#and That's really really Really hard to explain

[verstappenverse]

In Every City, It’s Still You

Pairing: Max Verstappen x Reader

Summary: After weeks of hiding your fears that Max cheats on the road, your confession leaves him heartbroken that you think so little of his love. (Requested)

2.2k words / Masterlist

Max's texts come in at 2:13 a.m.

Landed. In the hotel now. I miss you.

Try to sleep.

Talk tomorrow. Love you.

You stare at your phone for a while, the bluish light casting sharp shadows over your face in the dark room. The words are sweet, comforting even, but they don’t settle the unease coiling low in your stomach. Your thumb hovers over the screen, hesitating.

You type, Miss you too. Sleep well, and hit send. But it feels... hollow.

It’s not him. Not really. Max hasn’t changed, he still texts you every time he lands, still calls you baby in that low, tired voice that makes your heart ache. But something around him has shifted, and you feel it all the way from home. The messages feel like a thread stretched too thin, too tight, trembling, like it might snap if you pull just a little harder.

Because it isn’t the distance anymore. It’s everything else.

It’s the way girls throw themselves at him in the paddock every day, effortlessly pretty, sun-kissed, always laughing too loudly when he’s around. The influencers in the hospitality suites who watch him like they already belong to him, cameras flashing like they have something to prove. The blonde in Canada who sat on the pit wall like it was her throne, perfectly poised and knowing exactly where the lenses were. The brunette in Imola who wore Max's number on her cheek like it meant something personal.

And you were... here. Alone in bed, scrolling through tagged photos with a growing ache in your chest and a nauseating swirl of insecurity you couldn't quite explain.

You know Max loves you. He told you. He shows you. But some nights, like tonight, you can’t stop the slow, creeping doubt. The fear that love isn’t always enough when you aren’t there. When someone prettier or bolder or more his world is.

You turn your phone face-down and blink hard into the ceiling, trying not to cry, because it isn’t him.

It’s you. Spiralling.

And you hate that you can’t stop.

It isn’t like Max has ever given you a reason to doubt him. He doesn’t flirt. He isn’t sneaky. He never makes you feel small or uncertain. He makes time for you, even when he’s exhausted and halfway across the world. He calls when he says he will. He texts when he’s landed. He checks in between meetings, between media, between practice sessions.

But even the most reassuring routines begin to feel fragile when you spend your nights alone, scrolling through social media feeds that turn love into a ticking time bomb.

On Twitter or TikTok it’s like cheating wasn’t just a possibility, it was a guarantee. People talk like it’s an open secret. Like all of them do it. Like staying faithful is a joke, not the norm.

And you hate how easily those posts get under your skin.

One comment in particular has lodged itself somewhere deep in your brain, rotting quietly.

You think any of them are faithful on the road? They’ve got girls in every city babes. You’re just the one they come home to.

You remember reading it in bed, the words hitting harder than you ever wanted to admit. You’d stared at it for too long, re-reading it like it was some kind of warning meant specifically for you.

Maybe it isn’t about Max. Maybe it’s just a bitter stranger talking from experience. But what if it wasn’t?

What if Max is different without you, surrounded by constant temptation and girls who don’t hesitate?

What if all the love you give to each other at home isn’t enough to hold his attention in Singapore, or Brazil, or Vegas?

What if you’re stupid for thinking you’re the exception?

The thought makes your stomach twist, hot and cold at the same time. You hate yourself for even questioning him, but the doubt creeps in anyway, quiet and venomous. Because love isn’t always louder than fear. And lately, fear has found a voice you can’t ignore.

It comes out on a random Wednesday.

Max has a few days off and is finally back in Monaco with you, curled up on the couch, wearing sweatpants and eating cereal out of the box like he’s a college student and not a multiple world champion.

You’re quiet, distracted, picking at the hem of your sleep shorts while some Netflix show runs in the background.

“Babe?” he says, nudging your leg with his knee. “You okay?”

You nod too quickly. “Yeah. Just tired.”

He doesn’t buy it. “You’ve been weird since I got back from Canada.”

“Have I?”

Max sits up a little straighter, the playfulness gone. “Don’t do that.”

You swallow, staring at the bowl in your hands. You don’t meant to say it, but maybe you need to.

“I just…” you start, voice quieter than you expected. “I sometimes wonder what really happens when you're away.”

He blinks. “What do you mean?”

You feel your heart begin to race. There was no easy way to explain it, no version of this that wouldn’t hurt him. But keeping it inside had only made it worse. You take a shaky breath and force yourself to look at him, to see the confusion on his face.

“Okay… just don’t take this the wrong way,” you say, voice trembling. “You’re surrounded by beautiful girls. All the time. At afterparties, on boats, in clubs. They throw themselves at you. And I know you say you love me, I do, I hear you, but…”

You pause, eyes searching his. “Max, people like you… you have options.”

Silence.

You keep going, even though your throat feels like it’s closing. “I’m not accusing you of anything. I’m not. I just, I’ve seen what people say online. About how no driver, no athlete stays loyal. That it’s just how it is. That they all cheat. That it comes with the territory.”

You glance up again, and what you see in Max’s eyes feels like a punch to the stomach. Hurt. Pure, disbelieving hurt.

He stares at you like you’d just slapped him.

“You think I cheat on you?” he asks, voice low, almost stunned.

You flinch. “I don’t know. I think… I think maybe you could. One day. And I wouldn’t even know.”

He stands up so fast the phone on his lap clatters to the floor.

“Jesus Christ, how could I not take that the wrong way?” he mutters, raking a hand through his hair. “You really think that little of me? You really think I’m capable of looking you in the eye and lying to you like that? Of touching someone else and then coming home to you like nothing happened?”

Your heart drops. “No, Max, that’s not—”

“You think I’m out there fucking around in every city I go to?” His accent thickens, voice rising with disbelief. “That I land and what? Just start looking for a warm body?”

“I didn’t say that—”

“You didn’t have to,” he snaps, pacing now. “You just implied that for all this time what, you’ve been sitting here imagining me cheating on you and not telling me?”

Your eyes sting. “I didn’t want to fight. I didn’t want to seem insecure.”

“You’d rather just assume I’m a liar?”

“No, Max, fuck—no. It’s not like that. It’s not even about you, it’s... God, it’s not even logical, okay?” You were scrambling now, words tumbling faster than your brain could sort them. “It’s just there’s this stigma, okay? That athletes are cheaters. That they all are. And I guess some part of me thought that was just… part of the deal.”

Max stares at you like he can’t believe what he’s hearing. “So because other people fuck up their relationships, I’m guilty by association?”

“I’m not saying that.”

“You are, though,” he snaps, stepping back like your words burn. “You’re saying you don’t think I’ve done anything, yet, but you’ve already decided I probably will.”

“I’m saying I’ve seen it happen!” you cry. “To people who swore they’d never do it. Who looked just as in love as we are.”

Max stares at you for a long time, chest rising and falling.

Then, quietly, “You think I’d put you through that?”

Tears well up in your eyes. “No. But I’m scared that you could. That one day I won’t be enough.”

“You think I’d just wake up one day and decide you weren’t enough?” he asks, his voice cracking with raw emotion. “That I’d throw us away for what, something easy? Something empty?”

“I don’t want to think that,” you whisper. “But it’s like this constant voice in the back of my head saying, don’t get too comfortable. Saying people like me don’t keep people like you.”

Max looks like he wants to yell or be sick. His fists are clenched, jaw tight, frustration radiating off him.

Then, just as suddenly, his face crumples.

He sits back down.

And says, more softly than you expected, “I love you.”

You sniffle. “I know.”

“Clearly you don’t.” His voice cracks ever so slightly, a barely-there fracture that makes your heart squeeze. He swallows hard, throat bobbing, like the words were caught on something sharp on their way out. He looks down for a second, just a flick of his eyes, then back at you.

“I love you,” he says again, more deliberately this time. Slower. Like he wants you to feel every syllable. “I love you.”

His hands ran over his thighs before curling into loose fists again.

“Like… when I’m away, I go to bed early because I miss you,” he says, voice soft but firm. “And I mean physically miss you. Like my chest fucking aches and everything feels too quiet and I stare at the ceiling hoping you’ll call even though I know you’re asleep.”

You blink, stunned by the rawness in his tone.

“I check my phone like an idiot,” he goes on, letting out a soft, bitter laugh. “Every five minutes. Just to see if you sent a stupid meme or said goodnight again. And if you didn’t, I reread the last thing you said. Because it makes me feel closer to you.”

You feel your eyes start to burn again, but he isn’t finished.

“When I come home and you’re here? It’s like—” He breaks off, searching for the right words, his brows knitting together. “It’s like I can breathe again. Like I stop being whatever version of me the rest of the world expects and I just… exist. As me. As yours.”

He let’s out a breath, slower this time. Measured.

“I don’t care what people say. I don’t care what some idiot online thinks is ‘normal’ for a driver or a man or anyone in this life. I don’t care what the stereotype is. I don’t need a club full of models or some yacht party to feel important.”

His gaze locks onto yours, eyes fierce but tender.

“I don’t want options. I want you. You’re it for me. You always have been. And I need you to know that. Not just hear it, not just nod and say okay know it. Because I don’t have a backup plan. I don’t want one.”

He exhales, like saying all of it left him exposed in the best and worst way.

You wipe at your cheek. “I’m sorry. I’m so so sorry.”

He leans forward, elbows on his knees, voice hoarse. “Do you have any idea what it does to me to think you’ve been carrying that around? That you’ve been hurting because you’re afraid I’ll leave or stray or whatever the fuck people think drivers do?”

You shake your head. “It’s not fair to you. I know that.”

He exhales slowly, nodding. “No. It’s not. But I get it. I do.”

You look up.

“I’ve seen what fame does to people,” he says. “I’ve seen guys ruin good things for a pretty face and some attention. And I hate that you’ve had to wonder if I would do that to you.”

You feel like the smallest person alive. “Max, I’m so sorry.”

He reaches for your hand.

“I need you to trust me,” he says, fingers tightening around yours. “Not the version of me that strangers make up. Me. The guy who texts you at 2 a.m. because I can’t fall asleep without hearing from you. The guy who thinks about you twenty-four seven even when I’ve got a million other things to focus on. The guy who looks at other girls and doesn't feel a damn thing and only thinks, ‘none of them are you’.

You let out a shaky breath.

“I do trust you, I’m just terrified of losing you and—” you whisper, “I just let the noise get in my head.”

He pulls you into his chest.

“Next time it gets loud in there,” he murmurs against your hair, “you come to me. Let me be louder.”

You nod, arms wrapping around him tightly.

“I’m sorry,” you say again. “I love you so much.”

Max presses a kiss to your temple. “You’re mine. You hear me? I don’t want anyone else. Never have. Never will.”

You let the truth of that settle into your bones like warmth.

Maybe people will always talk. Maybe they’ll always be stories and rumours. Maybe they’ll always be stereotypes and assumptions and endless temptations.

But you aren’t dating a stereotype.

You’re dating Max.

And Max? He only ever wants you.

Taglist: @shigarika @bunnisplayground @thecoolpotatohologram @ymrereads @alexxavicry @gigglepre @esw1012 @satorinnie @percysaidnever @osclerc @sainzluvrr @autumn242 @shadowreader07 @joyfulpandamiracle @inmynotes63 @athanasia-day @embonbon @waterdeeply @shadowsoundeffects13 @fastandcurious16 @odegaardlia @skzvibes-blog @iambored24601 @e10owmaks @painfromblues @brokenvines-wiltingflowers @leo-twins-3107 @rxx-eegh @treatallwithkindness @lewishamiltonismybf @mara1999 @armystay89 @ramonaflwsr @zazima @valevv30 @mischiefmxnxgedhp @yoonessa @wordskeeper @freyathehuntress @brumstappen @irenkaproszepana @butterkaput @lenamds

[divadepreshawn]

𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒄𝒐𝒏𝒔𝒆𝒒𝒖𝒆𝒏𝒄𝒆 𝒐𝒇 𝒅𝒆𝒔𝒕𝒊𝒏𝒚 𝒊𝒔 𝒍𝒐𝒗𝒆

Aaron Hotchner × fem!reader

Summary: You spent a large part of your life taking care of people. Between a test to grade, a phone call to calm Spencer down, and the problems of everyday life, there was never any time left. And honestly? You never cared about investing in your own love life. Love (in the intimate sense, between two people) was something for other people. But it seems that destiny had other plans. Warnings: I don't think I have any important notice, just sweet. This is part two, you can check out part one here. Ok if you guys could take a look at this post and tell me what you prefer it would be a great help, WC: 2 900 I usually use specific playlists for writing (more focused on the feeling than the reader itself) but I created a specific one for this one. For those who may be interested, you can find it here.

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You had just arrived home – and you were exhausted. People often think that dealing with children is difficult. Nonsense. The hard part is dealing with adults. They complain, interrupt the class all the time to make impertinent comments and still think they have the right to question your knowledge. You were taking off your coat when the doorbell rang.

“Who could it be at this hour?” You mumbled, leaving your bag on the table before heading to the door.

“Oh… Hello,” you greeted with a frown, alternating your gaze between Jack, Aaron and the bouquet.

You glanced at Jack, who was holding a delicate bouquet of red and white roses in both hands, the simple bow around the stem slightly crooked. Then you slowly looked up at Aaron, his expression as discreet as you remembered, despite the softer look in his eyes.

“Hi,” Jack said with a shy smile as he held the bouquet out to you. “I wanted to give you a yellow flower, but Dad said roses were better because they’re a lot of people’s favorites. And they also have less pollen… whatever that means. Do you like roses?”

Your heart sank at the gesture—the smile so wide it could split your lips spread before you could stop it—as you bent down to Jack’s level. You picked up the bouquet with care, as if it were made of crystal.

“Roses are my favorite,” you assured him, bringing the flowers to your nose, squeezing them lightly so he knew you meant it. “And these are, without a doubt, the most beautiful ones I’ve ever gotten.” Jack smiled, looking down at the flowers again.

“It was his idea,” Aaron explained, glancing at his son before looking back at you. “He insisted we bring you flowers to thank you for the cookies. They were really good. But I didn’t know if you had any allergies and, well… we didn’t want to kill you with a gift.”

"It's okay. I loved it, thank you," you smiled, opening the door a little wider so they could see the room. "And as you can see, I'm immune."

Aaron and Jack tilted their heads slightly to the side, from where they were standing they had a view of a small corner of the room: potted plants scattered on the floor, on the bookshelf, on the coffee table and hanging near the windows – mostly large and small green leaves and just a few small colorful flowers.

Aaron nodded slowly, looking relieved that he hadn't triggered an allergic reaction. "Well… we'll be right there. Welcome to the building."

"Thanks again. You were very kind."

"It was nothing," he replied, placing his hand on Jack's back to guide him down the hallway. "If you need anything… we're right there."

Jack nodded quickly. "My dad can fix anything."

You laughed at his enthusiasm, nodding in affirmation. "I'll keep that in mind, thanks."

–

Aaron sighed, putting the last folder inside his leather bag. “Thank you for coming so early. This meeting wasn’t scheduled, I still don’t know why it’s so urgent.”

Jessica shook her head, waving her hand away as she sat down on the kitchen chair. “It’s okay, I was already awake anyway.”

Her eyes wandered over the kitchen counter until they landed on the new glass jar on the counter — still holding some of the cookies you’d left out days ago. A smile slowly crept up as an idea formed.

“Did you see someone moved into the apartment across the way?”

Aaron paused for a second, frowning slightly as he checked his watch. “Huh? Oh, yeah. I heard.”

“She’s a woman. Very polite, seemed nice…” Jessica commented casually, watching, waiting for a reaction. A barely audible grunt was all she got. “And very pretty too,” she added with a smile.

Aaron looked up from his bag, staring at the bookshelf. His expression was as impassive as ever — though the slight blush that rose to his ears betrayed him. “Really? I didn’t notice.”

Aaron was lying, of course. He had noticed, too much for his own well-being. The image of you — eyes slightly wide, breathing heavily, and the embarrassed expression when you realized you were rambling — was still clear in his mind.

Jessica arched an eyebrow, crossing her arms slowly.

“You didn’t notice?” she repeated, her tone skeptical—just because he remained expressionless and the lie slid like butter didn’t mean it sounded convincing. “Aaron, you would notice if someone had replaced the entrance rug with one two shades darker.”

“I’m observant, yes, it’s part of the job,” he said, defending himself. “But I’m not constantly analyzing everyone’s behavior.”

Jessica leaned over the table, her eyes shining with amusement. “Okay, but there’s no way I couldn’t have noticed the perfume.”

He hesitated for a second—longer than he would have liked. “Yes.”

“I knew it.”

Aaron took a deep breath, closing the bag with a soft snap. “There’s nothing in there.”

“Not yet.” She shrugged, standing up. “But look… it’s been three years, there’s nothing wrong. You’re a widower, not a monk.”

Aaron stared at the floor for a moment, before glancing briefly at the glass jar of cookies on the counter.

“Okay…” Jessica didn’t insist. “Come on, honey.” Jack was already at your side, rubbing his eyes.

“Wait, I’ll walk you guys.”

–

You had arranged with Spencer that you would accompany him for breakfast at a coffee shop-bookstore he had discovered, not far from where he lived. It was a good idea, to spend some quality time with Spencer – who you hadn’t seen in a week – before work, with a great excuse to binge on caffeine and chocolate before nine in the morning. It turned out that you were five minutes late – and you hate being late.

The apartment that was so tidy it could have welcomed Vogue for a tour now looked like a war zone. You got ready in record time. Despite tripping over the hem of your pants when you were running down the hall after your missing shoe. Refusing to sit down to put on your boots, which resulted in a romantic encounter between your hip and the corner of the table – that would turn into a bruise later for sure. Let’s not forget that you almost sprayed perfume on your mouth while trying to read the message on your phone.

A great way to start the day.

As soon as you opened the door, you heard the doorknob turn from the other side of the hall. Jack came out first, shuffling his feet across the floor, rubbing his eyes. Oh, kids are adorable.

“Good morning,” he murmured, smiling as soon as he saw you, his voice a little hoarse from sleep.

You smiled back, adjusting your bag. “Good morning, darling. How are you?” You turned to lock the door, giving Jessica and Aaron a small smile, a silent greeting.

“I’m fine. Are you leaving early today?” Jack asked, looking at you curiously.

“Jack,” Aaron warned, giving you an apologetic look.

“It’s okay,” you said, waving your hand away. “Yeah, I’m leaving early because I have to see my brother before work.”

Jack tilted his head thoughtfully. “Is your brother small? Can I play with him?”

You laughed, balancing your bag and backpack on the same shoulder. “No, honey… he’s already grown up. But I’m sure he’d love to play with you.”

Jack looked thoughtful at your explanation. “So he’s old?”

“Jack…” Aaron caught your attention again.

You laughed at his conclusion. “He’s old, yes. A little taller than me,” you explained, grimacing in disapproval. “And I don’t like that at all.”

Jack laughed. “So he plays basketball? Dad said only tall people can play.”

“Oh no, he has two left feet,” you pressed the button, turning to Jack as you waited for the elevator to reach your floor. “But he has a really cool job… And it’s secret,” you whispered the last part.

“Sorry to interrupt,” Jessica said, moving closer to you and inhaling slowly, “but you need to tell me your secret. You smell like… heaven.”

You laughed, a little surprised by the compliment. “Well, thanks… I think that’s where I spray the perfume, you know? I also like to mix it with a little body lotion. It stays on better that way.”

Before she could respond, the elevator doors opened with a soft hiss. Aaron, who had been quiet until then, slowly approached, holding the door for you. He tried to convince himself that it was a polite gesture – politeness, chivalry. But deep down he knew. You knew it was a terrible excuse to smell your perfume.

And God, yes. You smelled like heaven.

“Mix it with moisturizer…” she repeated, as if mentally reinforcing the tip. “I never thought of putting it on like that, but I’ll definitely try it tomorrow. Because honestly, the way you smell today… it’s almost criminal.”

You just smiled at her in a friendly way, not sure how to respond to the compliment. Jack turned to you, his eyes shining with curiosity.

“My dad’s job is secret too,” he said, puffing out his chest slightly—speaking of his father with pride. Oh, totally adorable. “You have a secret job too?”

“Oh no, my job is completely public, I’m a teacher.”

Jack’s eyes widened, placing his hand on his chest. “Can you teach me?”

“I’m sorry, dear, I only teach grown-ups.”

Aaron turned, watching you curiously. “College professor?”

“Exactly,” you confirmed with a small smile before sighing dramatically. “As hard as a secret job, I’d say.”

“What do you teach?” Jessica asked, genuinely curious.

“Psychology, more specifically anatomical organization, nervous system functioning, basic psychological processes. Things like that.”

“Interesting,” she muttered, casting a quick, amused glance toward the man standing near the door, before sliding her eyes to your left hand. “Very interesting.”

“Can I ask you something more personal?”

“Sure.”

“Are you married?”

Aaron had a complicated relationship with religion, a problem that had been going on for years that Jessica had solved in a second. Because at that moment he was silently praying to any higher power that could hear him. Praying that the ground would open up and swallow him whole, sparing him the embarrassment.

You blinked in surprise – more shocked by the question than offended. You glanced briefly at your hand – full of delicate rings of different sizes – before turning your gaze back to her.

“Oh… No. I just like rings and I’m a bit of an exaggerator.”

Jessica smiled so brightly that for a second you were sure she would start jumping for joy right there. “Me too, but I can’t wear more than two without remembering my punk phase as a teenager.”

You laughed. “I went through that phase too, I used to buy mine at the newsstand. Now at least I can buy one that doesn’t stain my finger green.”

The elevator stopped on the ground floor, the small noise it made as it opened the doors reminded you that you were late.

You adjusted your bag on your shoulder, the smile still on your lips, giving them one last goodbye look.

“I’m late… see you later.”

-

You entered, the soft sound of a bell announcing your entrance. The atmosphere was exactly the kind of place you imagined Spencer would love: walls lined with books to the ceiling, rustic wooden tables, cozy yellow light.

Spencer was sitting at one of the corner tables, leafing through a book that was too thick – it would take him about twenty minutes to finish reading at most. He was so focused that he didn’t even notice you approaching.

“If it was a snake, you’d be dead.”

“There are around 140 species of snakes registered in the US. Among this group are the venomous and non-venomous ones. They are divided by leading biologists into two main families: Elapidae and Viperidae,” he continued reading the book while you sat down. “And despite the variety in their natural habitat, considering that we’re in the middle of the city, the probability of having a snake in here is zero.”

“Thanks, genius boy,” you teased him, picking up the menu to choose a dish. “How was your week?”

Spencer closed the book, placing it next to you on the bench. “It was good, mom called me.”

You smiled, putting the menu down to pay attention to the conversation. “And how is she?”

“Fine. I mean, as good as possible. It was a quiet conversation this time. She talked about the new nurses, one in particular has an annoying laugh, but at least he knows how to make decent tea.”

You laughed softly. “That’s progress.”

“She scolded me,” he said, sounding genuinely offended. “She said I needed to get by now, because I’m an adult, and that I shouldn’t burden you. Oh, and she told you to mind your own business.”

“Oh, how lovely,” you murmured sarcastically, looking out the window.

“You know what she meant,” he gave a small smile, adding an amount of sugar that would give you type two diabetes to the coffee.

For a moment, silence fell. And then, almost without realizing it, a sad smile appeared on the corner of your lips. Because you knew. You knew exactly what she meant by that.

It was a request, disguised as a scolding. A reminder: focus on your life now.

“What about you? Have you done anything this week? You seem… different.”

“Different how?”

Spencer pressed his lips together in a straight line, tilting his head slightly. “You seem more relaxed. Less stressed than usual, especially on a Friday.” He raised his eyebrows. “Who did you kill?”

“I haven’t killed anyone… Yet.” You gave a short laugh, biting the inside of your cheek, considering whether you should tell him. “… I got flowers yesterday.”

Spencer blinked in surprise. “Really?”

You nodded, thanking her with a smile as the clerk placed your coffee cup on the table. “Jack gave it to me. A bouquet with some roses.”

“Jack?”

“He’s my neighbor’s son,” you explained.

“Jack… how old is he?”

“About five, maybe six. He’s cute. Very polite. He handed me the bouquet all embarrassed and asked me if I liked roses because, according to his father, they have less pollen and they didn’t want to kill me.”

Spencer smiled at the image. “Less pollen. Smart. Considering the rate of seasonal allergies has been rising in recent years, that makes sense,” he said, before frowning. “But does that mean your neighbor bought you flowers?”

You watched him for a second — the way he tried to look merely curious when he was clearly worried. Spencer was never good at faking it.

“It was Jack’s idea. But… yeah. He came along. Apparently it was a token of appreciation for the cookies I left for them on the second day.”

Spencer narrowed his eyes. “… cookies?”

“Jack liked cookies and I needed to apologize for the noise and for almost knocking his dad over in the hallway,” you shrugged. “I’m good with kids, Spencer.”

“You don’t even make cookies for me.”

“You’re not even five. And you’ve never bought me flowers.” You nudged your hand across the table.

“Spencer, are you jealous? I can bake you cookies.”

“Too late,” he pouted, crossing his arms, before giving up and starting to laugh. “But… is he divorced?”

“Who?”

“Your neighbor.”

“I think so. How do you know?”

“You mentioned the son, but not the mother. You would have mentioned her if she was on your doorstep. And I know you well enough to know that you wouldn’t accept that kind of attention from someone who’s already married.”

You blinked, impressed. “Have you ever thought about becoming an FBI agent?”

“I have. The fitness part turned me off.”

You laughed, remembering Spencer’s phone calls. It was one o’clock, with him just complaining about his sore legs, cursing someone named Derek, and saying how unfair life was.

“I don’t know much about his romantic past, I just know that he lives alone with his son and is single. He keeps to himself.”

Spencer stared at you for a few seconds, the gears of his mind turning silently behind his clear eyes. Then he looked down at his coffee, twirling the cup between his fingers.

“Private?” he repeated, returning his gaze to the croissant. “Private can mean a lot of things. Private because he’s shy? Private because he has a complicated past? Or private because he killed someone in another state and kidnapped a child to have a good cover.”

You raised an eyebrow, crossing your arms. “Are you profiling my neighbor or writing a script for a 2000s TV show?”

“I’m talking to my sister,” he replied quickly, explaining his point before he could receive any accusations of intrusion. “Who, for the first time in months, is smiling before nine in the morning — without having had three cups of coffee. She’s not planning any murders and hasn’t mentioned or alluded to suicide.”

Have you mentioned how much it sucks to have a profiler brother? Because, well. It sucks. “Okay, he probably doesn’t see it that way, let’s change the subject.”

“Oh please,” he scoffed, stealing a piece of his pie. “Have you seen the price of flowers these days? And would anyone who doesn’t care be careful to choose a flower that won’t cause an allergic reaction?”

“Spencer.”

“I’m already changing the subject.”

◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇

Tag: @presidentdangdang @dramioneforevertilltheend @esposadomd @hederahelix12 @cultish-corner @iyskgd @newavenger

[batsandbirdbrains]

Okay but what about a scenario with the season one yj team, and maybe no one on the team knows who Batman and Robin are behind the mask, not even Wally.

And perhaps the team is getting annoyed that Robin knows all of their identities, but he won’t share his. They don’t care that he tries to explain that it’s not just his identity, it’s Batman’s, so it’s not just him who has to be comfortable with sharing it with them. It doesn’t matter if he explains how paranoid Batman is, how it’s Batman who makes the final call on if Robin can or cannot share his identity. They just blame Robin, calling him a bad teammate, a bad friend.

Kaldur is the only one who doesn’t press him, who assures him that he has no obligation to share his identity with them.

Too bad the rest of the team doesn’t seem to get the memo.

And maybe one weekend, Black Canary has insisted that the team spends the weekend together. It’s a long sleepover, it’s team bonding. It’s so they can actually have a chance to act like kids.

And Robin had been excited. He’d been really looking forward to it, even if Batman did insist that he wear a mask the entire time. It’s more reliable than sunglasses, Batman said. More likely to stay in place. Not easy to remove like the sunglasses are.

Dick had laughed and said that it’s not like anyone would try to take his glasses off, but he complied with Bruce anyway. It did make him feel a little better, knowing the mask would be in place all weekend and he wouldn’t have to worry about slipping up.

But then he fell asleep during a movie. It had been a very long week, what with school and patrol and training leading to some very late nights. He was exhausted, and it was getting late into the night, and the movie was so boring. He fell asleep curled up on the floor between the coffee table and the couch, cocooned in a layer of blankets.

And he woke up to fingers trying to pry his mask off. Training took over, it was pure instinct, because Bruce has drilled into him how important it is to keep his mask on, to not let anyone remove it, even if he’d been kidnapped by a rogue and incapacitated. Anyone touching near his face makes him wake up instantly, and he grabs the hand that was near him and snaps it before backing away.

A pained yelp wakes him up more, reminds him where he is, because it was Wally whose wrist he just broke. It was Wally who was trying to remove his mask.

Dick is breathing heavily and looking around the room, trying to figure out what’s going on. But now he has the others yelling at him, asking him what’s wrong with him, why would he hurt Wally like that, it was just a joke.

“It’s not a joke!” he shouts at them, his voice cracking. “You were gonna take off my mask!”

“Oh come on, boy blunder, it’s not that serious!” Artemis argues.

“Yes, it is!” he gasps. “You can’t just take off my mask! I’ve told you all a million times that I’m not allowed to let you know who I am!”

“It’s not like we’d even recognize you just because we took it off!” M’gann argues.

That’s arguably false, considering Dick Grayson’s face is on the cover of one of the magazines M’gann currently has on the coffee table right that instant.

“That’s not the point!” Dick shouts, but he’s already grabbing his stuff and throwing it all into his bag before he darts to the zeta tubes. He’s hyperventilating and trying very hard not to outright panic when he runs into Kaldur, who looks concerned and confused. He was coming from the direction of the bathrooms, he must not have been in the room when they decided to try and take a peek.

“What’s going on?” Kaldur asks, moving to place a hand on Dick’s shoulder.

Dick flinches away, feeling bad when Kaldur looks sad.

“I’m going home,” Dick tells him, his voice cracking again. “Wally’s wrist is broken.”

“Robin? What happened? Are you alright?” Kaldur tries to ask, but Dick is shaking his head.

“They tried to take off my mask,” Dick whispers, but he’s putting in the code for the Batcave and leaving before Kaldur can say anything else.

Bruce is still hunched in front of the Batcomputer when Dick gets back, and he’s surprised to see him so soon. But he opens his arms when Dick rushes towards him, and he holds him tight and calms him down when he realizes how upset Dick is.

When he finds out that they tried to take off Dick’s mask while he was asleep? He’s livid.

He doesn’t let Robin join the team again for months. Which is fine by Dick, because he doesn’t want to work with them anyway. He misses Kaldur, but Robin and Aqualad find ways to hang out away from Mount Justice, away from the others. Aqualad relays to Robin how poorly the team performs when Robin isn’t there to pick up the slack, how their lack of experience is becoming quite evident when their mission success rate plummets without Robin.

What happens next? Idk. Maybe Dick starts his own team with Donna, Garth, and Roy. Idk.

[gothicpaperback]

the way he cares | joel miller x you

wc: 2,2k | rating: 18+ for eventual smut | Joel Miller x You | Enemy Pregnancy

summary: Joel Miller has been my pain-in-the-ass neighbour for years. we argue more than we speak and when we do speak, it's usually through gritted teeth. but when my doctor tells me my fertility’s running out of time, panic sets in. I want a baby and I don’t have the luxury of waiting around for Mr. Right. Joel's a damn good father to his daughter, Sarah. that much, I can’t deny. so one night, fuelled by nerves and just the right amount of wine, I ask him the unthinkable: get me pregnant. no strings.no romance. just biology. i never planned on falling for him. but nothing about Joel Miller ever goes according to plan.

while the story is first person narrative, the OC female character is YOU. she is not named and barely physically described aside from being able bodied and having hair long enough to grab.

tags/warnings: neighbours, enemies to lovers, comedy, smut, sexual tension, mentions of fertility and reproductive issues, mentions of drugs and alcohol. i will add more tags as they become relevant.

THE WAY HE CARES | PART ONE

I looked down at the paper in my hand, the one from the doctor with my fertility results. She’d already explained everything in her office, but somehow seeing it in writing hit harder. I don’t have much time left. Not many eggs. It's basically now or never if I want to get pregnant.

And I have no options. My last boyfriend turned out to be a drug dealer, and the one before that? Gay. Neither of them particularly brilliant or charismatic, if I’m being honest. I don’t have any close male friends, and my best friend lives across the country ever since I moved to Texas.

I’ve wanted a child for as long as I can remember, since I was little enough to play dress-up with my dolls. I always imagined having at least three smiling babies. Now there’s a real chance I might never even have one.

“Sarah, c’mon now, you're going to be late!”

I lifted my head and looked through the kitchen window. There he was—those familiar long legs in worn denim, the broad shoulders, the obnoxiously muscular arms.

That’s Joel Miller. The man across the street. And he is a real boring asshole.

His truck is loud enough to wake the dead every morning. That’s how I learned his name, actually, plastered all over the side in bold letters: *Miller Brothers Construction – Hard Hats, Honest Work.* What does that even mean?

I looked him up once, I couldn’t help it. Found his cheesy smiling face on the company website, right next to his brother Tommy. I’ve seen Tommy around a few times, over for cookouts or picking Joel up.

Both of them have bios on the site. Tommy Miller “loves being with his wife and son” blah blah. Joel Miller “enjoys spending time with his daughter, fishing” and even more blah blah. They sound like the human equivalent of unsalted crackers.

But being boring isn’t a crime. It’s not why I dislike him.

That started the day I moved in.

I was lugging my last suitcase from the moving van I'd rented when I heard his voice. Low and growly. 

"You need help, ma'am?"

"No I'm okay-" I started but he was already taking the handle from me, lifting the bag as if it weighed nothing. His arms were so solid under his black t-shirt. 

He moved quickly down my driveway, heading for the open door of my new house. I had a great view of his ass in those jeans as he moved. 

I can admit I was attracted to him for a moment. Just the tiniest, shortest moment. Before he really opened his mouth. I followed him inside like a useless puppy, nothing to do just follow. He walked right in and didn't even bother wiping his shoes. So much for Southern manners. 

"Just there by the table is fine." 

He let the bag down by the side of my kitchen table before he took a moment to see the boxes and bags I'd unloaded. 

"Thank you for your help," I said trying not to be upset by the dirt he'd tracked in. 

"My pleasure, ma'am," he said softly. "But if I'm honest, it's shameful your husband didn't help you with this."

My eye twitched. "No husband."

"You mean you're going to live here all on your own?"

I'm a pretty nice person most of the time. But this comment really pissed me off. 

"Yeah, they're letting us women-folk work too. Can you believe I have a job?"

He didn't stick along after that. He just muttered that he needed to pick up his daughter from school and I was glad to see the back of him. 

After that we didn't talk much. 

The only thing that ever saved him from a flaming bag of dog crap on his porch was his daughter. Sarah. She’s a teenager, but somehow still polite, smart, beautiful, and actually friendly, which is suspicious in and of itself. She waves when she sees me. Says “yes, ma’am” without sounding sarcastic. Honestly, she seems like the kind of kid people brag about on Facebook with a million heart emojis.

On the weekends she’s at her mom’s I catch Joel puttering around the yard alone. He never smiles. Just scowls at weeds like they personally offended him. I’ve never seen someone take landscaping so seriously and look so miserable doing it.

We never actually fought. Not really. 

Just exchanged glares over hedges and passive-aggressively outdone each other.

I made a point of keeping my yard pristine. Edged, trimmed, and greener than his by a mile. I even bought one of those fancy solar-powered sprinklers. 

Joel retaliated by reseeding his whole front lawn and installing a flower bed that, unfortunately, looked incredible.

When I put out tasteful fall decorations, one pumpkin, a witches hat, he rolled out a literal hay bale display with a scarecrow wearing a Miller Brothers hard hat. 

The neighbourhood association newsletter featured a picture of it under the caption “Festive and Fun!” I considered reporting him for emotional terrorism.

It didn’t stop there. He started waving to all the other neighbours like he was running for office. And they loved him. Old Mrs. Delaney even brought him cookies once. She’s never looked me directly in the eye.

So now we’re locked in a Cold War of suburban perfection. He trims his hedges? I repaint my porch swing. I host a book club? He starts handing out homemade jerky from some weekend hunting trip. 

The man is everywhere. Helping people carry groceries. Fixing someone’s porch railing. Once I caught him rescuing a cat from under a car and nearly sprained an eye rolling it.

But I’ll be damned if I lose. I started composting. I learned how to patch drywall. I helped Mrs. Delaney carry her Costco haul and smiled so hard I think I pulled something in my face.

We don’t speak, but we know. We know. It's petty. It's exhausting. And it's the most thrilling part of my week.

I’d just gotten back from the store, struggling with a massive bag of potting soil because my dumb ass decided my flower beds needed a full spring refresh *that day.* I was halfway up the driveway, arms straining, when the bag slipped out of my grip and split open across the concrete.

Soil everywhere. Like a garden crime scene.

I froze, already sweating and swearing internally, when I heard that familiar voice across the street:

“You know, they make those in smaller bags. For normal people.”

I looked up. Joel was leaning against his mailbox like some denim-clad statue of smug masculinity, arms crossed, that annoying little smirk playing at his mouth. I didn’t answer. Just knelt down and started scooping dirt back into what remained of the bag, muttering curses under my breath.

A few minutes later, I heard the clatter of something plastic hitting the ground beside me. Sitting there was a brand-new bag of potting soil. Same brand. Still sealed. 

I couldn't even look at him I was so embarrassed. 

"I don't need your pity." 

"It ain't pity," he told me as he left. "Your garden looks like shit and it's bringin' down the value of the rest of the houses on the block." 

I wanted to punch that smug look off his face. I wanted to slap the twang out of his mouth. But I still used the damn soil.

Then there was the mailbox.  Mine had started to tilt slightly forward, just a little lean, like it was tired of standing up straight. I noticed it, of course. I just hadn’t gotten around to fixing it. Between work and the crushing weight of existential dread, a crooked mailbox hadn’t exactly topped my priority list.

Then one morning, I stepped outside and it was fixed. Perfectly straight. Re-set in the ground with new concrete, edges cleaned up, even the numbers re-stuck in neat alignment. There was no note. No door knock. No mention.

I looked across the street, and there he was. Joel. Watering his stupidly green lawn like he hadn’t just crossed a major boundary. He came onto my property when I wasn't aware of it. He touched my personal item. Everyone in the neighbourhood would have assumed he did it to be kind but I knew better.  He was showing me that no matter what I did, he would always be better. 

It was when Joel started getting up at the ass crack of dawn on Sundays (my one day off) to mow his damn lawn that I finally lost it on him. 

I’d been trying to sleep in, just once, and there he was, revving up that mower like it was a NASCAR engine, right outside my window. Who mows at 6:45 a.m.? A psychopath, that’s who. I flew out of my house in my pyjamas, not caring that my hair was a mess or that my clothes were wildly ill-fitting.

"SHUT THAT FUCKING THING OFF!"

He either couldn’t hear me or pretended not to. I wasn’t sure which, his back was to me, hunched over that god-awful mower like it was a beloved pet.

What I do know is that he practically jumped out of his skin when I smacked the back of his shoulder blade.

He spun around fast, eyes blazing, and then for just a second his gaze dropped, dragging down the length of me. I saw it. That quick flicker of surprise, maybe even interest. If it had come from any other man, I might’ve welcomed it.

Instead, my scowl deepened. I planted my hands on my hips, one bare foot tapping against the driveway. I must’ve looked like a lunatic.

"Why the fuck are you mowing your lawn this early?"

"It's Sunday."

"I'm aware."

"I’m busy during the week, and I like to relax on Saturdays. This is my only free day to mow."

"Joel, I don’t give a shit what day of the week it is. I care that it’s not even seven in the goddamn morning. On my one day off."

"Well, I-"

"I mean, for fuck’s sake, Miller. It’s common sense. You see anyone else out here mowing right now?"

He blinked at me. Slowly. Like he was either confused or buying time to come up with a really bad comeback. For a second, I even thought maybe he felt bad. Nope.

"I also don’t see anyone else screamin’ at the top of their lungs in some skimpy outfit either."

I looked down. Thin tank top, old sleep shorts. No bra. Awesome.I blinked. My mouth opened, something sharp, something devastating on the tip of my tongue but my brain short-circuited.

All I could think about was the breeze hitting my bare thighs and the smug look crawling across Joel Miller’s stupidly handsome, smug-as-hell face.

Skimpy outfit. Skimpy.I could feel my ears turning red.

“You’re a dick,” I muttered, but it came out weak. Even I wasn’t convinced.

Joel just raised his eyebrows, like he was waiting for something better. Something clever. Something worthy of the standoff we’d apparently just entered. I had nothing.

So I did the only thing I could think of: I flipped him the bird. A full, dramatic middle finger right between the eyes. Then I spun on my heel and marched back toward my house, bare foot slapping hard against the pavement.

I didn’t slam the door behind me, but only because I tripped over a rogue slipper on the way in. At least after that he stopped mowing Sunday mornings. 

Now I watch him through the glass, smiling and laughing at something with Sarah. The two of them are close, peas in a pod.

He’s soft with her. Gentle. Patient. I see it when I go to check the mail or when we happen to pull into our driveways at the same time. They’re usually mid-laugh, Joel teasing her in that light, affectionate way dads do. She always has a snappy comeback ready, sharp, funny. She’s clever like that.

I’ve never once heard him yell at her. Never seen her storm out of the house screaming about how much she hates him. No slammed doors. No dramatic teenage meltdowns. Just peace. The neighbours confirm what I already know: Joel Miller is a great dad.

Maybe that’s why, on that Saturday night, when I knew Sarah was at her mom’s and he was alone, I went over with a plate of brownies. I’d never been this close to his house before. I couldn’t help but admire it. Everything about it was just as annoyingly perfect as the man himself. 

The freshly lacquered front door, the manicured garden bed with not a single weed in sight. Even the damn porch light had a charming glow, like it had been curated for an Instagram ad. I knocked and shifted from foot to foot, nerves jangling.

When he opened the door, he was wearing a gray t-shirt and dark sweatpants. Also, he wasn’t wearing anything under them. I could tell. The light shifted. So did he. And there it was. He blinked at me, trying to place my face in the semi-darkness. Then his eyes widened slightly.

“What do you need?” he asked, eyeing the plate like it might explode. 

We weren’t friends. Social calls weren’t part of our dynamic. This wasn’t normal. But then again, neither was what I said next.

“Miller,” I began, my voice much steadier than I expected, “Will you have sex with me?" 

[4linos]

when the past knocks.

seo changbin x f!reader, kim seungmin x f!reader

synopsis: you left to protect your son and yourself. but healing gets complicated when old ghosts return… and one of them still makes you laugh.

warnings: angst, infidelity, emotional distress, mild swearing, jealousy, unresolved feelings, hurt/comfort.

wc: 12,629

The air in your childhood bedroom never really changed. It still smelled faintly like old wood, laundry detergent, and whatever fabric softener your mom used, floral, a little powdery, like a scent from another decade. You’d hoped it might feel comforting after everything, but all it did was remind you that you didn’t belong here anymore. Not really. You weren’t a child anymore. You weren’t a daughter. Not just that. You were a mother. A wife, sort of. Or maybe just someone who used to be married. The line was blurry. The divorce papers were still unsigned. You hadn’t touched them since the day you left Seungmin.

Roan had adjusted better than you thought he would, not that that said much. He didn’t throw tantrums, didn’t cry at night or beg to go back. But you saw the way he lingered by the front window, how he never said Seungmin’s name anymore but would still quietly tuck the stuffed lion his dad gave him beside his pillow every night. He didn’t talk about his old friends, or his old school, or the home you left behind. He just colored a lot. Long, quiet afternoons bent over crayons and sketchpads, like he was trying to give shape to things he didn’t have the words for yet.

Your parents didn’t ask too many questions. They welcomed you back like it was just temporary. Like it was a little break while you and Seungmin sorted things out. Like it wasn’t the wreckage of everything you’d been holding together for too long. You let them believe it. Because explaining would mean exposing yourself, and you didn’t have the strength for that yet.

“Just a trial separation,” your mom had said that first night. “Sometimes space is good. Men panic when things get hard. But if he really loves you—”

“He cheated,” you’d wanted to scream. “He cheated and then told me he still loved me. Like that meant anything. Like love excuses betrayal.”

But you’d just nodded. Quiet. Hollowed out. You let her hug you and serve you leftover bulgogi and rice like nothing was broken.

It was three days later that the note came home in Roan’s backpack. Written in soft cursive with a smiley face beside your name. “Looking forward to meeting you at Parent-Teacher Night!” It made your stomach sink. You didn’t want to go. You weren’t ready to face small talk with strangers, other parents with their lives in order, smiling faces and matching wedding rings. You didn’t want to sit through a slideshow about math curriculum while pretending your life hadn’t just imploded.

But Roan was excited. He showed you which table he sat at. He told you that his teacher, Ms. Lee, was “super nice” and let them choose from the “big crayon bucket” on Fridays if they finished their reading.

So you went.

Your mom helped you pick an outfit. Something presentable. Not too formal, not too casual. You ended up in dark jeans and a beige cardigan over a clean white tee. Simple. Safe. The kind of outfit that said, “I’m doing fine.” Even though you weren’t.

The classroom smelled like floor polish and old books. The kind of smell that never really left these places. Parents were already filing in, chatting in little groups. Some you vaguely recognized from your own time here. Faces that looked older now, slightly more worn.

Roan was already tugging at your hand, dragging you to the back of the room where the kids were gathered, coloring and playing with puzzles. You ruffled his hair, kissed his forehead, told him you’d be right over there if he needed you. He nodded, too busy choosing crayons to really listen.

You sat down. Alone. The rows of chairs were filled with clusters of couples, some laughing together, others nudging each other as the principal began to talk. You were trying to pay attention. Something about volunteers. Fundraisers. A school play. You couldn’t focus. Your hand moved unconsciously, rubbing the skin between your thumb and forefinger. A nervous tick you hadn’t realized had come back.

“You still do that thing with your hand when you’re not listening.”

The voice beside you was soft. Familiar.

You froze. Your fingers stopped moving.

Slowly, you turned.

He looked different. Older, definitely. His hair was shorter, the lines around his eyes deeper. He looked tired, but in that way people who carry grief tend to look. Like something had settled into his bones and refused to leave. But he was still unmistakably him.

“Changbin?”

He smiled, lopsided. “Hey.”

Your heart did something strange. Twisted, maybe. Or maybe it just broke a little more.

He looked at you for a second longer than polite. His eyes dropped to your hands, still frozen in your lap. Then up to your face again.

“I thought that was you earlier,” he said. “Wasn’t sure if I should say anything.”

You swallowed, found your voice. “What… what are you doing here?”

He jerked his thumb toward the group of kids in the back. “Yuna. My daughter. Seven. Same class as your son, Roan, Right?”

You blinked and nodded. “Your daughter?”

“Yeah.”

You processed that slowly. Looked toward the coloring table. You hadn’t noticed her before, but now that you knew, her dark eyes, the way her nose scrunched up when she concentrated, it made sense. She was beautiful. She looked like him.

“She’s adorable,” you murmured.

“Thanks.” He smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Her mom picked the name.”

You looked at him again. Hesitated. Asked before you could stop yourself: “Your partner…?”

His expression didn’t falter. Just grew heavier.

“She passed away. Last year.”

The words hit like a quiet blow. Not sharp. Just… devastating in a way that took the air out of your lungs.

“I’m so sorry,” you said quietly.

He nodded once, like he’d heard it too many times to react anymore.

There was silence. Not awkward, but full. Heavy. Weighted by history you both hadn’t touched in over a decade.

He looked over at you. “What about you? Are you married…?”

But before he could finish, the teacher called your name. “Mrs. Kim? Roan’s mom?”

You stood too quickly. “I—yeah. That’s me.”

Changbin looked like he wanted to say more. You didn’t give him the chance. You stepped away, fast, and walked toward the front of the room where the teacher was smiling too brightly, talking about reading levels and handwriting improvement, and all you could think about was the fact that Changbin had been sitting beside you. That his wife passed away. That he had a daughter. That your son and his went to school together. That the past had just reinserted itself into your present like it had never left.

You answered the teacher’s questions. Nodded at the right times. Smiled when prompted. But it wasn’t real. None of it felt real.

When the meeting ended, the parents filtered out. Some lingered, chatting. You tried to leave quietly, but Changbin caught you by the exit.

“Hey,” he said, stepping in front of you. “Sorry if that was weird.”

You shook your head. “No. It’s okay. I just wasn’t expecting—”

“Me?”

You hesitated. “Any of this.”

He nodded. Looked down at his shoes for a second, then back up. “It’s weird being back here.”

“You moved back?”

“Few months ago. My parents are helping out with Yuna. I couldn’t do it alone anymore.”

You nodded. You understood that. In your own way, you were doing the same.

He hesitated. “So… are you okay?”

You wanted to lie. To say yes. But your voice cracked. Just barely.

“No,” you said, and that one word felt like a floodgate breaking.

He didn’t ask what happened. He didn’t push. Just looked at you like he saw right through all the walls you were barely holding up.

“You don’t have to tell me,” he said softly. “But if you ever want to… I’m around.”

You nodded. Bit your lip. Blinked fast.

Roan came up then, holding your hand. “Can we go home now?”

You ran a hand through his hair. “Yeah, baby. Let’s go.”

Changbin smiled at Roan. “See you at school, buddy.”

Roan tilted his head. “Who’s that?”

You paused. “Just… an old friend.”

Roan nodded, accepting that. You started walking away. Changbin didn’t follow. But you could feel his gaze on your back all the way to the parking lot.

When you got home, your mom was waiting up.

“How’d it go?” she asked.

You shrugged. “Fine.”

She gave you a long look. “You sure?”

You nodded. Roan ran past you toward his makeshift bedroom that was once the guest room. Your mom smiled after him.

“Seungmin called earlier,” she said casually. “Said he was thinking of coming by this weekend.”

You froze. “Did he say why?”

She shrugged. “Said he misses you both. Wants to talk.”

You didn’t answer. You just went upstairs. You didn’t have the energy to tell her not to get her hopes up.

Later that night, when the house was quiet, you sat on your old bed, the divorce papers in your lap. Blank. Still unsigned.

You didn’t cry.

You just sat there, staring at them, while outside, the town you once left behind breathed quietly in the dark. Somewhere across it, Changbin was probably doing the same thing, navigating the ruins of what used to be, trying to find some kind of shape to rebuild from.

But you weren’t rebuilding. Not yet. You were just surviving.

And that had to be enough for now.

-

It had been a rough morning.

You barely slept the night before. Tossed and turned in the narrow bed, the blankets tangled around your legs, heart heavy in your chest like a rock that refused to dissolve. The silence of your parents’ house wasn’t comforting, it was deafening. And knowing that Seungmin might come by, might try to see you, that turned every breath into a burden. You didn’t want to see him. Not in this house, not in your childhood bedroom, not where everything already felt too small, too loud, too exposed.

You didn’t want to see him because you couldn’t trust yourself not to crack. Not in front of Roan. Not in front of your parents. Not when every part of you was still raw and bleeding.

And when you finally did fall asleep, maybe an hour or two at most, it was like sinking into darkness with your fists clenched.

You were pulled out of it by a light nudge at your arm. You stirred slowly, bleary-eyed, your first instinct assuming it was Roan, coming in to tell you he was ready for school.

But then you heard it, that voice.

Soft. Familiar. Too gentle.

“Hey,” he whispered, almost lovingly. “Baby, wake up.”

Your eyes snapped open like something inside you had been shocked awake. It wasn’t a dream. It wasn’t your imagination.

It was Seungmin.

You jerked upright, heart hammering as you blinked the sleep from your eyes and looked at him, standing there in the pale morning light, like he had every right to be in this room, like the last few weeks hadn’t happened. His voice, the way he said your name, the way his fingers had brushed your arm, had sounded too much like before. Before everything.

Before he’d shattered you.

You opened your mouth to curse him, maybe. To scream, to demand why the hell he thought it was okay to come into this room, to look at you like nothing had changed.

But your mother’s voice came from the doorway before you could say a word.

“Oh good, you’re up!” she said, chipper, unbothered. “Look who’s here!”

Like it was a surprise. Like it was a gift.

You could’ve told her to leave. You could’ve asked for privacy.

But then you heard it. Roan’s voice. A sudden, thrilled cry from down the hallway.

“Dad?!”

You heard the thump of feet running on hardwood before Roan threw himself into Seungmin’s arms.

You watched it happen. You watched your son’s arms wrap tightly around his father’s neck, his face buried into his shoulder like he hadn’t slept in weeks without that exact kind of comfort.

“I missed you!” Roan mumbled against his chest, holding on like he never wanted to let go.

Seungmin was grinning, holding him close, swaying just a little, as if everything was fine.

“I missed you too, buddy,” he murmured, voice soft.

You felt your throat tighten. This was why it was so hard. This, the joy in your son’s voice, the love in his eyes, the complete adoration for a man who didn’t deserve either of you anymore. You couldn’t take that away from Roan. You wouldn’t. But it made your chest ache in that sick, hollow way, the ache of watching your own pain become invisible to the people you loved the most.

“Why don’t you go get ready for school?” you managed to say to Roan, gently. Carefully. “We’re leaving soon.”

Roan pulled back, nodded, and turned but not before Seungmin crouched down and said, “I’ll take you with Mom, okay? I’ll drive.”

Your heart skipped, something twisting deep in your stomach.

And of course, your mother jumped in again from the hallway. “That’s a great idea! The three of you. Just like before. You need this time. I’ll go finish breakfast. You two talk.”

Then she was gone.

You stood there in silence as Roan padded off, humming to himself, oblivious to the storm behind him.

Then it was just you and Seungmin.

You stood up slowly to close the door, your movements stiff, every muscle tense. He took a step forward, arms already open like he could hold you and fix everything with the same touch he once used to make you laugh, to calm you down, to convince you you were safe.

You stepped back. Immediately. Sharply.

His arms dropped.

“Are you serious right now?” you asked, your voice flat, brittle.

He sighed, like you were being difficult. “What, are you still on this?”

You blinked. Your mouth dropped open just slightly.

“Still on this,” you echoed, voice low. “You cheated on me.”

“It was a mistake,” he said quickly, as if that word made it smaller. “You left. You packed up and left, you took Roan—”

“I took him away from you?” you snapped. “You’re the one who ruined everything!”

His jaw tightened, and he ran a hand through his hair, frustrated. “You’re being dramatic. You didn’t even let us work through it.”

You stared at him in disbelief. “Work through what? You slept with someone else. You lied to me. Repeatedly. And now you’re standing here, in my parents’ house, acting like I’m the problem because I won’t let you hug me?”

His voice lowered, sharper now. “You ripped our son away from his home. His school. His routine. You think that didn’t hurt him?”

You faltered because he was right, in some twisted way. Roan was hurting. You saw it in the quiet moments. In the way he didn’t ask about friends. In how he always looked to you first, like he was afraid something might shift again.

But you didn’t do that. Seungmin did. You left because you had to. Because staying meant breaking completely.

He reached for your hand. Gently. Like he always used to. Like those early years, before everything got heavy.

But you didn’t realize what he was doing until he stopped, eyes flicking down.

“You’re not wearing your ring.”

You pulled your hand back, slowly. “Of course I’m not.”

The silence between you was cold now. Thicker.

He didn’t let go of it, though, the guilt, the insinuation. “You think you’re the only one in pain?” he said softly. “You think I didn’t stay up every night after you left, thinking about Roan, about you, about what I—what we—could’ve fixed?”

“You should’ve thought about that before you started sleeping with your coworker,” you snapped. “Before you made me think I was going crazy. Before you stood in our kitchen and told me you still loved me after everything.”

He stepped back, but only slightly. “Because I do. I always have.”

The door knocked lightly. Your mother’s voice followed: “Breakfast’s ready! Seungmin, you’re welcome to stay, of course. Even a few days, if you want!”

Your heart seized.

You turned toward the door, ready to open it, to tell her no. That it was a terrible idea. That she didn’t know the truth, any of it.

But before you could say anything, Seungmin looked at you with that familiar, quiet smile. The one that used to charm your parents, used to make you feel like the most cherished person in the room.

“I’d love to,” he said loud enough for her to hear. “Let me just talk to my office. I can work remote for a bit.”

You could see it already, your mom beaming. Roan cheering. The quiet assumption that this was the beginning of a fix, not the deepening of the fracture.

Your fists clenched at your sides.

He was doing it again, weaving his way back in, without apology. Without accountability.

You stared at him, your voice caught somewhere between rage and heartbreak.

“This doesn’t change anything,” you said, your voice shaking. “You don’t get to just… move in and pretend we’re fine.”

He tilted his head. “But we could be. Eventually.”

And just like that, the cracks inside you deepened.

Because part of you wanted to believe it. Wanted to reach out and rewind time.

But another part, the part that remembered the nights you cried in silence, the lies, the hollow apologies, knew better.

The door creaked slightly, your mom’s voice warm and hopeful again: “Come eat before it gets cold!”

Seungmin brushed past you, opened the door, like he belonged there.

And you stood alone in your childhood bedroom, heart in pieces, knowing that the worst kind of betrayal wasn’t the one that came from an enemy.

It was the one that came wearing your husband’s smile.

Breakfast was unbearable.

Not because of the food, your mom, as always, had made more than enough: golden pancakes with just the right crisp on the edges, scrambled eggs, a fresh fruit bowl, and toast she always left slightly burnt because she knew your dad liked it that way. Everything smelled like comfort. Like childhood. Like home.

But the weight in the room made it all feel distant. Like you were watching a scene you didn’t belong in anymore.

Roan, on the other hand, was glowing.

He talked nonstop, bouncing in his seat as he told Seungmin every little detail about his new school from how his new teacher smiled a lot and had a frog-shaped pencil case, to how another kid in class had Pokémon stickers, to how he was trying to memorize the name of every student even if he couldn’t remember which of the twins was Ava and which was Emma.

“Ms. Lee said we might get to do a science experiment next week,” Roan grinned, syrup on the corner of his mouth. “And she said I’m a really good reader!”

Seungmin was nodding along, eyes bright with pride, one hand gently ruffling Roan’s hair.

“That’s my smart boy,” he said, voice warm. “You’re amazing.”

Your heart tightened. Not at the compliment, but at how seamless it was for him to just be here. At your kitchen table, in this house, pretending like he belonged again. Like he hadn’t destroyed something precious and just decided he could waltz back in and act like the glue was already drying.

Your parents were eating it up.

“I thought you were going to visit this weekend,” your mom said suddenly, taking a sip of coffee and glancing at Seungmin with a smile that felt far too affectionate. “What brought you down early?”

You didn’t even try to hide the way you rolled your eyes just a small, weary gesture, hoping no one would notice. But of course, Seungmin did.

He set his fork down gently and leaned back, giving the most concerned sigh he could muster. It was so calculated it made your skin crawl.

“She hasn’t been answering my texts,” he said, voice low. “Not about Roan. Not about… anything, really. I couldn’t sleep. I was worried something had happened. So I just got in the car and drove.”

You scoffed softly into your mug, shaking your head. Worried.

Your mother gasped like it was a scene out of a drama.

“Oh my god,” she breathed. “That’s so romantic.”

You looked at her, stunned. But she was already turning to your father, eyes sparkling.

“Isn’t that romantic? Driving all this way, just to check on her? That’s love, right there.”

You felt your stomach twist.

“It’s like I always say,” she continued, voice rising with that hopeful little lilt she used when she was narrating the story she wanted to believe. “Every couple goes through hard moments. That’s what makes a marriage strong, weathering the storms together. Don’t you think, honey?”

Your father nodded solemnly, like he was offering some sage wisdom. “I’m just glad you’re here, Seungmin.”

“Thank you,” Seungmin said quietly, giving your dad a respectful smile. “And thank you, really, for breakfast. It’s… it’s good to be here.”

You didn’t miss the glance he threw your way as he said it.

Like he was laying it on, just enough to keep the illusion going.

You clenched your jaw, pushing your barely touched plate a little to the side.

You’d had enough.

Roan was still mid-sentence, telling Seungmin about how there was a garden outside his classroom and the teacher let them pick mint leaves to smell, when you stood abruptly, your chair scraping back against the floor.

“You’re going to be late, Ro,” you said, already walking around the table. “Get your stuff. Shoes, backpack. Let’s go.”

Your voice was firm. Not sharp, but final. The kind of tone Roan knew meant not to argue.

“Okay!” he said, popping the last strawberry into his mouth before hopping off the chair.

Seungmin stood as well, grabbing his coat from the back of the chair, still holding that calm, casual air like he wasn’t carefully engineering a performance.

“I’ll be in the car,” he said, smiling at your parents. “Thanks again for everything. I’ll be back after drop-off,”

You froze.

You wanted to say no. To say he wouldn’t be. To explain that your mother’s hospitality wasn’t a free pass for him to pretend the last weeks of your life hadn’t just collapsed in on themselves.

But you felt your mom’s hand on your shoulder as she passed you to start clearing plates, and you couldn’t.

You didn’t have the energy.

So instead, you just walked. Quietly. Past your father still sipping coffee. Past Seungmin, who followed behind you like nothing was wrong.

Out of the room. Out of the comfort. Into the chill of a mid-morning that felt far too bright for how heavy you were inside.

-

By the time Roan had his shoes on and his little arms were shrugging into his backpack, Seungmin was already in the driver’s seat of the car, fiddling with the mirror like this was his routine. Like you were just an accessory to it all.

You opened the door and slid into the passenger seat, not looking at him.

Roan climbed into the back and buckled himself in, already humming some melody he’d picked up from a show. Oblivious. Happy.

You hated how hard that made everything.

Seungmin started the car. Silence sat between you like an unwanted guest.

You stared out the window, jaw tight, hand fidgeting with the edge of your sleeve the way you always did when you were overwhelmed.

“You still do that,” Seungmin said softly, glancing at you. “That little fidget thing with your sleeve.”

You didn’t respond.

He let out a soft breath and turned his eyes back to the road.

“I just want to talk,” he said, voice lower now, just for you. “After we drop him off. Just… please.”

You still didn’t answer.

Because the truth was, you weren’t sure you had anything left to say.

And yet, you knew as the school building came into view, as Roan waved goodbye and ran up the steps that you'd be forced to speak to him.

And you'd have to face the wreckage of everything he'd broken… with no one left to protect you from it.

-

The ride back from Roan’s school was quieter than the one there.

Not in the peaceful, comfortable way quiet sometimes is but heavy, thick, like the air had turned to smoke. You kept your eyes on the road ahead, even though Seungmin was the one driving. You didn’t speak. You didn’t look at him.

And he didn’t say anything at first either. Like he was waiting, testing how long he could sit in your silence before cracking it open.

The school faded behind you. The morning light had warmed into late morning, hazy and humid, the trees lining the side streets full of buzzing cicadas. You wanted to disappear into the sound. Dissolve.

When he finally spoke, his voice was too soft. Too rehearsed.

“You’re really going to let everything go, just like that?”

You didn’t respond. Your gaze stayed fixed out the window, watching a woman walk her dog past a florist you used to visit with your mom. Everything about this place was stitched into your childhood, and now it felt like a cage.

“You’re not even going to try?” Seungmin said again, more firmly this time. “After everything we’ve built together?”

That made you laugh dry and bitter.

“Built?” you muttered. “We didn’t build anything. You bulldozed it.”

He gripped the wheel tighter. You could see the white of his knuckles.

“Come on,” he said, glancing at you. “Don’t let all these years just go to waste because of this—this thing.”

You turned slowly. Looked at him. Really looked at him.

“This thing?” you repeated, voice dangerously low. “You mean you sleeping with someone else?”

His jaw clenched. “You always twist things—”

“I always—?”

“Roan’s hurting,” he cut in. “And you don’t even see it. You moved him two hours away from home. From me. From everything he knows. And for what? A fight?”

Your eyes widened. Your mouth opened, then shut, then opened again because you were too stunned to even choose the right reaction.

“It wasn’t a fight, Seungmin. You cheated. You lied. You broke every ounce of trust I gave you, and now you’re sitting here calling it a fight?”

He turned into your parents’ driveway too fast, jerking the car slightly. His voice raised for the first time, sharp and impatient.

“Get over it already! You’re acting like I murdered someone!”

You stared at him, breathing hard, heart beating like a drum in your throat.

“You should’ve never come back.”

Your voice wasn’t loud. It was quiet. Dead cold.

You got out of the car before he could say anything else.

You didn’t slam the door. You didn’t scream. You just walked back into the house like you’d walked into a burning building because at least then you could pretend the smoke choking you was from fire and not from everything else he’d left behind.

-

You didn’t speak to him for the rest of the day.

Not when you passed in the hallway. Not when Roan asked the three of you to play Uno together and you politely declined. Not when your mother insisted on putting Seungmin’s favorite tea in front of him at dinner and asked, with a too-bright smile, how he liked working at the firm now.

You didn’t speak when your father nodded along like a quiet referee, reading the air and choosing silence. You didn’t speak when Roan leaned on his father’s shoulder while watching cartoons, clearly desperate for things to feel normal again.

You only spoke to Roan. And even then, your voice was gentler than it usually was, like you were trying not to let any bitterness bleed through. You didn’t want him to absorb it. He was seven. He deserved peace. He didn’t ask for any of this.

The sun went down slow, casting a warm gold through your old bedroom window. You’d cleaned the space up a little, stacked a few of your old books on the nightstand, put a photo of Roan in a small frame. You were brushing your hair in front of the vanity, watching the soft reflection of yourself, looking more exhausted than you’d ever allowed yourself to admit.

You didn’t hear her at first.

Your mother’s knock was light, almost timid, as if sensing the tension even through the closed door. She was standing there in her robe, a small stack of folded blankets cradled against her chest, her eyes warm.

“Is Roan asleep?” she asked, already stepping halfway into the room.

Seungmin, who had been sitting silently on the edge of the bed scrolling through his phone answered first.

“Just checked on him. Out like a light.”

Your mother beamed. “He looked so happy today. I think seeing you really lifted his mood,” she said, directing the comment at Seungmin.

You rolled your eyes and looked back at your reflection, brushing slowly, carefully, ignoring them.

“I brought a few extra blankets,” your mom said, walking over to the foot of the bed. “It’s supposed to get cold tonight.”

You didn’t answer. Just kept brushing.

But then she added, breezily, “Thought you two might want them, since you’ll be sharing the bed tonight.”

The brush stilled in your hand.

Your reflection didn’t blink.

You turned your head slightly, unsure if you heard her correctly. “What?”

“Just like old times,” she went on, either not noticing your reaction or choosing to ignore it. “The bed’s plenty big. I know it’s been a hard few weeks, but maybe some closeness would help.”

You opened your mouth to speak to correct her, to set the record straight, but Seungmin spoke first.

“Thank you,” he said smoothly, before you could even draw breath. “That’s really kind of you.”

Your jaw dropped slightly. You turned, eyes burning into him.

Your mother just smiled. “Of course, honey. Goodnight, both of you.”

She left. Just like that. Blankets at the foot of the bed, hopeful energy lingering in the air like cheap perfume.

The door clicked softly behind her.

You turned to him. “Why the hell would you say yes to that?”

Seungmin shrugged, like it was nothing. “I didn’t want to make it weird.”

You laughed once, sharp and humorless. “It’s already weird, Seungmin.”

He didn’t answer. Just pulled one of the blankets over his lap and leaned back against the headboard, like he hadn’t just signed himself into your space for the night.

You stared at him, heart pounding, fingers still tangled in your brush handle.

The air between you was thicker now, like every truth you couldn’t say had taken physical form and was slowly filling the room.

You turned away, back to the mirror, and continued brushing slowly, methodically because it was the only thing you could do that didn’t feel like drowning.

And behind you, in the reflection, Seungmin sat in silence.

Still acting like this wasn’t a nightmare of his own making.

You slept on the edge of the bed like you were afraid the mattress might betray you, lying stiff and still, your spine nearly aligned with the seam of the bed’s edge. The line between you and Seungmin was vast, even if physically it was only a few feet. You felt every inch of it.

The silence stretched.

There was no comfort in the dark, only the constant, low hum of your thoughts. You could hear the subtle sounds of the house, the creak of pipes, a faint breeze against the windowpane, the occasional scuff of a car passing by too late into the night. Roan’s soft breathing from the next room.

And then, from the other side of the bed, Seungmin’s voice.

“I’ll stay on my side,” he said softly, like it was some olive branch. “I’m not trying to make things worse.”

You didn’t answer. Your hand was curled near your chest, tangled in the fabric of the blanket.

So here you were.

Lying inches from a man you no longer recognized, in a room that used to belong to someone you no longer were.

He didn’t speak again.

Eventually, you turned your back to him. Not because it helped, but because it was the only direction you could face without breaking.

You woke before your alarm.

Roan was already moving in the next room, his usual morning rustling of trying to pick an outfit, deciding which Pokémon socks were lucky, which book he wanted to bring in his backpack. He called your name once and you responded quickly, happy for the excuse to leave the room.

You slipped out of bed carefully, barely glancing at the other side.

Seungmin was still asleep, or at least pretending to be.

You didn’t care.

Downstairs, the smell of toast and eggs filled the kitchen again, your mom moving around like she had a thousand good intentions tucked into her apron. She smiled at you like nothing was wrong.

You could feel your chest tighten.

“I was thinking,” she said, flipping something on the stove, “you two should take Roan to the park after school. You know, spend a little time as a family. He looked so happy yesterday.”

You shook your head almost immediately. “I can’t. I have an appointment.”

“An appointment?” she asked, turning her head. “For what?”

“Just… something I scheduled a while ago,” you lied. “It’s nothing big, just something I have to do.”

She nodded, still smiling. “Okay, well maybe tomorrow, then.”

You didn’t answer. Instead, you poured Roan a cup of juice and distracted yourself with folding his lunch napkin.

“Also,” you added, casually, “I’ll take Roan to school today. Alone.”

She looked at you, blinking. “Oh?”

“Seungmin probably has work to catch up on,” you said, smoothly now. “Emails, meetings, all of it. He shouldn’t miss any more days than he already has.”

There was a pause. Barely half a beat, but it said everything. Your mother wanted to say something, something hopeful, something intrusive, but Seungmin had just walked into the room, ruffling Roan’s hair.

You kept your expression neutral.

“I told Mom I’d take Roan this morning,” you said to him directly, watching his reaction. “You probably have work.”

He opened his mouth, hesitating ready to argue. You could see it. But then he caught your look.

Tired. Unshakable. Empty.

He sighed and relented.

“Yeah. I’ve got a few emails to catch up on. Go ahead.”

Roan didn’t protest. He was too busy trying to zip his backpack and carry his lunchbox at the same time.

But on the drive to school, it surfaced.

“I like it when Dad drives me,” Roan said, swinging his legs in the seat. “He talks to me about music and lets me pick the songs.”

You gripped the steering wheel tighter but didn’t respond.

“I wish both of you took me to school,” he said after a moment. “Like yesterday.”

You reached for his hand at the red light. Squeezed it gently.

“I know, baby.”

It was all you could say.

At the school, you walked him up to the entrance, your hand resting lightly on his shoulder. You hugged him tighter than usual too tight, probably, but he didn’t complain. He just laughed and wrapped his arms around your neck.

“I’ll be good,” he said brightly.

“I know you will.”

He waved once, twice, and then he disappeared through the front doors.

You hadn’t even fully turned around when you walked straight into someone, solid and warm and familiar.

You let out a startled yelp, stumbling slightly.

A deep, amused laugh.

“Oh gosh,” you breathed, hand clutching your chest. “Are you serious?”

Changbin grinned down at you, eyes crinkling with laughter.

“You should’ve seen your face,” he said, still chuckling. “I think I might’ve scared you half to death.”

You lightly smacked his chest. “You did! Are you stalking me?”

“Only mildly,” he teased. “Nah, I just drop off Yuna a little later on Wednesdays. Lucky me.”

You rolled your eyes, still smiling despite yourself. The sharp edge in your chest softened for the first time that day.

He looked good. The same, and not the same. His shirt sleeves were rolled up, exposing the faint veins of his forearms, and he had that same relaxed, easygoing charm that used to be your undoing when you were seventeen.

He looked like a breath you’d forgotten how to take.

“I’ve been meaning to see you again,” he said, scratching the back of his neck. “Didn’t get your number at the school meeting. I wasn’t sure if you were avoiding me or just busy.”

“Maybe a little of both,” you said honestly, folding your arms but not stepping away.

He smiled again, this time softer.

“Look,” he said, tilting his head slightly, “I don’t want to make anything weird. I just thought it’d be nice to catch up. You know — talk. Laugh. Drink something stronger than school cafeteria coffee. My treat, obviously.”

You hesitated, lips parting, unsure what to say.

Because you hadn’t laughed genuinely laughed in weeks. Because you hadn’t had anyone look at you like you in even longer. Because part of you hated how much that brief moment the banter, the touch, the easiness made something flutter low in your stomach.

“Coffee?” he added, sensing your hesitation. “Or food. I know a great place just off Main. I’m flexible. Just say the word.”

You looked at him, still smiling at you like there wasn’t a single crack in your armor he couldn’t see and wouldn’t touch unless you let him.

Something in you shifted.

“I’ll think about it,” you said quietly.

He nodded, backing up slowly with both hands raised. “That’s all I’m asking.”

And then he winked.

“See you around, heartbreaker.”

You didn’t walk any farther.

You’d barely made it halfway across the school parking lot when the thought hit you like a brick to the chest, the image of your front door waiting to open to more of the same. Your mother’s voice sweet and persistent, urging you to see the good in your marriage, like the betrayal was just a lapse in Seungmin’s character, not a rupture in yours. Seungmin’s voice, too, soft and heavy and manipulative pulling on history and guilt and the shared weight of Roan’s little heart like it was enough to glue together something already cracked beyond recognition.

You couldn’t do it. Not this morning.

Your hands were trembling not from fear, but from the tiredness of having to hold everything together all the time. Of being careful. Measured. Quiet.

So you turned around. Fast.

You spotted him just in time Changbin was a few steps ahead, walking down the sidewalk toward what seemed to be his car, his stride relaxed. He hadn't noticed you yet.

“Changbin!” you called out, a little breathless, your voice slicing through the low hum of early morning traffic.

He turned.

His brows lifted at the sight of you jogging slightly toward him, something like concern flashing in his face for a moment, until you caught up, and he saw your expression: flushed from decision, not panic.

“Everything okay?” he asked gently, but not intrusively.

You took a breath. Then another.

“Do you have time now?” you asked, voice lower this time. “To… get that coffee. Or food. Or whatever you offered. I just—” you paused, looking away. “I don’t really want to go home yet.”

He didn’t ask any questions.

No why, no what's going on, no are you okay.

Instead, he just smiled. A little crooked, a little soft. Familiar.

“Yeah,” he said simply. “I’ve got time.”

He pointed at his car, a black, slightly beat-up sedan in the corner of the lot, the kind of vehicle that had seen long nights and longer road trips, mismatched air fresheners and glove compartments filled with half-written lyrics.

“I’ll drive?”

You felt something ease inside your chest as you smiled back. “Okay.”

You slipped into the passenger seat, tugging the seatbelt across your lap with a click. He tossed his backpack into the back seat before climbing in beside you, one hand on the wheel, the other adjusting the AC vent. He turned to you as he started the engine.

“So,” he asked, “want to try that new place I mentioned? Or…”

You hesitated.

There was something about this moment, something tender and loose and unfamiliar in its comfort. You stared out the window for a beat, then turned to him.

“Do you remember that diner we used to go to?” you asked. “The one near the overpass? We used to ditch class and get pancakes.”

His face lit up. “With the cracked jukebox and the chalkboard menus? That place?”

You nodded, the corner of your mouth twitching into the smallest smile. “Yeah. That one.”

His eyes softened. “I haven’t been there in forever. Still smells like syrup and fryer grease and bad decisions, probably.”

You laughed, and it surprised you how natural it sounded. How easy.

“That’s where I want to go,” you said.

“You got it,” he replied, throwing the car into drive. “Nostalgia breakfast. Coming right up.”

He winked at you, and this time, you let the flutter in your stomach stay.

-

The bell above the door chimed gently as you both stepped into the diner, the soft smell of syrup and coffee wrapping around you like an old blanket. It was still there, that same sticky warmth, the gentle hum of classic rock spilling faintly from the speakers, and the low murmur of early patrons with their morning mugs and newspapers.

You both slid into a booth near the back, the one that curved along the window, the same one you used to claim every time you skipped class and wanted to pretend you were older than sixteen. Changbin sat across from you, his hands still calloused but somehow gentle-looking as he grabbed a menu he probably didn’t need.

You didn’t need one either.

“It smells the same,” you muttered, eyes scanning the room. “Like grease and… rebellion.”

Changbin laughed. “And questionable hygiene.”

You laughed with him, the sound coming easily now. Lighter.

A waitress came by familiar face, maybe a little older than you both, her name tag crooked and took your orders without fuss. Two coffees, two plates of pancakes, a side of bacon for him, fruit for you, like muscle memory.

After she left, Changbin leaned back against the booth, stretching his arm across the back like he used to when you were younger though now, he wasn’t trying to flirt. Just relax. Be.

“I still can’t believe that was actually you,” he said, shaking his head. “Like, at the school. If it wasn’t you, and I said something stupid like ‘you still do that fidgety hand thing,’ I would’ve had to change my name and leave town.”

You snorted into your coffee. “Would’ve been hilarious though.”

“I don’t think my ego could’ve taken it,” he teased, grinning.

You took a sip of coffee, watching him as he stared out the window for a second. The sun hit just right, the gold catching on the edge of his jaw, in the little crow’s feet near his eyes, the slight exhaustion in his frame. Life had happened to him, clearly. It had happened to you too. But in this booth, it felt like the world slowed down.

You ended up talking about high school. Not the painful parts, not yet, but the funny, absurd pieces. The time you both got caught making out behind the gym during prom. The time you threw a soda can at someone’s car because they catcalled you and Changbin wanted to defend your honor. The camping trip where you two shared a blanket and he screamed at a raccoon in the middle of the night.

“That raccoon was at least 30 pounds,” he insisted.

“It was five, tops.”

“It had rabies in its eyes.”

You laughed again. A real, full laugh.

He was halfway through his second pancake, slicing through the stack with syrup-covered enthusiasm, when he suddenly froze. His fork hovered in midair, dripping slightly.

“Oh my god,” he said through a mouthful. “I just remembered something.”

You raised an eyebrow. “This could go in so many directions.”

“No, no, listen,” he said, swallowing his bite dramatically. “Do you remember… Seungmin?”

Your heart stilled. Like it had tripped over itself and forgot how to keep beating for just a moment.

“Kim Seungmin.”

Of course you remembered. Of course you did.

But Changbin didn’t know. He had no idea.

You stiffened slightly. “Yeah…” you said cautiously. “I remember.”

He didn’t notice the way your fingers curled around your cup, the way you leaned just slightly back, preparing for the hit.

“Geez,” he muttered with a grin, shaking his head. “I hated that guy.”

Your head snapped up.

“I was so jealous back then,” he continued, chuckling. “Everyone knew Seungmin had the biggest crush on you. Dude would always hang around after classes, try to sit near you, act like you and I weren’t even dating. Like… you were just this free agent waiting for someone better.”

He laughed a little bitterly at the memory, like it didn’t actually sting anymore, just existed.

“I mean, I get it,” he added. “You were… you. You were always so bright. People wanted to be around you. I didn’t blame him. I just wanted to punch him.”

You finally breathed. A slow, careful breath. It was now or never.

“Changbin,” you said quietly.

He looked up.

You hesitated for only a beat. Then:

“Seungmin is my husband.”

The fork in his hand froze. Slowly, he set it down.

He blinked.

Once. Twice.

“You’re serious?” he asked, voice lower.

You nodded. “Yeah.”

He sat back, visibly trying to process. “You… married him?”

You didn’t answer with words at first. Just gave him a look that said, Yes. It's as complicated as it sounds.

And maybe because this was Changbin, and he knew you too well, he didn’t laugh. Didn’t react with some big dramatic sigh or over-the-top comment.

He just let out a quiet, “Wow.”

You looked down at your plate, picked at a strawberry.

“After you left,” you said, voice barely above a whisper. “I was in a bad place. I think you knew that. And he… he stayed. He was always there. At first just a friend, then someone who made me laugh again. It wasn’t sudden. It wasn’t even romantic at first. I just… I needed someone. And he was there.”

You glanced at him, trying to gauge his expression. It was unreadable, his lips slightly parted, brows furrowed in that faint way they always did when he was really listening.

“We ended up going to the same college,” you continued. “Out of town. Different majors, but… he stuck around. And somewhere between trying to get over you and trying to survive being on my own, I fell in love with him.”

You looked down again. Your voice cracked slightly. “We got married after college. Roan came a year later.”

For a long moment, neither of you said anything.

Then Changbin let out a soft breath and leaned forward, resting his forearms on the table.

“Can I say something?”

You nodded.

“I’m not mad,” he said gently. “I don’t have a right to be. I left. I hurt you. And Seungmin… I guess he didn’t.”

You looked at him. “He did. Just… not right away.”

Understanding flickered across his face.

You didn’t need to explain more. Not yet.

“He cheated,” you whispered.

Changbin’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t speak.

You laughed bitterly. “Everyone thinks we’re just going through a phase. A rough patch. My parents love him. Roan loves him. And I’m the only one who knows the truth. And now you.”

He stared at you, like he was searching for something in your eyes.

“I don’t know what to say,” he admitted, after a pause.

“I don’t need you to say anything,” you said, voice small.

“But I want to,” he said.

You looked at him.

“I want to be here,” he said simply. “Even if it’s just as someone who listens.”

You smiled a slow, aching thing. “Thank you.”

And for the first time in a long, long time maybe since before everything shattered, you felt like someone really saw you.

Not as Seungmin’s wife. Not just Roan’s mother.

Just you.

And it felt like hope.

-

By the time the soft clinking of cutlery had dwindled, and the hush of the post-rush lull settled over the diner, you noticed the waitress throwing not-so-subtle glances your way. Her polite smile was stretched thin now, the kind of weary look that screamed, You two have been here way too long, please let me clean your table and go home at a decent hour.

Changbin caught it too, offering a sheepish laugh as he polished off the last sip of his now lukewarm coffee. “I think we’re being evicted.”

You sighed, smiling reluctantly. “Feels like old times. Except now we’re overstaying because of emotional baggage instead of teenage hormones.”

He grinned. “Emotional baggage is way more interesting.”

You reached into your bag for your wallet, reflexive and automatic. “Let me at least get half —”

He was already sliding his card across the table to the waitress, not even looking your way. “Don’t start. I invited you.”

“No, but—”

“I said I wanted to treat you.” He smirked, leaning back with exaggerated smugness. “You can get the next one.”

You narrowed your eyes. “You just want me to feel obligated to see you again.”

He didn’t miss a beat. “Exactly.”

You stared at him. A beat passed. Then you chuckled, the sound quiet and honest.

Outside, the light had softened into that almost-golden afternoon hue, the kind that makes everything look washed in nostalgia. When you stepped out of the diner and into the sunlight, you blinked against it, stretching your arms above your head with a groan that came from deep in your chest. Changbin walked beside you, keys twirling between his fingers.

It wasn’t until you were halfway to the school, laughter still lingering in your chest from some half-told story about his failed attempt at teaching Yuna how to ride a bike that you realized the time.

“Oh shit,” you gasped, sitting upright in the passenger seat. “It’s pickup time. Like right now pickup time.”

Changbin’s eyes widened. “You said it was later!”

“I thought it was!” you said, quickly grabbing your phone and checking the clock. “I didn’t realize we’d been sitting there for five hours! You were too interesting.”

He grinned. “Flattered.”

“You shouldn’t be,” you snapped, panicked, swatting his arm. “Drive!”

He did. Fast enough to make it right as the trickle of students began flooding out the school gates, colorful backpacks bouncing, parents chatting in clusters by the sidewalk. You both barely made it out of the car when familiar voices caught your attention.

“Mom!”

You turned just in time to see Roan running toward you cheeks flushed, his bag half zipped and bouncing against his back. His hair stuck to his forehead from play, and his voice cracked with excitement.

Right behind him, Yuna’s squeal echoed as she launched herself at Changbin, who caught her with ease, laughing as he staggered slightly from the force of her affection.

Roan flung his arms around your waist, and you caught him, bending slightly to hug him properly.

“Hey, baby,” you said, brushing his hair out of his eyes. “How was school?”

“I drew a frog with wings!” he announced proudly. “And Ms. Lee said it was very imaginative.”

“Of course she did,” you laughed. “That sounds very… avant-garde.”

He nodded solemnly, then tilted his head. “Where’s dad?”

The question hit you like a soft thud. Not painful. But heavy.

You hesitated for half a second before answering, “He’s at home. He had work.”

Roan frowned slightly but didn’t say more. He leaned into your side, rubbing his eyes with a little yawn.

“Hey,” Changbin’s voice came from behind you, softer now. “Thanks for today. It really… meant a lot.”

You turned around, finding him with Yuna still perched on his hip, her arms looped around his neck as she played with the ends of his hair. Her small eyes fluttered sleepily.

“I should be thanking you,” you said, adjusting Roan’s backpack on your shoulder. “I really needed to… not be home for a while.”

He watched you carefully, his face gentling. “You didn’t have to explain.”

You smiled weakly, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear. “Still.”

There was a pause. A tiny, breath-held moment.

“I didn’t get your number,” he said suddenly, reaching into his back pocket and pulling out his phone. “And if I don’t ask now, I’ll probably regret it for another ten years.”

You laughed under your breath. “Smooth.”

He passed you the phone, and you typed in your number, pausing only once before hitting save under your name.

“Done,” you said.

He smiled this time, quieter. “Maybe next time… drinks? A real dinner? My treat, again. Unless you really want to fight me over the bill.”

You snorted. “Oh, I will.”

“I’m counting on it.”

And then Roan tugged at your hand, murmuring that he was tired and wanted to go home. You nodded, your heart heavy again but full in a different way now.

Changbin and Yuna waved as you started walking toward your car, and Roan ever the polite boy waved back, yelling a cheerful, “Bye, Yuna! Bye Yuna’s Dad!”

Yuna waved so hard her ponytail bobbed with the motion. “Bye Roan! Bye Roan’s Mom!”

You paused at that, warmth spreading in your chest despite yourself. You looked back just once.

Changbin was still watching you. Not staring. Just… present.

And for the first time in a while, you didn’t feel like you were walking alone.

-

You smiled the entire ride home. Not a loud, ecstatic grin, but that quiet, involuntary kind of smile, the one that lingers at the corners of your lips long after a warm memory. Changbin had made you laugh today, not just once, but more times than you could count. Honest laughter, too the kind that didn't feel forced or coated in guilt. For a little while, it was easy to forget how heavy everything else was. It was easier to feel like yourself again.

But the moment your front door creaked open, reality swept back in like a bitter wind.

The sound hit first: low murmuring, the subtle clink of bottles, a laugh that didn't belong to you. It was Seungmin’s, quiet, practiced. Familiar. Too familiar. Then your father's gruff voice, amused and relaxed in a way that made your skin prickle. As you stepped inside, the weight came crashing down again.

There, in the living room, Seungmin sat next to your father both of them holding beers, the kind your dad only pulled out when he was feeling particularly welcoming. Seungmin's sleeves rolled up in a way that once made you feel comforted. Now it made your stomach turn.

Your mother was curled up in her armchair with a book resting open on her lap. She looked up the second you stepped in, her eyes lighting up like she'd just spotted good news walking through the door.

“There you are!” she chirped, her voice far too cheerful for how tight your chest had suddenly become. “Where were you? Seungmin’s been so worried. He was about to go out and look for you.”

The mention of his name, that carefully woven narrative of him being “worried,” instantly soured your mood. You hadn’t texted. You hadn’t wanted to. You’d had one afternoon, just one, where you could breathe without his voice tugging at your every memory, and now you were being pulled right back under the water.

Roan ran past you before you could say a word. “Dad!” he squealed, flinging himself into Seungmin’s arms with no hesitation. “I drew a frog with wings today and Ms. Lee loved it!”

You stood frozen in the entryway, your smile long gone now, watching Seungmin smile as he ruffled Roan’s hair, responding with a soft, “Of course she did, bud. That’s awesome.”

Your mom turned to you again, brows lifting. “Honey? You alright? Why didn’t you come home after drop-off?”

You felt the muscles in your jaw tighten. The question felt too pointed, too soon. You hadn’t even set down your keys yet. Your pulse rose with the sudden sensation of being cornered.

“I just… needed some air,” you said flatly. “Ran some errands. Got a headache.”

“Oh no,” your mom said, eyes full of concern now. “You should rest. You look pale.”

You nodded. “Yeah. I think I will. I’m going to lie down.”

There was no room for more conversation. You turned on your heel, making a beeline for your room, practically choking on the tightness in your throat. The moment you were inside, you shut the door behind you not hard, but firm. It wasn’t a slam. It was a boundary.

You slipped off your shoes and collapsed onto your bed without turning on the light. You lay on your side, staring blankly at the wall, your back to the door. You hadn’t even bothered to change clothes. The ache in your chest had returned, dull and gnawing, the contrast between now and the afternoon with Changbin cutting deep.

You heard the knock a few minutes later. Not loud just a gentle knock, followed by the door creaking open.

Of course. It was him.

“Hey,” Seungmin’s voice was soft. Carefully rehearsed. He closed the door behind him, and you could feel his eyes trying to find you in the dim room.

You didn’t move.

“Heard you weren’t feeling well,” he added, as if that excused the way he came in uninvited. “I just wanted to check.”

Still, you said nothing. You didn’t need to. The silence was thick enough.

“Where were you?” he finally asked, the first question that wasn’t wrapped in false concern. Just a little more pointed. A little less kind.

You still didn’t answer. You stayed on your side, back to him. Your arm folded under your head, breath steady. But he knew you weren’t sleeping.

A sigh. A pause. The shift of the mattress behind you as he stepped closer, probably expecting some sort of response, a confrontation, anything.

“Look,” he began, his voice tightening. “I’m just trying to talk. You can’t keep shutting me out like this.”

Still nothing. You stared at the wall, heart slowly rising into your throat again. If you opened your mouth, you might say something too honest. Too cruel.

Seungmin sighed again, louder this time. “So this is it? This is how we’re going to do this now?”

You turned slowly, finally, to face him. Your voice was quiet, but it was hard-edged. “How we’re going to do this? You don’t get to walk in here and pretend like we’re on the same team.”

His jaw tensed. “I’ve been trying. You’re the one who left.”

You sat up, your hands trembling in your lap. “You cheated.”

His eyes flashed with something guilt, maybe, or frustration. “We had a fight. We were already falling apart.”

You flinched. “And your solution to that was to sleep with your coworker?”

“That’s not fair—”

“No, Seungmin,” you cut him off, your voice rising, “What’s not fair is you coming here, acting like you’re some loving husband, winning my parents over, making them think this is just a bump in the road. You know what you're doing.”

“You didn’t correct them either,” he shot back. “You’re letting them believe it too.”

You hated how easily he turned the blame. How calm he tried to stay when you were crumbling. It made you feel insane like you were the one unraveling in a perfectly tidy room.

“You should’ve never come,” you muttered, standing now, pacing. “I told you not to. I told you this isn’t your home anymore.”

He looked at you with a wounded kind of disbelief. “You’re really willing to throw away years because of one mistake?”

“One mistake?” you scoffed, incredulous. “That’s how you talk about it? You made me feel like I was crazy, Seungmin. You came home late, you lied to my face for months. And then you had the audacity to tell me you still loved me after. What kind of love is that?”

“I do love you,” he said softly, almost defeated.

And for a moment, the smallest flicker you saw the man you had once believed in. The one who held your hand in college hallways, who fell asleep with his head on your stomach as you read aloud your thesis. The man who cried in the hospital when Roan was born.

But that man cheated. That man let you cry alone the night you packed your bags. That man chose himself when you needed him the most.

“I can’t do this,” you whispered. “Not right now.”

He nodded, reluctantly stepping back, but he didn’t leave without the final blow.

“Roan misses you. The you we used to be. Just… think about him before you throw everything away.”

He didn’t wait for an answer. He slipped out the door and closed it gently behind him.

You sat on the edge of the bed long after he left, the ache crawling back into your chest like it had never left.

The only lightness in your body now was the faint echo of laughter in a diner booth. A brief moment where you didn’t feel like a wife. Or an ex-wife. Or a disappointment.

Just a woman. Who used to love pancakes. Who used to skip class. Who used to dream.

And maybe, just maybe was learning how to again.

You liked taking Roan to school. It was the one part of the day that still felt soft, simple. His tiny hand in yours, the way he talked the entire way about his drawings, or what he thought the cafeteria would serve for lunch today. It helped you start the morning with something solid, something good before the noise of your fractured reality crept back in.

Today, you made sure he got into class okay, even lingered longer than usual near the door as he turned to wave at you. You waved back, a small smile tugging at your lips.

And then you felt a poke.

Right at your side.

You jumped so hard you let out a yelp, loud enough that a few parents turned to look and immediately whipped around to find the only person who’d have the audacity to poke you like that.

Changbin.

You immediately slapped his chest with a hand, playfully but firm. “You really have to stop doing that,” you huffed, glaring at him.

He was already laughing, loud and shameless. “I live for it. You should see your face—every time!”

You rolled your eyes, but your smile betrayed you.

He fell into step beside you as you started walking away from the school gates.

“I didn’t realize you walked here,” he said after a few beats, glancing around the sidewalk like he was piecing it together.

“Yeah. Just needed the air.”

“Need a ride back?” he asked, casual, like it wasn’t already obvious that’s what he was going to offer.

You let out a quiet sigh through your nose. “You’re relentless.”

He grinned. “That’s a yes.”

And it was.

You followed him to his car, sliding into the passenger seat like you had yesterday only this time, it felt less like a spontaneous escape and more like… routine. Something easy. Something welcome.

The ride home was quiet at first, not awkward, just easy like neither of you felt the need to fill the space. But halfway there, he spoke.

“You know,” he began, eyes on the road, “you can talk to me. Anytime. About anything. You don’t have to, obviously. But just… I’m around.”

You turned your head slightly, watching his profile. The curve of his jaw. The soft worry at the corner of his mouth.

“I know,” you said, quietly. “Thank you.”

He nodded once but didn’t look at you. “I don’t know what happened with you and… him. I’m not prying. But I can see it in your eyes. You’re tired.”

There was no judgment in his voice. Just quiet, heartfelt observation.

Your throat tightened at that. Because he wasn’t wrong. You were tired. Tired in your bones. Tired in your mind. Tired of pretending.

You turned toward the window, blinking fast. “I am.”

He didn’t press for more. Just drove.

You were already nearing your neighborhood when he let out a soft laugh and said, “Do your parents still hate me?”

You looked at him sharply, surprised, and then laughed, really laughed for the first time since the diner.

“Oh,” you said between giggles. “You remember that?”

“How could I forget? Your dad used to literally grunt when I came over. I thought he was going to bury me in the backyard.”

“To be fair,” you said, covering your smile with your hand, “you did sneak into my room at 2 AM and set off the fire alarm trying to microwave nachos.”

He shrugged. “Worth it. Those nachos were killer.”

You shook your head, still laughing. “Don’t take it personal. They were overprotective. I was their only kid.”

“I’m not taking it personal,” he said, mock offended. “But do they still hate me?”

You gave that some real thought, chewing the inside of your cheek.

“I don’t think so,” you said. “Honestly, I think they barely remember. You’re ancient history.”

“Ouch,” he gasped. “And here I thought I left a lasting impression.”

“You left a mess in my kitchen, not an impression,” you teased.

He was still chuckling when he glanced at you and asked, “Do they like Seungmin?”

Your smile faded slightly, but it stayed on your face out of habit.

“Yeah,” you said, trying to make it sound lighter than it felt. “They… treat him like he’s their own son.”

He looked genuinely scandalized. “Seriously?”

You laughed again, shaking your head. “Don’t take that personal either.”

But it lingered, that realization. That your parents had accepted Seungmin with open arms in ways they never had with anyone else. In some ways, it made everything harder.

You were still thinking about it when he pulled into your driveway.

As he parked, he turned to you with a grin. “Don’t forget. You still owe me drinks.”

You groaned. “Right. You’re never going to let that go, are you?”

“Nope. I’m petty.”

You were still laughing when you unbuckled and stepped out of the car… only for your breath to catch in your throat the moment you saw who was standing on the porch.

Seungmin.

Arms crossed. Shoulders stiff. His expression thunderous.

He didn’t move when he saw you. Just stared. A storm in his eyes. His gaze shifted briefly to Changbin, and you swore something in his jaw clicked.

Changbin, still in the driver’s seat, gave a cheerful wave through the open window. “See you, mystery woman.”

You smiled faintly and waved back. “Thanks for the ride.”

He gave a wink, and then he was gone, the car pulling away, tires quiet on the pavement.

You barely had time to turn toward the porch when Seungmin snapped.

“Who the hell was that?”

You blinked.

His voice wasn’t loud, but it was sharp, seething. Cold.

You climbed the steps slowly. “It was just someone I know.”

“Someone you know?” His voice dropped lower, more dangerous. “That someone just happened to be driving you home? You left early this morning without a word and come back laughing in some guy’s car?”

You kept your face neutral, trying not to react, trying to keep your pulse from flaring.

“I walked Roan to school. I didn’t want to come straight home. I ran into someone and accepted a ride back. That’s it.”

“Is that what this is now?” he asked bitterly. “You disappearing with strangers?”

“He’s not a stranger.”

That was a mistake. You said it too quickly, too defensively.

Seungmin’s expression shifted, suspicion to realization to something uglier.

You could practically see it on his face. The puzzle clicking into place.

But you weren’t about to confirm it. Not now. Not here. The last thing you needed was seungmin exploding on your first heartbreak, in front of your childhood home.

“I don’t owe you an explanation,” you said, stepping past him.

“Oh, so now we’re doing that?” he called after you. “You disappear all morning, and I’m just supposed to smile and wave when some guy drops you off at my son’s house?”

You stopped cold.

Spun around.

“This isn’t your house anymore. And he’s not just your son. He’s ours.”

Seungmin’s mouth opened, but you didn’t let him speak. You turned, stormed into the house, and let the screen door swing shut behind you.

You didn’t bother to see if he followed.

Because you were too tired. Too full of guilt and rage and the faint remnants of laughter that still clung to your sleeves like perfume.

And in the quiet that followed, you let yourself remember the way Changbin looked at you.

Like he saw you.

Not the wife. Not the failed marriage. Not the tired mother.

Just… you.

-

You could tell Seungmin was angry.

He hadn’t said anything explicitly, not since earlier on the porch, but his silence wasn’t quiet, it was loud. Too loud. The tension in his jaw, the tight way he held himself when he walked past you in the hallway. The pointed slams of cabinets when he was in the kitchen and you were in the room next to him. You tried not to acknowledge it, but it was there. Like a storm cloud in every corner of the house.

That night, as you stood in front of the bathroom mirror brushing your hair, trying to find some stillness before bed, your phone buzzed on the vanity.

Once.
Then again.

You glanced down. An unknown number.

[Unknown]: Okay so maybe I did rehearse that joke in the car. Rate my delivery, 1-10.

You blinked at the message. And then smiled, a genuine, unguarded smile because you recognized the tone. You didn’t even need the name to know.

You typed back.

"That was a solid 6.5. I’m being generous because you’re funny when you’re smug."

A moment passed.

[Changbin]: Oh, a 6.5? Harsh. I'm wounded. Drinks on you for that.

You laughed under your breath. Actually laughed. That warmth again. That ease you thought you’d lost.

"Fine. Drinks on me. One drink. Don’t push it."

You were still smiling when your mom called your name down the hall.

“Can you come here a sec, sweetie? I wanted to ask about Roan’s weekend plans!”

“Coming!” you shouted back.

You set the phone down on the bed, the screen still lit for a few seconds before dimming. You didn’t notice the shadow in the hallway. The way Seungmin had paused in the doorway, leaned against the frame with crossed arms, eyes locked on your smile.

And when you left the room, your phone buzzed again.

He didn’t mean to do it. Not really.

But his jaw was tight. His stomach was churning.

He walked over and picked up the phone like it offended him just by existing. The way it lit up again with another message.

Roan’s birthday had been your password for years, unchanged. He hadn’t even needed to think twice. Muscle memory.

It unlocked with a soft click.

[Changbin]: So how’s the house of chaos? Still surviving?

He scrolled.

Each message painted a clearer picture than the last, Changbin flirting, light and easy, poking fun, asking you about your favorite drinks, joking that he might actually dress up if it meant seeing you smile again.

Seungmin’s blood pressure spiked.

That was him. That was the guy from the car.

Changbin. Seo Changbin.

He froze.

His chest tightened, and his grip on your phone turned white-knuckled.

Changbin. That Changbin.

High school Changbin. First boyfriend Changbin. The guy Seungmin loathed, not because of some petty rivalry, but because he had what Seungmin wanted first. You.

The guy who laughed too loud, kissed you in the hallways, held your hand like you were already his long before Seungmin had even found the nerve to tell you he liked you. The one you skipped classes with. The one who broke your heart when he left and left just enough space for Seungmin to be there, to pick up the pieces.

And now he was back? Now? When everything between you and Seungmin was still splintering, still bleeding?

He was seething.

When you came back into the room, Seungmin was sitting at the edge of the bed, your phone in his hand. His eyes locked onto you the second you stepped in.

You stopped mid-step, your expression shifting instantly. “What are you doing with my phone?”

He didn’t respond at first. Just lifted it and tilted it slightly in his hand.

“Really?” he said, voice tight. Controlled.

You narrowed your eyes. “What are you talking about?”

“You really came all the way back here, dragging Roan with you, telling everyone you needed space, but really you just wanted to see him again?”

You blinked. “What?”

He turned the phone to show you the screen, Changbin’s messages still open, bright against the dark of the room.

You froze.

“You were with him,” he said. “Changbin. Of all people.”

Your lips parted slightly, more from shock than guilt.

“You read my messages?”

“You left them wide open.”

“That doesn’t mean—” You stopped yourself. “You had no right to go through my phone.”

“No right?” he barked a humorless laugh. “You disappeared this morning, left without a word, came back laughing in some guy’s car, and now you’re texting your ex-boyfriend like you’re sixteen again!”

“He’s not just my ex—”

“I know exactly who he is,” Seungmin snapped. “He’s the guy who dated you while I sat there like an idiot watching it happen. I remember him.”

You clenched your jaw. “And I remember what you did. Don’t throw a tantrum because someone actually makes me feel sane for five minutes.”

His nostrils flared. “So that’s what this is? You’re punishing me. Using this whole situation as an excuse to flirt with an old flame while pretending you’re the victim.”

“Are you serious right now?”

“Oh, I’m dead serious,” he spat. “You left. You took Roan. You’ve barely looked me in the eye since. And now it all makes sense—you came back to fix things? No. You came back to relive your past with him.”

You stared at him, chest heaving, feeling heat rush to your face not from shame, but rage.

“I came back because I needed air. I came back because you broke something in me I don’t know how to fix. And I’m trying to survive trying to hold it together for Roan. And if one person out there gives me a second to breathe without feeling like I’m drowning, I’m not going to apologize for that.”

He didn’t say anything. Just looked at you with a glare so sharp it could’ve cut straight through your chest.

“I can’t do this with you tonight,” you said quietly, turning away from him.

And this time, when you walked out of the room, he didn’t follow.

//

masterlist. dad!skz series masterlist.

❌proofread

[official taglist: @alisonyus @lenfilms @captainchrisstan @anastasiiiiaaaaa @emilyywhyy @ready2readnwrite lmk if you’d like to be added/removed 😙 ..]

a/n: finally!

[musingsofheaven]

Hello!! I adore your Art fics and was wondering if you’d do one with top/dom!Art x Sub!reader and she has a really bad oral fixation throughout her normal day buts it’s especially bad when she’s upset, and she is, also if possible if you could somehow fit in NSFW themes I’d really appreciate it! Once again love love love your work!💕

Sorry if this is gibberish I suck at requesting stuff

SLURRED, SLIPPY, SHINY.

summary: It’s not new. You’ve always had a thing for using your mouth when your feelings get too big and you go quiet. And Art knows that silence, knows exactly what you need when it hits. He never makes you explain. Just cups the back of your head and tells you, “Breathe through it, baby.”

pairings: ceo!art donaldson x young girlfriend!reader

warning: 4.2k words. mature themes. oral fixation. age gap. power imbalance. oral sex (m!receiving). gagging / light choking. spit / drool / mess. aftercare. read responsibly.

note: this request has been sitting in my inbox since june 7 and i swear i wasn’t ignoring it :(! sorry … sighs. anyway, i saw “oral fixation when she’s upset” and i immediately felt exposed. why would you call me out like that. do you know how many things i’ve put in my mouth just to not cry?? like it was a coping mechanism. and surprise!!! it was!!! 🤪 and yep… we’re here now. she’s soft. she’s messy. she’s gagging a little. and she’s regulated by one (1) emotionally available dom named art donaldson. (I WANT SOFT DOM ART) To anon, i’m sorry it took me long. i love you. thank you for requesting this. 💗

You should’ve grown out of it. That’s what everyone said- quietly, politely, like it wasn’t a big deal. Like it’s just a phase. Just something you’d stop doing once your brain settled, but it’s not. As much as you want it to stop, it didn’t. It started when you’re young, with your thumb, then your shirt collar that you’re subtly putting between your mouth when you’re alone, hoodie strings chewed until they frayed. Note: Each one of your hoodies.

Teachers, doctors, and relatives offered solutions: rubber sticks, bracelets, soft pens. You tried. But nothing worked like having something in your mouth. It doesn’t work. You almost broke down when someone asked what it was when you left your bag open. It wasn’t just a habit. You know that. It was need- pressure, focus, quiet. It’s something. It’s yours. Something to help you feel safe. A comfort.

You learned to hide it as you got older. No more thumb sucking (when you’re at public), but your pens still had bite marks. You went through straws too fast. Got flattened and looks like it has been murdered. You pressed your fingers to your lips, mouthed your sleeves, and gnawed your cheeks. You thought it would fade. It didn’t. There’s a time you think it’s fading, not until it happened again, when something triggered you.

It’s worse when you are upset, more than the normal things you do. You didn’t cry or yell. You just went quiet. You bit down. Sucked your fingers raw. Let your sleeves stay wet. Full of drool. You hated how it looked. How did it make you feel small. It can be disgusting, but a good feeling at the same time. You tried to be better. Find solutions on your own when you get older. Therapy, coping tools, breathing tricks- you did it all. But your mouth always ended up full again. Again. And again.

It got harder to ignore around people, especially during sex. When your mouth was busy, your head was quiet. Not because you wanted to be good. Just because it helped. But it got messy- too much drool, too fast, too desperate. You look like you’re eager to suck them off or get fucked. You could always tell when they felt weird about it. They’d pull away. Wipe your chin as if it’s giving them problems. Give you a break you never asked for.

So you stopped letting anyone see it. Bit your cheek. Sometimes it’s too hard you can taste the metallic flavor from your blood. Swallowed the need. Tried to act normal. Masking it in front of other people. Tried to stay quiet without help. You didn’t want to explain. It’s too hard to do it anyway. You didn’t want to see that look- confused, a little uneasy, like they didn’t know what you were doing, or why it mattered.

And then you met him. A quiet gala. A borrowed bracelet. A drink you didn’t finish. He noticed you- not because you were young or pretty, but because you stirred your glass too long, because your fingers kept brushing your mouth like they didn’t know where else to go. The way you lick your lips too much to the point it’s making them dry. You didn’t even realize. But he did.

And for once, someone didn’t look confused. He just watched you more than he spoke. Noticed your jaw, your hands, the way your voice caught when your mouth was empty. But he never pointed it out. Never asked. He just made space. Let you sit closer. Let you speak less. Let you handle yourself. Let you do your mannerisms. Let you know it. And for the first time, you didn’t feel like you had to hide.

Now- now that you’re here, curled up on the floor of his penthouse, sleeves damp, fingers trembling, mouth aching for something to hold- he still doesn’t ask questions. Just let you stay there. Not really get you up because he knows your habits by now. And he’s in the middle of a meeting. Remote. Earbud in, laptop open, voice low. Even as he talks about projections and timelines and things you don’t understand but his other hand- his free hand- is resting gently on your face, two fingers pressed into your mouth like it’s second nature.

You keep his fingers warm inside your mouth. You’re curled against his thigh, knees tucked under you, breathing soft and shallow as you suck on them. Slow. Steady. Sloopy. Like it’s the only thing keeping you from falling apart. You’ve already soaked his skin. Spit clings to the knuckle and to your chin. Your jaw aches. Your lashes are wet. You don’t even know how long it’s been.

You haven’t spoken since you crawled across the floor and tugged on his sleeve. Soft and with the purpose of disturbing him in the middle of his meeting. Your chest is tight and your eyes are glassy, too full to say a word. You didn’t ask. You didn’t have to. He looked down once, watched your lip tremble, and slipped his fingers past your mouth like he was giving you medicine. Like he knows what you need. Like it’s your fix.

You’ve been like this ever since- mouthing and whimpering, drooling quietly while he keeps talking like there’s nothing unusual happening. Nothing at all. Just you. You’re on the floor. His fingers dig deep into you. “…no, we’ll review it again on Thursday,” he says, thumb brushing under your chin.

“I’ll send over the final numbers after this call.” You whine around his fingers- quiet, desperate- and he doesn’t even blink, just looking straight at this damn meeting. “Shh,” he quietly murmurs, barely audible. His pinky strokes your cheek. “You’re fine, baby. Just keep going.”

You try to behave. You really do. Keep going, he said. But the second he pulls his fingers free- spit, wet, and warm- your mouth feels too empty to breathe right. So you whimper again unintentionally, lips still parted, breath catching in your throat like you’re falling.

He doesn’t look down. Just wipes his hand on the thigh of his sweats and lifts the edge of the desk with his knee so you can crawl more between him. You do- immediately, silently, settling between his legs like you’ve done this before. (You do. Multiple times. Like you already trained for it.)

He’s seated in his office chair, laptop balanced in front of him, camera on. Framed from the chest up. Mic hot. Voice calm. Authoritative. Composed. “… No, we need to revise the it if the acquisition falls through. We can’t afford a delay.” You kneel more comfortably under the desk, hands light on his thighs, cheek pressed to his lap. Like a lap dog. But you didn’t do anything much, you just pressed it, just for closeness, just to feel him- but the second you catch the heat of him through the fabric, your lips part again. You mouthed at him through the cotton. Lips moving with intent. Soft. Unthinking. Your body leads before your brain can follow. A soft noise escapes your throat- barely anything- but enough to be heard.

There’s a pause. “…everything alright over there?” He doesn’t blink. Doesn’t shift. Doesn’t glance down. His voice doesn’t change. He’s acting like you’re not below him. Like you’re not needy. Like you don’t want more of him in your mouth.

“Yeah,” he says. Just a beat. “All good.”

His hand slips under the desk again, finds the back of your head, and presses down gently against his thigh. Then, without pausing the call or breaking eye contact with the screen, he pulls his cock out- slowly, one-handed- just tugging the waistband of his sweats low enough to let it rest heavy and flushed against his thigh.

“Come on,” he whispers to you, too quiet for the mic to catch. “Since you’re already shaking.” You lean in automatically, lips parted, spit already pooling, and wrap your mouth around the head with a soft sigh. You lick the tip like a lollipop. Tasting his pre cum under your tongue. He exhales through his nose, doesn’t react. “…we’ll circle back on Friday,” he says into the call, calm and smooth, while you suck him quietly under the desk.

He doesn’t know what upset you. Not yet. Not ever since you crawled underneath, since he’s already in the meeting when you did that. But he knew something was wrong the moment you knelt beside him- sleeves tugged over your hands, mouth trembling, silent. You hadn’t said anything. You didn’t need to. You just looked up with your glossy eyes, like you just came from crying and your mouth shining with spit. You touched his wrist, and he gave you his fingers like it was instinct.

Now your mouth is stretched around something thicker, deeper, and you’re curled between his legs, hands braced on his thighs, jaw working slowly. Your spit drips down your chin and onto your hands, but his voice doesn’t change. “…that’s fine. Just update them before it goes to legal,” he says evenly. You hum around him like you’re agreeing. Like you’re part of his little meeting. His hand flexes at the back of your head after you hum, must the vibrations of it have affected him. He holds it not for praise, not control. Just contact. You always need contact.

He glances down once. Just to see you like this- lips soaked, brows furrowed, throat working hard to take more than you should. He almost thrust so deep that you could be stuffed, but he didn’t. He doesn’t stop you. Doesn’t slow you down. He knows you’ll talk later, after your jaw stops aching and your head clears. Right now, this is the only way you know how to speak. But you’re struggling now- your lips stretched wide, eyes burning, spit messier by the second.

The harder you try to stay quiet, the worse it gets. The more noise threatening to escape your mouth. A whimper escapes, soft and broken, and he feels it. He’s aware of how you are acting below him. Still, he doesn’t pause the meeting. He just lifts one hand off the desk and presses his thumb into the corner of your mouth- not rough, not gentle, just there. Steady. Firm. Guiding.

He eases you off with slow pressure, lets your lips fall from his cock with a gasp. Then pushes his thumb over your tongue, wetting it, quieting you. Grounding you from breaking from it. He knows sometimes you can get overstimulated even if you've already stuffed your mouth.

He lets his cock rests hot against while his thumb plugs into mouth beside it like a stopper, keeping the sound in. “…yes, I’ll review the contract tonight,” he says calmly to the meeting. “No changes on my end.” You blink up at him, glassy-eyed, his thumb still resting against your tongue. You suck on it too, softly, rhythmically, just to keep yourself grounded. To stay in your body. To not cry.

And he lets you. Keeps you there- knees sore, chin sticky, heart pounding, mouth full of him- because this isn’t about making you feel better right now. It’s about keeping you still. Quiet. Held. Just content until the meeting concludes. He doesn’t stroke your hair. Doesn’t tell you you’re good. He just finished his work. Lets you stay where you are, sucking on him like it’s the only thing tethering you to the ground. When the meeting finally winds down- just wrap-up and sign-offs- he clicks once, flatly: “I’ll review everything by tomorrow. Thanks, everyone.” And then he ends the call.

Click. Silence. Like he’s so eager. The shift is instant. He exhales once, slow, and reaches under the desk to grab your wrist- not rough, just firm enough to say: you’re not staying down there. You don’t have time to react and you barely get your hands beneath you before he’s pulling, slow and steady, making you crawl out with your knees catching on the floor. You pout at him because it made you remove your mouth from him.

Your lips are swollen, eyes stinging, his spit and slick cock brushing your cheek as you move. You end up kneeling between his thighs, half slumped in his lap, fingers clutching at his sweats like you’re afraid he’ll take it all away again. But really? In this state? You’re afraid he’ll do it. His thumb shoved back inside your mouth, lazy and wet, soaking from how long you’ve had it before he pulled it out for a moment to get you underneath the desk.

He brushes your chin, glances at your face- pink, glossy, ruined... and pretty. “You gonna tell me what that was about?” he asks, voice low. You shake your head. Just enough. Too shy to say it. Not ready to talk about it. “No?” he repeats, brow twitching.

You pull off his thumb slowly, spit stretching from your lips, then whisper, “Don’t wanna talk...” It cracks your voice. He knows what it means. He knows what he needs to do. You sound shameful. Quiet. Like it hurts to admit. He looks at you for a long second, blank, unreadable- then leans back in his chair and spreads his thighs. “Alright,” he says. “Come get it.”

You’re already moving the moment he said that, dragging your palms up his legs, mouth open before he finishes speaking. You open your mouth wide enough to cater it. You take the head in first- soft, slow, then deeper. Just enough. Maybe the tip is almost kissing your throat. He doesn’t guide you. Doesn’t hold your head. Just watches. Admiring the way you take what you need. The way your lips wrap around it. The way you look.

When you moan around him, eyes slipping shut, he finally lets one hand drop into your hair. “There you go,” he murmurs. “Take what you need.” You press your palms to his knees and sink until your lips meet the base, breath catching, tears stinging your lashes. But you don’t gag, you move slowly, adjusting to it even though you’ve done it many times now. He doesn’t move. Just lets you fuck yourself on him- slow, sloppy, desperate- until your spit coats his thighs, dripping in strings from your chin. Your whole body trembles from the stretch, from how full you are, from how long you’ve been holding everything in.

Then he shifts. Just a little. He put his hand on your hair and grips your hair tightly, not in a way that hurts. He tilts his hips forward once, deep, slow, and the sound you make around him shudders straight up his spine. God, you sound so good, so he does it again. Then again. Three soft thrusts, lazy and controlled, just enough to hear you choke. Just enough to test you to see if you can take it much today. You flinch, but don’t pull away.

You moan- weak, ruined- and he groans softly. “Fuck. You’re really not gonna stop, huh?” Another push, deeper now, hitting your throat. “Not even gonna try.” You look up at him through wet lashes, mouth stretched, eyes pleading. He holds you halfway down, barely letting you breathe, cock throbbing on your tongue like it’s trying to get something out of you you haven’t said yet.

“You needed this bad, didn’t you?” he murmurs, brushing your cheek, wiping spit from your lip. “What happened, sweetheart? Hm? Who made you like this?” He asks. So filthy, making you squirm. Making you feel the tingling through your body because of the sound of his voice. And then, just to feel your throat a little panic, he thrusts again, rougher now, and you gag, tears spilling free.

He doesn’t stop. Just sighs, voice soft. “There you go. That’s better.” Even when your throat clamps, even when your nose presses tight to his skin and your jaw starts to shake, you don’t stop. You learn to love this, giving a head, because he makes it enjoyable. You make a noise- high, wet, almost hurt- but you take it, nails digging into his thighs, spit dripping down his cock like it’s what keeps you breathing.

He exhales again, heavier this time, brushing your hair back from your face. His thumb wipes your chin clean, then strokes your cheek, down to the corner of your mouth where you’re still twitching, still open, still aching. You let him caress your face while you rest there, and your mouth is still full, but he’s not moving yet. “You still with me?” he asks, voice quiet. You nod, slow at first, then again, more sure-eager, already needy.

“You want more?” he asks, voice warm, cock still heavy on your tongue. You whimper around it. He smiles. “Yeah? You want me to fuck your throat, baby?” Your eyes widen- shiny, breathless- and you pause like the weight of it just hit you. You know he’s asking for a consent, knowing that it can be overwhelming for you to do it... especially when he fucks your throat, considering he’s above average and thick too. Then you pull off with a wet gasp, gaze locked on his, and say it like a confession: “Yes. Please.” That’s all he needs. “Good girl.”

He gathers your hair in one hand, lifts your chin with the other, and slides back in with no resistance- just heat, just hunger, just you opening for him like it’s instinct. “Breathe through your nose,” he murmurs, guiding you like always. Reminding you of the same things even though you already know what to do.

“Tap my leg if you need me to stop.” And then he starts- slow, careful, one deep push forward until he meets the back of your throat. He holds there, steady. Not teasing. Just giving you time. Like he’s training you. His hand stays in your hair, grounding you while your body adjusts, while your breath learns to shape around him.

You’re already trembling. Not from fear- just from fullness. From the weight. From the leak. From quiet. Your lips tremble around the base, your fingers curl into the arms of his chair, and your eyes flutter shut as he begins again- a slow drag out, then deeper on the next thrust. His thumb strokes your cheek. “That’s it,” he says, calmly.

“Don’t rush.” You hum before you feel the gag, soft and shallow, then swallow around him, and he groans- not from need, but from how good you are. How willing. He moves again, never too deep, never rough- just enough to feel your throat clench. “You feel that?” he murmurs. “That’s your limit. We’re not going past it yet.”

Your jaw aches. Spit spills freely now. He lets you sit there, face pressed to the root of him, mouth stretched and wet, like you’re trying to breathe through need alone. “You’re doing so good,” he says, like it’s just the truth. “Making space.” Then he slides out, dragging slick along your tongue, and pushes back in deeper this time- firm, measured, until your nose brushes his stomach and your whole body gives out. You’re crying again- he can feel it in the way your throat tightens, then relaxes. In the shift of your breath, the way your hands go soft. The way you go quiet.

“That’s my girl,” he breathes, and this time he means it. He rocks forward again, deeper, surer now- committing. You don’t gag. Don’t flinch. Your lips are red and swollen, your throat open and warm, and you’re wrapped around him like you were made for it. He feels the moment you surrender- when your tongue goes lax, when your breath slows, when your whole body holds still like you’ve given up everything but him. And it hits him all at once- not restraint, but awe. The way you fall apart just to feel full. Just to be good for him.

He lets you breathe there a moment, thick in your mouth, thumb brushing under your jaw while your lashes flutter and your body twitches. Then he leans forward, voice low and too gentle for how he’s looking at you. “Can I go a little faster now?” he murmurs, thumb swiping your spit-slick bottom lip. “Only if you want it.” You blink up at him, tearful and eager, nodding before your brain even catches up. You try to say yes, but it comes out muffled around his cock- your throat flexing like your body’s already answering for you. He groans quietly, settling back in the chair with both hands in your hair, still gentle, still grounding. “That’s my girl,” he says softly. “You’re sure?” Another desperate hum from you. That’s all it takes.

He starts slow again, but this time there’s rhythm, pace, weight, and pressure. His hips roll deeper, steadier, his grip guiding you only slightly as your lips stretch around him. Not forced. Not rushed. Just deliberate. Just enough. You gag once, shallow and quick, then breathe through it, moaning as your spit runs down your chin. You’re making a mess, and he loves you like this- loves how badly you want it, how completely you give yourself up to stay full. “So fucking good for me,” he murmurs, breath catching. “Look at you.”

And then he starts fucking your throat- slow and controlled, rocking into you with more force now, just enough to give you what you asked for. Something to keep your mouth too full to cry. “You’re okay,” he says through gritted teeth. “You’re doing so good.” And you are. You take it all, steady, obedient, dripping, and let him use your throat like it’s the only thing you were built for. You fall apart quietly, trembling with each deep push, your whole world narrowed down to the pressure, the stretch, the weight of him keeping you still. You’re safe. You’re here. And your mouth is where it belongs.

He’s getting close. You feel it in the way his hips start to stutter, the way his breath catches, how his cock throbs a little harder with each thrust. He slows down, lets you breathe around it, and rests heavily on your tongue. “Gonna come soon,” he murmurs, voice low. “Can I do it in your mouth, baby?” You nod right away- messy, needy, already whimpering for it. You don’t pull back. You don’t even think. Just press closer, mouth slick and stretched and shaking, and he groans when he sees how much you want it. “Good girl. Don’t move.”

He doesn’t thrust. Just holds you there- deep, swollen around the base- as he comes in slow, warm pulses, filling your throat while you take it, tear-streaked and open and perfect. You don’t stop. You swallow around him like it’s all you’ve ever known how to do. His hand stays in your hair, thumb stroking your temple, like he’s holding you together while you shake. You stay like that even after he’s finished, mouth still parted like you’re not ready to let go.

He slides out slowly, wet and sensitive, and your breath hitches at the loss. His thumb catches what’s leaking from your mouth and tilts your face up, not rough, just enough to see you. Your eyes are red, your jaw still twitching, your lips parted like you don’t know how to close them yet. He says nothing. Just breathes out quietly and reaches for your wrist.

You’re still trembling when he pulls you into his lap, steady but gentle, guiding you into place like he’s done it before. The office chair isn’t built for this- not wide enough, not soft- but you climb in anyway, folding messy and small. One leg drapes across his, the other hanging off the edge, and you curl into him instinctively, arms around his neck, face buried against his shoulder like you’re trying to disappear.

He holds you close. One arm across your back, one hand in your hair, thumb stroking slow circles through your sweater. You don’t speak. You just breathe, quiet and uneven, body limp but safe. The crying hasn’t stopped completely- it’s softer now, more like the aftershock than the storm. Your knees shake. Your mouth aches. Your fingers curl into his shirt like you’re holding onto gravity.

He presses a kiss to the top of your head, voice low against your temple. “Shh. You did so good,” he whispers. “It’s over now.” You nod faintly. He asks if it hurt. You shake your head. “Good,” he says again, lips brushing your hair. “That’s all I care about.”

He doesn’t ask what upset you. Doesn’t press. Just holds you tighter, arms wrapped around your back like you’re something worth keeping still. You’ll tell him later- when your throat doesn’t burn and your heart isn’t stuck in your chest. Right now, he lets you stay soft.

You melt into him slowly. Floaty. Boneless. Barely blinking. Your hands relax in his shirt, breath slow against his neck, and when you nuzzle closer, he tilts his head, letting you burrow. Then the kisses start- quiet and light, scattered across his jaw, below his ear, the curve of his throat. Sleepy little thank yous. Not for effect. Just instinct. He smiles softly and curls his hand around your head. “You’re really sweet when you’re like this, baby.”

You hum in response, kissing his pulse once more. You don’t move. You don’t need to.

Then, quieter than anything: “Love you.”

It just slips out- muzzy and honest.

He stills. Just a beat.

Then sighs into your hair, arms holding you closer.

“I know,” he murmurs. “Love you too.”

𝟐𝟎𝟐𝟓© 𝐌𝐔𝐒𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒𝐎𝐅𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐕𝐄𝐍

𝐜𝐨𝐩𝐲𝐫𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐞𝐫𝐯𝐞𝐝

[genderkoolaid]

Also, not to be a religion nerd on main, but please keep in mind that Greek mythology did not come out of nowhere, and ancient Greek religious beliefs and practices extended far beyond mythology. In fact, the vast majority of the time, myths were created to explain pre-existing traditions, not the other way around. Myths were told for a variety of purposes, and it is hard to fully understand them without understanding ancient Greek culture and ancient Greek religion and the real human beings who created these stories for religious purposes. You do not have a full and complete understanding of any ancient Greek god just by reading myths, because those gods were not just literary inventions. There are many aspects of various gods, or entire divinities, who were extremely important in people's everyday lives but never featured heavily in panhellenic myths.

Keep in mind that once Christianity became the dominant religion in Europe, these stories were re-interpreted as all being secretly about Christian mythology but retold by Satan to confuse people, and the impact of Christian chauvinism continues to linger in how many people engage with this stories. The idea that all polytheistic gods are essentially just superpowered humans who are evil and reckless and immoral is at best a massive, massive reduction in the wide variety of ways ancient polytheists engaged with their gods and religious views on morality and the gods. At worst it is part of the "religious evolution" model in which polytheism is just a primitive, less-evolved version of the True Religion, which is monotheistic Christianity (with animism being the "least evolved").

If you really like Greek mythology, I'd highly recommend learning a little bit about how actual ancient Greek religion worked. And even if you don't want to, at least keep in mind that these stories genuinely mattered to real people (and continue to matter to many modern polytheists) and that the ways in which we, in Christian cultures, talk about them is often heavily shaped by Christian chauvinism even when we don't realize it.

ESPECIALLY when these are Greek stories, and non-Greeks in the Anglosphere + the non-Greek West tend to ignore that we are not the primary inheritors of this cultural legacy. These stories do not exist just to be entertaining to modern Anglos. They exist outside of us and in a variety of different cultural contexts, and that matters, even though we've been taught to view Greek mythology as uncritically "ours" to interpret however we want

a quick psa to anyone recently getting into greek mythology and is a victim of tumblr and/or tiktok misconceptions:

-there is no shame in being introduced to mytholgy from something like percy jackson, epic the musical or anything like that, but keep in mind that actual myths are going to be VERY different from modern retellings

-the myth of medusa you probably know (her being a victim of poseidon and being cursed by athena) isn't 100% accurate to GREEK mythology (look up ovid)

-there is no version of persephone's abduction in which persephone willingly stays with hades, that's a tumblr invention (look up homeric hymn to demeter)

-as much as i would like it, no, cerberus' name does not mean "spot" (probably a misunderstanding from this wikipedia article)

-zeus isn't the only god who does terrible things to women, your fav male god probably has done the same

-on that note, your fav greek hero has probably done some heinous shit as well

-gods are more complicated than simply being "god of [insert thing]", many titles overlap between gods and some may even change depending on where they were worshipped

-also, apollo and artemis being the gods of the sun and the moon isn't 100% accurate, their main aspects as deities originally were music and the hunt

-titans and gods aren't two wholly different concepts, titan is just the word used to decribe the generation of gods before the olympians

-hector isn't the villain some people make him out to be

-hephaestus WAS married to aphrodite. they divorced. yes, divorce was a thing in ancient greece. hephaestus' wife is aglaia

-ancient greek society didn't have the same concepts of sexuality that we have now, it's incorrect to describe virgin goddesses like artemis and athena as lesbians, BUT it's also not wholly accurate to describe them as aromantic/asexual, it's more complex than that

-you can never fully understand certain myths if you don't understand the societal context in which they were told

-myths have lots and lots of retellings, there isn't one singular "canon", but we can try to distinguish between older and newer versions and bewteen greek and roman versions

-most of what you know about sparta is probably incorrect

-reading/waching retellings is not a substitute to reading the original myths, read the iliad! read the odyssey! i know they may seem intimidating, but they're much more entertaining than you may think

greek mythology is so complex and interesting, don't go into it with preconcieved notions! try to be open to learn!

[lush-escape]

This is Me Trying

pairing: Jason Todd x Reader

synopsis: your friend takes you out to a street race to meet her boyfriend and his brothers

a/n: street racing Jason Todd won't leave my brain. I'm going to do my best to keep reader as ambiguous as possible. Updates will probably be slow between work but I will also be posting this to my AO3 which i will link here. I hope you enjoy ♡

next: part 2

“I just don't see the entertainment in it, is all.” You try to explain to your friend. She had finally, finally, dragged you to one of her boyfriend's street races. You could see the appeal to them. Hot people racing dangerously and illegally in cars or on motorcycles, what's not to like? Aside from the fact that you only get to see them take off and then they're gone. A whole ten seconds of oggling.

“It's not just the race,” your friend smiles as she drags you along the sidewalk. It's dark out, almost midnight already, groups of people walking alongside you to the meet up.

“Its also the after party. You will have fun. I promise. Maybe you'll meet someone.” She shrugs, you roll your eyes. And yet you follow along like a puppy dog to humor her all the same.

It's crowded, almost overly so. Suffocating in a way. But your friend finds her boyfriend easily like she has a GPS radar on him. He's handsome, because of course he is. Dark hair and beautiful blue eyes, dark brown skin. Dick, she said his name was. This is your first official time meeting him.

He's friendly and polite and his smile was bright enough to power up Superman if he really put his mind to it. You doubt it would be hard for him. You stand off to the side a bit awkwardly as the two talk for a second, catching up. You hear him mention his brothers.

There's more of him?

You can hear your friend and Dick talking quietly to each other before you catch;

“Yeah, I mean.. Jay's here tonight. I could introduce them.” Dick mumbles with a smile and you notice him burying his face into the side of your friend's hair. Ugh.

“Jason?” A younger voice pipes up, you turn your head to take in the newcomers. “If you hate your friend you could just say that, there is no need for torture.” Dick laughs before introducing his younger brother, Damian.

He says they're adopted but you find that hard to believe when they look almost identical. Aside from the fact Damian has green eyes instead of blue. Both black hair and dark skinned. Damian speaks more properly, you notice, with a hint of an accent you can't quite place.

“I dunno man,” another speaks. Tim, you find out his name is. “Jason's been in a pissy mood all day. I wouldn't-”

“It's fine, it's fine! It'll be good for him. He needs to make new friends.” Dick insists.

They're talking about you as if you're not even there - not giving you a chance to speak for yourself on if you want to meet this Jason person or not. Your friend laughs. You glare.

Damian and Tim share a look before shaking their heads and that doesn't look promising at all. You're regretting your agreement to come along but your friend places a reassuring hand on your shoulder.

“I've met Jason before, he's nice.” But you know what her definition of “nice” is. It's far different than your own.

“Yeah, mhm.” You respond with a half hearted smile.

But the group walks further into the crowd. More cars and motorcycles come into view. You learn that Dick races with a 1979 trans am, one that he rebuilt with his brothers. The five of you walk by it and it's impressive. You find out that Tim is, apparently, still hesitant on racing while Damian claims he's too young - Dick teased him for being scared which earns him a chop to his throat.

‘If Jason is like these three then he can't be so bad.’ you think to yourself.

Until you see him. The small group stands in front of a heavily modded black and red Honda CBR600RR. It's nice. Clean. You stare at the bike until a gruff voice cuts you out of your thoughts.

“What, Dick?” Jason's expression is one of pure irritation as he tunes his bike.

He's tall and built like a brick shit house. Your mouth almost goes dry. Black hair with a white tuft in the front with a broad chest, beefy biceps, and piercing blue eyes. Oh boy.

“Just showing the angel around,” Dick slings an arm around your friend's shoulder. “And her friend.” Dick gestures to you. Tim and Damian step aside, a parting of the sea. You stand silently, almost dumbfounded, until you find your voice again.

“Uh, hey-” You try.

“No. I don't want to talk to people.” He cuts you off.

Oh.

“Told you,” Damian snickers quietly to Tim with a crooked smirk who shakes his head with a snort of laughter that he tries to cover with his hand. Your friend gives you a sympathetic look.

Great.

“C'mon, Jay. Don't be rude, I was trying to introduce- ” Dick tries again.

“Ain't got time. Race starts soon.” Jason grunts as he stands to his full height and holy shit is he intimidating. “Sorry, little birdie.” He comments as his gaze sizes you up. But he turns away before you can even get a word in.

‘Nice my ass.’ You think to yourself with an eye roll off to the side. Dick shoots you a sympathetic smile before he leads you and your friend away from Jason back towards his trans am.

“Worry not. That was him being polite.” Damian turns his smirk to you. Lovely.

It's a warm night in Gotham already and the crowd of people definitely doesn't help. “So it's always like this?” You ask your friend as you watch groups of people walk by laughing and talking. She nods in response.

“It's fun! I didn't think the racing scene in Gotham was this big but it kinda makes sense I guess.”

“I never even knew there was a ‘racing scene’.” You comment in response which gets a small laugh from Dick.

“Oh yeah, the scene’s huge here. It's fun and illegal, two things that every Gothamite loves.” He jokes.

“So, do you race for fun or.. is there a pool involved?” You ask Dick. The most knowledge you had about street racing was from the Fast and the Furious movies.

“For fun!” Dick beams. “Okay, well- winning the pot is nice, obviously. But personally? I do it for fun.” The answer makes sense to you. Dick gives off the vibes of an adrenaline junkie with the energy of a golden retriever.

“And Jason?” You ask, pretending to simply be curious. Dick stops for a second before he smiles at you. He looks at you like he knows something you don't.

“He races-...” Dick cuts himself off, his eyes roam off to the side as he chooses his words.

“Jason races to forget.” Tim finished for Dick who simply nods in response.

“Cliche.” You respond.

“Very.” Damian agrees. He looks less than impressed. “For him racing is simply a way to focus solely on the rush. Nothing else.”

[bronzealchemy]

just keep falling, part 6

⋆. 𐙚˚ you miss gideon and get a nightly visit from caleb

you went to work. you went home. you cried. you slept horribly. then it began again. work. home. crying. bad sleep.

you tried to reach gideon, but he didn’t pick up. he didn’t want anything to do with you – that was more than clear. it was as if someone put a knife directly through your chest. a feeling you were way too familiar with. 

the next night, you were half asleep … when caleb returned. you didn’t know how he got into your apartment – but you heard his footsteps in the hallway. a noise you had known for years. there was a part of you that still hoped, this was a dream. the other part longed for him, missed him so much your soul was broken into pieces. 

the door opened. you squeezed your eyes shut. the bedsheets rustled. he sat on the corner of the bed, reaching for you. a slight touch on your arm.

„don’t pretend you’re asleep, honey.“ his voice was hoarse as whiskey and melodic as ever. you couldn’t believe he was here. couldn’t believe he really was alive.

you jerked up – and there he was, violet gaze fixed on you. „I hate you“, you spit out. then you shoved him. „I hate you.“

he smiled at your words. „didn’t seem that way when you begged me for my cock.“

your body reacted on it’s own – your hand collided with his cheek. the echo of your slap and your breathing were the only noises in the room. you stared at each other, your chest heaving, his smile wiped from his lips. 

„you left me for over a year. you let me believe you were dead. and then you played mind games with me and gideon to the point of us doubting reality. give me one reason … one reason not to pull my weapon right now and shoot you.“

there it was again, his slight smile. it was different than the one you were so familiar with. this smile had an edge to it. a different side to the caleb you once knew. „do it, honey. I invite you to.“ the smile faded slowly. his brows furrowed, the violet in his eyes turning cold. „because it wouldn’t hurt less than what you have done to me already.“ 

your cheeks flushed, angry heat creeping into them. „I thought you were dead!“

„you couldn’t wait for gideon to …“ 

you didn’t let him finish the sentence. in one swift movement, you grabbed your gun from the nightstand, then you were on him, straddling him, gun pointed right to his head. „one more word and I’ll make sure you die for real this time.“

caleb leaned back on his elbows, looking up at you. „are you sure you’re ready for that, little apple?“ 

„you have lost every permission to give me a petname“, you snarled, pushing the gun deeper into his skin.

caleb grabbed your wrist, holding you in place. „can gideon give you a petname?“, he sneered. „what does he call you, huh? baby?“ he laughed without any humor. „I heard him call lots of girls by that petname at the DAA, you know. we had fun times together. or rather gideon had a lot of fun. with a lot of girls. there were times where he fucked several in …“ 

without letting him finish that sentence, you yanked your hand back, ready to strike – but he was faster. in one swift motion, he spun you around until he was the one pinning you down, forcefully grabbing both of your wrists. you held on to your gun, grinding your teeth together. 

„stop talking about him!“

„why? I thought you loved talking about him.“

you hooked your legs around his, shoved your elbow up, and managed to throw his weight off you. the two of you tumbled off the bed and hit the floor hard, but you had the upper hand again, with your arm pressed down his neck.

„you don’t even have the decency of telling me the truth. of explaining anything.“ your voice started to shake, so did your arm. 

„I couldn’t come back to you.“ suddenly calebs voice was softer. „I wanted to, but I couldn’t. even now … being here is a safety risk for you.“

you tried to wrap your head around his words. „I … I don’t understand.“

„there’s so much I want to tell you, but I can’t. but trust me – if I would have had the choice, I would have never left you. never. I promise you that.“ 

your grip on him faltered. your shoulders started to shake. even though you weren’t sure this was enough, you started to question whether your anger was right. it was a start, at least. 

you gulped. „I still want to kind of shoot you.“ 

„and I would like to shoot gideon. and you. sooo … we’re kind of in the same boat, right?“ 

you pressed your lips together, so the laugh didn’t slip out. then you sank on him, not being able to choke him anymore. caleb wrapped his arms around you. your bodies seemed to melt into one in one earth shattering, all consuming hug. it wasn’t like the last time, where you both claimed each other. it was like in the past – with him hugging you so tight as if you were his anchor and he yours. for a second, all of the horrible months of grief disappeared, all your anger, all the pain and you only felt him. the rise and fall of his chest. his heartbeat, steady and very much alive. 

„I missed you“, he whispered.

You couldn’t answer. „I missed you, too“, didn’t even begin to cut it. but there was a little voice inside your head, whispering another name. 

gideon. 

„I’m not the only one you should explain yourself to, caleb“, you whispered.

suddenly he got stiff. „yes, you are.“

you pulled away slightly to look into his face. „gideon has a right to know, caleb.“

his jaw was tightened, his eyes dark. hurt crossed his face. „you were with him.“

„I was“, you replied. „and I don’t regret it.“

he avoided your gaze, but you grabbed his chin, forcing him to look at you. „I love you. I have never stopped loving you. I’m angry, because you left me. I’m heartbroken that you kept these secrets from me. but I wouldn’t have survived the last year without gideon. I … he‘s important to me. and he was important to you once.“ 

„that was before he …“ he didn’t finish the sentence and it lingered between the two of you. 

„gideon didn’t betray you. and I didn’t either. we didn’t plan for this to happen. I know it hurts you, and I understand … but please know that it would never had happened if you didn’t die. we grieved you, caleb. we bonded over that. and that bond … it won’t ever disappear.“ 

he cupped your cheek, his thumb softly stroking your cheek. „I hate that it had to come to this. but … I think, with time, I’ll be able to understand.“

you leaned your forehead against his, until you shared your breath, his hand never leaving your skin. 

„you need to talk to him.“, you whispered.

caleb only answered with two soft spoken words. 

„I do.“ 

[sylusgworl]

SILENT CONFESSION ft. rafayel

notes: bodyguard!f!reader/mc, reader feels distant from rafayel in terms of social status, mutual pining, jealous raf (kinda), reader puts herself down constantly, rafayel just being iconic lol

a/n: i don’t know if i like this but… it’s been swimming in my mind for a while, i hope you like it, stay tuned for part two. wc. 1.6k . rbs are much appreciated <3 . m.list

part one - part two (tba)

it’s weird.

you’re not supposed to fall for a client, especially not for someone as annoying and fussy as rafayel. but, you were inevitably drawn to him, from the first time you’d ever met, your encounter woven by destiny.

you couldn’t push him away, even if you wanted. sometimes, he’d become clingy, just like a child whose interest’s been taken by a new toy.

no, denying your heart was not an option, not when the sole action of locking eyes released a storm of petals inside of your chest, your feelings written all over your face.

you hoped he’d never notice, too unreachable and perfect for someone like you. he belonged to a whole other world, while you? you were just… ordinary.

“there you are, miss bodyguard,” he acknowledges your presence as you step into the room.

you notice the mess, eyeing the canvases strewn on the floor and paint tubes scattered a bit everywhere, like seeds thrown uncaringly in a fallow field.

rafayel keeps painting, cautiously sliding his paintbrush against the canvas in strokes you can’t recognize yet—not with the work still in progress.

you force yourself not to let your eyes linger on his forearms, where the sleeves have been rolled up, or on his furrowed brows and pursed lips, displaying his usual focused expression.

you try so hard even breathing becomes a struggle, your cheeks flush a little and your lips part.

“so, what brings you here? did thomas send you?” his voice reaches your ears and slowly pulls you away from your trance. you clear your voice.

“uh, yes. he said you’re going to an auction in a bit, and wants me there with you,” you explain, hoping your voice doesn’t betray the feelings you keep sealed within.

rafayel hums in response, then slowly lowers his hand from the canvas. “done!”

at first you’re confused, but as he turns around and faces you, the wide smile and glossy eyes unveil his pride. the painting is finally done, a beautiful night landscape. you recognise some tall buildings and a moon sliced in half hanging up in a corner of the canvas.

“it is... beautiful,” you say in a hushed voice, eyes still glued to it, unrelenting as rafayel studies you with interest.

you don’t notice the amusement in his eyes, or how his gaze softens when it lands on your still features. rafayel quietly gets behind you, and your body stiffens, feeling him towering from above you in an almost intimidating manner, as your breath catches in your throat, heart beats quickening.

“what do you like about it,” his tender voice brushes past your ear. you can feel his breath, his face too close to yours.

you’re nervous, and he can sense it. oh, how could he not, with the way your ears have flushed red or how your movement looks robotic. he wants to tease you more. it’s funny, he thinks, lies to himself, knowing that in reality it was just an excuse to feed his delusion.

he throws an arm around your shoulder and you let out a ‘yelp’ by mistake. your body feels hot against his toned muscles. you clear your voice again and fish for an answer. you had to get away from that situation somehow.

“the light cast by the moon just captures me somehow, it looks so poetic. it really draws my attention away from everything else,” you say in all honesty.

because even if, to some, rafayel was childish and what not, his talent was undeniable. you wondered so many times if he had a muse (who his muse was), noticing the half done head sculptures filling the studio. you never dared to ask, sensing it was a fragile matter.

rafayel was genuinely grateful for your honesty, and amused by how shifty your hands were, fingers entangling as you softly spoke, gaze firm on the work in front of you.

“alright, let’s go,” he tosses you his car keys, “you’re driving, miss.” something in your stomach churns.

he walks in front of you, humming lightheartedly, while you’re left to deal with the aftermath the conversation left on your heart.

the drive felt longer than what it really was. the car interior was filled with a calm melody, supposed to ease the awkwardness. it didn’t work. rafayel being sat right next to you made you extremely aware.

“turn right at the next crossroad,” he points, you comply.

a storm of people walks past you as the two of you walk quietly, your relationship of client and bodyguard unknown to the passers-by. well, not that they’d think you were dating or something. never.

“rafayel, why are we in a shopping centre again?” you break the silence.

it felt weird from the beginning. when thomas sent you the auction schedule, the time written on it was 8 pm. you still have four hours left.

“didn’t thomas tell you the dress-code?” he asks you with a grin.

you try to recollect what was written. “oh, a masquerade ball?”

oh.

you stop in your tracks.

“you don’t mean…” you trail off, and he nods, resuming in his steps and grinning mischievously.

he stops in front of one of the most expensive stores at the linkon shopping district, and your eyes widen at the realisation.

“oh no, i really can’t afford anything in here,” you reveal with a tone of embarrassment, but rafayel simply pushes you inside gently. a clerk comes and asks you for your preferences, however you’re still stunned by his previous action, you can’t even hear what the two of them are talking about.

a couple of hours later, as you’re still trying on different dresses and shoes, rafayel decides on a sky blue gown that flows softly down your legs, two thin straps keeping the bodice from falling and a single slit down your leg. simple, but classy.

you feel nervous under his scrutinizing gaze, your face flushed at the sudden attention.

he gets closer to you, hands behind his back.

“close your eyes,” you do, almost instantly. it’s better than facing him right there.

you feel cold metal against your face, hear his close breathing against your forehead.

“there, you can open now,” he whispers before letting go.

you turn to face the mirror. your cheeks are red, lips tortured by the continuous biting and your glossy eyes… outlined by a silver mask, a couple of pearls framing the eye openings.

you almost don’t recognise your own self.

you feel more elegant, more… beautiful. a sudden thought erupts in your mind. will he ever look my way? you almost feel ashamed to entertain such a desire.

rafayel notices your sudden silence, but doesn’t say anything.

“here’s your dress, miss,” the clerk from before hands you a bag. “oh, wait, i’ll give you my card, one second,” you start fumbling in your bag, but a hand stops you.

rafayel.

“the gentleman here has paid already.”

you shift your gaze from the lady to linkon’s artist, puzzled.

“consider it a bonus,” he mutters, turning around and walking out of the store, hoping you don’t see the pink blush dusting his cheeks.

the ride back is just as silent as before. you clear your voice, “thank you for the dress, and the shoes… and the mask.”

rafayel hums in response, his gaze fixated on the car window to his right, lost in thought.

the rest of the evening passes in a blink, the ball held before the real auction being not your thing. people out of your league, filthy rich, approach you when rafayel is entertained by some other guest.

“good evening,” one man says, his gaze that of a starving beast as he looks at you from top to bottom, wetting his lips. your intention is written all over your face, you think. and just as you’re about to respond with a harsh remark while swirling the champagne in your cup, not feeling the drink anymore, a familiar hand grabs you by the waist, pulling you closer.

“she’s with me,” rafayel retorts, a fake smile tugging at his lips and a bold stare pinning his opponent to the ground.

the man excuses himself and walks away, mortified.

“next time, pretend that these dogs aren’t there,” he confronts you, still looking at the man from before. “or better, just say you’re my date,” he mutters. to himself. except, it is loud enough for you to hear it. your heart makes a leap. rafayel’s face flushes as he realises what words have just left his mouth.

of course he’d say that, you’re his bodyguard after all. you couldn’t certainly get entangled in scandals.

you wait for him to correct himself, to tell you it’s because of your job. but what you're expecting doesn’t happen.

only now you finally allow yourself to look at him. he’s dressed in an elegant grey suit, the azure tie matching your own dress. his hair is styled neatly. a half mask shadows part of his features—it has the same pearls as yours. you wonder if it’s a coincidence. you hope it’s not.

his eyes have long been fixated on you, hiding emotions on the verge of spilling.

the music changes in the background. it’s a waltz.

“may i have the honour of this dance?” he asks with a hand stretched over, bowing slightly.

you take it, almost enchanted.

the melody intensifies, the dances open

© sylusgworl - 2025, all rights reserved / i don't allow anyone to copy, repost on other platforms or sell my works.

[seraphinitegames]

Hi! I hope you're doing well.

I wanted to thank you for sharing the Wayhaven series with us-- I started reading it in high school, after getting my mom to buy the first book as a birthday gift, and even though I've only been able to buy the other two books recently (pros of having regular income now!), I've been obsessed with the series ever since that birthday night. I actually recently recommended the series to a coworker, and I have a feeling she'll love the M route lol

Anyway, I did have a silly question to ask about UB and the MC but I still wanted to thank you-- especially as someone whose native tongue is not English; I could speak English at the time my mom bought Book 1, but the game (and other CoG I played after that) really helped me build a better vocabulary, and learn how to write better.

Anyway. :>

I had a silly question about UB and the MC: basically, I tend to have MCs who are very curious and eager to learn about the supernatural world, especially the Echo world-- they're also usually well-versed in languages.

When I read the Book 4 demo (still positively insane about it, btw), I saw a few Echolian words were mentioned, and imagined a funny moment with my MCs trying real hard to pronounce the words correctly, and even use them in sentences. Kinda like this (book 4 demo spoilers!):

MC: Ostin released the-- Ee-yooh-lees-aid-- You-leesed-- Y'oolees'aid-- Y'ulis'ed... :)

(Cue MC looking to N and F with a "Did I pronounce it correctly" smile lol Clearly the whole case isn't as important as linguistics to MC 😭)

Anyway!! I was just wondering how UB (and Rebecca lol) would react to an MC like that, lol? And I'm so sorry for the length of this ask, as you can see I can't not ramble. 😭😭

Thanks again for the books!!

Aah, what an amazing message! I'm so happy to know that you're enjoying the series! I can't wait until Book 4 is out so I can chat about all the major dramatic and exciting stuff to come (I do love my melodrama, hehe!)

As for your ask, I think N would definitely be helping the MC with pronunciation. Though, interestingly, even N might not be quite so…accurate with it either all the time.

For example, I actually wrote a moment like this in Chapter Five when F and N are discussing something Li-Sar said in Echolian (a moment that will be coming up in the demo the end of this month!)

-

"The direct translation for it would be something such as…." Nate/Nat waves a hand as though attempting to summon the translation from thin air. "'My want', or possibly, 'my need'."

IF ROMANCE NATE/NAT Farah/Felix places a hand on her/his hip with an unusually serious expression tightening her/his features. "Or you could tell them what it actually means without being too worried to admit because you're swept up by[Name]."

Nate/Nat's brows pinch together before he/she spins away.

-

IF NOT ROMANCE NATE/NAT Farah/Felix places a hand on her/his hip with an unusually serious expression tightening her/his features. "Don't sugarcoat what it really means, Natey/Natkins."

Nate/Nat rolls his/her shoulders back before turning away.

---

"Nate/Nat not necessarily wrong. It does directly translate into that, but when in actual use in the actual language, the meaning is closer to 'my possession' or 'my obsession'," Farah/Felix explains with a shake of her/his head. "The creep is basically saying he/she wants to own you."

--

I kind of went off on a tangent for that ask, but I hope this is an ok answer anyway, hehe! :D

Thank you so, so much again for the amazing message! <3

[tobesolnelyx]

I’ve been lurking and reading all your frat boy yjs posts! Especially after a long day of js life in general, may I request reader dating frat boy Jackie but is having an affair with frat boy Shauna who’s Jackie’s bsf behind Jackie’s back, basically reader being jeff 😂 - 🥄

NSFW - MDNI

You feel bad about it—really bad.

And good. Because, deep down, you should.

Nothing justifies cheating. And even though you’d love to say that the first time was an accident, that you were drunk and hadn’t planned it at all… you couldn’t. Because it wasn’t just a coincidence that you showed up at Shauna’s bedroom door at the frat house that day. Sure, you could say it was because you’d just had a fight with Jackie, that you were feeling awful. But seriously, that still didn’t explain what happened afterward.

You shouldn’t have gone to vent about your relationship problems to your girlfriend’s best friend. You didn’t even know if Shauna would take your side.

Well.

Fights with Jackie were always about stupid things. It was never anything serious. You’d even say your relationship was healthy. Happy, even. Jackie was amazing. Loving and caring. She took you on regular dates, you went to her games. Jackie practically couldn’t keep her hands off you, and most girls would kill to have her all to themselves. It was hard not to have a crush on the Yellowjackets’ captain.

You weren’t even sure why it got to you so much. Maybe it had just been a rough week, not much had gone your way, and on top of that, you fought with Jackie and had no one to talk to. And Shauna, as always, was there.

She and Jackie were friends, though you were pretty sure that friendship was a bit one-sided, but Shauna always hovered around your orbit. Watching. Sometimes her gaze lingered on you a little too long.

Honestly, you should’ve noticed earlier that Shauna wanted something from you. All those smiles she gave you in the hallway or at the frat house. How she’d drive you back to the dorm when Jackie was too drunk to do it, and you had an exam the next day. Or how she’d make you coffee early in the morning when you were the only two awake at the frat house. Shauna always sat just a little too close. That subtlety threw you off. You’d never have guessed someone with her reputation could be subtle.

You melted the moment her hands touched your body.

“What happened?” she murmured, getting up from the bed and coming closer. Her warm hands landed on your shoulders. A gesture that was supposed to be friendly. She smelled like the vape she’d hit a few minutes ago and laundry detergent.

“We had a fight,” you whispered, eyes downcast. Tears ran down your cheeks, dripping to the floor. Jackie had walked out of the house just fifteen minutes earlier, saying she needed some air. And your legs had carried you straight to Shauna’s bedroom.

She hummed in response, her thumbs drawing circles on your shoulders, and eventually she pulled you close. Your head rested on her chest, her arms wrapped around you. She rested her chin on your head and sighed heavily. Words she shouldn’t say to her best friend’s girlfriend sat on the tip of her tongue.

She didn’t even ask what the fight was about. Shauna already had her opinion of Jackie, that she wasn’t the girl you needed.

So Shauna took her chance. You felt awful, she was undeniably attractive, and you were already in her arms, quietly crying. For Shauna, it was the perfect opportunity.

So, word by word, it ended with her nuzzling your hair and murmuring that Jackie didn’t deserve you, and that she’d never treat you like that (you both knew that was complete bullshit).

Anyway, you felt bad enough that you didn’t even flinch when her lips landed on your forehead. Then on your cheek. And finally, she tilted your head and pressed an almost tender kiss to your lips.

You kissed her back without thinking. Breathed into her mouth. Her hands slid dangerously close to your ass, and the tears stopped. All that remained was a pounding heart and your tongue instinctively slipping between her lips. Your hands almost reached for her shoulders...

But then Shauna let out a low hum and you pulled back like you’d been burned.

"We can't..." you started, your cheeks burning with embarrassment at yourself, and from the crying. You shook your head, nearly stumbling as you started to back away. Panic spread across your face, and Shauna knew she had to act before you slipped away from her. She might not get another chance.

She grabbed your wrist, and with lightning speed her other hand slammed the door shut behind you and locked it.

Startled, you looked from her to the door. You swallowed hard and opened your mouth to say something, but then her body pressed you against the door behind you.

You stared at her, wide eyed. Shauna was breathing heavily, now gripping your wrists tightly. For a moment, she looked at you like even she hadn’t expected such a sudden reaction from herself.

“She doesn’t have to know,” she rasped. Her hands cupped your face as she leaned in closer. Now her breath warmed your lips. “Just this once.”

She begged. And you didn’t say no.

And before you could process what was happening, her lips were on yours.

Her fingers slid under Jackie’s T-shirt and gripped your waist. She kissed you hard, frantically, so much that you could barely keep up.

Jackie had never kissed you like that. Jackie was always gentle, warm. She laughed softly after your make out sessions, telling you how beautiful you were.

Shauna was fast but precise. In under a minute, her hands were everywhere - touching, squeezing, massaging.

You had never felt so desired.

You ended up lifted up, pressed hard against the door with Shauna touching, kissing and biting you. Your hand fell to her belt, undoing it as swiftly as you could. Your breath was already ragged, and her hips were grinding before you got the chance to properly pull her semi-hard cock out of her jeans.

"Shit, shit, shit..." She breathed out, trying not to alarm any other frats in the house. The last thing she needed, was being caught by someone while fucking you. She pushed your skirt and panties aside to position her cock against your entrance.

She fucked you fast and hard that night, whining your name in your neck. Sweat clinging to her forehead. "Jackie doesn't deserve that..." she said, biting back a moan, when pushed her throbbing cock balls deep, and then bottomed out. Only to slam it again deep inside you. You needed put so much effort to not just cry out. "God, you're so tight, does she even... oh god... fucks you?"

Since then, it became a habit.

You told yourself it was just that one, single time. You’d both forget about it and everything would go back to normal. You’d pretend that absolutely nothing had happened.

After the second time, you told yourself the same thing.

After Shauna drove you home again and you ended up on her lap, riding her dick, her lips pressed hard to your neck.

“I can’t stop thinking about you,” she gasped, her thumbs pressing into your red nipples. She couldn't pull away from them. “You’re so... you should be mine," she gasped, when you bounced on her dick.

"Shut up," you moaned breathlessly, hiding face in her neck, while she guided your movements.

The third time, in the locker room after the game, when Shauna took you from behind, you convinced yourself the guilt was too much and that this would definitely be the end. This time. Only to end up on your knees in front of her in a random bathroom at a party, her hand tangled in your hair while you were sucking her off. She came hard in your throat. Later that night you were making out with your girlfriend.

Every time, you told both her and yourself the same thing. That it wouldn’t happen again. That you couldn’t do this to Jackie.

And every time, you ended up in Shauna’s arms again, as she pressed soft kisses to your shoulder after giving you the best orgasm.

Jackie didn’t seem to suspect much. Shauna was tempted to leave hickeys on your body, but she knew that if Jackie found out, neither of you would have an easy time for the rest of the college year.

Every time Jackie panted, punding inside you and babbling about how perfect you are, you closed your eyes and thought only of Shauna. You were ashamed to admit it, but god, the thought of her dick was the only thing that could make you cum with Jackie.

[dating-eveeything]

could you please do a dorian fic? Maybe angsty, since he seems to only want friendship, even tho trap dorian mentions being interested in fwb? (Like maybe the mc is interested in love but woukd take anything they can get with him) Or smth else, maybe end in comfort, its up to you, i just havent seen any fics of him!!

Ty 🫶

Can't go through with it

Summary: During a heated encounter with Trap Dorian, you try your best to be respectful of all the other Dorian's boundaries

Featuring: Dorian (specifically Trap Dorian, but others are mentioned)

Fic type: slight angst(?), slight lime (making out, some grinding) in the beginning, and comfort in the end

No specific pronouns used, no use of y/n

Thank you for being my first request <3

He kept you pushed against the wall, hand gently caressing your torso as yours rest on his bare shoulders. The heated kisses he's offering you are nothing but pleasurable, if your quiet moans were anything to go by. Both of your bodies were running hot as his crotch grinded on yours, one of his hands holding your leg up against him to get better access. It was hot, he was hot.

But there was a nagging issue in the back of your head, one not even this impromptu make out session could stop you from thinking about. And Trap Dorian could somehow tell, somehow feel how slightly unfocused you were. "Hey," he mutters, raising his hand from your torso to your face "you alright?" His tone was nothing but sweet as he asked.

With a shake of your head you pull your hands off of him and shake your leg free from his grip, now back to standing with both. He still had you trapped on the wall, but seeing how you were letting yourself go from him he takes a small step back to give you more space to breathe. "What's wrong sweetheart?" Your eyes made contact with his, and for a second you wanted to ignore it all and go back to making out with him; it would be easier that way wouldn't it?

"it's just..." You begin, looking off to the side, leaning into his palm "I don't think it's right." Trap Dorian raises a brow in confusion "What's not right? Did I do something wrong? Cross a boundary by accident?" His question hit too close to home, yet somehow missed the door. "It's not you crossing boundaries. Dorian, it's me who did" the shameful look on your face makes Trap Dorian's heart burn, his hand coming up so he can cup your face with both and make you look at him.

"what do you mean?" His black eyes searching for the answer he somehow doesn't know.

"The other Dorian's..." You begin, hearing his breath hitch for just a moment, "they don't want this. I can't... I can't do this knowing you're all sort of like- I don't know, a hive mind or something." There's a pause, the air so thick you felt like you were going to choke on it before Trap Dorian starts laughing.

His laughing reverberates onto you, his hands shaking and bringing your face along for the ride. "A hivemind? Is that what people think of us as?" He asks between huffs and some chuckles. It's obvious he's trying to calm down from the surprise gigglefest. "I don't know! You guys all know the same stuff somehow, what am I supposed to assume??" You press, trying to keep the conversation serious while also hiding your embarrassment.

"Oh, sweetheart" Trap Dorian pressing his hands closer to your face, almost squishing your cheeks together in the process ",I'm touched you care so much about the others feelings." And you think that's where he'll stop, that he'll try and continue the make out without any other comment, but he continues. "We do sort of.. Share our thoughts- well, not really. We all just sort of... Know? But we are, sort of, different people." His explanation is confusing and he knows it, shrugging a few times as it's really hard for him to explain it. "I want this, want you, but if you really don't want to- in fear of making the others uncomfortable somehow, I won't force you." He leans his forehead on yours, eyes closing to revel in your warmth, feeling your breath stutter across his face. "Shame too, you're a real good kisser." He whispers that last part, getting a quiet laugh out of you followed by a 'thanks' just barely audible.

The two of you sort of stay like that, leaning foreheads together and simply enjoying the others presence and hold.

[toscapringle]

This is coming from an adult who works with kids.

Adults appear like they are omnipotent but really we're just winging it sometimes. I'm implying you're right in that your parents may not know better and you may have to raise your brother a little bit.

As a caretaker, it's not just about setting rules and boundaries. You've also got to show love by listening and being an open communicator.

Try practicing giving warnings, and after the first warning follow through with what you say you'll do. 1) Little brother has chances to think about it 2) Little brother knows your consistent every time in enforcing your boundaries.

Don't stop loving your brother even if hes angry with you, cause hes trying to figure it all out too. As 17 yo.s sometimes it's hard to empathize when it's something we feel is easy to explain/understand how its hard for someone else. Don't expect perfection instantly. We all have good days and bad days, we don't always turn in our hw, but we try our best.

Honestly, if you're a kid and an adult tells you "they're just trying to get a reaction out of you :)" as a response to being told that some younger kid is tormenting you, that should count as full permission to punt that little shit. Like I would never hit a child, but if you're seven years old and a five-year-old is being a cunt at you and adults just tell you "oh they just want to find out what happens if they keep doing that", wouldn't only be fair to let them know what happens if they keep doing that?

Siblings should never be left responsible of raising each other, but if adults have decided that they are allowed to fuck around, wouldn't it only be your right - or even downright duty - to let them consequently find out?

[nanamisbbygirl]

a little drabble lightly inspired by @murasakiyams geto oneshot and from some of my own experience NSFW kinda crack tho lolll

you were sitting next to geto at the desk, you're both supposed to be studying for finals together, but it’s hard to stay focused. his long hair falling loose over his casual sweater. he just looked too handsome to resist, you couldn't help tracing your feet over his leg, a coy smile on your face.

"what's gotten into you?" he asks, raising an eyebrow, although he isn't apposed to it.

you simply shrug: "just thinking about you." you pause, "and your dick."

"really?" he says in fake disbelief. his body squirming a little in his chair, like he’s trying to hide his growing erect.

“mhm, i just wanna sit on it.” you tell him directly, causing his eyes to avert back to his computer in front of him. you could tell he was blushing, but he was trying very hard to cover it up.

“after,” he explains, “let’s finish reviewing this chapter first.”

you sigh, agreeing, looking back over your notes. you can tell that geto is having a hard time focusing, though, at a few minutes into the review you hear him let out a whimper.

“su?” your head snaps over to him, “are you good?”

his hands are in his laps, body slouching forward. you feel a little smile creeping onto your lips, ready to tease. “did you cream your pants or something?”

silence.

“oh my god, did you?”

“shut up,” he huffs, “i was imagining what you said.”

“so you did cum a little, then?”

“you’re such a brat.”

[izzieinatizzy]

"show me how?"

your eyes were wide as chris hovered over you, his elbows next to your head, your lips almost touching. you swallowed. "um...fun?" he grinned. slow, wicked, predatory. "yeah...fun..." his left hand rested on your hip. you felt your cheeks heat up. "i...don't get what you mean..." he hummed, unconvinced. "no? you don't?" you shook your head, denying everything. "so y'don't know what i wanna do to ya, huh?" he pondered lost in thought. you were confused. "huh?" "how naive can you get, hmm?" his hand traced the side of your cheek. "i mean...i know what you mean, i just...don't know if i'd like it..." his eyes widened, and he looked almost offended. you hastened to explain. "no, i mean...i just...never...felt good doing it." he laughed. "never felt good? then it seems like it was the person touching you that had a problem." you shrugged, not wanting to bash your ex, even if he did suck at touching. "but..." chris started again, "how would you feel...if i touched you...and it felt good?"

your cheeks heated up. "i don't know...i mean, i...." you couldn't finish your sentence, before chris gripped your chin, making you look at him. "hey. y'say no, and i'll leave. promise." you instantly shook your head. "no, don't leave, just...show me how?" and the smirk that spread across chris's face sent shivers down your spine.

chris looped his fingers in the waistband of your sweatpants, and your panties, and pulled them both down in one go. you gasped at the cold air hit your clit. he whistled. "damn. whoever wasn't touching that right...he really missed out..." you blushed, and tried to cover your face. chris grinned, finding it adorable. "don' get shy, baby. y're pretty...really pretty..." he ran his hands up and down your thigh, before locking eyes with you. intense, but comforting. "y'want me to touch you?" you nodded, lowering your hands back to your sides. chris spread your legs, settling between them, before gently stroking you, rubbing little circles. he grinned at your moans, before snorting. "y're soaked, kid." you muttered a 'shut up', making him laugh.

slowly, he slipped a finger inside you, making you fist the sheets, your entire body stiffening. "hey, chill. 've barely done anythin' and you're actin' like y'got a heart attack." he rolled his eyes, before humming, eyes locked on your wet pussy, his finger going in and out methodically, as if practiced. and you weren't dumb, you knew you weren't the first girl he was going this to. but it felt so good, and in the moment, you really didn't care.

after a while, you started whining about how whatever he was doing 'wasn't enough!', making him scoff. "isn't enough? y'gettin' mouthy? i'll give you enough, don' worry, baby..." he muttered, pulling out his fingers, and licking them clean, before unzipping his jeans, pulling down his boxers, revealing his throbbing, hard cock.

your jaw dropped, and he grinned proudly. "yeah, yeah. a bug's gonna enter that mouth 'f yours." he muttered, before spreading your legs real wide, and tapping his tip against your sopping entrance. "deep breath, a'ight? y're gonna be fine..."

he pushed in. all of him, in one go. the scream caught in your throat. "too much?" and just for a second, you saw a hint of concern in his eyes, before you shook your head, and the cold, uncaring facade returned. he rocked his hips against yours, pulling out, before thrusting back in, filling you up, hitting all the right places...your eyes glazed over, lost in the pleasure. he tapped your cheek condescendingly. "back to earth, angel," he muttered.

he kissed your neck, biting it softly, hands resting on your waist. you could only breathe out little gasps and whimpers as he grinned against your skin. "y're so tight, y'know that?" he muttered, placing one last kiss under your ear. your stomach tightened, an unfamiliar feeling that made your eyes roll back. "focus, baby..."

he bit his lip as he looked into your eyes, big, trusting..."chris..." "hm?" "my tummy feels weird..." you mumbled. his eyes widened, before he broke out in a grin. "feels weird, hmm? where? here?" he placed his hand over your stomach, delivering the harshest thrust yet, dick kissing your cervix roughly. you screamed as the knot broke loose, and you released all over him. he pulled out just in time, his cum coating your body. hot, white, sticky.

he grinned at your panting. "good girl,"

a/n: this is my first time writing smut, sorry if it sucks.