#🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹

[hotfudgecherryrosy]

Counterpoint: waking up in messed up makeup & hair, and yesterdays clothed bc she just absolutely fucking passed out after work or something.

dreaming of the magical day where a female movie character wakes up in bed without mascara and a blowout

[solifloris]

≡;-꒰ 𝐗𝐀𝐕𝐈𝐄𝐑 ꒱₊˚ ପ⊹ I  𝑭𝒐𝒓 𝑼

╰┈➤ ❝ xavier x afab!reader | 18+ only

tags : porn without plot, xavier glows when he's happy during sex, pretty much just lovesick!xavier lmao, oral (f. and m. receiving), teasing, cum eating (swallowing), slight hair pulling, xavier calls reader "angel", reader calls xavier "baby". pretty straightforward, but lmk if i missed any tags!

wc : ~2.3k

an : has this been done before? probably… will that stop me from writing anyway? absolutely not <3

taglist : under the cut! (SIGN UP HERE)

ko-fi jar / commissions

You think you've never seen Xavier glow as much as when he's between your legs.

He was all over you.

Warm, wet, relentless—you were spread out for him, hands finding purchase on the sheets beneath… and his tongue pressed flat against the shape of your folds.

Slow, careful drags.

They started that way; teasing, almost, but just gentle. Slowly from the bottom up, tasting every inch of you that he possibly could— savoring the moment, the feel of simply being there with you.

And you could feel the wetness pooling between your legs.

The air felt thick and warm, heavy with the scent of sex— You were already soaked, already aching, and he knew it. Your arousal mixed with the saliva gathering at the corners of his mouth, and with every lick came a filthy wet sound that filled the bedroom.

"Mmh… ah— Xavier…"

Your eyes rolled back as he circled your clit with the tip of his tongue. Still slow, still deliberate… he teased you, sparked goosebumps to ride up through your body at the tingle of his hot breath.

"Ngh— fuck!"

When he flicked his tongue in a sharp motion your hands reached down to tangle in his hair, pulling him closer. Your thighs trembled—wrapped around his shoulders, drawing him in.

And again, the same motion—

Before he stopped.

He didn’t rush; Xavier rarely did.

With his head buried well between your thighs he took his time, still with the tip of his tongue dragging tiny, teasing swirls around your clit before pulling away, only to start again from the bottom with a deeper, wetter stroke.

Then came the patterns.

Wide figure-eights, up and down, parting your folds with an insistent stroke only to dip inside of you just ever so slightly.

You groaned.

The more that he did it, the more obscene the sounds would get, and it was driving you insane.

"G-geez, fuck— Xavier…!" Your moan teetered into a breathy, helpless laugh as you tugged at his hair, arching your back into him. “God, baby, you… You’re already so messy...”

"Mmmnh."

His own groan felt punctuated with a wet pop as he pulled away slightly, just enough to look at you.

And those eyes. Those goddamn eyes.

Your breath hitched when your eyes met, hearts floating in his own, his cheeks and his ears flushed red and his mouth glistening wetly…

He smiled.

Had the audacity to.

Dazed eyes crinkled first, and then the corners of his lips lifted—a goofy, hopeless, utterly smitten kind of smile, that you couldn't even help but laugh this time.

Even as his tongue darted out to give kitten licks just around your clit, you grinned, because you—

Noticed it.

Tiny, yet bright, those telltale specks of light seemed to gather around him, and you shook your head in an endeared sense of disbelief.

"Xavier…" you huffed with another laugh—it turned into a squeal, soon after, as he settled himself back down and leaned against your thigh, lazily licking at the skin. Never once did he look away. "You're really into this, huh? Ah! Hey—"

He did it again. Pulled your clit into his mouth, suckled it gently until you were arching back into him. His tongue continued to flick, as if to prove to you that he was in fact into this, and even you couldn't help the lewd moan that simply prevented you from giggling at him directly.

"Oh my god!"

Again you tugged at his hair, gripped onto his locks and tried desperately to grind against his mouth.

When he spoke again, it was muffled against your sex, soft and slurred with none other than the devoted love he had always given to you. "M'not stopping," he mumbled. "Can't, s'too good…"

He didn't wait for a reply.

He dove back in, lapping more eagerly, licking through the slickness that had built up to create a messy, wet symphony of your activities. His tongue moved with more urgency now—faster, deeper. He flattened it again, licking up the full length of your slit, swirling it tight around your clit before he once again dipped lower.

And this time you felt it—

His tongue slipped in.

A loud schlick punctuated your own moan as he pushed in gently, hot, and wet, and oh, so, good. The obscene squelch of it made your cheeks burn and your cunt flutter—because holy hell.

"Ah—fuck—Xav, baby—!" His tongue curled, pressed against your walls as if to properly map you out—as if he hadn't before, as if this wasn't something he'd already memorized. "Right—ah—there! R-right there!"

He rocked his tongue back and forth, set a motion that had you dizzying; fucked you gently, softly, and you… You could do nothing else but fall apart.

Your thighs twitched around him and he held you open, palms rubbing soothing circles into your hips. Slurping noises mixed in with your moans. And every time you peered past your hazy vision to look at him, you could drown in the way he could love you even through his eyes. The mess of it, the sheer wetness—the saliva on his chin, the slick leaking out of you…

It was filthy.

Beautiful.

His eyes sparkled, almost as bright as the light scattered around him, and he all but buried himself deeper into you.

"Mmmph… nmh… n'gel, wan'all of you…"

Again came his muffled voice through your cunt, and if at all even possible, the way he said it—so soft, so wrecked—made you even wetter. Your clit throbbed. Ached, even.

And his tongue pressed deep before pulling out slow, back up to your clit, mapping every little reaction and the way your hips would buck and your moans would grow louder with every flick of his tongue.

"Nnh!! Y-yes, ye-s—Xavier! L-like that…!"

You could have almost thought you were delirious with pleasure, but the room seemed to glow even brighter the more you tugged him into you. Blurry vision could faintly make out the brighter outline of an increased amount of specks of light, and he kept licking, and licking, and licking, and licking— almost like he couldn't get enough of you.

Your thighs were shaking now.

The tension in your belly coiled sharp and tight; your clit throbbed in time with the swirling of his tongue.

“You’re—fuck, y-you’re gonna make me cum!” You whined, pulled at his hair again. Something like another breathless laugh fell from your lips simultaneously, because when your vision did focus, even only for a mere moment, you could have sworn you'd never seen someone so lovesick in your entire life.

Light seemed to cling to him like fireflies, spreading out only to make room for more. There was something so floaty, so serene, so perfect—it was just enough to reflect yourself in his own eyes; for all of that dazed look he had to him, you could still see yourself the focus of all of his desires.

He didn’t stop.

With slow kitten blinks he sucked at your clit, and you swore that you felt him smile.

Go ahead, he seemed to be saying, cum for me.

"Pl-mmpfh—" He tried to speak, muffled and accompanied with a lewd mix of slurping that followed. "Please… Need t'taste…"

It was enough.

Like a wave, pleasure flooded through you in an instant. Trembling in the shock of it, your thighs clenched around his head, locked in just like that—your hips jerked against his mouth, and you could feel how wet everything was.

His chin, your thighs, the sheets beneath—it was so messy.

He didn’t stop.

His tongue kept moving still, but gentler. His tongue dragged, soft and wet, back to those long, languid licks over your cunt while you shook. Every so often it'd be accompanied by a moan of approval, as his eyes fluttered closed to simply savor the moment.

A moment passed; your grip on his hair loosened as you panted to catch your breath, and your body all but collapsed into the mattress.

When you looked back down again, your own eyes half-lidded and slowly regaining their proper focus, he was still, again, watching you.

Completely gone.

His cheek nuzzled your inner thigh, and his hair was messy, his face was wet, and that goofy, goofy smile was back on his face. His eyes were glassy, and star-bright, and— gone. Just completely, utterly gone.

"…So good," he sighed. "So good, angel."

He looked so pretty, like this.

You sat up slowly, stroked your fingers through his hair, fixed it just a little and allowed your gaze to soften. "You've been glowing all this time," you chuckled. "So that means you're really happy…"

More and more you'd been finding little moments with the both of you where the specks of light were more obvious, and it warmed your heart more than you could say. You'd always thought there was so much about Xavier that felt out of reach—still so many things you didn't know, still so many things you longed to know, even after all this time.

But there were things you did know.

He'd become more expressive the longer you'd been together, and this—all this light around you— that felt like proof of it.

Because now, you thought, even in how dark he would keep his room at night, you figured he didn't even need the lamp if his own Evol could provide all the light you needed.

Gently, you reached up to catch the sparkles, giggling a little to yourself when a few specks of light coalesced into the shape of a bunny. Always his favorite.

With your eyes drawn back to him, you cupped his cheek, nudged him upwards. "C'mere," you murmured. "You've been so good to me, so perfect, and you… you deserve something sweet."

He looked dazed as he crawled up the bed, and you pulled him in for a kiss.

The taste of you still lingered.

The corners of your lips tilted up in a smiled as Xavier became eager; pushed you against the mattress, slipped his tongue in your mouth like he didn't know how to stop tasting you, even now in this moment. His cock twitched against your thigh as you deepened the kiss; already hard, already needy.

You wouldn't have it any other way.

Pulling away from him then separated your lips with a thin string of saliva, and you reached down, curling your fingers around him. "Hard from just that?" you chuckled when he sucked in a sharp breath.

You dragged your thumb across the tip, smeared his pre-cum in slow little circles. His hips twitched, and you smiled wider. "Xav, baby… You really were enjoying yourself down there, huh…"

"…You drive me crazy," he murmured. Again those floating specks of light seemed to glimmer brighter. "And… make me really, really happy."

This time he let you flip him over, and he sank into the pillows, jolting slightly as you kissed down his chest.

His cock throbbed in your hand, red, and flushed, and leaking; twitching when you leaned down, and—

"Ah— f-fuck," he gasped, voice cracking.

Another lick right over his slit, and your eyes gleamed mischievously. "Too sensitive?"

He shook his head. "Angel, please I just…"

It was your favorite sound.

His eyes were glazed over when he looked down at you, lips parted slightly in a pant. The way he spoke was breathless; you wanted to hear more.

So you licked him again, this time slower. You pressed your tongue flat against the underside of his cock, dragged it all the way to the tip… You could taste him already; salty and warm, and somehow so perfect that you could feel the craving for it already begin to settle in.

"Sh-shit, you're— y-you're unreal," he gasped again. One hand fisted into the sheets, the other shakily reached over to anchor itself into your hair.

So you smiled.

You took him deeper then, wrapping your lips around the tip and letting him slide over your tongue, your head slowly lowering to take him in.

As deep as you could go.

Then—

You pulled back, letting him pop free with a wet sound, and you laughed at his look of indignation.

"I could suck you off forever, you know," you teased, tracing the tip of his cock with your finger. "I get it. If you're addicted to my taste, then I might be addicted to yours…"

"Angel…"

You laughed again.

"It's okay," you soothed, "I don't really plan on stopping."

You took him in again, hollowing your cheeks, traced your tongue over every curve and vein that you could. Slowly, carefully. Spit drooled down the corners of your lips as you bobbed your head, and you felt the way your pussy fluttered at the mere way that he would moan out your name.

He was so easy to ruin like this. Sweet, and stunned, and trembling from the pleasure... It was so rare to have him allow this, have him so desperate and needy and— Just, that.

Easy.

His voice cracked, breath stuttering as you sucked, one time and then another, just to hear him fall apart.

“N-no, I'm— g-gonna cum, if you keep that up,” he warned, straining. “I sw—ear—fuck, please—”

You didn't dare stop.

You moved up, and down, taking him as deep as you could. Wet, obscene, deliberate—you wanted him to lose it; wanted to feel him shatter at your hands.

And, god, he was so responsive.

Every moan, every whispered “Angel…”, every helpless jolt of his hips… It fed something greedy in you, and you couldn't stop even if you wanted to.

"Fuck—fuck— n-ngh, you're— I-I'll really cum if you…!" He gasped, voice a little higher and just so wrecked it barely sounded like him, “Don’t stop—please, please, don’t stop—”

You hummed around him, vibration earning you a choked moan, hips bucking erratically.

You wanted more of it.

“Ah—fuck, angel, I’m—I’m gonna—!”

Steely and determined, you looked up at him and dared still to take him deeper—

It was hot.

His hips bucked one more time before he froze, cock pulsing hard against your tongue, thick cum spilling into your mouth.

Hot, and so, so, much.

With a strangled moan you swallowed, taking in as much of it as you could, before little dribbles of cum spilled out of your mouth.

And god, the look on his face.

Dazed, Xavier's head fell back, jaw slack, completely undone.

He was glowing.

The image in front of you made you grin almost giddily when you pulled back, wiped your mouth with the back of your hand. "Xavier, I didn't know you could look so pretty fucked out the way you are," you laughed.

And you sat up, crawled over him, determined to grasp at the locks of hair that seemed to shimmer in light of his Evol. "You really do glow so much after we do things like this…"

He only pouted.

© solifloris. all rights reserved. do not: steal, copy, repost, reupload, modify, or claim any of my works as your own, regardless of credit given. absolutely do not use my works for AI training and other related purposes.

"You'll… really be the death of me, my angel…"

taglist : @pixelcafe-network, @hunters-association @spotted-salamander @rafayelsheart @love-and-deepstrays @keioxo @oharasmommymilkers00 @rafayelsgf @pikachuzhc @fackeraccount @iloveboysinred @venussakura @evilgojo @strwbrychffoncke @darlingdummycassandra @azuremoonss @valyvinny @jellyroom2 @theanbitchless @chemiru @ywnzn @pepprrmint @angel-jupiter @xai-mery @raiyuxa @rowazuhime15 @nezuswritingdesk @cordidy @exitingmusic @chomichomas

[eelliotss]

— Borrowed time, part 5

‼️Caleb x reader x Sylus. Reader not MC. University AU. Modern AU. Angst angst angst!

Everyone knows Caleb is in love with MC. Everyone. Including you. But that does not stop him from flirting with you, teasing you, keeping you close. And it definitely does not stop you from falling for him—even when you know you’re just a stand-in, a place holder.

“I bet you still thought of me.”

song: party 4 u by charlie xcx [this song has been the main inspiration for this series, so whatever you feel listening go this song, i hope you’ll feel that while reading this series as well]

word count = 9.6k

i appreciate all likes, comments, reblogs, and asks. i may not reply to all of them, but i want you to know that i reread them over and over <3

i cant say im proud of this chapter, and tbh theres so much i hate about this part, but if i dont post this right now, i dont think i ever will, so please be kind, but i appreciate constructive criticisms! if this part felt unsatisfactory, just pretend this update didnt happen lol

ps. thank you so much for over 1k followers??? heres a thousand roses for all of you 😭🌹

part 1 | masterlist

The door creaks open.

The closet’s darkness slips away, replaced by blinding light and loud cheers.

But everything feels distant.

Your breaths are shallow. The warmth of his breath still clings to your skin, the ghost of his lips a lingering echo. His touch—still branded into your waist, your jaw, the hollow between your ribs. Your pulse hasn’t settled.

The air outside is cool, but your skin burns.

You stumble slightly as you step out, Sylus behind you—his shirt rumpled, one button undone. His silver hair is tousled, a little too messy. Your lips sting. You know you look wrecked.

And the crowd eats it up. Whoops and whistles explode around you.

You try to smile. You try to breathe.

But then your eyes land on him.

Caleb.

He’s across the room, half-lit by the cheap string lights, drink forgotten in his hand. His jaw is tight, his expression unreadable—except for his eyes.

They are cold.

Piercing.

It’s not anger. It’s like he’s looking right through you—like you’ve somehow ruined something sacred. Like you’re the disappointment.

Your chest tightens.

And then, just behind him, you catch a flash of movement.

MC.

Her head is down, hair shielding her face, her arms wrapped tightly around herself as she brushes past him, shouldering her way through the crowd.

Caleb snaps out of his trance in a heartbeat. His face shifts—concern overtaking scorn—as he calls after her and follows without hesitation.

And just like every time before, he doesn’t even spare you a second glance.

The cheers fade into static. Laughter turns tinny and distant, swallowed by the ringing in your ears.

It hits you all at once.

The heat. The mess. The press of Sylus’s body against yours. The way you leaned into it. The way you wanted to. The way you let yourself.

And then—MC’s face. Her voice. Her smile when she told you he’s kinda cute, isn’t he?

Guilt slams into you like a car.

It punches the breath from your lungs.

You feel it in your throat, acidic and raw, threatening to spill. A sickening twist coils in your stomach, bile licking at the edges of your tongue.

What have you done?

What did you just let happen?

Your skin crawls. The warmth you felt seconds ago now feels wrong—disgusting. It clings to you like smoke. Like shame.

You wrap your arms around yourself, trying to hold in the nausea curling up your chest.

Sylus says something beside you, low and teasing, but you don’t catch the words.

All you can hear is your own blood rushing in your ears.

And all you can feel is the weight of what you’ve just done. The taste of it. Bitter. Burning.

And the worst part?

You don’t even know who you’re more disgusted with—Caleb…

Or yourself.

You don’t wait for the whispers.

You don’t wait to see if MC turns back or if Caleb says anything at all.

You push through the crowd, pulse hammering in your throat, lungs clawing for air like there’s not enough oxygen in the room, not enough space in your ribs for this many feelings, this much shame.

The door slams shut behind you but it’s not enough.

Not enough to drown out the ghost of Sylus’s hands still on your waist. Not enough to erase the memory of his mouth against yours, hot and unbothered and too real.

Not enough to wipe away the scowl in Caleb’s eyes or the way MC couldn’t even look at you.

The night is too loud. The world is too close. Everything—everything—is pressing in on you.

So you push everything out of your way, scouring to find air.

You don’t think, don’t breathe, just bolt down the steps of the villa, sandals slapping against stone, the wind catching in your hair, stinging your eyes, stealing your balance. You don’t care.

The beach calls to you like a goddamn siren.

You trip onto the sand, knees buckling, breath shaking, heart feral in your chest like it’s trying to break out and leave you behind. You tear your heels off, toss them somewhere you’ll never find again, and march straight toward the water like it might wash you clean.

The ocean crashes louder than your thoughts.

Salt fills your nose. Wind tangles in your hair. The stars above are too bright, mocking. Too calm for the storm splitting your insides apart.

You drop to your knees at the shoreline, water licking at your calves, seeping into your clothes, and you let it. You need it. You need the cold. You need the sting. You need to feel something real.

Because everything in your chest is twisted. Twisted and wrong and out of place.

You lean forward, pressing your forehead against your knees, breathing like each inhale might keep you from unraveling completely. You wish it were just the alcohol. Just a mistake. Just a hazy memory you could laugh off tomorrow.

But you remember it too clearly.

His mouth. The weight of his gaze in the dark. The way his hand didn’t hesitate when it slid against your jaw, when he leaned in like he’d been waiting to taste you all night.

And you let him.

Worse—you wanted it.

The thought turns your stomach. You dig your fingers deeper into the wet sand, nails scraping at the earth, like maybe you can bury the part of you that’s smiling.

Because she’s there.

Somewhere inside you—beneath the nausea, beneath the shame—there’s a version of you curled up, smug and satisfied. A version who watched MC’s face twist, who watched Caleb’s scowl turn cold, and felt nothing but satisfaction.

That part of you is smiling.

You hate her.

Because that part of you—the one that enjoyed it—she’s been quiet for a long time. Always biting her tongue, always watching from the corners while MC took the spotlight, while Caleb gave his warmth to someone else. You taught her to wait. To be kind. To be better.

But god, you’re tired.

Tired of twinkling for people who never look up long enough to see you. Tired of being loved only in parts—when you’re easy, when you’re quiet, when you’re beautiful and harmless.

You’ve always been the supporting character in everyone else’s story. The best friend. The comic relief. The tragic footnote.

So tonight, you wanted to be the villain.

So tonight, she let herself out.

You let her kiss him.

You let her drag Sylus into that closet and tilt your chin up with a smile that begged “ruin me if you want to.”

And she did.

Now here you are, buried in the sand and sea, trying to figure out if the guilt eating at you is heavier than the satisfaction still curling at the edge of your lips.

You’re not supposed to feel this way.

You’re not supposed to want to be seen like that. Wanted like that.

Not at the cost of MC. Not at the cost of Caleb’s crumbling expression.

But you do.

You wanted them to see. You wanted to be wanted. And for a second—you finally were.

And for that, you are repenting your sins, kneeling by the shore and letting the cold eat you whole.

The tide rushes in again, crashing against your skin.

You raise your head, throat raw, eyes burning.

You sit there, watching the waves hit and retreat, over and over, counting the sparkling stars reflected on the ocean surface, until you could not feel your feet.

This is your way of atoning—because you fear the girl curled up inside you, biting on her nails every time a tear threatens to fall. Because the damage she has done once you let her out for a fraction of a moment is irreversible. Collateral.

And because you can’t promise this will be the last time you let her out.

You finally return to your room, dread curling tight in your chest like a vice. Each step down the hallway feels heavier than the last, your body moving on autopilot, mind spiraling with possibilities.

You hesitate at the door. Fingers resting on the knob. You aren’t sure what you’re bracing for.

An angry Michaela?

A tear-streaked Michaela?

A cold, distant Michaela who won’t even look you in the eye?

You don’t know which would be worse.

The knob turns with a quiet click, the door creaking open. You take a breath—slow, bracing—and step inside.

Empty.

The room is quiet. Still.

Her suitcase remains tucked in the corner. A half-drunk bottle of water sits on the bedside table. The lights are off, the curtains drawn. Not a trace of her. Not even the ghost of footsteps.

Somehow, it’s worse than yelling.

You stand there for a moment, motionless, caught in the heavy weight of nothingness.

Then your phone buzzes.

MC [02:46 AM]: Had to clear my head. Be back later.

Short. Punctuated. Not cold, but definitely not warm either.

And with that, you’re left alone.

Surrounded by silence.

Sinking into it.

You sit on the edge of the bed, heart thrumming against your ribs.

You should feel relieved.

You grip the edge of the mattress tighter.

You should be thankful the confrontation didn’t happen yet.

But all you feel is this crawling unease.

Like the silence is just the eye of the storm.

And when she comes back—

You’re not sure which version of Michaela you’ll meet.

And worse—you’re not sure which version of you she’ll find.

You get changed and crawl under the covers, body heavy, soul heavier. The silence is your only companion—thick, choking, unforgiving. You bury yourself into the blankets like they could shield you from the weight of what you’ve done.

Eventually, exhaustion drags you under.

•

Rustling wakes you.

Sharp. Precise. Intentional.

You blink your eyes open, and there she is.

Michaela.

Her back turned to you.

Her suitcase is open on the floor, half-filled. Clothes folded with a neatness that feels hostile.

You sit up slowly, throat dry.

She doesn’t look at you, nor say a word.

You rise. Move toward your side of the room. Get ready in silence. The kind of silence that screams.

Every breath feels wrong. Every second, guilt crawls further up your throat, pressing, choking, aching.

You swallow hard, then try to break the weight as you part your mouth to speak.

Your voice is quiet. Fragile.

“Michaela… last night, I—”

Michaela freezes for only a second before she turns around, face already wearing a smile that feels too sharp, too bright.

“Was such a blast! You gotta tell me all about what happened in that closet!” She winks.

“No—I—”

“Don’t think too deeply into it!” She waves her hand casually, like you’d just brought up a funny memory from a party instead of the reason her bag is half-packed. She lets out a breathy laugh, brushing her hair behind her ear. “It’s college, Yn. People kiss like, all the time. It’s nothing.” Her face drops slightly, but returns back to its beaming state. She reaches for your hands, and her voice lowers down. “It’s just a kiss, isn't it?”

A pause.

“Y-yeah,” you utter.

Her face beams once more as she squeezes your hands. “Besides, he is a pretty good kisser, isn’t he?”

You stare at her. The smile she’s wearing is dazzling—carefully crafted, practiced.

But it doesn’t reach her eyes.

And that hurts more than if she’d screamed at you.

The silence that follows is unbearable.

Eventually, the two of you gather the last of your things and leave the room. You walk side by side, the air between you tight with everything unsaid.

Outside, everyone is saying their goodbyes. Laughter, hugs, last-minute selfies. But none of it touches you. Not really.

You spot Caleb near the car, arms crossed, jaw tight.

He shifts his weight, arms crossed, leaning against the car with that infuriatingly calm expression—like he’s been waiting to deliver a blow.

“Well, well,” he drawls, eyes dragging over your form. “Eventful night, huh?”

You freeze mid-step.

His tone is light, teasing, even laced with that familiar cocky lilt—but it cuts deeper than any insult. Because you know Caleb. You know exactly when he means it. When the smile on his face is just another weapon.

“Hope he was worth the show,” he adds with a smirk. You can’t quite get a read on his face, can’t really understand whether the smirk is teasing, jabbing, or insulting.

You don’t answer. You can’t. So you walk past him without a word.

But he’s not done.

He leans in just slightly, voice dropping low enough for only you to hear:

“I bet you still thought of me.”

It hits you like a slap. You don’t flinch. You don’t give him that satisfaction. But it scorches down your spine, curling into something heavy and sour in your stomach.

All words run dry in your throat.

Because you know you did, and he knows you did.

So, swallowing down the lump in your throat, you quietly climb into the car.

The ride back is a void—quiet and cold despite the sun that floods through the windows.

Michaela sits in the front, headphones in, eyes fixed outside. Her expression is unreadable, a delicate mask of serenity.

Caleb drives in silence, but the tension in his body betrays him.

His knuckles tighten around the steering wheel. The muscle in his jaw ticks every time the car slows.

And yet—despite everything—you still see the way his hand occasionally reaches over to Michaela’s thigh. Subtle. Familiar. He squeezes gently, reassuringly, every time the silence grows too loud.

You sit in the backseat, hands clenched in your lap, stomach churning, heart clawing at your ribcage.

Because somehow, in this cramped little car filled with silence and ghosts, you still feel like the one who doesn’t belong.

•

You finally find yourself back in your familiar space.

The door clicks shut behind you.

Shoes off. Bag down. Keys tossed on the counter.

The silence wraps around you, soft and undemanding.

For the first time in days, you breathe without pretending.

You shower, letting the water scald the memory of Michaela’s laugh off your skin.

You eat something. Actual food. Not alcohol. Not regret.

And for a brief, flickering moment, you start to feel okay again.

Until your phone pings.

A message.

Unknown [6:43 PM]: So?

You freeze.

Every part of you stills—except for your heart, which begins to pound like it remembers the thing you’ve tried so hard to forget since last night.

Something forbidden.

Something thrilling.

Something wrong.

The memory comes back in flashes as guilt claws its way up your throat, hot and unrelenting. It tastes like shame.

You stare at the screen until the words blur.

And then, with trembling hands, you type.

You [6:50 PM]: It was a mistake.

You [6:50 PM]: Don’t text me again.

You hit send before you can think twice.

Your phone slips from your grip, landing face-down on the bed as you bury your face in your hands.

“It was a mistake,” you mumbled.

•

The following days were the most peaceful ones you’ve had in what felt like forever—quiet, slow, and mercifully uneventful. No parties. No whispered gossip. No sharp glances from Caleb or strained smiles from Michaela. Just the soft hum of routine and the space to finally breathe.

You sleep more. Eat better. Enjoying the lasts of your break. You’re rebuilding yourself piece by piece—one uneventful morning at a time.

But the moment you start feeling a little more like yourself, Monday catches up.

The quiet comfort of the break ends the second your feet hit campus tiles. The world spins forward like nothing ever happened.

Michaela acts like nothing ever happened.

She greets you with the same bright smile, the same light giggle, the same affectionate bump of the shoulder. As if that night was just another one of many forgettable college party blurs. As if your lips had never touched Sylus’s. As if her eyes hadn’t dulled the second they landed on you.

And you pretend too.

Because it’s easier that way. Safer.

Later that day, she loops her arm through yours as you walk out of class, swinging your hands between you. “Let’s go shopping after lectures? I need a new outfit or something for the first viewing next week,” she beams.

You nod before you can think too hard about it.

“Oh—” she adds, with that little flicker in her voice that always precedes something calculated, “I invited Caleb too.”

Your smile doesn’t falter, but your stomach twists.

The shopping trip is tolerable at best. Michaela slips into her spotlight with ease—twirling in front of mirrors, holding up dresses with playful pouts, laughing just a bit too loud at jokes that don’t quite land. Caleb sticks close, fingers brushing her waist, whisper her ear when she grins too hard.

But his eyes wander.

You catch him sometimes, gaze flicking to you when Michaela isn’t looking. Just for a second. Just enough to leave that same sour taste in your throat.

You don’t acknowledge it.

You can’t.

Instead, you smile when Michaela pulls you into the dressing room with her. You nod when Caleb asks if you’re tired. You pretend not to notice how her laugh dims a little when he lingers by your side for too long. You go through the motions—lift the hangers, compliment the colors, offer the safe, neutral opinions you’ve mastered so well.

It’s like muscle memory now. Playing your role.

Because if you don’t look too hard, you can almost believe this is normal. That nothing’s changed. That your mouth hadn’t betrayed you. That your silence wasn’t stitched from guilt.

By the time the sun dips below the skyline and the three of you step out of the store, bags in hand and feigned joy in your lungs, you feel wrung out—drained from smiling too much and meaning none of it.

Caleb says something—something teasing, probably—and Michaela laughs like a girl in love.

You stay a step behind them, clutching your bag a little too tightly.

You tell yourself it’s fine.

You tell yourself you deserve this.

Because in this triangle of careful lies and quiet betrayals—

You’re the one who kissed the wrong boy.

And you were the one who almost said yes again.

“Oh! I almost forgot,” Michaela says, as if it just came to her. “You have to come to the premiere next month.”

You blink. “The… premiere?”

She grins. “The film. The one we shot over break? We’re doing a small screening—kind of like a soft launch—for friends and crew.” She swings her shopping bags absentmindedly. “It’s just this tiny old theatre on 12th. Indie vibes, red velvet seats, ancient projector that might burst into flames halfway through—super charming.”

You force a smile. “Sounds cute.”

“You’ll come, right?” she says, looking at you over the rim of her cup. “I already told them to save you a seat.”

You hesitate—but not long enough for her to notice. “Sure.”

She beams. “Perfect.” Then, casually: “Sylus will be there too. I made sure he’d come.”

Your fingers tighten slightly around the straps of your bag.

“Made sure?” you echo, trying to keep your tone even.

Michaela shrugs, but there’s a sparkle in her eyes—the kind that always means she’s saying more than she lets on. “Yeah! I’ve been seeing him pretty frequently these days. Bumped into him a few times after the shoot… had coffee once or twice. He’s actually really funny when he’s not being all mysterious and broody.”

“Oh,” Caleb joins, light and amused. “Him. Great. Can’t wait to hear him brood about cinematography or whatever the hell it is he does.”

Michaela laughs, linking her arm with yours again. “Be nice. He’s actually been really helpful lately.”

“Helpful,” Caleb echoes, quirking a brow as he pops the lollipop from his mouth. “Didn’t realize mysterious bad boys were part of the crew now.”

“He’s not a ‘bad boy’,” she says, rolling her eyes.

She says it lightly, but there’s a deliberate lilt in her voice—a softness, almost flirtatious.

Your grip on your bag tightens, the fabric biting into your fingers.

You nod once, slow. “Didn’t know you two were close.”

She hums. “We’re getting there.”

Then, with a coy smile: “He asked a lot about you, though. Thought that was cute.”

Your chest constricts. The air feels thinner somehow.

“Anyway,” she says, skipping in front and spinning to fully face you, “it’s going to be such a fun night. You should wear that black slip dress—the one you wore to Jenna’s party? You looked so good in that.”

And all you could mutter in response was a short hum along with a smile.

•

The following days were as normal as they could’ve been. Well, aside from the fact that he has suddenly been everywhere.

At first, it was subtle.

A glimpse of him through the glass-paneled door of the editing lab, leaning over a student’s shoulder.

The sound of his voice drifting down the hallway—low, smooth, impossible to mistake.

Then you saw him again, this time in the courtyard. Talking to a group from the business department, one hand in his pocket, the other holding a coffee he barely drank from.

Word spread quickly.

“I thought he took most of his classes online?” someone whispered nearby.

“He does. No one ever sees him around.”

“Then why’s he here now?”

“Who knows? Maybe to complete his last courses before graduation?”

“He’s a business major, right?”

“Yeah, but like… old money business. Scary smart. The kind that makes you nervous to breathe too loud.”

You kept your head down, but your pulse never quite stayed still.

Because every time you caught sight of him, he never once looked your way—

And yet, you felt his presence like it was stitched into the fabric of your day.

He was too composed. Too polished. Too calculated.

And somehow, his silence was louder than if he’d cornered you outright.

“Just a mistake,” you mumble to yourself each time you see his figure waltz by.

But your quiet whispers to calm your nerves didn’t prove to be a very sustainable method.

Not when the universe seems hellbent on rubbing it in.

You see them together.

Once in the corridor outside the media building—her laugh echoing off the walls, his hand casually in his pocket, head tilted down to hear her better. They walk side by side, their pace easy, unhurried.

Michaela looks effortless next to him—bright-eyed, golden, her hand brushing his arm as she says something that makes him smile.

Not his usual smirk. Not the quiet, condescending curve of his mouth he wore like armor.

You stop in your tracks.

Just for a second.

Long enough for Michaela to spot you.

She waves. Cheerful. Unbothered. “Hey babe!”

He followed her gaze and landed on you. The smile on his lips curls up a little higher as you meet his eyes.

“Hello,” amusement coats his voice.

“Hi—”

“I’m probably not going to be free today for our usual hangouts,” Michaela cuts in, turning to you with an apologetic pout. “I asked Sylus to help with some of my work… You can hang out with Caleb by yourself, right?”

Before you can answer, she adds with a dramatic sigh, “Please tell him to chill and that I’m fine—just really busy. He’s been blowing up my phone non-stop these days.”

You force a smile, nodding once. “Yeah. Of course.”

She beams, already tugging Sylus further down the hall.

He casts one last glance your way.

A flicker of something in his eyes—teasing, sharp, unreadable.

As soon as you’re left standing there, caught in the space between their footsteps and your silence, your phone buzzes.

You glance down,

Caleb [4:28 PM]: where are you

Caleb [4:28 PM]: arent we having dinner today

Caleb [4:28 PM]: are you with her? she’s not answering my texts

Your stomach tightens.

You can still hear Michaela’s laughter fading around the corner, Sylus’s low voice murmuring something back.

Caleb [4:29 PM]: nvm

Caleb [4:29 PM]: i’ll find you myself

You don’t even remember agreeing to it.

One minute you’re reading Caleb’s texts with a pit in your stomach, the next he’s striding up to you outside the lecture hall—jaw tense, eyes scanning over your shoulder like he’s half-expecting Michaela to appear.

“She’s with him, isn’t she?” he asks, no greeting, voice clipped.

You blink. “Caleb—”

His expression shifts. He exhales, scrubs a hand through his hair, and forces a smile.

“Whatever,” he says, eyes softening as they settle on you. “Doesn’t matter. You’re here.”

And just like that, the edge in his voice fades.

“Come on,” he says, nudging your shoulder. “I’m starving. Let’s go grab something before I start chewing my own arm off.”

You hesitate for half a second, but he’s already walking ahead, glancing back to make sure you follow.

•

Dinner ends up being at this tiny place tucked behind the arts building—warm lighting, mismatched chairs, the kind of quiet hum that makes everything feel a little softer.

You sit across from him, arms tucked against your chest, still a little shell-shocked from everything.

He notices.

“You’ve been doing that thing again,” he says between bites. “Where your brain goes somewhere else and forgets to take your body with it.”

You snort. “And what thing are you doing right now?”

He leans back, exaggeratedly smug. “Being charming and irresistible, obviously.”

You roll your eyes, but the corner of your mouth lifts. Just a little.

When your food arrives, he pushes his plate toward you with a quiet, “Try this. It’s better than yours.”

You glance at him, suspicious. “You haven’t even tasted mine.”

He grins. “Exactly. That’s how confident I am.”

It’s silly. Stupid, even. But it helps. The knot in your chest loosens just enough to let a small laugh slip out.

And then—just as you’re mid-bite—his voice softens.

“Hey.”

You look up.

His eyes are steady now. No teasing. No act.

“I never really got the chance to say it properly,” he murmurs. “About what happened at the filming set. That night. Everything.”

The clinking of cutlery fades around you.

“I was inconsiderate,” he says. “I thought too little. Acted too harsh. ”

He looks down at his hands for a moment. “I overlooked your feelings. And I hurt you more than I meant to.”

You don’t know what to say.

So you just watch him as he finally lifts his gaze again, softer now. Warmer.

“I guess what I’m trying to say is… I’m sorry.”

The air between you stills.

“Can’t say I really enjoyed the stunt you pulled though,” he jokes.

The dinner continues quietly—less heavy now, more like the old rhythm you used to share with him. Caleb cracks a few jokes, pokes fun at your serious face, and makes exaggerated guesses about the lives of people at nearby tables. You end up laughing more than you expected to.

Then, as you gather your things to leave, he tilts his head toward you with a mischievous glint.

“One drink?” he asks. “There’s this quiet place nearby. They make the worst cocktails I’ve ever had in my life. Thought you’d like it.”

You roll your eyes. “Sounds irresistible.”

He grins. “Exactly.”

The bar turns out to be this cozy hole-in-the-wall tucked behind a bookstore, dimly lit with string lights that look like they’ve been up since 2003. There’s an old piano in the corner no one plays, and the bartender greets Caleb like he’s a regular—which is both comforting and mildly concerning.

The music’s soft. The booths are deep and worn-in. And somehow, the world feels smaller here.

Caleb orders for both of you, raising a brow at you across the table. “Just trust me.”

You don’t. But you drink it anyway.

“You’re smiling,” he points out, pleased with himself.

You arch a brow. “Must be the worst cocktail I’ve ever had in my life.”

He lifts his glass. “To consistent branding.”

You clink glasses, laughter warm between you.

The kind of warmth that sneaks up on you—gentle, nostalgic, easy.

And then, somewhere between the second and third drink, he leans back, eyes softer now, his playful edge melting at the corners.

“You know,” he starts, swirling what’s left of his drink. “I don’t really remember what my parents look like anymore.”

You glance over at him.

“You don’t talk about your family much,” you say gently.

He lets out a breath. It could’ve been a laugh.

“Don’t really have one,” he says. “Not really.”

He lifts the glass to his lips, but doesn’t drink. Just rests it there, like he needs something to hold on to.

“Thankfully, Michaela’s took me in,” he continues. “Thankfully…” he repeats, quieter this time.

Your mood sours from the mention of her name. Of course she would be mentioned.

“She has always been sick since she was a kid. ‘Cause of her bad heart.”

You stay quiet. Let him keep going.

Something in his voice says he needs to.

“It’s always been my responsibility to keep her safe,” he says, almost like he’s reminding himself. “Since we were kids.”

His fingers drum against the glass, slow and steady, like a heartbeat.

“And whenever I failed to do so… well…” he trails off, then smiles, a crooked, breathy thing that doesn’t touch his eyes. “It never really ended very well.”

You feel the weight of those words, the way he tries to tuck pain into them like they’re just another part of the joke.

“He used to remind me constantly… of my purpose…” Caleb mumbles, his voice slowing, slurring slightly. His words are slipping like his grip on the glass—loose, tired, too worn down to hold on.

You watch his eyes begin to dim, heavy with drink and something much older.

“You’re too drunk, Caleb,” you say softly, reaching out to steady the glass before it tips.

He blinks at you. Slow. Dazed. And then his lips part, just barely.

“That I’m just a stray…” he whispers, almost to himself. “If no one needs me…”

His gaze unfocuses for a moment. You don’t think he even realizes he’s still speaking.

Your breath catches.

He’s still smiling, faintly, lazily. But it’s the kind of smile that scourches your chest.

You slide your hand across the table, fingers brushing his. He doesn’t move.

“You should go home,” you murmur.

He doesn’t answer. Just leans further into his folded arms, the tension in his shoulders finally giving out.

You sigh, quietly.

The bar is warm, the night colder. And somehow, without much thought, you find yourself wrapping his arm around your shoulder, whispering half-hearted complaints as you half-drag, half-guide him out the door.

•

The days fly by like leaves lifted off the branches.

Nothing of the past has ever been mentioned ever again—the few days at the film set, the tense atmosphere between you and Michaela, nor the night Caleb slumped into your shoulder, murmuring half-truths through the haze of cheap liquor and old pain.

Classes resume. Group chats return to life. The cafeteria starts serving that awful tomato soup again. You slip back into the rhythm like nothing happened.

But the cracks are still there—just beneath the surface, waiting.

You’re sitting under the shade of a banyan tree behind the humanities building. It’s quiet, peaceful, a little breezy. Your lunch is balanced on your lap, half-eaten. Michaela plops down beside you with a soft “ugh” and a dramatic stretch.

“God,” Michaela says brightly, appearing at your side like she always does—seamlessly, like a breath of perfume. “He’s actually so funny once you get him to talk.”

You glance at her. “Who?”

She tilts her head, playful. “Sylus,” she says, drawing the name out. “He’s been helping me prep for the Q&A tomorrow. Said I needed to sound less ‘pageant’ and more ‘visionary.’ Whatever that means.”

Her laugh is breezy. Too light.

“Oh?” you respond, forcing a smile. “Sounds like you’re getting close.”

“Oh, it’s nothing serious,” she says quickly, tucking her hair behind her ear. “Coffee here, late-night notes there. He’s just so…” She trails off, eyes sparkling. “Interesting, don’t you think?”

You hum. Noncommital.

Michaela doesn’t seem to notice—or pretends not to.

She takes a sip of her drink, then suddenly perks up. “Oh! The premiere’s this Saturday. Are you ready?”

You blink. “Ready for…?”

“The spotlight, duh,” she grins, nudging your arm. “To see yourself on screen, see the scenes you played in come together with the background music. And to see your name in the closing credit!”

You roll your eyes, but it makes you smile. “It’s not that serious.”

“It is,” she insists. “You looked amazing, even in the trailer. You carried that café scene.”

You snort. “I said four words.”

“Yeah, but you felt those four words. I almost cried.”

You laugh together, and for a second—it feels real. Familiar. Like the last few weeks never happened.

“Have you picked an outfit yet?” she asks between bites of salad.

You shake your head. “Was just gonna wear something simple.”

Michaela gasps. “No. You’re not walking into an indie theater full of film nerds in ‘something simple.’ You have to look effortless. Like you’re not trying, but also like… if you were trying, you’d end worlds.”

You glance at her, raising a brow. “That specific, huh?”

“Always,” she says, eyes sparkling.

And for a moment, it’s just the two of you.

Two girls beneath a tree, laughing about dresses and dumb film boys and the weight of appearances.

It feels soft. Safe. Like how things used to be.

And it hits you with a quiet ache.

Because even now, part of you still wants to believe this friendship can survive what’s been done.

That maybe you haven’t already burned the bridge.

That maybe—just maybe—she hasn’t noticed the match in your hand.

The rest of the week passes in quiet, deliberate steps.

Classes blur. The campus grows louder, buzzing with exams and end-of-semester deadlines. Your name gets tagged once or twice in the group chat—reminders about call times, wardrobe, a blurry meme of someone joking about crying during the Q&A.

You try on outfits with Michaela after class, like you promised.

It’s surprisingly normal—her room filled with scattered hangers, half-empty iced coffees, the faint sound of a playlist humming from her speaker.

You laugh. You bicker. You twirl.

And then—Saturday arrives.

The day of the premiere.

It’s just past golden hour when you step out of your building, the sky painted in soft streaks of lavender and orange. The air is crisp. The kind that wakes you up and reminds you something’s about to happen.

The old theatre on 12th is just as Michaela described it—small, a little run-down, with velvet seats that creak and a marquee that flickers every other letter.

There’s already a crowd forming outside. Film kids in too-large blazers and thrifted dresses, professors dressed semi-formal but too cool to act like it, and the crew—all wide-eyed and excited, passing around programs and laughter.

The theater glows in the soft spill of marquee lights, buzzing faintly overhead as you approach, clutching your clutch tighter than necessary.

The car pulls up just as you step onto the red-carpeted pavement.

And then you see her.

Michaela steps out first, the silk of her silver dress catching the light like water. It slips over her frame effortlessly—cool-toned and reflective, like moonlight turned human. Her lips are painted a soft coral, her eyes dusted with shimmer, and her smile—bright, unbothered, breathtaking—lands like a punch to the chest.

Then comes Caleb.

He unfolds from the car in slow, unhurried movements, sleeves of his black dress shirt rolled neatly to his elbows beneath a tailored blazer, the collar unbuttoned just enough to suggest trouble. His hair is slicked back, not too perfect, and a hint of cologne catches the air as he leans slightly toward Michaela, saying something close to her ear.

You feel it instantly—the pull. The heat.

They look like they stepped off a magazine spread. Like they’re here to be looked at. Owned it. Earned it.

Your stomach twists.

But then her eyes find yours.

“Yn!” Michaela beams the second she sees you, waving you over like the oldest friend in the world. Her voice cuts through the crowd with effortless warmth. “You look stunning! Oh my God!”

You force a smile, walking toward her as she reaches out and takes your hand for a brief spin. “See? I told you that dress was the one. Absolutely gorgeous.”

“Thanks,” you murmur.

Caleb’s gaze drifts lazily toward you. His eyes widen slightly, just for a second—subtle, but there. And then that crooked, lazy smile of his crawls up his face like he’s trying not to let it show too much.

“Damn,” he mutters under his breath, voice low, just loud enough for you to hear over the soft chatter of the crowd. “You do look good today, shortcake.”

You don’t turn to look at him. You don’t smile. But your pulse stutters anyway.

Inside, the lights are low and flickering, casting everyone in gold.

You find your seats near the front.

You sit first.

Then Michaela slips in beside you, smoothing the back of her dress.

Then Caleb—his thigh brushing against hers, jacket folding as he slouches back with that usual too-cool ease.

And then—

An empty seat. Reserved with a single placard.

SYLUS QIN

You stare at it for a second too long.

The serif font. The clean white card. The space he hasn’t filled.

People slowly fill the theatre, and the chatter dies down as soon as the introducing speech starts. Cheers and laughter are exchanged as the producer welcomes everyone, and soon, lights begin to dim, the hush rippling through the room like a spell settling.

The first flicker of light sears across your vision—too bright, too sudden. You blink, disoriented.

The grainy opening shot bleeds onto the walls, painting everyone in uneven strobes of white and shadow. Your hands curl into the fabric of your dress.

Then you hear your voice.

Just a small line, off-screen. But it makes your throat tighten.

And then you’re there. You.

A glimpse of your face on camera—too quick, too exposed.

Your stomach flips. A cold rush spreads down your back. You shrink into your seat without meaning to.

The flickering continues—scenes switching with sharp cuts, too fast, too loud. Your eyes strain to follow. The glow of the screen presses against your skin like heat.

You feel it in your temples. In the base of your skull.

A thrum. A pressure.

You try to breathe slower.

But there you are again.

In the corner of the frame. Behind Michaela’s shoulder. Walking across the background, smiling as she delivers a perfect monologue.

You’re always there—but never really there.

Never centered. Never seen.

Just enough to anchor the shot.

Never enough to be remembered.

Your heart races faster.

You glance sideways—Michaela is watching intently, chin tilted just so, the soft rise and fall of her breathing unbothered. Her hand rests lightly on Caleb’s arm.

You try to focus on the screen, but the lights are too much now. The images change too quickly. Your skin feels hot. The sound dips and rises, warping in your ears. Laughter in the film echoes strangely, like it’s bouncing around inside your chest instead of the room.

You swallow down the tightness clawing its way up your throat.

Breathe.

You stare at your knees. At your folded hands.

The screen flashes white again—another cut. Another shot of Michaela framed in golden light, eyes brimming with perfectly timed tears.

And just behind her, out of focus—your figure. Barely lit. Barely there.

You curl your fingers into your dress and force yourself to stay still.

Because if you move—if you flinch, if you breathe too loud—it’ll feel too real.

Like this isn’t just a movie. Like your position in the film is just as it is in real life.

Your breath hitches.

Get through this. Just get through this.

But the room feels too full. Your lungs too tight. Your face too visible under the flickering screenlight.

So, with quivering hands, you quickly excuse yourself out quietly, muttering a soft “I need to use the toilet,” to Michaela.

Your fingers brush her arm as you squeeze past, knees knocking against the velvet seat in front of you.

You don’t look at Caleb.

You don’t dare.

The moment you reach the aisle, you bolt.

The darkness of the theater presses in from all sides, but the exit sign glows red—blessedly real, blessedly distant from the version of you being projected for everyone else to see.

You push through the heavy doors.

Out into the hallway.

Into the quiet.

It’s cooler out here. Dimmer. The hum of the projector muffled by layers of walls.

And still, your hands shake.

Your chest heaves.

You press your back against the corridor and squeeze your eyes shut, willing yourself to breathe again.

To stop hearing the lines you spoke, the laugh that wasn’t yours, the way you stood just out of frame.

You weren’t supposed to matter.

You weren’t supposed to be seen.

But seeing yourself just that—seeing yourself as nothing more than a narrative device—knocks all air out of your lungs.

And so you do what you do best in situations like these.

You walk.

Down the corridor. Past posters for old plays and peeling signs pointing to locked rehearsal rooms. The soft clink of your heels echoes against the concrete, sharp and rhythmic, the only sound in the hush that follows you.

Left. Then right.

You take the stairwell without thinking—something about the way the door hangs open, waiting.

Up.

One flight. Two.

You’re not counting. You’re not really anywhere.

Just moving.

The final door gives with a groan.

And then—open air.

The rooftop is quiet. Dimly lit by a few tired bulbs and the soft haze of city lights glowing from below. The wind brushes past your cheeks, tugging at the hem of your dress, the strands of your hair.

You inhale slowly—deeply.

The air fills your lungs and doesn’t choke. For the first time tonight, your chest doesn’t feel so tight.

You hug your arms around yourself, rubbing warmth into your skin as you move toward the edge of the rooftop. The wind tangles softly in your hair. The quiet is heavier than silence—it’s soothing. Honest.

The sounds of the premiere, the echoes of your lines, the weight of Michaela’s smile, Caleb’s lingering glances—all of it stays behind those concrete walls.

But the moment your shoulders finally drop—the tension unwinding from your spine like thread pulled too tight—

a voice slices through the quiet.

“The movie boring?”

You jolt.

And there he is.

Leaning lazily against the railing at the far edge of the rooftop, one hand resting in the pocket of his black slacks, the other loosely curled around a cigarette he hasn’t lit. The wind toys with the edges of his shirt, untucked and open at the collar, the soft fabric fluttering just enough to hint at the warmth beneath.

His silver hair—bright even under the dull rooftop lights—shifts with the breeze, strands falling across his forehead in that effortless way that should be illegal. The city glows behind him, casting shadows across the hard angles of his jaw, the sharp lines of his cheekbones. His eyes catch yours beneath long lashes, amused, unreadable.

He doesn’t move.

He doesn’t need to.

Just the sight of him—calm, crooked smile in place, posture loose like he’s got nowhere to be and nothing to prove—pulls something taut inside you all over again.

Sylus Qin.

Looking like trouble sculpted in moonlight.

And you walked straight into it.

Your voice stumbles out, more breath than word.

“What are you doing here?”

He doesn’t answer right away. Just tips his head slightly, eyes trailing over you in that infuriatingly slow, unreadable way of his.

“Didn’t realize rooftops were exclusively yours now.”

His voice is quiet but laced with amusement, like he’s already enjoying how thrown off you are. The wind picks up, tousling the silver strands of his hair. He doesn’t fix them. Just leans back against the railing again like this is his space now. Like you’ve wandered into his scene.

“I could ask you the same thing,” he adds, gaze settling on you. “Didn’t strike me as the type to abandon your own premiere.”

Your jaw tightens. “It’s not my premiere.”

“Could’ve fooled me,” he murmurs, eyes glinting. “You were in almost every shot. That little background smile of yours really carried the emotional arc.”

You shoot him a glare. He shrugs.

“Relax,” he says, voice dipping just enough to make your skin prickle. “I’m just making conversation.”

And then, without breaking eye contact, he pulls the cigarette back out from his pocket—like he knew exactly when to use it for effect.

You watch as he rolls it between his fingers, slow and practiced, before slipping it between his lips. His eyes flick downward, shadowed beneath dark lashes, as he flicks the lighter.

A soft click.

A brief spark.

Then flame.

He cups the light with one hand, shielding it from the wind, the gesture intimate in its precision. The flame catches the edge of the cigarette, a quick sizzle, and then a curl of smoke unfurls between his lips as he leans back—head tilted, silver hair brushing the collar of his jacket.

He exhales through parted lips.

Smoke spills from his mouth in a lazy stream, rising into the night air.

And for a moment, the whole rooftop smells like sin.

You swallow. Hard.

Because it shouldn’t look that good.

No one should look that good doing something so simple.

But he makes it look like poetry wrapped in gasoline.

Dangerous. Beautiful. Impossible to look away from.

He glances sideways, catching your gaze—then smirks around the cigarette.

“What?” he says, smoke curling past his teeth. “You want one?”

You ignore his question as you cross the distance between you with quiet steps, heels clicking softly against the rooftop floor, until you’re beside him.

Close, but not touching.

You lean forward onto the railing, elbows braced, eyes fixed on the world below. The city stretches beneath you—cars like fireflies, neon signs blinking against concrete, life spilling in all directions.

“Heard you’re pretty close to Michaela these days.”

Words slip out of your mouth before you could stop them—carried off too quickly by the breeze.

Sylus doesn’t respond right away. Just takes another drag, eyes still on the skyline, unreadable behind the soft glow of the city lights and the rising smoke.

“Is that what people are saying?” he asks, voice low, like he’s half-amused, half-bored.

You glance sideways at him, but his expression doesn’t shift.

“She’s been… talking,” you murmur.

He exhales slowly, smoke curling from the corner of his lips. “Yeah. She does that.”

There’s a beat of silence. The kind that leaves your thoughts too loud.

“She seems to like you,” you add, keeping your voice light. “Says you’re funny. Helpful.”

His gaze finally cuts to you, slow and sharp. An eyebrow arches. A slow, knowing smirk tugs at his lips.

“You sound jealous,” he says, voice dipped in something darker. Teasing. Dangerous.

Your breath falters.

“I’m not.”

He hums, low in his throat, clearly unconvinced. Then, he turns—just slightly—enough to face you, enough to make you feel it.

“Could’ve fooled me,” he murmurs, voice barely above the wind.

He leans in, just a bit. Not close enough to touch. Just close enough that the air between you shifts.

“I mean… if you wanted my attention,” his eyes drag slowly down your face, “you didn’t have to bring her up to get it.”

You blink. Hard.

The smirk deepens. He takes one last drag from the cigarette, flicks it to the side, and exhales—

Right past your shoulder, warm and slow, like it was deliberate.

Then he turns back toward the railing, arms resting casually as if he didn’t just turn your pulse inside out.

“Relax,” he says again, voice smooth and cruelly amused. “I’m just making conversation.”

“Fuck you and your conversations.”

“Language, princess.”

The corner of his mouth lifts, slow and smug, like he enjoys your bite more than he should.

He doesn’t look at you when he speaks next—just watches the lights below with that lazy, unreadable calm.

“The deal’s still on, by the way,” he says, almost offhand. “I don’t usually hold my deals this long.”

Your breath catches—but you don’t answer. Not immediately.

Instead, eyes still fixed on the city, you ask quietly,

“What’s it like?”

He glances sideways.

“To smoke,” you murmur, voice soft against the wind. “What does it feel like?”

That catches him off guard.

His smirk fades into something quieter—still sharp, but thoughtful.

He straightens a little, resting his elbows on the railing, eyes narrowed at the skyline like he’s remembering something he can’t touch anymore.

“It’s… warm,” he says eventually. “First few seconds burn. Then it’s just heat in your chest. Makes everything a little slower. A little duller.”

He glances at you again, eyes shadowed beneath silver strands.

“You’d hate it.”

And then, softer—

“You’d get addicted.”

You glance at him, the corner of your mouth twitching. “That confident, huh?”

His smile returns, crooked and slow.

“Always.”

Then—without looking away—he reaches into his pocket, pulls out the pack again, taps it once against his palm.

“Wanna try?”

You hesitate.

Just for a second.

The rooftop wind brushes your skin. The lights below blur like you’re not quite grounded anymore.

“…Okay,” you say finally, barely above a whisper. “Sure.”

His gaze lingers on you for a breath longer than it should—sharp, slow, searching.

Then, with practiced ease, he slips the cigarette between his lips, flicks the lighter, and inhales. The tip glows ember-red. Smoke curls around his face like it belongs there.

He steps closer.

Not fast. Not aggressive. Just… inevitable.

Until your backs are no longer parallel, but aligned.

Until his body is angled toward yours, his hand brushing the railing beside your arm.

Then he exhales—slow, steady—up into the air first, just to show you how.

And before your thoughts can catch up, before your pulse even finds a rhythm, his hand slides around your jaw. Gentle, but certain. Fingers curling under your chin, tipping your face up to his.

“Open,” he murmurs.

And you do.

He leans in—closer, closer still.

Not to kiss. Not yet.

His mouth hovers just a hair’s breadth from yours, and then—

He exhales.

Smoke floods from his lungs into yours, warm and heady and tasting like fire and him.

It hits you all at once—your lips parted against his, the heat of his breath rolling into your mouth, your chest, your nerves. Your hands grip the railing behind you, fingers curling tight.

And just as your knees begin to weaken, just as the smoke begins to burn—

His lips press to yours.

Not soft.

Not tentative.

It’s full, hungry contact—heat and pressure and something sharp beneath the surface. He kisses you like you’re something he earned. Like he knew this was coming the moment you stepped onto that rooftop.

And god, you let him.

His hand slips from your jaw to your throat, thumb resting lightly just beneath your pulse. You feel it hammering there, wild and fast. He deepens the kiss, mouth coaxing yours open further, tongue tracing the edge of your bottom lip like a tease, like a challenge.

You kiss him back.

Harder. Needier. Like you’ve been holding it in.

Like you’re finally letting go.

The smoke lingers between you. In your mouth. Your chest. The heat of it coils through your veins, makes the moment feel reckless, dangerous, electric.

When he finally pulls away, just barely, your lips are still parted—still chasing after him.

And Sylus—

He’s already smirking.

“Told you,” he breathes, thumb brushing your bottom lip.

“You’d get addicted.”

Your breath comes shallow. Foggy. Like you’re drunk—from the smoke. From him.

From the way his voice sits too low in your stomach, too warm in your throat.

You blink, dazed. “What the fuck was that?”

He laughs—low, rich, and dizzying.

“Still want to call it a mistake?”

You don’t answer. Can’t.

Not with the nicotine still curling in your lungs. Not with his breath still ghosting yours.

Maybe it’s the way the air thins between you again.

Maybe it’s the flush that rises to your cheeks when you look up at him and realize he hasn’t stepped back this time.

Or maybe it’s just that dangerous cocktail of heat and haze and the taste of sin still lingering on your tongue.

“I think,” you whisper, eyes flicking to his mouth, “you didn’t teach it properly.”

His gaze sharpens. That smirk falters, just for a second—enough to show the hunger underneath.

“Oh?” he breathes.

You nod. Barely.

He leans in. Slowly. Purposefully.

His hand grazes your waist, his breath brushing your lips—and just when you think he’s going to kiss you again—

He pulls back.

Barely an inch. Just enough to keep you chasing.

His smirk returns, lazier this time. Meaner.

“Didn’t think you’d beg so soon,” he murmurs.

You glare. “I didn’t beg.”

“Mm,” he hums, dragging a finger along your jaw, “Not yet.”

Then—finally—he kisses you.

But it’s slower now. Crueler.

His mouth moves with calculated ease, like he’s studying you. Like he wants to see how long you can last with the tension stretched this thin.

He barely gives you what you want—just enough heat to make your knees unsteady, just enough pressure to make you lean in.

When your hand fists in his shirt, tugging him closer, he lets out a quiet laugh against your lips.

“Impatient,” he mutters, and you feel it—low and hot—right in your throat.

And then he deepens the kiss.

Because he knows you’re done pretending you don’t want it.

And he’s done pretending he doesn’t love watching you unravel.

But in the middle of it all—his fingers sliding under your shirt, your hands fisted in the back of his hair, breaths shared like secrets—

It hits you.

A crack of clarity.

Sharp and sudden, cutting through the haze.

You pull back.

Not far, but enough. Enough to breathe. Enough to speak.

“Why are you doing this?”

His brows knit, just slightly. You feel the shift in him, the quiet tension settling beneath the heat.

You keep going. You have to.

“What will you get out of the deal?”

Your voice is low, but steady. The question tastes bitter in your mouth—maybe because you’ve been trying to pretend it didn’t matter.

But it does. It always did.

He watches you, smoke still clinging to his breath, his thumb pausing on your skin.

And for a moment, he doesn’t answer.

Like he’s deciding what version of the truth to give you.

Like he’s debating if you’ve earned it.

He fully pulls away, the warmth of his body gone in an instant.

You watch as he straightens his spine, smooths down his collar with one hand, runs the other through his wind-tousled silver hair—like he’s putting his armor back on. Like he needs the distance again.

“I’m not playing games,” he says.

His voice is low. Still sharp, but there’s something underneath now. Not heat. Not flirtation.

Something older. Quieter. Worn.

You cross your arms, still catching your breath. “Then what is this?”

He pauses.

You see the flicker in his eyes—a calculation, a hesitation. The part of him that always weighs what to say and what to bury.

Then his lips tug into that same maddening smirk.

“You’re just really pitiful,” he says, voice lazy with mock sympathy.

Your brows shoot up. “Excuse me?”

“Kind of like someone I knew,” he continues, like he didn’t just insult you to your face. His tone is still light, but something about the way he says it—too casual, too precise—makes you freeze.

He doesn’t elaborate right away. Just glances down at the city lights below, cigarette smoldering between his fingers again.

He takes one last drag from the cigarette before flicking it over the edge, watching the ember fall like a dying star.

Then he turns back to you—smirk faded now, voice lower, rougher. Real.

“Let’s just say—” he begins, eyes locking with yours,

“you get to use me to get whatever you want…”

A pause. A slow step closer.

“And I’ll use you to get whatever I want.”

He lets the silence stretch between you, lets the weight of the words hang there like smoke.

“Sounds fair?”

You don’t answer right away.

You just stand there—wind tousling your hair, the taste of smoke still clinging faintly to your lips—watching him.

Watching the way he doesn’t push.

Doesn’t ask again.

Just lets the offer hang in the air like a match waiting to be struck.

Your thoughts spiral—through the flickers of the film, the ache in your chest as you watched yourself play the shadow, Michaela’s bright voice, Caleb’s wandering gaze, Sylus’s mouth on yours, the weight of his hands, the things he said.

And the worst part?

The way all of it made you feel alive again.

Like something inside you had finally stirred.

Like you were tired of being careful. Tired of being quiet. Tired of waiting for someone else to hand you the pen to your own story.

You draw in a breath, meet his eyes.

“Fine,” you say, soft but steady.

“I’m in.”

His smile is slow. Pleased. Like he already knew.

But he says nothing. Just nods once and turns to leave, hands in his pockets, silver hair catching the rooftop light.

You don’t stop him.

You stay there for a moment longer, listening to the echo of your own heartbeat.

And when the rooftop door clicks shut behind him—

You’re still tasting sin.

Still thinking about the deal you just made.

And wondering who, in the end, will really get what they want.

[reveluving]

till kingdom come; bucky barnes x reader

summary: the missus comes home to her two, oddly identical needy sweethearts.

warnings: implied s~mut (minors DNI!), sweet & touchy Bucky (established relationship), Reader can be an Avenger/with a Z or a standalone vigilante (also your choice if she has powers or not!), loads of Alpine moment because we love the dear girl, loads of bantering, not much Thunderbolts* spoilers I think!

a/n: brought to you by @navybrat817 because 'a kindred spirit' just warmed my soul from the inside out, and this was kinda inspired by her fic, was gonna make it a s~mut but I blanked out at the end. STILL, I am so willing to hear all the spicy details you might've imagined them doing (literally desperate), so don't be shy on me!! please enjoy, take care & don’t forget to leave some sugar! ᐠ( ᐛ )ᐟ

fancy reading something new? check out my full m.list!

» implied s~mut includes: desperate & touchy Bucky tearing your top off and touching your tits, because he needs you so :((

'The sight that never failed to cause a stutter in his heart, the butterflies in his stomach, however one could describe their beloved, even if words failed to express their very being.' ;

Seeing Alpine after a day's work, or in this case, weeks' worth of work, was always a soothing balm to your soul, and the same could be said for the white feline.

Her tail standing up straight, almost doing her little signature 'tippy-taps' on the foyer floor as she greeted you at the door, staring up at you with her bright blue eyes.

"Hello," You greeted with a lilt upon closing the door behind you, placing your bag down to lift the sweet girl in your arms, "How's my silly lil' girl?" 

Alpine let out a little 'mrrp!', kneading at your top.

“Yeah? Were you behaving for daddy dearest?” You asked with the name you knew Bucky pretended not to like, as if you wouldn't catch the little tug at the corner of his lips each time you would use it.

Alpine tilted her head, the cutie, as if taking a playful offence for even asking her that.

“You're right, you're always behaving, aren't you? Unlike him.” You teased, bringing her close to your face.

Immediately, the sweet cat nuzzled into your face like it was her only chance. Purring up a storm and tickling your nose to ensure you really had her scent, especially considering how long you have been away.

“Oh, I know, I missed you, too,” You cooed, nuzzling back and letting the ball of fluff heal you inside out with her motorboat purrs the same way you would ease her mind with your presence, “Sweet girl, best girl!”

You both are.

Bucky thought to himself, having heard your return, your little tease of calling him ‘daddy dearest’, and your little reunion of snuggles and kisses with the feline.

As much as it pained him not to move from the kitchen to shower you with all the love and yearning he had within him, no matter the number of calls you had had, Alpine was faster, taking advantage of him, also putting away the confidential documents here and there as he ate.

One could say she technically cheated, having waited in the foyer for your return after overhearing Bucky's call with you.

In her mind, Bucky's mood lifting and eyes lighting up more than the usual calls he has had equals her mother's return. 

Smart kitty, after all.

And, well, who was Bucky to get in the way of his favourite girls’ reunion?

Not especially with the airplane ears and the swipes of her paws at him at every given moment, the man she was adopted by was nowhere close to you. 

She, for the most part, was being playful, but one could also say she made a good argument with her occasional crab walking at him for ‘ruining the moment’.

“Alright, pretty girl, let's go see how he's doing. Lead the way!” You placed her down, and like a soldier on duty, she took the lead, striding into the kitchen where Bucky was.

There, entering through the doorway after the feline, was none other than the woman of his life. 

The sight that never failed to cause a stutter in his heart, the butterflies in his stomach, however one could describe their beloved, even if words failed to express their very being.

“Congressman Barnes.” You smiled in a faux sickeningly sweet manner, playfully fluttering your lashes at the man who had taken his suit and dress shirt off, leaving him in his undershirt and slacks.

He fondly scoffed, but his legs were moving, crossing the room and pulling you to his chest with his right arm.

“Hi.” You greeted once more, unable to help the chuckle that left your lips, granting you the sight of him softening more than he already had when you walked in, smiling down at you.

“Hi, yourself,” He responded, his voice low like it was intimate, and truth be told, it was. Always been, be it at home or in public. It was always just you and him, “Al first, huh?”

“She was at the door first.” You justified without missing a beat.

“Heard our call, she knew.” He argued, having the audacity to pout, even if it was subtle.

“Excuses, excuses.” You tutted, “And I called you. Guess she missed me more.”

He shut you up by latching his lips onto your neck, forcing out a giggle that bubbled in your throat shortly after a gasp.

“Buck, c’mon, I need a shower!” You wiggled, finding it impossible even for a man who didn’t have his Vibranium arm at the moment.

“Excuses, excuses.” He echoed, and you could practically feel the smile against your shoulder as he tickled your skin with his heavy stubble.

He peppered your skin with kisses, from your shoulder up to your neck and jaw, before tilting your head up, caressing your chin as he stared down at you with a loving look.

Returning the smile, you kissed his thumb, moving off his hold when he had loosened a tad despite his huff of protest. Opening the dishwasher, you reached for the Vibranium arm and then the clean kitchen cloth with the other hand.

“I sincerely hope you cleaned all the gunk or dirt out before you decided to use our dishwasher like a laundry service.” You jested, wiping off the extra condensate before helping him put it on. He let you, his heart fluttering each time you did without question, before giving the limb a good swing.

“Sounds like someone doesn’t have good faith in me.” He mused aloud, taking the opportunity to pull you in once more.

“I’m just reminding.” You shrugged, lightly drumming your fingers on his clothed chest.

Truly, besides the… Odd events with the ‘Avengerz with a Z’, there was never a dull moment with you, in or out of gear.

“Sure,” Resting his forehead against yours, one arm around you and the other rubbing up and down your back, he murmured, “And for the record, I missed you more.” 

Oh, and Alpine took offence to that. 

Clearly, given the immediate ‘airplane mode’ in her ears as she listened on and stayed around on the kitchen island near the spread of Mexican food takeaway, but the feline of mischief had a plan.

She toddled out of the kitchen, and you both knew she was up to something. You and Bucky shared a look, and while it took a moment, the second he heard a rustle of clothes in the laundry room, he stiffened.

“Al, Al–!” He began, panic beneath the firm tone, only to shut up when she returned. returned with the pristine white dress shirt he had tossed in the laundry basket after a little accident.

“Bucky! Again?” You gaped, reaching for the shirt to inspect the stain near the buttonholes, “First pizza, now, what tacos?”

He dared to give you what one would’ve described as a meek, ‘boxy’ grin.

“I–It just happened,” He reasoned lamely, though it was mostly true, “When you called.”

“Which… was an hour ago.” You raised a brow. 

Well.

“I was going to get it off, honest,” He persisted, playfully narrowing his eyes at Alpine, who, in her feline way, looked all too proud to throw him under the bus, “And the call was forty-two minutes ago. I counted, and I got most of it off under running water.”

You weren’t sure why it dawned upon you then, but it did, adding, “Your arm’s not in the dishwasher because of work.”

But because of the damn sauce.

“Bucky!” You playfully nudged his side, your smile widening because you knew you had him figured out, all thanks to his ‘trusty sidekick’.

“I had it under control,” He groaned, but despite it all, he knew that you knew he would’ve gotten it taken care of. You just love to give him shit, the same way he loved pretending to whine and give faux, lame excuses to see you smile, and when he did see it, he squeezed you tighter, closer, “I’m doing my best ‘round here.”

You snorted, watching him reach for a nacho, loaded with proteins and fat, all the good stuff for nights like these.

“Open.” He commanded, his tone lighter, just like his demeanour since you were back home.

“Is this bribery?” You grinned.

“Would you say no to this bribery?” He argued back with an equally lighthearted tone.

Touché.

You shared a laugh, having a little dinner party with the three of you, your own family, each of you deserving one another like the next. Food was leagues better than what you had to settle for, given either a time crunch or lack of accessibility, your not-so-humble abode was still the embodiment of warmth and homey, and nothing could beat the company you could come home to.

Like Bucky, Alpine remained glued to your side, taking little chances to paw at your hand for a pat or a kiss on the head, and when the reunion dimmed down, she figured she was satisfied with all the attention she received from you, akin to making sure you were truly alive and well.

Bucky insisted on getting the dish washed and the laundry cleaned up, both his stained dress shirt and your set of clothes from your trip, considering you had just returned after a few long weeks. How you were able to convince him otherwise, opting for the laundry while he dealt with the dishes, was beyond him, but you always had a way to do so.

You carried Alpine to the cat tower in the living room, giving her a few last goodnight kisses before watching her curl up in a ball.

Not too long after, you carried your bag, along with Bucky's shirt, to the laundry room, your senses immediately met with the familiar scents lingering. The warm white light only added to the calming feeling as you separated the necessary, opting to wash the lighter ones first in hopes that the stain would be gone as much as possible.

In the midst of your little chore, you heard footsteps approaching. You weren't alarmed—they were familiar—nor did you turn around as Bucky embraced you from behind.

His hands roamed ever so slowly, nosing the sensitive area between your neck and shoulder.

“Might wanna take these off…” He murmured, tugging at the hem of your top.

You chuckled, not fully realizing the sheer desperation within him, “In a bit, Buck.”

But, oh, he was insistent.

“Take it off.” He muttered against your skin once more, his hands slipping under your top.

Your breath hitched, turning your head to see his eyes fluttering closed, breathing in the scent of you. Suddenly, you were just aware how… Needy he seemed.

When he looked up at you through lidded eyes, he slowly leaned in, capturing your lips with his for a kiss. Gentleness belied his desperation, though, in all honesty, he wanted you to know.

“Take it off.” He repeated against your lips, feeling you jump a tad when his metal arm brushed along the warmth of your tummy, and suddenly, he shoved your bra over your breasts, squeezing your tits in a way that was a shy away from being rough.

Brazen.

In need.

“Off, or I'm taking it off you.” He ordered this time, despite keeping his voice low, and that made the tension all the more heady.

But before you could even come anywhere close to your senses, you gasped at the unmistakable rip before the top lay torn on the floor. He turned you around, forcing you against the washing machine to meet his gaze once more, unyielding as though he had one thing and only one thing in mind.

Leaning once more, he brushed his stubble along your cheek, taking his time dragging his hands up your back before unhooking your bra.

“I said to take it off, didn't I?” He tutted, feigning disappointment as he tossed the undergarment to the laundry basket, “I'll get you another one. I'll get you plenty.”

He had the means for it, and God forbid he didn't because he'd still find a way to do anything for you.

“What do you say we… Turn in early tonight, get you cleaned up, changed…” His lips paused at your cheek, as if he just thought of something, “Or don't. Wouldn't mind you in nothing in bed either. Just wanna take care of you…”

You could only rest your hands on his chest, toying with the soft cotton beneath your fingers, “You want that? Take care of me?”

You could've sworn he hid a growl at that. 

Wanted? He needed to take care of you.

“I want nothing more.” He replied, his hands descending to your rear and feeling you move closer at the gesture.

And who were you to deny him that?

˚ · . f i n . · ˚

» a/n: also, i am just learning that an undershirt is more or less the US counterpart of a singlet sooo yeah ;; gorgeous divider by @firefly-graphics ♡

[ender-afton]

@cann1bal-queen To you in particular :3

And evsryone else that I am too lazy to @

It’s like this

[dragonking111]

🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹#rwby

[mexicanchoco-lit]

143 ♾️

[lauraneedstochill]

“The Pitt”: Jack Abbot’s appreciation post 🔥 original posts: x, x, x, x, x, x, x + other characters: part 1, 2, 3, 5

[hannibalised]

Simon would really be the type to get real flustered and all blushy blushy when you address or introduce him as your boyfriend/husband.

It was only later one evening at your favourite cafe which you gushed about all week, from pastry to scones and other sweet dessert, until you finally got him up to wear a plain black hood and only a lower face mask. He was raking over your figure while you stiffled your blush and scanned down the menu for the perfect thing that Simon absolutely would love to eat out, something apart from you. His joke, not yours.

“...yes, and tarte tatin for my boyfriend.”

You smiled and turned back to see a marvelous sight. Nothing. And nothing at all, the dirtiest and the softest and the most unhinged words you'd ever said to him could ever tinge up those cheeks so much flushed in colour. Astonished — you blinked. “What is it, si ?”

“Nuthin' love.” He shrugged, bringing his large hand over his face before you leaned forward and snatched his wrist with both hands. “What is it ? Are you...hey am i seeing you blushing ? Oh gawd you are —”

Simon shaked head, like he could shake away the high rise of rosy glow which tinted across the crinkle of his eye. His eyes so soft and bright in its flourish gleam.

“naw, nah...” He was. The nerves were grailed out in fine blue and green. Blood just under the pale skin, hot and needy.

You chuckled out softly, and it clicked like cuckoo clock at midnight. One sharp moment of it's glory. “My boyfriend..is my boyfriend blushing ? Huh.”

“oh fuck.” And if Simon thought he couldn't turn any more red, well there was always room for surprises.

Masterlist

[bettertwin9000]

Cuddle bugs… family of dorks..

@bettertwin1 @mystic-hands-mike @raphalalaphyhamato

[witchofthemidlands]

this is the wlw version of the honda odyssey moment.

[bloodgutsangelcakes]

found on pinterest

[kensatou]

forget about elon musk vs mark zuckerberg. i need to see yoshiki fight elon musk.

update: x japan has released its first single in eight years. to further shade elon musk. this is a thing that happened.

[shigarosie]

Which of your faves

[thatgarden]

The only good thing to come out of Twitter right now is the Tomodachi Life community, who's been starving and rabid for YEARS.