#an old familiar scene from somewhere... | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

theonottsbxtch · 7 months ago

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I LOVED YOU FIRST | FC43

an: guys i’m so sorry for the atrocities i’m about to cause by posting this, i’m especially tagging @obxstiles to make sure they don’t miss it and that they cry muahaha there MAY be a part two to this

summary: for as long as she’s remembered she’s loved franco, wether those feelings were ever reciprocated she doesn’t know.

wc: 4.4k

She remembered the sound of wheels against gravel. Even as a kid, Franco was fast—kicking up dust and stones as he went, all edges and adrenaline. They grew up on the same street, a road that was more dust than pavement, cutting through a small town nobody had ever heard of, deep in the countryside of Argentina. Back then, he raced down that road on a beat-up go-kart that rattled and threatened to fall apart with every turn. But he didn’t care. Even at eight years old, Franco could talk of nothing but cars and speed and the shimmering, impossible promise of a life far from here.

She was the one who stood at the end of the road, cheering him on as he came barreling toward her, heart in her throat every time he cut it too close. She told herself that’s just what friends did—waited around to see the other one make it back in one piece. But there was more to it, even then. She’d never told him, of course. Franco had always been too focused on the next race, the next finish line, to notice much about her that wasn’t familiar. It was easier that way. They were friends. That was enough.

Years passed, and with them, his childhood kart became a racing simulator, then an actual car, then a series of wins that only proved what she’d always known—that Franco was going somewhere.

Last year, his parents sold their house so he could go further, could reach another level she couldn’t quite see. He moved in with her and her family when he wasn’t racing, and for a few months, it was as if they were kids again, laughing late at night, plotting his future as he spilled out every dream he’d ever had. That was the year she started imagining he might finally see her the way she saw him.

But he didn’t.

Instead, Franco saw everything she wasn’t: the girl from another world, polished and magnetic, with a face and laugh that gleamed like the trophies he’d already started to collect. She caught him, snared him in a way that didn’t even seem real.

It was this girl—her name slipped off his tongue so easily when he let it—who went to the big events with him, who stood beside him when photographers crowded around after his races, a reminder that he’d already begun to belong somewhere else. She wanted to hate her, this stranger who was everything she wasn’t, but what good would it do?

It was easy to tell herself she was Franco’s friend. His best friend. The one who’d been there since the beginning, the one who stayed up with him on those late nights when all his dreams felt heavy enough to drown him. She’d learned to wear it like armour—the friend, the constant, the steady hand on his shoulder when his voice cracked and his confidence faltered.

No one else knew the small things about him, the things that made him human. Like how he had a superstition about not putting on his helmet until the very last second before a race. Or that his favorite thing in the world was the sound of tires on wet pavement, a soft hiss of rain and speed. Or that he used to dream of buying back the house his parents sold and giving them something better.

The nights she couldn’t sleep, she’d replay those memories to herself, like scenes from a film she’d seen too many times. They were pieces of a person she’d built up in her mind so completely, so painstakingly, that she sometimes forgot he wasn’t hers. Not really.

Now, Franco was leaving again, but this time it was different. The call had come last night, and she’d been there when he answered it, watching the way his face shifted, lit up with something she hadn’t seen since they were kids. He’d been invited to join a Formula 1 team—a chance to race against the best, a dream finally realised.

And she’d been the first person he told. “I’m in,” Franco had whispered to her after he hung up, his voice hoarse with disbelief. “I’m actually in.”

He’d pulled her into a hug, and for a fleeting moment, she let herself believe this moment was for her too—that she was a part of the dream. But when he finally let go, she could already feel him slipping away, his mind racing miles ahead, far beyond anything she could reach.

And now here they were, standing on the same dusty road they’d grown up on, only this time the road was empty. She could almost see his silhouette against the horizon, an outline that belonged to no one, not even her.

“So… this is it, huh?” she murmured, trying to keep her voice steady, her hands stuffed deep into her jacket pockets. She knew this was her job now: to be strong, supportive, even as she felt her chest tightening with everything she’d left unsaid.

Franco glanced over at her and smiled, that careless, easy grin she’d fallen in love with a thousand times. “Yeah. This is it.”

There was a part of her that wanted to say something, to tell him what it felt like to lose him, to have spent all these years beside him only to watch him walk away. But she didn’t, couldn’t. Because he needed her to be his friend, his rock. And that’s exactly what she would be, until the moment he disappeared from sight.

“You’ll be amazing out there,” she said softly, swallowing hard against the ache in her throat.

“Thanks,” Franco replied, his gaze drifting to the horizon, to whatever was waiting for him. He didn’t see her watching him, didn’t notice the way she tried to memorise every detail of his face, the way she gripped the fabric of her jacket so tightly her knuckles turned white.

Because that’s what she was: the person who stayed behind, the person who would cheer for him no matter how far he went, even if it took him far beyond her reach.

His first race was in Monza.

And Franco had made sure she’d be there.

The roar of engines echoed across Monza, the air thick with the metallic scent of fuel and adrenaline. She stood just outside the paddock, watching the mechanics scurry between cars, drivers in their fireproof suits weaving through a sea of engineers and cameras. It was Franco’s first Formula 1 race, the one he’d been chasing since the days they’d spent on that dusty street back home. He’d called her a week ago, saying he’d arranged for her ticket, that she had to be there, that it wouldn’t feel right without her.

She glanced down at her pass, fumbling with it between her fingers, her eyes darting over the crowds, wondering if she’d see him. But instead, she saw her—Franco’s girlfriend, standing just a few paces away, a beacon in the busy paddock with her polished, perfect smile.

She thought about turning around, slipping into the crowd where she could cheer Franco on from a distance, as she’d always done. But then Franco’s girlfriend caught her eye, waved her over with an easy, welcoming smile, and suddenly it was too late.

“Hi! You’re Franco’s best friend, no?” she said brightly, as if she’d been waiting for this meeting. “Franco’s told me all about you.”

She managed a smile, trying not to let her surprise show. “Nice to meet you,” she replied, her voice steady but her heart churning. This girl looked so effortlessly perfect—too perfect, really. She wanted to find something in her to resent, a crack, a flaw, some hint that would make her presence easier to bear. But the girl’s smile was warm, even gentle, and there wasn’t a hint of cruelty behind her eyes.

“You know,” she continued, turning to look at the track where the cars were being readied. “Franco always talks about how you’ve been there from the start. He says he wouldn’t be here without you.”

It was a sentiment she’d waited years to hear, but hearing it now, coming from someone else, made it feel empty, hollow. She nodded politely. “He’s worked so hard for this. I just… wanted to support him however I could.”

The girl looked at her, a spark of admiration in her eyes. “That’s really special. I think it means a lot to him, having someone who’s known him for so long.” She hesitated, her fingers twisting a ring on her hand. “I think he’s planning to introduce me to his family soon.”

A prickle of something sharp and painful settled in her chest. She managed to keep her face composed, even as the words sank in. “That’s great,” she said, injecting her voice with encouragement. “That sounds really important to him.”

The girl smiled, her gaze drifting as if she could see the future taking shape right in front of her. “Yeah… he said he wanted to wait until we’d been together for a year. He’s so thoughtful like that, you know? He really wants things to be right before introducing me to his family.” She looked at her, a touch of gratitude in her expression. “I think he got that from you—from seeing how much his family means to you.”

It was a kind thing to say, too kind. She wanted to hate her for it, but she couldn’t. There was nothing false about the way this girl looked at her, no jealousy or possessiveness. She was just… nice. The kind of nice that made her ache with the unfairness of it all, because it made it impossible to hate her, even though she desperately wanted to.

“Well, his family will love you,” she said, meaning it even as the words felt like they were tearing something fragile inside her. “He deserves to be happy.”

The girl gave her a soft, almost sympathetic smile, a smile that made her wonder if maybe she already knew—if she could see right through her, if she understood the look in her eyes, the one she tried so hard to hide.

As the engines started up in the distance, the girl reached out and gave her hand a gentle squeeze. “Thank you,” she said, her voice warm. “For being there for him, for being his friend. I can tell he’s lucky to have you in his life.”

She returned the smile, feeling a heaviness settle deep within her. Franco was lucky, that was true—but not in the way she’d once dreamed he might be. He had everything now: the career, the future, the love of a woman who deserved him in ways she never could.

And as the cars roared to life on the track, she stood there beside his girlfriend, feeling like a silent ghost on the edges of his new world. She would cheer for him, just as she always had, but now she knew exactly where she stood—at a distance, a quiet fixture in his past, cheering him on from the shadows as he sped toward a future that had no place for her.

The race had ended hours ago, and the hotel was hushed, the lights dimmed in the halls. She was alone in her room, her suitcase half-packed, clothes folded neatly on the bed. She’d changed her flight back to Argentina; she would be gone by morning.

The evening had been a whirlwind—Franco finishing in P12 on his debut race, his crew and his girlfriend embracing him, his face beaming in a way she’d only ever dreamed of seeing up close. She’d stood in the background, clapping politely, just another face in the crowd, happy for him but feeling her heart splinter with each cheer.

A quiet knock broke her thoughts. She looked up, heart catching in her throat. Franco was standing in the doorway, his face lit with a warm smile.

“Hey,” he said, stepping inside, his hands in his pockets. “I was hoping you’d still be up.”

“Yeah, just… packing,” she murmured, glancing at the clothes on her bed. “I’ve got an early flight back.”

He frowned, like he hadn’t expected her to be leaving so soon. “I thought you’d stay a bit longer,” he said, a hint of disappointment in his voice. “It meant a lot to me that you were here, you know. I’m not sure I could have done it without you.”

She swallowed, trying to muster up a smile. “I’m proud of you, Fran. Really. You deserve all of this.”

He gave a modest shrug, his usual humility shining through. “It’s crazy, right? Like, it still doesn’t feel real.”

She nodded, unsure of what to say next, her hands clenching as she watched him, the words fighting to break free. But before she could speak, he went on, his face lighting up with excitement.

“Oh—and I wanted to tell you. Over the summer break, I’m planning to bring my girlfriend—” he gestured to the wall, where his girlfriend was probably just sitting in their shared room—“back to Argentina. She’s going to meet my family. I think they’ll love her.”

The words hit her like a punch to the gut. She felt herself unraveling, her heart breaking open. She couldn’t hold it in any longer.

“Why her?” she whispered, her voice barely audible.

Franco blinked, looking at her, startled. “What do you mean?”

“Why her, Franco?” She repeated, her voice trembling, louder this time. “Why not me? What is it about me that you don’t find appealing? Am I too loud? Too… different? Do I not fit into your world somehow?” Her voice cracked, the weight of her words finally spilling out. “What is it about me that you don’t love, that you love about her?”

For a moment, he just stared, taken aback, as if he was seeing her for the first time, really seeing her. But his eyes were filled with confusion, like he was trying to make sense of what she was saying.

“Wait—” he started, his voice halting, uncertain. “I… I didn’t know you felt—”

She cut him off, her voice fierce, raw. “I loved you first, Franco.”

He went silent, the words settling between them like stones in water, sinking deeper and deeper.

“What?” he whispered, his voice almost as quiet as hers had been.

“I loved you first,” she repeated, her voice shaking. She could feel the tears gathering, but she didn’t want to cry, not now, not here. “Since we were kids, since you were that crazy kid racing down dirt roads, I loved you. I’ve been there every step, every race, every victory, every failure. I was the one who held your dreams when they felt too heavy to carry. I loved you first.”

She watched him, waiting, hoping for some sign of understanding, some glimmer of the love she’d imagined so many times. But his eyes were wide with shock, his face torn between pity and discomfort.

He shook his head slowly, the words seeming to catch in his throat before he finally managed to say them. “But… I love her.”

The words were a knife, sharp and relentless, cutting through the last fragments of hope she’d held on to.

She let out a hollow, broken laugh, her vision blurring as she looked away, unable to meet his eyes. “I know,” she whispered. “I know you do.” She took a shaky breath, her voice trembling with a rawness she couldn’t contain. “But it doesn’t make it hurt any less.”

For a moment, they stood there in silence, the weight of years pressing down between them. She could see the guilt etched into his expression, his mouth opening as if he wanted to say something to make it better. But there was nothing he could say—nothing that could change the reality that he had chosen someone else, someone who wasn’t her.

“I never meant to… I didn’t want to hurt you,” he said softly, reaching out as if to comfort her, but she stepped back, her arms wrapping around herself protectively.

“It’s fine,” she said, forcing the words out, feeling them scrape against her throat. “I… I just needed you to know. I needed you to know that I was here, that I’ve always been here. But now…” She trailed off, her voice breaking, the words she’d held for so long finally running dry.

She looked at him one last time, memorising the shape of his face, the boy she had loved and lost long before he ever realised. Then sat back down on the floor and continued packing, folding each piece of clothing and putting it away in silence, each one a silent goodbye.

When she noticed he still hadn’t left, that he was just watching him, she looked up at him. “I hope she makes you happy, Franco,” she whispered, her voice barely a breath. “Really. I hope she gives you everything you’ve ever dreamed of.”

She looked back down not wanting to catch Franco’s look of pity and closed her suitcase as he walked out of her room.

Walking out of her life for what felt like forever.

It was the peak of summer, the air heavy with heat and the scents of wildflowers and sun-baked earth drifting through the open kitchen window. She was sitting at the table, picking absently at a bowl of sliced fruit, half-listening as her mother hummed while tidying up, when her mother paused and gave her a look she couldn’t quite decipher.

“I almost forgot to mention,” her mother said, wiping her hands on a towel, “Franco’s coming back to town soon. Said he’ll be here next week with his girlfriend, so they can meet his family.”

She looked down, letting the words sink in, feeling a familiar tightness bloom in her chest. She hadn’t spoken to Franco in weeks. Not since that night in Monza. Not since she’d finally let herself say all the things she’d bottled up for years, only to walk away feeling like she’d left a part of herself behind.

“Oh,” she murmured, keeping her tone as light as she could. “That’s… that’s good. His parents will be thrilled to meet her.”

Her mother looked at her carefully, her gaze soft but probing, as if she could sense the ache that lingered beneath her daughter’s casual words. “I thought maybe you’d be excited too,” her mother ventured, her voice gentle. “It’s been a long time since you’ve seen him.”

She forced a small smile, looking down at her hands as she fiddled with her napkin. “Actually, I was thinking about going to Buenos Aires for a bit. Just a week or two with Tía Blanca. I’ve been meaning to go see her.”

Her mother tilted her head, her expression somewhere between sympathy and exasperation. “You can’t keep running from this, mi amor,” she said, her voice tender but firm.

Her shoulders tensed, and for a moment, she didn’t know what to say. She knew her mother was right; every time she thought about seeing Franco, the old wound seemed to ache again, still raw, still fresh, no matter how many miles or weeks lay between them. But she wasn’t ready to face him yet. Not when the sight of him with someone else would only reopen everything she’d been trying so hard to let go of.

“I know I can’t keep running,” she said finally, her voice barely a whisper, her fingers twisting the napkin in her lap. “But I can now. And I can cope with that.”

Her mother sighed softly, reaching out to place a warm hand over hers. “Mi amor, one day, you’re going to have to stop protecting yourself from the things that hurt you. It’s the only way to truly move forward.”

She nodded, her throat tight, unable to meet her mother’s eyes. She knew her mother was right. But all she could think of was that moment in Monza, the echo of Franco’s words—But I love her. Words that still stung like salt on an open wound, even now.

“Maybe one day,” she whispered, more to herself than to her mother. But for now, Buenos Aires felt like the safest place to be—far from the memories, far from the impossible hope she still carried in her heart.

Her mother squeezed her hand gently before letting go, her silence filled with understanding. “Then go,” she said, with a small, knowing smile. “But you’ll know when it’s time to come home.”

And as she sat there, her heart heavy with everything she couldn’t say, she only hoped her mother was right.

A few days later, everything was sorted and she was ready to go to her aunt’s place.

She swung her bag over her shoulder, taking a deep breath as she stepped out of the house, the warm morning sun casting long shadows across the familiar dirt road. She was just two steps away from the car when she spotted it—Franco’s car, parked at the edge of the drive.

Her heart lurched, her mind scrambling, and she muttered under her breath, “No, no, no… please, not now.” She moved quickly toward her own car, fumbling for her keys as if speed alone could make her invisible. But before she could open the door, she heard his voice behind her.

“Oye, there you are!” he called, a wide, relieved smile on his face as he jogged over, his voice bright with the kind of joy she hadn’t heard from him in years. “I was hoping I’d run into you before you left. It’s been too long.”

She barely managed to keep her face neutral, clutching her bag as if it could shield her. “Yeah, well, I’ve got to get on the road. Don’t want to get stuck in traffic,” she said, opening the boot to toss her bag inside. She avoided looking at him, focusing on the small tasks—closing the boot, brushing off her hands, reaching for the door.

He took a step closer, his hand resting on the car door as if to keep her from leaving. “I’ve missed you,” he said, his tone softening. “You… you didn’t answer my calls after Monza. I didn’t know if… I just wanted to see you.”

She swallowed hard, glancing away as she forced herself to stay calm, the last words she wanted to hear sitting heavy between them. “That’s great, Franco,” she said, barely meeting his gaze, her words quick and mechanical. “But I really should get going.”

“Wait—” He looked at her, his expression slipping from surprise to concern. “Can we talk? Please?”

But she was already climbing into the car, her hands gripping the steering wheel as she turned the ignition. She couldn’t bear to stay, couldn’t bear to let him see her break again. “Take care, Franco,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper as she closed the door.

Before he could say another word, she pulled out, the tires kicking up dust as she drove away. In the rearview mirror, she saw him standing in the drive, watching her go, his face a mix of confusion and something close to sadness. She looked away, swallowing the lump in her throat as she focused on the road ahead.

But the further she drove, the harder it became to ignore the weight of all the memories tied to each familiar street and turn. Every signpost, every curve of the road reminded her of him—their childhood spent racing bikes and kicking up dust, lazy afternoons wandering these streets, dreaming of the future he was now living.

Tears blurred her vision as she drove, the memories rushing in like floodwaters, filling her mind with images she’d tried so hard to push aside: Franco at fourteen, laughing as he beat her in yet another race down the hill; Franco, younger still, sharing a quiet moment in the field just beyond town, his eyes bright with the dreams they’d both carried.

She wiped at her eyes, her heart aching as each memory pulled her further into the past, a past where they’d been inseparable, a past where she hadn’t yet realised what loving him truly meant. She could almost hear his laughter, feel his presence beside her, as if he were still the boy she’d known, before life had pulled them down different paths.

By the time she reached her aunt’s building in Buenos Aires, the weight of the drive had started to lift, the city’s pulse a welcome distraction from the quiet countryside. She parked and took a moment to gather herself, feeling the ache from earlier settle into something softer, something that no longer felt as urgent or raw.

Just as she opened the car door, a familiar voice called out.

“¡Mira! Is that really you?”

She looked up, startled, and felt her heart lift slightly. Standing by the curb was Angelo, an old friend from summers in the city. He had the same easy smile, his hair a little longer, his build a little broader, but his presence felt exactly as she remembered—warm and solid.

“Angelo!” She smiled, the weight on her shoulders easing just a little more.

He walked over, giving her a friendly hug before reaching into the car to help with her bag. “Let me help. You’re here for a visit?”

“Just two weeks,” she replied, trying to keep her voice steady as she glanced up at the familiar apartment building, a place that held a lifetime of summers, laughter, and memories untouched by the pain she’d left behind.

“Well, then,” he said, grinning as he hefted her bag easily, “we’ve got time to catch up.” His tone was light, but there was something else in his eyes, a quiet warmth that made her feel unexpectedly hopeful.

She followed him up the steps, comforted by his familiarity and the steady, unhurried way he moved, like he knew every corner of this building as well as she did. As they reached her aunt’s door, she felt her pulse slow, steadied by his presence.

The door opened before they could knock, her aunt’s familiar face breaking into a radiant smile. “There you are, mi niña!” She hugged her tightly, then turned to Angelo with a knowing smile. “And look who brought you all the way to the door! Angelo, you’re a sweetheart.”

He grinned, shrugging. “Anything for your family, señora.”

They all laughed, and for the first time in months, she felt a genuine ease settle over her, as if she’d left more than just a town behind—she’d left the weight of everything she’d been carrying.

As she glanced between her aunt and Angelo, the ache that had gripped her chest all day faded. The streets of Buenos Aires were bright outside the door, warm and humming with life. She breathed it in, feeling herself begin to let go of everything that had haunted her on that long drive.

Because maybe now that she was here, she could forget Franco.

to be continued…?

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unequivocallyreid · 9 months ago

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Why Didn’t You Tell Me?

it has been SO long... i was suffering from serious writers block but it think i'm finally out of it :)

pairing: spencer reid x fem!reader

summary: Spencer Reid used to be your best friend, but things changed. How long can you pretend that you don't love him before it ruins you?

warnings: angst! (with a happy ending), smut (unprotected piv), character loss, mention of Maeve, very sad Spencer, mental health struggles, drinking/bar scene, light choking, fighting, slight praise kink

wc: 8.8k 🤗

i’m very proud of this one! i hope you love it!

Every morning when you wake up, you feel a familiar and creeping sort of dread in the pit of your stomach.

Don’t get the wrong idea; you love your job. You love helping people and stopping horrible people from ruining any more lives, but the creeping feeling and desire to get out is always in the corner of your mind. Anyone working in this field would tell you that. There’s no absolute separation between you and the victims and their families. You take all of them home with you, and you just have to learn how to deal with that and not let it eat at you.

It doesn’t help that it’s an isolating job as well. The last time you were in a serious relationship was in college. Now, every date you have ends in disappointment. Not only do you lack interest in most of the men and women, but it couldn’t go anywhere even if you did. 75% of your time is spent in the office, on a jet, or hundreds of miles away from your home.

All of this contributes to the feeling, but the worst part of your job is Dr. Spencer Reid.

He’s secretive and dismissive and just about the most attractive person you’d ever seen. You honestly don’t know what is worse: his constant physical presence in your life or the fact that you can’t stop thinking about him no matter what you do. You’ve tried to get over it; you’ve buried yourself in work, lamented to your friends, and gone out on dates (all with guys that looked vaguely similar), but nothing has worked. All his worst traits grate your nerves and light you up at the same time.

The worst part of it all is that it wasn’t always like this. When you first joined the BAU nearly two years ago, you and Spencer got along well. You were friends, he talked to you about his life, he understood you, and you really severely fell for him. He became your best friend.

Everything changed around six months ago. Spencer started to develop migraines, and as those developed, he started distancing himself from you. He became snippy and closed off, he started hiding things from you, and he stopped talking to you about life outside of Quantico. It was like overnight, you became nothing to him, and you really didn’t understand. Everyone else on the team got the same old Spencer, but you went from his right-hand man to someone he only spoke to when it was necessary.

Maybe he didn’t deserve to be vilified. You know, realistically, he can and should be able to decide who he wants to be close to, but working with a man who unknowingly broke your heart was close to the hardest thing you’d ever done. So, you decided hating him was easier. The real emotions you feel toward him sit somewhere inside you, but they have been covered by manufactured distaste. Addressing the actual feeling would hurt too bad, so you pretend to hate the things you used to love.

Nothing, however, could have prepared you for the last case you worked on: helping Spencer save a girl he met about six months ago, a girl he loved. You tried to stay collected, you said nothing when Spencer assisted when he shouldn’t have, and goddamn, did you do everything in your power to find that girl. Maeve. She was perfect for Spencer, and you saw that immediately. Everyone did. The sight of him sobbing in front of her body is one that will never leave your mind.

Now, two weeks later, no one has heard from Reid. The only indication that he hasn’t abandoned his life altogether is the absence of the gift baskets on his doorstep that Pen leaves daily.

Nearly everyone has been to his apartment, but they are met with a closed door and have yet to receive a response. Everyone but you.

Penelope is the first to bring up your lack of appearance at the end of a long day of paperwork.

“Y/n, please, you just have to try. No one is getting anything from him.”

“I really don’t think my presence would do any good,” you pause for a moment, trying to collect the thoughts running through your head like a freight train. “Me and him haven’t been close in a long time, Pen.”

Before you can continue, she cuts in, “Everyone has tried, Y/n. Hell, I’ve even considered tracking down Gideon, and I really, really do not want to do that.”

She pauses for a moment before looking up at you with a pout on her face, “Please, Y/n, for me. I can’t bear the thought of him in there all alone, just wasting away in grief.”

For someone who claims not to be a profiler, Penelope knew exactly what to say to get you to agree. She’s the only person in your life who you told about how you felt, though you’re sure everyone else (aside from Spencer) knew: you’re shit at keeping secrets.

“Okay, okay, I’ll try.”

She nearly bursts with excitement, “Thank God-“

You cut her off before she can finish, “But I’m telling you, I’m not the person he wants to hear from right now. Don’t get your hopes up.”

“Yes, yes. I just want him to know we all want him to be okay.”

Before you can hurry out of the office to follow Pen’s instructions, she stops you and hands you a basket full of assorted snacks and fruits.

“Make sure he eats!”

The walk up to Spencer’s apartment is a hard one to take. The smell of his building hits you as soon as you step into the lobby. From there, everything rushes back at once. Memories of nights you spent watching reruns of Doctor Who or listening to him prattle off about whatever he last read assault you with every step. As you slowly make your way up, you start to question why you agreed to do this in the first place.

You feel a lot toward Reid. More than you should and less than you could. But all that care and feelings that are so close to love aren’t enough to make you forget why you’ve been trying to hate him for so long. He deserted you without an explanation and cut you off without a warning. You spent weeks (three months) crying over him like a love-struck teen. So, as much as you want to hold him and comfort him, you know it’ll hurt you to do so. Penelope sent you, with the whole team’s approval, you’re sure, to try to patch up a broken heart he got loving someone else. There’s a sickness in your gut, but it’s not enough to stop you from rapping your knuckles against his door.

“Spencer? It’s Y/n.”

There’s no response.

“I know you probably don’t want to hear from me right now, but I want to make sure you’re alright. Can you tell me you’re alright?”

Again, nothing.

You know he’s there. Despite your lack of communication, you know Spencer well enough to know that he would never leave his life behind entirely. That being said, your next few attempts at garnering a response are unsuccessful.

You decide to try one final time before just leaving the basket alone on his doorstep and texting Pen it was a bust.

“There’s a lot I don’t know about you now, and I won’t pretend to know what you’re feeling.”

You don’t exactly know where this is headed, but you continue on regardless.

“I know you’re in there, and I know you can hear me, and I know you’re hurting. You shouldn’t- I don’t want you to be alone right now, Spence. You can either unlock your door, or I can pick it, but I’m coming in one way or the other. You know I will.”

You wouldn’t, actually. It’s a last-ditch effort, and it’s met with the same silence you’ve heard on the other side for the past ten minutes. You’re about to turn to head back down the stairs when you hear the very faint sound of a deadbolt turning.

There’s no other sound or movement, and for a moment, you think you might’ve imagined the sound, but you try the handle anyway. It turns, and the door slides open. You take a step in.

“Spencer,” you call out to him.

You don’t see him at first in the mess of his apartment, but when you do, you feel a crack form in your heart.

Beyond the clutter of his entryway, you see his back on the couch. His frame looks smaller than you’ve ever seen it, and you can see his legs curled into his chest. You set down the gift basket by a collection of others on the entry table and walk over to him. Slowly, like you’re trying not to spook a lost dog, you creep in front of him.

His head is down, and his gaze stays trained on his knees.

You reach out your hand and lay it over his. He flinches but doesn’t pull away.

“Spence, I’m so glad you opened the door.”

You didn’t plan out what you would say, but ‘sorry’ feels redundant and useless.

You go on, “I’m here. I- I don’t know what to do or say, and I’m sorry that I don’t. I can get someone else for you. Just tell me what you need, and I’ll do it.”

You wait for him to say he wants Penelope or JJ, but it doesn’t come. Nothing comes. You start to move to get up, figuring you could clean up a bit and try to make him something to eat, then go, but he grasps your arm before you can.

He looks up at you, and his eyes hit you right in the gut. They’re bloodshot and sunken but still beautiful.

“Stay. Please. I just- I need to know I’m not dreaming. I keep thinking I’m dreaming.”

His voice is croaky from disuse and breaks at the end, but it’s so heartbreakingly earnest that you feel your breath catch. You move from your crouch and sit beside him on the couch; your hand is still in his.

You stay like that for a long time. His breathing is shakey and uneven, and every so often, his body shakes with what you can only assume are sobs. You stay pressed to his side the whole time, thumb rubbing back and forth over his hand.

Eventually, you speak again, “I’m gonna get you some food, Spence. You should eat.”

He says nothing back, but he does loosen his grip. You push yourself up from the coach with a promise you’ll be as fast as possible.

His kitchen is nearly empty, and you hope he’s been eating from the baskets. Still, you find enough to make noodles and butter, and you figure the carbs should help his energy some.

You return with the bowl. Spencer hasn’t moved, but his head follows you as you walk back over to him.

“It’s not fine dining.”

He studied you for a second, and you catch a glimpse of the old him in his eye.

“You did the same thing when I was sick on a case a year ago.”

You smile at his recollection.

“It helped you then.”

The rest of the night is spent mostly in silence. Occasionally, you tell him something to try to remind him that you’re there and that you won’t leave as long as he wants you there. Eventually, you get up from the couch again.

“Spencer, it’s too late to still be awake.”

He nods and still says nothing, but he is far more receptive than before. You reach your hand out to him to help him up from the couch, and he takes it.

He leads you to his room at a slow pace. His head stays down as you both take a seat on his bed, hands still interlocked. Being in his bedroom is odd for you. You’ve been to his apartment quite a few times before he disappeared from your life, but you never breached this space. It’s all very him. Almost surprisingly cozy, with books scattered around nearly everywhere there’s space.

You take in the moment for a beat before saying, “I’m gonna head home, Spencer, but please call me if you need anything at all. I’ll come back tomorrow.”

This makes his head snap up, and his eyes lock with yours.

“Please stay.”

That��s all he says, but every part of him is pleading with you. It’s not a good idea, and you know it. You’re the only person he’s seen in days, you aren’t close anymore, and you don’t particularly want to sleep on a couch tonight.

“Spencer, I don’t want to sleep in your living room tonight. I’ll come back.”

He pauses for a moment, “You can stay here with me. I don’t want to be alone.”

Your heart cracks again. There was a time when this was all you wanted. It’s still, deep down, all you want, just not like this. You know he doesn’t really want you there and he’s not himself. But you aren’t strong enough to say no, so you don’t.

He gets you clothes to wear, and you change in his bathroom. You come out and find him in his bed, laying with his back to you. You have no fucking idea what you’re doing, but you get into bed next to him anyways. There are a thousand thoughts racing through your head, but the prevailing one is how badly you want to touch him, to hold him, to make him forget, just for the night. You stay still, though, confined to the edge of the bed and start to count to drown out the noise.

Though, you can’t drown out his voice, saying, “Can- Could you hold me? I think that everything feels better when you touch me.”

Another crack. By the end of this, you know Spencer Reid is going to break your heart all over again.

When you wake up the next morning, Spencer is still asleep. You sneak out of his room and call Hotch. When he answers, you tell him Spencer has let you in, and you ask for time off to try to help. You can tell from his voice that he doesn’t think it’s a good idea, but he grants you it anyway.

Much of your day is spent like the night before. You stay next to Spencer, and you cook for him after leaving to pick up clothes and groceries. Then, you get him to shower and wash his hair. He sleeps with his head in your lap, and you feel like a fucking idiot at first, but as long as it’s helping him in some way, you let it happen.

That’s the thing: you don’t really know how to help him. You know he isn’t the type to talk about something until he is entirely ready, so all you can do is add something domestic and bright to his life while he grieves. It’s all you can think about in the moments of silence. Hell, you even read to him to try and get your mind off of it, but it barely helps.

The night is the same. You change in different rooms and slip into his bed at different times. You feel dirty for imagining what it would be like if the circumstances were different: if he wanted you like you have wanted him for the past two years. You hold him against you, and you pray for sign that you should be there.

The sign comes the following morning when Derek calls you.

“Y/n…”

You can hear his teasing tone over the phone.

“Hi, Derek.”

“What are you doing, mamas?”

You sigh, “What do you mean?”

You’re playing coy. You know he’s wondering why you’re at Spencer’s house, picking up the pieces, but you won’t be the one to bring it up.

“Why’d you ask Hotch for the week off, Y/n?”

Another sigh, “You know why, Derek. I just, I want to help him.”

“I know you do, Y/n, I know.”

He pauses for a moment, and you let the moment fill with silence.

“I know you care about him. We all care about him. But who is taking care of you?”

“I am. I can take care of him, and I can take care of me.”

“I know you can, but I don’t want you to get hurt, Y/n. Don’t let this be something that hurts you.”

“It won’t. I- You have to- Fuck, I’ll be fine. He’s not fine. I don’t care about me or any feelings that may get hurt right now. I’ll be fine.”

There’s another bear of silence, “Okay, Y/n. Just know you’re allowed to tap out.”

You try to think of anything else to say, but nothing comes, so you say your goodbyes.

You won’t need to tap out. You can take care of him and be good to him and ignore the other feelings you have. You can be good.

The call does make you think it’s time to push, to try harder, to help him get better. So, you approach him that day before bed, before he tucks himself into your arms and falls into a fretful sleep.

“Spencer?”

He takes a moment and then responds, “Yes?”

“You have to talk about it. I think that you need to talk about it. It doesn’t have to be to me but to someone.”

He’s quiet for a long time, and your breath is caught in your throat, waiting for him to say anything.

“I- I don’t want to,” his voice cracks while he says it.

“Spence, you can’t come back if you don’t. You can’t move forward if you don’t.”

“Maybe I don’t want to.”

A ringing echos in your ears.

“You don’t mean that. She- she would want you to keep going.”

Wrong thing to say.

“You don’t know anything about what she would want.”

He’s seething now, below the surface, but smoke has started to plume from his ears. Still, you don’t stop.

“Spencer, everyone knows that. No one would want you to put your life on hold.”

He speaks his next line through his teeth, “You don’t know anything, Y/n.”

You’ve never heard him sound so angry.

“Spencer-“

“No, just stop. You don’t know her. You don’t know me half as well as you think you do. You don’t know anything. I don’t even know why you’re here. I don’t want you here. You can't be what I need.”

The ringing in your ears is louder.

“Spencer, please. Just-“

“No!” His voice is raised now, bordering on a yell, “I don’t want you here. I want you out, Y/n.”

This has to be what shell shock feels like. The ringing, the tingle in your limbs, and the heat in your face. You don’t know how you are moving, but you are.

His voice is echoing in your head, or maybe he’s still talking, but you can’t tell either way. The only thing you can focus on is how Spencer sounded like he hates you and that Morgan was right about the hurt.

You spend the next day trying desperately to shut down the noise in your head. It doesn’t work. The day after is the same. And the days following that. You ignore calls when they come, you ignore the texts, but you can’t stop looking at your phone for a message from the man who fills your thoughts.

Spencer doesn’t call, obviously, and you have to sit with a pit in your stomach while you beg yourself to just get the fuck over it. Two years of reckoning with the severity of your love, months of watching him live happily without you, and it’s the three days you spent trying to help him feel incrementally better that floor you.

You feel like a dumb teenage girl with so much love and nothing to do with it. On top of everything, you feel selfish. Spencer lost the love of his life forever, and you’re nursing the worst heartbreak of your life because a boy will never want you and never has. Still, you send out prayers for him over and over. You hope you’ll see him in the BAU again, even if his eyes glaze over you. Hell, even if they look at you with hate the way they did two days ago. You just want him to function. You want him to be good and eventually be happy. You try to go to bed with soothing thoughts, but you end up with a mantra of his name.

You wake to your alarm and dress for work before you realize you aren’t actually supposed to go back yet. You never set a date to return. You wanted to be open as long as Spencer needed you. You’re supposed to be with him. You’re supposed to be helping and not tapping out. But you aren’t.

You have no reason not to return to the bullpen, so you do. You walk in and feel eyes on you. You wait for Morgan to call out to you, but he doesn’t, so you follow the feeling.

Your breath catches in your throat; it’s Spencer. He’s sitting at his desk, paperwork spread out, and he doesn’t look away from your gaze; he just holds it. His face is unreadable, and yours is definitely not, so you look away first. You don’t look up again until you reach Hotch’s office. You knock and hear him call out to come in.

“I’m back if that’s okay.”

He looks up at you, and you want to cry. You know he can read you. He has always been the best at it.

“Are you okay with that, Y/l/n?”

You lock eyes with him, “Yes, sir.”

It’s no use; he knows your tells and you aren’t being honest.

“Alright, conference room in five.”

Whatever he sees in your face, he ignores and takes you at your word, but there’s a warning in his tone. He knows when to let things go and when to push. More than that, though, he knows you’d never let something like this affect your work.

The first case back is in Maryland, and the one after is in Austin, and the next is in Philadelphia with The Replicator. The job takes you all over the country, and the cases blend together. You don’t speak to Spencer through all of it. You’re never partnered, never work together, you sit on opposite ends of the jet. You don’t even speak at Strauss’ funeral. It’s radio silent, and everyone notices it, but no one brings it up.

In that time, you allow yourself to slip away slightly. You don’t go out with the team, you see Pen at nearly half frequency, and basically, the only time you speak is on cases. It’s stupid and melodramatic, but you call it healing. Derek tries to reason with you, JJ sticks to you a bit more than usual, and Penelope calls you virtually whenever she can, but their efforts are mostly in vain. This is your way of protecting yourself. You feel like you have to isolate in order to improve, and you know, given time, you will come back to yourself.

Penelope’s insistence that you go to her Day of the Dead celebration breaks your distance.

“Y/n, please come. I know you aren’t going out, but you have to. I know you have people to honor, and I need you there.”

You sigh, “Whose going, Pen?”

“The team, which you are a part of, so you must be there.”

“I don’t think I can do that. I promise you I will celebrate with you. I’ll help you set up, just please don’t make me go.”

Penelope pauses, but the glint in her eye keys you into the fact that she is not interested in giving up.

“We miss you, Y/n. Everyone loves you and misses you. You’ve been living this stupid, isolated life, and it’s time for you to come back. You are not this person. I refuse to believe it. You’re coming, and that’s final.”

Maybe you don’t have the energy to argue, or maybe you know she’s right, but you agree to go.

The thought of seeing him makes your heart race, and the clock you keep glancing at makes it worse. Just a few more hours before you're trapped in a confined space (Pen’s beautiful home) with a man you haven’t spoken to in weeks.

You busy yourself with preparing. Lights are hung, food is made, and you make a trip to the store while Pen sets up her remembrance table. When everything is said and done, you can’t help but feel this is the most beautiful thing you’ve been a part of in a long time.

The first knock comes at 7:30 exactly, and it’s Hotch and Rossi. They are followed closely by Blake, then Derek and JJ. By 7:00, the atmosphere is light and loving, and you feel a bit of your anxiety let up as the minutes go by without Reid. But, eventually, the knock comes, of course it does, and you move into a corner as Spencer walks in. You feel a shift in energy, though you doubt it’s palpable for anyone else. Rossi is the first to make his way over to you, and his presence comforts you nearly immediately.

“How you doing, kid?” His voice is soft like he’s speaking to a scared rabbit.

“I’m better,” you say, and it’s about as honest as you can get. As much as you’d like to think he knows nothing about what’s gone on, you’re smarter than that. He’s the best profiler on the team, and he’s always known when someone was off with you. Even so, you are better than you were, even if you aren’t quite good, and you know he believes you.

There’s some idle conversation between you before he asks, “Do you want to talk about it?”

“Not tonight. I don’t know when, but I will. Eventually, I will.”

It’s good enough for him, and you move on easily, which surprises you.

Right before Pen gathers you all to present your photos, he says, “Sometimes we think we’ve seen the whole picture, but we miss a big part. People do things because they don’t want to be hurt, but those things hurt them more. Just, be open.”

You don’t quite understand what he means, but you hope you will.

Penelope presents the first picture, which shows her parents. JJ honors her sister, Derek, his dad, Hotch Haley, and Rossi, Hernandez; then it’s your turn. You place down a photo of your best friend. You hadn’t talked much about her, but you think of her daily. She passed a few years before you joined the BAU.

“I was lucky to have someone that hurt that much to lose.”

That’s all you say, but it’s enough for you, and it would be enough for her.

Spencer is last. He places down a picture of Tesla and a picture of Maeve. Your heart is heavy for everyone.

The night dwindles from there. Hotch and Rossi say their goodbyes, and Rossi gives you a knowing look as he leaves. You just smile. You stay for a few minutes after, but eventually, you move to leave as well.

You make it down Garcia’s porch before you feel a hand grab your arm. You turn, and it’s Spencer’s face you see.

“Would you- Do you think you could come over? Do you think we could talk?”

The feeling you have walking up to Spencer's apartment is similar to what you felt the last time. You’re incredibly anxious, but at least you know you’ll be let in this time.

The drive over was silent. Spencer had taken the metro to Penelope’s, so he rode with you. It wasn’t necessarily awkward. There was just an understanding that the car wasn’t the place to begin your conversation.

Now, as Spencer unlocked his door, it’s one of those rare moments you felt starved for words, and you know it’s because you’re scared you’ll say the wrong thing and face the same reaction that you did the last time you were in his home.

He leads you to his living room and motions for you to sit, and you do. The two of you are on opposite ends of his couch while you wait for him to say something.

His first words are airy and light, “Thank you for letting me talk to you.”

You look at him but remain silent, waiting for him to go on. All you can think about is why he wants to speak to you at all. The last time you spoke, he made it incredibly clear he did not want you in his life or around him at all.

Before you can think about it more and let your anger and sadness build, he speaks again, “I feel really stupid right now. I kind of feel stupid whenever I’m around you recently.”

He pauses momentarily before going on, “I’m so, so sorry, Y/n. About the last time we spoke. I’ve been thinking about it pretty constantly for the past few weeks.”

You open your mouth, unsure of what exactly to say, but you can’t get there before he’s off again.

“I’m not sure how to talk to you anymore. I don’t think I’ve known how to for a long time. I just, I need you to know how sorry I am for speaking to you like that.”

He takes a shakey breath but keeps going, “That wasn’t me, and that isn’t how I feel. I’m just unbelievably sorry, Y/n.”

He stops there, and you work to collect your thoughts.

“I know. A part of me knows, at least, that you didn’t mean it. I just wanted to be there for you, and hearing that made me- I just- I think it made me hate myself for wanting to be there.”

“I’m so sorry. I’m unbelievably sorry.”

“You didn’t talk to me for months, Spencer. I just don’t understand. I don’t understand why you let me in in the first place. I thought you hated me.”

He’s silent for a long minute.

“I never hated you, Y/n. I just stopped knowing how to act around you, and then I met Maeve. I fell so deep into it that I couldn’t talk to anyone about it. I- And I just started to feel like you didn’t want me to speak to you, so I didn’t. But, when you came here, after everything, I guess I just felt like you were the only person who would get it. You never, no one on the team ever treated me or talked to me how you did. I just wanted that.”

Tears had begun to well in your eyes now. A part of you gets what he means, at least about letting you in, but the other part is so confused as to why he stopped being comfortable around you.

“I don’t understand, Spencer. Why did you stop knowing how to be around me?”

There’s desperation in your voice that makes you sound like a stranger to yourself. Maybe you’re a stranger to everyone right now.

“I uh, I don’t really know.”

“That's not fair, Spence.”

You’re crying now. Just a little bit, but you can feel the wetness on your cheeks. You can see that you are by the look on his face. He looks broken, and you know it's a reflection of your own image.

You wipe your face, “Thank you for apologizing, Spencer. I just, there are parts of this all that I don’t understand, and if you can't explain them to me, I don’t think I ever will.”

“Y/n-,” he calls out your name like a prayer.

“It’s okay, Spence. You don’t have to say anything more. We talked, and things will go back to how they were eventually.”

“I’m so sorry, Y/n.”

You smile sadly as you get up to leave.

“I am, too, for what it's worth. For whatever I did to make things change in the first place.”

You leave it at that, and it takes everything in you not to look back as you leave his apartment.

Things do get easier after that. Not completely. You still love him, and it hurts, but it helps to know he doesn’t hate you. He talks to you some, cordial things, and you do the same. You're sure your teammates still sense something is off, but this works for you. Right now, it works. Getting over him, not loving him anymore, is going to take work, but eventually, you know that you won’t hurt anymore.

Shortly after you and him talked, you started going back out with your friends. Spencer joined periodically, but that was normal. Bars were never really his scene.

Tonight, everyone gathers at your local pub. Your last case was particularly grueling, and you all need a way to blow off some steam. It's fun, and you feel good, even with Spencer sitting across from you. You feel proud of yourself for getting to this point.

JJ and Penelope feed you drinks to try and get you to dance, and you let them. Tonight feels as good of a night as any to ‘get back out there’ as Pen says. So, you do. You dance with them, and you ward off the other cops and agents around you who try to pull you away from your group. You aren’t interested in that. Right now, you're just having an appropriate amount of fun for a woman 15 feet from her boss.

Time goes by quickly, and by the time you get back to the table, you, Derek, Penelope, and JJ remain. He tells you that Hotch, Rossi, Reid, and Alex left a few minutes before. The conversation between you flows for a while, up until the drinks loosen Penelope up enough to bring up what you were pretty sure the team designated a no-no topic.

“Y/n, you have to talk about it.”

You’re still laughing as something Derek said when you reply, “What?”

“You know what. You and Boy-Genius. What on Earth happened? You went from ice-cold to semi-friendly. None of us saw it coming.”

“Babygirl-,” Derek tries to stop her, but you cut him off.

“No, it’s okay. I have to talk about it at some point, and I think right now is the only time I’ll be tipsy enough to let you get it out of me.”

You're still laughing slightly, but the pit that's lived in your stomach for the past few months starts to rear its head.

“After your Day of the Dead party, he asked to talk to me. I went to his place, and he apologized. I don’t really understand what he said or what he meant, but I can’t be sad about him forever.”

Pen perks up a bit at that, “I knew that party would bring good things!”

You giggle a bit at her outburst, but then JJ asks, “What did he say?”

The faces around you all tune in at that. You know they don’t see this as gossip. They care about you both too much to trivialize it like that.

“He just said that he stopped knowing how to act around me, and he didn’t know why, but then he met Maeve, and I guess it didn’t matter so much after that. He was my best friend, and then he was nothing.”

JJ shares a glance with Derek and then speaks, “Oh, Y/n.”

“What?”

After a beat, Derek says, “He didn’t just not know how to act around you.”

Now you're confused, “What do you mean? I talked to him, that's what he said. He didn’t know why. I mean, he knows everything and didn’t know why he didn’t want to be around me anymore. How fucking stupid is that.”

You laugh again, but it does come off as genuine in the slightest.

“Y/n, he probably doesn’t really know why. At least not fully. For someone as smart as he is, the kid can be really stupid.”

“Stop being cryptic.”

Derek sighs but goes on, “Pretty girl, pretty boy was in love with you. Probably still is. He just didn’t think you’d ever feel the same.”

“No. That's not true.”

You look at the others around you, but their faces are serious.

“He loved Maeve. He loves Maeve. That, that doesn’t make any sense.”

It's JJ’s turn to talk now.

“He definitely did love Maeve, no one is denying that, but we all saw how he was around you. His whole relationship with her was safe. He couldn’t be hurt by her rejection every day because he had no way of seeing her. With you, he could.”

Your mind is moving a mile a minute, “Did he tell you guys this?”

Penelope puts her hand over yours and says, “He didn’t have to, love. We all say the way he looked at you and acted around you. The way he talked about you. That boy was head over heels.”

“Guys, I appreciate whatever you’re trying to do, but this isn’t real. Spencer doesn’t- this is not real.”

“Y/n, pause. Think about the way he acted around you, the things he said. Think about how Reid is.”

You hear what Derek said, but it all sounds faint like someone stuffed your ears with cotton while you weren't paying attention. All you can focus on are the different scenes running through your head, the scenes of your life with Spencer in it. How he memorized your coffee order and brought it for you every day, how he never shied away from your touch despite his aversion to contact, how he consistently went out of his way to protect you on the field. At his house after everything, the way he clung to you and wanted to be held. How he said in his own words, “You can't be what I need”; not “you aren’t,” but “you can’t.”

Your whole world is crashing down in this bar, and you can’t do anything to stop it.

“Y/n?”

JJ’s voice snaps you out of your spiral.

“Just go talk to him.”

You nod mutely, and you get up.

Everything in the last ten months of your life has led you to the exact spot you were when everything blew up in the first place: Spencer’s door.

This time, you aren't too worried about him not letting you in. If anything, it's the opposite. Him opening this door could open a hundred others, and you don’t quite know if you are ready for any of them. You sit there and sit there and sit there, trying to work up the courage to knock, though you aren’t sure it's there to begin with. Right as you're about to walk away and decide you’ll come back another day, his door swings open.

“Y/n?”

His face is lit up with shock, and you notice his hand that is not on the door is holding his pistol.

“What are you doing here?”

You don’t answer, “Why did you open the door?”

He sets his piece down on the entry table before responding, “I heard footsteps in the hall and saw they stopped here. I was anxious. 50.3% of home invasions happen between 8:00 pm and 7:00 am.” He cuts himself off there, “Y/n, why are you here?”

You didn’t pay attention to anything he said. All you could think about was the way his lips were moving and the way his eyes locked onto yours as he talked.

“Do you love me?”

That is not what you wanted to say.

His lips fall open as he takes in a sharp breath, “What?”

“Or I guess did you love me? Before everything? Because Derek and JJ and Pen, they all said that you loved me, and now I can’t think about anything else, Spencer.”

He doesn’t speak, but you don't really give him a chance to.

“I just, I know I sound crazy right now, but I feel fucking crazy. I keep going over everything in my head, and I have been, for the past year I have been, but now it’s all different. It's all different because they said that you loved me, but you didn’t think I’d feel the same way.”

Here, you do pause, but he still doesn’t say anything, so you go on before you can stop yourself.

“Because if that's true, Spencer, it's just- I did. I do. And if it's not, then please just tell me so I can stop feeling this way.”

He sounds resigned when he says, “Y/n,” and you feel like you know what that means.

“Fuck, I’m sorry. I don’t know why I'm doing this. You don’t have to say anything. Actually, please don’t say anything. I don't think I can hear it. Just pretend I never-”

He cuts off your ramble, “Y/n, stop.”

You draw your eyes from the floor, look up at him, and find something in his gaze you have never seen before. He doesn’t say anything, just stares at you, and it takes everything you have not to look away. His hand raises to cup your jaw, and your skin lights on fire. Before you can process what he’s doing, you feel his lips press against yours, and something clicks. At first, his touch is light, like he’s giving you the chance to pull away. But, when he grasps that you won’t, he presses himself to you harder, and all you can think about is how nothing has ever felt so right.

His lips move against yours, and you don’t know how you're managing to reciprocate because it feels like everything in your body has gone fuzzy. The kiss is by no means long, but it feels like it lasts forever, and by the time he pulls away, you’re breathless.

His forehead stays connected to yours, and he whispers, “I do, Y/n, love you. I have.”

You don’t feel the tears on your cheeks until he’s wiping them away.

“Oh, Y/n.”

“Did you know? That you did? Is that why…”

You trail off, hoping he’ll pick up on what you're asking, and he does.

“I didn’t at first, or I didn’t realize I was falling in love with you until it happened. I got scared, so I ran. I just never thought that you could feel the same or that I was hurting you. I didn’t realize that. I just thought I was doing what was best for us. I felt guilty for being in love with my best friend.”

“And Maeve?”

“I loved Maeve. I’ll always have love for her. I was trying to move on, and I thought I could eventually be with her and be around you without it hurting. I wish I would have told you this before.”

“You’re telling me now. That's enough.”

This time, it's you who pushes your lips to meet his. Your arms snake around his neck, and his fall to your waist. You follow when he pulls you into his apartment and closes the door. There is still pain on both sides, but you can feel it dissipating as you cling to each other. You’re just two broken people who have finally found a way to each other.

This kiss is different, hungrier. Neither of you pulls away for longer than a few seconds as you navigate your way from his entryway to his couch. Every touch is desperate like you're searching for something you never knew existed until now. His hands pull you closer and closer until he's pulling you on top of him, and each of your legs rests on opposite sides of his hips.

Your lips break from his for a moment, “What do you want, Spence?”

His reply is instant, “You.”

From there, things move faster. Your hands unbutton his shirt and push it from his shoulders while he undoes your pants. There are moments of awkwardness that come with exploring another for the first time, but it feels good. His hands trace over your hips and push further until you're left on top of him in only your underwear and bra. He takes you in like you are something to be marveled at, and you know your eyes reflect the same adoration.

You raise yourself off of him and work to get him in the same state of undress as you, and when you position yourself on top of him, you feel his length press against your center. The two thin layers of fabric do little to hinder the intensity as you rock into him. He lets out quiet moans at the action as his lips trace down your neck and over your collarbone.

His breath ghosts over you and makes you shiver when he asks, “Can I touch you?”

“Please.”

His hand moves between the two of you, and his fingers find your clit easily, rubbing circles over the fabric of your panties. You pant his name against his lips at the action. You feel like your whole body is lit up, and under any other circumstance, you'd feel embarrassed at how worked up you are, but you can’t seem to care.

After a few moments, he lifts you up and carries you to his bedroom. From there, he positions you below him on the bed, removing your remaining clothes in the same motion. The new setup lets you grip him, and he feels big in your hand. His fingers resume their previous assault before dipping down into you. You cry out at the feeling of him inside you, slowly pushing in and out, finding a spot that makes your legs start to shake. He’s relentless in his pursuit and all you can muster up the energy to say is his name.

“You’re so beautiful, Y/n.”

It's somewhere between a whimper and a whisper, but the sound of his voice causes you to clench around his fingers.

He picks up on this, of course he does, and quickens his pace as he coos at you.

“So pretty like this. I’m so lucky.”

You’re embarrassingly close already, so when he moves his thumb over your clit to rub circles as he fucks into you with his fingers, you come undone almost instantly with a warning and cry of his name. He works you through your orgasm, all while whispering praise in your ear. Once you come down from your high, you start to push his boxers down his legs, but he stops you before you can fully.

“We don’t have to do anything more, Y/n. I liked just making you feel good.”

“I want more. I want to feel you if you want that too.”

“Of course I do. I just don’t want you to regret anything.”

“I couldn’t regret this, Spencer. I love you. I want all of you.”

It's the first time you’ve actually said those three words to him, and it feels so fucking good to say.

“I love you, too. God, so much.”

With that, he positions himself back on top of you, running his fingers over your slit gently before gripping himself.

“Do you have a condom?”

“I might somewhere, but I have an IUD, and I’m clean. I can try to find one if you’re more comfortable with that?”

“IUDs have a failure rate of around .05% and are largely considered the most effective form of birth control, so uh, as long as you're okay with it, I am.”

You smile to yourself at his statistic but nod, “I want to feel you, Spencer.”

He returns your smile before rubbing his length over your entrance a few times and slowly pushing himself into you just slightly. He teases you, or maybe himself, for a moment before fully entering you. You push your hips up to meet his, and feeling him in his entirety makes your jaw fall open. He’s big, and you feel unbelievably full.

He waits a moment for you to adjust before he starts to develop a rhythm. His hands are everywhere, but his eyes are focused solely on your face like he doesn’t want to miss a moment of your reaction to him inside of you. To be fair, you are probably putting on a good show. Every movement he makes hits you in exactly the right spot, and you don’t think you could be louder if you tried. You can feel the leg he’s not holding up against his shoulder shake against the bed. Your first orgasm has made way for your second to be incredibly close.

“Spencer, please.”

You’re crying out, desperate for a little more to push you over the edge.

“What do you need, baby?” His voice is tight like he’s not far himself, and it sounds better than anything you’ve ever heard.

“Harder. Please, harder.”

He takes your direction immediately, rubbing circles on your clit with one hand while he thrusts into you with a bruising force. He’s fucking you like he wants you to remember the feeling long after he stops, and you know that you will. Everything about it is overwhelming: his smell, his pace, his eyes. You are covered in him, and he is covered in you.

After a moment, the hand he had on your stomach trails up to grasp lightly at your throat, and you fall into feeling. You can’t warn him that you're about to come before you do. The feeling is white hot. Bigger than your first, and the fact that you're coming on him sends you into overdrive. You can feel his hips falter for a moment, but you're lost in a daze, crying out his name.

He pumps into you a few more times before he follows suit. He pulls out, and you feel stripes of his come paint your cunt and lower stomach as he finishes with a moan of your name.

He falls next to you on the bed, and it takes you both a few moments to collect yourselves and catch your breath.

Once you do, the only thing you can think to say is, “I love you.”

It feels like those are the only words circling around in your head at the moment. Some mixture of his name and that declaration. While you know you each said it before, that your profession was the exigence of the sex you just had, it feels uniquely vulnerable to say now. It’s like the moment you just had together could have changed things or made him realize that he doesn’t actually love you after all.

That shoe doesn’t drop, though. Instead, you hear the three words echoed back to you by a man who, 6 hours ago, you thought would never, ever say them.

You turn to face him, and the love on his face feels like it could knock you out. He’s looking at you and smiling in a way you haven't seen in a long time.

“Will you let me clean you up?”

You know that part of the reason he’s asking has something to do with the likelihood of bacteria growth or something like that, but you think it's mainly that he wants to take care of you. Him wetting a rag and running it over you feels intimate in a different way, in an excruciatingly gentle way. Personal in a way that makes you feel like nothing between you could ever be wrong again, and maybe that's naive to think, but you feel hopeful regardless.

Once he finishes, he takes his space back next to you in the bed. This time, he pulls you into his arms, and it's different than it was all those months ago. This time, you know that he won’t push you away and that you won't hurt yourself by being next to him. This time, you just tuck yourself into him, and you let him whisper sweet nothings into your ear as you begin to drift off. This time, it feels like peace.

The following day, you wake up to Spencer still next to you, looking incredibly soft in the early morning light. You search for a moment to find your phone in the piles of clothes and are greeted with a text from Pen.

How did it go????

You smile before turning your phone off and climbing back into bed next to the man you love. It couldn’t have gone better.

all done! yay!!!

i hope you guys love it!! i’m not 100% happy with the ending but i’ve been writing this for so long and just needed to be done.

this is my first time writing angst on here and my longest fic, so PLEASE tell me what you think! all (nice) feedback is welcome and i love to hear from you guys!! :)

#spencer reid #spencer reid fanfic #spencer reid fanfiction #spencer reid x reader #criminal minds #criminal minds smut #fic rec #spencer reid smut #spencer reid x y/n #spencer reid angst #spencer reid x you #criminal minds fanfiction #fanfiction #friends to lovers #friends to enemies to lovers #spencer reid fluff #spencer reid fic rec

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vernonverse · 2 months ago

Text

you’re outta your damn mind!

— the morning after bsf!seungcheol drunkenly confesses to you.

ⓘ paring. seungcheol x f!reader. genre | tags: friends to lovers, drabble, fake texts, fluff, mini-series. warnings. SUPER cheesy, kissing. word count. 1.6k+. → read part one here.

There’s a knock at your door a second after you've finished putting away all your laundry. You had ordered takeout for lunch, but the knock was too soft for a delivery guy, and too familiar to be anyone else.

When you open it, Seungcheol stands there: messy hair, puffy eyes, looking like he’s nursing the hangover of the century, with exactly two disposable coffee cups in hand.

And yes, a bouquet that’s almost as big as his ego.

He hides his face behind the flowers for a moment, then tilts his head to the side, peeking at you with one eye and a crooked smile. “You said not to propose yet,” he says, voice still gravelly from sleep, “so I brought these instead.”

I want to buy you flowers just because I thought of you at 2pm on a Tuesday like I always do.

You blink at him, thrown by the sight. Not just because it’s Seungcheol—your best friend, who you may or may not have been in love with for as long as you can remember—standing on your doorstep looking like he rolled out of bed and straight into a florist shop, but because he’s looking at you like that.

For years, you’d heard your friends talk about the way he looked at you. The problem was: you never gave it much thought. Probably because some part of you refused to believe that a guy like him could ever feel that way about a girl like you, while the other part was too focused on looking at him like that to notice anything else.

And in the end, here you both were—standing at your doorstep, with him looking like he might cry if you sent him away, and once again, looking at you like that. Like he was ready to pluck every star from the sky and hand them to you in a box wrapped in bright red, heart-covered paper.

How had you not seen it before?

Your fingers tightened slightly on the doorknob, heart catching somewhere in your throat. For a second, you thought maybe you were still dreaming—maybe you’d fallen asleep on the couch after folding laundry and conjured up this entire scene from the deepest desires of your mind.

You don’t even realize you’re smiling until he mirrors it, crooked, tired, a little nervous.

“Hi,” he says softly, like he’s not sure what else to say now that he’s there.

“Hi,” you echo, suddenly aware of everything: your mismatched socks, your old Pucca pajama pants, the slightly damp hair from your rushed shower earlier, the way your heart is thudding like it wants to leap out of your chest and wrap itself around him.

He holds out one of the cups to you. “Vanilla latte. Extra shot. No whipped cream As always.”

Your smile widens, a genuine, unguarded curve of your lips that feels like it’s been waiting years to surface. You reach out to take the offered cup just as he lifts the flowers, not quite as bashful this time.

The bouquet he’s still holding is a riot of colors that somehow manage to look both extravagant and perfectly chosen. There are deep red roses, soft pink peonies, vibrant sunflowers, and delicate springs of baby’s breath, all tied together with a simple burlap ribbon. It’s the kind of bouquet that speaks of thought, of care, as if he had chosen each one of them meticulously, not just a fleeting impulse buy.

“Cheol,” you whisper, and something in him melts at the sound of it. "They're... beautiful.”

He shifts his weight, the exhaustion in his eye momentarily overshadowed by a flicker of something that looks suspiciously like hope. It felt strange to see him like this—usually, he was the most confident person you knew. But now, he looked like he was praying silently. Not that he needed it, he already had your heart resting quietly in the palm of his hand; he just didn't know it yet.

“I, uh… I wasn’t sure what you liked best, because that day at the botanical garden you said you liked them all. So I just... got a little bit of everything." He gestures vaguely with the bouquet, nearly whacking himself in the face.

You giggle, a soft, shaky sound that makes his tired smile widen just a fraction more.

“You didn’t have to,” you say, even though a part of you is singing with a joy you haven’t felt in a long time.

“Yes, I did,” he counters, voice gaining a bit more firmness. “You deserve flowers. Just because.” He looks down at them, then back at you, his gaze intense. “And… I feel like I should apologize for confessing to you while drunk.”

Your heart does another little flutter-kick in your chest at the word confessing. You take a tentative sip of the latte, the rich, sweet bitterness grounding you slightly. “Well,” you say, trying to keep your voice even, “you've certainly succeeded.”

A small silence stretches between you, filled only with the sounds of the city waking up in the distance. He looks like he wants to say more, but seems to be searching for the right words. You find yourself doing the same, a thousand thoughts and feelings swirling within you. It was wild to think you’d imagined this moment a thousand times, and now that it was here, it felt like every existent word had vanished from your mind.

Finally, he clears his throat. “Can I… come in?” he asks, his voice low and a little vulnerable. “I have things I need to say properly. And your place always smells like… well, you.”

The corners of your mouth twitch upwards again. “It smells like me?”

He nods, a faint blush creeping up his neck. “Yeah. Like… clean laundry and vanilla and… home.”

Home.

Your heart gives a small jump at the sound of that word leaving his lips to describe your apartment. You step back, opening the door wider. “Come in.”

You take the coffee and flowers, setting them on the counter so you can look for a vase big enough to hold them—or at least two to split them between. But before you can take a step, Seungcheol gently catches your wrist and pulls you into a hug. A hug that makes you forget how to breathe for a second and lingers a little longer than usual.

“I meant every word,” he murmurs against your shoulder. Then he lifts his head, cupping your face in his hands after gently tucking a damp strand of hair behind your ear—a touch so delicate it feels like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he blinks. “I just… I don’t want that to be the only time I say it.”

“I don’t want it to be the only time either,” you whisper, barely trusting your voice.

His smile breaks wide across his face, hopeful and a little awestruck, like he can’t believe you’re really saying it.

“I’ve been in love with you since… I don’t even know when,” he runs his thumb over your cheekbone as if the answer is there. “Since you walked into that classroom, not giving a damn about the fact that you slammed the classroom door really loudly and everybody was glaring at you, including the professor.”

You blink. “That was ten years ago.”

“Exactly,” he groans. “Ten years! I’ve been holding it in like an idiot because I didn’t wanna ruin what we had. And I thought… maybe it was just me. Maybe you didn’t feel it.”

Your hands find his, still cradling your face, as if drawn there by instinct. “I thought you were the one who didn’t feel it.”

“You’re joking.”

“I literally said we needed to talk in person. You think I’d do that if I didn’t feel something.”

Seungcheol finally let go of your face, his hands dropping to his sides, but the smile tugging at his lips made it clear—your words had made him just a little too happy. “You do like me?”

You roll your eyes. “Do you want me to write it in blood or something?”

He grins—that stupid grin that makes your heart somersault. “No. I want you to say it. Out loud. While I’m sober.”

“I like you,” you say softly. “I love you, actually. I’ve loved you for a long time. But I wasn’t going to confess it in the middle of a drunk text exchange over how many kids we’re gonna have.”

“So…” he says, eyes gleaming as he takes a half-step closer. “Does that mean I get to kiss you now, or do I need to wait until you’ve had half your coffee and fixed your pajama situation?”

You laugh, heart soaring, trying your best to sound nonchalant. “You can kiss me now, Choi Seungcheol.”

His face twists at the sound of his full name coming out of your lips, but it doesn’t stop him. He wraps his arms around your waist, pulling you flush against him, his breath against your cheek as he murmurs, “From now on, I’m only baby to you.”

Your lips meet softly at first, like a question hanging in the air. Then you pull back, only to find each other again, this time deeper, more desperate, a single kiss unraveling ten years of silence in one breathless moment. Seungcheol’s hands trace the curve of your back, pulling you even closer as if the next beat of his heart depended on having your chest pressed tightly against his.

Your mouth melts under the touch of his against it as Seungcheol cups your chin with one hand, taking full control of the most intoxicating kiss you’ve ever tasted. Your mind struggles to catch up, barely able to process that this kiss belongs to your best friend.

When you both finally break apart, breathless and gasping softly for air, Seungcheol leans in, pressing his forehead gently against yours, before saying, “Now, about those five babies.”

You can’t help the laugh that comes out of you as you shake your head, still breathless from the kiss, hitting him lightly on the chest.

“You’re still outta your damn mind, baby.”

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ʚ A/N: This was supposed to go out yesterday, but this morning I discovered that I had left it in my drafts and not in the queue 😭 my bad!

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mandalhoerian · 3 months ago

Text

(1) 🦭 signed, sealed, delivery pending...

Ferrying passengers and cargo between the mainland and the outlying islands is your family's livelihood. Life at sea holds its surprises, yet the routines remain reassuring — docking and departing, tourist antics, more docking and departing...

And there's the seal of course — the local celebrity trailing the ferry each day as though he's on the payroll. You think it might have been brought about by giving into his every whim and accidentally becoming his favorite person to be around in the process. But who would’ve guessed the truth, that he's actually a selkie who's spent years shadowing you, believing himself to be escorting his chosen bride all along?

genre: fluff, comedy | wc: 4K | read on ao3

next >

note: this is inspired by the giggly leg-kick inducing selkie raf fanart here by @/beechu-beechu!!!! i adore this raf to the moon and back, and all the seal videos i've watched (crybaby learns to swim) has prepared me for this moment. i hope you'll stick around for this very un-edited mini-series!

Your chest tightens pleasantly as you breathe in deep draughts of briny air, mist clinging to your tongue and lips, sharp and salty, anticipation of yet another day with your marine friend nudging your footsteps faster over slick cobblestones that echo softly against the buildings that line the street. Dawn hasn’t quite shaken off the night, draping everything in gauzy shadows, stretching slender fingers of soft gold across the rooftops, making you feel the gentle bite of the morning chill grazing your skin in a tingle of needles against your cheeks.

Ahead, the harbor emerges from the last traces of darkness, boats bobbing lazily against moorings that creak and groan like old friends in conversation as dockworkers shuffle around, silhouettes bent under cargo, and in comfortable and hushed chatting somehow overtaken by the screams of seagulls. Among them, your family's ferry waits patiently at its berth, outline illuminated by the muted brilliance of the rising sun — a scene so delicately composed you think it might’ve been painted by Edward Hopper himself each and every time you witness it.

“Hey hey, Elias!” you call, raising a hand to greet the old fisherman, his weather-creased face somehow aging a couple more years while he picks through a tangle of nets with focus.

He lifts his head, eyes crinkling fondly beneath his salt-stained cap. “Ah, mornin’, lass!"

"Brought something with me today. I want to see if it helps with the bait bucket problem."

"Boy is addicted to easy pickings, I doubt that. Wee nyaff owes me half a season’s catch by now.” Elias's rumbling chuckles have warmth rumbling through your chest. “Can’t fault him for his good taste in company when he has treats delivered to his doorstep, though.”

“Nice try,” you say, your tone mock-stern, a smile tugging insistently at the corner of your mouth. “But flattery’s not buying you extra coffee today.”

His laughter echoes briefly before it’s swallowed by the soft slosh of water beneath the docks, and he peers out across the idly rolling tide, affection blending with mild irritation as his fingers start working faster.

"That's fine," he says. "Having you back is enough. My poor boat needed a break from all that terrorizing."

You laugh at that with an embarrassed, heavy heart.

Six months have melted away since you traded your graduation cap for the familiar sight of gulls wheeling above the docks. You’d returned home carrying equal parts eagerness and obligation, drawn back into your father’s orbit, hoping, perhaps, to ease some of the burdens he’d never openly admit were weighing him down.

Leaving for university felt like stepping aboard a departing train, thrilling and dizzying as it rattled toward a glittering unknown named the future. City life was a constant hum you were ill-prepared for — nights brimming with noise, friendships blazing bright but fleeting as sparks — but somewhere along the way, that excitement quietly dimmed, and in its absence grew a tender longing, whisper-soft, for a simpler past, back when your world was defined by the comforting cadence of the ferry schedule and the friendly bustle of seasonal visitors.

So, under the spotlight of shame, coming home felt oddly disjointed at first, as though stepping back into a photograph that had stubbornly refused to fade, preserved, untouched by time — the docks still busy at dawn, fishermen hauling in their catches, schoolkids racing, backpacks swinging wildly, the scent of fresh bread spilling from the bakery door at exactly eight sharp every morning. Life moved here in steady, predictable rhythms, each beat familiar enough to lull you into comfort, yet somehow magnifying a subtle, restless niggling deep within your chest.

Because beneath the comforting yet burdensome familiarity that's a bed of nails at night, you can't shake the quiet sensation that returning was more retreat than progress.

You feel it most keenly when whispers trail in your wake, pointed glances exchanged between curious neighbors whose mouths curve around your name like a secret. They wonder aloud — in voices just low enough to feign politeness — about how university might have shaped you, or perhaps, more poignantly, left you unchanged.

You can feel their quiet amusement, the delight in the idea of the girl who once dreamed beyond the island now anchored firmly back in place, tethered once more to the ferry ropes and her father’s stubborn pride.

Not that Dad would ever breathe a word of needing assistance. Pride is his quiet strength and silent curse, a barrier more solid than the island's rocky coastline. You'd notice him sometimes, catching fleeting moments when he believes no one was watching — rubbing the weariness from his shoulders after hefting crates heavier than he’d admit, wincing just a little as his knees protest bending to secure the moorings, lips pressing into a thin, shaky line. It makes your heart twist like a wet rag, knowing his stubbornness masked vulnerability, and you'd resolved, quietly yet firmly, that your presence would stay constant until further notice.

Besides, the arrangement came with undeniable perks — a roof overhead without rent’s shadow hanging over your head, meals rich with nostalgia’s comforting flavor, and the cradle-like sway and creak of deck boards beneath your feet. It's more than enough compensation, more than fair payment, for the small surrender of uncertain ambitions to the nonjudgmental embrace of home.

By nonjudgmental you mean the weight of being allowed to take time in figuring your stuff out inbetween all the nausea-inducing sessions of admitting to yourself you're absolutely lost and don't have the slightest idea what you're going to do next.

So, yeah. Things are going great.

Still, despite everything, there’s at least one soul whose very presence smooths away any lingering doubts you had about returning home.

Well — perhaps not exactly a person.

There he is, your seal companion of years, lounging right there on the loading ramp as though he's claimed ownership of the whole harbor, proudly blocking Dad’s path as usual.

Today, Raf’s gray coat catches the clementine of the morning sun like liquid bronze, sleek fur glistening wetly, shimmering with subtle gold beneath droplets of seawater, and tiny flecks of fish scales cling stubbornly to his whiskers, the glittering remnants of his breakfast. You try your hardest to summon a stern mask of reprimand to your face — someone needs to teach this cheeky little shit some manners before either you or Dad dive headfirst into the sea because of Raf's sunbathing spot choices — but one glance into his wide, guileless eyes instantly dissolves your resolve into warm-hearted resignation.

With a mock-exasperated sigh, you lean down, scratching softly beneath his chin and tracing scratching circles in the thick fur around his neck, and Raf immediately responds, rolling onto his side and enthusiastically clapping his flippers together like an actor performing a rehearsed trick. You feel like he's Pavlov-ed you into yielding to his desires by rewarding you with cuteness, and burst into laughter, the sound rippling sweetly across the bay.

"Hi, hi, hi, my cutie pie," you coo softly in a sing-song voice that's the usual ritualistic greeting you have for him, smile brightening as you reveal a small stash of dried salmon you'd slipped into your bag. "I didn't forget my promise."

Raf perks up immediately, twisting himself with a delighted wriggle that ends with his tail thumping happily against the ramp, peering upward, eyes large and pleading, more expressive than any puppy’s. A heartbeat later, he's flopped dramatically onto his side, one flipper thrust skyward in hopeful invitation, and your cheeks ache from the persistent grin stretching across your face, but that hardly matters.

For a few joyful minutes, you're lost in a game of enthusiastic 'handshakes,' finishing with good, thorough tummy scritches before starting to feed him.

"Keep spoiling the damn thing, and he'll forget how to fish altogether," Dad grumbles affectionately as he passes by, hoisting another heavy crate bound for one of the smaller islands. You resist the urge to tease him about who’s really spoiling whom around here — considering how easily he gives in to your own puppy eyes — and instead settle for an innocent shrug, shaking the salmon bag, unaware of Raf following the notion with his neck elongating impossibly due to his unbelievable flexibility.

"Aww, come on. Look at that irresistible face! You can't help but want to give him whatever he wants!"

"Mm'begh, egg, ggeaaaghh," snorts Raf, wiggling under your pets, and even Dad is amused enough to pause and raise his eyebrows at the silly seal before moving along.

After a minute of playful petting, you pull yourself upright and stretch, wondering how many fish in the ocean smell this fresh and clean. The scent alone reminds you of childhood summer vacations splashing around, blissfully ignorant of any underlying responsibilities or cares.

"Get your fat cat off the ramp before he trips one of us up."

On cue, Raf slaps a fin theatrically against his rounded belly, releasing a snuffling grunt that sounds suspiciously like a tiny piglet rather than a seal: "Mmpppshh."

"Don't listen to him," you reassure Raf solemnly, as though comforting a wounded toddler. "You’re not fat. You're just… well-built. Big bones."

Your half-serious tone earns you several enthusiastic thwaps of Raf’s wet flippers against your calves, making you laugh despite your best efforts to feign sternness. "UUUUAAAAAAGH!!!"

With an exaggerated sigh, you give in, bending down for another pat. "Alright, easy there, handsome. Time to get to work."

Yet Raf, predictably, sees this only as an invitation for more attention, rolling onto his back once again, flippers splayed wide, belly fully exposed in expectation of being cradled like a newborn. Maybe he just wants another belly rub. Or maybe he senses how much you cherish these little interactions, savoring the warmth of mutual affection like it's as essential as breathing. It certainly seems to keep him lively and robust — after all, you’re with him far more than anyone else. There are countless days spent sharing scraps from lunch, swimming side-by-side from island to island, or teaching him new tricks as thinly-veiled excuses for play. Even Dad has remarked (with a teasing grin that you pointedly ignore) that Raf seems more like your best friend than anyone else in town.

And really, what's the harm? Spoiling a seal who clearly enjoys your company hardly counts as indulgent. It's simply mutual happiness, a comforting addiction you've willingly embraced: the velvety smoothness of dark-gray fur beneath your fingers, the hidden strength of his sleek body, the endearing little huff he gives when your windbreaker tickles his sensitive whiskers. All of it — absolutely addictive.

"You know exactly how unfair this is," you finally giggle softly, deciding to have mercy on your heart (and Raf’s belly) for now. "Come on, buddy."

"Ppppfffrrrshh."

With a playful little bounce, Raf balances briefly on his foreflippers, wobbling theatrically before launching himself gracefully off the ramp into the calm water below, sending a silvery plume everywhere, and he surfaces once, twice, three times — each pretty leap arching through the dawn-tinted waves, always teasing, never coming nearer than a safe distance of about ten feet from where you stand as he glides easily in lazy circles around the ferry’s bow, waiting patiently for you to climb aboard.

Slowly, the bleary-eyed commuters begin filing onto the ferry, faces etched with lingering dreams and shoulders hunched beneath the invisible weight of daily responsibilities, and you greet each with energetic warmth to start off the day, offering an amiable nod and a reassuring smile as they pass.

"Coffee’s fresh if you need it, other beverage options and food are available as well in the passenger cabin's buffet," you inform, trying to be a comforting balm to their early-morning weariness. Relief flashes briefly across some tired eyes as you watch people go in and out with hands that tighten gratefully around steaming cups, savoring the warmth like precious embers that ward off the chill.

The tourists follow closely behind after your usuals, pouring aboard in a cheerful wave of bright-eyed excitement as they clutch tightly to their guidebooks, maps, and expensive cameras, animated chatter in various foreign languages floods the deck and shoos away the remnants of the sleepy calm, their infectious enthusiasm cascading over you, a vibrant hum that makes even the most mundane tasks feel fresh and lively.

A woman leans eagerly across the railing, eyes searching for something in the water, but doesn't break any safety rules. She must be a seasoned traveler. "Will we see the famous seal today?"

You cast her a self-satisfied glance, nodding knowingly toward the shimmering expanse of the harbor. "I'd say the odds are pretty high, given he's basically imprinted on this ferry," you promise, and as though summoned by your certainty, Raf’s sleek form breaches the gentle swell, fur catching the sunlight in an iridescent cascade. "Right on cue — there's our local star."

A wave of delighted murmurs and gasps ripples across the deck, the enthusiastic click of cameras rising like an orchestra chef's signal as Raf begins his performance, slicing effortlessly between waves and drawing dramatic curves through the water, slowing his movements deliberately to let the ferry glide past before starting his 'warm-up laps' again. Tourists are absolutely losing it over getting to see something like this up close, every splash and proud bob of his glossy head eliciting cheers and applause that would scare every single sea animal around the perimeter. But not Raf. He's used to it by now.

"So, everyone — meet Raf!" you call out above the enthusiastic chatter, pointing with a flourish toward the glossy head bobbing in the waves. "He's friendly enough, so don't panic if he hops aboard for a visit. But keep your distance — not because he'll bite, mind you, but because he'll bruise your ego when he pretends you don't exist. He enjoys your admiration strictly from afar. He's a star like that."

A cheerful chorus of laughter, aww-ing and agreement rings out in response.

Taking advantage of the good mood, you repeat the safery regulations and warnings before you busy yourself assisting passengers, guiding them to their seats and helping stow bags in the compartments tucked beneath. You have to announce the route the ferry will take and how long the stops will be, and then, the ferry is pulling smoothly away from the docks, leaving the harbor behind and setting course over waters shimmering brilliantly beneath the sun.

Several adventurous tourists stake out prime spots along the ferry's edge, though many soon retreat inward, driven away by sharp gusts whipping their hair into tangles and peppering their faces with chilly, sharp salt spray. You stroll leisurely between the seats, pausing here and there for pleasant banter about the scenery, local delicacies, or family holidays gone awry, keeping the conversations is easy and light, and you're met with appreciative nods and smiles.

Out across the waves, sunlight dances like scattered jewels, creating diamond-dust illusions whenever a gust scatters spray towards the sky. Every now and then, Raf's sleek form slices effortlessly through the glittering waves, drawing joyful gasps and delighted pointing from your captivated audience.

To anyone coming aboard for the first time, Raf gives every impression of being charming, approachable — even sociable. A casual observer might assume he’s perfectly at ease with human company, considering how effortlessly he weaves himself into the daily bustle around the ferry, acting every bit the seasoned local soaking up attention. At first, you’d happily fallen for the same illusion, even rejoicing a bit at the idea that he was genuinely warming up to people when he started making regular appearances.

Reality, however, quickly proved less rosy. That endearing exterior was, and still is, hiding a nasty streak you could swear was deliberate, because Raf seems to delight in luring people in, coaxing them into thinking they've made a furry new friend — only to abruptly turn aloof, snubbing them with the ease of a ghoster. It’s as if he takes twisted pleasure in watching visitors wilt in disappointment, and so you've learned to offer friendly yet firm warnings upfront: admire him, laugh at his antics, but don't get too cozy or you’re bound to wind up nursing a heartbreak.

Suddenly, there are gasps among the crowd.

Well, mostly screams at first, before turning into delighted giggles.

"Look, over there!" A child shrieks with uncontainable excitement, sprinting eagerly toward the railing at the ferry’s side deck.

Your head snaps up immediately, and a laugh escapes you before you can suppress it. You didn't think your overly confident companion could still manage to surprise you after so many months spent sharing the sea.

Raf has flopped his way onto the ferry once again. Like he belongs, the cocky little shit. Raf glides gracelessly across the deck, flippers waving with dramatic flair — almost comically bird-like — until gravity decisively interrupts his attempted elegance. His slick body careens straight into a pole, skidding downward with a recoiling thud and ending the journey facedown right beside your boots.

"Oh, so gracious of you to rejoin us, Your Majesty," you tease affectionately, nudging him with your toe. "Seems like you get lazier with every trip. Keep hitching rides like this and we'll have to start charging you."

A squeaky little noise slips from Raf's throat, quickly followed by a sneeze-snort that's frankly too adorable to handle. You can't help yourself — you adore every silly, ridiculous part of this creature with those impossibly round, innocent eyes.

A couple kids swarm over as soon as they gather confidence to approach him. "Can we pet him?"

Look at that. Like clockwork.

With a gentle hand, you stroke his back, fingers gliding down his sleek, slippery fur from head to tail, quietly rewarding him for tolerating the children's excitement. "Alright, Raf is a little jumpy sometimes, so we can only pet him one at a time, okay guys? Remember, slow and gentle. Don't spook him."

One boy bravely kneels, gingerly scratching beneath Raf’s chin, giggling when Raf playfully nudges him with an almost haughty flick of his nose. Another child, more timid, holds out her palm for Raf to sniff and squeals when Raf leans forward to bump her inconspicuously enough to topple her onto her backside. The first wave of curious kids gets the others clustering around when they see there's nothing to be afraid of, and soon enough, squeals are louder than the ferry itself as parents linger close by, protective yet smiling fondly at the playful interactions between their children and the beloved seal.

You know Raf better than anyone, how he's around people — the cautious way he approaches, simultaneously wary and irresistibly curious, how those large, ink-dark eyes study every new movement with intent fascination, watchful yet hesitant as hands reach toward his glossy fur. It speaks volumes about his trust in you that he tolerates curious bombardments of attention every day, only flinching or skittering backward when a visitor's gesture becomes too swift or unpredictable for comfort, just as he's doing right now with these children (whom he's generally more tolerating towards.)

Occasionally though, someone ends up with an accidental nip — never serious enough to break skin, usually just leaving behind a faint pinkish mark and perhaps a startled expression. But thankfully, these incidents are rare, mostly limited to times when you're not around to ease his nerves and mediate with the person who just wants to pet him and most likely (always) in the wrong about boundaries of a wild animal.

And right now, some time after with the fawning of children and parents taking photos in an unofficial queue, you recognize his signals immediately — the way he blows raspberries and starts shifting restlessly — clear indications he's becoming overwhelmed. As soon as you see him squirming to indicate he'll start galumphing away from the eager crowd any second now, you swiftly intervene, encouraging nearby parents to corral their energetic kids and give him some breathing room.

"Alright, that's enough excitement for this morning!" you call cheerfully, ushering everyone back to their seats. "We'll be reaching our destination soon — please find your places and settle in."

As the passengers reluctantly scatter back to their seats and Raf bounces away to get back into the safety and comfort of the sea without even a glance back at you like he's blaming you for his peril, one woman remains beside you, her eyes lingering appreciatively on Raf as he glides effortlessly back into the waves. "You’ve trained him remarkably well."

That comment leaves an acidic residue in your stomach. You've never thought of Raf as an animal you had to tame into shape, or that he needed to be disciplined like a dog. It isn't about interfering with wildlife and never treating him as a pet either (though you also were very well aware). He simply is a companion you were grateful to have in your life that terms like training have always been demeaning to hear pertaining to him.

"Honestly, Raf is the cleverest sea critter I've ever known," you reply with genuine affection, quickly adding, "Though I wouldn't exactly call it 'training.'"

Her eyebrows lift with mild intrigue. "Oh, really?"

"Yeah, nothing formal or complicated. Mostly just treats and encouragement, getting him comfortable around us, making sure human attention is positive for him. Simple stuff," you explain, resting casually against the railing. "He took to accepting snacks from my hand on his own — didn't even have to teach him. He just picked it up naturally, even posing nicely when tourists want photos. Mind you, he used to drive fishermen mad. My friend Elias still swears Raf sabotaged his fishing line out of spite."

Her grin broadens, matching yours, and a strong gust ruffles her blonde pixie cut like fluff from a dandelion caught in the wind. "He sounds ready for the big top. You might just have yourself a circus performer," she jokes lightly. "He seems to put on a real show whenever you're around."

Your smile dims a bit — remembering those early days weren't always so playful. The faint scars on your arm still ache whenever it rains. "I wish," you admit, wrists flexing. "But Raf gets nervous fast and ultimately does his own thing. If he listens to me at all, it’s only because he's comfortable. We grew up together, more or less. Maybe he sees this place as a secondary rookery, I don't know."

She tilts her head in subtle amazement before nodding. "You must really care for him. I’ve never seen someone handle a wild animal so naturally."

"Having his trust is special," you reply earnestly, gaze drifting toward Raf as he circles alongside the ferry, rolling with the waves as though he were just another seabird drifting with the wind. "It's rare to earn that kind of bond with a creature as smart and free-spirited as him. I’m incredibly lucky."

"He really does make one want to believe in selkies," she adds, leaning back against the rail as though preparing for a lengthy conversation.

"Selkies?"

An amused little chuckle answers before words do. "Surely you've heard of them — magical beings said to be able to shapeshift between a seal and human form." Her mouth curves into an odd smile. "It's very sad actually, the stories of the female selkies. They can shed their sealskins at will and take on a human form, but if they lose their coats, they have no choice but to stay ashore forever." She lowers her eyelashes, softening her features. "And even worse — according to lore, some men claim the skins and force the poor women who already have their mates into marriage."

"That's horrible," you reply, swallowing hard. Just thinking of Raf being bound to anyone in such a violent way makes your fists clench instinctively. You may not believe in supernatural fairy tales, but the thought of him being trapped sickens you, even for pretend. "Those men ought to be taken out to sea and keelhauled till their flesh is bloody fish bait."

The image that phrase conjures definitely has her smiling ear-to-ear.

"What about the male selkies? Is the tale genderbent in their case?"

"Well... Selkie men are seducers."

"What?" you almost scream. "That's radically different than—"

"I know," she cuts you off with a reassuring tone. "True to how the society was like back then, they had a lot more freedom. Nothing about coat-stealing or anything. Just women who are unsatisfied in their lives and relationships, also lonely fishermen wives, who summon a selkie lover by shedding seven tears into the sea at high tide on a full moon. And interestingly, those selkie men truly love their human lovers and their offspring. If their genre is romance, the stories of female selkies getting forcefully married are just horror."

"Realism, I guess," you say, trying to wrap your mind around the details.

You briefly picture Raf as one of those legendary beings. Knowing he wouldn't touch any human being with a five foot pole, you imagine it would be nothing short of wishing for a genie in a bottle but summoning a trickster spirit instead.

#love and deepspace #rafayel x reader #rafayel x you #rafayel fluff #rafayel #lads rafayel x reader #lads rafayel x you #l&ds rafayel x reader #lnds rafayel x reader #lads rafayel #l&ds rafayel #lnds rafayel #lads #lnds #l&ds

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marauroon · 3 months ago

Text

𝟏 𝐭𝐨 𝟏𝟎𝟎 — 𝐒𝐄𝐂𝐎𝐍𝐃-𝐘𝐄𝐀𝐑 (𝐝𝐲𝐧𝐚𝐦𝐢𝐜).

your second year at hogwarts is filled with expanding friendships, established routines, and… oh, right. they’re still here.

eventual james x fem!reader | 5.8k | series masterlist.

main masterlist.

CW | the marauders are arrogant twats bc they’re 13 years old, snape gets bullied, remus is a werewolf (surprise)

The summer had been peaceful. You, Lily, Marlene, and Dorcas had kept in touch through letters, swapping stories about your holidays, complaining about homework assignments set before term had even begun, and, in Lily’s case, venting about how her sister was acting now she was home. It had been nice—quiet, even.

Now, as you step onto Platform 9¾, the familiar rush of excitement settles in. The scarlet Hogwarts Express looms ahead, steam curling into the air, and the chatter of students fills your ears.

You spot Lily first, her red hair unmistakable even in the crowd. Marlene isn’t far behind, already pulling Dorcas into a hug. Within minutes, the four of you are together again, grinning and catching up as though no time has passed at all.

The train ride itself is blissfully uneventful. You find an empty compartment, settle in, and spend the first half of the journey munching on Pumpkin Pasties while Dorcas recounts her disastrous attempt at brewing a Forgetfulness Potion over the summer.

Lily nearly chokes on her Chocolate Frog laughing, and you lean back against the seat, content.

But, of course, it can’t last forever.

A loud, echoing bang erupts from somewhere further down the train, followed by a shriek and an explosion of laughter. Familiar laughter.

You don’t even need to look at the others to know you’re all thinking the same thing.

“Oh, for Merlin’s sake,” Lily groans, rubbing her temples.

“They’re back,” you say grimly, as if announcing the return of an ancient evil.

“Did you think they wouldn’t be?” Marlene snorts.

Dorcas sighs. “I was just hoping for one peaceful train ride,”

Another round of raucous laughter shakes the carriage, and you swear you hear James Potter’s voice carrying over the chaos.

You close your eyes. You knew the peace was too good to last.

—

By the time you reach the Great Hall, you’re feeling optimistic again. The train ride was one thing, but surely, in a room packed with students, the boys’ presence would be more bearable.

You settle at the Gryffindor table between Lily and Dorcas, Marlene across from you, and let the warm, golden glow of the floating candles and enchanted ceiling soothe you.

The hum of conversation fills the air as students chat about their summers, first-years eye their surroundings in nervous awe, and plates begin magically filling with food.

And then—they arrive.

The doors to the Great Hall swing open with a bang, and James Potter and Sirius Black stride in as if they own the place.

You swear they’ve grown at least two inches over the summer—not just in height, but in ego. James has his hands shoved into his pockets, exuding a level of confidence that can only mean he’s about to make a scene.

Sirius, grinning like he’s just heard the funniest joke in the world, nudges him and mutters something under his breath. Whatever it is, it makes James throw his head back and cackle.

“Oh, fantastic,” you mutter, stabbing a potato with your fork.

Remus Lupin follows behind them, looking distinctly like he would rather be anywhere else. His shoulders are slightly hunched, and when James nudges him playfully, he merely sighs. Peter Pettigrew scurries after them, laughing a little too enthusiastically at whatever joke has just been made.

The four of them sweep through the hall, James and Sirius pausing every so often to ruffle someone’s hair, slap a shoulder, or—Merlin help you—wink at people they barely know. They act like they’re greeting adoring fans rather than fellow students who mostly look unimpressed or mildly irritated.

As they approach the Gryffindor table, you exchange a knowing glance with Lily. She looks about three seconds away from rolling her eyes so hard they might never return to their proper place.

“They still exist,” you say flatly.

Marlene snorts. “And they’ve somehow got worse,”

James slides onto the bench across from you, utterly unbothered by the unimpressed looks he’s receiving. Sirius drops into the seat beside him, flipping his hair dramatically as if he’s just stepped off the cover of Witch Weekly’s Most Charming Wizards issue.

“Ladies,” James says smoothly, giving a charming grin that is immediately ruined when he shovels an entire Yorkshire pudding into his mouth.

Lily fixes him with a deadpan stare. “Potter.”

“Evans,” he replies through a mouthful of food.

Sirius claps a hand over his chest, feigning offence. “Not even a hello for me, Evans? I’m wounded.”

“You’ll live,” she says dryly.

You glance at Remus, who is watching the interaction with an expression of mild exasperation. He offers you a small, knowing smile, and you get the distinct impression that he’s just as tired of James and Sirius as you are.

The Marauders have only been back for five minutes, and you’re already bracing yourself for a very long year.

—

The first few weeks of term pass by in a relatively normal fashion—lessons, homework, and the occasional prank from the Marauders that inevitably lands them in trouble. You do your best to avoid their antics, but it proves impossible when James Potter and Sirius Black seem determined to make their presence known everywhere.

Then, Quidditch tryouts happen.

You don’t attend—why would you? Watching James preen around on a broomstick sounds like a spectacular waste of time—but Marlene does. She’s been desperate to make the team since last year, and despite your lack of personal interest in the sport, you cross your fingers for her.

That evening, when she returns to the common room, she’s breathless and livid.

“You will not believe what’s happened,” she says, dropping into the seat beside you. Dorcas looks up from her Transfiguration essay with mild interest, while Lily—who has been rereading Advanced Potion-Making for fun, because of course she has—raises an eyebrow.

“You got on the team,” you guess, hoping to get the good news out of the way before whatever’s caused her fury.

Marlene nods. “Yes! As a Chaser,”

You grin. “That’s brilliant, Marls—”

“But,” she cuts in, eyes darkening, “so did Potter.”

You groan, and Dorcas winces in sympathy.

“Oh, it gets worse,” Marlene continues, leaning forward as if sharing some dark secret. “Black made it, too. Beater.”

The collective groan that echoes between the three of you is probably loud enough to shake the foundations of the castle.

Lily slams her book shut. “That’s it. I’m switching houses.”

—

Within hours, the news spreads like wildfire. By the next morning, James and Sirius are walking through the castle as if they’ve personally won the Quidditch Cup already.

And it’s not just their usual levels of arrogance—no, this is something else entirely.

They strut through the halls with their Gryffindor scarves thrown dramatically over their shoulders, as if they’ve earned them in battle rather than just being handed one at the Sorting.

James can’t seem to go five minutes without ruffling his hair like he’s been caught in a hurricane, and Sirius has perfected the art of leaning against doorframes with a casual smirk that, unfortunately, some younger students seem to find charming.

But worst of all is the way they act as though everyone is their adoring fan.

It’s one thing to be obnoxious in their usual way. You’ve suffered through their theatrics before. But now, they’ve developed a habit of stopping in corridors to wave graciously at random students, as if they’re some sort of celebrities.

“Morning, lads,” James calls to a group of fourth-years as he passes by them on the way to breakfast. They blink at him in confusion.

Sirius claps a random second-year on the shoulder. “Great to see you, mate. Hope you’re keeping well.”

The second-year looks vaguely horrified.

By the time they approach your table at breakfast, you’re already bracing yourself.

“Ladies,” James greets, sliding into the seat beside Lily without an invitation. She immediately scowls at him. “How are you this fine morning?”

You glance at Lily, who looks like she’s mentally calculating whether a murder charge is worth it. Dorcas continues buttering her toast, blissfully ignoring them. Marlene, meanwhile, has already started eating, clearly determined to not let them ruin her mood.

“We were great until you showed up,” you reply dryly.

Sirius gasps, pressing a hand to his chest in mock offence. “That hurts.”

James shakes his head, as if deeply disappointed. “I just think it’s a real shame that you can’t appreciate history when it’s happening right in front of you.”

Lily slowly sets down her fork. “What history?”

“This!” James gestures broadly between himself and Sirius. “The dawn of Gryffindor’s greatest Quidditch duo!”

Marlene snorts. “I think you’ll find I’m part of that ‘duo’, Potter.”

“You’re right,” he concedes with a smirk. “Trio, then.”

“You’re insufferable,” you tell him.

James grins. “And incredibly talented.”

Sirius winks. “Don’t forget devastatingly handsome.”

Dorcas doesn’t even look up from her breakfast. “Devastating is right.”

Marlene, at least, has the advantage of venting her frustrations on the pitch. You, however, are left to suffer through James and Sirius’s newfound fame as they continue treating the entire castle like their own personal fan club.

And it only gets worse.

—

It reaches its height a week later, when they begin personally blessing people with their presence.

You’re walking down the corridor to Charms when you hear it.

“Ah! If it isn’t my best mate!”

For one, horrifying second, you pray James is talking to someone else. But when you turn your head, he’s looking directly at you, grinning like an idiot.

“Oh, absolutely not,” you say immediately.

James throws an arm around your shoulders, seemingly unbothered by the way you tense. “Come on, now, don’t be shy! We are best mates, aren’t we?”

Sirius appears on your other side, smirking. “Obviously. It’s an honour, really. Being friends with us.”

You glance at Lily for help, but she’s just standing there, arms crossed, looking like she’s about to start hexing people. Dorcas and Marlene, meanwhile, have stopped walking entirely, too entertained to step in.

“I loathe you both,” you inform them.

“See?” Sirius nudges James. “That’s love, that is.”

“It really is,” James agrees solemnly. “I’m touched, truly.”

You shove them off and stalk ahead, hoping to escape before they can torment you further. Unfortunately, they seem to consider this a challenge, because the next thing you know, they’re doing it to everyone.

A first-year passing by? “My best mate!” James declares, clapping the poor boy on the back.

A Ravenclaw girl minding her own business? “So good to see you, friend!” Sirius calls, grinning.

A Hufflepuff prefect? “Hey, pal!” James shouts, before getting immediately deducted five points.

By the time you reach Charms, you’ve come to a horrible realisation.

This isn’t temporary.

This is their new personality.

Lily, beside you, sighs heavily. “I can’t do this for a whole year.”

“Do you think we can get McGonagall to expel them?” you ask.

“She’s got patience.”

“Damn.”

At the front of the classroom, Professor Flitwick arrives and the lesson begins. But even as you turn your attention to practicing new spells, you know this isn’t the last you’ll be seeing of James and Sirius’ ridiculous behaviour.

If anything, this is just the beginning.

—

The months pass in a whirlwind of classes, Quidditch practices, and endless drama, most of it stemming from the ongoing tension between the Gryffindors and Slytherins. While the rivalry has always been there, something about this year feels different.

Perhaps it’s the new, more brazen confidence of James and Sirius, now that they’ve made it onto the Quidditch team. Or perhaps it’s the fact that Severus Snape, despite all odds, is still your friend.

It starts subtly at first—just a few sneers, the occasional sarcastic comment thrown Snape’s way—but it quickly escalates. Every time James or Sirius walks by Severus in the hallways, one of them can’t resist making a snide remark.

“Oi, Snivellus!” Sirius calls one day, loud enough for half the corridor to hear. Severus, who’s been walking along quietly, flinches but doesn’t turn around. He knows better by now. “Do you always look like you’ve just crawled out from under a rock, or is that a new look?”

James lets out a burst of obnoxious laughter beside him. “What’s wrong, Snivellus? Afraid someone’s gonna hex you? I wouldn’t blame them, mate, looking at you is enough to make anyone want to—”

Lily’s head whips around, her eyes narrowing. You can feel her anger boiling over, and you know exactly what’s coming next.

“Potter,” Lily snaps, her voice sharp and unwavering. “Do you seriously think this is funny?”

James pauses, taken aback by her sudden interruption, but his smirk doesn’t falter. “What’s the matter, Evans? Don’t like a bit of fun? C’mon, it’s just Snivellus being—”

“You don’t get to call him that,” Lily interrupts, her tone icy. “He’s not your punching bag, Potter. You’re acting like a child.”

“Who, me?” James arches a brow, obviously trying to appear unaffected. But you can tell it stings—just a little. He’s used to being the one in control, the one everyone laughs at his jokes. When Lily stands up to him like this, it’s a shift in the power dynamic, and he doesn’t like it one bit.

“Yeah, you,” she snaps, her eyes flashing with anger.

You step forward, your hand brushing Lily’s shoulder. “Leave him alone, James,” you add, voice firm. “You’ve had your fun. Grow up.”

James’s grin falters, but it’s only for a moment. He seems to realise that this is different—he’s never had to deal with you and Lily turning on him like this. But instead of backing down, he doubles down, his expression twisting into something just shy of a sneer.

“I’m not the one making a scene here,” he says, his voice turning mockingly sweet. “If you don’t want to be involved, maybe you should’ve thought about that before you started hanging around with him in the first place.”

Lily’s face goes pale with fury. You can see the hurt flash in her eyes, though she tries to mask it with a scowl. It’s one thing to put up with James’s teasing—it’s another for him to attack her choice of friends.

And Severus is still her friend. No matter what anyone else says about him, Lily refuses to let them tear apart the friendship that’s still there, even if it’s hanging by a thin thread.

Severus is your friend too, even if you don’t always agree with him. You’ve known him for over a year now, long before he started hanging around with Slytherins who couldn’t care less about anyone other than themselves. He may be awkward, he may be prickly, but he’s not the person James and Sirius make him out to be.

“You are the problem, Potter,” you say, stepping in front of Lily, your voice low but firm. “You think you can just push people around because you’re on the Quidditch team. But this—this is just mean.”

James opens his mouth to say something else, but before he can, Lily whirls on him again, her voice sharp and full of authority. “Don’t talk about Severus like that again, Potter. I mean it.”

The entire corridor seems to go quiet, as though everyone is waiting for James’s reaction.

He stares at Lily, a strange flicker of something crossing his face—surprise, maybe even confusion. No one has ever spoken to him like this, especially not a girl. Certainly not someone like Lily Evans.

But instead of backing down, he huffs out a laugh. “You’re pathetic,” he mutters under his breath, turning his back on them both. “Snivellus is your problem, not mine.”

With that, he strides off, Sirius trailing behind him like a shadow, though you can see the tiny, barely-there smile playing on Sirius’s lips as if he’s somehow won. But you know better. They haven’t won a thing.

You turn back to Severus, who’s standing a few paces away. His face is as pale as ever, but his lips are pressed into a thin line. He’s trying to pretend that he didn’t hear the exchange, but you know he did. And you know, too, that it’s not the first time this kind of thing has happened.

“You alright?” you ask softly, glancing at him.

Severus doesn’t look at you, his voice tight when he responds. “Why do you bother?”

Lily steps closer, her voice gentle now, the sharp edge gone. “Because we’re your friends, Severus. And we’re not going to let them pick on you.”

For a long moment, Severus doesn’t say anything, and you can tell he’s conflicted. Part of him probably thinks it’s better to just keep his head down and let it pass. But the other part—the part that’s been wounded by the Marauders’ taunts for so long—wants to fight back.

Finally, he looks at you, his expression softening just a little. “Thanks,” he mutters. “But they’ll never stop.”

Lily and you exchange a glance. “Maybe not,” you reply. “But we’ll keep standing up for you. And eventually, they’ll get bored. Or they’ll find someone else to pick on.”

Severus snorts, though there’s a trace of a smile on his lips now. “Maybe. But until then, I’ll just have to put up with it, won’t I?”

Lily shrugs, her tone light. “You’re not the only one who’s had to put up with them, Severus. Just ask anyone in Gryffindor.”

You both manage to coax a laugh out of him, and for the first time in a while, Severus seems to relax. The weight on his shoulders eases slightly. Maybe the Marauders aren’t going to stop their tormenting anytime soon, but at least he’s not alone.

As the three of you walk off toward the next class, the air between you is slightly less tense. But in the back of your mind, you know the battle is far from over. Every time the Marauders catch sight of Severus, you know they’ll find a new way to humiliate him. But you and Lily are determined to make it as difficult for them as possible.

The rivalry between Gryffindor and Slytherin has always been bitter, but this year, it’s personal. And with both of you standing firmly on Severus’s side, you’re ready to fight fire with fire. Even if it means going head-to-head with James and Sirius.

—

The boys—James, Sirius, Peter, and Remus—are hanging out in the Gryffindor common room after dinner, laughing about some prank they’d pulled earlier that day. Everything seems perfectly normal, which, of course, makes it even more surreal when it all unravels.

The next day, James and Sirius are at breakfast when the owl post delivers a letter. It’s addressed to none of them directly but intended for Remus, and the moment James sees it, he knows something’s wrong.

Remus is nowhere to be found in the Great Hall. He hasn’t been since last night. His absence isn’t particularly unusual—he’s sometimes a bit secretive, disappearing from the dorm for a night every so often—but it is the first time he’s missed breakfast the day after, and that sends a ripple of unease through the group.

Then the first whisper begins, catching Sirius’ ear.

“Did you hear? Lupin’s in the infirmary. Madame Pomfrey’s already fussing over him. Got himself battered apparently,”

James’s stomach drops. He and Sirius exchange a glance, both of them instinctively pushing their plates aside and rising from their seats.

“That’s—” Sirius begins, but James interrupts him.

“Come on, we need to go,”

By the time they make it to the infirmary, they find Remus lying in a bed, pale and weak, his face drawn with exhaustion. He’s covered in bandages—some aleady darkened with blood—and he’s clearly trying to hide the exhaustion, the shame, and the fear in his eyes.

For a moment, no one speaks. James and Sirius hover awkwardly in the doorway, both of them unsure what to do or say. They’ve never seen Remus in this state before—not like this, anyway.

Remus is still in his school robes, though his tie is hanging loosely around his neck. His usual reserved demeanor is gone, replaced by a thin veil of vulnerability that’s impossible to ignore.

It’s Peter, who is always the least likely to speak up, who breaks the silence. “Remus…” He trails off, his voice barely above a whisper. “Are you—are you okay?”

Remus turns his head towards them, the corners of his mouth tugging into a tight, forced smile. He tries to sit up, wincing as he does so. “I’ll be fine,” he mutters, though it’s clear that he isn’t. His voice cracks on the last syllable. “Just need some rest.”

There’s a tension in the room that none of the boys can shake off. They’ve never seen Remus like this—weak, afraid, vulnerable. It’s one thing to see him acting off; it’s another thing entirely to see him broken.

Sirius steps forward first. “Remus if someone buggered with you—”

“No,” Remus cuts him off, his voice sharp, though it quickly falters as he struggles to sit up straighter. “No, no. It’s not that. I did it myself,”

James narrows his eyes. “What do you mean by that?”

Remus swallows, his gaze darting from one Marauder to the next. He can’t meet their eyes—not yet. It’s like he’s afraid that if he does, everything will come crashing down. “It’s not what you think,” he says quietly. “You don’t—”

“You’ve got nothing to be afraid of,” James says, his voice steady, though a hint of worry lingers beneath it. “We’re your friends, Remus. We know you’ve been through something before, and we never asked questions,” He hesitates before adding, “But if you’re hurting yourself you have to tell us,”

Remus is quiet for a long moment, his lips pressed together tightly as though the words are locked inside him. He seems to be weighing his options—whether to finally let them in on the secret or to keep lying, pretending like everything’s okay.

Finally, after what feels like an eternity, Remus sighs, closing his eyes in resignation. “I’m a werewolf,” he admits, barely above a whisper. His voice shakes slightly, as though he’s afraid of the words that have just left his mouth.

James, Sirius, and Peter stand frozen, staring at him as though they’ve just been hit by a lightning bolt.

“You—what?” Sirius manages, his voice thick with disbelief. “Remus… are you—”

“It’s true,” Remus interrupts quietly, his hands trembling slightly. “That’s why I’m not always… myself. Why I go away every month, why I’m sick afterwards. I didn’t want to tell you. I didn’t want to burden you with this. I thought you’d turn on me like everyone else,”

His voice cracks at the last words, and he looks away, staring at the wall as though he’s trying to hide the tears that well up in his eyes.

James and Sirius exchange a look—one that says everything and nothing at once. The silence between them is thick, charged with the weight of the revelation. They’ve never once considered that Remus might be hiding something so dangerous, so out of their control.

Peter, the least likely to be a source of comfort, steps forward slowly. His voice is soft but genuine. “We’re not going to turn on you, Remus. You’ve been our friend from the start. This doesn’t change that,”

Sirius nods in agreement. “What do you think, mate? You think we’re going to throw you out just because of something you can’t control? You’re one of us.”

Remus flinches, his head lowering slightly as he absorbs their words. He looks at each of them, trying to gauge the sincerity in their eyes. “But it’s dangerous,” he says, his voice trembling. “You don’t know what it’s like, and I… I can’t control myself when I change. I hurt people, I—”

“Don’t talk like that,” James says firmly, cutting him off. “We don’t care about that. We’re with you, Remus. You don’t have to go through this alone,”

The warmth in his voice is genuine, and for the first time since he revealed his secret, Remus’s shoulders slump with relief. He doesn’t seem to fully believe it yet, but the reassurance is enough to ease some of the tension in his body.

Remus gives a slight, pained smile. “Thanks. But I still don’t want you to be involved in my… my transformation. I can’t let you see that side of me,”

“You don’t get to decide that for us,” Sirius says with a wink. “We’re sticking with you no matter what,”

Peter, surprisingly, is the next to speak. “You’re our mate, Remus. You always have been.” He pauses, looking slightly uncomfortable. “We’re just glad you trust us with this. It’s a lot to take in, but you don’t have to hide anymore,”

Remus takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly, his eyes softening. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you sooner,” he mutters. “I didn’t want to risk losing everything, but I don’t want to hide anymore, either. It’s just…”

Sirius, ever the optimist, grins. “It’s just that you’re one of us. And we don’t leave people behind. No matter what,”

Despite the gravity of the situation, the tension in the room lifts a little, and Remus manages a small smile. “Thanks. For not… running away,”

James clasps him on the shoulder, and though there’s still a lingering weight in the air, it’s clear that they’ve all crossed a new threshold in their friendship.

But even as they assure him that they’ll never leave him, Remus remains quiet, his eyes drifting toward the window, his mind clearly a million miles away. He’s grateful, sure, but the truth still gnaws at him: the Marauders, for all their loyalty and good intentions, still don’t understand what it’s like to be him. To be the monster.

And that, Remus knows, is a struggle he’ll always have to face alone.

—

The months roll by, and despite everything that’s happened—despite the tension with Severus, the revelation about Remus, and the growing rift between Lily, you, and the boys—the school year carries on.

The boys remain their usual selves, cocky, irreverent, and mischievous. But the air around them, particularly in relation to you and Lily, feels different. There's an ever-present undercurrent of tension that lingers just below the surface, and it’s as if everyone is waiting for something to break.

It’s not just the teasing of Severus that riles you both up; it’s the sheer lack of any real self-awareness from them. The boys are still acting like they run the school, like they own the place now that James and Sirius are on the Quidditch team.

They parade through the hallways with ridiculous confidence, treating every student they pass like they're their best friend, yet somehow always managing to make it feel patronising.

You catch them laughing at some offhand joke they make at someone else’s expense, and it burns. It burns because you know they’ve become increasingly arrogant with their newfound sense of power. It’s not just about the Quidditch, it’s about the way they treat people. The way they treat Severus. And you know Lily feels it, too. She’s no longer as tolerant of their antics as she once was.

“Honestly,” Lily mutters one afternoon as she watches James try to high-five every person he passes on his way to class, “when did he become the bloody king of the school?”

You can’t help but agree, the discomfort bubbling in your chest as James and Sirius continue to bask in the attention, showing off in the middle of the corridor. “They’ve gotten worse since they made the team, haven’t they?” you say, shaking your head. “It’s really like their egos have doubled in size overnight,”

“They’re insufferable,” Lily says, crossing her arms over her chest. “And Severus—he’s still their favourite target. And you know what? I’m done with it. He’s not the one being cruel, and neither are we. We don’t have to put up with their idiocy just because they think they're untouchable,”

But while you and Lily are in agreement about the boys’ arrogance, there’s also a new shift in the dynamic, one that you can’t entirely ignore. Remus begins to integrate more fully into the group.

It’s gradual at first, with him still trying to keep a distance, unsure of his place now that his secret is out in the open. But over time, he starts showing up more at their antics, laughing along, joining in on the pranks, and sometimes even offering suggestions on how to make them even more elaborate.

At first, you and Lily both try to get used to the change, but it feels weird, watching Remus—the one member you thought had promise to be a genuinely okay guy—laughing alongside James and Sirius, plotting their next ridiculous scheme like it’s all in good fun.

It's not that you're upset with him for joining in, but you can’t help but feel like he’s shifted in ways that lengthens gap between them and normal student life. There’s something about him now that feels just a little more in tune with their world, just a little more in sync with their mischievousness.

“Don’t tell me Remus is getting in on this now, too,” you mutter one day, watching him smirk as he hands James a roll of parchment with what looks like a scribbled map of the second floor of the castle.

Lily watches, her expression darkening as she takes in the scene. “I don’t know,” she says slowly, “he’s different now. It’s like something’s changed in him since… he was in the infirmary.”

You can’t deny that, but the unease lingers. It’s a strange feeling to watch Remus embrace their reckless antics, even if he’s not quite as cruel as the others. He’s not the one making the jokes or pulling the pranks himself, but he’s laughing along, offering sly comments, and adding fuel to their fire.

The Remus you knew last year always had a moral compass, a quiet, brooding sense of right and wrong. It seemed that he used to draw the line, but now... Now, that line is blurred.

In a way, it’s almost like he’s hiding behind the same mask the others wear. He’s accepted their friendship, their loyalty, but at the cost of everything he used to stand for. You and Lily aren’t sure how to feel about that. It’s not just the pranks. It’s the subtle shifts—the way he’s become just a little more like them and a little less like the Remus he was.

“Maybe it’s just that he’s trying to fit in,” Lily says quietly one night, as you both stare out the window of the common room, watching the wind rustle through the trees outside. “I get it. But... I used to think he was alright, you know?”

“I know,” you reply softly, your heart heavy. “I don’t like it either,”

“I’m so over them,” Lily mutters, her face set in determination. “But what are we supposed to do? We can’t keep fighting with them. We’re already on thin ice,”

And that’s the crux of the problem. Every time the two of you stand up to the boys, whether it’s over Severus or the endless, grating taunts, the tension between the two groups increases. It’s as if every conversation, every interaction, is a game of brinkmanship, one where someone has to blink first.

The year ends in this odd limbo, the unresolved conflicts hanging in the air, neither fully addressed nor pushed aside. But even though the issues are still there, you can’t help but feel that something is changing beneath the surface.

Remus, for all his quiet discomfort, seems more settled in his place within the Marauders’ fold. He’s become more of a participant in their world—though not without his internal struggle.

James and Sirius, despite their show of bravado, seem to be kindling a genuine friendship with each other and the other two members of their little ‘group’.

And you and Lily? You’ve grown closer in your shared desire to protect Severus, to stand up against the boys’ relentless taunts, and to make sure that you don’t lose sight of what’s important.

As the school year wraps up, you can’t help but feel that this year is different. It’s not just about Quidditch or petty pranks or feigned friendships. There’s something more at play now—something beneath the surface that no one quite knows how to deal with. And though there are still unresolved conflicts, there’s a growing sense that things won’t stay this way forever.

Something is going to change.

You’re not sure exactly what it is, or when it’ll happen, but you’re certain it’s coming.

—next part.

#marauders #marauders fanfiction #harry potter fanfiction #james potter x reader #james potter #james potter fluff #james potter angst

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cbeargyu · 1 month ago

Text

only the petals remain

summary: you wake up in a hospital after a tragic accident, your body broken and your soul lonelier than ever. then you meet jaehyun—the boy with a fragile heart and the only one who can see the flower blooming on your wrist, the sacred mark said to reveal your soulmate. with each tender moment you share, a new petal appears, drawing you both closer to a love written in fate. but as the flower nears its final bloom, so does time. now, only one petal remains—and he’s no longer here to see it.

pairing: jaehyun x fem!reader

genre: angst, romance, soulmate au, hospital au, slow burn, tragedy, emotional healing, psychological drama.

warnings: character death, grief, depression, medical trauma, chronic illness, disability recovery, emotional dependency, survivor’s guilt, strong language, heavy emotional themes, vivid hospital scenes, mentions of suicide ideation (implied), terminal illness, unresolved trauma, soulmate mark (body symbolism), tragic ending.

⚠ this is not proofread so pls ignore any typos or mistakes ily <3

wc: 18,4k

notes: hi babiesss!!🩷 i was feeling like writing something about jaehyun but my brain was literally fried from doing too much lately lmaoo 😭😭 then i remembered i had this old draft on my wattpad acc, i had only written up to the part where they first meet and never finished it so it just sat there abandoned in my drafts 😭 but i was like... okay it’s time. y’all know how i get carried away with ideas and end up writing wayyyy too much 😭 and still i feel like i didn’t write enough?? like i wanted to add even more scenes 😭😭 but i really hope u enjoy it and maybe cry a little like i did while writing 🥹🫶

darkness.

it's all you know when it begins. not the kind that feels peaceful or quiet, but the kind that presses against your skin, dense and suffocating, as if the world itself has collapsed in on you. there’s no pain. not yet. only the weightless sense of floating somewhere between existence and oblivion.

then a light. faint at first—like a single star flickering at the edge of a black sky. it pulses. and with it comes a voice, not male nor female, not loud but impossibly clear, resonating inside your head like it’s always been there.

"you can’t die yet."

you want to ask why. you want to scream that you're tired, that your bones feel like they've been shattered into dust, that you don't even remember who you are anymore. but your voice doesn’t work here.

"you left something unfinished. someone waits for you. your soulmate. the one your soul is tied to... you must go back."

a soft breeze, warm like a memory, brushes your skin, and as it does, something burns—your left wrist. you look down and see it: a tiny ink mark blooming into a single flower in the center of your skin. delicate, soft red like blood. no petals. just the center. incomplete.

"this will guide you," the voice whispers. "only you can see it. every time you are near them, the flower will begin to bloom. a petal for every step closer."

and then, silence.

you wake up to screaming.

your body jolts, restrained by thick straps of pain and heavy sedation. your lungs forget how to breathe. you're surrounded by flashing lights, the cold sting of needles in your veins, the rush of white coats and beeping monitors. and amidst it all, two familiar voices—your parents—crying your name.

they’re holding your hand, sobbing uncontrollably, but the moment is ripped away as the doctors push them back, their voices drowned in a sea of urgency.

“bp rising—get more oxygen in. prepare for transfusion—”

“she’s conscious. vitals climbing—get neurology—”

you don’t understand any of it. your body aches like it's been set on fire. broken. barely whole. you try to move, but your limbs betray you.

and then everything fades to black again.

a week later

you've barely moved from your hospital bed. every inch of you is wrapped, stitched, bruised beyond recognition. machines breathe for you at night. your bones are held together by metal rods and quiet prayers. you’ve heard nothing about the crash, nothing about the others. your parents avoid your eyes. the nurses change the subject. and you're not allowed to leave the room, not even to ask.

but you know. deep down. you know.

they’re gone.

jongin. seulgi. minkyung. taemin.

gone.

their laughter still echoes in the hollow parts of your memory—the roar of the engine, the way the wind slapped against your face as you screamed into the night, drunk on champagne and invincibility. jongin’s dare. your cruel smirk. the wall. the impact.

the regret swells in your chest every time you close your eyes.

three weeks later

your body is still too weak to walk. a kind nurse, seoyun, wheels you out into the hospital garden to get fresh air. she talks as if you're old friends, spilling stories about her latest dating failures while she trims dead leaves from the bushes.

you nod politely, say nothing. you don’t care. not really. the world feels dulled, colors muted, sounds distant. you drift in and out of her words until something catches your eye—your wrist.

the flower.

still there. unchanged. no one else sees it. seoyun doesn’t even glance at it as she brushes your hand. it’s small, a red spider lily, delicate and eerie, like it's been drawn with threads of fate itself. only the core is visible. no petals. lifeless.

you stare at it for a long time.

and then—laughter.

bright, clean, almost melodic.

your head snaps toward the sound before you realize why. across the garden, near one of the marble benches, a boy sits in the sun. blonde hair, grown out and soft, glowing under the light. he’s laughing at something another patient says, hand over his mouth, shoulders shaking with the effort. an older nurse leans beside him, amused.

he doesn't notice you.

your chest tightens. not in recognition, not in love—just... intrigue. something unspoken. your fingers twitch over your lap as your eyes linger on the stranger.

you can't look away.

you tell yourself it’s nothing.

just a stranger with a pretty smile. the kind of face that lingers in the memory a little longer than it should. but you don’t think about him that night, or the next day. not really. your world still revolves around recovery, the dull ache of broken bones, the tightness in your chest every time you breathe. the nights are worse—quiet, haunted. the silence presses on your ears, makes you wish for someone to talk to, someone to scream at, someone to ask why you’re still alive when they’re not.

but then, he appears again.

not by design. not because you’re looking for him.

they’re wheeling you into radiology for your scheduled scans, your body limp in the chair, head lolling slightly to the side as you try not to vomit from the motion, and there he is—jaehyun—standing at the nurses’ station like he belongs there, laughing with one of the interns. he’s wearing hospital clothes, like you, though his are looser, cleaner, almost lived-in. he gestures animatedly with his hands, a plastic cup of apple juice in one, and his laugh rises above the quiet buzz of the hallway like a song you don’t know but somehow remember.

he doesn’t look at you.

not then.

and yet something stirs in your chest again. not a feeling, not exactly. just... that itch. like the edge of a memory. something that wants to pull you forward.

you don’t ask seoyun about him that day. you think about it. the words hover at the edge of your tongue as she helps adjust your blankets once you’re back in bed. she hums as she works, cheerful as ever, a melody of someone too used to grief to let it show. but your throat tightens before the question can form. you stay silent.

and the next day, he’s there again.

this time, in the cafeteria. you’re being pushed past the open double doors on your way to physical therapy, a session you’ve been dreading since the moment they mentioned it. your legs still feel foreign. your arms tremble even holding a spoon. but the moment you pass that room, you hear him.

his voice. lower than expected. smooth, gentle. he's reading something out loud—an article? a joke?—to one of the older patients, and there’s laughter again, warm and full and effortless. the kind of laughter that wraps around your spine and squeezes.

you can’t explain it.

it��s not a crush. not an attraction. not even curiosity, not yet.

just... something about him refuses to let you go.

it happens enough times that even seoyun notices the way your eyes drift. after one long session of breathing exercises and tendon stretching that leaves your body in sweat and tremors, she wheels you back into your room and raises an eyebrow when you glance over your shoulder for just a second too long.

“you’ve seen jaehyun again, huh?” she says it so casually, like you’re talking about the weather. her tone doesn’t tease, but there’s something behind it—fondness, maybe.

the name sits strangely on your tongue. “jaehyun?”

she hums, pushing the brake on the chair before checking the IV bag hanging at your side. “jung jaehyun. he’s been here a while. longer than most. he’s... hard to miss.”

you say nothing. you don’t have to. your silence is enough of a question.

seoyun softens, her expression shifting to something quieter. she tucks a loose strand of hair behind your ear and lowers her voice, as if afraid the walls will hear her. “he has a condition. congenital. his heart’s smaller than it should be. underdeveloped. it’s rare. not many make it past childhood.” she sighs, her gaze distant. “but jaehyun… he keeps surprising everyone.”

you look down at your lap, at the slight tremor in your hands. your flower remains the same. one red center. no petals. dormant.

“so he lives here?” you ask, surprised by the way your voice cracks.

“pretty much. his body isn’t strong enough to leave for long. he stays between treatments, surgeries, check-ups. sometimes he goes home for a few days, but he always ends up back here.” she shrugs, as if that’s just how life is. “he makes it bearable though. the nurses love him. the other patients do too. he’s… special.”

you don’t ask what that means. you’re not sure you want to know.

but from that day on, you start seeing him more.

in the hallways, on the elevators, sitting by the window in the waiting room where the morning light touches his hair like gold. sometimes he’s reading. sometimes talking to someone. once, he’s sketching something in a notebook, pencil smudging the edge of his palm. you don’t speak. neither does he. but your eyes meet once—just briefly—and he smiles.

not like he knows you. not like he wants to.

just... politely.

your heart does something strange then. not racing. not skipping.

just... noticing.

the flower on your wrist doesn’t bloom. not yet. but that center glows warmer under the sun, like it’s waking up.

and you begin to wonder.

not just about him.

but about what it means to have a second chance. about why you’re still breathing, even when everything hurts. about whether the universe really gave you another shot to find something—someone—that could make you feel alive again.

because if that’s true… maybe you already know where to start looking.

the sun is warm that morning. too warm for autumn, really. it spills over the garden like melted honey, soaking into your skin as seoyun wheels you along the gravel path, humming under her breath like always. she talks about the morning shift—short-staffed, as usual—and how one of the doctors mixed up two prescriptions yesterday but caught it just in time.

you’re only half listening.

your eyes scan the garden lazily, not looking for him exactly, but half-hoping, half-dreading you might see him again. and you do—jaehyun—sitting beneath the sycamore tree in the far corner, a sketchbook balanced on his lap, pencil in hand, head bent in concentration. his blond hair glows pale in the sunlight, loose strands catching on the breeze, and he looks so calm, so untouchable, you almost tell seoyun to turn you around.

but then she stops suddenly.

“shit,” she mutters, glancing at her phone. “i need to run to the reception—paperwork emergency. can you wait here for a few minutes?”

before you can answer, she turns toward jaehyun, waving. “hey, jaehyun! could you sit with her for a bit? i won’t be long.”

you freeze.

he looks up. his eyes meet yours. warm, honey brown. his face is unreadable at first, then softens into something polite.

“sure,” he says, closing his sketchbook gently. “no problem.”

your stomach knots. you want to protest. say no, say i’m fine, say i don’t need a babysitter. but by the time you open your mouth, he’s already beside you, dropping gracefully into the chair next to yours like he’s done this a hundred times.

“hi,” he says simply, voice low, smooth, like velvet over steel. “i’ve heard about you.”

you arch a brow. “not sure if that’s comforting.”

his lips twitch in the ghost of a smile. “the girl from the accident, right? seoyun and the nurses talk about you sometimes. they were really worried.”

you look away, the mention of it scraping something raw inside your chest. “figures.”

he doesn’t press. doesn’t pry. just sits there, watching the light filter through the branches above. the silence stretches between you, not heavy, just unfamiliar.

you glance sideways at him.

his features are sharp but softened by the gentle curve of his mouth, the kindness in his eyes. there’s something steady about him, grounded. like he’s used to sitting beside people who’ve lost things.

“you live here or something?” you ask, not bothering to hide the edge in your voice.

he chuckles, not offended. “pretty much. i’ve got a suite on the fifth floor. ocean view and everything.”

you snort before you can stop yourself. “must be nice.”

he shrugs. “could do without the needles, though.”

you glance down at your wrist, instinctive now. the flower stares back at you—still small, still centered—and for a moment, you wonder what he would say if he could see it too. if he could feel the way your skin just prickled beneath the scarred edge of your cast. the burn is sudden, like a flicker of heat just beneath the surface, and then—

a petal blooms.

right there, delicate and perfect, curling outward from the center. red as blood.

your breath catches.

“are you okay?” jaehyun’s voice is gentle, curious.

you curl your hand into a fist, hide the wrist against your thigh, heart thudding loud enough to drown out the birds in the trees. “fine,” you lie.

he watches you for a moment longer, like he knows you're hiding something. but again—he doesn’t push.

instead, he leans back in the chair, tilting his face toward the sun. “you don’t talk much,” he says after a while.

“neither do you.”

he laughs quietly. “fair enough.”

more silence. it should be uncomfortable, but it isn’t. not really. the tension in your shoulders slowly uncoils, like you’ve been holding your breath for weeks and only just now remembered how to exhale.

“so what’s your deal?” you ask finally. “you’re always... around. talking to people. laughing like you’re not in a hospital.”

his lips press together, amused. “i figure if i’m stuck here, might as well make it bearable. besides,” he glances at you, eyes glinting with quiet mischief, “i like people.”

“must be nice.”

he studies you for a second. “you don’t?”

you shrug, gaze flicking out over the flowers blooming beside the bench. “i used to. or maybe i just used people. kind of hard to tell the difference when you grow up getting everything handed to you.”

his voice softens. “money?”

“money. attention. friends with too many secrets and not enough shame.” you clench your jaw. “it didn’t matter how many parties i threw or how expensive my clothes were. i was just... bored. all the time. like something was missing and i couldn’t figure out what.”

he doesn’t judge. doesn’t even blink.

just nods, thoughtful.

“maybe something was.”

you look at him. “you believe in that stuff?”

his head tilts slightly. “you don’t?”

“i’m not sure i believe in anything.”

he smiles again, but this one’s different—smaller, quieter. sad.

“sometimes,” he says, voice barely above a whisper, “the universe gives you signs. tiny ones. you just have to be paying attention.”

you think about the flower.

about the warmth still pulsing in your wrist like a heartbeat.

about how his presence doesn’t feel like a coincidence.

“what if you miss the sign?” you ask.

jaehyun’s gaze doesn’t leave yours.

“then i think,” he says slowly, “it finds another way to reach you.”

seoyun returns a minute later, flustered and apologetic, thanking jaehyun as he stands. he brushes off the gratitude with a gentle smile and a quick nod to you.

“see you around,” he says.

and for the first time in weeks, you hear yourself say it back.

“yeah. see you.”

he finds you again a few days later, sketchbook in hand, the sun already slipping into its golden descent over the garden. you’re sitting near the fountain this time, legs covered in a thin hospital blanket, watching koi fish ripple through the still water. you don’t notice him until his shadow spills over yours, soft and hesitant.

“hey,” he says, voice calm as always. “mind if i join you?”

you nod, almost before you realize it.

he sits close but not too close, resting the sketchbook on his knees, fingers absently playing with the elastic band around it. for a while, neither of you says anything. the breeze rustles the leaves, the fountain babbles on. then he speaks, eyes still on the pond.

“you said you don’t believe in anything,” he murmurs, like picking up a thread you forgot you left behind. “but you looked at that flower on your wrist like it meant something.”

your breath catches, but you don’t answer.

instead, you glance down at the mark. the red petal still curves around the center like a whisper of fate. it hasn't changed since that day, but it feels alive. pulsing. waiting.

he shifts beside you, the sketchbook now open on his lap. you watch as he flips through pages carefully, one after another, until he lands on one near the middle.

he turns it toward you.

“i wanted to show you these.”

your breath stutters.

each page is a world—soft pencil strokes bringing landscapes to life, delicate portraits of nurses, elderly patients, even seoyun caught mid-laughter beneath the pergola. the emotion he captures is almost impossible. you see not just faces and places, but moments—tiny slivers of something real that feel more tangible than your own memories.

“you drew all of these?”

“yeah,” he says, sheepish. “it keeps me sane.”

you don’t speak for a long time, your eyes traveling over every line, every smudge of graphite. you don’t want to look away. your fingers hover near the page, almost afraid to touch.

“they’re beautiful,” you whisper. “you’re... talented doesn’t even begin to cover it.”

he smiles softly. “thanks.”

when you finally meet his eyes, you see it there again—that quiet transparency in him, the unflinching way he sees the world and somehow still manages to draw light from it.

you want to ask how he does it. how he keeps from drowning.

but you’re not ready yet.

that night, back in your hospital room, everything shatters.

your parents are sitting at your bedside. your mother’s fingers are laced together so tightly her knuckles have turned white. your father stares at the floor, jaw clenched.

you feel it before they say anything.

“sweetheart,” your mother starts, her voice cracking at the edges, “we didn’t want to overwhelm you before, but... it’s time.”

your body tenses.

you know what’s coming.

“jongin... seulgi... minkyung... taemin...” she swallows. “none of them made it. jongin and seulgi died at the crash. minkyung passed in the ambulance. taemin... he held on a bit longer, but...”

the rest is a blur.

a rush of static through your ears, like the world folded in on itself.

you don’t remember crying. just the way your chest collapsed. like a building gutted from the inside.

your father wraps his arms around you when your sobs finally come. your mother presses kisses to your hair like she used to when you were a child, whispering things that don’t reach you. none of it helps.

nothing will.

the next morning, a psychiatrist is assigned to you. dr. nam. soft-spoken, patient. she says the trauma is complex, that grief moves in waves, that healing won’t be linear. she’s not wrong, but you don’t believe her yet.

you stop asking seoyun to wheel you out into the garden. when she offers, you shake your head. “not today,” you say, every time.

the sunlight feels too bright.

the air, too sharp.

even breathing hurts.

but then—

one quiet afternoon, there’s a knock at your door. not seoyun. not your parents.

jaehyun steps inside, sketchbook in hand.

he doesn’t say anything at first. just walks over and sits in the chair beside your bed. you notice his hands are trembling a little, like this matters to him more than he wants you to know.

he opens the sketchbook slowly and turns it around.

you freeze.

it’s you.

you, sitting in your wheelchair beneath the sycamore tree, head tilted toward the sky, blanket draped over your legs, the sunlight caught in your hair. the expression on your face is calm, distant, unknowable. and somehow—he captured the heaviness in your shoulders, the guarded way you hold your hands, the flicker of sadness in your eyes.

you reach for it without thinking, fingertips ghosting over the paper like it might dissolve.

“you drew this?” you ask, barely breathing.

he nods once.

“why?”

he shrugs, gaze fixed on you now, open and bare.

“you looked like someone who needed to see herself from the outside.”

your throat tightens. your eyes sting.

you look back down at the drawing, tracing the lines of your own face like they belong to someone else. something in your chest shifts, aches. no one has ever seen you like this. not even you.

when you look back at him, tears blur your vision.

“it’s beautiful,” you whisper. “i don’t know what to say.”

“you don’t have to say anything.”

but you want to.

you want to say thank you. you want to say how did you know? you want to say please don’t leave yet.

and maybe—deep down—you want to say stay with me.

he smiles then, warm and quiet, and something in your soul stirs again.

the flower on your wrist doesn’t burn this time.

but it pulses, faint and certain, as if it's reminding you—

you’re not alone anymore.

the silence between you stretches, and then breaks—quietly, painfully—into the sound of your own sobbing.

you clutch the drawing to your chest, fingers trembling over the soft paper edges, as if it’s the only thing keeping you from falling apart completely. your body curls slightly over the sketch, like you could shield it—or maybe, like it could shield you.

you don’t fight the tears. they come too fast, too hard. hot streaks down your cheeks, choking sobs that rattle your healing ribs. the weight of everything—your loss, your guilt, the ache in your bones, the terrifying pull of fate burning into your skin—crashes into you all at once.

your left wrist burns. you don’t need to look. you know.

the flower has grown.

but you pretend it hasn’t. pretend it’s just the drawing that’s breaking you like this.

jaehyun doesn’t say anything. he watches you with wide, soft eyes that seem to see everything and judge nothing. then, slowly, he stands from the chair and crosses the small space between you. he moves gently, like approaching a frightened animal, like one wrong step might send you spiraling further.

he sits on the edge of the bed beside you, leaving enough space that you can still breathe. his hand reaches out—hesitating for a second—and then rests on your head. his fingers move through your hair with an impossible tenderness, like he’s afraid of hurting you more than you already are.

“it’s okay,” he whispers. “you’re okay.”

his voice is warm honey, settling deep in your chest.

his hand slides down, brushing your temple, and then cups your cheek. his thumb catches a tear and wipes it away.

you shiver at the touch.

not because it’s cold.

because it feels like home.

no one’s touched you like this since the crash.

no one’s held you like this without needing something in return.

you blink up at him, still crying, and his expression doesn’t waver. calm. steady. like he’s telling you through that look that you don’t have to hide anymore. not from him.

you don’t say a word.

but in that moment, you let yourself fall just a little into him.

not all the way. not yet.

but enough.

the days stretch.

therapy begins, slowly, painfully. your body is stiff, unfamiliar. walking is like learning from scratch—muscles weak, balance fragile. you hate the mirror now. you hate the bruises, the scars, the way your reflection no longer feels like your own.

but seoyun is there. jaehyun is there. dr. nam too, reminding you gently that you don’t have to climb the mountain in a day.

sometimes, when they wheel you into the physical therapy room, you catch glimpses of jaehyun in the hallway, talking to the nurses, carrying that same sketchbook under his arm. he always smiles when he sees you. not pitying. not forced.

real.

when you return to your room, you sometimes find little sketches tucked under your water bottle, or between the pages of a book seoyun brought for you. tiny gifts—your hands resting on your lap, the view from your window, the curve of your smile when you weren’t paying attention.

he draws you in moments you didn’t even notice you were alive.

and that changes something.

one morning, after a particularly exhausting session, you sit on the edge of your hospital bed, sweat clinging to your back, heart heavy. seoyun opens the door and steps aside.

“you have a visitor,” she says.

it’s him.

jaehyun.

sketchbook in one hand. a thermos in the other.

he walks in like he’s always belonged there.

“thought you could use something warm,” he says, lifting the thermos. “it’s barley tea. not coffee, but... it helps.”

you take it, brushing his fingers by accident. he lingers a moment before pulling back.

you sip, and the warmth sinks into you deeper than expected.

“thank you,” you murmur.

he nods.

and doesn’t leave.

you don’t know how long he stays, but it feels like the rest of the world stops moving outside your room. jaehyun doesn’t talk much—he simply sits with you. the warmth of his hand lingers long after he takes it back. his eyes don’t stray. he watches you like he’s trying to memorize your sadness, like it matters. like you matter.

the burn is softer now. dull. like an ember instead of a flame. when you finally look, another petal has bloomed—just one more—but it curls with delicate precision from the center, so subtle and beautiful it hurts. you touch it gently, as if it might vanish.

jaehyun notices.

your heart stutters.

“that’s new,” he says quietly, and your blood runs cold. “the flower. it wasn’t like that before, was it?”

you look up at him sharply. he saw it. the mark on your skin that’s supposed to be invisible to everyone but you.

your mouth opens, but nothing comes out. questions. fear. truth. all of it tangled on your tongue. you want to ask how. why. what does it mean that he can see it?

but instead, you look down again, and you lie.

“…it’s a tattoo.”

he tilts his head, curious, but doesn’t push. he smiles faintly. “it’s beautiful.”

you nod. slowly. trying to hide how your fingers are shaking.

he saw it.

your fate is no longer a shadow. it has a face. a voice. a heart that’s still beating despite everything.

and it’s too soon to say it out loud.

so you don’t.

you just breathe him in.

a few days pass.

you get stronger. your hands don’t shake as much when you hold the railing during therapy. your legs stop trembling after a few steps. your voice stops cracking when you speak. and jaehyun… he’s always there.

it’s a cloudy afternoon when he appears at your door, bright-eyed, holding a folded blanket in one hand and a mischievous grin on his face.

“you’re coming with me today,” he says.

you arch a brow. “to where?”

“cafeteria,” he declares. “you’ve been eating that sad porridge for too long. and i found out today’s curry rice. i’m not letting you miss that.”

you smirk, feigning indifference, but your heart tugs toward him before you even realize it.

he wheels you out, careful but confident, his hands warm on the grips of the chair. there’s something reassuring in the way he moves—not just physically, but emotionally, too. he leads without pressure. offers comfort without demanding it. and when you pass the nurses’ station, they all wave and tease him like he’s part of the staff.

you reach the cafeteria just before the rush. he finds a table near the window and parks your chair beside it. he leaves briefly to grab two trays—curry rice, fruit, soup, even a tiny strawberry milk carton.

“you have to try this,” he says, sliding the milk toward you. “they say it’s for kids, but it tastes like nostalgia.”

you laugh, the sound foreign in your own mouth. it feels good.

the food is warm. heavy. the kind of meal that sticks to your soul. you eat slowly, watching him as he dips his spoon into the curry, his gaze distant for a moment.

“you know,” he starts, “i’ve never eaten in a real school cafeteria before.”

you blink. “never?”

he shrugs. “i didn’t go to school like normal kids. i was homeschooled. mostly because of my heart.”

you pause, setting your spoon down. “…what do you mean?”

his eyes flick to you. there’s no bitterness, only quiet honesty. “i was born with a condition. my heart’s smaller than it should be. weaker. not enough oxygen, not enough blood flow. doctors said i might not make it past ten.” he chuckles softly, like he’s told the story too many times. “surprise.”

your chest tightens. “jaehyun…”

he waves it off gently. “it’s okay. it’s my normal. but… yeah. my dad couldn’t handle it. moved to the u.s. when i was nine. said it was for work. he hasn’t called in years.” he shrugs again. “my mom’s the one who stayed. took care of everything. she’s… amazing.”

you don’t speak at first. there’s nothing you can say to fix that kind of hurt.

he smiles at you. “i always wanted to go to college. make friends. stay up late and complain about exams. stupid things, you know?” his laugh is soft. “but my body doesn’t really… cooperate.”

you stare at him, this boy made of ink and softness, and for the first time in weeks, you see someone who understands broken dreams.

“…i was in college,” you murmur. “before the crash.”

he looks up, interested.

you continue, your voice distant. “my parents own the han group. real estate empire. they gave me everything. cars, credit cards, connections. i never had to work for anything. just… floated through life. partied. skipped class. bought my way out of trouble.”

you glance down. “i thought i was untouchable.”

the silence thickens between you.

“were you happy?” jaehyun asks.

you don’t answer right away. “i don’t think i even knew what that meant.”

he nods, slowly, and your eyes meet.

his are steady. unjudging.

“but you survived,” he says softly. “and maybe… that means something.”

you nod, your throat tight. the wordless acknowledgment of a second chance neither of you asked for, but both seem to be finding in each other.

he smiles.

and for the first time since the night everything fell apart, you smile back—not out of habit, not to hide.

but because he’s there.

and somehow, that’s enough.

you notice it the first time by accident. the soft rise and fall of his chest beneath the shade of the old tree in the garden, head tilted slightly back against the bark, sketchbook resting gently against his thigh, pencil still in hand. his eyes are closed, lips slightly parted, and the late afternoon light spills through the leaves above him like a broken halo. you stop in your tracks, stunned by how peaceful he looks, almost untouchable. fragile, in a way that makes your chest ache. not because he’s sick, but because he looks like a moment that could disappear if you blink too long.

you sit there for a while in silence, pretending to read a book seoyun lent you, but your eyes keep drifting back to him. something stirs in you—a pull, a question, a longing to reach out and brush your fingers over the soft brown strands of his hair just to prove he’s real. you don't. but the ache lingers in your fingertips.

the next time you’re in the garden, it's warmer, sunnier. a group of nurses walks by, chatting loudly. one of them—a new girl with pretty eyes and laughter that rings too sweet—leans down to jaehyun as he sketches something quietly beside you. she touches his shoulder, too familiar, and compliments his drawing. he laughs, easy and kind, and you feel something sharp twist in your stomach.

you don't speak, but your silence is louder than anything.

he notices. seoyun too.

when she walks away, seoyun turns to you, amused. “jealous?”

you scoff. “please.”

she grins, not pushing it, but the blush on your face betrays you anyway.

a few days pass before the next real moment. the sky is overcast, and there’s a bite to the wind even through the hospital windows. he wheels you back from your physical therapy session, a towel around your neck, your limbs heavy and sore but looser than before. progress. he says it like a celebration.

you end up in your room, seated by the window. he sits at the foot of your bed again, flipping through his sketchbook for no reason, and you watch him quietly until the words start to rise in your throat—uncomfortable, unwanted, but necessary.

“my friends died.”

he stops turning the pages, eyes slowly meeting yours.

“jongin. seulgi. minkyung. taemin. we were all in the car. they… they didn’t make it.”

his expression doesn’t change much, but something shifts behind his gaze. stillness. gravity.

“i kind of always knew,” you continue, voice raw, “but hearing it out loud from my parents just—i don’t know. it destroyed me.”

he doesn’t say anything yet, just lets you speak, which somehow makes it easier to go on.

“they weren’t… good people. not really. and neither was i. we were selfish. careless. rich kids playing with fire. we drank too much, laughed too loud, did everything we weren’t supposed to. it wasn’t just one bad night. we were always like that.”

your eyes sting, and you press your knuckles into them, biting back the sob that crawls up your throat.

“but they were my friends. and now they’re gone. and i lived.”

you whisper that last part like a confession, like it’s a crime.

jaehyun finally speaks. his voice is quiet, steady.

“sometimes… the universe chooses who gets to keep going. and it doesn’t always make sense. but maybe there’s a reason you survived.”

you glance at him, blinking through the tears. “a reason?”

he nods, folding his hands over his lap. “my mom used to tell me that souls don’t end. that when we die, we go somewhere else. not up or down, just… somewhere. and sometimes, if the bond is strong enough, we find each other again.”

your breath hitches.

he continues. “maybe your friends are somewhere better. maybe they’re waiting for you to live a different life. a better one.”

you look at him, and he looks back at you like he sees something in you—not just the guilt, but the hope, too.

“it’s hard to imagine a better life when everything hurts,” you admit.

he nods. “i know.”

“but you still smile,” you say softly. “you still draw. laugh. joke with the nurses. how do you do it?”

he exhales. “i wake up. i breathe. i try to find beauty in the small things. and some days…” he glances at you, the corners of his mouth tilting upward. “some days are easier now.”

your heart thuds once in your chest, heavy and warm. his words settle over your skin like a soft blanket.

you reach for the sketchbook he abandoned, flipping through the pages until you find one of a riverbank at sunset, the water curling like molten gold, two silhouettes standing at the edge.

you touch it, then glance at him. “do you think… do you think they’re watching?”

he shrugs, but his eyes are gentle. “i think if they are, they’d want you to keep going.”

your voice trembles. “i don’t know how.”

he leans in a little, not close enough to touch, but near enough to feel. “maybe i can help.”

the silence that follows is full—not empty. his presence feels like gravity, and for the first time in your life, you want to stay grounded.

you nod. “okay.”

and just like that, something shifts again—not loudly, not suddenly. but deeply.

as if another petal has begun to bloom, unseen.

the idea is his, of course. it always is.

you're in the garden again, the sun already dipping below the edge of the building, casting the sky in strokes of rose and lavender. you were just finishing another therapy session when jaehyun appeared with something hidden under a blanket draped across his lap and a suspicious twinkle in his eyes.

“i hope you’re not allergic to strawberries,” he says, wheeling you toward the base of the old tree you’ve unofficially claimed as yours. “because i may or may not have bribed a nurse for some tonight.”

he spreads the blanket with a flourish, revealing two neatly packed hospital meal trays, a plastic container of strawberries, and a small thermos.

“tea,” he adds with a sheepish grin. “technically, it’s not allowed this late, but…”

you laugh softly, warmth curling in your stomach. “you’re going to get us both kicked out.”

“worth it,” he says, shrugging. “you deserve something normal.”

so you sit under the tree together, knees almost touching, your trays in your laps as you eat. the food is nothing special—bland rice, lukewarm soup—but everything tastes better when you're with him. he picks out the best strawberries for you, pointing out the heart-shaped ones and acting offended when you call him cheesy. you tell him he’s hopeless. he calls you dramatic. the laughter between you is quiet, but real. it settles into your chest like something you never knew you needed.

afterward, you both lean back against the tree, his sketchbook balanced on his knees. he’s drawn the garden at night before, he tells you—once when he couldn’t sleep and the moon was full. he flips to the page and shows you: soft shadows, the leaves whispering in the breeze, the hospital windows lit up behind the trees like stars that never go out.

you trace the lines with your eyes, fingers twitching against your lap.

“you’re not just good,” you murmur. “you’re… incredible.”

he looks at you, just for a moment, and something in his gaze softens.

“so are you.”

your breath catches. you don’t say anything.

later, when it’s time to return inside, he walks you slowly back, the silence between you no longer awkward—just peaceful. when you reach your room, he lingers at the door.

“i need to tell you something,” he says.

you tilt your head. “what is it?”

“my checkup came back really good this time. better than anyone expected. the doctors want me to rest at home for a while.”

you blink. the words don’t register at first.

“you’re… leaving?”

he nods. “just for a bit. i’ll still come to the hospital for follow-ups. i’ll visit you. i promise.”

your stomach sinks. suddenly, the thought of not seeing him every day feels unbearable. he’s become a constant, the steady rhythm in the chaos of your new reality.

he must see it in your face because he smiles gently and reaches out, brushing a piece of hair behind your ear.

“you’ll be okay,” he says.

you nod, but you’re not sure you believe it.

the next morning, his mother comes to collect him. you meet her in the hallway outside your room. she’s elegant, composed, with soft features and tired eyes that hide their sorrow beneath expertly applied makeup. when she sees you, her smile is warm but distant.

“you must be the girl jaehyun won’t stop talking about,” she says kindly.

your cheeks flush. “i didn’t know he talked about me.”

“he doesn’t talk much about himself,” she replies, glancing at her son as he signs discharge papers. “but with you… he’s different.”

you don’t know what to say to that.

before he leaves, jaehyun gives you a folded piece of paper—another drawing. this one is of the two of you beneath the tree, laughing, your hair whipping in the breeze.

you don’t open it until you’re alone.

when you do, your heart nearly cracks.

and then, as if on cue, your wrist begins to burn—low and sharp, like a blooming spark beneath your skin. you look down slowly.

another petal.

the fifth.

you touch it with trembling fingers, watching the outline settle beside the others, the once-empty flower slowly filling. it's more than halfway now. what would happen when it completes? would everything become clear, or would it only hurt more?

you don’t know.

but you know one thing for sure: he saw it.

he always saw it.

and somehow, you think… he knows.

the first few days after jaehyun leaves are the hardest. not because anything dramatic happens, not because something has changed visibly in your world, but because of the absence—quiet, cold, and ever-present, settling over your hospital room like a forgotten blanket. there's no knock at the door just past lunch, no soft voice teasing you about the terrible food or the sharp scent of pencil shavings clinging to the sketchbook he always carried. you find yourself staring at the clock without meaning to, tracing over the familiar grooves of his name in your memory, listening for a laugh that doesn’t come.

you hold the drawing he left you too tightly. the paper has started to curl at the edges, a sign of how many times your fingers have clutched it in search of something tangible, something real. you haven’t put it away. you can’t. it's tucked between the folds of your blanket or perched on the tray beside your bed, always within reach, like a talisman against the growing ache of missing him. when you look at it, you remember the exact moment it was drawn—the way his eyes flicked between you and the page, the way the corners of his mouth turned upward with each new stroke. you wonder what he sees when he draws you. if it's anything close to how you feel when you look at him.

the flower on your wrist remains unchanged for days. five petals. just five. they sit there in delicate permanence, a reminder of how far you've come... and how far there is still to go. you find yourself watching the mark when you're alone, as if willing it to bloom might somehow bring him back. but it doesn't. and you don't know if it ever will.

the therapists try to keep your days structured. physical rehab in the morning, psychiatric sessions in the afternoon. the latter are the hardest. you speak little at first. you hate crying in front of strangers, but it keeps happening. when the psychiatrist asks about your friends, your chest tightens until the words can’t leave your throat. when she gently encourages you to talk about the accident, all you can do is close your eyes and press your nails into your palms, hoping the sting is enough to keep the memories at bay. it doesn’t work.

you think about seulgi’s laugh. about how minkyung used to braid your hair while you slept on long drives. about taemin’s ridiculous playlist choices, and how jongin always knew the best shortcuts through the city. they are shadows now. fragments. ghosts in your chest that never leave.

jaehyun calls once, a few days after his discharge. seoyun hands you the phone with a grin too wide for her face and whispers, “someone’s asking for you.” your heart stumbles over itself.

“hey,” his voice says through the receiver, soft and warm, like honey seeping into tea.

“hi,” you breathe, the word small and sharp.

there’s a pause. not awkward, just... full.

“i miss the garden,” he says finally. “miss our tree.”

“it misses you too,” you reply, and you think it might be true.

he tells you his mother made kimchi stew, that he helped her with the radishes and cut his finger in the process. he makes it sound dramatic, but you know him well enough now to hear the grin behind the complaint. you ask about his health, and he assures you he’s fine—more than fine, even. his voice dips a little, like he wants to say something more, but he stops himself. you do too.

the next time he visits, it’s unannounced. you’re in the middle of flipping through an old magazine, too distracted to care about the outdated fashion trends, when the door clicks open and he’s just... there. standing in the doorway, sunlight spilling around him like some sort of divine joke. you blink, sure you’re imagining him, but he smiles and steps in.

“thought you might be bored without me.”

you don’t realize you’re crying until he’s beside you, his thumb brushing away the tears like he’s done it a thousand times before.

he stays for hours. he sketches while you read aloud from the book you’d been pretending to care about, and the sound of your voice mixes with the soft scratch of pencil on paper. he doesn't show you the drawing this time. just folds it into his bag when you're done, like it’s something secret, something sacred.

another petal appears that night. the sixth. you trace it in the darkness, heart hammering.

one afternoon, the weather warms and seoyun wheels you to the cafeteria for lunch, but something feels different—lighter. the sun is out. the garden is green again. and when you look across the courtyard, jaehyun is there, holding a tray in one hand and pointing to an empty table with the other. “thought i’d steal you for lunch,” he calls.

he insists on pushing your chair, ignoring your protests, navigating the path with ease like he’s memorized every bump and crack. when you settle into the table, trays between you, he offers you a smile that makes your chest flutter.

he had just said something about the dreams he still holds close. not about school this time—he'd already spoken about that. this time, it’s about music.

"i always wanted to learn to play piano," he says, a hint of longing in his smile, eyes cast toward the distance like he’s tracing the path of some long-lost melody only he can hear. "not for anyone else. just for me. i used to watch performances online, lying in bed during those longer stays here... sometimes i imagined myself on stage, not performing, but simply... feeling the keys beneath my fingers."

you listen closely, soaking in his words. this boy who speaks with a quiet bravery, who makes soft confessions like secrets pressed between the pages of a diary. you find yourself watching his face more than the view behind him. there’s something in the way his eyes carry a sadness too heavy for his age, but he still finds beauty in small dreams. you don’t interrupt. you can’t.

he looks back at you, and for a heartbeat, the world stills.

"thank you," he says. you blink.

"for what?"

"for making me feel a little more normal. for not treating me like i’m going to disappear. even if you think you are a bit too spoiled sometimes." a teasing smirk breaks through his gentleness.

you let out a huff, nudging his leg with your foot. "i’m not spoiled. i’m just... accustomed to comfort."

"exactly," he laughs. and it’s unfair, how that sound makes your chest feel lighter and heavier all at once. you could sit here forever. but reality has a way of reminding you that forever is not something promised.

there’s a moment, right after, when he checks the time on the corner wall clock. his face changes subtly—only slightly. you notice.

"i have to go," he says gently, the words a weight pressed between you both. "my mom’s waiting. she says i shouldn’t overdo it, especially now that i’m doing better."

you don’t respond right away. you nod, biting the inside of your cheek.

he stands, folding the sketchbook in his arms. then his eyes linger on you. for a second, it feels like he wants to say something more. you do too. but nothing comes out.

"you’ll come back?" your voice is quiet, fragile in a way you hate.

he smiles, and it’s the kind of smile that tries to be strong for both of you. "i promised, didn’t i? besides, someone has to keep you in check."

he leaves with that. and as the door closes, you realize how cold the room suddenly feels.

two weeks stretch like slow waves crashing gently on the shore. in his absence, your world softens into routine. your legs begin to respond better, the nerves slowly remembering movement, as if waking from a long and painful sleep. you begin therapy sessions with more intensity, though you still dread them. muscles cry in resistance, and every step with the crutches feels like dragging your past behind you.

some days, you use the crutches, stubborn and determined. other days, you sit in your wheelchair and sigh dramatically when seoyun comes to wheel you around, making her laugh.

"you’re just lazy," she says, half-chuckling, adjusting the scarf around your neck.

"i’m injured," you counter, pouting, batting your lashes as if that could explain away your unwillingness to walk.

"you’re a brat. a cute one, but still a brat."

you roll your eyes, but inside, the warmth of her teasing eases the bitterness of healing. she treats you like a person, not a patient. still, there are days when you break in private. when you cry after failed attempts to stand too long. when you curse your past self for the recklessness that led you here. on those days, the sketch jaehyun gave you remains on your bedside table, the penciled image of you beneath the large garden tree, peaceful and whole. you reach for it more than you’d admit, tracing the lines like a prayer.

you notice the flower on your wrist again. it has five petals now.

not even half.

what happens when it’s full?

what happens if it never finishes blooming?

what if he never comes back?

but even in your doubts, a quiet ember burns. because you know the truth now, even if you haven’t spoken it aloud.

he is the one you were meant to find.

days blurred together in muted hues of beige and soft grays, the hospital walls becoming your second skin, the scent of antiseptic laced with blooming jasmine from the garden etched into your senses. mornings were quieter now, the chatter of nurses distant as you sat by the window, legs wrapped in a thin blanket, hands resting atop the worn cover of a poetry book you hadn’t opened in days. your recovery was painfully slow, each day a war between your will and your fragile body. the physiotherapy sessions had begun, awkward and frustrating, with trembling knees and unsteady steps supported by the sterile clink of cold metal crutches. sometimes, they felt heavier than your own bones. sometimes, they felt like failure.

seoyun was endlessly patient. she joked about your dramatic sighs, your stubborn pouts, calling you “little madam” as she guided you through corridors or wheeled you into the garden when you simply refused to walk. you pretended to be annoyed, but the truth was, her kindness made the weight a little easier to bear. still, there were moments you broke. the frustration built like a storm, and when your knees buckled again and again during one of your morning trials, the tears came unbidden. you sat on the tiled floor, fists clenched and voice trembling as you muttered, “maybe i’ll never walk again. maybe i’m broken forever.”

you didn’t notice seoyun step back to make a quick call, didn’t hear her whispering softly by the doorway. your breath was uneven, chest tight, when soft footsteps approached.

“y/n,” a familiar voice said, low and careful.

you didn’t lift your head at first, not until his shadow knelt beside you.

“jaehyun,” you murmured, breath catching.

his eyes searched your face, his brows drawing together with quiet worry. “seoyun told me you had a rough morning.”

you swallowed hard, blinking fast as your voice came out brittle. “i’m tired. of trying and failing. of hoping.”

he sat beside you, not minding the sterile hospital floor, knees drawn up as he leaned forward slightly. “hope isn’t weakness,” he said after a moment. “it’s the bravest thing you can do, especially when everything hurts.”

you glanced at him, the vulnerability in your chest rising like a tide. he looked at you the way no one ever had before—like your pain wasn’t something shameful. like it mattered.

“you always say things like that,” you said quietly. “things that make me feel like… i’m not lost.”

he smiled, soft and sad. “maybe it’s because i’ve felt that way too. and it’s easier to believe for someone else.”

there was a beat of silence.

“you came back,” you said, not a question, just a truth you were still holding on to.

he nodded. “i told you i would.”

“but… why?” your voice cracked slightly. “why do you keep coming back?”

jaehyun exhaled, gaze dropping to his fingers curled together. when he looked up again, there was something raw and unguarded in his expression.

“because i can’t stay away,” he said, voice low. “because every time i leave, i end up thinking about you. wondering if you’ve smiled that day, if you’re okay. i come back because… you matter to me, more than i ever thought someone could.”

your breath hitched. your heart trembled inside your chest, and that burning sensation—familiar and searing—climbed up your left arm. you didn’t need to look. you knew. another petal. six now.

your eyes glistened, lips parting as if to speak, but words tangled in your throat.

“you don’t have to say anything,” he added quickly, nervousness flickering in his voice. “i just… i needed you to know. even if it’s messy. even if it’s too soon.”

you reached out slowly, your fingers brushing his, and your hand stayed there, resting against his knuckles. “i don’t know what this is yet,” you whispered. “but when you’re not here, it’s like something’s missing. i think about you, too. more than i should.”

his smile was quiet, full of unsaid things.

you leaned your head against his shoulder, both of you sitting on that cold hospital floor as if it were the safest place in the world. no one disturbed you. the moment stretched, breathing on its own, warm and fragile.

after some time, he gently helped you up, wrapping an arm around your waist as you steadied yourself on your crutches. he didn’t rush you. he didn’t speak. he just walked beside you, step by slow step, like he was learning your pace and choosing to match it.

and somehow, that made everything feel a little less impossible.

the days that followed brought a mixture of progress and discomfort. your legs had started to regain more strength, slowly but surely. you were now learning how to move with crutches, though they still felt like a betrayal of your independence. some mornings you pushed through with determined stubbornness, managing to walk short distances, while others you gave up halfway, throwing yourself into the wheelchair with an annoyed huff, your pride dented but intact. seoyun would only chuckle at your dramatic outbursts, calling you her “spoiled little princess,” gently scolding you as she handed you snacks or pushed you down the hallway like a child refusing to walk. the truth was, your frustration ran deeper than just physical weakness — it was a constant war between the life you used to have and the one you were learning to accept.

one afternoon, your parents mentioned that a few of your university classmates were coming to visit. you didn’t want to see them — you weren’t ready. but they were already on their way, and it felt wrong to refuse. so you sat there, stiff and uncomfortable in your hospital bed, as familiar faces entered your room. they smiled politely, voices gentle, eyes filled with pity they tried to disguise. their words were kind, their concern clearly rehearsed. you nodded along, offering vague answers, not wanting to seem cold. but inside, you felt nothing. not joy, not connection — only a strange emptiness. when they left, you exhaled so deeply it felt like the air had been stuck in your lungs for hours.

not long after, jaehyun showed up.

he had a routine checkup that day and stopped by your room as soon as he finished. the moment you saw him, something inside you softened — like finally breathing after holding your breath for too long.

“heard you had visitors,” he said, pulling a chair close to your bed.

you nodded, eyes on your lap. “some classmates. it was... weird.”

“weird how?”

you shrugged. “forced. fake. i don’t know. they were smiling too much.”

he didn’t laugh. didn’t judge. instead, he tilted his head, watching you with that calm gaze of his — the one that always made your walls tremble. “maybe they just didn’t know how to act. maybe they were really glad you’re alive, even if they didn’t know how to show it.”

you looked at him then, eyes narrowed. “you always give people the benefit of the doubt.”

“you never do,” he countered gently, a small smile tugging at his lips.

you scoffed, crossing your arms. “i don’t like feeling pitied.”

“and i don’t think that’s what they meant to do.” his voice was soft, his words like warm water slowly soaking into dry soil. “not everyone knows how to deal with trauma — even when it’s not their own.”

you didn’t answer, but he could see you thinking about it. you wanted to believe him. maybe not for their sake, but for yours. maybe believing in something softer would hurt less than all that bitterness pressing against your ribs.

he leaned back in the chair, arms stretching behind his head. “you looked like a grumpy kitten just now.”

“i did not.”

“you so did.”

you glared at him, cheeks puffed with indignation. “you’re so annoying.”

“but you like me anyway,” he teased, reaching out to lightly pinch your cheek. “come on, admit it.”

“no.”

he chuckled and leaned closer. you hadn’t noticed how near he’d gotten until you turned your head — and suddenly, your faces were only inches apart. the laughter in his eyes slowly faded, replaced by something deeper, something that made your heart stumble in your chest. his gaze dropped to your lips, then back to your eyes, then down again, slower this time. the space between you shrank like the air itself was pulling you toward him.

you didn’t move. neither did he. the world felt still, like time itself was watching.

his lips barely parted. “can i...?”

but before he could finish, a knock on the door sliced through the tension.

you both jerked away from each other, heat flooding your cheeks. the door creaked open and seoyun peeked in, one brow raised. “jaehyun, sorry to interrupt, but it’s time for y/n’s therapy session.”

jaehyun cleared his throat, standing up too quickly. “right. of course.”

you avoided his eyes, grabbing your crutches like they might anchor you in place. your entire body felt like it was buzzing with something unfinished.

as seoyun guided you through the hall, she couldn’t hold back her grin.

“what was that?” she asked playfully.

“nothing,” you muttered, a little too fast, face still burning.

she raised an eyebrow. “mmhmm. nothing. sure.”

“seoyun.”

“fine, fine,” she laughed. “i’ll be back later... lovebirds.”

you glared at her retreating figure, but you couldn’t stop the ghost of a smile tugging at your lips. not even the dread of your session could erase it completely. something had shifted. something unspoken. and no matter how much you tried to ignore it, it pulsed beneath your skin like the quiet burn of your soulmate mark — now with six petals blooming around its center.

and though no words had been said, something had been felt.

something real.

the therapy room was quiet when you entered, the kind of hush that wraps itself around your bones and makes everything inside you feel more exposed. it smelled faintly of lavender and paper, and the lights were soft, as if trying not to disturb the fragility of your thoughts.

you sat on the couch, your crutches resting beside you like tired limbs. the psychiatrist — a woman with kind, steady eyes — offered you a warm smile, her pen poised loosely between her fingers.

“how are you feeling today?”

you hesitated. your throat felt tight. “i’m not sure,” you admitted. “it’s been… confusing.”

she nodded, as if she already understood. “want to talk about it?”

you looked down at your hands, fingers twisting nervously in your lap. “there’s this boy. jaehyun. he’s—” your voice cracked softly, and you sighed. “he’s not just anyone. i didn’t even know him before the accident. we met after. but somehow, he’s become... everything.”

“everything?” she asked gently.

you nodded, your chest tightening with the weight of your own confession. “i feel like i’m losing control. every time he’s near, i get this—this burn on my wrist, like fire licking at my skin, and i know it’s tied to the soulmate symbol. it started as one petal. now it’s six.”

the therapist’s eyes flicked to your wrist, where the mark now bloomed like a half-open flower, soft and glowing faintly beneath your hospital bracelet.

“and how does that make you feel?”

“scared,” you whispered. “because it’s not just the symbol. it’s him. the way he makes me laugh when i don’t want to. how he looks at me like i’m more than my injuries, like i’m still whole. i never believed in soulmates. i thought it was just… poetic bullshit. but now…”

“now you want it to be real?”

you looked up, your voice a soft plead. “i need it to be real. because i think i—i think i’m falling for him. and i need to know if this thing between us is fate... or just my heart clinging to the first person who didn’t look at me with pity.”

the therapist leaned forward slightly. “have you talked to him about it?”

you shook your head, lips trembling. “i don’t even know how. i feel like every time we get close to saying something real, the world interrupts us. and if i ask too soon… what if it’s only me? what if i’m wrong?”

the session continued for a while longer, but your mind remained tangled in that single question — was this love written in the stars, or simply desperation dressed in hope?

afterward, as you returned to your room, the thoughts clung to you like fog. you sat on the edge of your bed, glancing at the door, half-expecting jaehyun to walk in like he always did. but today, he didn’t. and maybe that absence made the ache sharper.

you let your head fall back against the pillow, staring at the ceiling, and let yourself feel it — all of it.

you remembered the first time you saw him. not when you met him, not when you first heard his name — but the first time. that rainy afternoon in the hallway, when you were still adjusting to the weight of your healing body and he was just a stranger. he was leaning against the wall, earbuds in, hood up, eyes distant. you’d only glanced at him, but something pulled at you. something quiet. you didn’t even know his name then, but he had this presence — like gravity, soft but undeniable.

and then you did get to know him.

his voice — low, warm, always careful with its edges. his hands — long-fingered and expressive, always finding ways to help you without making it feel like charity. the way his laughter wasn’t loud, but it stayed in the room like sunlight. the way he listened. really listened.

and his face — god, his face. dark eyes with a hint of melancholy, as if he’d seen too much but still chose softness. lips that moved with intention, like every word mattered. that little mole beneath his eye, the curve of his jaw when he smiled, the way his hair would fall into his eyes and he’d shake it away without thinking. and when he looked at you? it felt like being seen for the first time.

he made you feel safe. not the kind of safety that came from locked doors or quiet rooms, but the kind that wrapped around your soul — safety from yourself, from the guilt, from the fear of never being whole again.

you touched your wrist absently, fingers brushing over the six soft petals of the flower. you didn’t know what would happen when it bloomed completely. would it mean certainty? would it mean forever?

“do you believe in soulmates?” you had asked him once, weeks ago, in a fleeting moment when neither of you were quite ready to be honest.

he had shrugged back then. “i think... i believe in people finding each other when they’re supposed to.”

you hadn’t said anything at the time. you’d just nodded. but now, those words felt like a quiet promise. a foreshadowing.

you curled up on your side, wrapping your arms around your pillow, heart aching with unspoken truths. because you did believe now. or maybe you just wanted to believe. and that difference — that thin, trembling line — was what kept you up at night.

if he came back tomorrow, if he looked at you again like he did before the almost-kiss…

would you have the courage to ask him again?

and would he finally tell you what you were too afraid to say?

it was the middle of the afternoon when jaehyun returned. you hadn’t expected him — the last time you spoke, he mentioned his mother had scheduled more tests in another hospital, and he’d be gone a while. but there he was, standing in the doorway of your room, holding a plastic bag with canned coffee and a half-smile that faltered the moment your eyes met.

you were seated by the window, your legs propped up, crutches leaning against the wall, the pale sunlight catching on the blooming symbol at your wrist. seven petals now. soft, radiant, like delicate fire.

“you came back,” you whispered, too stunned to stand.

jaehyun nodded, stepping inside slowly, almost as if afraid he might disappear if he moved too quickly. “i missed this place,” he said, setting the coffee on the small table beside you, but his eyes were only on you. “i missed you.”

you swallowed, trying to calm the whirlwind inside you. the past few days had been suffocating. the therapy, the visits, the frustration of trying to move on legs that still betrayed you — but more than anything, the ache of not seeing him.

you reached out, wrapping your fingers around your wrist, heart pounding. “there’s something i need to tell you.”

his expression shifted immediately. concern flashed behind his eyes, and he crouched in front of you, resting one hand lightly on your knee. “what’s wrong?”

you looked down, voice trembling. “it’s about this.” you turned your wrist toward him, exposing the flower that had now grown fuller, more defined. the glow of it shimmered faintly in the sunlight. “do you know what this means?”

he stared at it, brow furrowed. “i… i know it’s the soulmate mark. but i’ve never seen one like that.”

you nodded, blinking against the sting in your eyes. “it appears petal by petal. for most people, their soulmate can’t see it. they just feel it. the warmth, the burn. but jaehyun…” you inhaled shakily. “you’ve seen it. you’ve always seen it.”

he didn’t speak. his lips parted slightly, but no sound came.

“i thought maybe i was imagining it. but you see it. and it only blooms when you’re near. not when seoyun’s around. not my parents. not even when the therapist asked about it. only you.”

he swallowed hard, his eyes never leaving yours.

you reached for his hand, lacing your fingers with his. “i had this dream, back when i was still in and out of consciousness after the crash. i saw this red thread tied around my wrist. it stretched endlessly, through cities, skies, time... and at the end of it was you.”

his breath caught.

“i know it sounds crazy, but… that red thread they talk about, the one that connects soulmates, it’s real. and i’ve felt it pulling me toward you since the moment i saw you laughing in the hallway. i didn’t even know your name, but my heart knew. my soul knew.”

“y/n…” he whispered, his voice cracking.

“you asked me once if i believed in people finding each other when they’re supposed to.” your voice softened into something raw and tender. “i think we were always meant to meet. even in this hospital, even through all this pain. maybe fate isn’t perfect, but it’s persistent. and it brought me you.”

jaehyun’s cheeks flushed with color, his eyes wet and glassy. “i don’t… i don’t know what to say.”

“then don’t say anything.” you cupped his cheek with your free hand, brushing your thumb across his skin. “just feel it.”

he leaned into your touch, slowly, as if absorbing every drop of your warmth. “when you weren’t here, i felt like i couldn’t breathe. i didn’t realize how much you’d become a part of me until you weren’t within reach. i thought maybe… maybe i was being selfish. coming here all the time, waiting to see you smile, hoping you’d lean on me.”

“you weren’t being selfish,” you said, voice thick with emotion. “you were just following the thread.”

he laughed softly, the sound shaky and full of wonder. “then i guess i’ll follow it for as long as it leads me to you.”

your heart ached in the best possible way, swollen with something deeper than joy. his forehead leaned gently against yours, and you felt the warmth of his breath on your lips. neither of you kissed — not yet — but something passed between you, weightless and electric.

outside the window, the trees swayed in slow rhythm. inside, time stood still.

and on your wrist, the eighth petal began to bloom.

the hospital was quiet that night. the kind of quiet that didn’t feel hollow, but sacred—like the world had paused for just the two of you. seoyun had long since gone home after giving you one last teasing smile about how suspiciously often jaehyun had been around lately, and the nurses gave their soft goodnights as they dimmed the hallway lights.

jaehyun sat beside your bed, legs curled under him, his head resting on his hand as he watched you fiddle with the blanket wrapped around your waist. you'd begged him to sneak out with you to the garden, but your legs had been trembling all day, and he refused to let you strain yourself. still, he stayed. he always stayed.

you reached for the window, tugging it open with effort. the night breeze brushed against your skin like a whispered promise. jaehyun turned toward the air and closed his eyes, letting the wind rustle his hair. he looked so peaceful, like something out of a dream.

“you ever wonder,” you murmured, “if the stars are watching us back?”

he opened his eyes, slow and soft. “maybe. or maybe they’re jealous.”

you glanced at him, amused. “jealous of what?”

“of us,” he said simply. “of the fact that we found each other.”

your heart stuttered.

“jaehyun…”

he stood then, gently tugging you upright. your legs wobbled, but he was there in an instant, holding your arms steady, lowering you into the wheelchair you now only used when exhaustion crept in too quickly. his hands on you were always so careful. like you were made of something precious and fragile.

together, you rolled out into the hallway, past the night nurse who gave a silent nod of approval, and down to the garden. the moon was full tonight, bathing everything in silver. the tree where you’d first sat together was swaying gently, leaves whispering secrets.

jaehyun helped you onto the bench, then sat beside you, closer this time. there was something in the air. a pull.

and then you saw it.

glowing faintly in the moonlight.

a thread.

thin. red. pulsing like a heartbeat.

stretching from his wrist… to yours.

your breath caught. you lifted your arm slowly, and jaehyun mirrored you. eyes wide, lips parted, as he stared at the connection between you. it wasn’t metaphorical anymore. it was real. living.

“you see it,” you whispered.

his voice trembled. “i see it.”

tears welled up in your eyes, your hand trembling as you reached for him. his fingers met yours halfway, lacing with instinctive ease. you turned to him, face flushed, the gravity between you now undeniable.

“jaehyun,” you breathed. “do you remember what you said? about wanting to know what it’s like to be loved like in stories?”

his throat bobbed as he nodded.

you leaned in, your voice no more than a quiver. “this is that story.”

he cupped your cheek, so tenderly, so reverently it made your heart splinter and swell all at once. he looked at you like you were everything he ever wanted to hold.

“can i?” he asked, voice trembling, his forehead resting against yours.

you nodded, barely.

and then, slowly, softly, jaehyun kissed you.

it was shy at first—his lips tentative against yours, unsure, gentle, as if he was afraid to get it wrong. but when your hand slid to the back of his neck and your fingers curled into his hair, he sighed against you, a breathless, stunned sound, and kissed you again. deeper. fuller.

your first kiss with him tasted like everything you'd longed for but never knew you needed. and his first kiss with you… felt like the beginning of something holy.

when you finally pulled away, your foreheads still touching, you noticed something glowing brighter than the thread—

the ninth petal.

you smiled through your tears. “i love you.”

jaehyun was still breathless, lips swollen, cheeks red.

and then he whispered, almost as if he was afraid to say it too loudly and shatter the moment:

“i think… i always have.”

everything after the kiss felt like walking on clouds. no—floating. jaehyun’s fingers laced with yours whenever seoyun wasn’t watching. he’d whisper things in your ear just to see you blush, and your smiles bloomed like flowers every time he called you his one and only.

“you’re mine,” he’d whisper while pushing your wheelchair down the garden path. “the universe made you for me. i'm not letting you go.”

his words weren’t just sweet—they were convincing, like vows whispered into existence, like every syllable was a thread woven into the invisible red string that bound your souls. seoyun would narrow her eyes, lips twitching, clearly suspicious, but you only giggled, clutching his hand tighter, savoring the delicious secrecy of it all. jaehyun was yours. your soulmate. your only one. your forever.

but nothing ever stays perfect. not when fate is involved.

it happened in the middle of one of your usual walks. the air was warm, the breeze soft, and jaehyun was humming something under his breath as he gently guided your chair. he’d just leaned down to murmur something teasing in your ear—something about your hair looking extra shiny today—when his voice broke.

you turned around just in time to see his knees buckle.

“jaehyun?”

his eyes rolled back. his body crumpled to the ground.

“jaehyun!”

panic exploded in your chest as nurses came running. one of them had already seen him fall and radioed for assistance. he was lifted onto a stretcher with swift, trained hands. you watched in frozen horror as they rushed him back into the building, his pale face slack, his name tumbling from your lips like a broken prayer.

you couldn't move. your legs trembled even as you tried to stand, gripping the sides of your chair. seoyun came running, helped you back down, whispering reassurances you couldn’t hear past the roaring in your ears.

“he's okay,” she said. “he’s okay, y/n. he just fainted, okay? we’ll find out what happened.”

but it wasn’t just a faint. not when they wheeled him straight into cardiac observation.

you found out later that night, sitting in the hallway outside the ICU. his mother arrived in a rush—elegant, though her eyes were swollen, the same warmth as jaehyun’s but dulled with worry. she told the doctors she'd already noticed signs of arrhythmia through his at-home monitor. jaehyun, stubborn as ever, had begged her not to bring him back. he said he felt fine.

you wanted to scream.

instead, you stared at the door to his room, knuckles white on your crutches. you'd stopped using the wheelchair, trying your best to follow your physiotherapist’s advice. your legs wobbled, but they worked. he even suggested a cane for short distances. you scoffed, saying you'd rather die than look like an old woman. jaehyun would have laughed at that.

but he wasn’t laughing now.

the next morning, you visited him. the roles had reversed—you were the one pushing open the hospital room door now. he was lying there, propped up against pillows, an IV snaking into his arm, ECG leads taped across his chest. his eyes lit up the moment they saw you, but the shine didn’t reach the dark circles beneath them.

“you look good,” he said, voice scratchy. “better on your feet.”

“you look like hell,” you replied, hobbling toward his bed.

“missed you too.”

he tried to smile. you tried not to cry.

later, when the nurse stepped out and you were both alone, you sat beside his bed and reached for his hand. his fingers were cold. his grip was weaker than usual.

jaehyun looked up at the ceiling, the sterile white lights reflecting in his glassy eyes.

“i’m tired, y/n.”

his voice wasn’t small—it was hollow.

“i’m tired of this... this place. this body. i never asked for this. i didn’t want to grow up memorizing the colors of hospital ceilings. i didn’t want to learn the names of heart medications before i knew what real love felt like.”

you didn’t speak. the lump in your throat was too thick.

“i watch people walk around outside and i wonder how it must feel to wake up and not worry if today’s the day your heart just... stops.”

he wiped his eyes with the back of his hand, but the tears kept falling—silent, steady, as if they’d been waiting years to fall.

“i wanted to go to school like everyone else. have friends. travel. fall in love without worrying if i’ll still be here next month. now i have you and all i can think is, what if it’s too late?”

your hand curled tighter around his.

“it’s not,” you whispered.

he didn’t answer.

the door opened again. his doctor stepped inside, face unreadable, holding a chart.

“jaehyun,” he said gently, “we’re going to run some more scans. the arrhythmia needs monitoring. we’ll need to keep you here for a few more days, but we’ll take it one step at a time, alright?”

jaehyun didn’t respond. just nodded, barely. his gaze stayed locked on yours.

and even though he was the one with the failing heart—you were the one who felt like yours was breaking.

the garden was quiet that afternoon. clouds hung low over the sky like they, too, had something to mourn. you sat beneath the same tree you used to visit with jaehyun, but now the breeze felt colder, and the laughter that had once lingered here was gone.

your crutches rested against the stone bench. your legs were sore, trembling slightly from walking more than you should have, but the pain was nothing compared to the ache inside your chest.

you hated this.

hated that he was back in a hospital bed. hated that he had to smile through his pain. hated that he said he was tired, and you knew he didn’t just mean physically.

you clutched your chest, fingers pressing over the soft fabric of your hoodie where your soulmark bloomed quietly underneath. seven petals now. only one left.

and still... he was sick.

what if the thread of fate was cruel? what if it was meant to show you who you'd lose, not who you'd keep?

tears spilled silently down your cheeks. you covered your face with your hands, biting your lip to keep from sobbing aloud.

“please,” you whispered to no one. “please don’t take him away from me.”

the sky didn’t answer. only the leaves rustling above.

the next day, you returned to his room. he was sitting up again, looking better, at least on the outside. his mom had gone home for a bit, and the nurses were switching shifts. it was just the two of you, like it had always been.

you stood at the door for a moment, crutches supporting you, your heart hammering against your ribs.

he looked up. his eyes widened.

“you’re walking again?”

“hobbling,” you corrected, forcing a smile.

jaehyun grinned, and for a second, it was easy to forget. easy to pretend he wasn’t hooked up to machines, that there wasn’t a chart by his bed filled with words like arrhythmia and risk assessment.

you limped to his bedside. he reached out for your hand before you could even sit.

“you came back,” he whispered.

“i’ll always come back,” you said.

he opened his mouth to respond, but you beat him to it—tugging up your sleeve and showing him your wrist.

the flower.

seven petals, glowing faintly.

his eyes widened.

“it’s almost complete,” you said, voice shaking with something too big for words. “just one more. and then... maybe then we’ll be safe.”

“safe?”

“you and me. i don’t know, i just... i think once it’s full, something will change. maybe you’ll get better. maybe the universe will give us a break. i feel it, jaehyun. we’re supposed to be together. for always.”

his hand shook as he reached out to brush his thumb over your soulmark.

“i don’t deserve you.”

“you’re the only one who ever could.”

you leaned in, cupped his face.

“you’re mine.”

and you kissed him.

not with desperation, but with certainty.

his lips were soft, still unfamiliar, but yours moved like they’d known each other forever. his hand slipped to your waist, and you climbed carefully onto the bed, settling beside him with your head against his shoulder, your bodies curled into each other like puzzle pieces that had finally clicked into place.

neither of you spoke. there was no need.

you just were.

together.

you stayed like that until a nurse knocked gently and warned you to be careful. you both scrambled like kids caught sneaking out, faces flushed, laughter caught in your throats.

but the laughter faded the next morning when the results came in.

his doctor walked in with a different expression this time—one that made your stomach twist.

“we need to run additional diagnostics,” he said calmly. “his heart rhythm is more irregular than expected. we’ll conduct a cardiac MRI, possibly a stress test. there are signs that we may be dealing with something beyond arrhythmia.”

you stopped breathing.

jaehyun’s jaw clenched, but he didn’t react beyond a quiet nod. he didn’t want you to worry.

but you did.

the next day, you brought lunch to his room. he wasn’t hungry, not really, but he took a few bites of the rice and soup anyway. he didn’t want to talk about the test. neither did you.

so instead, you talked about everything else.

“do you remember the day we met?” he asked softly.

“i thought you were so beautiful. even back then. even when you looked like you wanted to kill me.”

you leaned your head on his shoulder again, your fingers tracing idle shapes on the blanket.

“you were so kind,” you whispered. “i didn’t expect someone like you to be real. and then you kept coming back, and i didn’t know what to do with all that... goodness.”

he turned his head, eyes soft.

“you don’t have to do anything with it. just take it.”

you looked up at him.

“can i kiss you again?”

he blushed, but nodded.

you didn’t wait.

you kissed him like you wanted to breathe him in. kissed him because everything about him was hope and light and love. kissed him because if tomorrow was cruel, you needed to give him all the softness today could offer.

his arms wrapped around you tightly.

“don’t leave,” he murmured into your hair.

“never,” you said. “you’re stuck with me. forever.”

you didn’t know what the tests would say.

you had left the hospital three days ago, not the way you once imagined you would. no victorious music playing in your head, no dramatic moment of running through the halls with a discharge paper in hand. no. instead, your steps were slow, accompanied by the steady rhythm of your crutches and the soft click of the cane—an item you had stubbornly refused at first, claiming it made you look like an old woman. but in the end, your physiotherapist convinced you it was the next step, a temporary aid, not a defeat.

seoyun had packed your things while humming lightly, her words gentle, her smile warm. she promised to visit often, to check in and make sure you were still behaving like the little diva she’d grown fond of. your parents were there too, proud but cautiously optimistic, helping you settle into the car with pillows behind your back, like you were made of glass. everything outside the hospital felt too bright, too loud. the city buzzed as if nothing had happened, as if your world hadn’t turned upside down.

the first two nights at home were quiet. too quiet. the silence pressed against your chest in a way the heart monitor never did. you missed the soft beeps, the nurses’ laughter down the hall, the smell of sterilized linens… but more than anything, you missed him.

jaehyun.

so on the third morning, you asked the driver to take you back. you dressed carefully, picking a soft sweater he once said he liked, something warm but not too heavy. you held a small bouquet in your hands—flowers that resembled the ones on your wrist, delicate and soft, as if plucked from that imaginary garden your souls seemed to share.

your legs were stronger now, but they still shook sometimes. the stairs at your house were your enemies, and you avoided them like the plague. but today, walking down the hospital corridor again with your cane and crutch tucked beneath each arm, you felt determined. the familiar scent of antiseptic didn’t scare you anymore. this place had become a part of you.

you found jaehyun in his room, sitting by the window, legs folded, sketchbook untouched in his lap. he looked up when the door creaked, and the second he saw you, his entire face changed. the tiredness didn’t disappear, but something warmer surfaced beneath it—something like relief, or maybe love.

“you’re here,” he said softly, as if afraid his voice would shatter the moment.

“of course i am,” you replied, stepping inside with slow care. “did you think i’d abandon you now?”

he laughed weakly, but the sound faded too quickly. you moved closer and placed the bouquet on the side table. he didn’t reach for them. he just kept looking at you.

“you look good,” he murmured.

“and you look like you haven’t slept in days.”

he tilted his head with a small smile. “i haven’t.”

“why?”

“dreams,” he said vaguely. “memories. fear. take your pick.”

you sighed and took a seat beside him on the bed, adjusting your position with a tiny wince when your knee clicked. he noticed, but said nothing.

“i thought maybe… i could cheer you up a little.” you pushed the bouquet closer to him. “i got these for you.”

he finally looked at them, really looked, and his hand brushed over the petals with the same reverence he once showed your drawing. “they look like your flower.”

you nodded, glancing down at your wrist. the mark was almost complete. just one more petal.

“i thought they’d remind you of what’s waiting for you,” you said gently. “what we have. what we can still build together.”

his eyes turned glassy. his lips parted but no sound came. instead, he reached for your hand. his fingers trembled as they found yours.

“i’m sorry i scared you the other day,” he whispered.

“don’t apologize. you didn’t ask to collapse.”

“i should’ve told someone i wasn’t feeling well. i didn’t want to worry you. i just… i felt so happy. i forgot for a second that i’m not like everyone else.”

you leaned in, your hand reaching to tuck his hair behind his ear. “you are like everyone else, jaehyun. you just happen to have a heart that’s a little more stubborn.”

he chuckled, then fell quiet again. the silence stretched between you, but not uncomfortably.

“i hate this,” he said suddenly. “i hate being here again. i hate the machines, the blood draws, the looks on people’s faces like they’re waiting for something awful to happen.”

you tightened your grip on his hand. “i know. but you’re not alone this time.”

he looked at you then, and his eyes were full of everything—grief, fear, longing, and something fierce. something brave. “i know,” he repeated, and for the first time that day, it sounded like he believed it.

you leaned forward and wrapped your arms around him. slowly, carefully, you shifted onto the bed, curling beside him like you had done once before, only this time you didn’t feel like the fragile one. your head rested against his shoulder, your legs tangled slightly, and his arms came around you, warm and steady. you stayed like that for a long time, both of you silent, watching the clock hands move as if they mattered.

“we’re going to be okay,” you whispered.

“yeah,” he said softly. “we will.”

but neither of you knew the results were arriving the next day.

and they wouldn’t be good.

the hallway outside jaehyun’s room smelled faintly of antiseptic and something warmer—like the remnants of someone’s coffee left to go cold. the light filtering through the blinds was soft, but it couldn’t soften the conversation taking place just beyond the threshold of the door.

his mother stood beside the doctor, hands clenched in front of her, knuckles pale against the beige of her coat sleeves. her voice trembled as she tried to keep herself together, the way she always did—strong for her son, for the world.

“how is this possible?” she asked, voice thin and breaking. “he was discharged with a good prognosis. you said he was stable. he’s been taking his medication, doing everything right…”

the doctor sighed, his expression apologetic, brows drawn together in weary resignation. “we ran a full cardiac panel and imaging. the arrhythmia has worsened significantly. his left ventricular function is dropping. it could be the result of an undetected progressive cardiomyopathy. this wasn’t visible on the last scan… but it’s advancing fast.”

her lips parted in disbelief, but no sound came. just silence, thick and suffocating. she shook her head slowly, tears welling in her eyes. “are you saying my son… might not…”

“we’re not there yet,” the doctor said carefully. “but we need to prepare. we’ll begin new treatments, increase monitoring. he’ll stay here under close observation. we need to reevaluate the transplant list... and time is critical.”

inside the room, jaehyun lay still in his bed, staring out the window with wide, quiet eyes. the sunlight painted soft gold against the pale blue of the curtains, but it didn’t reach him.

he could hear every word.

he didn’t move. didn’t blink. just let the noise blur into a low hum.

his heartbeat was too loud.

but not in the way he once loved when he was with you.

his fingers rested over the edge of his blanket, curling slightly as the doctor’s voice echoed again in his head—time is critical.

he closed his eyes, willing it all away, imagining the sound of your laughter instead, the soft scolding tone in your voice when you told him to stop being cocky, the way your eyes sparkled when you teased him.

you.

his mind searched for you instinctively, like a compass spinning toward home.

he pictured you standing by the edge of the garden in that hospital gown you hated, grumbling about your cane, rolling your eyes but letting him help you anyway. he remembered how your face looked when you smiled at him the day of your first kiss—like he was the only person in the world.

you’re like a vitamin, he thought. no… more than that.

you were air.

the reason he could breathe in moments like this.

his throat tightened. he turned his head away from the door, pretending he didn’t hear his mother’s soft sob outside, didn’t notice the way the doctor’s voice grew quieter in a vain attempt to protect him from the truth.

but the truth had already arrived.

and it sat heavy in his chest, aching, thudding unevenly.

he wasn’t afraid of dying.

but the thought of leaving you behind?

of not seeing your flower bloom to its final petal? of never getting to draw you again, touch your cheek, press his lips to yours under skies of warmth and belonging?

that was the kind of fear that broke him.

and in that moment, he felt like a boy again.

small.

helpless.

but still in love. so hopelessly in love with you, it hurt more than the failing beat of his own heart.

the garden was a quiet refuge, a small patch of life bursting through the cold sterility of the hospital walls. you had slipped away from the buzz of the ward, leaning heavily on your crutches as you made your way beneath the towering old tree. the branches swayed gently above you, leaves whispering with the breeze, as if carrying some secret message only the two of you could understand. you settled onto the worn wooden bench, your body trembling from the effort of moving, but your heart heavier for different reasons. the exhaustion of the day, the weight of your uncertain future, and the ache of missing jaehyun’s presence all pressed down on you.

you wiped at your eyes, trying to hold back the tears, but they came anyway—slow, quiet, a release you desperately needed. you hated feeling vulnerable like this, hated how fragile you suddenly were, but it was the truth you had to face. you were still fragile, still broken in so many ways.

inside the hospital, jaehyun lay in his room, the sterile white walls closing in around him like a cage. he stared out the window, watching the leaves move in rhythm with the wind. his heart was heavy, but his thoughts drifted to you — to your smile, to the way you moved, even on your bad days. you were a light in the darkness, a reason to hold on when everything felt so bleak. he clutched the thin hospital blanket closer, as if it could somehow shield him from the fear that clawed at his chest.

he whispered your name into the silence, a prayer, a promise, a plea. “y/n...” the word caught in his throat, fragile as a breath.

you glanced at him, surprised by the vulnerability in his words. “how do you... keep going? when it’s so hard?”

“because i have a reason. you.” his hand brushed yours lightly, a touch full of unspoken promises. “you’re my reason.”

your breath caught, and tears threatened to fall again. “but what if—”

“don’t say it,” jaehyun interrupted gently, lifting your chin so your eyes met. “we don’t have to face what-ifs now. we have today. and today, we fight. together.”

you didn’t know what tomorrow would bring. the doctors had warned of the risks, the uncertainty. every test, every result, was a new mountain to climb. but in that moment, beneath the ancient tree, you allowed yourself to believe in something more — in hope, in the strength of the connection that bound you and jaehyun.

you thought of the flower on your wrist, the petals blooming slowly, a symbol of the bond that neither of you could explain but both felt deeply. it was nearly complete — five delicate petals circling the center, each one a promise, a sign that you were meant to find each other, to fight together.

“maybe,” you whispered to the wind, “maybe that last petal will bloom when we’re ready... when we’ve made it through.”

back in his room, jaehyun’s eyes glistened with tears as he imagined your words. he reached out toward the window, as if he could touch you through the glass, feel your warmth. “i’ll be here, y/n,” he promised quietly. “i’ll fight to be with you. no matter what.”

neither of you could say what the future held — only that you had each other. and sometimes, that was enough to carry you through the darkest days.

the days passed with a quiet weight, each one slower than the last, carrying a heaviness that settled deep in your chest. jaehyun was still there, still fighting, but the change was undeniable. the sharp outline of his face grew thinner, his once steady hands now trembling even at rest. some mornings, he couldn’t summon the strength to sit up, his body surrendering to exhaustion long before the sun had risen.

you were always by his side — sometimes holding his hand, sometimes just sitting quietly, the silence between you filled with unspoken worries. you tried to be his rock, but behind closed doors, when no one was watching, the tears came. you cried softly in the bathroom, wiping your cheeks before returning, forcing a smile that felt like breaking glass beneath the surface.

“jaehyun,” you whispered one afternoon, your voice barely audible, “you’re stronger than this. you have to be.”

he gave you a faint, tired smile, eyes heavy but warm. “i wish i could be,” he said, voice rough. “but some days... some days my body just won’t listen.”

your heart clenched, but you reached for his hand, holding it gently as if to anchor him in this fading moment. “we’re going to get through this. together.”

he squeezed your fingers weakly, a silent promise.

a few days ago, you had noticed the flower on your wrist had finally blossomed completely — all six petals glowing softly beneath your skin. it should have been a moment of joy, a sign that maybe fate had smiled on you both. but you kept it to yourself, afraid it might feel like a goodbye, a closing chapter neither of you was ready to face.

“why don’t you tell me about it?” jaehyun asked one evening, catching the hesitance in your gaze.

you hesitated, heart aching. “because... i’m scared it means something. that it’s a sign of an ending.”

he shook his head slowly, exhaustion dimming his spark. “then let’s make it a sign of a beginning. of hope.”

his words should have comforted you, but all you could feel was the tightening grip of fear.

nights were the hardest. you stayed by his bedside, watching his shallow breaths, the way his body trembled under the thin hospital blanket. you wanted to scream, to shake the unfairness of it all — but instead, you whispered soft prayers into the dark, fingers tracing the invisible red thread you both shared.

“jaehyun,” you said quietly one morning, brushing a lock of hair from his forehead, “no matter what happens, you’re the most important thing in my life.”

he opened his eyes, searching yours with a fragile clarity. “and you’re mine.”

there was so much love wrapped in those words, but beneath it was a looming shadow neither dared to name.

sometimes, when you thought he was asleep, you caught him staring at the ceiling, lips moving silently as if holding on to memories, to dreams, to you.

the hospital walls closed in around you both — a cage of uncertainty and fragile hope. but still, you clung to each other, to the small moments of laughter, the whispered confessions, the gentle touches that said, without words, “i’m here.”

and you prayed, over and over, that this thread tying your souls together would be strong enough to hold you through the storm.

the day had been quiet when you arrived at the hospital, your steps slow but steady on your cane, clutching the small bouquet of flowers — fragile, like the hope you tried to hold onto. the door to jaehyun’s room was slightly ajar, but as you pushed it open, your heart shattered instantly: the room was empty. panic flared in your chest. before you could even process, the sharp clang of wheels echoed down the hall. two camilleros rushed past, pushing jaehyun’s bed swiftly down the corridor. his pale face was barely visible, eyes closed, tubes tangled around him, machines beeping wildly.

“jaehyun!” you screamed, your voice raw and desperate, echoing through the sterile hallways. “jaehyun, wait!” your crutches clattered as you tried to follow, heart pounding violently against your ribs.

nurses and doctors shouted, their voices frantic. “code blue, code blue! prepare the resuscitation room!” you could hear the fear, the urgency. your world narrowed down to just him — the only thing that ever mattered.

a strong hand suddenly grabbed your arm, and you were stopped mid-step. seoyun’s face was pale, her eyes glistening with tears but filled with a calm you didn’t feel. “y/n, please. you can’t go in there. they’re doing everything they can,” she said softly, but her voice trembled.

another nurse gently held your other arm, grounding you. you struggled, wanting to break free, to run, to be with him. “he’s not—he can’t—” your voice cracked, tears streaming uncontrollably now, your sobs wracking your body. “he has to be okay. he has to be!”

they held you firmly as you screamed his name, your heart fracturing with every step the camilla disappeared down the corridor. voices faded into a blur, your mind caught in a storm of memories — every smile, every whispered “i love you,” every moment when his hand fit perfectly in yours.

you remembered the quiet mornings in his hospital room, the way he used to brush your hair back tenderly, the secret smiles shared over silly jokes, the soft confessions in the dark, the warmth of his embrace that made the cold sterile walls feel like home.

“why?” you sobbed to the empty hallway, clutching your chest as if you could hold your broken heart together. “why does everything I love have to be taken away?”

minutes felt like hours as you sat in the stark hospital waiting area, your hands trembling, clutching the wilted bouquet you had brought him. your tears had long since dried, but your heart hammered painfully in your chest, refusing to calm. the sterile silence was broken only by hurried footsteps and distant voices — all pulling you further into the unbearable waiting.

then, quietly but with a steady purpose, jaehyun’s mother appeared, her face pale but composed, eyes shadowed with exhaustion and worry. she approached you slowly, her hands nervously twisting a delicate handkerchief. the two of you shared a look — a mix of unspoken grief and fragile hope.

after a long moment, a doctor came into view. his expression was gentle but heavy, the weight of what he was about to say pressing down on him. he paused, searching for the right words. “mrs. park... y/n...” he began softly, “we did everything possible. jaehyun fought so hard... but...”

his voice caught. jaehyun’s mother reached out, squeezing your hand with a tremble. “he didn’t make it,” the doctor finished quietly.

the words hung in the air like a cruel fog. you felt your breath catch, your body going numb. tears welled up again, threatening to spill. you wanted to scream, to fight, to deny this terrible truth — but there was no escaping it.

jaehyun’s mother leaned close, voice cracking, “he was so brave... and he loved you very much.”

you clung to those words even as your world shattered around you, the depth of your loss crashing in waves that stole your breath and left you broken.

the day was cloaked in a soft, relentless gray, the sky heavy as if it too mourned the loss it witnessed. the air was thick, almost tangible with sorrow, as you stood among the quiet crowd gathered beneath the somber canopy of trees. the gentle rustle of leaves whispered in the wind, a fragile soundtrack to the unbearable silence that wrapped around your chest like a vise.

jaehyun lay in his simple casket, pale and peaceful, a stark contrast to the vibrant life he once held. the flowers—white and delicate—circled the edges like a halo, and for a moment, you imagined he was just resting, that he would open his eyes and smile at you, as he always did, that same shy, warm smile that had once lit up every corner of your world.

but the cruel truth was there, undeniable and relentless. the distance between life and death stretched wide and cold, and no whispered prayer or desperate wish could close the gap.

you found yourself standing at the edge, trembling, unable to speak the words trapped deep inside your heart—words you’d rehearsed a thousand times but that now felt hopelessly inadequate. the words that should have been said, the love that should have been confessed, the promises that would now remain forever unfulfilled.

jaehyun had been your light in the darkest moments, your steady anchor when the world spun too fast. he was the quiet strength behind your smiles, the gentle hand that wiped away your tears, the voice that told you everything would be okay even when nothing seemed to be. and now, the silence he left behind was deafening.

you wished you could rewind time, hold him tighter, say everything you never dared to. tell him how he was more than just your soulmate—he was your best friend, your safe place, your heart’s quiet home. tell him you loved him in ways words could never capture, how every breath you took after meeting him was touched by the warmth of his presence.

but there was only this stillness now. a stillness that echoed with what could have been.

your tears fell freely as you traced invisible lines over the casket, a silent goodbye you could never fully voice. the weight of loss crushed you, a sorrow so vast it felt as though it would swallow you whole. you whispered his name into the wind, hoping it might carry your love to wherever he was now—hoping he could feel you even as you stood apart.

around you, faces blurred with shared grief, but none understood the depth of what you felt. how a part of your soul had gone with him, how the future you had dreamed of was now nothing but a fragile memory slipping through your fingers.

and yet, beneath the unbearable pain, a fragile seed of something else stirred—gratitude. for the moments you had. for the way he had shown you what it meant to truly care, to be seen, to be loved. for the light he had brought into your life, brief but brilliant.

you pressed your hand to your chest, where the red thread still curled softly beneath your skin—its petals incomplete but vibrant—a reminder that even in loss, some connections never truly break.

as the ceremony drew to a close and the earth embraced him gently, you stood there, broken but holding onto that sliver of hope, that maybe, somehow, in another time, another life, your souls would find each other again.

the cemetery was quiet, the world hushed as if it too was holding its breath for you. the cold wind brushed gently against your cheeks, but it was the weight in your chest that truly burned—a heaviness no words could lift. you stood before jaehyun’s grave, the simple stone etched with his name, a fragile marker of a life so painfully short.

your hands trembled as you reached out to touch the cool marble, tracing the letters that felt impossibly distant, yet heartbreakingly close. “jaehyun,” you whispered, voice breaking like a fragile thread, “i’m still here. i’m still holding on, even though every part of me wants to fall apart.”

tears spilled down your face, hot and relentless, carrying every ounce of love and sorrow you’d tried to hold inside. “i never got to tell you everything i wanted,” you said, “how much you meant to me... how you saved me when i thought i was lost... how your smile was the only light that ever made sense.” your breath hitched, the memories flooding in, both cruel and beautiful. “i’m so sorry i couldn’t save you. i’m sorry we didn’t have more time.”

you knelt by the grave, placing the last wilted petals from your bouquet on the earth, petals that mirrored the half-bloomed flower on your wrist — a symbol of the future you both dreamed of but never reached. “the red thread... it brought us together, didn’t it?” you whispered, voice barely audible, “i believe it. i believe we were meant to find each other, even if only for a little while.”

the wind picked up, as if carrying your words to him, and you closed your eyes, imagining his presence there—warm, gentle, just beyond the veil. “i’ll carry you with me,” you promised through your tears, “in every breath, every heartbeat. and maybe, someday, when this pain fades, we’ll meet again. in another life, another time.”

the ache in your chest was sharp, suffocating, but beneath it, a fragile ember of hope glowed. hope that love this true could never really die.

you stayed there long after the others had gone, speaking softly to the emptiness, to the memory of him. and as the sun began to set, casting long shadows across the quiet earth, you finally stood, wiping your tears away with trembling hands, and took a slow, steady breath.

“goodbye, jaehyun,” you said, voice trembling but sure, “until we meet again.”

288 notes · View notes

alexiroflife · 1 year ago

Text

"drunk wishes"

[part 2]

fluff, clingy gojo, friends in love

high school!gojo satoru x reader

Synopsis: years ago, satoru's habit of drinking on school nights constantly led him to ask for you, desperate for your company. of course, you couldn't blame his constant need for you on anything but the alcohol... right?

to sum it up: seventeen year old satoru was a clingy drunk & suguru and shoko always left him for you to take care of

WC: 5,665

Warning(s): alcohol use

The second your phone rang, screen lighting up to reveal the group picture of you, Satoru, Suguru, and Shoko squeezed into frame, you knew that the book you were currently halfway through would have to wait.

With a sigh, you tossed the book to the side and picked up the group call, dreading whatever was about to greet you next.

Shoko’s contact bubble was blank, for she was likely asleep at this hour. Satoru was the first to stick his head into the camera, followed by a pending bubble from Geto that eventually revealed his exasperated expression.

“(Y/n)!” Satoru slurred, grinning cheerfully into the phone. His snowy hair and bright eyes peering over round glasses were the only thing in frame as he stared intently down at his screen. The scene behind him was dark. It looked like he was standing outside somewhere, and it took you a few seconds to notice that Geto’s background resembled the very same place. “Where’re youuuuu?”

You pursed your lips in amusement, entirely too familiar with this situation. “Hi, Toru. How are you feeling?”

“Amazing, now that I get’to see y’er pretty face,” he grinned, his persistent flirting doing very little to surprise you. “D’you know that new bar down the street does’t ID check?!”

“No, I didn’t know that. You had some fun there, huh?”

“S’much fun,” he sighed, words blurring into each other. “But then I got bored, s’we went to th’ store ‘nd got snacks. Isn’t that right, Sugu-boo?”

His phone shook with the wobbling of his feet, revealing his black haired best friend standing close by as he turned to look over his shoulder at him.

You held back your laugh, glancing at the time to see that it was nearly two in the morning. Not only that, but the three of you in addition to Shoko had class in about six hours. Why the hell those two were out this late, you had no idea, but you couldn’t have said that you were surprised. After all, they did this at least three times a week, per Satoru’s influence, of course.

Suguru shook his head with a tired exhale, holding the camera down. “He’s driving me insane,” he grumbled, brows angled with irritation.

You were quick to move from your bed and shuffle across your dorm to grab a sweatshirt. You already knew where this call was leading. “What the hell are you guys even doing?” you asked. “You know what time it is, right?”

“Yeah, we do,” Suguru hissed, turning to eye a babbling Satoru. You could see the black haired boy’s eye twitch. “But someone dragged me out of bed because he didn’t want to be out alone.”

“Figures,” you laugh. “Where are you now?”

“The convenience store around the corner,” he answered. “We’re literally five minutes away, but Satoru said he wasn’t going to walk any further unless you were here.”

The said boy raised his phone up over his head, the camera peering down at the two tall men from a high angle. Satoru’s eyes went wide and mouth gaped in childlike awe, as if he were showing you some whimsical discovery through the lens of his camera. He dangled a small bag in his free hand, showing off his haul.

“Look, (Y/n)! C’me see what we got you ‘nd Shokoooo! Suguru, sh-show her y’re stuff,” he urged, a lazy smirk dancing across his face. He nudged Suguru in his chest, the contents of the strongest student’s bag knocking against his best friend repeatedly. A vein bulged in Suguru’s forehead. His bedtime was supposed to be two hours ago, and he was steadily growing more agitated.

“I’m gonna kill him, (Y/n). Please come take him off my hands.”

“What about me, huh? I could’ve been asleep, you know. Or studying, like how you two are supposed to.”

“Oh, shut up. I know you weren’t doing anything important.”

You glared at him through your screen. “This is how you treat me, huh? The designated walker for when you get tired.”

“You know how it goes,” Suguru smirked lightly. “Satoru’s needy.”

“(Y/n),” he groaned. “Sugu doesn't love me anymore, s’you have to come take care of me the way- y’know how-to- how you always do,” the blue eyed seventeen year old droned on dramatically. “Pleeeaaaaaase, I miss youuu-”

His singing was disrupted with the tumble of his phone from his hand to the ground, the device hitting the pavement with a smack. His screen went black after landing face first and you watched Geto look down at Satoru boredly, for he had likely been expecting just that to happen.

Satoru gasped loudly, bending over to retrieve his phone clumsily. Suguru panned his camera to show the sight to you, the white haired boy’s long legs spread stiffly as he leaned from his torso to pick up his phone. “(Y/n)! NOO! M’so sorry!” he cried out.

There was shuffling on his end and a dizzy spin of the camera before Satoru’s face came back into view in his small FaceTime square. “I didn’t mean’ta drop you, pretty, don’t be mad,” he whined.

You shook your head, swiping your dorm key from your desk and heading to your door. “I’m on my way, Suguru,” you said, ignoring Satoru’s drunk babbling.

“Please hurry, I can't take much more of this.”

You were quick to rush out of your dorm when you ended the call, cutting off whatever sweet talk your intoxicated friend was about to pull out next and the agitated ‘Shut the fuck up!’ that boomed from Suguru.

You knew this routine like the back of your hand. Either Satoru, Shoko, or Suguru would call you or the group chat, depending on who was out on a given night, to ask you to come over and babysit drunk Satoru, who had always found himself pleading for you the moment liquor settled into his system.

Though Satoru was the strongest sorcerer and overall person you had ever met, his tolerance for alcohol was painfully low, which you all supposed was why he liked to drink so much. Satoru was so used to being the best at everything, to not having to struggle or experience every day pressures and trials of weakness that the rest of you had to endure.

Nothing in his life posed a challenge for him, so when he stole a moment to find something that lowered his inhibitions and eased him into a state of malfunction and playful instability, it was like taking a break, a breath of fresh air after having been submerged underwater. He liked the way alcohol buzzed through his brain, melted through his bloodstream, and dumbed him down to a simple, wasted mess.

It reminded him that he was still flesh and bone in a world that raised him up as a god.

So he went out and drank quite a bit, and you, naturally, were his caretaker during those frequent times.

You never thought Satoru meant anything by his clinginess toward you. After all, he was Satoru Gojo. He was fawned over by all women, and as one of his closest friends, you had witnessed his constant indulgence in their infatuation over him.

Satoru never acted beyond his captivating smiles and provocative words. It was all a game to him, something to keep him entertained and to raise his already astronomically large ego.

Therefore, when he called you over and over, told you that you were gorgeous, and blabbered about how much he loved to have you by his side, you thought nothing of it. Satoru was your friend, and you would look after him over and over again solely because of that fact.

The four of you were bonded, closer than anyone else on your campus. You may have been a bit too cliquey for others’ taste, but you all loved each other dearly, and that’s all you assumed Satoru’s drunk words were: love for a friend being portrayed incorrectly due to the alcohol.

And boy, did you love Satoru dearly, as much as you loved Shoko and Suguru. You loved him so much that you’d rub his back every time he’d throw up into your toilet and bring him fresh clothes for the morning every time he was too hungover to make it back to his dorm.

You loved him so much that you’d take care of him as long as he allowed you, as long as when you were sober and he was intoxicated, he needed you in a way he would never need you when his mind was clear and alert. You loved him so much that no matter how each compliment and loving gaze he tossed your way in the midst of his drunken stupors sent butterflies swirling through your tummy, you’d allow yourself to bury your feelings deep down.

After all, the sun would always rise and the haziness of his eyes would always disappear, and he would always have to go back to being Satoru Gojo. The strongest who needed no one.

You arrived outside the convenient store a few minutes later, approaching your two friends slowly. The 24-hour convenience store sign provided the only source of light amidst the darkness and buzzed softly over the boys’ heads.

Suguru was leaning beside the store entrance against the wall, hands in his pockets, eyes closed, and head resting against the brick. Satoru was sitting on the curb with his legs splayed out before him and his bag to the side, humming some song loudly to himself.

He was quick to catch sight of you once you stepped into his vision. His face lit up and he jumped to his feet, stumbling to the side before rushing over to you sloppily. He clung to you immediately, long arms circling around yours from the side and pulling you to his chest. He leaned his head atop yours, his glasses crashing against your forehead painfully.

“Finally, y’took forever,” he moaned, leaving you very little room to breathe. You huffed, clenching your jaw and craning your neck out to try to find some space for oxygen. You patted his arm with your hand stiffly, unable to move much more than that.

“I know, I know. Five minutes was just so long,” you agreed sarcastically, to which Satoru nodded aggressively.

“Way too long.”

Suguru pushed himself off of the wall when he heard your voice, opening his eyes and sauntering tiredly over to the two of you. You looked up at him from where you stood, trapped, and you could see a smugness dancing in his fatigued eyes despite his agitation. “Don’t look at me like that, dick,” you seethed. “Your lazy ass couldn’t walk him back?”

“I told you, he wanted to see you,” he shrugged. “Besides, you and I both know it’s physically impossible to get Satoru to do something he doesn’t want to do. He’s such a big baby.”

He eyed the blue eyed sorcerer who poked out his tongue childishly, tugging you closer into him.

“Just tell m’you hate me, Sugu,” Satoru frowned.

“Yeah, yeah.” The dark haired student leaned down to grab Satoru’s bag and hand it to you. “Here. I’m walking in this direction,” he pointed behind him.

You scrunched your brows. “That’s gonna add like fifteen minutes to a two second walk,” you pointed out.

“If it means peace and quiet, so be it,” he sighed.

“Awee, tired a’me already?” Satoru giggled, raising an arm to poke Suguru’s stiff shoulder.

“Yes,” he deadpanned. “Good night, you too. Be safe and text me when you’re in. And for the love of god, get this idiot to sleep when you get back,” the seventeen year old sweatdropped.

“You say that like it’ll be easy,” you seethed.

“Mhm.”

With that, Suguru turned over his shoulder and walked off, leaving you and Satoru alone once again.

“God, he’so moody,” Satoru chuckled. “W’don’t need ‘im anyway. Got all I need right’here.”

“He’s your best friend, Toru. You’ll always need him.”

“Mmmaybe, but dn’t tell ‘im that. It’ll go to his big head.”

You laughed.

“Alright, Toru, come on,” you nudged yourself away from his embrace. He released you, but was quick to sling his arm over your shoulders as you guided him around with your hand on his back. He leaned slightly over you, causing you to trip under his weight. He was so tall and heavy, draping himself comfortably over your figure. He already had absolutely no concept of personal space, but it was so much worse when he was under the influence. “Okay, yeah, one step at a time. Let’s get you home,” you guided sweetly.

“‘Kay,” he mumbled. “Mmm, some ramen would b’good right now, don’t y’think?” he murmured. “Should’make some when we- when we get back.”

“Sure. Okay. We can make some ramen,” you lied. You silently prayed he’d forget the suggestion once he was in his dorm.

Satoru spent the entire walk yapping, swaying back and for and bringing you along with him. He’d almost made the two of you fall about ten times, and what was meant to be a quick walk lasted double the original time. You were sure that Suguru had already made it back to his dorm by the rate the two of you were moving.

The sight of Satoru’s dorm room was like seeing the gates of heaven open before you. You exhaled in relief when you approached his door, which was irresponsibly unlocked. The guy had been out for hours and hadn’t even bothered to secure his room.

You shoved the door open, pulling Satoru in with you. He removed his arm from around you after what felt like hours and stumbled forward, falling face first on his carpet. You closed your eyes and took a deep breath after setting his bag to the side, for you knew that you would not be getting to bed soon simply from that action alone.

Satoru groaned, turning his head to the side to breathe. His glasses had risen up over his forehead crookedly, revealing his glassy ocean eyes and snow white lashes fluttering sleepily over them. “I could sleep right’here,” he mumbled, limbs spread out like a starfish.

You shook your head and closed his door behind him. You pulled out your phone quickly, pulling up Suguru’s contact and snapping a picture of the ridiculous sight before you. You sent it along with a message letting him know that the two of you made it safe.

Seconds later, Suguru responded with a ‘yeah, good luck with that.’

You put your phone on the dresser, crouching down over him. “Well too bad you’re not going to,” you said. You grabbed his arm and tugged at it. “Come on, big guy. Let’s get you on the bed.”

“Why?” he pouted, closing his eyes and poking out his glossy bottom lip.

“Because you’ll regret it in the morning when you wake up with an aching back.”

“But I don’t wanna get up,” he groaned, allowing his body to go limp as you mustered up all your strength to pull at him. You grunted, tugging him backward as best as you could.

“Don’t make this so difficult,” you groaned. “Get up!”

“Noooooo,” he whined.

“What the hell have you been eating?!” you asked breathlessly. “You weigh like two hundred pounds!”

“Maybe y’re jus’ weak,” he snickered to himself, and you almost dropped his hand and walked out of his room.

“Maybe I should just beat your ass,” you grumbled.

He turned to smirk at you, eyes glinting with hazy mischief. “Try it. I won’t go easy on you.”

You couldn’t help the blush that fought its way to your cheeks under his gaze. Even drunk, he knew how to get under your skin.

“Shut up,” you grumbled and he laughed.

You tried again, yanking his arm, but to no avail. He wouldn’t budge.

“Ugh! Satoru!” you shouted in frustration. “I can’t stand it when you get like this.”

The Gojo’s smile fell, brows curving in distaste. “Who the hell’s Satoru?” he frowned.

You blinked, lowered his arm and leaning down by his side. “What?”

“Y’call me Toru. What happened’ta Toru?” he repeated, childishly, eyes gleaming with impatience.

“Yeah, well, when you’re not pissing me off, you’re Toru” you tilted your head to look him in his eyes. “Why?”

He groaned loudly, his dramatics so boisterous that they could probably wake up the rest of the hall. You cocked a brow, releasing his arm as he shifted around, twisting himself onto his back and flopping about. “Why d’you do this t’me,” he complained, lifting his arms up and into the air.

You sighed. “What are you on about, drama queen?”

“Pick m’up.”

“Oh, now you wanna get up, huh?”

“If’t means ’m Toru again, yes,” he pouted again. “Pick m’up,” he demanded once more.

You scoffed a laugh, standing to your feet and leaning over him. “So dramatic,” you said as you grasped his outstretched hands, leaning back to pull him up. He assisted you this time, bringing himself to a seated position before you helped him onto his feet. He stumbled again and you held onto his hands, leading him over to the edge of his bed.

“F’ryou,” he responded, plopping down onto his comforter. He leaned over unstably and you caught his head, guiding him back upright. He hummed softly, leaning into the warmth of your palm, eyes half lidded. “Thank you.”

“I got you, Toru,” you smiled, bending down to tug his shoes off. When you did, you missed the wide beam that stretched across his face at the sound of his nickname rolling from your lips.

After setting his shoes at his door, you went to move about his space familiarly, walking over to his bottom dresser drawers and pulling out an old tee and sweatpants.

Satura watched you lazily, eyes dragging along your figure as you so carefully picked out his clothes. He could feel his heart thrumming in his chest like a rhythm, his flushed cheeks growing warmer simply from the sight of you.

You walked back over to him, clothes folded over your arm. He smiled up at you in a daze, appearing like a giddy school boy sitting there patiently for you. You gave him a strange look, placing his clothes next to him on the bed and removing his glasses from his head, setting aside on his lamp lit nightstand.

When you turned back to him, his eyes hadn’t left you. His pupils were blown wide and his lips stretched into a dumb grin. He spread his legs out and leaned back on his elbows tiredly, admiring you, for the first time tonight, with no words.

“Why are you staring at me like that, weirdo?” you rose a brow.

His smile widened. “Y’just so pretty.”

Just like that, butterflies swarmed as if on cue. Your brows drew together as you looked at him, examining his face for any detection of mischief or deception, but you found none. His gaze upon you was so raw, so full of ardor and sweltering tenderness. He looked like a puppy dog watching you in such a way, and you tried your very hardest to keep your legs from turning to jelly beneath you.

You cleared your throat, looking down and busying yourself with unfolding his clothes. “You’re drunk.”

“On you.”

God, he just wouldn’t stop. His presence was so suffocating, it filled the room with its weight. You felt as though you were going to lose your breath if he kept looking at and talking to you like that.

“Stop,” you sighed, tossing his shirt at him. It hit his face softly, rolling down into his lap. Even that hadn’t been enough for his eyes to rip from your face. He simply reached blindly for the fabric, gaze unwavering.

“You gon’help me change, pretty?” he asked gently, looking to you expectantly.

“Now what makes you say that?” you questioned, though you both knew full well that you were going to do just that.

“Cause’you’ve done it b’fore. When I was black’out.”

You whipped your head up at him to find a teasing expression on his features. “There’s no way you remember that?!” you said, incredulously.

He giggled to himself slightly. “No, Shoko tol’me.”

You internally cursed the brunette for betraying you in such a way. “Asshole,” you muttered to yourself, leading Satoru to laugh louder.

As if on instinct, sat up straight and held his arms out. “M’ready,” he cheesed.

“You’re such an idiot, you know that?”

He didn’t respond as you walked up to him and stood between his spread legs. He was suddenly silent, observing you closely. You could feel those eyes glued to you, burning into your skull like a line of blue fire. You held your breath, keeping your eyes on your fingers as they reached for the top bottom of his collared shirt.

You had done this so many times, on so many nights, and the majority of the time, he was either passed out or too drunk to keep his head up and pay attention to what you were doing. This night, however, he was more alert than he had been at this stage of his intoxication. He must not have gotten very far into his drinking, you had thought to yourself.

He was still pretty drunk, but the gleam in his eye made you question if he would forget this moment like he usually did when you helped him into more comfortable clothes.

His chest rose and fell delicately under your hands. You popped one button open, then the next, and the next. Your soft fingers brushed against the smoothness of his skin occasionally, the white haired boy jumping slightly every now and then at the contact.

Satoru broke his eyes from you for just a second, looking down and following the buzzing vision of your fingers working down his shirt, freeing his abdomen for you to see. You could hear his soft breaths, deep and long, as though he were breathing manually, desperately finding a way to recall how to inhale and exhale properly.

He looked back up at you once the entire shirt was undone, a bashful tint on his cheeks. You were so careful with him, so attentive, so patient and loving with your touch. Shoko and Suguru had always looked after him when he drank by making sure he got home safe when you weren’t around, but they never took care of him the way you did so gently, so earnestly.

Flashes of your touch and your face would strike him during those early morning hangovers, feeding into the initial yearning he already harbored for you within his chest and his gut. He knew you were always there, in his dreams and his fragmented memories, but he could never recall how or why so clearly.

So now, he soaked you in, devouring each feather light touch and tug at his clothing. He was captivated by the way you moved around his room as though you lived there, like you’d been there a hundred million times over in this exact position. How you talked to him with a tinge of coddling and kindness in your voice that he rarely detected through your normal day to day.

You handled him with such care, as if he were going to break, and it baffled him. It baffled him how he, one of the strongest individuals to roam this earth, was nothing but putty at your loving hands. He felt so vulnerable sitting there before you, staring intently at your face as you tugged his sleeves down each arm and pulled his shirt from his body. He had expected to feel cool, but he was surrounded by nothing but warmth. Whether it was you or the liquor, he wasn’t sure, but he could feel himself slipping into a trance induced by your beauty and your care.

Everything in his vision was vibrating except for the vision of you, constant and comforting. He wanted nothing more than to melt into you, to allow you to envelope him within your arms. He wanted to stare at you until he couldn’t see anymore, to memorize every curve in your jaw and dent in your brows, the twitch of your nose and the hitch of your breath, the swipe of your tongue over your lip and the flutter of your lashes over mesmerizing, gentle (e/c) eyes.

He was so drunk, yes, but you were doing very little to sober him up. He felt like he was floating and falling into you all at once.

You grabbed his t-shirt in your hands and spread it out, reaching your hands through the hole to stretch it over your friend’s head. He poked his head through the neck hole, hair messily sprawling over his forehead as a result, and pulled his arms through the sleeves, disorientedly.

You still hadn’t looked at him. You were already moving to grab his sweats when you felt a hand reach up and snake over your waist.

You jumped, snapping your eyes up to his finally. His brows were pinched together and his lips were parted, the blue of his irises a stark contrast against the pink shade of his face. You were close, your legs bumping the edge of the bed while Satoru’s legs caged around you. You stopped suddenly, his touch catching you off guard.

He didn’t say anything. He only snaked his other hand around you, settling them on your hips, leading your heart to slam into your chest.

“S-Satoru, what…” you trailed off, losing yourself in his eyes. There wasn’t a single thought behind them except you. “What’s wrong? You want me to stop?”

His Adam's apple bobbed with a gulp he took, thumbs rolling over your hips experimentally. He looked down, over your body, watching his hands grasp your waist gently as if the feeling and the sight of it weren’t real. He could hear your heart pounding, see your blood rushing, practically taste your nerves despite his drunken state.

You were so overstimulating. Worse than the five shots he’d tossed back.

“Toru?” you called him again. He saw your lips move before the sound registered within his brain, the sweet address sending shivers down his spine. He could barely keep himself upright, but he needed more of you.

“Why’dyou do’this?” he mumbled, unsure of what he was even asking.

Your nose scrunched in that cute way it did when you were confused. “Huh?”

“Y’always… look after’me. Always’take care’a’me. Why?”

You were growing nervous. Your heartbeat was loud enough, you were sure Satoru could here, and your face was hot to the touch. “Because… because you’re one of my closest friends, Toru. I care about you.”

He shook his head slightly. “‘S’not th’same.”

“What do you mean?”

“S’not th’same as Sho ‘n Sugu. S’different. You’re different.”

“I…” you weren’t sure what to say. He had you cornered, trapped into him with no escape. You were hyper aware of his fingers gripping your waist softly and his eyes eating you alive. Your senses were through the roof, and you wanted to run and break away from this contact, from this feeling, but you couldn’t. You were frozen.

You could feel him tugging himself closer, leaning into you, pressing you closer.

“You’re drunk, Satoru. You should get to bed. We can talk about this tomorrow, when you’re sober,” you tried to change the subject.

“No,” he refused. “Please, no. Please.”

His hands trailed up your waist, feeling all around your body. You were perfect, too perfect. He couldn’t get enough of you.

His hands reached your arms, then your shoulders, and finally your face, cradling your cheeks softly within his warm palms.

You pursed your lips, eyes scattering over his face as he gazed at you. He drew your face closer, his sharp nose brushing yours. He was so close, you could smell the alcohol on his breath.

You lifted your hands to grasp his wrists, preparing to pull his hands from your flustered face.

“Satoru,” you warned. “What are you doing?”

“Don’t want y’to’go,” he whispered, thumbs smoothing over your hot skin. You shivered, your mind battling against itself as you tried to decide what to do.

He was drunk. He had no idea what he was doing. He was just being clingy.

“Please. Please stay, (Y/n). Need’you.”

“I’m not going anywhere, love,” you told him, meeting his eyes directly. “I’m right here.”

“But’don’t leave tonight. Y’always leave. Don’t. Stay. Sleep w’me.”

Your heart swooned, ached, swelled. Satoru was always so needy, but never to this extent. He was practically falling apart before you.

He stared at you longingly, brows curved as if he was going to cry. “Please, pretty. Please.”

This boy had you so weak. There was nothing he could have asked for that you wouldn’t have said yes to. It was why you were always showing up at his side in the middle of the night when he called for you, why you let him lounge around your room at any hour of the day when he was bored, why you brought him snacks when he was too busy training to eat, why you let him drag you and the others about simply because he wanted you all to tag along with him everywhere.

Satoru Gojo could have asked you for the moon, and you would have pulled it down by a rope just to see him smile at you and feel his arms wrap around your frame as he pulled you into an overbearing hug.

You loved him to death. You loved him more than you thought your teenage heart capable of loving anyone, and you feared his knowledge of your feelings because of how prideful he was, because of how many girls harbored the same crush, and because of how many confessions he received on a daily basis.

You wanted to protect yourself from heartbreak by the world’s most desirable boy. You didn’t want to make yourself look so pathetic before him, more so than any ordinary person already was, but the way he begged for you… the way those big eyes drew you in and his hands framed your face, the way he looked at you as if you were the only thing that could save him from his mental torment had you giving in completely.

“Okay,” you nodded, releasing his wrists to cup his face in return. He swooned, hands falling into his lap as he submerged himself in your touch. “Okay, I’ll stay.”

A whimper fell past his lips as he fell into you, head collapsing into your chest and hands gripping around your thighs. Your hands moved to his back, stroking him soothingly as he clutched you to him, murmuring nonsense. You could tell his intoxication was tipping into exhausting by the way he slumped into you, and you sighed. He was going to be the death of you, this one.

The time ticked closer to three once you had managed to get him to let you change him out of his pants and gurgle some mouthwash before going to bed. He kept himself close to you for the rest of the night, whether it was by clinging to your shirt or holding your hand or leaning his head over your shoulder. He had gone completely nonverbal, relying on his actions instead to convey his desperation for your closeness to him.

You had finally managed to get him into bed at 3:30 am. He plopped down into his messy sheets, face smothered by the pillow and feet hanging off the edge of the bed. He was too tall for his own good.

You were busying yourself with turning out his lights when you saw his hand twitch out, grasping through the air. You knew what he was asking.

You slipped your shoes off and pulled your sweatshirt over your head, leaving you in your night tee and shorts. You carefully climbed onto the soft furniture, grabbing Satoru’s outstretched hand. He turned himself to face you immediately, yanking you down into him. You squeaked, collapsing beside him on the bed.

He didn’t let you move to grab the comforter to pull it over your body. Instead, he threw his arms around you and buried his face into the crook of your neck, securing a leg over yours and trapping you against him for the final time that night.

You tensed, Gojo’s hair brushing softly against your chin as his warm breath fanned contently against your neck. He curled himself into you, clutching you as though you were his last lifeline.

He stroked his hair softly, scratching his scalp as the beat of your heart lulled him into sleep.

You exhaled softly, staring up at the ceiling as sleep slowly overtook your body. You prayed that Satoru wouldn’t remember this night. He normally woke up late, so you hoped that you would at least have had time to slip from his room in the morning and disappear into yours.

You wanted to forget everything. You wanted to forget the way he looked at you, the way he held you, the way he touched you. You wanted to bury it all deep down, to move on as friends like you always had been and always would be. You wanted to leave it all behind, but Satoru had a hold on you that you could not escape. It was the effect he had. Consuming, powerful, and entirely too dangerous for you to indulge.

Satoru was a needy drunk. That was all you could chalk him and the intimacy of this night up to be. A consequence of his intoxication.

But somewhere deep within you, somewhere you did not bother to explore, a spark of hope glimmered for your love, a spark that made you believe just for a moment that Satoru loved you too.

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twipsai · 6 months ago

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Professor Tori (aka "pink-haired lady") and everything we know about her

i havent seen any posts compiling everything about Tori yet, so consider this a masterpost of sorts for her.

march 24th, 2022, Tailstube #4 released with this graphic, showing a handful of npcs from Sonic Unleashed (and explaining how mobians/anthros/whatever usually live on islands and humans usually live on continents). one person stuck out, being the pink-haired lady behind Professor Pickle

as far as i know, this is all we knew about her for over two years. there was some speculation she was going to be in Frontiers, but obviously that wasnt true.

flash forward to december 10th, 2024 -- a clip of Shadow's introduction for Sonic Movie 3 is released, with a familiar face in the background...

yep, there she is! interestingly, she wasnt in this shot in the trailer that had this exact scene in it. they mustve added her in later for... some reason...? additionally, you can see text on the screen shes on.

the english text reads "12.30.24.START!" (tomorrows date, at the time of writing this), and the japanese text; プロフェッサートリィ, reads "Professor Tori" (or Torii, or Tory... ive heard there are a lot of different ways to translate it)

a name that starts with a T, with no additional context behind the character themself? well, that sounds an awful lot like --

the... note?? inside the front cover of Gerald Robotnik's journal???? sure enough checking the japanese translation of this note its explicitly signed by Tori (or Tory, depending on who you ask)

this is just about where the clues abruptly stop. anything else beyond here gets more into the speculation category. its also worth mentioning that Ian Flynn stated around the time she was first seen that "her inclusion is a tease" (source), so it wasnt a case of accidentally throwing old concept art in somewhere, it was a deliberate teaser for something coming in the future. apparently something coming tomorrow, if the movie clip is to be believed.

if im missing something, let me know! ill add it in with a reblog or edit the post depending on what it is!

#this post is either gonna age like wine or milk and there is no in between #sonic #sth #sonic the hedgehog #professor tori #sonic movie 3

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littlest-w01f · 3 months ago

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After party

Azriel x Reader

For @starfallweek [hosted by: @azsazz and @writingsbychlo]

Starfall Week 2025 Masterlist

Day 6 - Starfall this year was a costume party and now Characters A and B can't find one another.

Summary: On the night of Starfall, the party didn't end until the sun came up, and after a nasty break up your sisters dragged you out to party with the rest of the Inner Circle. You end up running into someone whose it.

Cw: Dark!Az, he mad mad, jealous Az, shadowplay, choking, I think by far the most Azriel smut I've written... Smut 18+ MDNI

a/n: Long fic WOOHOOO, strap in and strap on! (would fit better if there *was* pegging involved but still it has Azriel's dick in it so it had to be at least that big)

The pulsating beats of the music thrummed through your body as you stepped into Rita's, your sisters flanking you on either side. Twinkling lights cast a warm glow over the busy crowd, your faces illuminated by flashes of colour from the mirrored disco ball above. The air was thick with the mingled scents of expensive perfume, sweat, and something more primal.

"You needed this," Feyre said, giving your hand a reassuring squeeze. She was dressed as an angel, her shapeshifting powers giving her a way to form pure white feathered wings, and Rhysand was somewhere getting drinks for her, dressed as a dark devil to compliment her. "To get out, have some fun. Forget about him."

Nesta nodded, humming in agreement, her lips curving into a small smile at her sister's words. You knew they were right, after everything that had happened, you desperately needed a night out. Nesta was already snatched away by Cassian, dressed as old warriors of legends, lost in the music.

Elain, dressed like a walking garden, was nursing her drink and sitting by, even though such parties weren't her scene she was with the shadow twins, talking and having a laugh.

You wore an outfit that looked like it was made of life itself, the shimmering fabric seemed to pulse with an inner light, leaves and vines twisting around your curves as you moved. The skirt you wore flared at your thighs, the corsetted top barely covering your curves. Your hair had white tinsels in it, styled up in a high pony, a mask over your face, fully covering you. You found it hilarious, dressing like life, given your powers. Nesta had convinced you to dress slutty to "catch a better male for the night" as she put it, there was plenty blushing involved on your part as she went into detail about the importance of a matching set of lace underneath.

While you stood there, amidst the pulsing throng of bodies, dancing your heart out for the past hour or so, having a little too much to drink, you couldn't recall, the music seeming to flow through your very veins, you felt a sudden presence behind you. Strong hands gripped your hips, pulling you back against a firm chest. You could feel the heat radiating off the body pressed so close to yours.

"I must say, that costume is... Captivating." A low, heavy voice murmured in your ear, sending shivers down your spine. "Life itself couldn't possibly be more beautiful than you look tonight."

You turned your head slightly, catching a glimpse of a someone covered in darkness, he wore a cloak over his head. Suriel? A scythe in hand. Death. How poetic.

You felt a thrill run through you at the dark stranger's bold touch and flattering words. There was something magnetic about his mysterious aura, something familiar too, the way his strong hands held you possessively. When you glimpsed his cloaked form and the ominous scythe, a frisson of excitement mixed with apprehension danced along your nerves.

The mysterious male in the death costume spun you around to face him fully, one large hand still resting possessively on your hip. Up close, you realised you could truly not see his face, as if the darkness that surrounded him made him appear headless. His other hand came up to brush a stray lock of hair from your cheek, leather glove-covered fingertips grazing your skin and leaving tingles in their wake.

"I've been watching you all evening," He murmured, his deep voice resonating through you. "Watching you move, watching you shine brighter than anyone else here. Tell me, little life, do you often have this effect on strangers?"

His thumb traced idle circles on your hipbone through the thin fabric of your costume as he waited for your response, the heat of his palm seeping into your skin.

The male's fingers tightened almost imperceptibly on your hip as he awaited your response, the heat of his touch seeming to brand your skin even through the thin fabric of your costume. You swallowed hard, pulse quickening at his proximity and the dark promise in his tone.

"I… I don't know what you mean," you managed to say, voice coming out breathier than intended. "I'm just here to enjoy the party with my sisters." Even as the words left your mouth, you knew they rang hollow. There was a part of you that revelled in his intense focus, in being singled out amidst the writhing sea of bodies. You were glad you had let Nesta talk you into wearing a matching lace set to "be ready for a male" in her words, because you were going to fuck him tonight, you just felt like it, in your slightly tipsy state, you needed someone to forget him, someone currently without a face seemed like a wonderful option.

A low, dark chuckle rumbled from the cloaked male's chest at your feigned innocence. "Is that so? Well then, allow me to change your mind." In one fluid motion, he pulled you flush against him, one muscular thigh slipping between your legs to press intimately against your core. The heat of him seared you even through the layers of clothing separating your bodies.

"This isn't just enjoyment, little one. This is destiny." His gloved hand slid up your side to cup the swell of your breast, kneading the soft flesh possessively. "Can't you feel it? The pull between us, like moth to flame?" Leaning in, he nipped sharply at the sensitive skin below your ear before soothing the sting with his tongue. "I'm going to worship every inch of you tonight until you're begging."

You gasped as his thigh ground against your core, but instead of pulling away, you leaned closer, "And what of you, do you approach random females having fun out of nowhere and think everyone wants you?"

The cloaked male threw back his head and laughed, a rich, dark sound that sent shivers down your spine. "Oh no, sweet thing. I don't make a habit of approaching just any female." His hand slid lower, gripping your ass and pulling you impossibly closer. "But when fate drops a goddess wrapped in silk directly into my path, I'd be a fool not to act."

He captured your lips in a searing kiss, his mouth moving over yours with skilful intent. One hand fisted in your hair, angling your head to just push the mask past your lips as he plundered your mouth thoroughly. When he finally released you, you were left panting, knees weak.

"My apologies, I couldn't resist sampling the nectar of the Mother herself," He purred wickedly, he wasn't sorry at all. And you weren't either, cause you felt like you knew those lips, and you kissed him back more confidently.

He broke the kiss, only to trail his lips along your jawline, nipping and sucking at the sensitive skin. "Mmmm, I can taste the wine on your lips. But there's another flavor beneath it, something sweeter. The essence of life itself." His hand slid under your skirt, calloused fingers caressing the smooth skin of your thigh. "I wonder, does all of you taste as divine as your mouth?"

The crowded dance floor seemed to fade away, the pulsing beat of the music dimming to a distant thrum. All you could focus on was the heat of his body pressed against yours, the wicked promises in his gravelly voice, the teasing caress of his fingers inching higher up your thigh. Your core clenched with need, arousal dampening your lace.

He groaned softly as his fingers brushed against the damp lace covering your most intimate area. "Already so wet for me, aren't you little goddess?" His hand traced teasing patterns over the soaked fabric, applying maddeningly light pressure. "I bet you're aching to be filled, to be stretched wide. Let's take this somewhere private, yeah?"

Then he pressed his scythe to the back of your head, then you realised that it wasn't simply a part of his outfit and the blade was very much sharp. As the reality of the situation dawned on you, a surge of fear mixed with exhilaration coursed through your veins. The cold metal of the scythe pressed firmly against your skull, a potent reminder of his power and dominance.

"Move, now," He commanded, his voice a low growl that vibrated through you. Without hesitation, you allowed yourself to be led through the crowd, his grip on your arm unyielding. The dance floor receded further into the background as you stumbled after him, your heart pounding in your ears.

He guided you through a door in the back, set for privacy in the club's nightly activities, the doors were dark red yet translucent, you could make out faint bodies of lovers pressed together, the male guided you to one of the empty rooms. The room was dimly lit, the air thick with the scent of incense and something muskier, more primal. A large wooden table dominated the centre of the space, its surface polished yet stained with age.

As soon as the door clicked shut behind you, he spun you around to face him, pressing you back against the cool wood of the table. His hands roamed over your curves, squeezing and kneading as if to claim every inch of you as his own.

"You look exquisite in the dim light, like a Nightbloom blooming under moonlight," He murmured, his breath hot against your ear. "So delicate, yet perfect for the taking." His fingers deftly untied the bow at the front of your corsetted top, revealing the lacy cups barely containing your breasts. "Let's get rid of these restrictive garments, shall we?"

With practised ease, he peeled off your corset, leaving you in your mask, tiny skirt and the soaked lace covering your cunt.

His hungry gaze devoured the sight of your nearly bare body, drinking in the curves and valleys of your skin. The way your nipples pebbled in the cool air, the gentle rise and fall of your chest as you breathed heavily, the glistening evidence of your arousal on the lace clinging to your cunt. Every detail was etched into his memory, fueling his desire.

Without warning, he swooped down, capturing one pert nipple between his teeth. He suckled gently, sending jolts of pleasure straight to your core. At the same time, his hand delved beneath your skirts, fingertips grazing the sensitive inner thighs as he worked his way upward.

"Mmm, you do taste divine," He purred against your breast, his free hand palming the other, rolling the nipple between his fingers. "I could feast on you all night long."

You cried through the pleasure, head rolled back, you still couldn't see the male's face, covered in darkness, but as the shadows flickered in the room, you were fully sure who he was, yet you still played the part of not knowing.

His gloved hand slipped past the lace barrier, fingers brushing against your slick folds before circling your clit in deliberate strokes. "Such responsive little life," Death murmured approvingly, his hot breath tickling your skin. "I can tell you're eager for more."

With a sudden, decisive move, he hooked his fingers inside you, thrusting them deep into your clenching heat. A guttural moan escaped you as he pumped his digits in and out, stroking that magic spot within you that made stars explode behind your eyelids.

"That's it, let me hear you," He coaxed, his thumb continuing its relentless assault on your clit. "Scream for me, little goddess. Show me how much you crave my touch."

"What should I moan for you?" You gasped, toes curling on the table, hands gripping the sides as his gloved fingers curled inside you, now that you knew, you could sense the scars on his hands. "Death?"

He chuckled darkly, the vibrations of his laughter sending tingles through your body. "Yes, Death," He confirmed, his fingers never ceasing their sensual torment. "And I'm here to collect your soul..." His shadows moved the Scythe to aim for your throat, forcing you to keep your head up.

His pace quickened, pumping into you harder and faster until your whole world narrowed to the sensation of his fingers stretching and filling you. The pressure built, coiling tighter and tighter in your core until you teetered on the brink of release.

"Now, scream for me, life," He demanded, his thumb rubbing merciless circles around your throbbing clit. "Let go and give me everything." With a final, brutal thrust, he pushed you over the edge into blissful oblivion.

With a final, ruthless thrust, he pushed you over the edge. Your body convulsed, back arching off the table as a scream tore from your throat. Waves of intense pleasure crashed over you, drowning you in ecstasy, light leaving your form as it slammed back in, you were a little ashamed to admit that your previous lover had never made you feel like that just by his fingers, or any part of him.

Death watched, mesmerized, as you came undone beneath his skilled touch. The way your cunt spasmed around his fingers, the flush of bliss on your cheeks, the sheer abandon in your expression, It was intoxicating.

As the aftershocks subsided, he slowly withdrew his fingers, bringing them to his lips to taste your essence. "Delicious," He purred, savouring the flavour of your climax, tasting your essence.

He leaned in close, his shadowy form looming over you. "But don't think that was enough to sate me, little goddess," He whispered, his breath a chilly caress against your ear. "I want to consume every last drop of your sweetness, to drink deep from the well of your desire until you're utterly spent and begging for mercy."

He grabbed your hips, pulling them back against his straining cock. The thick head prodded insistently at your entrance, seeking entry into your welcoming heat.

With a swift, powerful thrust, Death buried himself to the hilt inside you, his rigid cock stretching you wide open around him. A harsh groan ripped from his throat at the exquisite sensation of your slick walls enveloping him, your tightness a delicious contrast to the chill of his skin.

He began to move, withdrawing almost completely before slamming back in, setting a punishing rhythm that shook the table beneath you on it's legs. Each stroke was a claiming, a possession, a declaration of his dominance over your quivering form.

The sound of flesh meeting flesh filled the room, punctuated by your cries of pleasure and his guttural grunts. His shadows danced across the walls, mirroring the wild, primal energy coursing through his veins as he lost himself in the carnal delight of taking you.

The shadows covered the translucent glass, so no one outside could see the two of you. His movements became even more frenzied, hips snapping forward with reckless abandon as he chased his own release. The table creaked ominously beneath the force of his thrusts, but he paid it no mind, too consumed by the need to fill you, to mark you as his own.

"Fuck, you're so tight," He gritted out between clenched teeth, his hips snapping forward with renewed vigour. "I'm going to fill you up, little life," He snarled, his voice raw with lust. "Every last drop of my seed, marking you as mine." With a final, brutal plunge, he buried himself to the root inside you, his cock pulsing as he spilt his cum deep within your womb.

The sensation of his hot release flooding your insides triggered another orgasm, your body trembling and clenching around him as you came once more. Body curling around his to grip on.

"He. Didn't. Deserve. You." Azriel grunted as he slammed through your climax, his hood falling down, the shadows that he'd used to cover his face falling, "I hated hearing you sob for him at night. When my mate should be moaning for me." He growled the term and for you it was like time stopped.

Azriel captured your mouth in a searing kiss, swallowing your gasps and moans as he rocked into you, his hips grinding against yours in a slow, deliberate dance. "You're mine now, y/n," He growled against your lips, nipping at them possessively. "Mine to claim, to cherish, to fuck."

His words sent shivers down your spine, a thrill of excitement mixed with trepidation. But there was no denying the fierce passion burning in his eyes, the unyielding conviction in his tone. He wasn't asking, he was declaring, staking his claim on your very being.

As if to emphasize his point, Azriel pulled out of you abruptly, only to flip you onto your stomach and yank your hips up into the air, his shadows gripping your ponytail, grabbing your form still for him.

Without wait, Azriel lined his still hard cock up with your dripping entrance once more, still more to go, the blunt tip probing at your slick folds. Then, with a savage grunt, he drove into you again, burying himself to the hilt in one brutal thrust.

"Ah- AZ!"You felt every inch of him, his hard length splitting you open, reaching depths you didn't know existed. He set a punishing pace, his hips slapping against your ass as he took you with animalistic ferocity, each stroke driving home his claim on you.

Azriel's grip on your hair tightened, pulling your head back as he leaned over you, his breath hot against your ear. "This is what you needed, isn't it, Life? To be taken, claimed, owned?" His voice was a low, menacing purr, laced with dark promise. He pressed in fully, bruising your cervix with a rut of his hips. "Because I'm not done with you yet. All you needed was me. Your mate. But instead you went for that pathetic male. I could feel you when you were under him, how little he pleasured you. I wanted you to explore around and that was the male you chose to have your heart broken by? That male made you cry!"

Azriel's accusations cut deep, striking at the heart, you had chosen wrong. Tears pricked at the corners of your eyes, but he continued unabated, his relentless pace never faltering as he pounded into you.

"You thought you loved him, didn't you?" He sneered, his voice dripping with contempt. "Thought he understood you, could make you happy. But look where it got you - crying yourself to sleep, desperate for something more. Something real."

His hand left your hair to trail down your spine, nails digging into your skin as he gripped your hip, holding you in place for his brutal thrusts. "I am that something real, y/n. I've always been here, waiting for you to realize it."

"Az..." You whimpered under the weight of him, his cloak fell as his wings stretched to their full might. Though you weren't scared of him, instead you felt something snap between you, a thread of gold that connect you.

Azriel's wings unfurled, casting an ominous shadow over the room as they spread wide, the leather a stark black against the dim lighting. The sight alone would have been intimidating, but coupled with his dominant position over you, it was a potent display of his power and control.

As he continued to pound into you, his movements grew more erratic, his hips snapping forward with a frenzy that bordered on violence. The table creaked ominously beneath you, threatening to collapse under the force of his thrusts.

"I'm going to ruin you for anyone else," He growled, his voice a low, menacing rumble. "No other male will ever satisfy you like I can. You belong to me, body and soul." His hand slid from your hip to wrap around your throat, applying just enough pressure to make your pulse race. "Say it, princess. Allow me to kill him and I will bathe in his blood, for ever shedding a tear on your pretty face not born of pleasure."

Azriel's grip on your throat tightened, cutting off your air supply as he held you in a vice-like embrace. His free hand slid down to grasp your jaw, forcing your gaze upwards to meet his intense stare in the obsidian of his shadows, being so dark they reflected back everything he was doing to you, like a mirror to the show.

"Look at me, y/n," He commanded, his voice a low, dangerous hiss, his eyes were fully shadow. "Meet my eyes and tell me you understand. Tell me you're ready to let go of that pathetic excuse for a lover and embrace the darkness that's been waiting for you all along."

His hips never ceased their relentless assault, each brutal thrust driving home his point, his possession, his ownership, his jealousy. The air was thick with tension, heavy with the weight of his unspoken threat hanging over you like a spectre of doom. "Say it," He repeated, his grip on your throat constricting further.

"Yours," You choked out, the word barely audible over the pounding of your heartbeat in your ears. "I'm yours, Azriel."

With those three simple syllables, the dam broke. Azriel released his hold on your throat, allowing you to gasp in a ragged breath. His fingers dug into your jaw once more, angling your head to the side as he leaned in close, his lips brushing against your ear.

"Good girl," He purred, the approval in his voice sending a shiver down your spine. "Now, let's finish what we started."

And with that, he redoubled his efforts, fucking into you with a newfound intensity, each thrust pushing you closer to the edge of oblivion. A ring of white forming around the base of his cock, everything of his he'd already deposited deep within you.

In that moment, he didn't look like a male who'd put on a death persona for a little party, but he was death himself, come to take you. And you would gladly go with him.

Azriel's movements became more frantic, his strokes growing shorter and harder as he chased his release. His nails raked down your back, leaving red welts in their wake, a physical manifestation of the claim he was making on you.

"You're mine now, y/n," He growled, his voice strained with the effort of holding back. "My mate, my love, my everything. No one else gets to touch you, to taste you, to make you scream."

With a final, brutal thrust, he buried himself to the hilt, his cock pulsating as he spilt his seed deep inside you again. The feeling of his hot cum filling you, you let out a strangled cry as he put his entire weight on your back, the table underneath giving out. Mixed with a shadow that rubbed insistently at your clit, it triggered your own climax, waves of pleasure crashing over you as you came undone in his arms.

Azriel collapsed atop you, his weight pressing you into the now very broken table as he rode out the aftershocks of his orgasm. His chest heaved against your back, his hot breath fanning over your neck as he struggled to catch his breath.

After a long moment, he lifted his head, looking over his shoulder at you with a satisfied smirk playing on his lips. "That's right, princess," He murmured, his voice husky with satisfaction. "You're mine now."

Slowly, he withdrew from you, his softening cock slipping free with a wet pop. A trickle of his essence leaked out, glistening on your inner thighs as he settled beside you, pulling you into his embrace.

"You're safe with me, y/n," He whispered, nuzzling his face into the crook of your neck. "You know that, right?"

Azriel's words were a soothing balm to your frayed nerves, his warm breath against your skin calming the lingering tremors of your climax. You nodded.

"I know," You replied softly, turning your head to press a gentle kiss to his cheekbone. "I trust you, Azriel. I... I feel what Feyre explained she felt."

He hummed in approval, his arms tightening around you as if to pull you deeper into his embrace. "Good," He murmured, his lips grazing your temple. "Because I intend to keep you safe... And satisfied... For eternity." He kissed your temple, "Still, tell me, should I kill him? As much as I didn't enjoy you wanting to go after someone else, he did break your heart."

Azriel's question hung in the air, heavy with implication. In truth, part of you wanted revenge, craved the sweet justice of watching Azriel's wrath unleash upon the one who had wronged you. But another part, the part that had surrendered itself to this dark, beautiful male, whispered that perhaps there was mercy to be found.

"No," You said finally, your voice firm despite the uncertainty swirling within you. "I don't want you to kill anyone for me..."

Azriel regarded you for a long moment, his expression inscrutable. Then, slowly, a dark smile curved his lips. "I will end generations for you, my mate. Anything that hurts you is nothing but dirt to me."

Azriel's declaration sent a thrill through you, a mix of fear and exhilaration at the depths of his devotion. But as you looked into his eyes, you saw no cruelty there, only an unwavering commitment to your well-being. He would be your darkest protector, your mate.

"I believe you," You whispered, leaning in to brush your lips against his in a tender kiss. "And I'm glad to have you by my side, but he's not worth any more moment of my time. Just let him go."

Azriel's response was immediate and passionate, his mouth claiming yours in a searing kiss that left you breathless. His hands roamed your curves, mapping every inch of your body as if reassuring himself of your presence.

{General Taglist- @lilah-asteria @paleidiot @dee-writes-angst @adalia-jaycee @anarchiii @alwayshave-faith @velarisnightsky444 @minnieoo @mellowmusings @daughterofthemoons-stuff @tele86}

{Azriel Taglist- @fxckmiup @annamariereads16 @saltedcoffeescotch @satorusemepls @fieldofdaisiies}

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betsj · 28 days ago

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monkeydluffy x childhoodfriend!reader

creampies, childhood friends again, luffy talk, two sex scenes (again), sorta public?, p in v, fingering, use of y/n, not proofread, tell me if i missed any

synopsis: you haven’t seen luffy since he left y’all home island. now, as you’re in dressrosa you run into him unexpectedly

this was a rec (sorry if it’s not really accurate luffy)

⋆｡𖦹 °.🐚⋆❀˖°

“Woooahhh!” You heard a sudden yell as you were talking to the lady in the stand.

Turning your head around to see where it’s coming from and when you looked back down to the fruit stand it was destroyed, knocking you back as dust flew everywhere.

People are whispering and two men are sitting down next to you, asking if you are alright. Coughing, moving your hand to blow away the smoke, squinting your eyes and seeing a shadow of somebody standing up.

Then… a familiar laugh.

One you haven’t heard in years… one you missed.

“Luffy?” You mumbled as the smoke settled down, your eyes widened. Suddenly standing up, the men beside you were pushed away as you stepped closer to the pirate.

His recognizable smile was now in view… y’all looked into each other’s eyes. Laughing and jumping into his arms as he twirled you around dramatically.

His laugh was raspy as he placed back down on your feet, scanning you slowly. A dress… you were in a dress that was ruffled in the middle, flowed down at the bottom of your knees. “What are you doing here on Dressrosa?” Before you could answer, Luffy took your hand and dragged you away from people (being marines chasing after him).

Being pushed against the wall, Luffy’s chest against your own… both of y’all were panting after running around for twenty minutes. Whispering “So… you came here to defeat DoFlamingo?” Trying to process everything he’s told you while on the run. He nodded with a toothy grin, same old Luffy.

“I’ve been hearing so much about you… and oh… Ace.” The tension grew thick until he laid his forehead on your shoulder. “I’m so sorry, Luffy…” A small pause before he mumbled, “Sabo’s here.”

Eyes widening and pushing his shoulders to make him look you in the eyes.

“What?”

He nodded and smiled “Yup!” Before you could tear up you hugged him again. Luffy slowly wrapped his arms around your waist.

It only took a few minutes before his rubbery hand was fiddling somewhere else. Humming, pulling your head back to look into his eyes, “Luffy?” Murmuring something under his breath before pushing you against the brick wall.

“You look pretty in this, y/n.” Feeling your cheeks flush under his intense stare… gulping, “Thanks—are you okay—“ Yelping when his hands travel to the back of your thighs, stuttering “I… I want to touch you, for some odd reason.”

As he rubbed your thighs, reading your eyes for a few minutes before he slowly began to lift your thighs, giving you enough time to either…

1. wrap your arms around his neck, letting him lift you up

2. push him back and ask what the hell is wrong with him

He was nervous but luckily, you picked number one.

Keeping you against the wall and mumbling into your neck “Give me a few minutes.” Nodding and yelling when one of his rubber hands reached up to the roof of the building you laid against.

Bringing y’all up to the top, laying you down on the floor and situating himself between your thighs. Luffy’s hands worked to bringing your dress up to your waist, exposing your panties. Before anything you say, “This is so sudden!”

Luffy grinned and rubbed his middle finger up and down between your covered folds, pressing down on the hard bud with his thumb. “I know,” laughing to himself and leaning over to kiss you. Kiss. You! Accepting the fact that Luffy definitely didn’t want to talk so you kissed him back with a satisfied hum.

Gasping inside his mouth while his hot fingers pulled your panties to the side, doing the same thing, slowly running his fingers up and down your soaked pussy. Squeezing his shoulders tightly, whining as you broke the kiss, “Inside… we need to hurry.” Luffy nodded and with inexperience he shoved his middle and ring finger in at an odd angle.

Giggling, leaning up on your elbows, “Want any help?” Luffy leaned back on his feet, knitting his eyebrows. “Here…” Grabbing his wrist and twisting his hand the way it needed to be. Smiling at him, “It’s okay.” He gave a short nod before pushing his fingers in back and forth. Sighing, finally laying back down on your back.

“Mhm… just like—ah!—that…”

Lifting your legs and he got back situated, placing them on his shoulders. Luffy started to get more confidence and started fingering you harder, feeling your juices drip to his wrist and dripping off it.

Just the feel made Luffy groan, “God… you’re soaked!” Suddenly feeling his pants get tight.

Before you knew it, he was pant-less! Blushing and seeing his hard cock straining against his boxers, a spot from his pre exposed.

Arching your back slightly as he hit a certain spot and you moaned loudly. Luffy’s eyes widen slightly before he grinned, curling his fingers at such an angle you felt your climax building. “There! Don’t stop!” Sweat glistened down his chest as he continued to work your soaked pussy open for him.

And suddenly, he took his fingers out, making you whine and groan. Shaking your head, “Noo…. please Luffy…!” He grinned and took his soaked fingers to his lips, slowly licking them clean.

As you watched him take his boxers off for the sake of this, we’re just going to imagine luffy wears underwear a soft moan left your lips, analyzing his hard cock as it bobbed up. That pink, leaking tip in front of you… “Can I—can I put it in?”

Without thinking, you moved your legs off his shoulders and wrapped them around his waist. Nodding eagerly, “Yes… yes, please.”

Watching intensely, Luffy spit in his hand and stroked his painfully hard cock. Pulling his close as he scoots up to your awaiting pussy, rubbing the tip up and down between the glistening folds.

“C’mon…” Biting your lip and when he finally pushed that mushroom tip inside, it felt like heaven. Both of y’all breath hitched as he stopped… you could feel a vein, pulsing against your walls. Closing your eyes and he placed two hands beside your head, feeling your hands on his shoulders.

Sliding inside halfway, making you whine. “Shit—you’re so fucking warm?!”

Smiling through another rough moan as he pushed the rest of his hard cock inside of you. Moaning in unison once he got comfortable… two sweaty foreheads against each other, tips of noses so close and open mouths.

After five minutes, you whispered “Move…”

He nodded and sat up with a groan, grabbing your hips. Pulling out until his tip was the only thing inside before thrusting inside. Closing your eyes, head falling to the side with a loud moan.

“Again, do that again!” Luffy grunted as he started a steady pace.

He scanned you. Body twisted, boobs bobbing with each thrust, beautiful year fulled eyes… “Beautiful.” He said suddenly. Snapping your head to look at him and smiling weakly.

“So. Fucking. Beautiful.” Each thrust abused your cervix. Each thrust made a ‘ah!’ come out each time. Jerking your hips up, “Close… oh m’close!” Luffy laughed and sped up.

Luffy’s cock hit every single button before you finally yelled his name and came. He finish two seconds after, looking at where y’all were joined and grinning… loving the wave how white it looked so he didn’t stop.

For about ten minutes, he stuffed you full six times.

Walking around the island of Zou was fascinating to say the least.

Though you didn’t make it very far. As of now, you’re holding onto a tree for dear life as your childhood friend/captain is fucking into you from behind.

“Ahg… uh, w-wait—“ Each small sound that fell from your mouth earned a smack on the butt. You’re positive that your cheeks are red and covered in spit as Luffy decided to absolutely lewd today.

You don’t know why though…

Whining, thighs shaking as you came for the third time. “Luffy—wait!” He didn’t answer but finally groaned as he came inside of you. Leaning over and murmuring into your neck “What?”

Another small moan fell from your mouth as he hoisted your feet off the ground by holding your hips, starting another rhythm.

“What—why, why are you-“ Moaning as he grabbed your hair, pulling you up. Your tippy toes touching the floor as he placed his hand on your lower stomach. He groaned and you felt his second load, it dripped down your shaking legs.

Luffy mumbled, “Mad… so mad that Sanji left.” He continued to fuck you. His cum getting all over him and across your butt. Pushing down on your stomach and moaning, creaming on his cock, more than you have ever done.

Both of y’all were panting.

Luffy held you from behind and you hummed. Mumbling, “We’re gonna get him back… I promise you.” Lifting his head and looking down at you, smiling and kissing your lips.

“Now clean me up!”

i was kind of dreading this

#one piece #anime #one piece x reader #silly little guy #smut #one piece x you #luffy x reader #monkey d. luffy

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tacoguacamole · 1 month ago

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ANOTHER TIME | JJK - 4

Summary: All you wanted was time. Time to love your husband. Time to feel him love you back. To see his smile again, not shadowed by grief and resentment. Time to share laughter instead of silence, warmth instead of distance. To feel his arms around you, not the cold of where he used to be. Time to hear “I love you too” before it’s too late. Time should’ve been simple.

But somehow, it always slips through your fingers just when you need it most.

[Pairing: Creative Director!Jungkook x Ceo!Female Reader]

[Theme: Marriage AU. BF2L2S]

[Warnings: Major Angst, Multiple Flashbacks and Time Jumps, Mature Theme, Smut, Mature/Explicit Language, A lot of fluff, Romance, Slowburn]

[Older JK, Older OC, Older Bangtan, Lawyer Seokjin and Namjoon, Doctor Yoongi, Event Planner Hobi, Solo idol Jimin, Secretary Taehyung, Brief cameos of Seventeen Mingyu, GOT7 Mark, Kook's a jerk and mean for the earlier chapters]

[Status: Ongoing]

[Part 1. Part 2. Part 3. Part 4. Chapter Word Count: 8k+]

[Note: Several time jumps. OC is finally getting back at him. Somehow. Bringing in Hobi and Jimin! I know there are a lot of unanswered questions but I promise it'll all make sense later. What do you think is going to happen to JK? How about OC? Let me know. Keep dropping your comments and theories. I love reading them! 💜

[MINORS DNI! 18+]

The soft drizzle falls around you, the light mist catching the edges of your blazer and the hem of your skirt. You pull the collar up a little higher, the cool air a contrast to the warmth of the house you’d just left behind.

Behind you, your mother’s voice calls out, reminding to take your car keys and drive carefully. You turn back, offering a quick smile, but shake your head. No need for the car today. Not when the rain feels just right, and the familiar walk to the store is all you need.

The streets shine faintly from the rain, puddles holding broken reflections of streetlights and neon signs. A bus rumbles by, sending a damp breeze that smells of wet pavement and far-off fried food. Somewhere close, a bike chain rattles, and a quiet laughter drifts from an alley.

Jeongguk’s already waiting by the convenience store, umbrella tilted enough to keep the rain off his shoulders. The pavement’s slick, but he stands like he’s been there a while—shirt crisp, slacks pressed, shoes untouched by the puddles gathering near the curb.

“Did you walk?” No ‘hi’s or ‘hello’s’, he greets you with a questioning look.

“Unless I was dumb enough to drive with the sunroof open in this weather, then sure.” You say, wiping your face with the cuffs of your blazer like it would make a difference.

“You’ll get sick.” Before you can even react, he pulls you under his umbrella, arm around your shoulders like it’s the most natural thing in the world. “Should’ve taken your car,” he mutters, and you almost miss the small, teasing glint in his eyes, “Or at least a raincoat, genius.”

“That would’ve ruined my outfit.”

“And it isn’t already?”

“Was aiming for that dramatic, soaked-to-the-bone, movie scene vibe—like something straight out of one of your old short films.” Jeongguk doesn’t laugh. Only tightens his grip a little on your shoulder.

“Let’s go inside before you turn into a puddle,” he says, almost quietly, as he begins steering you toward the convenience store.

It’s a familiar chaos inside – the old freezer rattling in the back, faded posters on the walls, narrow aisles that make you stand too close. You both slip into the old routine without thinking — wandering to the snack shelves, fingers brushing when you grab the same bag of chips, quietly arguing over ramen flavors in front of the shelves.

“Seafood again?” he murmurs when you toss two packs into the basket. “That’s gross.”

“You have gross taste.”

“I married you. You’re far from gross.”

You blink, a little thrown off, and for a second, you forget about the ramen in your hands. The playful remark catches in your throat, his words hanging in the air longer than they should.

“Going to get coffee. Put some ice-cream in that basket, will you?” You avoid his gaze. “And none of that mint choco shit, please.” Walking away, you hoped he doesn’t catch the way your heartbeat’s just a little bit faster.

Jeongguk snorts under his breath. Reaches for his usual spicy pick. Pauses over the pack. Sets it back quietly. Picks up the same flavor as yours instead.

The soft hum of the store surrounds you as you both sit by the window, ramen cups warming your hands. The rain taps against the glass in a steady rhythm that blends with the quiet between you. You take your time with each bite, the steam rising gently, mixing with the faint scent of the store’s dim lighting.

Every so often, a laugh escapes—when Jeongguk almost loses a fishcake or mutters under his breath about the heat of a bite still too much for him.

He blows on another spoonful, glancing around. “You could’ve picked anywhere,” he says, not quite looking at you. “Why here?”

You shrug, spoon tapping lightly against the rim of your cup. “Felt like ramen.”

“There’s a million places for ramen.”

You take a slow sip of broth, eyes fixed on the rain sliding down the window. “Yeah, but not all of them have that loud freezer in the back,” you say, nodding toward the buzzing from behind. “Music to my ears.”

Jeongguk huffs a soft laugh, shaking his head. “Right. Music.”

You nudge his foot with yours under the table. “Don’t act like you didn’t miss the suspiciously sticky floor.”

He smiles. Doesn’t say anything else.

The conversation wanders, light and easy. You complain about your mother’s terrible playlist from earlier at the house; he tells you about a messy photoshoot he has to redo with a rookie group who kept striking anime poses. The laughter between you softens.

Across from you, Jeongguk leans back a little, his shoulders no longer drawn so tight, and for a moment, everything feels a little lighter.

In between bites of ice cream, you catch him looking – nothing grand, just quick glances when you’re busy wrestling with a stubborn scoop. His eyes follow the way your brows pinch in concentration, the smudge of vanilla clinging to your chin.

Jeongguk doesn’t say anything. Just wipes the mess off you, goes right back to his own cup. You keep your eyes on your ice cream, but your next bite comes a little slower.

The cups end up stacked between you, half-melted, sticky around the edges. Neither of you says much as you stand, wiping your hands on stray napkins, and straightening your clothes as if it was another routine.

By the door, the rain is still coming down—not hard, but enough. You hesitate, eyeing the gray outside, the sidewalk gleaming wet. The cold’s starting to get to you, starts seeping into your bones but there’s no regret with your choices this morning. Just thoughts on how you were going to get to work.

Jeongguk shifts beside you, umbrella already in hand. “I’ll drive you.”

You shake your head, pulling your blazer a little tighter. “I’m good. It’s not far.”

The air outside feels lighter than it should, like the morning forgot to wear its usual weight — and maybe that’s why you’d rather walk.

He doesn’t argue. Just presses the umbrella into your hand and steps back. You glance down at it, then back at him, brows raised.

“No gifts,” you remind him of the list that’s been dangling around, messing with reality.

“It’s just an umbrella. I’ll get it some other time,” He’s already turning toward his own way. “Just—don’t do the dramatic rain scene again. Once was enough.”

You smile, barely. “No promises.”

The office buzzes with its usual tension—the kind that builds before a storm of deadlines. Fashion week team is about to leave, and it feels like you're nowhere near ready to give them what they need. You’re starting to regret asking your mother to let you focus on this last project instead of the rest of the pending things needed to be taken care of. You've been stuck at your desk for hours, scrolling through model updates, fabric delays, and endless revision requests.

The conversations outside your office, the clatter of keyboards near the desks nearby, fades just enough for your eyes to drift to the black umbrella leaning against the corner of the room. It leaves a brief comfort in your chest amidst the office chaos but you quickly push the thought away before focusing back to the never-ending tasks on the table.

Mark’s voice cuts through the noise like caffeine. “Are you planning to blink today or should I hire a personal assistant to turn your head every few hours?”

You roll your eyes, tapping at your tablet. “If you bring me one more intern who can’t tell crepe from chiffon, I’m replacing you with AI.”

“Please. Even an algorithm wouldn’t put up with your mood swings,” he mutters before sliding into the seat across from you. He barely gets comfortable before he squints at you. “You walk here or swim?”

You don’t look up. “It wasn’t that bad.”

“Sure. And I’m Miss Korea.” He leans back, head tilting slightly. “You’ve got that look—like one of those soaked leads in a drama who says they’re fine five minutes before fainting in the street.”

You finally glance at him, unimpressed. “I’m not going to faint.”

“Yet,” he adds, already pulling a file from your side of the desk like he’s about to manage your life himself. “Next time, toss on an extra coat. Or maybe wear a waterproof personality.”

You try not to smile, focus snapping back to your screen.

Mark flips through a few pages, then mutters like an afterthought, “Can’t even pick on you properly when you look like a sad dumpling.”

The hours stack on top of each other. Your inbox keeps refilling no matter how fast you clear it, and the tablet screen glares back like it’s judging your posture. Every time you blink, there’s a new message, a change in schedule, a missing sample no one can seem to track down. The morning calm feels like a different lifetime.

At some point, Mark slides a protein bar your way without looking up from the papers scattered. “If you pass out now, I’m not carrying you. My back’s already had enough this week.”

“For the hundredth time, no one’s passing out.” You huffed. “And don’t blame me for your old bones.”

“Take that back.”

You don’t.

Mark doesn’t say much after, just stands and disappears for a while—something about checking prints downstairs, or maybe he never said at all. You’re too deep into revisions to notice until his chair squeaks again.

Not long after, the office door creaks open. You don’t look up at first, expecting another intern with bad timing and worse questions. But then a voice breaks through the static in your head.

“You still squint at the screen like that? Thought Mark Hyung would’ve bought you glasses by now,” comes the familiar lilt.

Another joins in, teasing and warm, “She only listens to lectures if they’re wrapped in a compliment.”

You blink. And there they are—Hobi and Jimin. Hobi looks like he stepped out of a launch party, and Jimin, hoodie up, cap low, like he’s dodging both fans and responsibility. One of them’s already holding a takeout bag, the scent of something greasy and fried curling through the air like a bribe.

Jimin raises an eyebrow. “You eat today or just survive on sarcasm and spite?”

Hobi grins, leaning his elbows on your desk like he’s got all the time in the world. “Someone said you needed rescuing. And voilà, the rescue party has arrived.”

Jimin plops down in the chair beside him, pulling his cap a little higher. “Not like we needed the call. But if we didn’t show up today, you’d probably talk to your fabric suppliers till later and not even squeeze in a call to deliver bread at least.”

You snort, setting your tablet down with a sigh. “If I had known I was going to get a course on how to stay on track today, I should’ve left the office, gone to the mountains for a hike.”

Jimin raises a brow. “Bold of you to assume we wouldn’t follow.”

“You’d get lost halfway up and complain about not having Wi-Fi,” you mutter, but the corner of your mouth is already lifting.

The smell of fried chicken and bulgogi fills the office as the five of you settle into the small lounge area. The takeout containers are spread out like a battlefield, half of them already picked through, the other half still piping hot.

Hobi leans back in his chair, balancing a bottle of soda between his hands. “I still think you should let me do a rebrand on your office look. Maybe a neon sign with your name in it. Just to hype this place up.”

You roll your eyes, feeling a laugh bubbling up. “A neon sign in this place will make my company look like a club instead of a luxury fashion line.”

Hobi’s grin widens. “Man, I miss clubbing. Like an actual party where I don’t have an earpiece with staff panicking and asking what comes next.”

You shake your head, chuckling despite yourself. “You and your partying ass. Get over it.”

Jimin, who’s been quietly observing the banter, leans in with a teasing smile. “It’s not that bad. Though I bet Hobi Hyung would love an excuse to throw a real party here. We could call it ‘Fashion Week: The After-Party Edition.’”

You raise an eyebrow at him. “Don’t encourage him.”

Hobi shrugs innocently. “What? A little bit of fun never hurt anyone.”

You laugh, finally feeling like yourself again.

Jimin’s expression turns a little more serious. “It’s been a while since we caught up. Really caught up, you know?” He’s smiling, but there’s a quiet edge behind his words. “You good?”

You shift in your seat, avoiding his gaze for just a moment. “I’m fine,” you say, a little too quickly. “Just... busy.”

Hobi isn’t having it, though. Leans forward, narrows his eyes at you. “You sure? Because from where I’m sitting, you look like a walk-in freezer that’s been running on empty. I don’t know what’s worse—watching you survive on coffee or seeing you avoid the topic every time someone asks.”

Mark shifts, his gaze flicking between you and Hobi, before cutting in lightly, “Hobi’s just mad because he doesn’t get to plan your next ‘catch-up’ event. But yeah... ‘fine’ is not the word I’d use.”

Jimin sighs, a little quieter now. “You’ve been through a lot. If you want to talk about it—”

You shake your head, a half-hearted smile trying to escape. “It’s nothing. Just work and... you know other stuff.”

Hobi watches you closely, the corner of his mouth twitching in a subtle frown. “I get it, you’ve got a lot on your plate. But... seriously, how are you holding up? Other than—” you give him a look that makes him stop. “Jeongguk, how are things with Jeongguk?”

Your lips part, but nothing lands right away. “We’re... civil.” It’s all you say.

You don’t mention how you’ve been pretending to be fine with how things are, even when it’s harder than it should be. You don’t mention how you’ve offered yourself to your soon to be ex-husband’s shoulder to cry on when he shares his troubles with the woman, he’s replaced you with. You don’t mention how you sometimes catch yourself wanting to ask him things you shouldn’t.

“Civil,” Jimin echoes, unconvinced, breaking the silence.

“He’s civil. I’m civil. He’s keeping to the terms.”

“Civil’s overrated. Bare minimum” Hobi crosses his arms, drifting his attention to the office windows. “He’s still fucking married to you. Supposed to be giving you these things without it being printed on some damn paper. You don’t have to play nice for anyone.”

You stiffen slightly but keep your expression neutral. “It’s complicated, Hobi.”

Hobi raises an eyebrow, not backing down. “That’s your polite way of saying you’re letting someone walk all over you?”

Before you can respond, Jimin cuts in gently, giving Hobi a warning glance. “Take it easy.”

Hobi leans back, giving a mock sigh. “Told you from the beginning, I never liked that list.”

You smile faintly. “You also said we were the couple that’d never fall apart.”

“I still lose sleep over my wedding pep talk for you.”

“Loved that pep talk. Probably would’ve run away if it weren’t for that.”

“Good,” Hobi replies dryly. “You should’ve.”

Jimin shakes his head with a half-smile. “Hyung, let it go. Jeongguk’s important to her, she loves him and that means we have to tolerate him.”

Mark, who’s been pretending to focus on sorting samples, chimes in. “As long as he doesn’t mess with her deadlines, I don’t care who she loves.”

You snort, grateful for the shift. “Touching.”

“I try,” he deadpans, then sets a fabric swatch book down with a soft thud. “Now, if you three are done reliving heartbreak, someone needs to sort these model cards before I start mixing up shoe sizes with waistlines.”

Hobi stretches with a groan but grabs a stack anyway. “Alright, boss man. But I’m only helping if you admit I make this office look good.”

“You’re literally in a hoodie,” Mark replies.

“It’s Louis,” Hobi grins, already flipping through cards.

Jimin moves beside you, peeking at your tablet. “I’ll take over this round of approvals. You look like you’ve forgotten how to breathe again.”

You don’t argue. Instead, you lean back, letting them fall into your chaos like they’ve always known how. For the first time that day, the weight on your shoulders feels a little lighter.

The sounds of clicking keyboards and soft rustles of fabrics fills your office. Hobi’s made himself at home by the mood board, offering unasked-for commentary on color pairings while Jimin plays assistant, flipping through lookbooks with exaggerated seriousness.

“Please tell me this model isn’t walking the finale in suede,” Jimin mutters, squinting at a printout.

“She’s not,” Mark replies dryly. “Unless you’re volunteering to carry her down the runway when she slips.”

“Depends—do I get a signature Seora tux?”

You just listen, fingers moving slower over the tablet screen. Hobi's voice floats nearby, filling the room with something lighter than what usually hangs in the air. Even Mark’s tension has eased.

Your phone buzzes once, face down beside the tablet. Absentmindedly, you flip it over.

An Instagram story—Jeongguk’s username in soft gray at the top.

You tap before you can think. It’s a video, no more than five seconds. A woman in the passenger seat, laughing at something, her voice muffled by the hum of the road. The camera shifts slightly—Jeongguk must be holding it—then settles on her smile. The caption reads nothing but a small white heart.

The video ends. The screen stays still in your hand. Something in you stills with it—like a thread pulled too tight.

Around you, the others are still talking, still moving. Jimin’s flipping through a file, Hobi’s complaining about fluorescent lighting, Mark is reaching for the stapler.

You clear your throat, folding the tablet shut a little too gently. “We should go out.”

Jimin looks up. “Now?”

“Now,” You’re already reaching for your coat. “Need something stupid. Loud music. Tequila. Bad choices.”

Mark doesn’t move right away. “You hate drinking.”

“I hate being bored more Besides, Hobi said he misses the club.”

He squints at you, like he’s trying to see what’s beneath your voice, then shrugs. “Fine. But if you start handing out hair ties instead of cash again, I’m not pitching in for the bill.”

Hobi chokes on his drink. “You what?”

“She tipped a cab driver with pastel scrunchies once,” Mark says, deadpan. “Three of them. Said they were limited edition.”

“They were,” you mutter, grabbing your bag.

He grins. “She blinked twice and called him a national hero.”

“Did not.”

Jimin’s already pulling you toward the elevator. “Definitely something you’d do.”

By the time the city wraps itself in night, you're walking into a bar – walls pulse with bass-heavy music, sticky tabletops, all neon haze and lights smearing across floors. It smells like citrus and vodka, crowd packed in and pressed close. The music thrums deep in your chest—loud enough to make you forget why you needed to come here in the first place.

Mark secures a booth near the back, but it’s barely enough to keep the group together. Hobi’s already nodding along to the beat, shoulder-rolling with someone from another table.

Jimin returns with drinks, grinning like a thief. “Don’t ask what’s in these. Just trust me.”

You take the glass, the cold damp against your fingers. Sip, cough, and laugh—too sharp, too quick.

Mark watches you over the rim of his drink. Doesn’t say anything, just clinks his glass gently against yours, like a nudge. Like he knows.

The music’s heavy with bass pulsing through the floor and bodies moving like they’ve got nowhere else to be. You’re tucked in a booth with the others, nursing something that tastes vaguely like lime and trouble. Your cheeks are flushed from the heat, maybe the alcohol — hard to tell.

Jimin’s off in the crowd, still dancing, his shirt clinging to his back. Hobi’s yelling at the bartender about the injustice of watered-down whiskey. The chaos keeps spinning around you.

Mark returns with a bottle of water, sliding it in front of you without a word.

You give him a look. “No more fruity disasters?”

“Your face is pink, and you’re blinking like the lights are talking to you. Figured hydration might be smart.”

You crack a smile, fingers curling around the cold bottle.

“You good?” he asks, all teasing disappears in the air.

You nod, too quick. “Having fun.”

His eyes linger on you for a second longer than they should, but he doesn’t say anything else. Just leans back, letting his arm rest on the back of the booth, fingers tapping along to the beat — slow, relaxed.

“Still can’t believe you’re out drinking,” he says after a beat. “Thought you swore off alcohol after trying to tip that cab driver with your hair tie stash.”

You groan. “I thought they were coins.”

“You tried to convince him you were paying in ‘emotional value.’” He’s laughing now, full-bodied and loud, and you can’t help but laugh too.

“Still think he should’ve taken the deal.”

“Yeah, well. I think he did out of fear.”

He bumps your knee gently with his. No big deal. Just enough to remind you you’re still here — not stuck in your head or somewhere else entirely.

The tray keeps refilling, and so does the laughter. Something about the loud music, the spinning lights, and Hobi trying to choreograph a dance routine with two strangers at the bar makes everything feel distant, easier. Lighter.

You’re halfway through a very passionate explanation about why mozzarella sticks should be a food group when you decide — loudly, proudly — that it’s time to get your life together.

“Okay, okay, wait—shhh,” you hush the table like you're about to deliver breaking news. You dig through your bag like there’s treasure buried beneath the receipts and lip balm. “I need to call Jin. Like, right now. I’m making big-girl choices.”

Mark side-eyes you. “You’ve had three drinks in the past thirty minutes and tried to high-five a coat rack.”

“I meant to,” you insist, already tapping at your screen. “No more waiting. No more maybe-this, maybe-that. We’re finalizing the divorce. I’m done.”

Hobi nudges the bottle of soju away from your reach. “I vote we give it till tomorrow, when you’re not quoting Taylor Swift between shots.”

“Thought you wanted me to get rid of Ggukie?” Your cuteness usually does the trick of easing your friends. Guess mixing it with drunkenness was not as effective as you thought it’d be.

“Babe, that’s enough.” Jimin tries taking the two shots you’ve stolen from Mark but you’ve already drowned it before your thumb scrolls past half your contact list. You squint. The letters blur a little. It start’s with a ‘J’. That’s good enough. Green button. Press. Done.

It rings once.

Twice.

Then clicks.

“Hello?”

You don’t wait for confirmation.

“Jin! Listen to me. I’m ready. Let’s just finalize it. The divorce. The thing. You know. The huge emotional mess I’ve been dancing around like it’s a part-time hobby?”

There pause on the other end encourages you to go on.

“No, seriously, like—what am I even doing anymore? It’s been dragging on and on and now I’m out here at Seoul Clubhouse, in case you need to send backup—and I’ve had, like, three drinks and a fry that might’ve been someone else’s, and I’m just—tired, Jin.”

You tap your nail against your glass, looking anywhere but at your friends. “It fucking hurts. Pretending everything's okay fucking hurts.”

Hobi watches you closely. Mark pretends not to. Jimin’s stopped trying to grab the phone from you.

“Thought I was stronger than this. This was supposed to make me happy,” you mumble, softer now. “But here I am, making emotional speeches to my lawyer like a rom-com extra.”

You pause for breath, lifting the phone to say more—maybe something about closure, or freedom, or how weirdly loud the DJ’s playlist is tonight—but all you get is a click.

The call ends.

The blurry call log stares back at you, vague and impersonal. You drop your phone into your bag, reaching for another drink as Mark leans closer, steering the conversation back toward something safer.

The lights blur like streaks of color, and the bass is thudding through your shoes. You don’t even feel your legs anymore. Just warmth—in your cheeks, in your chest, maybe in your throat, too, where the last round of drinks is still trying to settle.

You’re laughing at something Jimin said, though you’re not sure what it was, and your body leans a little too far to the side. Mark catches you with a steady hand on your back. He says something, but the music swallows it whole. You don’t hear him. Just feel the steadiness of him.

Your hand finds his. Without thinking, you lace your fingers together like it's nothing. Like it’s normal.

Mark stiffens a little, glancing at you—but you don’t meet his eyes. Just leaned your head against his shoulder, letting your fingers rest there in his. He doesn’t move away. Your breath is warm against his neck, and then your hand is brushing his jaw as you lift your face. The space between you pulls thinner. You lean in—

He pulls away before your lips get too close.

"Nope," he says, half-laughing, half-sighing. "Don’t go handing out kisses like drink coupons. I’m flattered, but also not trying to get sued by future you. Plus, you're not going to be like him."

You squint up at him. "You’re no fun."

"I’m plenty fun. Just also not a complete idiot."

He smiles at you, but his eyes say something softer. Excuses himself to get more napkins from the bar before you notice anything. Or maybe you’re too far gone you’re seeing things.

Jeongguk’s not sure what made him come. Maybe it was the call. Maybe it was the silence that followed. Maybe it was your voice on the other end, slurring things he didn’t know would break him.

His eyes adjust slowly to the dim lights and flashing neon. The music hits him first—loud, messy, alive. Then he sees you.

You’re at a booth, slumped a little, smiling faintly, blinking slow. Your makeup’s a little smudged at the edges. Mark sits beside you, arm draped across the booth behind your shoulders. Casual, but close.

He leans in to say something near your ear and you tilt your head, eyes closing like it’s the only way to stay balanced.

Jeongguk watches from where he stands near the door, half-hidden behind a group laughing on their way out. It should be easy to walk away. You’re surrounded by friends. You look… happy. Or at least like someone trying to be.

But his jaw tightens, and something keeps his feet planted.

Hobi spots him first. There’s no welcome in his stare. Just the faintest wrinkle between his brows. A silent question. Or maybe a warning.

Jeongguk nods once, barely.

And then your eyes find him. Even through the haze, something sobers in your face.

“We’re leaving,” he says once he’s close enough. His voice cuts through the haze like a thread—steady and low.

You blink, slowly. “We are?”

“Let’s go,” he replies simply.

“I came with them.”

Jeongguk looks at the group. Hobi’s arms are crossed, unreadable. Jimin’s chewing on his lip. Mark’s the last to glance up, his jaw clenched.

“She’ll be alright,” Mark says, but it lacks conviction.

“Respectfully Hyung, fuck off.” Jeongguk says, gaze flicking toward him. “She called me. This conversation is between me and my wife.”

“She’s your wife now?”

That pulls a shift in the air. Everyone exchanges glances, and it hits you with a wave of confusion.

“I didn’t…” you trail off, brows pulling in.

“Go,” Jimin leans over, pressing his palm to your back. “You’ll feel better if you talk.”

You look back at Jeongguk. His face isn’t angry. Isn’t soft either. Just still.

Your mouth opens to argue, but Hobi already helping you stand. “Call us if anything happens.”

Jeongguk takes your coat from the booth, drapes it gently over your shoulders. The moment you step into the cold air outside, it bites at your skin, but the tension in your chest is sharper.

You’re not sure how Jeongguk’s here. How he even knew where to find you. Not sure why your friends wanted you to do this as if they knew it’s something that the two of you needed right now.

But you’re walking beside him anyway, under the streetlights, your steps unsteady but sure enough to follow.

Jeongguk drives out of the city, past the closed shops and quiet streets, until the lights thin out and the trees start replacing buildings. You don’t know where he’s taking you at first. Just know that you want to get out of the seat that was occupied not too long ago by someone you wish you never get to see in this lifetime.

But you don’t smell that awfully familiar expensive, sweet, citrus fragrance that usually made your stomach churn. Then again, you’re too drunk out of your ass to know which of your senses were functioning right at the moment.

Jeongguk parks at the edge of an overlook, an old, tucked away spot you haven’t seen in years. A place people go to when they need to escape the harsh reality.

“Used to come here,” you murmur, eyes on the city lights below. “When the world felt too loud.”

“I know,” he says, leading you to the bench that’s still around. “You brought me here once. After your first runway show. Said the noise didn’t follow you up this high.”

Dropping onto the bench, you look up to the sky. “No one ever comes here this late.”

“That’s the point, right?”

Beyond the trees, a breeze stirs the leaves, brushing through the branches like a careful whisper. A few crickets sing from the grass nearby, soft and steady, like they’re keeping a quiet rhythm for the moment. The single lamppost nearby, casts long shadows that barely move. Everything feels like it’s waiting—for what, you’re not sure.

Jeongguk observes you, like he’s trying to find something in your expression he hasn’t seen before. “Any reason you chose a night of partying instead of dinner with me?”

“Thought maybe tequila, mojitos and shots of soju would help with forgetting – better than some truffle pasta that’s not even made with real truffle. And some noodles they probably boiled in the microwave.”

“Excuse me,” Jeongguk scoffs, then chuckles under his breath, trying to ease the tension between you. “That restaurant is Italian-owned. Verified and approved by Taehyung. You know how picky he is.”

You groan, your head falling back in laughter, nearly tipping off the bench—until Jeongguk catches your arm and pulls you close to his side. “Don’t make me add another regret to tonight.”

Jeongguk doesn’t say anything—just keeps his arm around your shoulders, steady and quiet.

“I’m sorry you had to come here,” you whisper, hoping he hears you over the wind starting to pick up. “Sorry if I messed up your plans for tonight.”

He exhales softly. “My plan was to take this beautiful woman to a little place called Eatanic Garden,” He glances down at you, voice playful. “She was supposed to have her favorite truffle pasta and a wine that was way too expensive for what it tasted like. Maybe laugh at my awful attempt to be the next best comedian in Korea.”

You smile, eyes barely open. “Sounds like she dodged a bullet.”

“Hope she didn’t,” he says, tugging your jacket gently. “She’d love that truffle pasta.”

You don’t answer. Just stare at the city beyond you. Jeongguk looks at you then, and his voice comes softer this time. “You okay?”

You nod, too fast. “Yeah… just a little foggy. Think I said some really dumb stuff earlier.”

“Yeah?” he asks, casual—but not really. You sense there’s something behind it, just couldn’t pin point what.

Shifting closer to Jeongguk, your body instinctively leans into his chest like it’s the only stable thing in your spinning world right now. “Last I remember, I picked up the phone. Meant to call Jin…probably to yell at him about paperwork or whatever.”

Jeongguk goes still like he’s holding his breath. You’re not sure. You’re too far into your head to name it.

“Didn’t even check if I dialed the right number,” you mumble, fingers now twisting in the hem of your sleeve. “Might’ve said things I didn’t mean…”

He swallows, his voice coming quieter than before. “Remember anything you said?”

You shrug against him. “Not really. Just that feeling like I was ready to... burn something down. Start over, maybe.” You laugh, but it comes out hollow. “Bet I sounded like a mess.”

“You didn’t sound like a mess.” Jeongguk says. Shrugs off the surprised look on your face, looks away with a forced kind of ease. “I mean…I can just imagine. You’re not really the screaming type, rambling maybe, but never yelling, even drunk. Probably just another sad and dramatic episode of yours.”

You narrow your eyes at him, half-joking. “Wow. Thanks.”

“Must’ve been a weird conversation, though. For the person who picked up, I mean.”

“Yeah. Wonder if I even got through Jin.” You tried looking for your phone in your bag, eyes still clouded. Relieved you got to find it quickly. Only for Jeongguk to snatch it away from you. You frown, not expecting him to take it. “Hey—”

“Maybe don’t check it right now,” Jeongguk holds the phone just out of reach. His voice is gentle, almost coaxing. “You’ve had enough for tonight.”

You blink up at him, confused. “What? Why?”

He hesitates. “Because I don’t think you’ll like seeing the call log.”

Your stomach dips.

He doesn’t hand the phone back.

You look at him suspiciously, your senses suddenly coming together when you start to move away from him. “It was you, wasn’t it? I called you.”

Jeongguk taps against the phone once. Doesn’t answer.

The ripple in your chest feels like a shoot set has collapsed. “That’s why you’re here. Fuck, I called you. What did I say?”

He hesitates, shakes his head, thinks he can keep the truth from you. “Doesn’t matter.”

“Gguk.”

There’s a long pause but he couldn’t keep up with the way you were looking at him. “You said you were done holding on. That it was time.” His voice cracks there, so faintly you almost miss it. “You didn’t say my name. Didn’t have to.”

Silence pools around you. The wind brushes past your cheek, cold now. “I was drunk.”

“You sounded sure. Of finally letting go.”

You pause, glance at him with a tired smile. “That'd be a relief for you. Your final freedom.”

There’s a flicker in his expression—gone almost instantly, but you catch it. A tightening around the eyes. “Sure, whatever you say.”

“I’m sorry for whatever other stupid shit I said.”

His fingers twitch slightly where they still rest near yours, like they want to reach for you again but think better of it. “You said what you felt. That’s not stupid.”

You observe how composed he looks, how carefully he holds himself together. It strikes you, strangely, how calm he is right now. Or rather, how hard he’s trying to look like it.

“You’re being weird,” you mutter, resting your head against the back of the bench.

“I’m always weird,” Jeongguk says, but there’s no bite to it. Just quiet. A stillness too long between his answers. “Come on,” he says gently, brushing a loose strand of hair from your face. “Let’s get you home.”

The air is too warm, too still. The silk sheets tangled around your legs feel like they’re trapping heat instead of offering comfort. Light cuts through the curtains in soft gold streaks, but there’s nothing gentle about the weight pressing against your chest.

Your skin’s damp — not from sweat, but from something deeper, like your body’s been fighting a quiet war all night and lost.

Every breath feels heavier than it should. Your limbs ache, not the kind that disappears after stretching, but the kind that lingers under the surface. Dull. Faintly buzzing. Like a warning that’s easy to ignore until it isn’t.

Somewhere downstairs, you hear muffled footsteps. A door opens, closes. Then silence again. Must be your mother leaving for grocery errands. You hoped it was. Wouldn’t want her seeing you like this again.

You shift onto your side, half hoping it’ll ease the tightness in your head, but it doesn’t. Instead, it sharpens — a pulsing reminder of everything you poured into last night like it wouldn’t matter come morning.

Your phone vibrates against the nightstand. Once. Twice. You painfully reach for it. Read the messages through hazy vision.

Tuanzy 👴🏼: You alive? Or did Soju win?

🌞💛: Barely. Think I’m actually dying.

Tuanzy 👴🏼: Joke like that again, and I’m firing you.

🌞💛: Can’t fire me. I’m the boss. Just not today. Think you can handle off-site alone?

Tuanzy 👴🏼: Already on it. Sending help. Hate me next time.

You don’t argue. Don’t have the strength to. Just go back to sleep at some point before the heat becomes worse. Not from the blazing afternoon sun. No, you love those. Loved how it’s a comforting warmth on your skin. This time, it burns from the inside. Your bones feel like they’re melting and freezing at the same time.

The knock is soft when it comes. Two taps and a pause.

“Let me guess,” you mumble hoarsely. “Doctor delivery service?”

The door opens. Yoongi steps in — long black coat, silver chain peeking beneath his collar, a familiar bag slung over his shoulder. “You look awful.”

“Always know how to greet an old friend huh?”

He drags a chair to your bedside, sinks into, starts pulling things from his bag. “I should start charging Mark Hyung at this point.”

“I’ll pay you in cough drops and poor life decisions.”

“Pass.” He checks your pulse first, fingers cool against your wrist. His brows knit slightly. “Heart’s too fast.”

“Guess it missed you.”

Yoongi doesn’t smile. Just presses a thermometer under your tongue and sets his watch.

“Thought I felt bad last night when I got home.” You mumble. “Turns out that was just the preview.”

“Didn’t even change out of your clothes.” His tone’s flat, but still gently works the blanket over you. “That’s not ‘preview’ bad. That’s post disaster.”

“Was cold. Too tired to change, to do anything else.”

The thermometer beeps, and he checks it with a short sigh. “High. Not dangerous yet, but pushing it.” The stethoscope goes against your chest next. “Breathe.”

Shallow breaths. Deeper. Again. Yoongi listens for too long. Finally, he pulls back and leans in his chair, rubbing his jaw. “You’re paler than usual.”

“Thanks. Been trying this new foundation—thought we could use it for the Paris models. Not for my skin though.”

Yoongi doesn’t even blink. “Well, your new foundation’s reading a 41.2°C and counting.”

You groan and drop your head back into the pillows. “Maybe I’m just glowing.”

“If by glowing you mean burning alive from the inside out, sure.”

Your fingers tighten around the edge of the blanket. “It’s just a fever.”

“You’ve had three in two weeks.“

“I danced in the rain and drank poison. What else do you want from me?”

Yoongi leans back, crosses his arms. “To stop being reckless hoping the damage resets overnight.”

You look away. “It didn’t. So boo me.”

Yoongi shifts forward, reaching for your wrist again to check your pulse a second time. “I’m prescribing rest, fluids, and for you to stop pretending this is fine.” He begins repacking his bag slowly but doesn’t leave.

“Not pretending.”

“You are,” he reaches over and brushes the damp hair away from your forehead. “Can’t keep burning both ends. Sooner or later, it’s going to catch up.”

You pretend not to hear him. And he pretends not to notice.

Then Yoongi's gone. The silence that follows is louder than anything he left behind.

The gym smells like metal and sweat — the kind that sticks to your skin, soaks into your clothes, and clouds the mirrors. Jeongguk moves through his warm-up before the sun is even visible, breath steady, arms coiled tight under the weight of the barbell. The plates clink against each other like a metronome. Clean. Predictable. Easier than the mess in his head.

He lifts until his muscles burn and his palms sting. Until the thoughts go quiet.

Across the room, Mingyu waves, a playful grin on his face. They slip into an easy back-and-forth — set for set, sweat for sweat — until the hours pass, and they’re both leaning by the water cooler, shirts stuck to their skin, hearts still pounding.

“Bulking again?” Mingyu jokes, flicking his towel at Jeongguk’s side.

Jeongguk just shrugs, glancing away. “Just staying busy.”

Mingyu smirks, eyes unreadable. “That’s a lot of protein powder for someone who’s just passing time.”

Jeongguk doesn’t explain. Wouldn’t know where to start if he tried.

By the time he gets home, the sun’s high enough to throw soft shadows across the hardwood floor. He lets the gym bag fall by the stairs. The house greets him the same way it always does now — too still, too neat. Like a place where nothing lives anymore.

His eyes land on the scuff mark on the wall — the small dent from when you’d tried to carry that too-big box upstairs, laughing as you bumped into everything. He always said he’d fix it. Never did.

The fridge clicks open, cold light spilling over shelves lined up too neatly. No jars of sauce shoved in the corners. No half-empty cartons of almond milk pushed to the back. Just neat rows of containers he doesn’t remember filling. He shuts it again, the sound sharp in the quiet air.

A purple tulip sits on the counter in a slim glass vase — yesterday’s, technically, but the petals still hold their shape. His fingers graze the stem as he walks by. He changes the water. Watches it settle.

The streets of Seochon hum with life. Rain from the night before clings to the stone, and the scent of something sweet drifts from the café on the corner. Jeongguk walks beside Taehyung, listening — mostly — to a monologue about some artist who paints sadness in nothing but blues and grays. Taehyung calls it moving. Jeongguk can’t decide if it sounds lonely or honest.

His thoughts keep slipping sideways. To the curve of your shoulders under his jacket. To how small you felt, pressed against his side. To the way your voice cracked — just once — when you said you were ready to let go.

“You’re distracted,” Taehyung says, lightly shoving the younger to the sidewalk.

Jeongguk lets out a soft laugh, shaking his head. “I’m okay.”

“Sure,” Taehyung drawls, but he doesn’t push. That’s the thing about old friends — they know when to let the quiet be.

They stop beneath a green awning, where a street stall overflows with peonies, ranunculus, and there, bold and bright — purple tulips. Jeongguk goes still, the movement small, almost easy to miss.

Taehyung leans in, his voice low. “Coincidence?”

Jeongguk doesn’t answer. Doesn’t have to.

There’s a shop tucked behind the record store — tiny, too warm, a little cluttered. He trails his fingers along the edge of a display until they stop on a postcard. Tulips, faded and bleeding at the corners like a memory that won’t stay whole. It’s just a card. Just paper. He keeps telling himself that as he brings it to the counter, as he slips it into his pocket.

Back home, it rests between his fingers longer than it should before he tucks it into a book you loved. The Little Prince. Right at the part with the fox —the part you always stopped at, smiling softly when you read it out loud.

Somewhere in between folding the laundry too neatly and fixing the bookshelf for the third time, the stillness starts to feel heavy. His eyes drift to the window — to the sky that stretches wide and quiet. He doesn’t name the feeling, but it tightens in his chest. It’s not longing. It’s not regret. He doesn’t know anymore what it is.

It’s nothing, he tells himself. Just the pull of an open day.

Almost without thinking, Jeongguk grabs his keys. The tulip on the counter watches as he walks past. The door clicks shut behind him. Though the house doesn’t speak, it feels like it knows exactly where he’s gone.

The afternoon drapes itself softly over the garden. You tip the watering can, slow and steady, watching droplets gather on the leaves, the scent sharp and familiar. Somewhere near the trellis, a bee hums lazily through the air, darting between lavender blossoms, unbothered by your presence.

From the veranda, your mother’s voice floats across the stones, light with amusement. “Careful — you’re going to drown that poor basil.”

You glance back, lips curving, the sun catching in your hair. “I’m practicing moderation,” you call, the words lilting, playful.

She steps onto the path with practiced grace, linen robe brushing her ankles, arms folded loosely in front of her. “You’ve been out here all morning.”

“Figured I owed the basil after nearly drowning myself with cocktails the other night.”

Her brow arches. “Drowning yourself and calling the wrong number, apparently.”

You don’t answer, just lean over to pat soil around a drooping sprig, movements a little too careful.

Your mother watches you for a moment longer. “You know, sweetheart, it’s okay to rest. You don’t have to work it off like penance.”

“I’m not,” you say quickly, too quickly. “I’m just—”

“—fine,” she finishes, a faint smile at the edge of her lips. “You always say that when you’re not.”

You blink down at the planter, pretending to check the stems again. Your hands smell of thyme and dirt, and there’s a tight pull in your shoulder that won’t quite stretch out. “It was one stupid night.”

Her hand brushes your hair back, a mother’s touch — practiced and full of quiet worry. “You walked in the rain in a blazer too thin for the season. Skipped meals if it weren’t for your friends. Then burned through your tolerance like you were nineteen again.”

You huff, a little defensive. “I’m only thirty-three. I’m still allowed to be a mess sometimes.”

Her thumb smooths over your temple. “Not this kind of mess.”

The words land heavier than you expect. You try to brush it off with a laugh, reaching for the watering can again. “Come on. You said I needed fresh air. This counts.”

“You’ve had enough fresh air,” she says, fingers curling gently around your wrist. “Let the gardeners do the rest.”

“I’m not fragile,” you say, too soft for it to sound convincing.

“Never said you were.” But she holds your wrist a moment longer before letting go.

You sit back on your heels, breath coming thinner now. The sun is warm, but there’s a faint chill that clings to your spine, like it knows something you don’t. Still, you press a palm to the planter’s edge and slowly push yourself to your feet.

“I’m fine,” you repeat, forcing a smile. “Just went overboard a little, that’s all.”

Your mother doesn’t press further, but her eyes flick over you once more — the way your skin looks slightly paler today, the subtle flush that’s not from the sun. She lets it go, for now.

“You’ll come in soon?” she asks.

“In a minute,” you promise, already turning back to the herbs.

She nods once, then makes her way back toward the house, her robe trailing softly behind her.

The wind shifts. A breeze filters through the garden, carrying the scent of earth and rosemary, and something else — a hint of something familiar. You don’t notice it at first. You’re too focused on getting the soil just right, on grounding yourself in this routine that feels easier than thinking.

But then — the faint creak of the garden gate.

You glance up, startled.

Jeongguk stands at the edge of the path, the sun catching on his dark hair, a paper bag in one hand, the other tucked into the pocket of his coat. He looks like he wasn’t sure he’d find you here. Like he wasn’t sure he should’ve come at all.

You straighten slowly, heart thudding, unsure if the warmth rushing through you is from the heat or something else entirely.

He lifts the bag slightly, something sheepish in the tilt of his mouth. “Brought croffles.”

“It’s Sunday.”

His gaze flicks over you, pausing at your flushed cheeks, your hands smudged with soil. “Yeah,” he says softly. “I know.”

#jungkook fanfiction #jungkook ff #jungkook fanfic #jungkook x reader #jungkook x yn #bts fanfction #fanfic #bts jeon jungkook #kim namjoon #kim seokjin #min yoongi #jung hoseok #park jimin #kim taehyung #jeon jungkook

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cxrsed-angel · 6 months ago

Text

Once Bitten and Twice Shy

Jackson!Joel Miller x fem!Reader, 18+

summary: Joel is uninterested in holdiday festitvies until he reunites with a familiar face who loves to spread the holiday spirit. Alternatively, Joel the Grinch is reunited with his Martha May Whohiver.

wc: 4k

warnings: Jackson!Joel, unspecified big age gap, smut (unprotected piv sex), fingering, a bit angsty, (sad and lonely old man Joel) the timeline kinda doesn't make sense but its not that important so just ignore it.

a/n: Here's a holiday fic for my last fic of 2024 <3.

Joe hated this time of year. The twinkling of Christmas lights decorated on almost every home and roof in Jackson, lights decorated around light poles, bows around the light poles. The community hosts holiday events for the children, people putting up their homemade holiday decor, and the whole town covered in snow, making it look like a scene from a Christmas movie. It's a time that’s supposed to be joyful, cheerful, and merry, but it was never that for Joel. Not since ‘03, Christmas hasn't felt happy around this time of year. It was always filled with pain, regret, memories he couldn't seem to forget, and mourning the things he’d never experienced.

At first, Christmas and the holiday season, in general, were hard for him after he had lost Sarah. He couldn’t help but think about all the times he had gotten her letters to Santa she had written when she was 3 and 4 or when she was “subtly” hinting at something for Christmas when she got too old for Santa. Or the time she saved up money to buy him a cologne and a new tool belt with the help of Tommy.

After that day, the day he lost her, he ignored anything having to do with the holiday, and this time of year, which wasn't hard to do in QZ, there’s barely any holiday spirit or festive decor, but that was increasingly difficult until he met you. You had gotten paired together for a run because Tess was sick, and ever since then, you were something he couldn’t shake, and you grew closer. For the two and half years he knew you, you had made the Grinch’s heart grow three sizes. He’d never say it, but you'd had let him allow himself to enjoy this time of year.

You always hung up whatever festive Christmas decorations and winter decor you could find all over your shitty FEDRA apartment. Joel tried too hard to fight it, but the more time he spent with you, the harder that was. He often joked you were one of Santa’s last remaining elves on earth. He spent two Christmases with you. He remembers helping you hang up whatever you couldn’t reach.

“Joel… can you help me hang this nail.. it won't go into this shitty door!… he sees you holding the red, green, and white wreath you had found somewhere, trying to mount it on the shitty, broken, falling apart apartment door. “well I think you need might wreath hanger sweetheart…” he sees confusion flash across your face but only momentarily,” I can't just hang it on a nail…” Joel sighs before taking the wreath and hanging it up. He pretends he doesn’t enjoy your holiday spirit like he doesn't get happy when he hears the records and CDs of whatever holiday music you could scrounge up, like he doesn’t look forward to seeing your festive apartment every time he visits you.

But that was before. Now, he can't stand the music, the smell of holiday baking, and warm homemade candles. Ellie would joke and call him the Grinch or Scrouge, but that was when Ellie talked to him. Now, he’s lucky if Ellie glances in his direction. But he had no one now, and he could spend time with Tommy and Maria, but since the baby had arrived, it had been hard for him to see Tommy as a dad. Luckily, Tommy knows his brother and tends to give him things to work on to distract himself, especially after he and Elie drifted apart.

Tommy comes into Joel’s workshop. He sees Joel working, an old Linda Ronstadt CD playing barely audible due to the sound of Joel's woodcutter. Tommy bangs on another table lightly, grabbing Joel’s attention. He stops the woodcutter, looking up at his brother.

“If it’s about the broken window for Mrs Anderson, I'm working on it,” Joel mutters from behind the woodcutter, starting it again but stopping when Tommy speaks again.

“No...no, it's not about the window. I need you to do me a favor. Can you show someone to her place? She just got here; it's house #40. I would, but Maria is doing some town stuff, and I gotta watch the baby.”

Joel sighs, taking off his protective glasses and trading them for his regular black-framed corrective lenses. He moves away from his woodworking table, looking at his younger brother with an unsatisfied stare.

“Now?” Joel grumbles under his breath, obviously annoyed.

“Yes, Joel, now... please,” Tommy asks, begging. He knows that asking Joel to do anything he didn’t want to do after November was a challenge. But Tommy really didn’t have anyone else, and Joel happened to be the closest person to ask for help.

Joel once again lets out a sigh, once again showing his reaction to being unconvinced. Usually, he wouldn’t care, but now, whenever he's near the front gates, near the most decorated parts of Jackson, it gets hard to breathe. He gets the aching feeling in his heart. He thinks of you more and more, and he wonders if he made a mistake. He starts getting up to follow Tommy out of his shed.

“Wow got a lady waiting in the snow? Such a gentleman, Tommy.” His voice full of sarcasm as he looks at his brother.

Tommy lets out a small chuckle, rolling his eyes at Joel’s sarcasm, choosing to ignore it. “After this, you can go back to your woodworking hole for the rest of the day, I promise. It's just one girl; she should be waiting by the front gate. It should take a few minutes. Just be nice and welcoming, and then I’ll leave you alone for the rest of the month.”

“Rest of the damn year,” Joel mutters under his breath, putting on his brown jacket, hat, and gloves, preparing to brace the snow and cold weather. “Gotta be a damn welcoming committee in fucking below 30-something-degree weather,” he mumbles as he walks out of the shed.

Tommy rolls his eyes yet again, hearing Joel's comment, before going in the opposite direction towards his house. As Joel walks down towards the entrance, he sees the decorations filled along Jackson's main road. His thoughts immediately go to you.

I keep my distance, but you still catch my eye.

Joel tried his best not to fall for you. He couldn’t love you. Not just because he was afraid of losing you but because you were too young and didn't need his baggage. But that got harder the more time he spent with you, and it worsened around December. Your cheerful smile was contagious. Hope gave him something he hadn’t felt since before the outbreak. Hope. Hope for a future with you. Even if it was in the QZ, you made it look brighter and more positive than it was. It made him love you; if he loves you, it's only a matter of time before he fails you.

One way or another, he can't lose you. Losing Sarah still felt fresh and recent, not 20 years ago. He doesn’t know if he could handle losing you, too, especially because of him. But Joel knows he can't hope, not in this world. It's easier to push you away and make you hate him. When Joel felt these feelings, he did the one thing he knew how to do: create distance. He went from seeing you multiple times a day to maybe once a week. Barely talking to you, he stopped kissing your lips and touched you less, but you still found a way to be around him. You still held his hand, sleeping in the bed next to him.

“This…ain’t working.” Joel sighs, looking down still. Your back is turned, trying to warm hot chocolate; you managed to persuade him to get on one of his smuggling runs, up on the shitty stove in the QZ. An Ella Fitzgerald Christmas album playing on a CD occasionally having to skip a song cause of its skipping.

“It's a paper snowflake, Joel. What are you talking about? How hard can it be? If you don’t want to do it, you don’t.” You sound confused but are still focusing on the stove.

Joel sighed again before looking up at your back. “I ain’t talking about the damn snowflake.”

It's the tone of his voice that causes you to turn around, the sense of dread in his words, the way he seems almost scared to say them. You turn, looking at him, and he can't even look up to make eye contact.

“Then what are you talking about, Joel.”

Joel finally looked up at you, and you knew exactly what he meant wasn't working, "Us. This. Whatever this is, it ain't working.” He got up from the small round wooden dining table.

What do you mean this isn't working? It's been working fine for almost two years, Joel!”

“Well, it's not working anymore.”

You look at him before taking the attempt at hot chocolate off the stove, last thing you needed was a fire, but you go back to looking at him for any explanation or further clarification about why this wasn’t working out for him when it felt so right for you. But he never offered one.

“I can't. It's not….working,” he says slowly, tired. Joel pinches the bridge of his nose. He knows this isn’t easy, but Joel cannot do this anymore. He can't let himself get attached to you. He convinced himself it would be easier in the long run.

He never said anything else. All he did was leave you in your apartment. Leaving you speechless and heartbroken. After that, Joel avoided you, or you were avoiding him, but each day, he saw you less and less until around the first week of January, when he noticed he hadn't seen you around at all. He asked around, even bribing FEDRA guards, and finally, one told him that you had escaped and left town with a group of a few other women. Joel had the realization that he’d probably never see you again. He knew you were strong and capable, especially if you had a group. He wasn't worried about you dying, but he had to kill you off in his brain to move on. Because if you weren't dead, then it gave him hope.

Losing Sarah felt like strike one for him. The first time he felt his heart became cold and isolated, he lost the ability to smile, laugh, and even care. Until he met you at the QZ, it was hard not to smile around you. For the first time, he felt genuinely happy near you. He enjoyed your presence, the jokes you’d make about his age, and the warmth you brought back into his life. Then he ruined it and messed it up again like he failed Sarah. He failed you and lost it all again. Then Ellie brought it back with her jokes and outlook on life. Then again, he lost it. After that, he decided to give up and live the rest of his life in Jackson, mainly alone.

Joel finally reached the front gate but didn't see anybody waiting. He looked around until he saw a figure in the barns, near the horses.

“Tommy’s bright idea of leaving a girl out damn in the cold. Forcing me to be the goddamn welcoming committee, Jackson is small, but it ain't that small. Tommy could've found someone to do this…” He mutters to himself as he approaches the barn.

Snow crunching under his boots causes you to jump at the sound, accidentally scaring you. He sees the girl turn around and instantly recognizes you before you remember him. He sees your eyes still shining, still young, still….hopeful. Not much has changed physically, but at the same time, he can tell something changed.

Tell me, baby, do you recognize me?.”

It has been 3 years since you left the QZ since he had broken your heart and made his own even colder. He doesn't know what to say and realizes you don't even recognize him. His hair is longer and grayer now than it was. He has more wrinkles and glasses now. Probably put on more pounds now, having access to meals more consistently, not going on runs, and having to walk miles every day. He can only imagine your thoughts on why this old man was looking at you in such a way, almost on the verge of tears.

You reach a hand out to greet him and introduce yourself, hearing your name for the first time outside of his head in years, but he doesn't speak. He knew his voice would give away who he was, and he was scared of your reaction. He didn't know if you would be happy to be reunited or slap him because of the last time you spoke. He takes a deep breath before looking at your hand and then back at your face. Three years later, you didn't change much. You still looked just as beautiful to him as you did those years ago.

“We…um... have met before.” He speaks slowly, knowing that once you hear his voice, you’ll recognize him.

The second you hear his voice, you suddenly recognize the man in front of you, and shortly after, all the memories return. Memories of sleeping in Joel’s apartment in the QZ when you would get nightmares, memories of him teaching you how to properly shoot in the woods, memories of the first time you had kissed him. Memories of him ending whatever you two had back in the QZ. It all came back flooding your mind. You didn’t know what to say, react, or feel. You look at him for a bit, unsure what to say, so you say the first thing that comes to mind.

“Joel? You have….um, you have glasses... Now. .” Those were the only words that came out of your mouth, the only sentence your brain could make. He let out a small laugh, happy you didn't slap him and cuss him out. He reaches for the frames. “Yea. It got hard to read tiny fonts, so… found a pair of readers, and there's an old eye doctor here,” Joel says painfully awkwardly, unsure of what to say or do next. A part of him wants to pull you into his arms and apologize for being an idiot all those years ago. More than anything, he wants to kiss you and tell you that he loved you then and never really stopped.

“Well, um, I can show you to your new place.” He walks you over to the smaller houses since it's just you.

“So, how long have you been here.” You ask as the two of you continue to walk in the snow. “About not that long, El- um, I had a girl I had to look after, but she’s an adult now and doesn't need me anymore, but it's safe, so I decided to stay.” Joel walks down, noticing the holiday decor. He can't help but point it out.

“Bet you’d fit right in here and come at the perfect time.” You nod, agreeing, taking in the town's scenery, the lights, the homemade decor, and the children’s drawings, and you smile a bit.

“Wow, it’s really pretty, much nicer than the QZ. You must be like a Grinch up on top of the mountain around here, huh? " Your joke makes Joel feel at ease. He laughs, looking at you, feeling like no time has passed. He walks further, approaching his house, snow covering the roof, absent of any lights or holiday decorations that the other houses in Jackson have.

“No, I…join in…occasionally.” Joel replies very unconvincingly, which makes you laugh as he opens the door, letting you in.

“Sure, I bet you join all the festivities, Joel.” He leads you into his house, which looks how you would imagine a middle-aged man living alone to look. You stand a bit awkwardly in his living room, unsure what to do or say, and find it hard to believe Joel was in front of you after all these years. “But if you kissed me now, I know you’d fool me again.”

You don’t know who started it, who leaned in first, who kissed who first. It feels like both lips were drawn to each other like magnets. Joel places his hands around your lower back as you close your eyes. His kiss immediately feels like home, safe and warm. Joel pulls away softly. He looks at you, afraid, like he was dreaming. You look back at him, just unsure. You were half expecting him to say something similar to what he said all those years ago, that he couldn’t do this again, yet your lips clash against each other, messily and desperate for each other. Your hands came to his face, holding his greying beard and pulling him as close as possible.

He lays you down on his bed, hovering over you, kissing down your neck, pulling your shirt over your head, temporarily removing his lips from yours to take off your shirt. You shift, taking off your old sports bra you’ve had since God knows when. Joel feels what you’re attempting to do. He pulls off it, over your head, before his lips return to yours again. Your hands reach, grabbing up to his brown and grey curls.

“Joel….” you moan on his lips. His hands travel up your chest grabbing, squeezing your boobs, making another moan slip. His hand runs down to your stomach, down to your clothed core, rubbing it slowly.

“Joel, I've missed you so much.” He looks down, nods, and softly raises his hand to your face. He looks at you, and you can still tell he’s hesitated, nervous, even scared.

“I've missed you too, more than you could know.” He kisses you again, but you pull away, sitting up a bit. He takes off his jacket, tossing it somewhere. His green flannel is next. You start unbuttoning it, but you feel his hands on your wrist, stopping you. Your eyes meet his.

“What…” You look confused as to why he stopped you. He had taken your pants off and wanted to have sex, or so you thought. You look at him, waiting for him to say something, but he never does.

“What, Joel? do you not want to-?” Your eyebrows frown, anxious, worried you had read into something. You had misunderstood. But he cut you off before you could finish your sentence.

“No, I do. I do. Believe me, I do. It's just been a while since we’ve…since you’ve seen me?” Joel tries to explain, but you still don’t see the problem.

“Okay, but we did have sex back at the QZ….many times, so.. I did see you shirtless. What's wrong?” You sit up fully in his bed. Joel sighs, moving off from on top of you and sitting beside you.

“Yeah, well, that was years ago…when I was probably a few pounds lighter, sweetheart.” You suddenly realize what’s wrong.

You raise your eyebrows, confused. “Seriously, Joel… you really think I’d judge your body because you're actually getting hot meals daily?” Joel looks at you, and your hands go back to the buttons on his flannel. This time, he lets you.

“I'm serious, Joel. I really don't give a shit…about any of that.” You reassure him as you push his flannel off his shoulders, seeing the white t-shirt underneath it. Your hands go to the bottom of the shirt.

“I'm just glad I found you again, and you’re not injured or…” You take a deep breath, thinking about the worst-case scenario. You lift the bottom of his shirt, and he helps you remove it.

He nods as you take his shirt off and kiss his chest. “Just glad you're safe, Joel. I don’t really give a shit if you look a bit different.”

He lays on his bed, pulling you down on top of him, kissing you, his arm around your waist, pulling you closer against him.

“Glad you’re safe too, babygirl,” he speaks softly in between kisses, his voice is deep.

He reaches between your two bodies, unbuckling his belt and tossing it aside. Your hands goes to his jeans, unzipping them and tugging them off. Joel kicks the jeans off the bed. You feel his cock through his boxer shorts against you. You look down seeing the sizable bulge, you can’t remember if he’s always been this big, but he looks very big. Borderline massive, honestly.

“Did your dick..grow, or is my memory just that bad?” you ask Joel. He laughs a bit, thinking you’re joking. But you’re not trying to rack your brain to remember if he’s always been this…thick.

You hear him chuckle a bit. “Last I checked, it was the same, sweetheart.” you reach your hand on the waistband, slowly pulling his boxers down his thighs, watching his hard cock spring onto his stomach.

Joel's larger hand reaches over yours, guiding it to his cock to jerk him off. You kiss his lips as you move your hand a bit faster. Joel moans against your lips before he moves away. Joel slowly tugs your underwear down your legs, and you kick them off, watching him grab the fabric off, tossing it with the gathering piles of clothes forming onto his bedroom floor. Joel moves his hand off of his cock

“Sweetheart, can I fuck you? Please, honey, I gotta be inside you.”

Joel slowly inserts his fingers inside you, feeling the wetness. His fingers curl up, fucking his fingers deep inside. Your head goes back against his pillow, feeling his finger's pleasure in ways yours haven't been able to, reaching places that you haven't been able to reach since you left. His fingers are larger and thicker than yours, making your eyes roll back. You moan out his name, missing the feeling of his name on your lips. You nod repeatedly.

“ Please. Please. Joel. Please fuck me. I need you.” You moan, grabbing his arm as he thrusts his fingers deeper inside you.

“Yea? Want me to fuck you.” His fingers slow down, and he presses his nose against your neck. You nod again, letting a moan slip out as he kisses down your neck.

He moves his fingers, moving you closer and slowly pushing his thick cock inside of you. Slowly pushing the tip of his dick further inside.

You've slept with Joel numerous times in the QZ, he’s fucked you more than he can count, but this was different. You feel him slowly thrusting deeper inside you. Your nails dig into his back as you he fucks you, his cock reaching deeper inside you. This was passionate and slow. The making love you’ve read about.

” Joel.. Joel. You feel so good.” you moan, feeling him fuck you deep and hard but still slow, like he was savoring, enjoying this moment.

“Missed you, baby. Missed you so fucking much thought I… 'd never see you again.” he looks at you watching your face frown, scrunching up in pleasure. Your eyes close, but he can’t take his eyes off of you. He doesn’t want to miss a moment, miss any more time of being with you, seeing you, touching you. It feels like no time has passed. He still knows your body like the back of his hand. Your moans fill the room. He’s memorized by you. he feels as if he closes his eyes, he’ll open them, and you’ll be gone, that this was a dream.

Your eyes flutter open, and you look up at Joel, pulling him closer. He looks down at you fucking deeper inside, and you feel the pleasure building up until you reach your release gripping onto his shoulders, your moans grow louder.

“So close. Please, Joel, wanna come. Wanna come with you.” You whine, pleading with Joel as he fucks you deeper, nodding.

“Can tell you’re close, baby. Look so pretty like this full my cock.”

He reaches between the two of you, rubbing your clit until you cum, moaning, crying out his name loudly. Joel is glad he didn't have any neighbors close enough to hear.

“Joel! Joel!” Fuck!” Joel watches are you come undone on his dick, the prettiest sight he’s ever seen. His thrusts speed up, not far behind you. Surprised he even lasted this long, considering he can't remember the last time he had fucked anything that wasn't his hand. “Where you want it darling,” he grunts between his moans. You barely register what he’s asking you properly fucked out. You whine at the overstimulating sensation of his cock fucking your sensitive hole. You open your eyes, looking up at him.

“Inside…please, Joel want it inside me.” Joel uses every inch of his restraint to not come to the sound of your words, your begging. He shakes his head no. He had no intention of becoming a father of a newborn again in this lifetime, especially at this age.

“You know I can't.” You whine, disappointed a bit, minds still a bit foggy from your orgasms. You look at Joel.

“Don’t care, Joel.” He nods again, thrusting a few more times, moaning more before pulling out, cumming onto your stomach. He breathes heavily, looking at you, and he slowly moves from on top of you going to his bathroom. He grabs a towel, cleaning you off before joining you back in his bed. You instantly move closer, laying against his chest, and he puts an arm around you, kissing your lips once again. He looks at you for a bit before breaking the silence.

“I love you.” The second he says those three words, you feel the air come out of your lungs. You didn’t know what to say or how to respond. You look at Joel, seeing the vulnerability in his eyes. He was telling the truth. You look back at him, trying to start your brain back up. You smile, nodding, knowing how hard it must’ve been for him to say those words. God knows it’s probably been 20 years since, yet here he was saying it to you.

“I love you too, Joel. I always have. I have never stopped.” You look back at him. He softly kisses your lips.

“I think they’re having hot chocolate and cookies or something in the square, " Joel says nonchalantly, sounding uninterested. Looking at you, he pauses before continuing. Maybe even an old holiday movie or…something like that.”

You can't help but smile widely as he mentions the holiday activity going on in Jackson. Was Joel actually mentioning something holiday-related?

You look at him, still smiling. “If you want to ask me, old man, you gotta say it.” You tease. All he manages is an eye roll before sighing.

“Would. You like to. get hot chocolate and watch an holiday movie sweetheart.” joel asks cracking a smile as his hands rubs your back softly.

“I'll give it to someone special.”

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