?” sunwoo pokes his head around the corner, morning sun dyeing his black hair a shade of light brown. he has a towel half-folded in his hands, corners lined up unevenly with one another. “what’s up?”

you frown, partially because you see a very near future of refolding all of the laundry he didn’t pay enough attention to, and partially because of the thing in your hands. “...you didn’t happen to put that one vintage white shirt you had in the latest pile, right?”

he frowns, eyebrows scrunching as he thinks. “i don’t know, maybe? why?”

slowly, as if to make him bear witness, you present to him his formerly treasured white shirt, freshly washed and dried, now dyed a clean shade of pale pink. “you put them in with my reds.”

sunwoo’s mouth gapes open just slightly, a small ‘ah’ escaping his lips. “i’m guessing we can’t do takebacksies on that?”

you groan, smothering your face into the shirt as you let out a long, exasperated “kim sunwoo…”

he tosses the towel in his hands onto the edge of the hamper as he steps into the laundry room, taking a closer look at it. “hey, it’s not even a big deal!” sunwoo reasons, trying to gently pry the shirt from your hands, but you wave it around accusingly before he gets a chance to get a firm grip on it.

“what do you mean,” you stress, waving the shirt that much more vigorously. “it was vintage! who knows how much you spent on this damn thing! and now it’s…” your eyes fall to it, defeated. “pink…”

“you know what, though?” he begins, taking your hands in his, and you meet his gaze, doubtful. “this is good. i’ve been wanting to give you one of my shirts anyway.”

“wha—”

sunwoo’s eyes light up, holding your hands excitedly. “it’s like, symbolic, you know? your shirt with my shirt dyed all together, it’s like…” he pauses, giving you a cheeky smile. “it’s like it’s you and me together forever.”

you can’t control the giggle that escapes after he says it, letting go of the shirt as you smack him lightly with bubbling laughter between your lips. as infectious as his smile is, dust floating in the streams of sunlight between, you call him lame for the cheesy comment because he is—he is lame for coming over to your place on his rare weekend off and of all the things he could do, he offers to fold your laundry together while simultaneously ruining one of his pieces of clothing in the process of trying to help, and then spins it in a way where none of it really matters because at the end of the day he knows it’s always just going to be him and you.

“and also, i just really want to see you in another one of my shirts.”

you throw the abandoned towel from the hamper into his face and tell him to go fold it instead, affection ever-present in your eyes. lame.)

that morning seems so far away when you think of it now. you bring the shirt to your face again—maybe for nostalgia’s sake, maybe to get some trace of what once was. wrinkles littered throughout the fabric, the smell of old wood from being stuffed in a drawer for months permeates through the shirt; darkness falls in the room as the sun fully sets, leaving only a sliver of dark orange lining the horizon.

you remember it, still. the scent of freshly washed fabric softener and the soft morning light and the heap of other clothes you and sunwoo had painstakingly gone over twice to make sure nothing else had leaked through and been dyed other colors, playful and teasing. you wonder what he would say to you if he saw you now, sitting on the floor with piles of clothes folded even with the wrinkles still tight. what he would say to you, if you listened.

and when you hold the shirt still for a second longer, breathing it in again, you realize that even the small traces of his old cologne were gone, too, all washed out with time.

you remember it all, and none of it is there anymore.

before. (love is like clouds, like fog.)

it’s a bit floaty, how the night comes to an end.

(sunwoo had arrived at your place around one a.m., hands shoved in his jacket pockets as he rocked back slightly on his feet, giving you a half-cheeky half-abashed grin. “i don’t suppose you’d be in the mood for a midnight snack, would you?”

already clad in warm pajamas and almost all finished washing up, you had stared at sunwoo for a long moment, slowly blinking, before creaking your door open wider and stepping to the side. “it’s cold. do you want ramyun?”)

he’d come immediately after practice, the sessions where they’d spent the entire day at the studio and only managed to come home at the insistence of their managers. it was for something they were preparing for, you know that for sure, so you hold your tongue from chiding him for not calling you ahead of time and instead shuffle to your kitchen, pot clanging onto the stove.

he was under enough stress as of late; you tried to support him in the ways you could, no matter how little they were.

when you both finish the two packs of ramyun and he offers to wash the pot, you shoo him away with a threatening slap of the pink rubber gloves by the sink, telling him to go wash up instead under the pretense of his post-practice sweat stinking up your entire apartment. sunwoo gasps, retorting that he smelled perfectly fine, but you give him a single look and he trudges away into the hallway, a weak indignant kick to the floor as he mumbles under his breath.

it never really comes up directly, the topic of disbandment, from you or from him. you talk of the preparation of road to kingdom, the exhaustion and stress that comes along with it, the weight its potential success carries unspoken between it all. you’re not entirely sure if the avoidance of the topic is deliberate on his part or not, but you try not to push for it too much. you know just as well as he does, and neither of you try to make it anything more than that.

“you know what,” he starts, later in the night when both of you are washed up and curled up in bed. “i’ve been thinking about it recently; it wouldn’t be so bad.”

you raise a curious brow, propping your head up as you turn to get a better look at him. “what wouldn’t?”

“you know, becoming a house husband.”

“sunwoo,” you blink. “what.” it was way too late for him to just be saying shit like this.

“i am just saying!” sunwoo gestulates dramatically with a hand, trying to prove his point. “if it doesn’t work out, i can definitely do the cooking and cleaning around this place while you go to work.”

“you can’t even clean up after yourself.”

“i can, i just don’t want to!”

you cast him a doubtful look, one filled with the knowledge that eric still complains daily about the pile of clothes tossed in the living room that are definitely sunwoo’s no matter how hard he tries to deny it, and that changmin loses half a year of his life every time he discovers another face mask sunwoo had slapped onto the wall or ceiling of their dorm room, and that the electricity bill at their dorm would run them to mere pennies if younghoon was never there to turn off the lights that sunwoo was supposed to. “is there a difference…”

“yes!” sunwoo insists, a strangely adamant look on his face. “i could totally do it. you would come home from a long and busy day of work and i’d have your entire dinner hot on the stove with a warm bath ready for you—you wouldn’t even have to lift a finger if i was there.”

you place a hand slowly on his, a placating gesture. “baby…” you coo, appeasing, and sunwoo tries to control his expression to keep up the indignancy. poorly, with the way he almost fumbles his entire stance at the mere mention of the petname, but at least you can tell he’s trying his hardest. “i think you’d burn my entire apartment down. or flood it, depending on which one goes horribly wrong first.”

“how could you!” he exclaims, pulling his hand away. “ye of little faith…” sunwoo’s voice goes grave and solemn. “don’t you want to see me in a sexy apron.”

“if i wanted to see you in a sexy apron, i would just give one to you.”

and even though sunwoo sulks and pulls a face at you, his insistence turns a bit softer when he repeats, “really, though.”

 he goes quiet, picking at a loose thread on your comforter. “it wouldn’t be so bad, if…if it doesn’t work out.” ‘it’ being road to kingdom, ‘it’ being their next album, ‘it’ being the boyz as a whole; your heart sinks. “i think the rest of us would just go back home, you know? maybe we’d pretend that these past years never happened, maybe all these memories would just turn bitter, but…” sunwoo gives you a lopsided smile, soft. “i would still come back home to you.”

the sentiment aches a little, your breath hitching as you try to rifle through the layers of emotions that sink to the bottom of your stomach, like picking at skin still raw underneath and not yet ready to peel. you wonder if he means it, if he truly sees you as a home to come back to or if you’re just something familiar, something safe; it’s not much of a distinction, but the details make all the difference—whether you’re somewhere he belongs, or if you’re simply kept sepia-tinted as a place to keep his preserved youth. the words escape from you before you can stop them.

“you don’t have to, you know.”

sunwoo pauses, and there’s a silence that falls soon after that makes you shrink into yourself, regretting words that can’t be taken back. “what do you mean?”

“if it doesn’t…” you don’t want to speak it into existence—they’ll do well, they have to. you try to form your words carefully, deliberately, so that they’ll be spoken correctly and convey exactly what it is you mean, but it all comes poorly anyway, clumsy and messy as you trip over your own tongue. “you don’t have to…you know.” your mouth goes dry. “stay.” 

sunwoo tries to not look offended at the suggestion, even if his furrowed brows say it all. but despite his own feelings on the matter, he tries his best to reign in his instinctive reaction, instead going to slowly coax you away from the ledge you’ve driven yourself to.

“i mean, i know i don’t have to,” he purses his lips, frowning. “it’s not like i feel obligated or anything, but i want to.” i love you, he means. i want to love you, i choose to love you.

there are a lot of things about sunwoo that you don’t quite understand—how he can internalize his envy to fuel his ambition, or how he still remains soft-hearted even after all these years, but you can’t begin to understand why sunwoo still holds onto you when you’ve long since stopped being something that he needs, nothing but a safe reminder of what once was. does he know? can he sense the way the two of you have started constantly tiptoeing around each other while trying to keep up an easy sense of normalcy, the memory of youth neither of you can return to? 

you’ve been holding back from each other—not just him, but you too. it’s easy, to slip into old banter and avoid the things bothering you, to play the part of your teenage selves full of passion and hopeful, unattained dreams, and maybe sunwoo knows this too. maybe he knows and he doesn’t want to admit it, allowing his world to be rose-colored to cling onto a past that leaves him loveblind to what he really needs, to keep him from acknowledging the fact that you’re nothing but a fragment of the past, something kept to fester.

sunwoo is a star, you think—no, you know. you’ve known for quite some time now, how he was bright and shining and meant for things lightyears away from anything you could ever see, and yet here he was instead: inside your apartment late at night in your bed, talking about how he was ready to fall back down to earth to be with you. like you were tying him down to somewhere he was never meant to stay, he was never meant to be.

and an hour later, when time sits between the precipice of twilight and dawn, you whisper an apology to him so faint it lingers in the air, floating between you and sunwoo’s still form. you’re sure he doesn’t hear it, that he’s been sound asleep for the past couple of minutes and it remains a secret between you and the not-yet-risen sun, but sunwoo shifts slightly, blinking at you in the dark, and ah. he wasn’t asleep after all.

turning to fully face you, he sits up to match your posture and takes a breath, a hand coming to rest on the back of your head as he bumps his forehead gently into yours. his eyes flicker over your features, concern etched clear even in the blinking drowsiness. “what?” what are you talking about, are you okay?  “what for?”

you shake your head, leaning into his touch as if to have the memory of him last just a little longer on your skin. it’s too much to say, too much of a weight to have sunwoo shoulder alongside you. so you tamp it down, swallowing back the lump in your throat as you blink away the heat behind your eyes. i’m just sorry. for everything.

sunwoo’s brows furrow, sheets rustling as he shifts again to sit up straighter, but you find his hand gently, threading your fingers through his as you smile—something soft and tender and so full of burdens it slips through and becomes fragile instead.

“it’s okay. nevermind.”

after. (love is a dream, lingering.)

you’re not sure if you can feel your face by the time you come stumbling back into your apartment.

fresh from a work dinner, the alcohol still buzzes in your system even through the barbeque you’d eaten along with the soju, even after the taxi ride home. too many seniors had offered to pour your drinks, all attributing them to the success of the most recently released song you’d worked on, and of course, you had to take it all with two hands, a polite smile, and the burn of the liquid on its way down. even if the taxi ride home had sobered you up slightly, your head still remains fuzzy and unfocused by the time you find the right key to your apartment and fumble with it before opening up the door.

you kick off your shoes by the front and drop your bag somewhere by the kitchen before making your way to the living room, coat thrown on the ground as you crumple yourself in the space between your coffee table and the foot of the couch. slipping your phone out of your pocket, you wince at the sudden brightness of the screen as it lights up. the apartment always seemed loneliest, like this.

it’s late, almost two in the morning from what you can make out from the glare of the screen, but you only look at it for a second before you swipe up, squinting as you enter your passcode. everything after this, you know, has morphed its way into being muscle memory more than anything else. 

you ignore the warning that pops in the corner of your phone in a red-laced ‘20% remaining’ and you let the practiced motions take over, tapping phone, then voicemail, and before you know it you’re back where you always are, staring at the only recording in your inbox before you press play.

a few seconds of silence fill the air, static crackling over the speaker, and then a voice speaks.

“hey.” it comes out shaky, just barely enough for you to tell. you want to say you probably wouldn’t have been able to hear it if you hadn’t listened to it so many times by now, but truthfully, you’d heard the slight tremble in the voice since the very first time.

(it was sunwoo, after all. how could you not know?)

sunwoo takes in a sharp breath, the beginning of an apology readying to end the call caught in his throat; you sometimes try to imagine a world where the apology goes through, where he instead tells you sorry, i shouldn’t have called and hangs up before the point of no return, but you’re glad this is the world you live in instead. the one where sunwoo swallows past the regret and starts to speak again, too light and full of faux casualness for his easy demeanor to be sincere, the one where you have the chance to hear his voice again. “strange hearing from me, right? shit, i don’t even know if this is still your number—i guess i could have asked chanhee-hyung to make sure but i’m not sure he would have been too happy to hear me ask about you.” 

he pauses, and from the amount of times you’ve listened to it you’ve made into something resembling a little game, filling in the gaps of what he could have done in the pockets of silence—like he’d squeezed his eyes shut at the thought, or he’d pressed into the spot between his eyes to fight away the image of chanhee’s disapproving stare. “he always did that, you know. for a long time after…” sunwoo bites his tongue. “i think it was pity, like he felt bad. not that he needed to, or anything, but you know how he is.”

he pauses again, as if scrambling for what to say next, what direction to take the one-sided conversation. “i, um, i don’t know if you heard, but we recently moved to a new dorm. we split into three separate ones, so we all got our own room, and you think that’d be great and everything after sharing a room with kevin-hyung for the past few years but we played rock, paper, scissors for our room picks and—” indignancy sneaks its way into his cadence, and you smile at this part always “—i really think i got the smallest room. i’m pretty sure it’s smaller than the bathroom. and jacob-hyung got the biggest room!” sunwoo continues, grumbling. “i’m not mad about it or anything, it’s fine… it just seems a little unfair, don’t you think? and, and…”

your eyes flicker, watching the seconds on the timestamp tick by as sunwoo continues to ramble about the most miniscule of things: more dorm shenanigans that sunwoo insists he was completely innocent in, how he’d run into jihoon backstage during a music show after not seeing him for a while, the pictures his members had posted for his birthday that he claims could have potentially ruined his ‘sexy and charismatic’ image with the fans forever. it all feels like he’s scraping the surface, the real reason he called still buried deep beneath all the frivolous hedging; it’s become almost obvious, given the amount of times you’ve listened to it, how each word is just another second stalled trying to build up enough courage.

and finally, when all of sunwoo’s pretense dies, when the lull at the other end of the line comes again, whatever he was planning on saying next deflates as he goes quiet, finally gathering enough courage for the whole truth. you mouth the words, ears buzzing, the timing and cadence seared into your memory.

“you were in my dream last night.”

you remember the morning you’d woken up to this voicemail, remember your thumb hovering over play but not finding it in yourself to press it. you know—you’ve known since the beginning that the recording would only add to your troubles, but on a night like tonight where the noise of the work party still echoes in your head and the apartment feels lonelier than ever after a tipsy ride home, the bruise feels too tender for you to do anything but press into it, over and over and over again.

“i’m not even sure why i called you just to tell you that—i didn’t even get to say it to you.” sunwoo lets out a wry laugh. “i mean, of course you wouldn’t pick up, it’s five in the morning, i don’t really know what i was expecting, but i…no.”  the confession tumbles from his lips, shaky and vulnerable and no matter how many countless times you’ve heard it, it still feels like slicing open an old wound. “i think i just wanted to hear your voice.”

sometimes, you let this section play out fully, his words like tiny shards of glass forming cuts on your skin without stopping; other times, you press pause just to replay it, just to hear him say it again, just to feel the sting and ache as you try to recreate the rawness you’d felt the very first time you heard it. salt in a wound is still salt no matter what name it tries to go by, but you suppose that’s why you’ve trapped yourself in this routine in the first place—to make sure the bruise still hurts, to pick at the scab just to see it bleed.

“i guess it just didn’t work out though, did it? your voicemail’s still the same automated message it’s been since high school, so all i’m really doing here is embarrassing myself.” everything laid down and exposed with no walls left to hide behind, sunwoo’s words come quiet and fragile. “i think a part of me expected it to still be the same, but—maybe the other part of me hoped things had changed. isn’t that ironic?” he breathes out a small resigned laugh. “change is what got us here in the first place, and now here i am, talking to myself and leaving a voicemail to a number that i’m not even sure is yours. pretty stupid of me, right?”

sunwoo swallows hard and so do you, the memory of the words ringing in your ears before he speaks them. “i miss you,” he says eventually. “i’m sorry.”

the faint static on the other end of the line tapers on for one, two, three seconds more before the recording finally ends, stretching into true silence. the first few times you had listened to it, you’d kept your ear pressed to the speaker, replaying those last few seconds desperate for anything else you could have missed, anything you could make out after his final words. now, you simply stare at the screen, still burning bright in the dark.

it’s almost funny, the way this has formed itself into something resembling a bad habit. every time, you go through the motions like they’re old and used and worn because they are, no matter how much you refuse to admit it; and each time, you take the shame and the guilt that curls in your stomach and ball it up inside of you, letting it seep into your bones, so that the next morning when you wake up, you can look at yourself with your newly polished and clean exterior and pretend that it’s merely something left in the past.

but for now, you hit play on the recording again, watching the seconds tick by once more.

(the next morning, you wake up to your phone still in your hands, battery completely dead, the previous night nothing but a pounding headache and a blur of what might have been. a new day, and yet it all feels like the same motions all over again. 

you ignore the calcified shame within you, play ignorant to the cycle that will inevitably repeat itself the next time a night like that comes again, and you pretend that this is the one thing you won’t let go of, even if it turns into all you have left.)

before. (—you were my youth.)

it’s a tuesday night when you see sunwoo again.

dressed only in sweats and a jacket for extra warmth, you had just finished your regularly scheduled convenience store snack run, plastic bag in hand, when you turn the corner and see a glimpse of him: backpack slung over his shoulder, trudging steps, wearing single gray hoodie that was no doubt too thin for him to not catch a cold on an early spring night. blinking, you register the familiar face for a split second before you call out after him, half-jogging to catch up.

“hey! hey, sunwoo!”

for a moment, it’s almost as if he doesn’t hear you; and then, his foot stops in front of the other, hand moving to take out an earbud. sunwoo turns around, gaze wandering until he meets your gaze. his eyes light up in recognition as he makes out your face in the residual light from the convenience store windows, the glow of the street lamp a few feet away.

he holds up a hand for a polite wave. “oh, hey.”

“heading home?” you ask, peering at him. you hadn’t really seen much of him these past few months, other than the increasingly sparse times you’d spot him in class.

“yeah,” sunwoo nods, a slight smile to go along with it. “just got back from training.”

“ah, i see.” it’s a little strange, looking at him now. even if you hadn’t taken a good look at him recently, you could still tell something was a little off about him; maybe in the way he was carrying himself, the heaviness of his step, the half-hearted way his smile didn’t look quite like the one you were used to.

then again, what did you know? it wasn’t as if you were best friends or anything—after you’d partnered with him for that one project months ago, you’d only talked to him a handful of times, either in passing or when you saw each other around. calling him a close friend would be far from the truth, but calling him just a classmate wouldn’t exactly be accurate either. you suppose he stood in a strange middle ground, one you didn’t seem to mind.

but even so, maybe even just the implication of friendship was enough for the concern to fully settle itself into your mind, the reason why you can’t bring yourself to just brush off his exhaustion as a result of the late hour, and why you impulsively jab your thumb towards the neighborhood playground a block away, the plastic bag in your hands rustling from the motion. “you wanna make a small pitstop before you go?”

and surprisingly, despite a moment’s hesitation, sunwoo takes you up on the offer.

it’s how you find yourself sitting together on the swingset, the subtle squeak of metal on metal almost serving as a familiar comfort as you rock back and forth, heels digging into the bark beneath. “i heard you got into loen, right?” you try, peeling your awkward stare from the chipped paint on the side of the swing over to the boy next to you. “how is that going? i never really got the chance to congratulate you on it.”

“it’s good,” sunwoo replies, almost on instinct, but before he can continue, he closes his mouth instead. the rest of the sentence tapers off into an awkward silence, leaving you to fill in the gaps.

“tough?” you ask, more of a rhetorical than anything else. maybe you were overstepping your bounds by prying, but the least you could do is offer a lending ear, especially now that you were both here anyway. “i might not be a trainee,” you offer, “but i know it can’t be easy.”

sunwoo presses his lips into a line, swallowing in contemplation, before nodding.

“i don’t know,” he confesses, the toe of his shoe digging a hole into the woodchips. “it’s definitely hard, but it’s not just that… i like that it’s hard, you know? it means i’m challenging myself and it means i’m learning, it’s just—they said they’re selecting the debut lineup soon.” the swing chain squeaks between the rustling of the bark. “what if i don’t make it?”

(what if i never make it?)

you get it—the uncertainty that haunts every step of this path. you’ve seen enough of your friends and classmates drop everything to pursue their dreams, only to have it thrown back in their face, failures either resulting in a renewed perseverance or the battering of their soul. and even if you weren’t taking part in the same rigorous and merciless training process that plagues them, the crumbling foothold follows you too, at times, all for a dream you can’t ensure will spare you even pennies in return.

but you do it because you want to, because you have to, because you love it too much for there to be any other option you’d be willing to fathom. and in spite of the short time you’ve gotten to know him, you’re sure the same holds true for sunwoo, too.

“then you try again.” his head shoots up, and you meet his eyes with a smile. “and you keep trying and trying until you can’t anymore—because you love it, right? dancing, singing, performing? you wouldn’t be doing this if you didn’t.”

you watch his expression carefully as your words land, waiting for the smallest sign to back off, but instead, sunwoo gives you a resolute nod, taking each word to heart.

“you can do it,” you tell him, every word sincere. “i know you can.”

there’s a certain weight in his gaze afterwards that almost makes you regret having said it, almost like you’ve overstepped in your own direction instead. what were you even doing?

 the sudden intimacy of the moment settles into your stomach all at once, and you try to grasp at anything to bring back the lighthearted mood of a few minutes ago—for your own sake. clearing your throat, you try to dispel the sudden heaviness in the air.

“in any case,” you start, rifling through your bag. fishing out a container of strawberry milk, you stand up and walk over to sunwoo, pressing it against his cheek; he jumps from the sudden cold against his skin. “you know we have exams coming up, right?”

sunwoo groans, raising a hand to take the milk. “what if i just dropped out like jihoon?”

before he can grab it, you press the container harder into his face, frowning. “don’t even think about it!”

“but…” sunwoo looks up at you with sad, shining eyes, panhandling for a single ounce of pity. “that means no more exams…”

“and then what,” you reply dryly.

he finally takes the milk from your hands, pressing it to his forehead with his eyebrows furrowed, the beads of condensation threatening to slip down his palm. “okay, you have a good point.”

you roll your eyes, but sunwoo snaps his head up after a second of thinking longer, milk sloshing in the container at the sudden motion. “you wouldn’t leave me out to die all on my own, would you?”

“huh—”

sunwoo pleads your name in a dramatic fashion, hesitating a little before grabbing your hands to continue his spiel. you have a brief yet vivid image of his resemblance to a raccoon digging through your trashcan in your front yard. begging for scraps… “you have to remember me when you’re famous, okay…”

“sunwoo,” you exasperate, trying to pry your hands away from his, freezing and wet from the cold milk. “you aren’t dropping out and you are not becoming homeless.”

he nods enthusiastically. “right, because i’d have you!”

“don’t you have any other friends?”

sunwoo looks you dead in the eye, his grip tightening. “i have friends, but you would have the songwriting royalties.”

“for the last time,” you groan, finally slipping your hand away from his grasp. “you’re not gonna drop out, and you’re not going to become homeless! and you’re going to make it!” you rub your hand gingerly on the side of your jacket to wipe off the excess condensation. “enjoy the strawberry milk, i’m gonna head home.”

you turn and take a few steps, only for sunwoo to call out to you again. “hey, wait.”

pausing, you look back curiously. “yeah?”

“if…” he starts slowly, staring at the milk in his hands. “when i debut,” he rescinds, meeting your eyes. “will you listen? to me, i mean—even if you’re the only one?”

“i definitely won’t be the only one,” you chide, stuffing your hands in your pockets. the night air was growing colder by the second, remnants of winter lingering in the beginnings of spring. funnily enough, you don’t really seem to mind the chill. “we’ll make it, okay? we’ll make it together.”

you attempt to leave it at that, but the way he looks back at you, sunwoo holds the question between the two of you, still waiting for your answer—like he would have waited forever for it, if he needed to. and despite your previous unfamiliarity with sunwoo in this sort of setting, you figured it would be cruel to deny him of at least an earnest answer.

“to answer your question, though.” you try to look away to break the weight of his gaze, but you find yourself pulled back to it anyway. finding the resolve to match his, you step forward again. he needed to hear this; and maybe, you needed to say it, too. 

“of course i will.” tonight’s moon waxes, its light peeking through the clouds. “i’ll always be rooting for you, kim sunwoo.”

after. (yet. love is always, always, a choice.)

the first few times you see the video on your recommended page, you try to ignore it.

you shove it to the back of your mind and you tell yourself it can wait just a little longer, that there’s no difference from watching it a few days from now. except the days stretch on into weeks, and it still remains untouched, lingering forever in an endless present. the video itself isn’t anything big, objectively speaking, but the heaviness of it weighs on you every time you see the title, knowing what it consists of: special release from kim sunwoo of the boyz, self-composed track.

it’s not exactly breaking the promise you had made to him all those years ago, more like putting it on hold. and maybe it’s for the best, the waiting period, but the longer you wait, the more things just keep piling on and shoved into the shelf to collect dust over the past few months—their last single, the mini-album that followed after, and now this. you had tried, that first time chanhee had asked you about it. you couldn’t make it far before you had to turn it off.

you tell yourself you’ll get around to it when it stops hurting, a soft assurance to still keep your promise, but you know it’s hypocritical to give yourself that easing comfort when in the same breath you’ve been pressing into the bruise again and again, never giving it the time and space to heal. the pain has never stopped you before, rather, you’ve grown close with the ache, the faint memory of the wound, but there’s something distinctly different about listening to his music that hurts too much for you to continue. 

maybe it’s the way it brings you back to that classroom and that swingset and everything you know you can never go back to; or maybe, despite the voicemail that you still come back to on the loneliest of nights and the wrinkled shirt that remains crumpled in the corner of your room, a part of you knows that the salt in the wound would be nothing compared to digging an even deeper, uglier wound in a cut scabbed over. that’s only what it could feel like, if you listened to him before you were ready. 

you want the memories as a lingering taste alone, but you’re scared that if you go back to that promise with two feet planted and an open heart, if you delve into the memories completely, you won’t be able to come back out.

tonight is different, though.

you want to blame it on the hour that hosts the beginning of dawn, or the way you can’t go back to sleep, or the dream you’d had before you had woken up, the details fading more each second. but when the video appears once again, thumbnail ingrained into your mind, you don’t even need to look at the title before you finally click on it.

(you had dreamt of him, that night. 

it was a good dream, you think, at least in the moment—more of an old memory than anything else. sunwoo had come over the night before his birthday for an early celebration, insisting on being congratulated by you first thing once the clock struck twelve. you remember it being a small celebration, just the two of you in your apartment together with cheesy decorations and balloons blown up spelling out his name and a golden ‘hbd’ strung along the walls. 

the rest of it comes in and blurs together in flashes: the strawberry cake you’d bought to share together, the way you’d wiped the frosting on his nose only for him to smear a bigger chunk onto your cheek, the shoddy match that came with the cake that sunwoo couldn’t light, no matter how hard he tried to save himself from the embarrassment.

and usually when you wake up from a good dream, you fall asleep again soon after, just to catch the traces of the dream before it’s gone forever. but you’re trying, slowly in your own way, to not do things like that anymore. after all, eventually the shirt needs to become just another shirt, and your voicemail will one day go back to having no more recordings saved. 

you want to think you have it in you—to let the wound finish scabbing over and heal, to finally let it fade into almost nothing but a brief mark of time in your skin.)

the music starts the second the video starts to play, and you feel a pull at your gut, an inner voice whispering. you can still back out, it says, soothing. you haven’t hit the point of no return yet. it’s okay if you’re still not ready.

but then sunwoo’s voice cuts through the noise, each word sung with his heart on his sleeve, and that part of you grasping for any form of protection left instantly goes quiet. if it were about anything else, maybe you could have rationalized it to yourself and clicked out of the video, convince yourself to go back to sleep and that it was okay to wait. another time, another day, another world.

when he sings, he sings of you, he sings to you, and you remember that you had never truly listened to the words he’d wanted to say to you since you’d sent that text that ended everything that night—not really. didn’t you owe him, then, at least this?

so you swallow hard, and you blink until lights dot the inside of your eyelids, and you listen.

(sunwoo’s lyrics talk of love, how he had wanted to be yours. he had wanted to be yours forever, and yet he ended up losing you and maybe that was his fault; maybe if he had shown you his love better then you wouldn’t have let him go, then you would still be by his side instead of appearing only when he closes his eyes, unsure to call you a dream or a nightmare. not that it mattered, you were still his universe, no matter what. even in the hurt, it was still love)

it’s all wrapped up in pretty lyricism and intricate metaphors to keep the listener guessing for the true meaning, but you’ve always understood him best when it was through song. you think you had forgotten that, after so many years together and knowing him through everything else, but with the music playing through your headphones and the screen of your computer flashing the images in the silence of your apartment, it was like coming back to your roots. like you were in that classroom with a pen and paper and that playground with the chill of spring still warm on your beating hearts and how you’ve known him intimately before you even knew you could.

it all felt so simple, back then. like budding love was all you would ever need, before everything else got in the way, but—no. you stop at the thought. that’s not quite it.

(pause, rewind, play.)

it was always simple to sunwoo. he was a star burning bright and blind to you, growing farther from your reach each passing day, but to him, you were never anything less than the universe itself. was it truly so horrible—bearing attachment to his youth? you were still growing beside him, right? you were the home he wanted to return to, weren’t you?

and yet you were the one who had smeared the paint before it could finish drying, the one who had felt so alone in watching the wear of a bridge you had deemed impossible to save. and at the end of the day, maybe the fault fell partly on both of you, stepping onto that unsteady footing together with the rope of the bridge fraying with the weight of time, but you were the one who had taken that last step to the other end without him even knowing.

lit match in your hands, you had burned that bridge for what you’d perceived to be the greater good, to destroy it before it could collapse and take both of you with it. an act of cowardice disguised as selflessness, you’re left to stare at nothing but the ashes and cinders you had set aflame. but in the wreckage, only after everything do you finally understand what that indiscernible emotion was in his eyes when he looked at you, what he had meant that night by choosing to love you.

in the silence, daylight breaks, your once dark apartment beginning to tinge a soft yellow glow.

(the ground beneath your feet steady, you look to the other end of what once was, carrying the pieces of wood in your hands. if you tried to build that bridge towards sunwoo again, panel by panel, could you rebuild something stronger from the ashes? would sunwoo help if he knew, repairing each step together with you?

you’re not afraid of finding out the answer—not anymore.)

epilogue. (love is gravity.)

the sun rises fully soon after, the sky turning into a brighter, deeper shade of blue as the hour passes. still lingering along the edge of dawn, you know if you looked outside you would see the frost beginning to melt on the blades of grass, the slow trickle of cars onto the road as people were starting to head to work. it’s subtle, the difference between five a.m. and six a.m., but it’s enough for you to feel the shift in the air.

gnawing at your lip, you reach for the phone lying on the table. it’s an aching sense of déjà vu as you unlock your phone and scroll through your contacts, searching for a single name. you can only imagine if this is what sunwoo felt like, the night he’d called you, half-hopeless as you press the phone to your ear, the first dial tone ringing. 

(you want to let yourself not hurt anymore—to allow the wound to heal, to finally let go of all the shame inside of you. it’s your first step in trying to repair that bridge you had once burnt down, your first choice where you try to move forward. but sometimes, to move forward is really to move back to where you want to be, back where you belong.)

each additional ring that repeats comes with decreasing expectation, and you brace yourself for the voicemail message that will inevitably come. of course he wouldn’t pick up this early in the morning, you tell yourself, another ring echoing. you wonder if this will become a new pattern, one voicemail to another, always barely missing each other in efforts to reconcile, always a little too late. trading in one bad habit for another, maybe this was just how it was meant to be.

but you suppose it’s always been like this, ever since the night you broke up with him—how sunwoo has been choosing to love you still, even after, and how you’ve been choosing to still love him too by refusing to truly let him go, orbiting around each other like how gravity is both the reason why a planet circles a star and why they can never ever fall into one another (again). perhaps this is just where the frayed edges of fate have left you, coming together only once before your ends are split away forever.

but when the sixth ring sounds and you prepare to hear the automated message, drawing in a breath to scramble together a message to leave at the beep, you hear a single voice instead. your breath hitches.

“hello?”

your lip trembles as you press the phone harder to your ear, heat surging to the bridge of your nose, the back of your eyes. you try to keep your voice steady but it comes out watery instead, words spilling over before you know it. “hi. it’s me.”

and despite everything, gravity fails, just for an instant, and you and sunwoo collide into each other once again.

[akisteahouse]

COURTING YOU? SINCE WHEN?! Featuring Savanaclaw!

requested ask from here!!!!

While courting, wolves will stay close to their potential mate and typically will not leave their side if possible. They are also very affectionate and will nuzzle, lick each other, and will even walk side by side.

Jack Howl! Who’d recently begun acting… strange, to you, recently - face avoiding yours entirely when you sat or walked next to him, ears perked up and tail wagging when you’d offered him a hug that one time.(though he swatted your affection away. Huh.) Shoulders brushing against yours a little too purposefully during movie night, forever complaining about how your uniform was never neat, always helping you readjust your tie, dusting off imaginary dirt off your clothes whenever you meet, bashfully looking away when you asked him why he was being so nice(“Well, we’re… in the court - no, nevermind.”) Things went downhill(or uphill, maybe?)when he started to return your affections, nuzzling his nose against yours or your neck, almost whining when you tried to pull away, pawing at you to stay with him, for just a little while longer… earning sniggers and off-handed comments from both Leona and Ruggie, teasing Jack on how he was really piling it on ‘em, huh, getting one too many complaints from Leona, about how you smelt just like him… wait, what? Jack Howl, who was certain you’d agree to meet his family over the school holidays - you started to court him first, after all, and he was certain they'd absolutely adore you :)))

While courting, male hyenas will often shadow their potential mate to foster a relationship, approach a female and repeatedly take a few steps toward her and then a few steps away, even if the female doesn't react to his approach, and bow low to the ground to show submission to the potential mate, as female hyenas tend to be more aggressive than their male counterparts.

Ruggie Buuchi! Who was acting shifty again - walking behind you but scuttling a few steps back if you ever noticed him, face a mix of fear and hesitance, before returning to tailing you - but he was Ruggie, so you quickly dismissed his behaviour as Ruggie just being Ruggie again.(Which worked wonders for the poor hyena’s heart, now fully sure you weren’t going to bite his head off if he got too close.) Following you around school like a shadow - a skittish, blushy one, sure, but still a shadow nonetheless - attempting to mask them as chance encounters, though after a while, he was fairly sure you knew he was just making up excuses to hang around you at this point(not that he minded much.) Walking you to essentially anywhere you went, copying your actions to a tee - if you ate, he would eat(not without stealing bites off your plate, though), if you took a nap, he would take a nap.(on your lap, preferably, but only if you let him) Being more affectionate to you in general, wrapping his arms around you from behind, resting his chin on your shoulder, though he was quick to bend down and apologise if he ever felt like he was overstepping. Pupils practically turning into hearts when you let him nuzzle his nose against your neck from behind, hiding his burning face into the crook of your neck for nearly ten minutes before he pulled away.(A successful mount - Grandma would be so happy, shyehehehe!) Inviting you over to his home in the Savannah over the school holidays, grinning despite your confused expression. “What? Granny’s been dying to meet my dear mate, it’s only expected, shyeheehee.” :))))

While courting, lions typically approach their potential mate and engage in actions like nuzzling, head rubbing and licking, followed by ‘tended courtship’ where the male follows their potential mate, shadowing them and engaging in behaviours such as rubbing, pawing and gentle biting.

Leona Kingscholar! Who had started to cling to you like a particularly annoying leech, dragging you to his favourite napping spots and holding you hostage in his arms, head slotted perfectly into the crook of your neck ignoring his usual schedule of skipping school in favour of following you around instead - walking you to all of your classes with a glare venomous enough to scare off anyone trying to talk to you, so ‘conveniently’ standing outside them when they happened to end.(not slick, Leona, not slick at all.) Rubbing his head against yours on one such kidnapping occasion, smile a tad bit too smug when you repeated the same motion to him, before you tried to get up and was met with a scowl and his hands pawing at you back to the grass, his arms firmly wrapped around your middle to prevent further escape attempts(sucks for you, I guess) Things escalating when he bit you, square on your neck after a nap, expression strangely nervous, before brightening up considerably when you decided to be petty and promptly nipped him back on his collarbone, for ‘payback’ (nevermind how your face felt like it was burning, how he grinned and pulled you in for a celebratory nap, once again locking you in his embrace) Knocking on your door the day before the school holidays, flopping on your bed, seemingly done with life before he spoke - “Falena keeps on bugging me to meet my mate. How about it? Can’t say Sunset Savanna’s the nicest place to visit, but you oughta get used to it - visiting in-laws, and all that. …What? D’ya think you could court a prince and get away scot-free? ;))

hey, if you liked this… check out Octavinelle’s or Diasomnia’s versions?

alternatively; check out the Savannaclaw masterlist?

[hitomisuzuya]

one odd way scaramouche says i love you. fluffy fluff fluff. soft but grumpy scara. fatui!scaramouche x fem!reader.

i'll link part one under a cut at the end, but i suddenly got an idea for a part two. so here is some fluff instead, i have had a few asking me when i would write fluff<3

scaramouche hovers around the fatui medical support assigned to the area he was in. he knew he could've had dottore look you over, but he really, really didn't want that man touching you.

with narrowed eyes, he accepted their assessment, and carried you still fast asleep back to camp. you were very injured, but no broken bones. bed rest was ordered for you for the next few weeks.

he was going to spend the night here in camp with you, then take you back one of the rather expensive safe houses pantalone invested in where he would oversee your recovery.

scaramouche sighs as he sets you down on the bed in his camp. "you are all banged up," he scoffs quietly, fluffing some pillows around and tucking you in under some blankets. "i don't like it when people break my toys."

for hours he sat, occasionally reading a novel before nodding off himself without noticing. he immediately snaps awake hearing the blankets rustle as you stir awake.

"sc-scara?" your voice cracks for a moment, weak and pain tinged. but there was also something else in your voice. something that shakes.

"did you have a nightmare?" he asks, frozen for a moment as he watches you. he is waiting for you to move first so that he knows how to handle it.

scaramouche is incredibly particular when it comes to you.

you shook your head, a soft sound of pain coming from you as you gingerly move yourself across the bed closer to him. "no, i didn't," you didn't get very far on the bed, having to stop because of the pain.

but, you didn't seem to want to let pain deter you.

he almost winces watching you. you are the one in pain, but it was painful for him to watch you. "stop," he barks softly, sighing as he reaches for a bottle on the dresser. "if you insist moving, take a little bit of this," he tips the cup to your lips, "the doctor on call gave it to me to give you for pain. take half of it now. it will make you sleepy."

you make a face as you drink the gross tasting liquid. once you swallow it, you close the small gap between you and him on the bed as haziness sets in, ebbing away your pain. he catches you before you fall back down onto the bed, steadying you against him.

"you weren't going to be satisfied until you were here, were you?" laying down to accommodate you comfortably, he puts an arm around you as you curl up against his side. "i told you to stop moving, didn't i?" he glares down at you for a moment, "don't make me make it an order. i don't like it when someone breaks my toys."

"huh?" you stare up at him, confused for a moment. you thought you may have heard him say that whenever you were coming to earlier. his breath hitches quietly in his throat as tears suddenly well into your eyes.

"stop that," he is frozen again. "i hate it when you do this," he says this with evident distaste in his voice as he catches one of your tears on his finger, "if you had a nightmare, quit beating around the bush and just tell me."

"no," you sniffle softly, burying your face in his shirt for a moment. "i was scared. so scared i wasn't going to see you again," the tears starts to fall more, and scaramouche starts to get anxious about it. whenever he gets anxious, he gets a bit snappy. but don't hold it against him. he is just concerned.

"then why did you put yourself through that? you could've easily just left them all, and come back to me," he tilts your head up to look at him. "answer me."

your lower lip trembles for a moment. your hand folds over a chunk of fabric on his shirt, clinging to him. "i couldn't have done that. it would've been wrong," you swipe some tears away.

"wrong?" scaramouche scoffs, "why? you could've died. you got all fucked up, and for what? just to save their pitiful lives? you gave them the choice that should've been yours alone. and now look were it got you. a pathetic, crumbled heap on your superior's bed."

you are quiet for a moment, soft sobs shaking your shoulders.

"i can confidently say they wouldn't do the same for you," it was a cold, rational, and logical answer. but one he knew for certain.

you stood your ground though. "yeah, but at least they are alive and able to make that decision for themselves."

scaramouche's jaw almost dropped. he really didn't understand you sometimes. your answer completely blindsided him. you really are something else. you never cease to amaze him.

even now he can see you struggling to fight drowsiness just to stay up and be with him.

"how foolish," he hisses, carding his fingers through your hair. "i don't like it when people break my toys. and you, you are one i don't want to replace."

you cock your head again, confused by his words. sometimes, more often than not, you have to listen carefully to what he says. then sudden realization sets in.

"scara? did you just say that you love me?" the world fades to static around you as you lift your head, heart poundinf in your chest. you wait, holding your breath and it doesn't take long for scaramouche to react.

scaramouche grits his teeth, looking away as a blush dusts his cheeks. "quiet you," he gently pushes your head back down on his chest.

"oh my gosh, you are saying that," you exclaim, a burst of pain shooting through you from your sudden burst of excitement as you lift your head again. "you are. i love you too, scara. i love you so much."

"i said quiet you," he gently rests your head back on his chest. "and i said to stop moving didn't i? fuck," to cover up how flustered he feels, he grabs your medicine cup again. "take the rest of this and calm down. you can barely stay awake."

he is right. the medicine he gave you is making your head feel fuzzy, and you didn't realize how much you were struggling to keep your eyes open. trying not to make a face, you finish your medicine. "will you be here when i wake up?"

"mhm," he mumbles, making sure you are comfortable cuddled against him before you fell asleep. once he sure you are asleep, he presses a kiss on the top of your head, his arms tightening around you for a moment. "yes, my girl, that is what i said," he whispers.

he was hardly going to leave your side unless he has to leave and get you something. and you certainly weren't going out on any missions any time soon, even after you have recovered. and if you did, he is going with you.

he can't have you making brash and stupid decisions like that again.

https://www.tumblr.com/hitomisuzuya/781833959589003264/fatuiscaramouche-x-femreader-no-smut-scara-on?source=share

part one.