#and i flopped and fell and it broke

[sillyswriting]

: ̗̀➛ sweet blooming flower

ㅤㅤ     ㅤ  ₊✩ˎˊ˗ tattoo artist simon 'ghost' riley x reader (extended)

synopsis : Fate is a strange force—pushing a shy, insecure flower into the den of the big, bad Ghost. But with enough dedication and time, that delicate flower can finally bloom perfectly.

cw : angst, smut, body shaming, eating disorders, ex toxic relationship, anxiety, violence, blood mentioned, age gap (reader in mid 20's, simon in late 30's), daddy kink, chubby and insecure reader.  words : 20,3k

ㅤㅤ     ㅤ  ㅤㅤㅤmasterlist⋆ inspo⋆ moodboard⋆ ao3

Tears were slipping down your cheeks as you locked the bakery door behind you. The closing shift always did that to you, the quiet, careful way you placed the remaining pastries into small takeaway boxes. Your boss believed it was better for the baked goods to go home with her bakers than to end up in the trash.

But those treats weren’t for you. Not anymore. They hadn’t been for a long time. Not since him. 

On the way home, you passed the nearby fire station, gladly handing over the day’s leftover pastries. The firefighters always accepted them with wide grins. They knew the routine—whenever they saw you approaching with boxes in hand, they’d rush over, eager to get their share of the sweet, flaky treasures you brought.

Had you not been so self-conscious, you might have noticed a few of them were actually flirting with you.

Once you got home, you walked straight to the bathroom, undressing in silence, your eyes darting everywhere but the mirror, and never at your body. His words still echoed in your mind, making it impossible not to notice the way your stomach folded when you bent over, the way your thighs and butt creased with cellulite, or how big your arms looked in your shirt today. It was a sight you couldn’t bear.

As hot water trickled down your skin, more tears followed. There was no stopping them now.

He left. He actually left, just like he’d threatened so many times before.

An eight-month relationship ended with a single text that morning. Words you wouldn’t be able to forget : Since you don’t want to understand that I need you to stop neglecting yourself, it’s over.

Neglect. That’s what he always said, claiming you were neglecting yourself because you were a few kilos over what he thought a woman should be. He called himself a "gym bro," though he wasn’t exactly sculpted or strong, he couldn’t even lift you if he tried. But he had defined muscles, and he worshipped them. Killed himself at the gym every day, the only one town, next to the tattoo shop. He was cocky about it, constantly giving you unsolicited advice on how to lose belly fat, what meals to eat to slim down, which exercises would stop your arms from "flopping around" when you moved.

You endured all of it, all the veiled insults and body shaming, because you loved him. He was one of the only men in your life who’d ever given you any attention. He was your second boyfriend, and you’d been so deeply insecure that you fell for the first fucker who batted his eyes at you.

All you had ever wanted was to feel love, to feel seen.

The worst part was, you hadn’t gained weight during the relationship. You had already been overweight when he met you. And he had chosen to be with you. Or at least, that’s what you thought.

A few days after the breakup, you found out the truth, from people you once believed were your friends. He had made a bet with his buddies: that he could sleep with the fat girl from the bar and get her in shape within a year. And when he realized he was going to lose the bet, because no matter what, you weren't turning into the woman he wanted, he broke up with you.

He had never loved you. Never even cared. You had been a joke. A fucking bet.

And that shattered something deeper than you thought was possible.

Fidgeting with your hands, you stared at the plate in front of you. It wasn’t anything special—just some pasta with a bit of ham. A small portion, far less than what you used to eat. Your appetite had shrunk since he dragged you down that dark road, and it had only gotten worse after he left.

Some nights, you didn’t eat at all. Just showered, slipped into bed, and forced your body to lie still. Even when your stomach growled, you ignored it. You’d gotten used to skipping lunch, too.

But it never led to anything. Not a single kilo lost. Because during the day, you had manic episodes, eating everything in sight like you were trying to fill a void you couldn't name. Sometimes you threw it all up within hours. Sometimes it just sat in your stomach, but always made you sick in your head.

The numbers on the scale never dropped.

And the truth was, the real you didn’t even want them to. You’d been okay with how you looked before him. It wasn’t a runway model’s body, but it was yours. It had been healthy. It had been enough.

Now, it was neither slim… nor healthy. 

Like always, you took the plate and emptied it into the trash, untouched. Not a single bite.

The plate clattered into the sink, nearly cracking as your trembling fingers let it go. Your hands shook from the sobs wrecking your chest, but also from how weak your limbs had become in the three weeks since the breakup.

You were barely holding yourself together.

And you knew it, you had let yourself spiral down a very dark path. One that was slowly, quietly, killing you.

It was a strange feeling. You’d always thought you’d leave the moment a boyfriend insulted or degraded you. You believed you were stronger than that, stronger than what you turned out to be.

But the truth was different.

You had lacked attention from boys growing up. No one really looked at you. You were always the fat friend, the funny friend, the friend. Never pretty. Never sexy. Never interesting enough.

It took a toll on you, especially as high school ended and you remained the only virgin in your group. While your friends went off to college, experimenting with sex, parties, and boys, you took a job at the bakery. The same one you still worked at, six years later.

So in a way, it was predictable. When the cute boy from the bar approached you, showed interest, made you believe he was in it for more than just sex, you fell. Hard. You wanted to believe it was something real.

Truthfully, your first “boyfriend” hadn’t been any better. He never pretended to care. Once you gave him your first time, he vanished. His reason? I always wanted to fuck a fat girl.

Fat.

That word felt branded on your forehead.

Your mother always told you that you weren’t fat, just chubby. She said it in a way that made it sound cute, harmless, even lovable. And maybe it was. You weren’t anywhere near obese. But in your mind, it felt like you were.

Fat wasn’t just a word—it was a weight, a sentence, a quiet shame that followed you into fitting rooms, into photos, into silence when boys looked past you.

No matter what anyone said, you carried it like a scar only you could see.

Letting out a heavy sigh, you sank back into the chair, eyes closed, trying to will the tears to stop. You still had twenty minutes left on your break.

Gulping down a full glass of water to quiet the gnawing in your stomach, you stepped outside into the small backyard behind the bakery.

Technically, it was your boss’s backyard—she lived in the flat upstairs—but she let the staff use it. It was a welcome escape from the cramped, fluorescent-lit break room. Out here, at least, the rare English sun could warm your face, even if everything else felt cold.

You sat in silence, head tilted up, wishing the sunlight could burn the tears away the moment they surfaced. But it never did. 

They always fell.

The rest of your shift was hard, but no harder than the other days. They all blurred together now, each one just as heavy as the last. You weren’t really living anymore—just surviving. And the worst part was, you weren’t even sure why.

The walk home was pleasant enough. The sun was still out, lingering a little longer, casting gold across the pavement. You lifted your face to it, letting the warmth settle against your skin.

On impulse, you decided to take the long way home.

You hadn’t dared to for weeks, not since the breakup. That route passed by the gym where your ex worked out. The same one he had begged you to join. Pushed you to subscribe to. Promised it would “change everything.”

You had been grateful you never joined.

So lost in your thoughts, you almost missed it. Almost.

You stopped abruptly, something catching at the edge of your vision. You turned around.

They were beautiful, the most beautiful flowers you’d ever seen.

And yet, it was just a simple drawing. If you could even call it that. A quick scribble of sunflowers on a sheet of paper, taped messily to the front window of the tattoo parlour. Still, despite its roughness, it stopped you cold.

Just a couple of sunflowers, side by side. The details were rushed, uneven, like it had been sketched in a hurry. Probably tossed up there to draw in a certain kind of customer. You wouldn’t be surprised if it had been stuck there for years, long forgotten and sun-faded.

But to you, it was beautiful.

This wasn’t a new tattoo shop, it had been around for years and carried a certain reputation. People in town whispered about the artist known only as Ghost, an ex-military famed for his harsh, intricate designs: skulls, weapons, bombs—anything steeped in military grit. But what truly set him apart was his skill with scars. He was known for working over them with precision and care, turning what was once pain into something powerful, something claimed.

Veterans traveled from across the country just to get inked by him. Yet no one in town ever really saw him. Ghost, they called him, and the name fit.

He had settled here years ago, but beyond his clients, no one could say what he looked like. The rumours were consistent: a body covered in scars and tattoos, a nose broken more times than anyone could count, and a bluntness that sent most people running. That was all the town really knew about Ghost.

And yet, somehow, he had drawn the sunflowers, the small skull scrawled at the bottom of the sheet was his signature, his mark.

A flicker of movement in your peripheral vision pulled you out of your admiration.

There it was, the neon green wifebeater. That horrible, fluorescent shirt your ex always wore to the gym. You knew it all too well. Too painfully well. You hated it with a quiet fury. Not wanting to face him, you spun around abruptly, your head snapping as you caught the movement. Without a word, you turned and hurried away, taking yet another detour.

You ducked behind the block, your pace quickening. You kept glancing over your shoulder every few seconds, as if he might actually be following you. But you knew better.

He wanted nothing to do with you. He never had.

You were hyperventilating, your heartbeat pounding so loudly it rang in your ears. It was racing far too fast. Panic was settling deep into your bones, tightening its grip with every breath.

More tears gathered in your eyes, blurring your vision. So when you turned your head forward, you didn’t see the man you were about to stumble into. Your panicked mind was confused, convincing you it was your ex, that he was following you, coming to hurt you even more. More insults. More laughter at your naivety.

Your ears were ringing, and you couldn’t make out the words the stranger was saying. You couldn’t even see his face clearly. But you felt something burn the side of your arm—a cigarette, most likely. Which was strange, because your ex didn’t smoke. It didn’t fit his lifestyle. But your panicked mind was too tangled to make sense of anything.

Rushing past the man, you almost fell on the floor from missing the sidewalk, and mostly because of how, in a panic, your legs had become too heavy, ready to let go of your body. 

You didn’t remember how you made it home, just muscle memory taking over.

Hours later, you woke up to find yourself lying on the floor in the middle of your entryway. The sun had long since set. You’d passed out the moment you crossed the threshold, your home’s safety stealing away the panic and stress that your tired body could no longer bear.

Your head throbbed, from the fall and the tears. Your body ached, drained and pleading for any kind of energy after being pushed to its limits.

That night, you ate.

It was automatic. You couldn’t do anything else. Eat. Shower. Sleep.

It had been weeks since that day.

It almost felt like a dream now, a blur of memories and trauma, if not for the small, round scar on your arm. 

The stranger’s cigarette had left its mark. You knew it hadn’t been intentional, just a moment of bad timing in a chaotic panic. But still, it remained.

It mocked you. A quiet reminder of how twisted your mind had become. Proof of how deeply the fear had settled into your bones. You still couldn’t walk past the gym, not without your chest tightening, your legs wanting to flee. That moment had felt like the end of the world. It had drained you out, body and soul, until you’d had to call in sick the next morning. You stayed in your flat for three days after, unable to move, barely able to breathe.

Now, sitting behind the counter during a slow closing shift, you stared absently at the scar on your forearm, waiting for a client who was already ten minutes late.

And somehow, your thoughts drifted back to the sunflowers. Those pretty, messy sunflowers hanging in the tattoo shop window.

A single idea crossed your mind. Wild. Irrational. Something you would never actually do.

You couldn’t.

It was another thing your ex had wanted to change about you, your routine, your refusal to step outside the familiar. You never strayed far from what you knew. Never looked for a better job, never tried to find a nicer flat. You never chased the things you always said you wanted, like traveling to Scotland, opening your own coffee shop with a bakery, or adopting a dog. They were just dreams, floating around in your mind, never acted upon because they didn’t fit neatly into your routine. 

And he hated that. Said you were boring. Bland.

You wouldn’t let him win. You couldn’t keep letting him dictate your life, not after he’d walked away like none of it had ever meant anything. Because to him, it hadn’t.

So when you stood in front of the tattoo shop the next day, you had to remind yourself, this was for you. Not for anyone else. This was your choice, your body, and this would be your mark. A beautiful piece to adorn your hips, because he hated them. And you were tired of hating them too.

Tired of letting him win. 

Taking a deep breath, you pushed open the front door of the shop.

It looked exactly how you’d imagined. The walls were dark, lined with harsh, aggressive designs—skulls in every shape and size, weapons, tanks, grenades, and bold, blocky lettering. Classic tattoo motifs were scattered among them too: lions, clocks, roses, eagles. But nothing remotely close to the delicate, forgotten sunflowers in the window.

The bell above the door rang sharply, announcing your arrival.

A single sign greeted you, taped to the wall behind the counter. Thick black marker on plain paper, the writing was a little fancy, almost elegant, like someone trying to show off a bit of flair. The message, however, was blunt. 

Don't talk. I heard the door. Sit down and wait.

You obeyed the sign without hesitation, too nervous to do anything else. The waiting area was small, just a battered leather couch and a scratched-up coffee table covered in tattoo magazines and crumpled receipts. The air smelled faintly of antiseptic and old smoke, like the place had absorbed years of ink and silence.

You sat down, trying to steady your breathing, your hands clasped tightly in your lap. The hum of a tattoo machine buzzed faintly in the distance, like a swarm of bees behind the walls. It was the only sound besides the occasional creak of the building settling.

It was all a stupid idea.

You shouldn’t even be here. It was ridiculous. He had been right, you were boring and bland, and maybe that was fine. Safe. Predictable. There was no need to change just to meet someone else’s idea of who you should be. So what were you doing here?

Sure, the flowers were pretty… but this was a tattoo. Permanent. Big. Bold. Everything you weren’t. And what if you couldn’t even afford it? This Ghost was popular, people traveled for him. He couldn’t be cheap.

The panic crawled up your throat again, wrapping around your breath like a vice. Your fingers fidgeted in your lap, nails digging into your palms. You stared down, letting your thoughts twist and spiral until your chest felt too tight and your legs itched to leave.

You didn’t even hear the tattoo gun stop. Didn’t hear the two voices, low and rough, approaching from the back room.

Another thing your ex hated. How easily you slipped away in your head. How you dissociated, zoned out, became unreachable when the world got too loud. Said it made you “weak.” Said it made you “a burden.” You clenched your jaw, blinking hard. You didn’t notice the footsteps until they were right there in the room.

And then, silence.

Looking up, you were met with three men, but one stood out immediately, like a sore thumb. 

He was taller, broader, commanding in a way the others weren’t. His arms were covered in tattoos that trailed down to his hands and fingers, dark ink etched into thick skin. His blond hair was cut short, close to his scalp, like a grown-out buzzcut that hadn’t seen a comb in days. His eyes landed on you, curious, confused, and sharp. There was something harsh in them too, like your presence disrupted something, and he didn’t like that. It wasn’t outright anger, but it simmered just beneath the surface. 

Still, he was striking. Easily one of the most handsome men you’d ever seen, in a rugged, untouchable way. And judging by his presence alone, there was no doubt—this was Ghost.

The man next to him had kinder eyes, warm brown and alert, framed by thick lashes and a subtle crease at the corners that hinted at easy smiles. He was shorter, leaner, with a trimmed beard and a calm steadiness in the way he held himself. His dark skin was smooth, his features sharp but approachable. There was something disarming about him, like he was used to diffusing tension before it sparked.

And then there was the last one. His eyes met yours like the others’, but there was a gentle smirk playing at the corners of his lips, amused. He didn’t bother hiding it, the moment his gaze landed, he openly checked you out from head to toe, unapologetic and bold. He had that rugged, battle-hardened look, dark hair kept in a weird shape, a faint beard tracing his jaw. His face held the kind of confidence that came from surviving countless fights, both outside and within. A fresh tattoo peeked out from beneath a second-skin plaster on his forearm, barely visible but telling of a story still unfolding.

“Well, LT,” the last one said, his deep Scottish accent rolling around the words, “Looks like ye’ve been hidin’ things, wee bugger.”

The dark-skinned man laughed at the remark while the taller one snapped a deadly glare at the Scot. If looks could kill, Mactavish would have been six feet under by now.

“Fuck off, Mactavish,” Ghost said, pushing the door open for his visitors.

Not even bothering to respond to the rudeness, the two men stepped out of the tattoo shop, whispering and giggling like schoolboys as they glanced back over their shoulders at you one last time.

You admitted to yourself that you must have looked out of place, sitting there in a space so obviously far outside your comfort zone. You wore a simple blue dress, dotted with tiny flowers and birds. Nothing fancy, but enough to hide your stomach, hips, and thighs. Much easier than trousers, at least. It was the kind of dress he’d called “ten years too old”, words that still echoed in your mind.

Before him, it used to be your favourite one. 

“What d’you want?” His blunt words cut through the silence, doing nothing to ease your anxiety. His sharp eyes pinned you in place, unblinking and intense.

You hesitated, struggling to find the right words. “Um… I was walking by the other day, and, uh, I saw the sunflowers outside. The pretty ones.”

Your voice was rushed, barely more than a whisper. At the mention of the flowers, his brow furrowed in confusion, his eyebrows shooting up as if you’d just said something absurd.

He turned away, glancing back toward the window, his eyes scanning quickly for the drawing you’d mentioned. It was clear on his face, he didn’t recall ever drawing sunflowers.

You fidgeted with your fingers, your leg bouncing nervously as anxiety gnawed at you.

Maybe he hadn’t drawn it. Maybe it was another artist. But you’d lived in this town for years, and you’d never heard of anyone else. Ghost was the only tattoo artist around.

“Fuck,” he let out with a sigh, walking  over to the sunflowers and tearing them off the window. “Listen, darlin’, I don’t do that sort of stuff no more. Look ‘round, find something you like, I’ll do it, but sunflowers? Nah, that ain’t me work.”

Oh no.

This was your worst-case scenario: rejection. Your heart was pounding wildly, feeling like it would burst right out of your chest. You should have known, it was a terrible idea. All the signs had been there.

The place was way out of your comfort zone. So was getting a tattoo. You’d even run into your ex while staring at the flowers. It was like the universe was sending you signs not to do this. But you’d already taken the first step, and now it was turning into a disaster.

You’d been silent far too long, not to mention awkward. Social skills had never been your strong suit, it’d always been a struggle.

“Uh, it’s okay, mister,” you stammered, pushing yourself up from the worn-out sofa, ready to bolt. “I don’t want anything else, really. Just the sunflowers,” you added quickly, your fingers nervously twisting the ring on your middle finger—a stress habit.

His eyes softened a little, noticing the clear discomfort and anxiety etched across your face.

Closing his eyes, he sighed again, not in anger, but in resignation. It didn’t take much, but something about you stirred a strange protective instinct inside him, the same feeling he’d only experienced when his teammates were in danger.

“Alright then,” he groaned, settling behind the desk by the door. He gestured toward the chair on the other side, inviting you to sit. “Tell me where you want it, the size and all that. I’ll have to redraw it. Looks like shit,” he added bluntly, not bothering to hide that the sunflowers were a poor sketch, especially given his skill.

With shy, hesitant words, you explained that you wanted the sunflowers on your left hip. As for the size, you weren’t quite sure, maybe four or five flowers, enough to stretch across the width of your hip.

At the mention of “width,” the way you said it, Ghost twitched ever so slightly. Hatred had filled your voice a little. So that was what this was all about, a tattoo to cover up insecurities. He was no stranger to this. Soldiers came to him all the time for the same reasons—covering scars, quieting traumas, memorializing lost comrades. He was used to pain and healing inked into skin.

But seeing you, a soft, sweet flower like yourself, hating on your body broke his heart. From what he could see, even with the way you tried to hide yourself under that dress, you were exactly his type: all curves and softness, just right to fit into his big, calloused hands.

After gathering all the details you wanted, which weren’t many, he gave you a knowing look and asked, “Got any other tattoos?”

A deep blush spread across your cheeks. It was too easy to read you. You shook your head, unable to hold his gaze for too long. It made you uncomfortable, but in a strangely pleasant way, something new, something you’d never felt before, not even with him.

“Come ’round in a couple days, aye?” he said, glancing down at the sunflower drawing as he thought. Then, looking back up at you, he added, “I’ll have a sketch ready, and if you like it, we can set a date.”

“Yeah,” you sighed, biting your lip nervously. “Okay.”

“’Need time to do something nice for you,” he said with a small smirk. “Wouldn’t wanna fuck it up.”

Your body stayed locked in the chair, and with a nod toward the door, he made it clear you wouldn’t be getting any work done today, not exactly chasing you out, but closing the session gently.

Frowning, you glanced from the door back to him, then at the door again.

“You don’t want a deposit?” you asked, confused. 

Glaring past him, your eyes caught the big sign in bold letters: NO DEPOSIT, NO PROJECT.

Knowing exactly what you were staring at, Ghost let out a short laugh. When you looked back at him, you were surprised to find that familiar knowing look shining in his brown eyes.

“Somethin’ tells me you ain’t gonna make me waste my time, flower,” he said, a rare intensity flickering behind his gaze. “Don’t you worry your little head ‘bout that, just come back in a few days.”

And with that, he sent you on your way.

As you stepped outside, your stomach churned, not with anxiety, but with a fluttering swarm of butterflies. A strange, giddy feeling settled over you, sparked by the memory of the man you had just met.

There was something about his quiet dominance, the effortless way he commanded the room. Nothing like anyone you’d ever known before.

And you found yourself longing for more. 

Anxiety had been eating away at you in the days following your meeting with Ghost.

In some strange way, you were excited, nervous, yes, but genuinely thrilled about this new thing. It still felt surreal that you were actually going through with it. And then there were his words, echoing in your mind like a quiet challenge: you ain't gonna make me lose my time, flower.

It made you want to prove him right. To please him.

His calm confidence, the way he filled a room without needing to say much, lingered in your thoughts longer than you cared to admit. That deep, gravelly voice of his had sent a shiver down your spine, and every time you remembered it, it happened all over again.

After that encounter, your days had started to feel a little lighter. The dark clouds that usually hovered in your mind seemed to part for longer stretches of time, letting in slivers of calm before the heaviness crept back in—usually around meals. Still, you were more present during your shifts, less likely to break down during your breaks, less caught in the spiral of exhaustion and tears.

But it all felt ridiculous to you. Somewhere in the back of your mind, you could still hear his voice, mocking, condescending. Whispering that it was just the same old story again. That a man had given you a shred of attention, and now you were overthinking like some pathetic daydreamer. 

“Little dumb naive girl,” he had once spat, voice thick with hatred and spite.

And despite everything, that voice still echoed.

You heard his voice again the moment you stood in front of the tattoo shop. Your eyes had wandered, unintentionally, toward the gym just next door. That place made your skin crawl. You hated it. Hated the way it made you feel small and enormous at the same time. Hated the way the women walked out—slim, glowing, confident—carrying something you had always been told you lacked. 

He used to say he could replace you with any one of them if you didn’t start losing weight. Said they were better than you. Slimmer. Prettier. More dedicated. Then would come the sweet words, how you could be just like them if only. Always the same routine. Break you down, then pretend to build you back up, exactly the way he liked. Like he was doing you a favor.

"Gonna stay out there all day, or you coming in?" The deep voice startled you, cutting through the haze of your thoughts like a blade.

You turned to find Ghost holding the door open, his broad frame filling the entrance. You hadn't realized you’d let a tear fall until the cool air hit your cheek. Quickly, you wiped it away, sniffing once. If he noticed, he didn’t mention it, just watched you with unreadable eyes.

You managed a shy smile, voice barely above a whisper. "Sorry." And with that, you stepped inside, the warmth of the shop swallowing you whole.

The shop was empty. Silent.

It felt almost sacred, like you’d stepped across the threshold of some hidden temple where quiet was a rule, not a choice.

A low groan broke the stillness, followed by a huff as Ghost sat down behind the desk. He sounded like an old man, despite barely looking over forty. You figured the military took its toll, grinding away at a person until even sitting down hurt. That theory was confirmed when his knee popped audibly as he stretched out his legs. Another groan slipped out.

You giggled, just a little. A quiet, surprised sound that escaped before you could catch it.

Ghost looked up at you with one brow raised, catching you mid-mockery. There was no anger in his face, no sharp edge to his gaze, just something unreadable and calm, a small smirk playing on his lips. Still, your chest tightened at the expression. 

It mirrored one you'd seen too many times before, except back then it had always come with a bite. With anger. With disgust.

You looked away quickly and sank down onto the old chair without a word.

He said nothing either. Just pulled open a drawer and pushed three pieces of paper toward you. Sketches. Sunflowers.

Each design more intricate and beautiful than the rough draft you’d first seen weeks ago. Sunlight captured in ink. Petals curled with care. You blinked, your throat suddenly tight.

He hadn’t just redrawn the flowers. He’d turned them into something tender. Something yours.

They were all beautiful, but one sketch drew you in more than the others.

It was a single sunflower, its petals open wide in full bloom, surrounded by gently arching leaves and smaller buds just on the verge of flowering. The lines were soft, almost tender, yet precise—each stroke intentional, like every vein on a petal had been studied before being drawn.

What captivated you most, though, was the smallest detail: a single bee, hovering mid-flight near the flower’s heart. Its wings were barely open, caught in that frozen moment of approach, as if deciding to land. It wasn’t just decorative, it was alive with motion, with intent.

It made your chest ache in the best way.

The sunflower stood proud and open, the bee drawn to it naturally—unafraid, unashamed. You saw yourself in that flower. Or at least, who you wanted to be.

It was a very singular design, nothing like the harsh, brutal lines that filled the walls around you. No skulls, no weapons, no eagles with razor-edged wings. Just a bloom, soft and open, alive with quiet strength. It almost didn’t make sense. That a man like him, this towering, intimidating presence wrapped in scars and ink, had drawn something so delicate, so intimate. So… you.

There had been something about you that stirred something different in him, something that made him want to create something truly special, just for you. It was unlike the bold, aggressive lines and masculine designs he was known for. He could do delicate—he’d always had the skill—but he usually chose not to. Until now. And as you sat in the chair across from him, eyes glassy and wide like a startled fawn, he knew he’d made the right call. He’d been right not to turn you away.

The look in your eyes was quietly devastating.

Ghost had spent nearly two decades learning to read people, it had been his job, his survival. And everything about you screamed damage dealt in silence. The way you sat, small and unsure, like you didn’t want to take up space. The constant fidgeting of your fingers in your lap, tugging at your clothes like they might shield you from being seen. The way your voice barely rose above a whisper, like you weren’t sure you deserved to be heard.

He recognized the signs. He’d seen them in soldiers, in strangers, in too many faces over the years. The fallout of cruel words and twisted truths. Of someone telling you you weren’t enough, or worse, that you were too much. 

But it was always the same origin, someone, somewhere, had tried to make you small.

A mother, maybe. Or more likely, he thought grimly, a man.

And sitting across from you now, he felt something cold and quiet settle in his chest. Not judgment. Not pity. Just the sharp, familiar awareness that some people carry battles you can’t always see, and you were fighting yours with nothing but a soft voice and trembling hands.

And that, Ghost thought, deserved something beautiful.

“Picked one, flower?” he asked, tone softer now, careful. Not wanting to scare you off. Not wanting to break what little peace you had mustered to sit in that chair.

"Yes, this one," you said, almost too quietly, your finger hovering over the design with the bee. Even though it looked small on paper, you hoped he could make it bigger—big enough to cover the part of your hip you were so desperate to hide.

Ghost glanced at the drawing, then at you, a small smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. "My personal favourite," he said, voice low and smooth, before rising from the desk and walking toward the back of the shop. With a practiced motion, he pushed aside the curtain and held it open, looking over his shoulder with an expectant glance, clearly waiting for you to follow.

You hadn’t expected it to happen today. You weren’t ready, not mentally, not emotionally, but your feet moved before your mind could catch up. Hesitating at first, you followed him into the back, unsure of what else to do, heart pounding with a mix of fear and anticipation.

There was no turning back now.

Noticing the way your body language had shifted in an instant, your shoulders tense, your steps uncertain, Ghost let out a low chuckle, trying to ease the tension.

“Relax. Not gonna tattoo you today,” he said, voice calmer than you'd expected. “Just testing out the size, yeah?”

“Oh,” you breathed out, almost like a sigh of relief. “Yeah… yeah, that’s okay,” you added, biting your lower lip, a nervous habit you couldn’t seem to shake.

After he gestured to the tattoo bed, Ghost moved behind the computer, likely resizing the design to fit your hip. The room settled into silence. It wasn’t awkward, at least not on his end, but the quiet gave your thoughts too much room to spiral.

What if he thought you were fat? What if he looked at your body with disgust, just like he had? You reminded yourself this was his job, he’d probably seen hundreds of bodies, maybe thousands. All kinds. Worse than yours, surely. But the thought still clawed at your chest like something sharp and cruel: what if you were the worst of them all?

Especially when the man preparing to see your hips, thighs, and stomach was, without exaggeration, one of the most handsome men you'd ever laid eyes on.

With a few stencils prepared, Ghost stood and approached, ready to test out various sizes.

Not wanting to be in the way, you immediately got up as well, stepping in front of the full-length mirror while he settled onto the stool beside it.

You’d worn another dress today, plain yellow, modest, simple. It reached your knees and clung just a little too snugly around your stomach. It used to fit better. Had you gained more weight again? You hoped not. Maybe it had just shrunk in the wash. That had to be it.

“The left one, yeah?” he asked, not looking up as he carefully trimmed the edges of the stencil.

You gave a soft hum of agreement, your voice caught somewhere between nervous and uncertain. Ghost didn't pause, just wheeled himself around behind you with ease, still focused on cutting. His strong thighs pushed him forward effortlessly in the chair, and for some reason, watching the quiet confidence of that movement sent a subtle thrill down your spine.

"Alright," he said once he’d finished trimming all three stencil sizes. "Pull this up for me, yeah?" He motioned toward your dress, voice casual, efficient—like this was just another task in his day.

And why wouldn’t it be? He didn’t care about your insecurities. He didn’t even know you. You were just another client. You’d come to him for a service, and he was simply doing his job.

Still, your throat tightened as you nodded, swallowing hard. With a deep breath, you slowly pulled your dress up.

"A little more, flower," he said, glancing up quickly while preparing the stencil products, his tone still calm, focused, professional.

Your chest constricted at the request. Your hands trembled slightly, and for a moment you thought you might be sick. But by some miracle of will, you managed to lift your dress a bit higher, high enough that your plain cotton underwear was fully visible.

You felt exposed, hyperaware of every flaw. The natural light from the window beside the table streamed in, illuminating everything.

Panic fluttered in your chest until your eyes darted to the glass, and you realized with a wash of relief that it was treated with a one-way mirror film. You could see the street, but no one could see in.

You flinched slightly when you felt his warm hand settle on your hip, the unexpected contact sending a jolt up your spine. Looking down, you caught a glimpse of how close his face was, far too close for your nerves to handle.

He looked somewhat ridiculous in that moment, crouched down low, the stool adjusted to its minimum height. And still, somehow, he was a giant. He had to curve his broad back just to meet the right angle, shoulders hunched, every movement careful and measured.

"Alright?" he asked, his voice quiet but firm, catching the way your body tensed and the goosebumps rising along your skin.

There was a flicker in his eyes, something more than concern. Ghost had always been a man whose emotions burned low and slow, but now something stirred. A spark of frustration, not directed at you, but at whoever had made you like this. Whoever had taken someone so soft, so lovely, and left them flinching from simple touch.

To him, you were stunning. Like those old Greek goddesses carved in marble, soft, full, timeless. The kind of beauty meant to be admired, not torn apart. It filled him with something uncomfortably close to protectiveness, a simmering anger on your behalf.

And yet, you couldn’t see it. Couldn't see what he saw. And that, more than anything, pissed him off.

"Yeah, sorry," you said quickly, not entirely sure what you were apologizing for. "Keep going." You added the words with a small, tight smile tugging at your lips.

He understood his mistake, he hadn't told you what he was doing. Just like with the vet with PTSD, he needed to explain everything, to avoid catching you off guard.

"This is just so the stencil’s ink sticks to your skin. It’s just a gel, but it’s gonna be cold," he explained, showing you the dab he’d applied to his finger. When you nodded, he began to gently spread it across your skin.

Without realizing, his thumb brushed higher on your hip, nudging your panties up slightly. It was unconscious, just a way to keep the gel from touching the fabric, but it sent your mind spiraling. His fingers felt so good against your skin: soft, careful, like he was handling something fragile he didn’t want to break.

No one had ever touched you like that before. It felt strange, but in the best way, and you found yourself wanting more.

As soon as he peeled the stencil off your skin, your eyes dropped to your hip, and you cringed.

It looked so small against the stretch of skin. He’d used the medium size, but it was still far from what you’d imagined. Barely bigger than your hand, it looked... wrong. Out of place. Like it needed room to breathe, to grow into something more.

“Bigger?” he asked, watching your reaction closely.

You nodded quickly, and he stood without another word, heading back to his desk.

The largest version he’d printed wasn’t much bigger than the one you’d just seen. He’d have to resize it again. As he sat in front of his laptop, he glanced up, just in time to see you frowning at your skin, letting the dress fall back over the spot the second he was no longer beside you. Like you couldn’t bear to look at it alone.

Ghost clicked his tongue and shook his head, disbelief darkening his features.

Whoever made you feel that way, he hoped they were ashamed.

After a few more tries and several rounds of resizing, you finally found yourself staring at the stencil with something like admiration, no longer disgust. He’d added more details with each version—more leaves, more petals—to better match the vision you’d had in your head. 

And now, it was perfect. It began just above your hip and flowed down almost to the middle of your thigh. It fit your body like it had always belonged there.

It felt right.

A quiet moment passed, the room still, until the chime of the front doorbell jolted you from your thoughts.

“It’s perfect,” you said at last, your voice soft but certain.

Ghost raised his eyebrows, then offered a genuine smile. “Yeah?” He asked, as if he had been ready to size it up again. 

You nodded. “Yeah.”

“Great,” he said, glancing toward the trash bin overflowing with discarded stencils. “Only took, what… seven tries?” he added with a teasing lilt.

“Sorry,” you murmured, guilt creeping in. You felt like you’d wasted his time, been too picky.

“Don’t be,” he said easily, already making a note on the final stencil so he could refine it later. “Tell you what, keep it on for a couple of days. If you still like it, give me a call and we’ll set a date.”

“Okay,” you agreed, letting the hem of your dress fall back down, covering the design once again.

“Perfect, then,” Ghost said, standing with a grunt as he stretched his back. He handed you a small card with his name and number. “It’ll wash off eventually, don’t worry.”

And with that, you were sent on your way—a flower now adorning your hip, waiting to be etched into your skin forever.

A pretty flower for the prettiest, Ghost thought, as he turned to greet his next client.

Sadness settled over you when the sunflower finally faded from your hip.

It had taken about three days. Three days where you couldn't stop looking at it, admiring it in every mirror you passed at home. It had made you feel pretty, maybe for the first time in months. For once, you had felt good in your own skin. And the moment you realised that, you called the tattoo shop, your voice trembling with quiet determination.

You told Ghost you were ready.

He had sounded genuinely pleased, even told you so himself. You set a date—two weeks from now, the only opening he had. He explained it would likely take two, maybe three sessions to complete, each spaced about a month apart.

He also began talking about pricing, but you barely listened. You were so far gone in the process, so invested in this strange little dream, that numbers didn’t scare you anymore. He could’ve asked for two thousand pounds and you still would’ve paid it, no hesitation. Yet he stayed evasive about the exact number. 

While he went over the rules, you mostly listened to the sound of his voice. Deep and soothing, it made your stomach twist in a way that had nothing to do with nerves.

“Wear comfortable clothes,” he’d said. “Bring books, music if you want. Drink water. Eat before, and bring snacks too.”

That last part snapped you out of your dreamy fog.

Snacks. You hadn’t had a snack in months. You barely had a regular eating routine at all anymore.

Your anxiety spiked immediately. You fumbled a quiet, “What do you mean?”

He explained gently that tattoos were draining on the body, and he didn’t want you passing out in his shop. That it was important.

You nodded, but deep down you knew you wouldn’t follow that rule. Eating beforehand would be a battle. Snacks were… complicated.

Unknown to you, Ghost quietly made a note to bring some of his own snacks. Something told him you wouldn’t show up with anything. And he wasn’t about to let you faint on his table.

He also wasn’t about to let you slip through his fingers.

He told himself to be patient, to tread carefully, but something in him had already shifted. He was ready to catch you. To keep you close. Warm. Safe. 

He had tried to restrain his thoughts during the short time he’d known you. Told himself he was too old, too rough for someone like you. But hearing your soft, fragile voice on the phone, nervous over something as small as snacks, it undid something in him. Broke open a place he hadn’t touched in years.

You needed someone to take care of you. And whether you knew it yet or not, he was already planning to be that someone.

The day of your first session came. By 10 a.m., you'd already thrown up your breakfast—nerves twisting your stomach into knots.

But you needed to eat. He’d told you to eat. And something inside you, quiet but insistent, wanted to make him proud. Wanted to follow his instructions, not out of fear, but out of something softer. Something that felt dangerously close to trust.

So when noon came, you sat down and ate a light lunch. Slowly. Carefully. You even finished it with a small pastry you'd saved from your closing shift the night before. You had another one waiting in the fridge, meant for him.

You’d eaten more than your body had grown used to these past few months. It left you with a dull ache in your stomach and a familiar, rotten urge clawing at your throat, to get rid of it. Purge it all.

But you didn’t.

This morning had been different, your body rejecting food out of sheer stress. But now? If you threw up now, it would be by your own hand. And somehow, you felt like Ghost would know.

Somehow, he’d see it in your eyes. And you couldn’t bear the thought of disappointing him.

You’d chosen another plain dress that morning, simple, soft, something that wouldn’t draw attention. You made sure your panties were in place, covering everything they needed to. Modest. Safe.

Still, the thought of being half-naked in front of a near-stranger made your skin crawl just a little. Not because of him, not really. But because of you, because of how exposed it all made you feel. But you needed this. You needed that sunflower on your hip, something beautiful, something permanent, something just for you.

You could handle a few hours of discomfort. You’d endured far worse for far less. This time, at least, there would be something to show for it. Something that might make you feel like yourself again.

When you crossed the threshold, you didn’t feel nearly as nervous as the first day. There was still tension humming beneath your skin, but it felt quieter now, softer. Familiar, even.

You were supposed to be there by 2 p.m., but you showed up at 1:30. Anxiety had been gnawing at you in your flat, pacing circles in your mind. Better to wait here than there. Your grandma’s voice echoed in your head: “Show up on time and you’re already late.”

It had stuck with you, like most of the things she said.

The sharp buzz of the tattoo machine stopped abruptly. A second later, Ghost appeared, only his face visible behind the half-drawn curtain. His eyes scanned the shop, then landed on you, clearly surprised.

Glancing at his watch, he let out a quiet laugh. “A bit early, flower, aye?” he said, the mockery in his voice softened by fondness. He tilted his head toward the waiting area. “Get comfy, I’m almost done.”

Then he vanished again behind the curtain, and the machine started buzzing once more.

You were left alone with your takeaway box, a simple things that somehow made you feel even more exposed. But you were here. That counted for something.

Twenty minutes later, the buzzing stopped.

You glanced up just in time to see Ghost walking his client out, peeling off his gloves with practiced ease. His expression was serious, sharp eyes fixed on the bulky man who thanked him before heading for the door. “Semper fi,” the man added as he left.

Ghost gave a small nod in response, shutting the register drawer with a decisive click.

“Fucking Marines,” he muttered under his breath, not loud enough to offend, just loud enough for you to hear. 

Then his eyes found yours again, and something in him visibly softened. Like a soldier slipping out of uniform. “Come on then,” he said, motioning toward the back room as he held the curtain open for you. His tone was quieter now, gentler. Meant just for you.

You stood, your heart knocking a little too hard against your ribs, and stepped past him into the familiar quiet of the studio.

You spotted the familiar stencil waiting on the small stool next to the mirror, just like last time. Before Ghost could sit down, your nerves got the better of you, and you blurted out, “Brought this for you.”

You handed him the small box, your fingers trembling just enough for you to notice. It was nothing special, just a simple éclair. You’d chosen it because it was safe. Everyone liked éclairs... right?

Well, he didn't like it.

“Thanks, didn’t have to,” he said casually, taking the box from your hands. 

He didn’t hesitate to open it, eyes widening as he caught sight of the pastry inside. Before you could brace yourself for rejection, he’d already picked it up, shoved the whole thing into his mouth, and let out a low, guttural moan of appreciation.

“It’s good, flower,” he said through a mouthful, lips curled into a grin. “Made it yourself?”

All you could do was nod, stunned.

It was almost... pornographic, the way he’d eaten it. Like he didn’t care about appearances or manners or calories, just enjoyment. Ghost, with his thick muscles and calloused hands, clearly someone who probably hit the gym daily, had devoured your cake like it was the best thing he’d eaten in weeks. Moaned for it, even.

Your ex had always asked for the ingredients when you baked, always calculating the calories, dissecting the fat content before he’d even touch it.

This? This was something new. This was acceptance. This was appreciation. And it was almost too much.

After washing his hands, Ghost clapped them together once before settling onto the stool beside you, just like last time.

“Shall we get going?” he asked, tilting his head slightly as he looked at you, watchful, calm.

Once you gave him a small nod, he got to work. 

“Gonna shave your skin first, alright?” he said, pulling out a fresh razor and a bottle of shaving gel.

He hadn’t told you to shave. You should’ve known, you should’ve looked it up beforehand. Your skin should’ve been smooth already, prepared. Now he had to do it for you, and it felt like you’d already messed everything up.

“Stop,” he said firmly, his eyes focused on your skin as he gently worked the razor over it. “Stop overthinkin’. That’s on me, I forgot to tell you. So just... breathe, yeah? I don’t care. I do this for guys ten times hairier than you, and they don’t lose sleep over it.”

Then stencil was placed with careful precision, exactly where you wanted it. When you approved with a quiet "That’s perfect," he let you lie back on the tattoo table. From there, everything moved with quiet, practiced rhythm.

Gloves. Ink. Needles.

Each item was either unwrapped from sterile packaging or pulled from sealed containers. And for every step, he explained what he was doing.

You listened closely, really listened, with those wide, soft doe eyes trained on him, absorbing each word like it mattered. He noticed that, too. Knew it gave you a bit of comfort. Knew that being informed made the fear quieter. You even stopped fidgeting with your fingers for a few seconds.

“I’m not much of a talker, yeah?” he said while slotting a needle into the tattoo machine. “But you can do whatever. Read, listen to music, nap. I won’t get distracted, don’t worry.”

It was time now. Everything was ready. His voice softened again.

“It might hurt a little at first. Like a few electric shocks. But you’ll get used to it. If you need a break, you tell me, alright? Got the whole afternoon just for you, flower.” He motioned toward a small table you hadn’t noticed before, tucked just beside a door marked PRIVATE. On top sat a neatly arranged water bottle, some juice, a protein bar and bananas.

“Snacks and water’s over there too. No excuses,” he added with a faint smirk, like he already knew you were planning on ignoring that part.

Your heart swelled in your chest. You hadn’t said a word, and still, he’d thought ahead. He’d prepared for you.

You weren’t used to that. Not the consideration, not the gentle forethought. Not someone thinking of what you might need without being told. It caught you off guard in the softest way.

It made something flutter deep inside, something that had been dormant for too long. A warmth that started in your belly and crept up to your chest, into your cheeks. That familiar tingling sensation. You were starting to associate it with him. With the low rumble of his voice, with the way he looked at you, sharp, but never unkind.

It was becoming too common, that feeling. Too easy.

The first few minutes were uncomfortable, your body needed time to adjust to the needle. To the harsh overhead light that seemed to highlight every imperfection. And then there was the smaller lamp strapped to his forehead, casting a focused beam directly onto your hip. His face was so close to your skin, you could feel the warmth of his breath.

His left forearm rested gently on your thigh, solid and warm, steadying himself as he wiped away excess ink with practiced ease, while his right hand moved with careful precision.

He’d started with the sunflower at the center of it all. It wasn’t pleasant, but the pain was manageable. At first, you were too tense to even breathe properly, afraid the slightest movement would throw him off. But after a few minutes, you relaxed enough to pull out your phone and headphones, letting a podcast fill your ears.

The first hour passed like that, calm, almost meditative. A serial killer podcast buzzed in your ears while Ghost worked in steady silence. Sometimes, you’d glance down, watching as the sunflower slowly bloomed on your skin.

But the calm cracked when he asked you to change position, to lie on your side, your back turned to him.

After a few minutes in that position, you couldn’t help it, your hand moved on its own, trying to tug your dress down over your stomach. Ghost gently pushed it back up without thinking, completely unaware of how exposed and uncomfortable it made you feel.

Lying like this felt unbearable. All you could focus on was the cellulite on your thighs, the way your stomach bulged more on your side, how visible everything was under the harsh light. Your mind spiraled. Your body tensed. Without realizing it, you began fidgeting, squirming just enough to make his job harder with each passing second.

And then the voices came back. Your ex’s voice.

Fat. Ugly. Big.

"Okay, let’s stop," Ghost grunted suddenly, pulling away as he set his machine down. "Can’t do anything if you keep moving like that."

Dread hit you like a wave. 

You’d ruined it. You’d let him down. He was angry, disappointed, you could see it in his eyes. Your chest tightened as your vision blurred. Tears gathered, hot and humiliating, pooling in your lashes.

Your thoughts scattered, running a mile a minute, grasping for an escape plan. Maybe you could say you were sick. Maybe pretend you were fainting. Anything to get out of this room, this moment, this shame.

You’d never come back. You couldn’t. You’d find another artist to finish the piece, who cared if it wasn’t perfect anymore? You didn’t deserve perfect anyway.

When he got up, pulling off his gloves and tossing them in the trash, it felt like the floor dropped from under you.

Your heart pounded against your ribcage, loud and panicked. Your breathing quickened, shallow and erratic, your palms slick with sweat. You couldn’t even bring yourself to look at him at first. He was mad. He had to be.

Glancing down, you saw how little had been done—the center of the sunflower, a few petals trailing toward your hip, the ones closest to your butt. That was why the position had been necessary. That was why you’d ruined it.

A lump formed in your throat. It hurt.

You were about to sit up and start apologizing, maybe even crying, when he returned, quiet steps, calm energy. He placed a water bottle beside you, then crouched slightly, bringing his gaze level with yours.

“Alright, sweetheart,” he said, voice gentle, like he was trying not to spook you. “Breathe for me, yeah? Just breathe. I'm not mad." You forced your eyes to meet his. He wasn’t lying. His eyes weren’t hard or annoyed, they were soft. Understanding.

"I'm not mad," he repeated, slower this time. “Not at you, anyway."

He opened the water bottle for you without a word, gently guiding it into your hands. “Drink,” he said quietly, his tone firm but not unkind.

You obeyed, taking a few gulps while your trembling fingers gripped the plastic too tightly. He stepped back just enough to give you space, crossing his arms over his broad chest. Normally, a sight like that—his tattoos, his frame, the quiet command of his posture—would’ve made your stomach flutter. But your mind wouldn’t let you feel anything but shame right now. Not when you were half-naked, having a full-blown panic attack in front of him.

Before you could fumble out an apology or excuse, his voice cut through the buzzing in your head.

"I'm taking you out tonight," he said. Not a question. An order. His tone had shifted, gruff, decisive. The same voice, you imagined, that barked commands on the battlefield.

You blinked at him, stunned.

"Nice little restaurant,” he went on. “You’re gonna sit down across from me, and you're gonna tell me about the fucker who put those ugly thoughts in your head. The ones I see behind your eyes every time you look down at yourself, 'right?."

You stared at him, wide-eyed, the words settling like a warm blanket and a shock of cold water all at once. It was too much and somehow exactly what you needed.

He had phrased it like a question at the end, but you knew better. There was no room for doubt in his voice. Not with the way he looked at you, not with the quiet command laced through every word. He had your address anyway. You’d filled it in on the paperwork before he started the tattoo.

“Alright,” he said, final and firm. No room for argument.

The rest passed in silence. Ghost moved with careful efficiency, preparing the second skin while glancing at you with eyes that silently urged, Drink more. So you did.

He let out a soft hum—something like approval—then turned his attention back to cutting the perfect size for the blister shield. Once it was applied over the small section of tattoo he'd completed, sealing the delicate lines and color beneath, he reached forward and gently tugged your dress back down himself.

Once you were both out of the back room, you found the courage to speak. “How much do I owe you?” Your voice sounded pitiful, hoarse from the panic attack, weighted with unshed tears.

“Don’t worry about that,” he answered quickly, without even glancing back. “Be ready at seven, yeah?”

You didn’t get the chance to respond. His warm hand settled between your shoulder blades, guiding you gently toward the exit. Under different circumstances, you might’ve taken it as a dismissal. But after his blunt, unexpected invitation, it didn’t feel like rejection.

“In the meantime, get some rest,” he added softly, pausing before the door. “Take a nap. Eat something. Can you do that for me?”

There was something different in him now. A shift in the air between you. The way he carried himself around you had changed. Less detached, more... possessive. Protective.

You didn’t mind. But the suddenness of it left you reeling, like emotional whiplash.

Still, you hummed softly in response, nodding along like you agreed, like you would do what he asked. 

But deep down, you knew you wouldn’t. 

Not today. Not after what had just happened. Your body wouldn’t keep anything down anyway, not with the weight of shame and panic still lodged in your chest.

That’s how you found yourself in a cute but upscale Italian restaurant, sitting across from a ghost. No, across from Simon. He had told you his name when you got into his car. The drive had been quiet. He wore the same thing he always did when you saw him: all black.

Except this was a fancy all black—not the comfortable, worn-in black he wore at his tattoo shop.

When you had arrived at the restaurant, you immediately felt underdressed. It was far more elegant than you had imagined. The other women wore cocktail dresses, while you had on your “old woman” dress. One of your favourites, sure, but it felt completely out of place. Like you had just stepped out of a quiet little cottage and accidentally walked into high society.

The first few minutes had been awkward. You didn’t really know what to say, and Simon was watching you with an intense look in his eyes, like he was expecting something.

The smells of the restaurant blended together into something mouthwatering. Your stomach growled loudly in response.

“You didn’t listen, did you?” he asked. His tone wasn’t patronizing, but he had clearly heard your stomach over the ambient noise of the restaurant. When you gave him a confused look, he sighed and spoke again. “You didn’t eat.”

This time, it wasn’t a question. It was a statement, firm and undeniable, leaving you no room to lie.

No one had ever cared whether you ate or not. The fact that he did made something twist inside you. It felt… strange. Unfamiliar. And it sent your anxiety into overdrive. The disappointment in his eyes, the quiet sigh before he spoke—they felt like signs. Signs that you had let him down. Just like you always let people down.

He had been right. You were incapable of taking care of yourself, let alone making someone else happy. In nearly nine months of being together, you hadn’t made him happy. Not once.

“Care to tell me why?” Simon’s voice broke the silence. It was still firm, but there was a gentleness woven into it.

“Took a nap… didn’t have time to—before I had to get ready,” you whispered, almost pathetically. You felt like a child being scolded, like you’d done something wrong.

And in a way, you weren’t lying. You had taken a nap after getting home, right after staring at your new tattoo for a good half hour. When you finally got up, the anxiety hit. Hard. It made eating feel impossible and pushed you to start getting ready far earlier than necessary. Once ready, you just paced around your apartment, running through every way the night could go wrong.

Simon being upset because you hadn’t eaten wasn’t one of them.

That was the moment the waiter chose to arrive at your table, ready to take your order. You had been staring at the menu for a good ten minutes before Simon spoke, yet everything on it felt like too much. That realization hit hard. You used to love Italian food, loved eating out, dressing up, sitting around a table with friends, laughing over shared plates.

Now, you just felt… empty. Like all of that joy had been drained out of you.

Simon ordered first. He asked for three antipasti, one of the biggest pizzas on the menu, and a side of fresh mozzarella, like it was nothing. Meanwhile, you barely managed to mumble a request for a Margherita. The fewer ingredients, the better.

Everything he ordered made your mouth water, but the idea of actually eating made you swallow hard, your throat suddenly too tight.

Just before the waiter walked away, Simon added, “We’ll take your best red wine as well. Bring the bottle.”

Then his eyes were back on you—steady, unreadable, and unwavering.

Once the wine had been poured, it became easier to speak, mostly because its warmth spread through you faster than usual, thanks to the fact that you hadn’t eaten much all day. Conversation flowed effortlessly, like you’d known each other forever.

At first, you didn’t say much. He talked about his old world, because you had asked him why he called himself Ghost. Then he began asking questions in return. Nothing intrusive. Just gentle curiosity: your job, your studies, a bit about your family, the places you dreamed of visiting. Easy conversation. And he listened, really listened. It felt like he actually cared about the answers.

When his antipasti arrived, you kept talking, pausing only when he lifted a fork toward you, offering a bite of caprese salad like he’d done it a thousand times before. You were so surprised, all you could do was open your mouth in response, letting him feed you.

And then he did it again. Casually. Like it was nothing. Sharing everything he’d ordered without comment or ceremony. It was intimate, unexpectedly so, but he said nothing, just kept asking questions, humming thoughtfully at your answers, occasionally offering his own stories in return.

Maybe it was the wine. Or maybe it wasn’t. But you felt the urge to press your thighs together under the table, seeking the smallest bit of pressure. There was something about the quiet confidence of his actions—the way he simply took charge without making a show of it—that made heat bloom across your skin. Your cheeks, your ears, your neck flushed with it.

And he noticed. You knew he did, from the small smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. But he didn’t say a word.

He just kept feeding you. 

With the antipasti finished, his questions shifted, deeper now. The kind you usually avoided. The kind you never talked about. But there was something about Simon… something that made you feel safe. Protected, even. You knew he wouldn’t mock you. He wouldn’t laugh at you for not leaving sooner. He wouldn’t pity you for still struggling now.

So, you told him. Not everything. You left out the sharpest edges—the outright insults, the way he punched the walls, the time he almost hit you. The way he’d keep pushing for sex even after you said no… until you’d finally say yes, just to make it stop. Those parts still lived in a locked room inside you, sealed tight. You weren’t ready to open that door. Not yet.

But you told him everything else.

And as the words spilled out, you didn’t even notice when your pizza arrived. Didn’t realize you’d eaten more than half of it until your story trailed off and you looked down, surprised. Half gone. In your stomach.

No overthinking. No guilt. No sick knot twisting in your gut.

Just food. Just nourishment. And, for once, peace.

And when Simon offered you a forkful of his pizza, you let him.

He didn’t say much in response to your confession. Just listened, thoughtfully. His fists had tightened under the table when you spoke about the things that bastard used to say about your body. The way he tore you down with words sharper than knives. Simon had suspected your ex had left a mark, especially when he noticed your strained relationship with food, with your body. He’d even gently suggested once that an ex might’ve been the cause.

But he hadn’t imagined this. Not the depth of it. Not how cruel someone could be, how calculated. He had seen things during his time in the military, seen how dark people could get in a warzone. But he never thought he'd come across that same cruelty in civilian life, in someone you once trusted. It made his blood run cold.

So he made himself a quiet promise: to help you find your way back.

No pressure. No rushing.

Just gentle hands and steady praise. A protective presence at your side. Patient and solid. Until, one day, eating a meal didn’t feel like a shameful act. Until your body wasn’t something to battle, but something you could simply exist in, without guilt. Without fear.

Until you no longer felt like trash for giving your body what it needed.

When dessert time came around, you still felt uncertain. Full, yes—but you’d been watching the tiramisu pass by your table all night, carried by waiters like little temptations on porcelain plates. You wanted to try it. Badly.

But it felt wrong. 

The thoughts crept in, sharp and familiar. You’ve already eaten too much. You’re already too fat. You don’t need the extra sugar.

Simon’s finished eating anyway, he probably doesn’t even like sweets.

As you spiraled, again—for what felt like the millionth time today—Simon watched you quietly. He’d noticed you eyeing the tiramisu throughout dinner. But now, with the menu back in your hands, your eyes were filled with guilt. Your bottom lip was caught between your teeth, a silent giveaway that your thoughts were turning cruel.

He hadn’t known you long. But you were easy to read. Too easy, even.

So without a word, without needing your permission, Simon stopped the waiter as he passed. “One tiramisu,” he said, slowly taking the menu out of your hands. “Two spoons.”

Another silence settled between you.

“You know you’re gorgeous.”His voice cut through it, steady and sure—taking you completely by surprise. That firm tone was back. “Easily one of the finest bodies I’ve ever tattooed.”

Simon wasn’t poetic. His words weren’t flowery, but they weren’t crude either. Just raw truth, spoken without hesitation. He wasn’t the type to lie to protect feelings. If he thought something, he said it, simple as that.

And right now, he thought you were beautiful.

You let out an embarrassed laugh, your eyes darting to the table, the walls, anywhere but him. He had shown you he was blunt, sure, but this felt unexpected. Too kind. Too generous.

“You don’t have to say that,” you murmured. “Just because you feel bad for me…”

He simply raised an eyebrow, the expression cool and challenging—like he was daring you to keep going.

“Stop thinking you’re in my head, flower,” he said, voice low and steady. “I'm no liar like he was. Not here to play with you. I’d get no pleasure out of that.”

There was no softness in his words, but there was something better, certainty. The kind that didn’t ask for belief, just offered it freely. A quiet anchor in a sea of doubt. And for the first time in a long while, part of you wanted to believe someone.

“I’m past playing little boys’ games,” he added, his gaze steady.

The implication was clear, he was nothing like the others you’d known. More mature. More grounded. 

“Okay,” was all you could manage, your voice barely above a whisper.

Too shy to admit you still didn’t quite believe him. Too scared to ask if he really meant it. Too pathetically grateful to even offer a compliment in return.

You’d never been more relieved to see a waiter in your life. He placed the tiramisu gently at the center of the table, setting down two spoons—one by each of your sides.

Looking up from the plate, you watched Simon with wide, expectant eyes. You didn’t even know what you were waiting for, approval, maybe. A signal. Something. And when he gave you a small nod, you finally dug in.

His blood rushed south the moment he realized it, you had waited for his permission to take the first bite. 

He'd been right. Spot on.

You didn’t need someone to fix you. You just needed someone steady. Someone to quiet the noise in your head, to give you permission to breathe, to be, until you were strong enough to claim that space yourself.

Simon was more than ready to be that person for you. 

And he had no intention of going anywhere.

Steady, firm hands on your hips. That was all you could feel.

You were trying to unlock your front door, but your hands wouldn’t cooperate, shaking too much, fumbling the key. You missed the lock again and again, until a larger, warmer hand gently stilled yours. Simon’s. He took the keys from you without a word, his touch calm, certain.

You weren’t even sure how you’d found the courage to invite him up.

After the shared dessert, he’d paid for everything, brushing off your protests when you tried to cover your half, or at least the part you’d eaten. He’d only laughed, that deep, low sound that seemed to settle right into your chest.

Then he offered to drive you home. You’d accepted.

And once he parked outside your building, your voice had moved ahead of your thoughts, quietly asking if he wanted to come up.

He didn’t hesitate. He just said yes.

The front door finally gave way, and that same steady, gentle hand guided you inside.

Simon didn’t speak. He just closed the door behind him with a soft click, turned the lock, and stepped in. He took off his shoes, shrugged off his coat, all slow, unhurried movements. And then he looked at you.

Not at your apartment, not at the space he’d just entered for the first time.

You. With eyes heavy with desire. Quiet, smoldering intensity.

It wasn’t fleeting or coy. It wasn’t something he was trying to hide behind polite restraint. No, he let it burn, open and unashamed. He wanted you. Fully. Honestly.

And that was new. No one had ever looked at you like that before—not even the two men you’d once shared a bed with. Not like this. To be the object of desire, not obligation or performance, was strange. Disarming. A little overwhelming.

Simon didn’t move. Didn’t rush you. He just stood there, waiting. Letting you decide what happened next.

A few seconds passed. Neither of you said a word.

Anxiety gnawed at your insides, making it impossible to process anything like a normal person. Your fingers fidgeted restlessly, twisting together in a nervous rhythm. You kept glancing up at Simon, then down at his shoes—then yours—then back again.

His eyes never left you. Not once.

You didn’t know how to do this. How to act on your own desire. You’d never felt lust this strong. Never felt safe enough to let it bloom.

“I don’t know how…” you began, voice cracking under the weight of vulnerability. “I’ve never really… hum—”

The words tangled in your throat, burning with shame. Tears prickled at your waterline—tears of embarrassment, of frustration. This was where it ended. He’d leave. You were sure of it.

But then, across the space between you, he growled: “Fuck it.”

And suddenly his lips were on yours—hot, certain, unshaking. His hands cradled your face like you were something precious. Like touching you wasn’t just about want, it was about care. About something deeper.

He didn’t rush. He didn’t devour. He anchored you.

And for the first time in a long, long while, you let yourself lean into that.

His lips felt good, not demanding, not forceful. They weren’t taking. They were offering. Giving only what you were ready to receive.

One of his hands slid from your cheek, fingers brushing down to the nape of your neck. He eased you closer, guiding, never pushing. His other hand found its place again on your hip, grounding you, drawing you gently into his space.

The kiss remained unhurried. Measured. As if time didn’t matter. As if this moment—you—deserved to be savored.

Then his tongue traced the seam of your lips, soft, slow. A quiet question. Not a demand, not a test. Your lips parted before you even realized it, instinct moving faster than thought.

The moment you granted him entry, Simon’s tongue slid against yours with the same care he’d shown in every small gesture tonight. It wasn’t frantic, it was exploratory, reverent. Like he was learning the shape of you through the kiss alone. Like this wasn’t just about pleasure, but presence. 

Being here. With you.

His hand at the back of your neck shifted slightly, his fingers threading into your hair, cradling your head with firm tenderness. The other remained firm on your hip, his thumb drawing slow, grounding circles against the fabric of your dress. It sent sparks up your spine, the contrast of restraint and intention making your knees wobble.

You made a soft sound in the back of your throat—part surprise, part want—and he responded with a low hum, deep and approving, vibrating against your lips like a secret shared only with you.

There was no pressure in it, no rush to pull you further than you were ready to go.

Just Simon, steady and real, kissing you like he could piece back together everything someone else had broken.

Simon’s back was starting to ache from leaning over, but he didn’t pull away. Instead, both of his hands slid lower, settling just beneath the curve of your ass. He gave you a light tap. Silent instruction : jump.

He should’ve known that kind of command would short-circuit your brain. And it did.

But before your thoughts could spiral, before shame or self-consciousness could take the wheel, he moved. Reflexes faster than your fear.

One moment, your feet were on the ground, the next, you were lifted easily into his arms, legs instinctively wrapping around his waist.

“Simon, no… Please,” you rushed out, voice high with panic, your hands pressing against his shoulders in a weak attempt to get him to let go.

“Please what, lovely?” he murmured against your skin, his lips brushing along your cheek, your jaw. Soft kisses. A grounding rhythm. Each one whispered reassurance: You’re safe. I’ve got you.

“You’ll hurt yourself,” you whined, the words thick with guilt, not logic. You wriggled again, but he only held you tighter, firm, but never harsh.

“I’ve carried more than you in full gear, uphill, under fire,” he muttered, voice a low rumble against your throat. “Trust me, flower—you’re the lightest thing I’ve ever held.”

You stilled. Breath catching.

Because it wasn’t just what he said. It was how he said it—like it was fact. No room for doubt. No softness in the truth, only strength. He was slowly coaxing you exactly where he wanted you, you let him. You wanted to let him.

"Naive", the word hit like a slap. Not Simon's, but his voice echoed in your head. 

Simon must’ve felt the shift in your body instantly. His mouth paused against your skin, his breath stilling where it ghosted across your collarbone.

“Breathe,” he instructed softly. “Feel this. Me. Here.”

He knew, you didn't need to explain, not after all you had told him. He knew your brain was playing tricks with you, trying to get you out of this moment. He wouldn't let it happen. 

Your fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt as Simon turned, carrying you effortlessly through the apartment. He didn’t ask where your bedroom was, just moved like he already knew, confident and unhurried, every step measured, deliberate.

The soft creak of your bedroom door opening sounded loud in the quiet, and then he was lowering you onto the bed with a care that made your chest ache. Like you were something breakable. Like he wanted to make sure you didn’t break again.

His hands didn’t leave you once your back hit the mattress. One stayed at your waist, the other brushing a strand of hair from your cheek. His eyes searched yours, reading you like only someone truly paying attention could.

“It’s just me, love,” he whispered, careful not to startle you. He took one of your hands in his and gently placed it over his pounding heart. It was racing, not as fast as yours, but definitely quicker than normal.

He wanted you. Just as much as you wanted him.

You nodded softly, taking a deep breath before releasing it. Ready to move forward, but needing him to lead, and he did exactly that.

Kissing you again, Simon eased your legs open with his knee, settling himself comfortably between them. The simple movement drew a soft, whined moan from your lips. A low chuckle escaped Simon’s mouth at the sound, but then he kissed you once more, with renewed fervour.

Once his kisses left your mouth, they trailed slowly down, lingering at your neck. He took his time there, planting sweet, deliberate kisses, mixing in the occasional nip that made your breath hitch. Reaching your cleavage, Simon continued his path, dotting kisses over the soft skin exposed by your dress.

When he reached your breasts, he kissed them gently through the fabric of your bra, soft little pecks that made your skin burn. Then came your nipples, stiff and sensitive under the thin fabric. He didn’t ignore them, his mouth found them with teasing precision, the heat of it sending a jolt straight through you.

The soft sounds he coaxed from you were divine. Too shy, too hesitant—but beautiful nonetheless. Still, he knew. He could unlearn that shyness from you. Teach you how to let go. How to let yourself be.

“Gonna take this off, alright?” he asked, voice low but steady. Just like when he worked on your tattoo, he explained each step. No surprises. No pressure. Just care.

Your eyes were shut tight, almost like you were trying to disappear. Simon sighed softly and rose up again, cupping your cheek as he looked down at you.

“Look at me,” he said—sharper than he intended, but it worked. Your eyes snapped open, wide and uncertain. “When I ask you something, I need words. Understand?”

You nodded reflexively.His head tilted slightly, eyes narrowing.

“Yes,” you added, voice barely above a whisper.

“Yes, who?”

“…Yes, Simon.”

That would do—for now.

You weren’t ready to give the answer he truly wanted—not yet—but he’d tried, just to see if it would come naturally to you. It hadn’t. Still, he didn’t hold it against you. He knew it was there, buried deep inside—the part of you that needed to give in, to trust, to let someone else lead.

But he wouldn’t push.You weren’t ready. And he understood exactly why.

He hadn’t earned it yet. Hadn’t proven he was worthy of that part of you, the most vulnerable one. But he would. He had every intention of showing you, again and again, that he could be trusted to hold you, protect you, guide you… without ever taking more than you were ready to give.

"Good girl," he murmured, voice low and deliberate, before his hands slid to your shoulders, pushing the dress down slowly. It pooled around your waist before you kicked it off with your legs, landing somewhere across your bedroom floor.

Now you were left in the fanciest panties and bra you owned, still just plain cotton. Comfortable, with a subtle push-up effect. Nothing seductive by conventional standards. Not lacy. Not sheer. You felt suddenly self-conscious, convinced you must look like a granny in Simon's eyes.

“Cute,” was all he said, with a soft grin, before kissing the doubt right off your lips.

His fingers trailed deliberately along your sides, over your stomach, until they found their way back to your breasts. He eased the cups of your bra down, exposing you fully, and cupped one in his large hand. It fit perfectly—so perfectly that he let out a low groan against your skin. The sound sent a shiver down your spine and a hot pulse between your thighs.

You could feel it now, just how soaked your panties had become. You’d never been this wet before, never felt this… eager. Sex had always felt like a duty, something to endure. But now?

Now, you were starting to understand why some people craved it, why they ached for connection, for touch like this. For someone like him.

The warmth of his hands, the way they moved so gently over your chest—fingertips tracing, teasing, coaxing soft whimpers from your lips—was nothing short of euphoric. Each delicate pinch of your sensitive nipples sent sparks across your body, grounding you and overwhelming you all at once.

"Can I?" he asked again, voice barely more than a breath. His hand hovered at the clasp of your bra, seeking permission rather than just taking.

"Yes, Simon," you whispered—no, whined—the need threading through your voice.

"Good girl," he rewarded you, and the phrase made something melt inside you. The words hit somewhere deeper than just your ears. They reverberated through your chest, made your thighs shift involuntarily. You didn’t even try to suppress the noise that left you this time.

There was just something about the way he said it, like he meant it. Like you were doing something right simply by being here, by letting him in. Like you didn’t have to perform, or prove anything. Your thoughts blurred, the inner voice that so often berated you now silenced by something quieter, kinder. Something like safety.

With your bra gone, Simon took his sweet time with you. His hands and fingers explored your chest before his mouth joined in. He pressed soft kisses to your skin, occasionally nipping and sucking gently, leaving behind traces of his presence. Little hickeys bloomed across your breasts—marking you so quickly, it made Simon's blood rush south even faster.

Then his tongue found one of your nipples. He licked it slowly, toying with the hardened peak in his mouth, gently sucking while his hand fondled the other breast, fingers moving in lazy, tender circles.

The sensations were surreal, too much and not enough all at once. Your body moved instinctively, hips shifting, trying to grind against Simon’s in vain. Until he shifted, sliding one of his thighs between your legs, pressing it against your clothed pussy.

The moan that escaped your lips then was nearly pornographic.

"Sorry…" you whispered, your breath shaky.

That stopped him cold. His movements stilled as he looked up at you. He took in your flushed cheeks, the rise and fall of your chest beneath his hands. Up until now, he’d thought you were enjoying this.

"What for, sweetheart?" he asked gently, worry threading his voice. A part of him feared you were hiding discomfort for the sake of his pleasure.

"The noises… I'm sorry," you said quickly, already breathless. "I'll be quiet now."

Simon’s gaze darkened, not with anger, but with something heavier, deeper. He leaned in, his lips brushing your ear as his voice dropped, low and steady.

“No,” he said firmly, leaving no room for argument. “Don’t apologize for that.”

His hand slid up your side, grounding you, reminding you of the way he touched you like you were something precious.

“I like those sounds,” he murmured, his tone commanding but tender. “They tell me what you like… what feels good. Don’t ever hide that from me.”

He pulled back just enough to look into your eyes, his thumb brushing gently over your cheek. “I want to hear everything—every moan, every gasp. They're mine, sweetheart. Don’t you dare keep it from me.”

The way he reassured you—with that quiet, unshakable dominance, the kind of confidence that came so effortlessly to him, did something to you. It tugged at something deep, something vulnerable and aching, something that craved to be undone.

You felt it in the way your body responded, heat pooling low in your belly, your thighs tightening around his. That calm authority in his voice, the certainty in his touch, it made you feel safe. But it also made you feel desperate. Desperate to give in, to let him have every part of you.

Something inside was ready to snap. Ready to break wide open for him. Ready to surrender completely to whatever he wanted.

And he knew it. You could see it in his eyes.

His lips curved into a slow, knowing smile as he leaned in again, his breath warm against your neck.

“That’s it,” he whispered, voice like velvet and command all at once. One of his hands slid down between your thighs, pressing just enough to make your hips twitch in response. “I’ll take care of you,” he promised, kissing the corner of your mouth. “All you have to do is feel.”

When he kissed you again, his fingers were already moving, gently caressing you over your knickers. He had to feel how soaked they were, how your body betrayed just how much you wanted him. But there was no teasing in his eyes, no smugness in his touch. No mockery. Just more kisses, slow and tender, his lips claiming yours again and again while his fingers toyed with you, patient and precise.

Then his mouth returned to your breasts, as if he hadn’t quite satisfied his hunger for them. He began his worship all over again—kisses, licks, gentle bites—while his fingers never lost their rhythm.

And then they slipped past the edge of your panties.

A quiet gasp escaped you as his fingers moved with confident ease, parting the fabric and exploring your most intimate place. He passed over the little patch of hair you hadn’t bothered to shave, never imagining you’d end up here, under him like this. But he didn’t hesitate. In fact, his fingers slowed, twirling gently through it for a brief moment, appreciating the softness, the realness of you.

And then he moved lower, fingers finally finding where you needed him most. Where your body ached for him.

Feeling your wetness, Simon's teeth clamped down gently on the nipple still in his mouth, a careful, deliberate bite that made you arch into him with a soft gasp. He soothed it immediately with his tongue, warm and slow, like a silent apology laced with intention.

This was all he wanted: you comfortable, safe, utterly undone beneath his touch. Every movement he made, every kiss and stroke, was filled with purpose. He wasn’t just touching you—he was learning you. Mapping every reaction, every breathy sound, storing it all away like sacred knowledge.

You could feel it in how he handled you, like you were something precious and wild at the same time. And he was determined to take his time taming every inch of you.

When you let out a frustrated whine, Simon knew—it was time to move on.

He placed two tender kisses, one on each nipple, a soft farewell to the attention he’d been giving your chest. Then, slowly, deliberately, he began to trail kisses down your body. Each one slower than the last, deliberate and reverent, until his mouth reached the hem of your panties.

His fingers, once exploring your soaked core, now gripped your thighs, firm and commanding, holding you open for him.

With a wicked glint in his eyes, he caught the edge of your panties between his teeth, tugging them gently as he murmured, “Is this—”

“Yes, Simon, yes… please,” you breathed out, cutting him off, your voice trembling with desperation and need. There was no hiding it, no pretending. The ache in your voice was raw, real, and it hit him like a pulse of electricity straight to his cock, making it twitch painfully in his pants.

He chuckled low in his throat, voice thick with heat and pride. “Good girl,” he whispered. “That’s what I like to hear.” 

There was just something about the fact that he was still fully dressed and you were now completely naked. A weird sense of submission overflowed you, and for the first time when this feeling came to you, you embraced it. 

Simon made you feel safe, so protective. Something in you knew he would stop if you told him to, that he wouldn't force you to do anything you weren't ready or attracted to. Surely why you were now soaked from his actions. 

Insecurities still clung to you, gnawing at the edges of your mind as Simon's eyes swept over your naked body, slow, lingering, reverent. You felt exposed, completely bare before him, vulnerable in a way that had nothing to do with nudity. And yet, in his gaze, there was no judgment. Only hunger. Admiration. Like he was about to devour the finest meal of his life.

“Fuck,” he muttered under his breath, one hand palming at the bulge in his pants. It was getting tight—painfully so—but he didn’t look away from you for a second. His arousal was obvious, but even that didn’t quiet the voice in the back of your head. That old, familiar one. 

The reflex hit before you could stop it.

“You want me to suck your dick?” you asked quietly, the words slipping out not from desire, but from conditioning. From a past where your worth felt tied to what you could give, not what you could feel.

Simon froze. His eyes met yours, and in an instant, something shifted. He saw it, not just the question, but where it came from. The old wound behind it.

“Hey,” he said gently, but his voice carried that same commanding edge. One hand reached out, cupping your cheek, grounding you. “Look at me.”

You did.

“You don’t owe me anything,” he said firmly. “Not your mouth, not your body, nothing. I want you, yeah. Badly. But I don’t want you because you think you have to do something to keep me interested.”

His thumb stroked your cheek, softening his tone. “If you ever get on your knees for me, it’s gonna be because you want it. Because you’re desperate to taste me, not because some asshole made you feel like it was expected. Okay, sweetheart?”

Something in you cracked at his words, not in a way that broke you, but in a way that made space. For breath. For feeling. For safety.

For the first time, you felt seen. Like he chose to want you, not for what you could give, not for how you performed, but simply for who you were.

Sitting back on his haunches, Simon remained patient. He could see the storm behind your eyes, the internal battle waging quietly inside your mind. One of his hands rested on your thigh, his fingers tracing slow, soothing patterns—a silent way of grounding you, anchoring you to the moment.

But when he saw your lips tremble, your eyes begin to fill with tears, he knew he couldn’t stay still.

He leaned in without a word, wrapping one strong arm around you and gently guiding you onto his lap. His warmth enveloped you, your bare skin brushing against his still-clothed body, a contrast that made you shiver.

Simon felt it, and without hesitation, he tugged his shirt off in one smooth motion. The heat of his skin met yours, bare chest to bare chest, and you exhaled like you’d been holding your breath for hours.

Your arms wrapped around him before you even knew you were moving, burying your face into the curve of his shoulder. He smelled like warmth and safety, like skin and musk and something undeniably him.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered, the words instinctive.

“Don’t be,” he replied immediately, pulling back just enough to look at you, his eyes intense but soft. “Stop apologizing.”

His bare skin against yours sent another shiver through you, this one different. Not from nerves, but from the quiet, overwhelming intensity of being wanted and held at the same time. You could feel his desire beneath you, pressing up where he had you seated on his lap. It was raw. Primal. Undeniable.

But Simon didn’t rush.

He simply held you, one hand tracing slow, absentminded circles along your lower back, the other cradling the back of your head, like you were something fragile, but never weak.

You weren’t sure how long you stayed like that, wrapped in warmth and quiet understanding. But eventually, stillness wasn’t enough.

Your lips began to move, seeking, remembering. You started at his jaw, pressing soft kisses there, then down to his neck, his collarbone. You kissed every small scar, every freckle, every beauty mark. As if your mouth was memorizing him. As if your lips were begging to remember his skin.

Sensing your need, your craving for more than just touch, for connection, Simon pulled you in closer, pressing your body against his like he wanted to mold you to him. Like even skin-to-skin still wasn’t enough.

He dipped his head, his voice low and careful. “Got any protection, sweet girl?”

He didn’t want to break the moment, didn’t want to pull you out of the space you were both sinking into.

But your lips never stopped their slow, tender assault on his skin, your mouth mapping his shoulder, your breath warm against his neck. You didn’t lift your head to respond. Just a faint shake, a soft, muffled “No…” against his throat.

He felt the word more than he heard it. And still, he didn’t pull away.

With a low groan, Simon stood, holding you tightly against him as he moved toward the entryway. Your legs wrapped around his waist, clinging to him, squeezing just enough to pull a breathy moan from his throat. He’d half-expected some kind of protest about him lifting you, some insecure remark—but you said nothing.

You were deeper in your headspace than he’d realized.

You just kept pressing soft, open-mouthed kisses along his neck and collarbone, little whines slipping from your lips like they couldn’t stay caged. You were pliant in his arms, needy, trusting, and it lit something fierce in him.

Reaching the coat rack, he shifted you just enough to dig into his coat pocket, fingers searching until they closed around his wallet. He flipped it open, fishing out the small stash he kept tucked inside. Three condoms.

Just in case.

He had never been more grateful for his own foresight than now. He grabbed all three, not knowing if they’d need them all, but hoping they might. Better safe than sorry.

Whatever you wanted, he'd give it to you. However you needed him, he’d be there. No hesitation.

Once you were back in the bedroom, Simon gently laid you down on the bed, breaking the contact between you, just long enough to strip off the rest of his clothes. He had wanted to take his time with you, to worship you with his mouth and fingers, to ease you into it with care and patience.

But he could feel that wasn’t what you needed right now. And that was okay. That could wait.

He wasn’t going anywhere.

For a moment, he just looked at you, laid out on the bed, bathed in soft light, looking almost ethereal. It hit him then, how surreal it was. That you were here with him. A sweet, young thing like you tangled up with a man like him—older, scarred, and worn at the edges.

It almost felt twisted. But it wasn’t.

Because he could see it, you needed this. Needed him. His steadiness. His patience. His hands that knew how to hold without hurting. His body that knew how to move with purpose, not just urgency. You needed someone who could see past the surface and let you unravel safely.

And maybe, just maybe, he needed it too. Maybe he was a little selfish in that way.

Crawling back over you, Simon kissed you again, slow, deep, like he had all the time in the world for you. The second you felt his warmth again, your legs locked around his hips, arms winding around his neck like instinct. Like some part of you couldn’t stand the idea of being apart from him for even a second.

There was something in your brain, an ache, a need, that clung to him with a desperation you didn’t fully understand. The part of you your ex always mocked. Called naive. Called needy. The part he tried to shame out of you.

But with Simon, that part felt… right.

It felt like maybe this was how it was supposed to be. Like Simon had been meant to walk into your life now, of all times, when you needed someone steady, someone who saw you, not just used you.

So when you watched him roll the condom on with glazed eyes, you thought this is it. He’s finally going to fill you, press into you, anchor you. But instead… he shifted.

He laid back, tugging you with him until you were straddling his soft stomach, your thighs spread over his warmth.

Confusion flickered across your face as your hands settled on his chest, fingers curling slightly to squeeze the soft skin of his pecs. You looked down at him, unsure.

And then his voice—rough, low, but gentle. “Want you like this, yeah?” His hands rested on your hips, not guiding, just holding. Grounding. “So you can control it. Take whatever you want.”

That took your breath away.

The fact that he, a man who radiated dominance and control with every breath, was giving you the reins… it made your thighs instinctively tighten against his sides. It felt overwhelming in the best and scariest way.

You had never had the upper hand in sex before. Never been given the space to explore, to move at your own pace. To feel. It had always been about someone else’s pleasure, someone else’s needs. And just like that, this man you barely knew was handing over the power you’d never been allowed to hold.

“I’ve never… I don’t know how to do this,” you murmured, voice barely more than a whisper, shame creeping in uninvited. “I’ll mess it up,” you added, beginning to shift, to pull away from him.

But Simon didn’t let you.

His hands tightened at your sides, not rough, not demanding, just steady. Grounding. “You won’t,” he said, voice low but firm. “It’s not that hard, yeah? Just do what feels good.” Then, softer, he added. “Bounce. Rub. Sit still. I don’t fucking care. Whatever you want, ’m yours to use.”

With those words, Simon reached between you, wrapping his hand around his cock and gently encouraged you upward onto your haunches. Just enough for him to line himself up with your entrance.

As you lifted off his stomach, he felt the heat and slickness you’d left behind, and the sight alone made his cock twitch in his grip. He hadn’t been this hard—this desperate—in a long time.

Still hesitant, you hovered there, uncertain. That was when he casually rolled the tip of his length up from your entrance to your clit, slow, like it wasn’t intentional. But you knew better. You saw it in his eyes: that flicker of reassurance hidden beneath heavy, lust-filled lids. A silent, steady You’ve got this.

You inhaled sharply, gathering yourself, and slowly—carefully—began to lower onto him. He was bigger than what you were used to. Girthier. More there. But as he stretched you open, bit by bit, something surprised you.

It didn’t hurt.

It felt uncomfortable a little, full, yes—but there was no sharpness, no sting. Just pressure. Just him. When you finally settled fully onto his pelvis, your walls fluttering around him as your body adjusted, you looked down at him with wide, amazed eyes.

“Doesn’t hurt,” you whispered, a hint of wonder in your voice, as if you couldn’t quite believe it.

Simon swallowed hard, his hands now splayed at your hips, holding you in place like you were something precious. His voice was low. 

“Shouldn’t hurt, baby,” he said, voice rough with restraint as your heat pulsed around him. “Never.” 

You nodded softly, almost to yourself, as his words settled deep inside you. Shouldn’t hurt. Maybe it was the first time someone had ever said that to you. Meant it.

Your palms pressed gently against his chest, feeling the steady thud of his heart under your fingers. You took a deep breath, and then moved. Just a small shift of your hips at first. A slow grind, barely more than a sway. You weren’t even lifting off him yet, just adjusting, testing. Simon’s breath hitched beneath you, his hands tightening slightly on your waist, encouraging but never forcing.

“That’s it, good girl,” he murmured, voice filled with lust. “Just like that. You’re doing so good for me.”

That praise, so simple and steady, made something bloom in your chest. Your body responded on instinct, hips lifting slightly, then pressing back down, gently, carefully. The sensation dragged a quiet breathy moan from your lips.

He filled you completely, the stretch no longer strange but grounding. Your movements grew braver, more curious—lifting a bit higher now, then dropping back onto him with a gasp. He grunted below you, the sound of his pleasure feeding your own.

“Fuck, sweetheart… just like that,” he growled, voice rough with want but still wrapped in something tender. “Take your time. This is all yours.”

You believed him. Just by the way he was looking at you, you knew he wasn't lying. 

It felt so good, you just kept moving, bouncing slowly on him, taking your time, savoring every deep, delicious drag of his cock inside you.

Simon’s hands were everywhere now. One cupped your breast, fondling it in his broad, calloused palm. He pinched and rolled your nipple between his fingers, gentle but firm—drawing out soft gasps from your lips. The other hand had settled low on your stomach, pressing down slightly, as if trying to feel himself through the soft give of your belly.

That should’ve sent you spiraling. His hand, there, touching all the places you’d been taught to hide, to apologize for. The softness. The rolls. The parts you always kept covered.

But nothing happened. No shame. No recoil.

Because you were too far gone, in the best way. Lost in the headspace he had so carefully coaxed you into. A place shaped by Simon’s hands, his voice, his praises. His quiet, steady worship. And when he realized it didn’t make you flinch, didn’t make you pull away, he smirked. Just a little.

That was when he knew he had you exactly where he wanted you: safe, open, adored.

Slowly, the hand on your stomach began to travel lower, fingers dragging over overheated skin until his thumb found your clit. One gentle stroke, and your thighs clamped tighter around him. Your eyes flew open with a gasp.

And the sight that greeted you? It stole your breath.

Simon, his chest slick with sweat despite barely moving, stared up at you with eyes full of silent declarations: hunger, admiration, awe, lust. His jaw was tight with restraint, his body trembling slightly beneath yours.

It was a miracle he was still letting you lead, still lying there, letting you use him.

Another brush of his thumb over your clit, slower this time, and your arms gave out. You collapsed onto him with a broken moan, your chest pressing into his, your sweat mixing with his. And then that sound—deep, low, sinful—a chuckle rumbling from his chest.

The hottest thing you’d ever heard.

A sweet kiss pressed gently to your cheek, followed by the filthiest words whispered into your ear.

"Want daddy to take over now, sweet girl?" he growled, voice low and rough against your ear. 

The most pathetic whine slipped from your lips, your thighs and pussy clenching harder than ever around him. Your nails dug deeper into his shoulder, scratching through his skin, even breaking it slightly.

Yes, he knew it was in you. He had seen it, that desperate need to be pampered, to be taken care of. To turn off your mind and simply feel. The fact that you trusted him so quickly was worrisome, but in this moment, Simon didn’t care.

“Yes, yes, please,” you whimpered again, breath heavy against his neck.

“Yes who, baby?” he taunted, ready to give you everything—you just needed to say it.

"Yes, daddy." You finally let out. 

"Good girl." 

Then his hips began moving, faster than the steady pace you had settled into before. He held you close, whispering praises into your ear: how good you felt, how well you were doing, how beautiful and soft you were. His words kept you suspended in that hazy headspace, even more so when he hit that spot nestled deep inside you, the very spot that sent thrilling waves up your spine.

His hand, the one not tracing soothing patterns on your back, returned to your clit, fingers expertly working until your pleasure started to overwhelm you. Your brain struggled to keep up with what was happening. It was all too much: the warmth of his skin against yours, the relentless thrust of his hips, his gentle caresses on your back, the low groans and grunts he breathed right into your ear.

As if he could feel it—and you were sure he could—he groaned.

“Just let go, yeah?” His voice was deep, steady, and it triggered something deep within you. “I’ve got you.”

That was all it took. The mix of his voice, his thrust and his thumb on your clit. 

Something in your lower belly snapped, a heat bursting through you as your body trembled uncontrollably. The moan that tore from your throat was filthy, unrestrained, your mouth falling open as drool slipped onto Simon’s chest.

“That’s it. Good fucking girl,” he growled, his own movements turning rough and erratic.

By the time your senses returned, he was still inside you, moving with a slow, languid rhythm—like he couldn't bear to let you go just yet.

And then something else cracked open inside you. Sobs began to wrack your body, sudden and uncontrollable. You didn’t even know why you were crying. It just came, natural, raw. A release. All the pressure you’d buried for months, the cruel voices still echoing in your mind, the quiet loathing you’d carried for so long.

Your body, your mind, your soul, they were healing. And it was overwhelming.

Still, he didn’t stop. The slow thrusts continued, as did the gentle caresses across your skin. He pulled you even closer, grounding you, holding you through it. Letting you feel. Letting you find yourself again.

“That’s it,” he whispered, lips brushing against your temple. “Just let it all go, sweetheart.”

“I don’t know what’s happening,” you choked out between sobs, the tears impossible to stop.

Simon didn’t say a word at first. He just held you tighter, cooing softly, shushing your worries with gentle sounds. He let you have your moment, no pressure, no questions, just grounding you with the steady comfort of his presence.

It was his way of telling you he was here.

That he wasn’t going anywhere.

That you were okay. That you were enough.

Lying there felt almost therapeutic.

The soft buzzing of the tattoo machine was familiar now, comforting, even, as you closed your eyes and let yourself breathe. You’d been here for hours, finally ready to see the tattoo in its full form.

Months had passed since that first night with Simon. Months filled with quiet dates, focused attention, and earth-shattering sex. But more than that, he made you feel like you again. The dark thoughts still came and went, shadows that never fully left, but Simon was always there—steady, patient—silencing them with his presence.

So now, nearly bare in Simon’s tattoo shop, his arm awkwardly bent across your stomach as he worked on your skin, you felt nothing but warmth and want. Your fingers trailed unconsciously along his forearm, soft touches that spoke louder than words. Your thighs pressed together, the ache beneath your skin growing.

Simon let out a breathy chuckle at the movement, but said nothing. He’d been the one to coax you into rediscovering your body and your wants—he wasn’t about to make you feel ashamed of them now.

The bell above the shop door chimed, drawing your gaze to the curtain. It was almost closing time. You silently hoped Simon hadn’t booked another client, you had other plans for the night. Judging by the slight frown on his face as he glanced toward the sound, you guessed he hadn’t expected anyone else, either.

Still, he turned back to your sunflower.

When he was finally done, he leaned down and pressed a soft kiss to the healed part of the tattoo, his hand warm as it patted your stomach.

“All done, baby. Go take a look,” he said, peeling off his gloves and turning around to prep the second skin.

It felt like déjà vu—but this time, there was no shame in your chest, no tears waiting to fall. Just you. Whole, and wanting.

The sight took your breath away.

It was beautiful. Perfect, even more so when tattooed arms snaked around your waist, and the big man attached to them pressed a soft kiss to your shoulder.

“So,” he murmured near your ear, voice low and smug, “what’re you thinking? ’Cause if you ask me, I’d say that’s my fucking masterpiece, aye?” A smirk tugged at his lips.

“It’s so beautiful, Si,” you whispered, turning to pepper his face with kisses—anywhere your lips could reach. “Even better than I imagined.”

“Alright, alright, little minx,” he chuckled, gently guiding you back. “Stay still a little longer, yeah?”

He dropped onto the stool again, rolling back toward the second skin before returning to you. Your eyes followed the flex of his thighs as he moved, which didn’t go unnoticed, another soft laugh rumbled from his chest.

Once the bandage was secured, he pressed one more kiss to your skin, then looked up at you through the mirror. He saw the look in your eyes. Lust. Hunger. He’d expected it.

And honestly? He was no better.

“Just let me check who’s at the door,” he said, straightening. Then his fingers caught your cheeks, gently squeezing them into a playful pout. “And then…” he leaned in, voice thick, lips brushing yours, “I’ll take care of you.”

Simon left you with a soft kiss, disappearing through the curtain.

You turned back to the mirror, eyes tracing the delicate lines of your tattoo—his masterpiece. The warmth in your chest lingered, until it shattered. Because then you heard it.

That voice.

The one that had haunted your nights, crept into your thoughts, poisoned your sense of peace. His voice.

No. No, it couldn’t be.

He hated tattoos. Always had. Called his body a temple. Said only the weak marked themselves to feel something. He couldn’t be here. He wasn’t supposed to be here.

But the voice, familiar, sharp, real, broke through every ounce of logic you tried to summon.

Panic rooted itself deep in your bones. Your fingers trembled as you pulled your dress back down, your eyes glued to the curtain like it might come alive. Wide. Fearful. Breath catching in your throat. Each inhale felt like a struggle, your heart thudding violently against your ribs.

You’d thought it was over.

You’d thought Simon had helped you heal. But healing doesn’t mean forgetting. And the past doesn’t always stay buried.

An unknown force pulled you toward the curtain. You had to be sure. You had to know.

You pushed your head through the fabric, heart pounding so hard it made your vision pulse. First, you saw Simon’s broad back, the solid comfort of his presence—but then your gaze locked onto him.

Your ex.

He was really there. Actually there.

The movement of the curtain caught his attention. His eyes landed on you.

“What the fuck are you doing here?” he snapped instinctively, like his words were a reflex. Said with so much venom. 

That was all it took.

Simon’s entire body went still, rigid with tension. He turned his head just enough to see your face, and that was it. The fear in your eyes. The way your hand clutched the curtain so tightly your knuckles were white. The tears threatening to fall.

He knew. He didn't need you to say a word.

Because the thing about Simon was, he was a soldier. Had been for most of his life. And when he registered danger, his instinct wasn’t to talk. It was to eliminate it.

And while he wasn't in danger, you were. At least emotionally. And that was enough.

Before you could blink, your ex was on the ground, clutching his face, blood seeping through his fingers. The sharp crack of cartilage echoed like a gunshot, Simon had broken his nose cleanly, without hesitation. No wasted movement. No remorse.

He stood over him, expression unreadable, calm in a way that was somehow more terrifying than rage.

“Get. The fuck. Out.” Simon growled, each word edged in steel. There was something in his voice you’d never heard before, something dangerous, something primal, something begging to be unleashed.

And for once, the man who used to haunt your dreams scrambled without a word.

Simon locked the door behind him without a word, his movements steady, deliberate. Then he turned to you.

He didn’t speak, didn’t need to. He simply crossed the space between you and wrapped you in his arms, lifting you effortlessly. Your legs found their place around his waist, and he carried you to the old, worn couch in the back of the shop.

He sat with you cradled in his lap, as if it was the only place you belonged.

He knew what was coming.

So when your body began to tremble, when the sobs finally broke loose from your chest, he just sighed softly, not with frustration, but with quiet grief for what you’d endured. Maybe this could’ve been avoided. Maybe you should’ve stayed behind that curtain.

But none of that mattered now. He didn’t blame you. Would never blame you. Instead, he just held you tighter.

Soft, reassuring words spilled into your ear, barely more than whispers. His hands traced gentle, grounding circles across your back, keeping you tethered, safe. Present.

You had come so far since the day Simon met you. He’d seen you break, seen you rebuild. He’d offered his strength, his patience, his warmth, everything you needed to find yourself again. To bloom.

And sometimes, the past still reached out with cold, clawed hands. But that was okay.

Because Simon would always be there to chase the darkness away. No questions. No hesitation. Just you, safe in his arms.

His sweet blooming flower.

©sillywriting, 2025

[thewritetofreespeech]

Shower you with love

plot: Jinwoo comes home from a dungeon in desperate need for a shower. And you.

tags: f!reader, jinwoo x reader, shower sex, heterosexual sex, fingering, cute fluffy couple stuff

wc: 1.3K

-------------------------🔹----------------------------------

It was getting pretty late. You glance at your phone again to check the time, and sigh as you decided Jinwoo was probably not coming home. The life of a Hunter was like that sometimes. All you could do was hope that he was safe and ok.

Picking yourself up from the couch to put your mug in the sink for tomorrow’s wash and get ready for bed, when you hear the front door open. The only person it could be was Jinwoo, as Jinah was staying over at a friend’s place to study and work on a project, and raced for the door. Your enthusiasm is dampened, however, and smile falters as you take in your boyfriend’s appearance at the door. “What the hell happened to you?”

“I fell in a mud pit.”

You cover your mouth not to laugh directly in Jinwoo’s face, but also cover some of the smell. Not the freshest mud you had to assume; with Gods knew what else was in the pit before Jinwoo was added to it. “Well….take all that off then. I don’t want you tracking all this ick through the house. Luckily the washer is free. Just leave it there and I’ll take care of it.”

Jinwoo obediently pulled off his shoes and the rest of his clothes. His beautiful, sculpted body becoming more & more revealed as he stripped down to his boxers, fortunately spared from the muck. “Go take a shower and I’ll toss these in. Do you want anything to eat after?” He shook his head. Jinwoo seemed tired, but that might just be the long day or just the stress getting to him, so you decided to not push on the last time he ate. “Ok. Get cleaned up and we’ll get ready for bed.”

He made his way through the apartment to the bathroom, and you made quick work of the laundry. After you finished setting up a heavy wash cycle, you heard Jinwoo call your name from the bathroom. “What’s wrong?” You ask when you arrive. Expecting the worst somehow but just finding your boyfriend standing there with the shower running.

“Take a shower with me.”

You blush at Jinwoo’s request. He looked completely serious, yet somehow a little vulnerable as he reached out to pull you further into the bathroom. How could you say no?

Stripping out of your pjs, you wait for Jinwoo to get into the shower first. It was chilly in the bathroom, but you were willing to wait to have the initial layer of filth sluff off Jinwoo’s skin before you joined him. The water was warm as it hit your back, and you let out a little sigh. “It’s not too hot, is it?”

You turn around to face Jinwoo. His eyes fixed on you with a gaze as warm as the shower. Wet hair flopping down on his face. “No. It’s perfect.”

Jinwoo smiled, then leaned forward to give you a kiss. Slow, lazy, a signal on how tired he was, but apparently not that tired. “I missed you.” That was apparent by his erection brushing against your thigh.

You shutter but try to keep coy so Jinwoo didn’t completely have the upper hand. “You were only gone for a day.” You remind him.

He pouted in response with a frown. “Time is different in the dungeons.” You would have to take his word on that.

The Hunter pulled you in for another kiss. Bodies press fully together this time. You moan as your nipples brushed against the hard planes of his chest. Those calloused hands sliding over your body with ease thanks to the water. “Jinwoo…”

“I need you.” He told you when the two of you broke free. That serious yet vulnerable look on his face again.

“Ok.” You told him and pulled him back in. He could have all of you, he only needed to ask.

Kissing again, Jinwoo turned you both around, so you were out of the direct spray and your back was against the shower wall. His hands moved down between your legs to touch you and you moan as one of his fingers slid into you. Easy with the warm water. “Jin…” You whimper as he touched you. Pumping his fingers inside as his thumb brushed against your clit.

You manage to open your eyes and find Jinwoo staring at you. Transfixed. Taking in every express. In recent months he had become more observant like this in a variety of ways, but you never thought you would be the focus of it. Having him look at you that way, as if inside you, made your stomach quake as you held onto him.

“Jinwoo please…” You buck your hips into his hand and Jinwoo needed no further encouragement.

He pulled his hand from you and asked you to lift your leg. The shelf intended for small soaps & shampoo finding a whole new purpose in your shower set up. Jinwoo stepped further into your space and lined his cock up with your entrance. Pressing forward as you moan at being filled inside by him.

It felt amazing. Being close to him again (even if it was just a day). Apparently, however, missing you left Jinwoo with very little patience. Where he would usually slow up to start, he just went in full tilt with his thrusts inside you this time. Not that you were complaining. Your moans and screams echoing off the tile of the bathroom were evidence to that. “Oh God Jinwoo! Don’t stop!”

Your lover gave a low grunt in your ear, then suddenly your legs were up around Jinwoo’s waist with ease as he pounded into you. “Fuck!” You shriek as you cling onto him. When the hell did he get so strong?!

The change in position allowed Jinwoo to fuck deeper inside you. Hard and heavy. You could feel every thrust of his cock through your body. Pure, mind-numbing pleasure.

“Oh! Oh God Jin! So good! I-I’m gonna cum-!”

“Cum for me.” And it was like his words were a new activate command, meant only for you. You cum hard. Your whole body tightening around Jinwoo as you clung to him. Your pussy seizing around his cock as he came inside you.

The two of you hold there for a moment. Jinwoo holding you against the wall with him leaning against you, and you suspended in the air. When he let you down, he did so gently. Your legs were shaky, and you were still in a wet shower. 80% of household accidents happen in the bathroom, and you have to wonder now if great sex might also be the cause.

Jinwoo washed his hair quickly, then turned around to do the same to you. While he rinsed you cleaned the rest of your body to get the sweat and mess off you. Sex wasn’t dirty but it certainly wasn’t the most hygienic activity at times. Freshly showered, Jinwoo turned off the shower and stepped out of the tub. Offering you his hand.

“Do we have any puddings left?”

You turn to look over at Jinwoo as you dried off with your towel. Smirking a little, as he looked more like a little lost puppy now, rather than the beast that just fucked you. “I think so. Why? Are you hungry now?”

Jinwoo nodded and you leaned over to kiss his cheek. “Let me make you something then. You can’t live off pudding and protein bars Jin.”

“But I like pudding.” He insisted, but didn’t argue any further as he went to put on clothes and wait for you to make him something. Just a light snack. You couldn’t send the great Hunter to bed hungry, but he did need to get to bed.

As you watched him eat, cleaning up the crumbs from the counter as he happily munched, you thought it was good to have him home.

[infictionalwonderland]

all the bau meeting spencer’s badass gf who drives a motorcycle, has tattoos, dresses like a mob wife!!!! pls pls pls i need to read their reactions to bby boy pulling us

i can definitely do that for you !!

“You have to be nice.” JJ stared imploringly at Derek who looked back at her in shock across their booth in the bar, falling dramatically back into his seat.

“Nic—I’ll be more than nice.” He assured with the beginnings of a mischievous grin, only for Emily to slap him across the back of the head. “Hey!”

“I bet she’ll be so cute! Like a mini female Spencer all bundled up in fluffy cardigans and—aww I bet she’ll have big adorable glasses.” Penelope gushed excitedly, practically bouncing in her seat.

The sound of a motorcycle roaring distracted them and they all looked out of the window in that general curiosity that people get upon hearing a motorcycle, who was the potential hottie driving it.

Penelope gasped loudly, her drink splashing as it clanked against the wooden surface. Emily and JJ’s mouths dropped open, eyes popping out of their skulls dramatically. Derek genuinely felt lightheaded as he watched the scene before him—grasping desperately at the edge of the booth. Rossi’s eyebrows arched and he shook his head, chuckling slightly to himself. Hotch merely stared, though a smirk was twitching at his lips.

“Absolutely not—“

“What? HOW—“

“It’s a clone. An alien!”

The team’s startled chatter broke off as Penelope shushed them all loudly: everyone watched as their Spencer, boy genius, Reid got off of the back of the motorcycle, removing his arms from around the waist of the breathtakingly gorgeous girl. He offered her his hand as he stood in front of her and she rolled her eyes fondly at him, taking it. When she stood, he unzipped her motorcycle jacket for her and eased it off her shoulders—revealing a silky black halter dress, her arms scattered in tattoos, as were her thighs. Hoops dangled from her ears, red bottoms on her feet, nails manicured and hands adorned in rings.

Derek literally flopped back into his seat, starstruck.

All of them watched, heads turned accordingly to never stop looking at the pair of you (mostly you), as Spencer folded your jacket over one arm before taking your hand in his other as you both walked to the entrance—they could see he was rambling and you stared up at him, a charmed smile on perfectly painted lips.

“I—“ Emily sucked in a breath, flustered, “they’re coming now—act natural.”

At her hiss, Penelope purposefully fell back into what she thought was a more relaxed position, fluffing her hair. JJ awkwardly straightened out her clothes, leg bouncing. Emily leaned over the table ‘casually’ swirling her drink and Derek positioned himself with a broad arm flexed on the windowsill, looking out the dirty screen of the bar window with a smoulder.

Hotch looked at them all and silently shook his head, Rossi chucked silently at his face of disappointment.

The team heard the click of your heels approaching and vague remnants of your conversation with him that led Spencer to giggling.

Shocked looks were exchanged and Penelope looked like she was going to melt into a gooey puddle of awwwww.

“Hello everyone!” Spencer chirped as he reached their table, happier and more relaxed than they’d ever seen him be. “It’s nice to see you all—this-this is my girlfriend, Y/N.” 

“Hi.” Your voice was silky smooth and Penelope eyed your immovable un-smudged lip-combo with admiration. “It really is a pleasure to meet all of you.”

“The pleasure is absolutely all mi—“ Derek stopped, his sentence turning into a series of harsh wheezes as both Emily and JJ elbowed him in either side.

You blinked at them.

“It’s lovely to meet you.” He continued in a pained voice, collapsed dramatically into his seat.

JJ and Emily rolled their eyes.

“Hi! It is so so so cool to finally meet you—I’m Penelope and you are even prettier than Spencer described and, believe me, your doctor man used every ounce of this thick vocabulary to compliment you.”

You quirked a grin at the excited redhead in front on you, looking teasingly over at your boyfriend who was blushing bright red but he grinned shyly back at you.

“David Rossi.” The Italian introduced himself formally as you and Spencer sat down in the booth, opposite him. “I always knew Spencer was a man of good taste.” He gave you a mischievous smile.

“I would argue that we both have great taste.” You winked back, settling into your boyfriend’s side.

The team watched the easy way that Spencer allowed you into his space, the way in which he wrapped his arms around your waist with a comfortability they’d never seen before and the urge to smile was simply too much to ignore.

“I just want to say, If the genius ever messes up. .” Emily trailed off, making a phone with her hands and holding it against her ear, she mouthed ‘call me’ at you.

As laughter left your smirking lips, you looked up at your boyfriend who shook his head playfully down at you—you turned your head to kiss his cheek briefly, smiling up at him.

“I’ll be sure to give you a ring.” You promised her as the laughter around the quietened slightly.

“And me!” Morgan piped up happily only to groan unhappily again as JJ slapped him over the head.

“Don’t call Morgan.” JJ advised, leaning across the table as though to confide a secret in you, voice lowering to a mock whisper, “he’s got an STD he refuses to get rid off.”

“LIES AND SLANDER.”

“Not on his good name.” Penelope joined in, giggling all the while.

“It’s nice to finally meet you—I’m Aaron Hotchner.” Your boyfriend’s boss introduced himself to you as everyone got sucked into taking the piss out of Derek.

“It’s lovely to meet you Hotch.” You replied kindly, taking the name you’d heard them all call him.

“Please,” Aaron paused briefly, glancing at Spencer with a minuscule smirk, “call me Aaron.”

You nodded with an unaware smile but Spencer’s mouth dropped as his boss to a sip of his drink to hide his smirk, not him too.

[zorosgirlfriend]

monster trio ~ !! say it back!

context: you prank them by not saying i love you back.

warnings: none! just pure fluff. mentions of chopper in luffy's

masterlist and rules || have fun reading!

Monkey D. Luffy

You were lying side by side in the crow’s nest, the quiet hum of the ship rocking you gently.

Luffy had his hands behind his head, straw hat resting loosely on his chest.

He was staring at the ceiling, a relaxed little smile on his lips.

Then, without warning, he turned his head toward you, eyes gleaming softly.

“I love you,” he said simply—so direct, so warm, it sent a flutter through your chest.

You blinked, biting your lip to hide the grin threatening to break out.

“Mhm,” you answered, casual as ever.

Luffy blinked. “Mhm?”

You nodded, fighting the laughter in your throat. “Mhm.”

Luffy sat up fast, expression full of betrayal.

“Wait, wait—what kinda answer is ‘mhm’?! That’s not ‘I love you’ back!! That’s like when I ask for meat and Chopper says we’re out!!”

You rolled onto your back, covering your mouth to keep from laughing too hard.

"It’s acknowledgment! That counts!”

“No it doesn’t!” Luffy leaned over you dramatically, face inches from yours.

“What if I never said it again, huh?!”

You stared up at him with wide, mock-innocent eyes. “Then I guess I’d… miss hearing it?”

He groaned, dropping his head onto your stomach. “You’re the worst.”

“Am I?” you teased, running your fingers through his hair. “Because I love you too, dummy.”

Luffy popped up with the brightest grin. “HA!! I knew it!! You were bluffing!!”

He flopped down beside you again, proud as ever. “Still… almost had a heart attack.”

Roronoa Zoro

You and Zoro were leaning on the ship’s railing at dusk, the sea stretching endlessly ahead, golden under the setting sun.

It was quiet, peaceful—until Zoro’s voice broke through it like a low rumble.

“I love you,” he said, barely louder than the waves.

You turned your head toward him, unfazed. “Hmm.”

He blinked. “…What was that?”

You casually adjusted your stance. “Just ‘hmm.’”

Zoro narrowed his eye at you. “That’s not an answer. I said something serious.”

You shrugged. “It was a good ‘hmm.’ Like a thoughtful one.”

He stared harder. “…You’re doing this on purpose.”

You smiled to yourself but said nothing.

He let out a long sigh through his nose, looking back out at the sea. “Fine. If that’s how it is.”

There was a silence.

Then you leaned in and whispered, “I love you too, swords-for-brains.” you teased.

Zoro flinched just slightly, then let out a short chuckle. “Tch. You really like messing with me, don’t you?”

You grinned. “Only ‘cause you’re cute when you squint like that.”

“Keep it up, and I’ll make you train with me as punishment.” he teased back.

Vinsmoke Sanji

The kitchen was warm and golden, filled with the smell of butter and herbs.

Sanji placed a perfect dish in front of you, his sleeves rolled up, a thin sheen of sweat on his temple. He leaned in, eyes sparkling.

“For the most beautiful woman in the world… whom I love very, very much.”

You smiled and lifted your fork. “Mhm.”

Sanji’s posture faltered like a puppet’s strings were cut. “...Mhm?”

You nodded, poking at the vegetables. “Mhm.”

He staggered back, clutching his heart like he’d just been shot. “Mon dieu… Have I… lost you? Has your heart gone cold?!”

You sipped water calmly. “Nope. Just processing.”

“I BARED MY HEART—AND GOT A ‘MHM’?!!’”

You couldn’t hold back anymore—you burst into giggles, and Sanji practically collapsed over the counter. “This is cruelty. You wound me.”

“You’re being dramatic,” you said, setting your fork down. “But fine…”

You reached across and gently took his hand, giving him the softest look. “Sanji. I love you.”

He paused. Then fell to his knees like a Shakespearean hero. “Oh, thank goodness—I was about to write a tragic poem and cry into my sauce…”

You leaned forward, fixing the little crooked curl of his collar. “You’re so extra."

“And yet you love me,” he replied with a swoon. “Truly a miracle.”

[blondwhxrewrites]

Void: *very clearly flirting with reader*

Reader:🧍‍♀️

It's the middle of the night when you feel it, the unmistakable feeling of being watched. It's that exact feeling that wakes you up from your peaceful sleep.

The first thing you noticed was the pitch-black darkness that covered your entire room, which was weird since you always slept with a nightlight…what? It chased the nightmares away.

It's only when your eyes finally adjust to the darkness that you notice the pair of silver eyes peering at you from the corner of your room.

“I like the stuffed animals. They're cute.” The distorted voice of Bob broke the silence. The familiar silhouette of your friend stepped forward, kicking away one of your beloved stuffed animals from his path towards you.

You rubbed your hand down your face and sighed. You'd been having a really good dream too…

“Please tell me you haven't sent the others into the rooms of shame.”

“No need to worry about your friends. I haven't done anything to them.”

“You know I'm not scared of you, right?” You whispered softly. You lifted your head up and stared at him as if you could see past the darkness, past the cold, never-ending void.

“I know. That's why I'm here.”

He towered over your bed. He leaned down towards you, and a distant voice in your mind urged you to back away. Void was dangerous, unstable, nothing like the Bob you knew. And yet, you couldn't find it within yourself to do so.

There was something buried deep within your soul, an invisible force that pulled you towards the darkness—to him.

Did he feel it too?

You watched as he raised his shadowy hand, and you felt the fleeting touch of his hand cupping your face. The action felt intimate, like the touch of a lover. You didn't know how to feel about that.

“You have consumed me, mind, body, and soul,” he said it like a worshiper praying to their god, or, er, goddess. The pure devotion in his words had your heart stuttering in your chest. “Tell me, what have you done to me?”

You blinked, stunned. “Don't look at me like that. I'm just here to emotionally support Bob in all of his endeavors."

He chuckled, and even though you couldn't see his face, you could tell he was smirking.

His hand fell back to his side, and you almost whined at the loss of his touch. Oh, ew, what was he doing to you? You were stronger than this.

“You know he loves you, right? Every second he goes without you is torture to him. Truly, it's pathetic how down bad he is for you.”

“How do you even know that phrase?”

“Did you forget that me and Bob share the same consciousness?"

You groaned, and flopped back against your pillows. “Go awayyyy.” You grabbed one of your other pillows and threw it at Void. It phased through him and fell to the floor.

Void didn't respond. Instead, he crossed the room to the other side of your bed, and before you knew it, he was lying down beside you. He didn't even ask for permission, which was rude, by the way.

You turned onto your side to face him. “You know, for the thing that consumed the entirety of New York and almost killed all of my friends, you aren't very threatening.”

Copying your actions, Void turned onto his side. Now face-to-face with him, you could finally see the shadowy features of his face.

“Yes, well, you are different. You make me different.”

“I can tell.”

Hey, you weren't going to complain though. You'd much rather have a midnight rendezvous with Void if it meant he didn't send you to those godawful rooms. You would rather not relive the worst moments of your life, thank you very much.

You stifled a yawn. It seemed like exhaustion was slowly creeping up on you.

“ugh, fine, you can stay, but fair warning—I snore when I sleep.”

“I know.”

“How do you know that?”

He didn't respond.

You were just going to pretend that didn't happen.

You turned onto your back and stared up at the ceiling. It was getting harder to stay awake.

Yeah, it was time to go back to sleep. You needed your beauty sleep, after all. God knows you needed atleast eight hours of sleep to be able to deal with the chaos that was your found family.

“Goodnight, Void.” You yawned, and pulled your blanket over yourself. You shuffled around for a few moments until you were finally comfortable enough to close your eyes and finally let sleep consume you.

He watched as sleep slowly claimed your consciousness, and when he finally knew you were fully asleep, he leaned forward and pressed a gentle kiss to your forehead.

“Goodnight, my sunbeam.”

Once again, this is not edited.

Also, are Void/Sentry/Bob the same person? Yes. Are they also separate somehow? Yes. I see Sentry and Void as representations of Bob's mood swings, basically his highs and his lows. But I also see them being separate and different to each other. IT'S COMPLICATED OKAY. I'm still figuring out the dynamics of it all.

[sourcherryandsprinkles]

Erik getting a prince albert piercing and not telling his girl until after he did it

Request: The Campbells have a barbecue for Bobby’s birthday and Erik invites you

Warnings: mention of piercing,

Fell in love with this man the second I saw him on screen. I'm so happy people want to read about him. This is exactly my type

—

Barbecues were a recurrent event at the Campbells. It was a great way of spending time together, and an opportunity for Howard to show off his skills behind the grill. He wouldn’t call himself a grill master, but he definitely was a pro burger-flipper.

You’ve gone to a few barbecues yourself since dating Erik. His family was endearingly chaotic — in the best ways. While the food was cooking, Julia and Erik would go on the trampoline and have a highest jump battle, like they did as children. Each time one of them would take a bad fall, Brenda would threaten to sell the trampoline, but never actually do it. 

Today’s barbecue was special though; it was Bobby’s birthday. Brenda hung a ‘happy birthday’ sign over the sliding door which matched the small bouquet of lavender balloons in the corner. 

You abandoned Julia and went inside to help Erik with the plates and cutlery. He’s been inside for over ten minutes, why was he taking so long? 

‘’Erik?’’ you called out, not seeing him in the kitchen. 

No answers. 

With a frown on your face, you checked the living room before making your way upstairs. The hallway at the top was lined with photos of the Campbells throughout the years, from baby photos to family vacations. You chuckled as you passed the one of  seven years old Erik with a toothless grin. He had fallen off his bike and broke his front teeth the weekend before picture day at school. 

Speaking of Erik, you heard a series of curses coming from his bedroom. You followed the sound and held a chuckle when you found him sitting on his bed, wrapping Bobby’s present with difficulty. 

‘’Need a hand?’’ 

Erik looked up as you entered his room and let out a sigh of frustration. ‘’This is sorcery.’’ He glared at the scotch tape and paper, as if it was their fault. ‘’Can I just put a bow on top and give it to him like that?’’ 

You rolled your eyes, dropping onto the bed beside him. ‘’Or you could admit defeat and let me take over.’’

He pushed the mess of paper toward you. It was ‘your problem’ now. ‘’Be my guest.’’ 

As you started smoothing out the paper, Erik shifted up the bed and flopped back against the pillows, and let a quiet, involuntary groan slip out.

It sounded painful, so you glanced over. “You good, babe?” 

Erik cleared his throat. “Fine.’’ 

‘’Did you hurt yourself fighting with Bobby over the controller again?’’ you asked, used to the Campbell siblings shenanigans. They played hardcore. 

‘’No.’’ The brunet hesitated, then continued. He intended to keep it a secret from you, but he couldn't see himself making up shit for the next four to six weeks. '’I just…I got my dick pierced two days ago. It’s sensitive.’’ 

You were used to Erik coming up with spontaneous body modifications projects and never actually getting them done. A month ago, he really wanted a tattoo of a certain metal band. He even made a sketch on his ipad, but forgot about it and moved to another idea…which he also didn’t get done. 

So when he told you that he got his dick pierced, you didn’t believe him. For one, it sounded extremely painful. And second, he always talked about it as a joke. 

You scoffed, folding a corner of the paper smoothly before taping it down. “You’re joking.”

“I’m not,” he said, deadpan.

You looked up and squinted at him. “Erik, you can’t be serious.” 

That signature shit-eating grin spread across his face. The kind he wore whenever he was about to confess to something absolutely reckless. The one that always meant trouble. 

Suddenly, you were having doubts. 

“Dead serious.'’

He was serious. 

You shook your head, your lower stomach filling up with butterflies. “You’re insane.”

You meant it as a compliment. His recklessness was part of him, and you wouldn’t change it. Even if it made you want to tear his head off sometimes. 

‘’Want me to pull my pants down and show you?” He brought a hand down to his belt buckle, about to undo it, but you stopped him.

‘’Later.’’

—

All and more taglist:  @kenqki  @hawkegfs  @gillybear17   @black-rose-29 @fudge13 @cece05 @laylasbunbunny @gemofthenight @beautyb1ade   @mellabella101 @vxnity713  @bisexualgirlsblog @queenofslytherin889 @thatbxtchesblog @softb-tterfly @ethanlandrycanbreakmyheart  @xyzstar  @graceberman3   @mikeyspinkcup @jackierose902109 @daisydark @laurasdrey @mischieftom @fanatic4niall @peterholland04 @idkwhattonamethisblogs  @lexasaurs634  @notasadgirlipromise @zoeynicolas @thejuleshypothesis @multi-fandom-bi-bitch @lexasaurs634  @notasadgirlipromise @thejuleshypothesis  @katherinejess  @rafesgirlstuff   @lafleshlumpeater @iamluminosity  Anouk nani-2305 @books0fever @papichulo120627 @qardasngan @ghostlyvoidydragon @M0rgans1nterlud3 @dahlia-blossom21 @Spacexdrago @nhlfs

[wonderjanga]

Transfer Over

It’s by now that Billy knows the magic of his champion form is weird. I mean, it’s been around four years since he’s gotten it so of course he’s gotten used to it. That doesn’t make it stop being weird sometimes though. Like, one of the weirdest things about it is that it will transfer over some things from his normal self.

Like the time Billy broke his nose.

Billy: *walking in down the sidewalk*

Driver: *nearly fall asleep at the wheel and swerves at him*

Billy: *startles and tries to jump back only to slip and falls ass over head onto his face*

Driver: *keeps driving like nothing happened*

Billy: *flops over onto his back, hands going to his nose*

Driver: *for real falls asleep, swerves again, and crashes into a fire hydrant*

Billy: *groans at both the pain and the feeling of the water from the fire hydrant sprinkling over him*

Billy honestly considered not getting up, but then he remembered there was probably somebody in the car who might die if they were injured. So, he mumbled his magic word and flew over to save him.

Whatever. It was about time for his shift at the Watchtower anyways.

So he goes and lo and behold, as he passes by Superman, the man does a double take.

Supes: *stops walking, sounds extremely concerned* “Oh my Rao? Cap, what happened to your nose??”

Marvel: “Huh?”

Was it just Billy’s imagination or did he sound a little nasally?

Supes: “Your nose. What happened to it??”

Marvel: “Uh…” *looks around for anything reflective before settling on a window*

Wow. His nose was still messed up from earlier.

Marvel: “I tripped and fell.”

Supes: “How? You can fly?”

Marvel: “Yes, but I still tripped and fell.”

Supes: “Okay… maybe you got caught up in the moment, but when you hit your nose, why did it break? Aren’t you super durable like me?”

Marvel: “Yes.”

*silence*

Supes: “You aren’t going to elaborate on that?”

Marvel: “No.”

*more silence*

Supes: “What made you fall in the first place?”

Marvel: “Someone tripped me.”

Supes: “Who?”

Marvel: “Some kid?”

Supes: “Some kid tripped a fully grown muscle man?”

Marvel: “Yes.”

Supes: “Are you lying?”

Marvel: “Nah.”

Supes: “Why do I not believe you?”

Marvel: “I dunno. Why don’t you?”

Supes: “Because you apparently have the powers of six gods, yet some kid tripped you and you broke your nose, even though you’re supposed to be invulnerable most attacks, including hitting your nose against something.”

Marvel: “Fair enough.”

Billy walked away before Supes could ask any more questions. After his shift, he immediately left the tower as soon as he could, cursing both magic and how Flash kept looking between him and his monitors. His annoyance probably would’ve continued, but as soon as he detransformed, the broken nose was gone so the anger was instead let go.

Magic was so weird like that.

[holyblonded]

teenagers | stargirl

pairings: alexia putellas x teen!reader, olga rios x teen!reader

summary: you bring home a… friend, and alexia is not okay

warnings: toxic partners

notes: this is pre soleil!!

“Mami, please! Just sit down,” you begged, eyes wide and hands flailing toward the couch where Olga sat curled up with a steaming mug of coffee.

Alexia raised an eyebrow, suspicious. “Fine, but I have to go for my run after this.”

“Whatever,” you muttered, already distracted as your brain buzzed with nerves. You shifted your weight from foot to foot, heart racing like you were about to take a penalty in a final.

Both women stared at you expectantly as you stood in front of them, wringing your hands together.

You opened your mouth, then closed it. Tried again.

“I… I need to tell you something,” you started, voice cracking slightly.

Alexia leaned forward, brow furrowed. “You’re failing a class?”

“No!” you blurted out, too quickly.

Olga tilted her head, grinning. “You crashed the scooter again?”

“No! Oh my god, stop—just let me—”

Alexia raised an eyebrow. “You got called up to a brand deal without telling us?”

“WHAT? No! Just let me finish!” you snapped, half laughing, half exasperated.

You took a breath. “Okay, okay. I just want to say—”

“You’re moving out?” Olga gasped dramatically, clearly having fun now.

You let out a long groan. “No! I have a girlfriend!”

There was a moment of stunned silence.

Then Olga’s face broke into a delighted grin. “¡Ay, por favor! My baby’s in love!”

You gave her a crooked smile, cheeks burning. “I didn’t say love.”

But Olga was already leaning forward, wiggling her eyebrows. “Who is it? Do we know her? Is she nice? Does she have dimples? I feel like she has dimples.”

You giggled, nodding. “She does, actually.”

Meanwhile, Alexia sat back, arms crossed, her expression unreadable.

“What’s her name?” she asked sharply.

You blinked. “Carmen.”

“How old is she?”

“A year older than me” you replied quickly, already bracing.

“What does her family do? Where did you meet her? Is she serious about football? Does she understand the lifestyle you’re in? What are her intentions? Is she respectful? Do you—”

“Mami,” you groaned, throwing your head back. “Can you not turn this into an interrogation?”

“It’s not an interrogation,” Alexia said calmly. “It’s responsible parenting.”

“It’s an interrogation,” Olga muttered into her mug, barely hiding her laugh.

“She’s not a criminal! She’s literally the sweetest girl I’ve ever met,” you said, folding your arms.

“Have we met her?” Alexia asked, eyes narrowing.

“No. I was going to introduce her soon. I just wanted to tell you first.”

Alexia sighed, clearly biting back further questions. Olga leaned over and swatted her knee.

“Cool it, cariño. Let her breathe.”

Alexia looked over at you again, eyes softer now but still serious. “I’m just looking out for you.”

“I know,” you said, walking over and flopping down between them. “But I’m okay. Carmen’s really good to me. I wouldn’t be with her if she wasn’t.”

Olga wrapped an arm around your shoulder, tugging you close. “I’m happy for you, mi amor. I knew it was only a matter of time before someone fell for that little smirk of yours.”

You rolled your eyes but let her kiss the side of your head. Alexia still looked like she had more to say, but when she saw how content you looked curled between them, she let it go… for now.

Instead, she reached for the remote and muttered, “She better be a Barça fan.”

“She doesn’t hate us?” you said, wincing. “She actually supports Real Madr—.”

Alexia visibly flinched. “Do not cuss in the house.”

It had been just over a week since you’d told them that you had a girlfriend now. Her name was Carmen, and you’d said it so casually, with a little smile and your eyes darting between Olga and Alexia like you were bracing for impact. Her name made Alexia sick.

“Puppy love,” Olga had said later that night when she and Alexia were getting ready for bed. “She’s fifteen, Ale. Let her be a little stupid about someone.”

Alexia hadn’t said anything at first. She just frowned, tugging her shirt over her head, her mind turning over things she’d seen. Like the slight hesitation in your voice when you said Carmen’s name, the way you looked over your shoulder afterward, almost like you were checking for someone’s reaction.

The changes were small at first. You started missing dinners here and there. At first, it was excuses— “Carmen’s mom invited me over,” or “We’re just hanging out after school.” Olga would just shrug and wave you off, telling you not to be home too late, saving your plate in the fridge. She trusted you. She wanted to give you room to breathe.

But Alexia noticed more. She noticed how your spark had dulled a little. You weren’t your usual loud, chaotic self at practice. You still played well, but there was something off. When Lamine and Vicky had a ridiculous, animated debate about the best cookie flavor, you didn’t jump in with your usual “none of y’all have taste, clearly it’s snickerdoodle.” You just watched, quiet. You looked tired. Like you hadn’t slept properly.

You flinched when Alexia lightly nudged your shoulder during warmups one day. Not visibly. Not enough for anyone else to catch. But she did. You looked at her with that same defensive look you always gave when you felt caught.

“Long night?” she asked.

“Just tired,” you replied, brushing her off.

But it wasn’t just that. You were more sluggish during drills. You snapped at Aitana when she corrected your positioning. And when Alexia pressed again about where you’d been after practice, your tone had a sharp edge.

“God, why does it matter?”

Alexia didn’t push further then. She just filed it away, another piece of something that wasn’t sitting right in her chest.

Then one night, late, she passed your door on her way to get a glass of water. The lights were still on, your voice muffled but audible. She wasn’t trying to listen, she never would, but something about your tone stopped her. It wasn’t the words, not at first. It was how small you sounded. How not…you.

Then came the words. Low and quiet, desperate in a way she hadn’t heard from you in a long time. “No, I said sorry already.”

Silence. “Fine… I’ll come over now then.”

There was a shuffle. Then the unmistakable sound of your door closing—too hard, too fast, like you didn’t want to risk waiting long enough for someone to stop you. Alexia’s hand froze on the stair railing as she watched you slip out the front door in a hoodie and sneakers, barely pausing to check if anyone had seen.

She stood there in the dark hallway, her jaw tight. Her chest full of something like dread.

Because she knew that voice. That pleading tone. She remembered hearing it from friends, teammates, even herself once upon a time. That voice wasn’t tired from practice or teenage moodiness.

That was the sound of someone begging to be enough for a person who kept shifting the goalposts.

When Olga asked from bed why she’d taken so long, Alexia didn’t answer for a while. She just lay beside her, eyes on the ceiling, already planning how she’d bring it up to you the next day. Because whatever was happening with Carmen, she wasn’t going to let you carry it alone. Not again.

The door shut behind you with a soft click, your footsteps fading as you hurried out of the house, phone in hand and a lightness in your step that was becoming more and more rare lately. The image haunted Alexia. Olga was curled up on the couch with her iPad, flipping through something halfheartedly, but Alexia didn’t even pretend to be distracted. She was already watching the door you’d disappeared through, her jaw tight, her brows pinched.

“She left again,” Alexia said, voice low.

Olga didn’t look up. “She’s seeing Carmen. Let her have her fun.”

Alexia shifted her weight, arms folded. “She hasn’t had dinner with us in almost two weeks, Olga. And when she is here, she barely talks.”

Olga sighed. “She’s in love. First love, you remember what it’s like. Intense. Consuming. A little messy.”

Alexia turned her full attention to her partner, her tone sharper now. “No, this isn’t just messy. I don’t like the way she talks to her.”

That made Olga pause. “What do you mean?”

“I mean I’ve heard her, Olga. Carmen,” Alexia snapped. “She talks down to her. Like Estrella’s always doing something wrong. Like she’s too much. Like she should be grateful to even be with her.”

Olga tried to keep her voice level. “You might just be reading too much into it. You’ve always been protective with her.”

Alexia stared at her, stunned. “Of course I’m protective. You’ve seen what she’s been through. She’s only just starting to open up, and now she’s in a relationship where she’s already shrinking again.”

“She’s not shrinking,” Olga defended. “She’s figuring things out. Sometimes girls fall too hard, too fast, it happens. You can’t control this part for her.”

Alexia exhaled through her nose, frustrated. “I’m not trying to control her. I just don’t like that this Carmen girl makes her feel small. Have you seen the way she flinches when her phone buzzes?”

Olga opened her mouth, but there was no immediate reply. A seed of doubt cracked something in her expression, but she still said, “She’s a teenager, Ale. Everything feels like life or death right now. We can’t micromanage her every emotion.”

Alexia clenched her jaw. “No, but we can step in if something feels wrong. And this—this doesn’t sit right with me.”

Later that night, long after Olga had gone to bed, Alexia stayed awake. The house was still and quiet except for the occasional ticking of the wall clock and the soft hum of the fridge. The hours crawled. She sat at the kitchen table with a glass of water she didn’t drink, eyes flicking up every time a car passed outside.

When you finally opened the front door well past midnight, the last thing you expected was Alexia, still awake, still dressed, waiting. You froze, and so did she.

“You’re late,” she said simply.

You gave a careless shrug, trying to keep your voice light. “We lost track of time.”

Alexia stood. “Can I ask you something?”

You sighed, already tensing. “What?”

“Does Carmen always talk to you like that?”

You blinked, thrown off. “Like what?”

“Like you’re a burden. Like you’re something to fix. Like if you were just a little quieter, a little more obedient, she’d love you better.”

Your chest seized. You looked away, tried to laugh it off, but it came out brittle. “You don’t even know her.”

Alexia stepped closer. “I know what I’ve seen.”

“God, you never like anyone!” you snapped suddenly, your voice cracking like a whip. “You didn’t like anyone at school, you didn’t like half of my friends in La Masia, and now you don’t like Carmen! This is why I don’t tell you anything!”

Her face barely changed, but you could see it in the way her hands curled at her sides, in the faint tremble in her jaw. She took a breath but didn’t respond right away.

“I do like people,” she said quietly. “Just not people who treat you like you’re disposable.”

“You don’t understand!” you shouted, emotion choking your voice. “You think you know everything about how I feel, but you don’t! She gets me. She sees me!”

Alexia swallowed, her throat working. “No. She sees someone she can control. And you’re letting her.”

That did it. You turned on your heel, storming down the hallway. “Screw this,” you muttered as you slammed your bedroom door.

Left alone in the hallway, Alexia stared at the floor, still and silent. Her hands were shaking now, but not from anger. Just heartbreak. The kind of heartbreak that only comes when you see someone you love running straight toward the edge, and you’re powerless to stop them.

—

The night you finally brought Carmen home was supposed to feel exciting. Special. You had asked three times if it was okay, your voice small and uncertain, but Alexia had finally nodded, stiffly, with a short, “Sure. Dinner at seven.” Olga had tried to fill the space between you all with warmth, smiling as she planned the meal, asking you what Carmen liked. You tried to ignore the tightness in your chest.

Carmen arrived at 6:58 on the dot. She wore a perfect outfit, greeted Alexia with a sharp, too-white smile, and kissed your cheek a little too close to your mouth, her fingers lingering around your waist like she was staking a claim.

“Wow,” she said as she stepped inside, looking around. “So this is where the royalty lives.”

You laughed, too quickly. “Stop.”

She squeezed your hip and whispered, “Just kidding, baby.”

Olga welcomed her kindly, offered her a drink, tried to keep things light. Carmen accepted with a thank-you that didn’t quite meet her eyes. She made herself comfortable immediately, legs crossed, arm draped behind you on the couch, like she owned the place.

Alexia didn’t say much, but she watched. Carefully. Her fingers were tight around her tea mug, her eyes sharper than usual.

At dinner, it got worse.

“So, Estrella tells us you’re a writer?” Olga asked politely.

Carmen smiled. “Yeah, poem mostly. Not really into the fairytale stuff like some people.” She laughed and nudged you. “No offense, baby.”

You smiled a little too brightly. “I like fairytales.”

“Yeah, but you also cry when your soup is too spicy,” she said, with a fond eye-roll.

The table went quiet for a beat before Olga chuckled awkwardly. You stared down at your plate, cheeks warm.

Alexia asked a few more questions, about school, about her work, and Carmen answered them all confidently, but something was always just a little off. Like when you mentioned training, and Carmen interrupted to say, “She always exaggerates. Makes it sound like bootcamp, but she just runs around with a ball for two hours.”

Alexia’s expression didn’t change, but her grip on her fork did.

You kept laughing. Laughing and trying to smooth over the edges. You could feel how much Carmen didn’t fit, but you didn’t know how to name it yet. You just knew that when she put her hand on your thigh too tightly or cut you off mid-sentence, something inside you flinched.

Then came the final straw.

You were talking about something stupid, something small but yours. The story of how you scored your first goal in a match you weren’t even supposed to play in, how you kept the ball in a shoebox under your bed.

“And she cried, like, sobbed over it,” Carmen added with a chuckle. “Such a drama queen. I keep telling her she needs thicker skin.”

Your words died in your throat.

Alexia put her fork down gently, her expression unreadable. She looked up at Carmen, then directly at you.

“I don’t like her.”

Silence fell like a guillotine.

You blinked. Carmen let out a nervous laugh. “Excuse me?”

“I said,” Alexia repeated calmly, “I don’t like you.”

“Mami—” you started, your voice too high, panicked.

“I’ve been quiet all night,” she said, voice still calm, but there was steel behind it. “But I’m not going to sit here and watch someone belittle her in her own home. You talk over her. You dismiss her. You treat her like she’s lucky to have your attention. She’s not. You’re lucky to be here at all.”

Olga reached for Alexia’s hand, gently trying to diffuse it, but Alexia didn’t look away.

Carmen sat frozen for a second. Then stood. “I think I’ve overstayed my welcome.”

You stood too, voice trembling. “Carmen—”

“Text me when you’re done being a baby,” she muttered under her breath, loud enough for everyone to hear.

The door slammed shut a second later.

The silence left in her wake felt heavier than the confrontation itself.

You stood frozen, heart pounding, eyes wide. Then you crumpled into a chair. You didn’t cry right away. You just stared at your plate, numb.

“I’m sorry,” Alexia said quietly. “But I wasn’t going to let her treat you like that.”

You nodded. Slowly. “I loved her. Or… I thought I did.”

Olga got up and wrapped her arms around you, holding you tightly. You finally let yourself cry then, your face pressed into her shoulder, sobs catching in your throat.

Later, as you curled up on the couch in your favorite hoodie, your voice was small but clear.

“That’s not what love’s supposed to feel like, is it?”

Alexia shook her head. “No, bebita. It’s not.”

And you knew then that you were heartbroken, but not because she left. Because you had convinced yourself that being belittled was part of being loved. But now you knew better.

[berryispunk]

Slow Motion

pairing: Frankie Morales x f! reader

tags: dual POV, slow burn, best friends to lovers, mutual pining, yearning, angst, all of it, longing, best friend! Frankie, feelings denial, soft! Frankie, everyone knows before they do, Santi and Benny are support actors in this, only allusions to smut with this one, the girlfriend is not the villain, idiots in love, kissing

summary: Best friends. Always there, never quite enough. He broke your heart without ever knowing he held it—until everything fell apart, and the only person he wanted was the one he pushed away.

word count: ~ 8k

read on ao3

You and Francisco Morales had been you and him for as long as anyone could remember. Not in the romantic, hand-holding, Sunday brunch kind of way—but in that soul-deep, private-joke, finish-each-other’s-sentences kind of way. Inseparable. A pair that moved through life side by side, facing every challenge together like you were built for it.

He was your person. You were his constant. You’d both sucked at love, made terrible choices, fallen for the wrong people, gotten burned, and picked each other up off the floor more times than you wanted to count. And somewhere along the way, you’d decided Frankie just needed a little push.

So you pushed.

Blind dates, setups, meet-cutes at your yoga class—you threw him at every semi-decent woman within a 15-mile radius like some emotionally-invested Cupid. And he let you, mostly because saying no meant watching that bright-eyed hope in you fade. And he couldn’t stomach that.

But tonight?

Tonight, you could tell, something had changed.

You pulled up to the curb outside the sad little Italian place you’d sent him to, elbow resting on the open window. “Hey, hot stuff. You survived?”

Frankie didn’t answer right away. He opened the door, flopped into the passenger seat like someone returning from battle, and just sat there, staring out at the glowing neon of the restaurant behind him.

You laughed, trying to lighten the mood. “That bad?”

He didn’t answer. Just kept staring straight ahead, jaw tight.

“Okay,” you said slowly. “Was it the weird laugh again? Or did she talk about astrology like it was a PhD?”

Frankie exhaled hard through his nose. “Can we not do this tonight?”

Your smile faltered. “I’m just asking, Frankie. You’re the one who said you wanted to meet someone.”

“No,” he snapped, turning toward you, his voice sharp. “You’re the one who decided I should meet someone.”

You blinked. “Okay... what’s your problem?”

“My problem is I’m exhausted,” he said, his voice heavy. “Tired of these setups. Tired of pretending. Tired of you pushing me into dates I never asked for.”

You sat up straighter, your frustration rising. “Excuse me? You agreed to them. I never forced you.”

“Yeah? Because every time I say no, you look at me like I’m broken. Like you’re trying to fix me.” 

Your heart twisted, his words landing on your chest. “Maybe I am trying to fix you, Frankie,” you fired back. “You’ve been stuck for years—half-living, half-dating, half-everything. You don’t even try. I’m the only one who’s been in your corner this whole time, and you’re making me out to be the bad guy?”

He let out a bitter laugh. “You don’t get it.”

“No, I don’t!” you shouted, anger flooding through you like molton. “You’re mad at me for caring? For trying to help? What is this really about?”

Frankie didn’t respond, instead clenching his jaw and gripping his thighs like he was holding back something too big to say.

“Say something!” you demanded, your voice cracking with the weight of everything that had built up between you. 

He finally turned to you, eyes blazing. “You want to help? Stop trying to build me a life with someone else when you don’t even know what the hell you’re taking from me.”

And then Silence. Thick, stunned silence.

You stared at him, your throat tight, heart pounding like it may jump out of your chest.  “What does that mean?”

He shook his head, suddenly looking like he regretted everything. “Nothing. Forget it.”

“No, you don’t get to say something like that and then shut down,” you snapped, your voice trembling now. “Why are you acting like I’ve betrayed you? Why are you looking at me like I did something wrong?”

“Because you did,” he said, voice softer now, but still laced with fatigue. “And you don’t even see it.”

You looked at him—really looked—and felt something twist in your chest. A rift you couldn’t name but felt in every part of you, ugly and all consuming.

“I don’t understand,” you whispered, more vulnerable than you meant to be.

Frankie stared at the windshield, his face tense. “Yeah,” he muttered, his voice low and resigned. “You never do.”

You wanted to scream. Or cry. Or rewind everything to five minutes ago when it was still just you and him. But instead, you turned the key in the ignition and said nothing in return.

And for the first time since you’re hovering in each other’s orbit, the silence between you wasn’t comfortable.

It was unbearable.

Frankie didn’t sleep that night.

He sat on his couch in the dark, the TV on mute, some old movie flickering across the screen while the same sentence looped in his head: "You don’t even know what you’re taking from me."

God. He’d said it. Almost said everything. Too much—but not enough.

He dropped his head back against the couch, eyes stinging. The fight had cracked something wide open, and now he couldn’t shove it back inside. it broke free and was hovering just nearby like a giant shadow of something even bigger than both of you.

This wasn’t how it was supposed to go.

You never fought. Ever. You bickered, teased, got under each other’s skin, but you were a constant in each other’s lives. You knew when to push and when to pull back. You always knew.

Until now.

Now you were probably sitting in your apartment, running the argument over in your head the same way he was, wondering what the hell just happened—wondering why he was the one suddenly flipping the board when you’d only been trying to help.

He stood up and started pacing restlessly.

You didn’t deserve that. He’d lashed out like you’d hurt him on purpose, like it wasn’t killing you too, watching him drag himself through one failed connection after another. You were trying to give him something he couldn’t reach for. Because it wasn’t there.

Not in those other people. Only in you.

And he was such an ass to you, you. The only person in his life that kept up with all his bullshit and by some miracle didn’t leave.

Frankie grabbed his keys twice that night. Almost left. Almost showed up at your door to apologize, to explain—but what would he even say? “Hey, I’m sorry I lost it. Turns out I’m in love with you and watching you help me find someone else feels like dying."Yeah, No.

Instead, he stayed up until morning, slumped in his hoodie on the back steps of his building, smoking a cigarette he didn’t even want, tasting as bitter as the words he told you on his tongue and watched the sky change color. For the first time since you’d become friends, he didn’t know how to come back from this.

Didn’t know if there was a way back.

The night stretched on like an endless tournament—one exhausting round after another, only there was no prize at the end. Just pain. Like you were being tested for some higher purpose you couldn’t quite grasp, and you’d failed without knowing why.

He’d never been like this with you before. Sure, Frankie had a temper, always quick to boil over when something pissed him off—but never at you. Never like that. And now, all you were left with was confusion and this dull, aching hurt in your chest.

All you ever wanted was for him to be happy.

He deserved that. Deserved someone who saw past the sharp edges, the emotional clutter, the history he carried like a second skin. Because despite all of it—despite everything—Frankie Morales was one of the last real gentlemen. A dying breed. Being around him was like witnessing an extinction in slow motion, only you had front-row seats and the last perfect example sitting right there in front of you.

It’s not like the thought hadn’t crossed your mind—showing up to one of those dates and pretending to be his date instead. It had. More than once.

But every time, you chickened out. Too scared to ruin the one good thing in your life. The thing you’d somehow, miraculously, managed to hold onto.

The next morning, everything was too loud.

The clink of your coffee mug. The buzz of your phone. The way the silence in your apartment felt like it had grown teeth overnight.

You kept checking your messages like maybe he’d say something. A joke. A half-apology. Anything.

But nothing came.

Not even a stupid meme.

You stared at your phone, thumb hovering over his name. The little photo you took of him months ago still sat there in the corner of the screen—Frankie in his kitchen, shirt inside out, pretending to argue with a toaster. You remember thinking, this is it. This is what home feels like.

And now it just felt like you’d been locked out and someone tossed the keys.

You typed a message.

“Hey. Are we okay?”

Deleted it.

Tried again.

“I didn’t mean to push. I just…”

Backspaced until the screen was empty again.

You tossed the phone onto the couch like it had personally offended you—then immediately picked it back up. Paced the apartment. Whispered test messages under your breath like they were spells you could get right if you just said them enough times.

But eventually, something clawed its way up from inside you. Something sharp and tired and aching.

And you stopped overthinking. Stopped editing. Stopped protecting both of you from the truth that was already out there, bleeding between the cracks. Lingering.

You sank onto the edge of your bed now, change of scenery, thumb trembling slightly as you typed:

“Frankie, I don’t know what happened to us last night. But I miss you.”

And this time, you hit send.

Then you sat there, phone in your lap, staring at the floor, leg nervously bouncing as you waited for a response.

You kept your phone on loud for days.

It never buzzed. Not once.

You told yourself it was fine. Frankie just needed time. You fought, and it hit hard—maybe harder than either of you expected. Maybe he was licking his wounds. Maybe he didn’t know what to say.

But Frankie always said something. Even when it was stupid. Even when it was sideways and barely made sense, he showed up. A meme, a photo, a “you good?” that carried the weight of a whole conversation.

But this time? Nothing.

And it didn’t just sting—it unraveled you.

The texts stopped. The late-night calls and with it the way you could feel him across town without a word. It was like he'd ghosted his own life, and you were collateral damage.

Until three weeks later, Santi said it like it wasn’t a big deal.

You were helping him stack chairs after a backyard cookout, trying to pretend you weren’t checking your phone every five seconds. And Santi, half-distracted, said:

“You heard Frankie’s seeing someone, right?”

You blinked. Thought maybe you misheard him over the wind chimes or the clatter of metal legs.

“What?”

“Yeah.” Santi shrugged. “Some girl he met at that dive bar on the 14th. It’s new, but… he seems into it.”

You laughed. But it came out too sharp. Too forced. “Since when does Frankie get into anything that quickly?”

Santi paused, squinting at you, like he suddenly realized you hadn’t known. That maybe he’d said too much.

“I just thought—he’s been MIA lately. Figured he told you.”

He hadn’t, not a single word.

And suddenly it all made sense. The silence. The distance. Why he never answered your message. Why it felt like you’d been cut out without ceremony, like a chapter he just skipped over.

It wasn’t like it was with you. You knew that. You felt that.

But it was something. Enough to pull him away. Enough to make him forget to look back.

And standing there with your hands clenched around a folding chair and your heart somewhere between your ribs and the dirt, you realized it: This was heartbreak.

Not the kind that happens when love ends— The kind that happens when it almost begins, and then doesn’t. Impending grief for a feeling, for a connection, for him.

You tried not to spiral after that.

Tried to be the cool, collected version of yourself—the one who let things roll off your back, who didn’t let silence crawl under your skin and nest there. But the truth was uglier than that. It curled up in your stomach, sick and sour, and stayed there. A constant pain you just learned to shoulder.

You stopped texting. Stopped staring at your screen like maybe it was broken.

He’d made his choice.

And you weren’t part of it.

Still, when the group chat lit up about drinks at the bar on Friday, you didn’t bail. Part of you wanted to—wanted to ghost the whole damn night and pretend you were busy or tired or just over it. But the other part, the louder one, needed to see. Needed proof that it wasn’t just in your head. That the silence hadn’t lied.

The bar was warm and loud and exactly the kind of place you used to end up in together, laughing over too many wings and trash-talking each other over darts. You walked in and found the usual suspects—Santi, Benny, Will—clustered near the back corner table.

And then you saw him.

Frankie.

He was already there. Drink in hand. Hair a little neater than usual, no cap whatsoever and a button-down that wasn’t flannel. Beside was a girl perched close. Too close.

You didn’t recognize her. She wasn’t beautiful in that cinematic way, but she had this softness about her—easy to look at, easy to fall into, maybe. Her hand brushed his arm when she laughed. And Frankie—

Frankie smiled.

Not the dumb, half-smirk he used to give you when he was being a pain in the ass. Not the tired, grateful grin that came with late-night takeout and long silences that didn’t need filling. No. This smile was different. Smaller, careful. Like he was holding something back, but offering it anyway.

And that’s when you knew.

He brought her.

To this.

To your table, your friends. The little circle that had always been you and him and everyone else orbiting around the mess you made of each other. You didn’t walk over right away. You hovered by the bar too long, pretending to wait for your drink, pretending your heart wasn’t jackhammering in your chest, pretending you hadn’t just been sucker punched without warning.

When you finally made your way over, Santi gave you a look—one part apology, two parts brace yourself—and pulled out a chair for you to sit.

Frankie’s eyes met yours for half a second. Not a word. Not a smile. Just a blink, a shift in his jaw almost unrecognizable, and then he turned back to her.

That was it.

No hey. No you good? No flicker of the person who used to make space for you without even thinking.

And you sat there, surrounded by laughter and the hum of conversation, with the hollow roar of grief in your ears. Because now you knew what it looked like—what it felt like—when someone moved on and left you behind. Frankie hadn’t just found someone new. He’d brought her into your world like you were never part of it.

And the worst part?

You couldn’t even blame him, because you were the one who told him to try. You were the one who pushed him. And now he was gone. Gone in the way that matters most—not out of your life, but out of reach.

You made it thirty-two minutes.

Thirty-two minutes of nodding along, sipping watered-down vodka, laughing too loud at things that weren’t funny, and pretending like your entire chest wasn’t about to collapse every time she touched him.

Every time he let her.

You didn’t even know her name until Will leaned over and said it like it was normal. Like it didn’t feel like a knife being twisted right under your ribs.

“Mira seems sweet, huh?”

You smiled. A tight, practiced thing. “Sure. Sweet.”

Mira.

The name tasted wrong in your mouth.

And maybe it would’ve stayed quiet—maybe you would’ve kept swallowing it all down like poison you could survive—if Mira hadn’t looked at Frankie, all wide-eyed and innocent, and asked, “How come you’ve never brought me here before?”

Before.

You heard it before he even answered. Before implied history. Ritual. Something that existed long before she did. Frankie paused, just a second. But it was enough.

“This used to be our spot,” he said, voice casual, not looking at you. Giving the words no meaning at all. “It’s been a while.”

Our.

As in you and him.

You swallowed hard and stood up too fast, chair scraping against the floor like a siren. “I need some air.”

Nobody stopped you. Not even him.

The night was warm and loud, headlights dragging down the street like slow thoughts. You didn’t make it to the curb before you heard footsteps behind you, you didn’t need to look to know it’s him.

Frankie.

“Hey,” he said. Not urgent, not guilty. “You good?”

You turned, eyes narrowed. “Do I look good?”

His jaw tightened. “What do you want me to say?”

“I want you to say anything,” you snapped. “Anything real. Because for the past three weeks, you’ve been radio silent and now you show up with her—like I’m just some extra in your new life?”

He exhaled, rubbing the back of his neck. “I didn’t think you’d take it like this.”

“Like what?” Your voice rose, sharp and brittle. “Like I’m hurt? Like maybe you bringing your rebound into our space like it means nothing would actually mean something to me?”

Frankie’s eyes flashed. “It’s not a rebound.”

“Oh, right. Of course not. It’s serious, huh? That’s why you brought her here—to mark your territory?”

“Stop,” he said. Quiet, but there was power in it. This voice meant no bullshit. “You don’t get to make this ugly.”

“You made it ugly the second you ghosted me.”

That shut him up.

You pushed forward, voice trembling. “You always text back. Always. Even when you’re drunk or pissed or halfway asleep. You always showed up. And now what? I’m just gone?”

Frankie’s mouth opened, then closed. He looked like he wanted to say something, then didn’t. Which pissed you off even more.

“You owe me, Frankie,” you said, stepping in close now, eyes wet but your voice firm. “You owe me honesty. Because I was there. Every time you fell apart, every time you doubted yourself, every time you needed someone—I was there. And the second you get a maybe-kind-of-working-something, I’m just background noise?”

“It’s not like that.”

“Then tell me what it is.”

He looked at you then. Really looked. And it cracked something in both of you.

“I didn’t know how to face you,” he admitted, raw and low. “After what I said. After how I said it. I was pissed, and I took it out on you, and you didn’t deserve it.”

“No,” you whispered,brows furrowed deep. “I didn’t.”

Silence stretched between you, thick and ugly.

Then you added, “And now you’ve got her. So I guess I was just... convenient enough”

His face twisted like you’d slapped him.

“You were never convenient,” he said, almost a whisper. “You were the constant.”

You stared at him, heart clawing at your ribs, and for one stupid second, you wanted to kiss him just to make it all go away.

But then Mira opened the bar door behind you and called out, “Hey, babe, everything okay?” her voice was so sickeningly sweet, it made your stomach turn. You didn’t look at her, didn’t need to. Frankie looked back once at her, then down at the ground like it was suddenly the only thing that made sense. He didn’t even look at you.

You stepped back, more stumbling than walking. Shaky steps, as unsafe as you felt.

“Yeah,” you said, voice steady now. Cold. “Everything’s crystal fucking clear.”

And then you walked away.

Frankie tossed and turned, stared at the ceiling, counted sheep. It wasn’t because of the heat or the creaking pipes in his apartment or Mira breathing soft and even beside him—but because your voice kept replaying in his head like a broken record.

“I was just… convenient enough.”

He’d heard a lot of things in his life. Screaming commanders. Crying civilians. Doors slamming, hearts breaking, all kinds of silence. The one that makes your ears ring and the one that makes your chest tight. But your voice cracking like that?

That was new, brutal.

He sat on the edge of the bed now, elbows on his knees, head in his hands. The digital clock blinked 3:47 a.m in an alarming red light. Mira shifted behind him, half-asleep.

“You okay, babe?” she mumbled, barely conscious.

“Yeah,” he said. Automatically. Out of habit, out of guilt. “Just need some water.”

He got up, padded barefoot into the kitchen, and stood there in the dark, palms braced on the countertop like it was the only thing holding him up.

There was a photo stuck to the fridge—one you’d taken. Him and Santi arm-wrestling at your place, stupid grins on their faces, half a beer spilled in the corner of the frame. He remembered you laughing behind the camera, saying “Act natural, idiots.”

He hadn’t taken it down, he couldn’t.

He grabbed a glass but didn’t fill it. Just stood there, staring into vast nothingness, thinking of you. How you didn’t yell until the end. How you didn’t cry until he turned away. How you said “crystal fucking clear” like you meant it.

And for the first time, it hit him:

You weren’t mad because he was dating someone. You were mad because he’d shut you out. You were hurt because he made you feel replaceable.

But you weren’t. God, you weren’t, you never could be.

You were the one person who saw through all his bullshit and still stuck around. You were the reason he even considered fixing himself. Not for you—but because when you believed in him, he started thinking maybe he could believe in himself too.

He closed his eyes and pressed the heel of his hand into his eye sockets like he could rub the image of you out of his head. Didn’t work. You were everywhere.

In the mug you left once and he never returned. In the hoodie Mira kept asking about—"Whose is this?" your scent still clinging to it. In the way he couldn’t laugh at dumb memes anymore without checking if you’d seen them too.

Frankie Morales was in a relationship, sure.

But he was in love with someone who wouldn’t even look at him now.

And he only had himself to blame.

The next morning, he made breakfast. French toast, Strawberries on the side, just how Mira liked them. He kissed her shoulder while she sipped her coffee and made her laugh hard enough to snort. He was attentive. Present. Trying his best to silence the ghost in the room that only he could feel.

And when she asked, softly, cautiously, “You okay? You’ve been a little... distant,”

He smiled and lied. “I’m good. Better than I’ve been in a long time.”

She lit up. Actually lit up. And the worst part? She bought it.

Hook, line, and sinker.

And Frankie hated himself for how easy the lie slipped out.

It was supposed to be game night. You showed up late on purpose—half hoping maybe he wouldn't be there, half terrified that he would. But the second you walked in and saw him sitting on the couch, hand resting on the back of her chair, like it was the most natural thing in the world?

Your heart dropped.

You tried not to stare. Tried not to see it. The way her laugh came easy. The way Frankie leaned in to say something just for her, close enough to catch the scent of her hair. How she reached for his knee when she laughed too hard at something Benny said. He’d never brought girls to this. Not game nights. Not Sunday barbecues. Not this space—the one sacred little pocket of your friendship he used to keep just for the people who knew him best.

For you.

Your chest tightened like someone was wringing out your lungs.

He glanced at you once, a flick of the eyes, and then quickly away like it burned. No smile. No wave. Just... nothing. Like he hadn’t spent the last few years orbiting your every step. Like you weren’t the one who held him through half of his worst nights. Like that fight didn’t leave a crater between you big enough to swallow this whole damn room.

Santi handed you a beer. You didn’t even remember asking for one.

“You okay?” he asked quietly.

You nodded too quickly. “Yeah, fine.”

But your hand shook when you took a sip, and you hoped no one noticed.

Mira laughed again. Loud, beautiful, perfect. And Frankie ? He laughed with her. Not that half-hearted chuckle he used to do when dates didn’t land. This one was full. Real.

You excused yourself to the kitchen before you could break down in front of everyone.

You barely made it in there before the tears started.

Silent at first—just a sting in your eyes, a tightness in your throat. You braced your hands against the counter, trying to breathe through it, trying not to fall apart like some cliché in a movie. But it wasn’t just heartbreak—it was the kind of grief that comes when someone doesn’t die, they just stop being yours.

And then you heard footsteps.

Santi.

He didn’t say anything at first. Just came up beside you, leaned his hip against the counter, and cracked open a beer like he hadn’t just walked in on a silent breakdown.

Then, quietly, observed like he always was. “Yeah... I figured this would happen.”

Your lip trembled, and you shook your head, wiping under your eyes quickly like it might hide the mess.

“I’m fine,” you lied even if your voice betrayed you in its thinness.

“You’re not,” he said gently. “And it’s okay. You don’t have to be.”

That broke something. A small, shattering sound in your chest. You let out a breath that turned into a sob and folded into him before you could stop yourself. Santi pulled you in without hesitation. No questions. no pressure. Just arms that held tight and steady while your shoulders shook, his hand on the back of your head.

“I didn’t think he’d really...” you started, but the rest dissolved into his shirt.

Santi rubbed slow circles on your back. “I know. None of us did.”

You stayed like that for a moment, tucked against him, letting his steady presence fade out some of the noise when another voice cut through the quiet.

“Jesus,” Benny muttered from the doorway. “He’s a goddamn idiot.”

You laughed against Santi’s shoulder, the sound more broken than amused. “Don’t say that. She’s not the problem.”

“I’m not talking about her,” Benny said, stepping inside. “I’m talking about him. He’s sitting out there like you never existed. That’s not Frankie. Not the one I know at least.”

Santi nodded. “He’s... stuck. Pretending so hard he forgot he’s not that good at it.”

And they didn’t say it—no one said it—but you all knew exactly who Frankie used to be good at pretending with. You. He never had to.

You wiped your face with the sleeve of your hoodie, trying to pull yourself together. “I don’t want to ruin the night.”

“You’re not,” Santi said firmly.

“You showing up tonight?” Benny asked. “That made the night.”

You offered a shaky smile, grateful even if you couldn’t quite show it yet.

Out in the living room, you could still hear Mira’s laugh. Still hear Frankie’s voice, low and warm and not at all the boy who used to show up at your door at 2 a.m., asking if you had Pop-Tarts and time. And maybe everyone thought he’d moved on. Maybe he thought he had, too. But if he had even glanced toward the kitchen just once—he would’ve seen the other two important people in his life holding up the one person he’d forgotten how to hold.

Nobody prepares you for the call you get late at night when you were supposed to sleep, telling you that your dad is in the hospital because of a heart attack, his condition critical.

Frankie sat on the edge of the bed, hands in his hair, breathing like he’d forgotten how. Mira stirred beside him, mumbled something soft and half-asleep, but it barely registered. The words from the phone call were still ringing in his ears like a fire alarm.

Chest pain. Ambulance. Unresponsive for two minutes.

His first instinct wasn’t to shake Mira awake.It wasn’t to call his mom, or Benny, or even Santi. It was you.

His hand moved before his brain could stop it—phone unlocked, your name already pulled up in the recents even though it had been weeks. His thumb hovered over the call button like it had muscle memory. Because in every other version of this moment—in every other emergency, every broken-down car, every fight, every loss—it had always been you.

He didn’t call. Not right away. He just stared at your name, and the photo next to it—blurry, laughing, eyes shining from that road trip last year when the AC broke and you threatened to abandon him on the side of the highway.

And that’s when it hit him, hard, fast and cold:

This isn’t a best friend anymore. This is the first person I think of when my world ends.

His hand recoiled from the phone, like it bit him.

Mira was sitting up now, rubbing her eyes. “Frankie? What’s going on?”

“My dad,” he said, voice as hollow as he felt. “He’s in the hospital.”

She was by his side in a second, hands on his shoulders, asking the right things, offering to come with him. She said all the things a good girlfriend should say, but they didn’t land.

Because all he could think about was you. Not just because you would’ve been there in a heartbeat—but because you’d know what to say. Because you’d reach for his hand before he asked. Because you’d sit beside him in that sterile waiting room and not talk unless he needed you to. Because with you, he wouldn’t have to explain what this felt like. You just… would.

And that’s when it shifted. In a way that couldn’t be undone. It wasn’t about dating, or jealousy, or the fight, or Mira. It wasn’t even about the timing anymore.

It was about truth and for the first time in weeks, it crushed him.

The fluorescent lights in the waiting room buzzed low, mechanical. Too bright for a place this heavy with dread. Frankie sat hunched over in a plastic chair, elbows on his knees, staring at the tiled floor like it owed him something—answers, maybe. A break. Mira had gone to grab coffee, or air, or space. She hadn’t specified and he hadn’t asked.

And then he heard your voice.

Soft, tentative.

“Frankie?”

He didn’t look up at first. Thought maybe his brain had conjured you again—just like it had when he’d scrolled past your name in his phone and nearly called you on instinct, like some kind of survival response. But then you were closer and right in front of him. 

There, not just an imagination. Real. 

Hair in this messy bun you always did when you couldn’t be bothered to straighten it. Eyes wide and red-rimmed like you’d cried in the car before coming in. Like the thought of him hurting still cracked you open even if he hurt you first.

“I’m sorry,” you said gently. “Santi told me. I just— I needed to be here.”

His breath caught. Not because you were there. Not even because you showed up without needing to be asked. But because part of him had known you would. Even now. Even after everything.

“You didn’t have to come,” he muttered, but it came out hoarse. Hollow, useless.

“I know.” You sat down beside him anyway. Close, but not touching. “But I wanted to.”

Frankie didn’t know what to say. His hands shook. He dug his nails into his palms like that could stop the ache building under his ribs. But it was too much, everything was too much.

“I can’t lose him,” he said, voice cracking on the last word.

And that’s when you moved. No hesitation. Just reached for him, pulled him in like you’d done a hundred times before.  Only this time it broke him.

His arms wrapped around your waist and he buried his face in your shoulder and for the first time since he got that call, Frankie cried. Not loud, not dramatic. Just silent, shaking tears against the only person who ever made him feel like he was allowed to fall apart.

You held him, steady and firm. Holding his broken pieces together like you always did. Your hand in his hair, your breath steady and close. No questions, no anger, no I-told-you-so.

Just you, the one constant that always has been there and it all made it worse. Because this wasn’t Mira. This wasn’t temporary comfort, this was home. And he’d spent weeks pretending it wasn’t.

You were still holding him when Mira walked back in. Frankie’s face hidden in your neck. His hands clutching the back of your sweatshirt like he’d sink without you. His entire body folded into yours in that desperate, wordless way that doesn’t look like friendship. It looks like gravity.

She stopped mid-step.

You didn’t see her at first. You just whispered, “I’m here, okay?” and brushed your fingers through his hair the way you always did when things got bad.

But Frankie did see her and lifted his head. Eyes glassy, face streaked with silent tears, breathing uneven. His gaze locked on Mira—and in that instant, everything in the room went still. Her expression didn’t crack. Not really,not yet. But her eyes said enough.

This wasn’t the grief of a girlfriend who’d been left out. It was the grief of a woman realizing she’d never been in.

“I brought you coffee,” she said, voice tight, like she was reading a script someone handed her last minute. Frankie stood up too fast. Swiped at his face like he could erase what she saw. “Mira, it’s not—”

She held up her hand. Calm, composed. Kind.

“Don’t,” she said quietly. “You don’t owe me a performance.”

You stepped back instinctively, putting space between you and Frankie like that might fix it. Like that might soften the blow. But Mira wasn’t stupid, she wasn’t cruel, either. She just nodded, a silent resignation and set the coffee on the table beside him, looking at him with an unreadable expression. 

“You should’ve called her first,” she said. “I think we both know that.”

Then she left.

No big scene. No yelling. Just the hollow echo of her footsteps down the hallway and the sound of a door swinging closed behind her. Frankie didn’t move.He just stood there, looking at the coffee, shoulders stiff like they were holding the rest of him. And you?

You didn’t say I told you so or she deserved more or what are you doing even if you had every right to. You just picked up the damn coffee, pressed it into his hands, and whispered, “Drink, you’re shaking.” 

And he did, even in the wreckage, in the fallout of his silence, you stayed.

It was sometime after 2 a.m. when you finally convinced Frankie to sit down again.

The ICU floor had gone still, lights dimmed, nurses moving in hushed, practiced rhythm behind sliding glass. No updates. Just waiting. You were still there. So was Santi—sitting cross-legged on the floor with a vending machine coffee and a million-miles-away stare. Benny had shown up with tacos no one asked for, claiming ‘grief makes you hungry’ and refused to leave since.

Nobody asked questions. Not about Mira, not about crying. Not even about the way Frankie hadn’t let go of your hand since you laced your fingers through his hours ago.

Santi finally passed him a coffee. “Still hot. Miracle of science.”

Frankie took it with both hands. “Thanks.” His soft brown eyes full of sorrow. 

Benny threw an arm around the back of the chair beside him, stretching like he owned the room. Typical. “Listen, Morales, I know it’s not a great time, but if your old man pulls through and you don’t tell him we all waited like a bunch of loyal golden retrievers, I’m gonna start charging emotional support fees.”

That pulled the smallest breath of a laugh out of Frankie, which was the point. You gave Benny a grateful look over Frankie’s shoulder. He winked and shoved a half-eaten taco into his mouth like it was his life’s mission.

Santi leaned forward, arms on his knees. “You good on food? Water? Want me to harass a nurse?”

Frankie shook his head, lips pressed tight. Then softer, “Thanks, man.”

“You don’t have to thank us,” you said, your thumb brushing lightly against his. “This is what we do.”

Frankie didn’t answer. But his grip tightened. Because he felt it—the thing that held him upright. It wasn’t Mira. It wasn’t some illusion of romance or a picture-perfect fix.

It was this. You, Santi and Benny.

People who’d sit with him in fluorescent hallways all night long. Who didn’t flinch at his mess. Who knew him and stayed anyway. Chosen family. And for the first time since he got that call, Frankie felt the sharp edge of loneliness dull just enough to breathe.

You didn’t realize you’d been holding your breath until the nurse smiled.

“He’s stable,” she said gently, as if the words might shatter in the air. “It’ll be a long road, but he made it through the worst.”

Frankie didn’t react at first. He just sat there, staring at the tiles like he hadn’t heard her. Then something in his shoulders sagged. His whole body exhaled. Like the fear that had been coiled so tightly in him all night finally let go.

You touched his arm. Lightly. Carefully. “He’s okay,” you said. And the words felt like a blessing.

Santi clapped him on the back, eyes tired but warm. “We’ll be back in a few hours. Get some rest if you can.”

Benny stood, stretched like a lazy cat, then leaned down and pressed his knuckles into Frankie’s shoulder. “Try not to emotionally combust while we’re gone. I’ve bonded with your old man now—I’m personally invested.”

They left without needing to be told. That’s what family does.

The quiet that followed was heavy. It settled over the waiting room in soft waves—early sunlight through the blinds, the hum of machines, the lingering tension that hadn’t quite disappeared with the good news. Frankie hadn’t let go of your hand all night, it’s been sweaty and uncomfortable at times but you wouldn’t say anything. But suddenly he let loose and leaned forward, elbows on his knees, eyes trained on the floor. 

“You didn’t have to come.” You swallowed hard. 

“Don’t say that.”

He didn’t look at you. “I called her first.”

Your heart twisted, but you kept your voice steady. “Of course you did.”

“No,” he said. “I wanted to call you.”

He said it like it was a confession. Like it cost him something to get it out. 

“I started dialing,” he went on, “but I hung up. I told myself it wasn’t fair. That I couldn’t ask you to show up again—not after everything I’ve already taken.”

You stayed quiet, let him speak.

“I tried,” he said, voice breaking. “I tried so fucking hard to move on. To convince myself that Mira was good, that she made sense. That she could be the person I needed.”

He finally looked at you and it took all your air out of your lungs.

“And she’s not you, she’ll never be.”

The words slammed into you. Hard and simple and impossible to miss.

“I thought I could keep it buried. That if I never said it out loud, I could live with it. But when I got the call about my dad, when I thought I might lose him—I couldn’t lie to myself anymore. The only person I wanted was you.”

You couldn’t breathe for a second. Couldn’t think.

Frankie scrubbed a hand over his face, tears in his eyes he didn’t bother hiding anymore. “I don’t expect anything. I know I wrecked it. I just… I needed you to know. Because if I lost him and never told you the truth, I don’t think I could’ve carried that.”

You reached out before your brain caught up, threading your fingers through his again, lifting it up to your lips and kissed his knuckles. 

He looked smaller like this. Not weak, just real. Raw. All things he never let anyone see except you. You didn’t say anything. Because some truths didn’t need answers right away—they just needed air. And this one, between you and him, was finally breathing.

It didn’t happen in a single moment. There was no dramatic speech, no fireworks. No declarations in the rain.

Just… quiet.

The kind that came with knowing someone inside and out. The kind that had always lived between you. 

A few days after the hospital, you showed up at his door with two coffees and a bag of something warm, and he didn’t question it. Just stepped aside and let you in like you’d never left. You curled up on the couch, tucked your legs under you like you always did, and when your fingers brushed reaching for the remote, you didn’t move away. Neither did he.

After that, it was movie nights again. Grocery runs together. Your hoodie hanging off the back of his kitchen chair. Your hair in his sink. He never asked you to stay, but you did.Until one day, you just… were. A part of his , his rhythm, his everything, like you always were, just without holding back now. Frankie wasn’t afraid to name it anymore.

No one asked questions. Not Benny, not Santi. Maybe because they’d all seen it before he had. Maybe because it was written all over both your faces the second the storm passed.

You were all at Benny’s one night—barbecue smoke thick in the air, beers half-drunk, someone playing music off an old speaker—and you were curled into his side like gravity had always meant for it. Your head on his shoulder, a small gesture but so monumental to him. 

And Santi, mouth full of ribs, just grinned and muttered, “Finally.”

Frankie looked over at him. “What?”

“You two. Took you long enough. Benny and I had a whole betting pool.”

Benny snorted. “I lost, by the way. Thought it’d take ‘till Christmas.”

You laughed into his shoulder. Warm and soft and unmistakably you. Frankie rolled his eyes but couldn’t help the smile pulling at his mouth. “Real supportive friends I’ve got.”

Benny raised his bottle. “We’re rooting for you, Morales. Doesn’t mean we can’t roast you while we do it.”

Later, after the sun dipped low and the night got quieter, you tugged him out onto Benny’s balcony. Just the two of you. The city stretched out in front of you, all hazy lights and faraway sounds. You leaned on the railing beside him, arms brushing against each other.

“I know you were a bit slow at times,” you said, eyes on the skyline. “But this… this was slow motion.”

He huffed out a laugh. “I had a lot of shit in my head, okay?”

“I know,” you said, voice softer now. “But I was right there.”

He turned to you. Took in your face, lit by the dim glow of porch light and stars above you. That expression he’d always known but only just let himself hold onto.

“You’ve always been there,” he echoed.

And then he kissed you.

Not like the end of something, not even like the start. His hands in your hair, your mouth meeting his like it already knew the shape of him. Slow, sure and welcoming.

The sun eased into the room slowly and quiet, like it knew better than to speak after the kind of night that changed everything.

You lay on your side, tangled in sheets that still smelled like him—like heat and skin and something you’d waited years to have. Frankie was asleep beside you, one arm stretched toward where your body had just been, hand curled loose on the pillow as if even in sleep he couldn’t let you go too far.

You reached for him instinctively, fingers brushing the curve of his shoulder, then trailing down his arm like you were retracing last night’s map.

It played like a movie behind your eyes. His hands, his mouth, the way he said your name like it broke something open inside him every time. The first kiss, not rushed but anchored, like he’d known exactly what he was doing—like he’d been dreaming about it and was just finally awake. Your lips tingled at the memory of where he’d kissed you. Where he lingered. Your skin still hummed in the places his hands had claimed, like he’d memorized you with his fingertips.

You pressed your fingers to your own mouth, not to stop a smile, but to feel him again. To remember how it felt when he whispered things you never thought you’d hear from him—need you, been dreaming about this, can’t believe it’s real.

Your breath caught. Not from lust, but from how right it all had felt.

The mattress dipped behind you and suddenly, there he was—still half-asleep, hair a disheveled mess, voice low and rough as he murmured, ‘Where’d you go?’ Only one eye open, just enough to peek at you.

You smiled, settling back into the warmth of him as his arm wrapped around your waist, pulling you flush against his chest like you belonged there.

“Was just thinking.”

Frankie pressed a kiss to the back of your shoulder, slow and warm and so him, it made your throat go tight.

“’Bout what?” he mumbled.

You smiled. “When it happened for me.”

He went still behind you. “What?”

“When I fell for you.”

His breath hitched, just slightly, and his hand tightened at your hip. “Yeah?” he whispered. “When was it?”

You let out a soft laugh. “That day you showed up at my apartment soaking wet ‘cause your car broke down and you needed to borrow a charger. You were dripping water on my rug and swearing in Spanish under your breath like the world personally offended you. I made you tea, remember?”

He groaned. “I do. I was a mess.”

“And I just… looked at you. And felt it.”

Frankie was quiet for a second, then leaned in, lips brushing the back of your neck. “You know when it happened for me?”

You turned your head slightly. “Tell me.”

“That night we crashed at my place after the bar. You passed out on the couch, and I tried to sleep. I thought I’d be fine, but I had one of the nightmares. Bad one.”

Your breath held in your chest.

“I woke up sweating, choking on my own damn breath, and before I could even sit up, you were there. Not scared, not freaked out. Just there. Sat beside me, hand on my back. Let me breathe. Didn’t say anything stupid. And most importantly you didn’t run.”

Your heart clenched. 

“That was it,” he said quietly. “That’s when I knew.”

You turned in his arms, met his eyes, your hands cupping his face like he might disappear if you blinked too fast, thumbs stroking his cheekbones.

He looked at you with those warm, deep brown eyes—like melted earth after rain and it felt like he’d never seen anything more certain. More beautiful. The same way he looked at you that night on his couch, when you didn’t flinch at the worst parts of him. When you just held him, no questions asked, like it was the most natural thing in the world. Like maybe love had already happened and neither of you had realized it yet.

And when he kissed you this time, it wasn’t wild or desperate—it was soft. Full of all the things neither of you had said for years. The things you didn’t need to say anymore.

Because you knew.

You both knew.

thank you so much for reading <3

my masterlist

most recent work

[syntheticsymp]

Personally, I’m a huge fan of stoner!konig

Anti-depressants and anxiety meds were impossible to get right for him. So, whenever he wasn't deployed, he had no problem going back to his empty apartment to hide away from the world and take the edge off with a blunt courtesy of Horangi.

Somehow, Konig always ended up at your doorstep, turning up like a stray dog who wanted attention. Despite brushing his teeth until his gums were sore and the atrocious amount of cologne he spritzed on, it was clear by his pink eyes that he was high. His pupils were blown wide as he looked down at you, still too nervous to tell you exactly what he wanted.

You let him in without a word. You always did. He was your neighbor, and sort of your friend, though he could barely talk to you without the help of a relaxant.

When he was sober, Konig was terrified. Terrified of hurting you, of saying the wrong thing, of the memories he tried to repress, and the possibility of taking them out on you. He could end the lives of many enemies and bark orders to soldiers on the field, yet he couldn't bring himself to deal with a crush. It was pathetic and he knew it.

But when he was high, he could talk easier. He joked around with you as you'd sit him on your couch and babysit him. He could touch your hand and squish your face without being terrified of accidentally crushing you.

The two of you talked for a while. If any of the men back at the base knew that Konig was a giggler, they would surely not believe whoever told them. As the hours dragged on, the two of you later played a movie and commented about whatever crappy decisions the directors made.

It was around the same time each night he spent with you when he pressed a sloppy kiss against your neck. Like clockwork, you jumped in response. His romantic affection always surprised you.

“Mein Shatz,” he mumbled against your skin, his nose buried against you. His hands wrapped around you, not anywhere scandalous, but enough to pull you closer.

You sighed. This wasn't anything new, he always got handsy before the weed eventually knocked him out for the night.

You repositioned yourself toward the end of the couch, before patting your lap. You knew the schedule by heart. “Come on, big guy.”

Konig gave you a goofy grin, showing off his cracked lips and chipped teeth. He didn't protest at all as he flopped onto his side, burying his face between your thighs as whatever movie you put on played in the background.

More often than not, he fell asleep on your lap. Tonight was no different. It took seconds for his soft snores to fill your room. Since another enemy broke his nose (this was the third time Konig broke it) his snoring became worse. You didn't really mind it anymore. It was more akin to a white noise machine than an annoyance. You ran your fingers through his buzzed hair, petting him like a dog as he drooled on your lap.

It was so... Domestic. You were growing used to it. So was he.

Konig always woke up around noon during nights like that. You had already left for your job, the memory of you the night before hazy in his mind.

On the coffee table was the same familiar note in your handwriting, propped up by a glass of water you left to cure his dry mouth.

‘Left for work, I hope to see you around soon!’

Konig pocketed the note, downing the water in a single gulp, before walking down the hall back to his apartment. The little slip of paper would go on his bedroom wall, just like the rest you had written. A little reminder that, for a little while, he could be with you without worry.

He loved the way you domesticated him.

[mrs-elsie-barnes]

Lifting Spirits | Thunderbolts*!Bucky Barnes x Female! Reader | Drabble 895 words |

It's been a long time since you and Bucky were able to sneak off, and it's starting to show.

Warnings: 18+ for suggestive language, thoughts and situations. Thunderbolts* spoilers.

HBS Week 1: “Mind your own damn business.” | [Secret Sex/Relationship | Embarrassment | Denial]

@buckybarnesevents

Masterlist | Hot Bucky Summer | Bucky Barnes

No one was supposed to know about you and Bucky. You hadn't meant to make the relationship secret, it'd just sort of…happened. If you could even call it a relationship, mostly it was just…fucking. Stress relief, unwinding.

You had a system and that system mostly involved sneaking into each other's bedrooms as much as humanly possible, which wasn't very often when you shared a weird superhero tower with five other, very nosey, people.

It'd been a while, to be honest, since you'd had any kind of opportunity to sneak into Bucky's room, and it was starting to wear very thin.

The memory of his body under yours as you'd taken your pleasure from him in the huge Jacuzzi tub on the balcony was just a memory. The feel of his hands on your hips, holding you still as he drove you both into his headboard and over the edge of pleasure was just a dreamy sensation.

Now you were contending with your own hands and the few toys you managed to sneak in past your fellow heroes.

"Are you alright?" Bob asked from his nest of cushions and beanbags by the ridiculously huge windows.

"Oh, yeah, I'm fine. How're you, read anything good lately?"

He frowned, looking at you sideways.

"I was just — nevermind, you must not have heard me." He went a little pink at the ears and you realised he'd been talking about his latest read for at least ten minutes while you looked at the balcony and tried to recall, in detail, what Bucky's cock felt like inside you.

"Sorry, Bob, just, in my own head at the moment. Nothing to do with you."

You half-smiled, but still couldn't take your eyes off the covered tub.

You fell back into your own thoughts until the elevator dinged open, making you start.

"I told you, Yelena, I'm fine."

"Bucky, you do not seem fine." She grumbled back, "you broke so much stuff, you know how much all that stuff costs?"

"No."

Even the sound of his gruff voice was sending tingles down your spine. Fuck. You needed that sound in your ear, telling you every disgusting thing he was going to do to you just as soon as you got some time alone and —

"Hey, are you oh-kay? What is it with you two lately."

"She's fine, 'Lena, she said she's fine." Bob raised his eye brows, not brave enough to say anything, but he sure was fond of suggesting.

"Ergh, there's nothing wrong, leave me alone." You flopped back into the couch cushions, one eye open.

You tracked Bucky's movements across the living area, he shrugged his jacket off, pulling it down each muscled arm, you licked your lips, when he tugged it free and shook it out you could see his broad shoulders, biceps swelling.

Bob followed your eyeline.

Bucky stretched, his t-shirt riding up and revealling a slither of his lower belly, a dusting of dark hair, a hint of muscle.

You sighed dreamily.

He sat down, kicking his boots up onto the coffee table and searching for the remote before reaching his vibranium hand behind him to ruffle his long hair.

"Okay, I'm going to bed." You announced, slapping your thighs and pushing yourself up.

"It's not even dinner yet?" Yelena said, confused. "It is like half past six in the evening, you can't go to bed."

"I'm…very sleepy." You insisted, faking a yawn and stretching your arms in your best attempt to show off your own body.

Bucky looked at you then, the same hunger in his eyes when they trailed down your body and back up. You were only in a big t-shirt and shorts, but when you moved you knew he could see the curve of your hips, the arch of your back — his favourite places to grasp and pull at.

"Yeah, we've all been very tired." He agreed, his voice slightly stilted. "It's good to rest — sleep."

"Going to lay down. In my room. On my bed." You backed towards the elevator, toying with the bottom of your shirt.

Bucky stood too, eyes locked with yours as if he was stalking you like prey. Every footfall of his boots echoed in the otherwise silent penthouse.

"You guys are weird." Bob mumbled, but he couldn't look away either, picking his milkshake back up.

Finally you were both in the elevator, backs against each wall, still eyeing each other.

The doors closed heavily.

"They're so weird." Bob laughed, taking a long, loud, slurp of milkshake.

"Too weird."

Yelena pushed the call button again and, sure enough, the elevator came straight back, the doors opening slowly to reveal you and Bucky tangled together.

He'd lifted you into his arms straight away, wrapping your legs around his waist so you could press yourself against his hardening length. He was kissing you so deeply you didn't even notice Yelena stood in the open door.

"Oh my god, 'Lena! Look!" Bob shouted and Yelana nodded in agreement.

"Oh fuck." You laughed, burying your head in Bucky's neck to cover your embarrassed shock.

But Bucky didn't falter, he pressed the button for your floor, continuing to kiss up your neck and, as the doors were shutting, turned to Yelena.

"Mind your own damn business."

[hanniebaeee]

Drunk In Love

Jisung x fem!reader

Warning: drinking, language probably MDNI

Genre: strangers to lovers, doctor-patient, fluffff

Summary: You sprain your ankle, and your best friend Maddie takes you to the ER, where you are bandaged by the hottest doc ever - Han Jisung.

a/n: Han Jisung has me hallucinating hehe

The party wasn’t supposed to go like this.

Well, parties weren't your scene, but you were here to support Maddie (your best friend), because this party was thrown by that gorgeous artist Maddie had her eyes on.

Everything was going ok until your friend Changbin dragged you into a game - a drinking game. Maddie obviously pounced in headfirst because artist boy was already on the floor, cross legged.

Unfortunately for you, the bottle pointed at you way too many times, and now you were absolutely hammered. 

Maddie eyed you as you swayed a little, trying to be brave and wanting to be there for her, but she wasn't going to let you faceplant onto the ugly carpet in front of her crush. That's not how she wanted him to meet you. 

So then, she shot up from her spot quickly and pulled you up and said a quick goodbye and dragged you out, trying not to laugh. 

The cool night air hit your face, and it felt so good. 

“BABE,” you whined dramatically, clutching her arm. “Your boy is so beautiful, I'd be so sad if you didn't marry him.”

“I plan to, hehe,” Maddie snickered, and literally didn't even have a second to react before you miscalculated your step and went straight off the sidewalk, collapsing onto the road like a drunken gazelle. 

Maddie took one look and started scream-laughing. “You fell like a whole ass tree.”

“Owwww my ankle!!!” you wailed. “I think I broke it.”

“Oh shit,”

Thirty minutes and an x-ray later, at the ER:

You were dramatically sprawled on the hospital gurney, ankle swollen and throbbing furiously. But you couldn't stop giggling.

“Babe, I'm this close to calling an exorcist. Stop it!” Maddie said, swatting your thigh.

That loud slap split through the silence exactly as he walked in, gazing at the x-rays of your foot. 

Clipboard in hand. Navy blue scrubs that stretched nicely across his chest. And a nice smile. He had such a nice smile. 

“Hi,” he said, voice so sweet and deep, it made you think of caramel dripping from a spoon. “I’m Dr. Han. I'll be taking a look at that ankle for you.”

“Oh my God, are you real?” You gasped.

“I hope so.” He chuckled

Maddie SNORTED behind you.

Dr. Han smiled, clearly fighting laughter. “Can I see that ankle now?”

You sighed dreamily. “You can take a look at anything you want, doctor.”

He examined your ankle, his hands gentle on you.

“Ow,” you moaned suddenly. “That hurts!”

Maddie choked mid sip of her water, and swatted your arm. 

“She's not usually like this -” she supplied with a sheepish grin, as Dr. Han’s ears went pink.

“I… I’m being as gentle as I can,” he said, still smiling. “It's a mild sprain, you'll be ok. I’ll wrap it up and get you some crutches.”

You nodded, and watched him (with your pupils blown) as he wrapped a bandage around your ankle with skilled fingers.

“You're so hot! Like sweet hot, like a warm cookie -”

You collapsed into giggles, flopping backwards onto the bed while Maddie narrowed her eyes at you.

“Oh she's definitely feeling that drink - or drinks, looks like it.” Dr. Han said, looking at Maddie. “I'll send in some water for her. Make sure she drinks it.”

Maddie nodded like a bobble head doll, biting her lip to not laugh. And he was clearly trying so hard not to laugh as well, and said, “You’re free to go, wild thing.”

You blinked. “No.”

“No?”

You threw your arms around his, like a koala. “I never want to leave you.”

Maddie literally had nothing to say for once. 

Dr. Han patted your arm with a fond smile and said “Drink that water.”

The next morning, you woke up to the sun on your face. Your mouth was dry. Your head? Pounding. Your ankle? Wrapped and throbbing. 

But worst of all?

You remembered everything.

Every. Last. Embarrassing. Second.

“Oh my God,” you whispered, pulling the blanket over your face. “No no no no no nooooo.”

“Oh look who's up!” Maddie’s evil gremlin voice floated in from the kitchen. 

You let out a long, dramatic groan.

“I’m never showing my face in a hospital again. If I get hit by a bus, just let me die.” you moaned, Moaning Myrtle style. 

Maddie strolled into your room, eating a blondie. She looked too smug for someone who’d watched you throw your dignity out the ER window like confetti.

“I’m sorry,” she said, completely not sorry. “But you were iconic. That man looked like he wanted to marry you and get a restraining order at the same time.”

You flopped onto your pillow, face buried. “I went to that party for you, Maddie. For you.”

“Ahh babe, obviously I can't get married when you're still single,” Maddie replied calmly, plopping down on your bed. “This is absolutely amazing. I have the artist. And you have the doctor. It's perfect!”

You screamed into the pillow.

“Oh, and by the way…” she said, wiggling a prescription in front of you. 

Your eyes narrowed. “What. Did. You. Do.”

“He said you'd have to go back for a review in two weeks. Also said you could call this number anytime. You know, in case you had doubts.”

“He said - quote - ‘if she doesn’t want to change her name and flee the country.’”

“He did not stay that.”

“Of course he did. Your ankle is totally fine, you don't need a fucking review for that -”

“MADDIE.”

Three weeks later:

It's safe to say that you didn't show up for that review. Your ankle felt better in two weeks like he said it would, and you had kept off it, so you were good now. 

You were out grocery shopping - standing in the dairy aisle, aggressively arguing with Maddie over two near-identical cups of yogurt like your friendship depended on it.

“I’m just saying,” you huffed, waving your yogurt like a weapon, “this one is natural, no added sugar, and it has live cultures. Probiotics, Maddie!”

Maddie rolled her eyes and held up her yogurt. “Oh my God. This one has vanilla bean specks, okay? Specks. It’s literally art in a cup.”

“Oh my God are you for real?”

“YES. Your yogurt looks like depression.”

You glared. She glared back.

And then out of nowhere - 

“Honestly?” said a very familiar voice, “I gotta go with hers.”

A head popped between you both, pointing at your yogurt. Time slowed. Your blood went ice cold, and then boiling hot.

Maddie scoffed with an, “Of course you'll say that.”

You turned your head slightly and locked eyes with Dr. Han Jisung, aka Hot Doc, aka the man you drunkenly tried to seduce while crying about your ankle.

He was standing there in a black t-shirt and jeans, a smug little smile playing on his lips.

“Natural yogurt?” he said, raising a brow. “Excellent choice.”

Your soul left your body. You stood frozen, holding the yogurt like it was a grenade, as Maddie went on about her vanilla yogurt. 

Jisung chuckled. “Nice to see you again, Maddie.”

“Yeah yeah, doc,”

“And you, Y/N,”

Oh he remembered your name. You wanted to climb into the freeze and turn into a popsicle - anything to escape this situation. 

“I - I didn’t mean to -” you started, eyes wide, face on fire. “Oh my God.”

He just grinned, stepping closer. “Hey, relax. It's no big deal.”

You blinked. “Please, it was embarrassing.”

“Honored, honestly.”

Maddie was vibrating with excitement. “I’m gonna go… look at cheese.”

You gave her death glare for abandoning you, but she was whisper-yelling at you (as if he wasn't  standing right there) to talk to him. She only moved two feet away, peeking from behind a display of gouda.

You turned back to Jisung, heart pounding.

“I’m so sorry,” you blurted. “For not coming in for that review.”

“It's totally ok,” he said, still smiling. “I figured you either came to your senses, or left the country.”

“I wanted to. Trust me. I mean, I hit on you like a drunk cartoon character.”

“A cute one though,” he teased. 

You tried to laugh, but obviously it may have come off as a grimace because honestly, you were dying. 

He leaned in, casually placing a hand on the freezer door and said, “It was flattering. You were bold. And hot. And you looked at me like you’d die if I didn't -”

Your brain short-circuited. “I did not -”

“You did.”

You backed up straight into the glass door. The chill was definitely needed at this point.

“I should go,” you mumbled.

“Or I could buy you coffee.”

You stared, your heart rate rising unnaturally fast. 

“Say yes, say yes” Maddie whisper-shrieked from behind the cheese.

“I…uh…”

He tilted his head. “You don’t want to?”

“No, I mean yes. I want to, I just…oh god, this is so embarrassing.”

“Okay, so we start from the top. Pretend we’ve never met. I’m Jisung. I’m a doctor. And I’m extremely attracted to you.” he said, holding out his hand.

You bit your lip, heart thudding.

“I’m… Y/N. And I absolutely wanna faint right now.” But you did shake that really warm but firm hand. 

(Maddie squealed so loud, she totally scared a grandma reaching for some soft cheese.) 

---

So your plans for watching trashy dating shows with Maddie and eating pizza shifted dramatically because here you were sitting across Jisung (he wanted you to call him that), hands wrapped around a warm coffee cup. And blushing so hard. 

The cafe was small and cozy, and he sat close on the cushioned bench beside you, hand brushing yours every few minutes like a gentle, ‘calculated’ accident as you shared a slice of cheesecake. 

You were trying to focus on the story he was telling - something about his med school days - but it was hard when he kept laughing in that perfectly rumbling, husky voice that made you want to climb him like a tree.

And to make things worse? Your menace of a best friend (and traitor who sold you off to the doctor, snatching your yogurt away) wouldn't stop texting you. 

Your phone. Would. Not. Stop. Vibrating.

Maddie 🥟🐱: Are you dead or getting railed in a supply closet???

Maddie 🥟🐱: Don’t forget to use protection. Oh he's a doctor, he'd be careful. Yet. 

Maddie 🥟🐱: I'M SURE HE’S GOOD AT ANATOMY OMG 

You choked on your coffee, turning your phone face-down with a bang.

Jisung raised a brow, amused. “Everything okay?”

“Oh, yeah. That was just… spam. Spammy spam. Ya know, normal… spam.”

“Aha, just spam?” he teased.

You groaned, covering your face with your hands.

“My best friend’s a menace. She thinks we’re having sex in a supply closet right now.”

He smirked, eyes twinkling. “Are we?”

“Jisung!”

He laughed, that full-body, boyish laugh that made your stomach do flips. You may have forgotten how to breathe.

He leaned in, and his thigh pressed fully against yours now, warm through your jeans. “You’re so adorable.”

“I’m just a girl with yogurt and trauma.”

He laughed again - low and intimate - and you felt like melting. Your body was on fire, every cell screaming: KISS HIM. RIGHT NOW.

And then your phone vibrated again. 

Maddie 🥟🐱: If you come home without at least a kiss to gush about, I’m disowning you.

You covered your face. “Oh God.”

Jisung drove you home some time later in his stupidly clean car (obviously, he's a doctor) that smelled like vanilla and something woodsy. The kind of scent that made you want to crawl into his hoodie and never leave.

The ride was warm and quiet, that kind of perfect silence where you could feel the air buzzing between you. Your heart was somewhere in your throat the entire time, because honestly, no one has ever made you feel this way. 

When he pulled up outside your place, you weren’t ready for it to end. But you let him walk you up the steps, slow and close, his hand brushing yours. Like he’d been holding back all night.

You reached your door, and he stopped, turning to you. Your porch light casted a soft glow on his face.

You looked up at him - this ridiculously perfect man who saw you at your absolute worst and still looked at you like you were the most beautiful human being on earth. 

So you stood on tip toes and pressed a soft kiss to his cheek. You felt his breath hitch, just slightly. And when you pulled back, his eyes were dark and amused.

“That’ll do,” he murmured. “For now.”

And then, without missing a beat, he raised his voice just slightly and said, “Bye, Maddie!”

A loud, high-pitched giggle came from the other side of the door.

You gasped. “Maddie!”

“Thanks for the moral support,” he added, smirking.

A dramatic thump followed by giggling came through the wood. Maddie’s voice sang back, “You’re welcome, Doc!”

You groaned but had to smile, because this was perfect. He reached out, gently brushing a loose strand of hair from your face.

“I’ll call you tomorrow,” he said.

“Okay.”

You opened your door, stepped halfway inside, turned back one more time.

“Goodnight, Jisung.”

“Goodnight, Y/N.”

---

You’d just leaned back against the door, face flushed, smile spreading so wide it hurt, when you heard rapid knocks on your door. 

Your heart jumped straight into your throat. You quickly opened the door and there he was.

Han Jisung. Slightly out of breath. Chest rising, eyes burning, mouth parted just slightly.

“Hi,” he said, softly.

“Hi,” you breathed.

You didn’t hesitate this time, leaping into his arms like an unhinged, horny Disney princess, and he caught you with a low laugh, arms wrapping tight around your waist. And then he kissed you.

Not the soft kind. No.

It was absolutely hot and messy, all breathless against your mouth. His hand slid up your back, the other gripping your hip tight. 

You melted against him, tugging him closer, kissing him back. You were so wrapped up in him, in everything, you didn’t even hear Maddie until - 

“Oh…Okay. I’ll just go.”

You both froze. Pulled apart slowly and turned.

There she was. Standing in the hallway with a grin on her face.

“Y’all have fun,” she chirped, and tiptoed away, giggling. And then silence.

Jisung looked at you and smirked.

“You gonna let me kiss you properly this time?”

“That wasn't proper enough?”

“No, not even close -”

“Oh?”

He didn't reply with words. He just showed you. 

Divider: @saradika-graphics

Tags: @moonchild9350 @velvetmoonlght @hwangjoanna @pixie-felix @sailor--sun @chancloud8 @captainchrisstan @hansmic @emilyywhyy @inlovewithstraykids @my-neurodivergent-world @nightmarenyxx @channie4lifeee143127 @lezleeferguson-120 @silly250 @pansexual-and-eating-pancakes @sammhisphere @soona-huh @princesskrystix @thecutiepieme @kenia4

[mappedfantasy]

> anything to get me to sleep

summary: vessel has insomnia and cuddles help him sleep. pairing: vessel x gn!reader warnings/tags: sleepy!vessel, roommate!vessel, insomnia, texting (brief), cuddling, non-sexual intimacy, feelings realization. word count: 1.6k a/n: i had promised someone on ao3 that i would make another sleepy!ves fic, so i'm fulfilling my promise to them! this was pretty self-indulgent as well, i love the idea of someone being so safe with you that it helps them sleep. and as always, roommate!vessel credit to the lovely wolfie <3 ao3 link

It had been a long time since you had learned Vessel struggles with insomnia. The information came slowly previous to you right out bringing it up to him one day. You had noticed how much coffee he drank by the cups in the sink, how a lot of times he’d still be awake as you left in the morning, his body language being restless. You heard it in his voice too, saw a certain daytime depression. After a while, it had started to worry you, and that's when you asked him about it. 

He was shy at first, tried to push it off with an awkward laugh. “No…?” you remember him saying, not a single bit convincing of himself or you. 

And when you had given him a look of non-conviction, he broke, telling you it had been something he deeply struggled with since he were a teenager. He told you he had to take melatonin to help him sleep, even though at times that didn’t work. Anything to try to get him to sleep, or so he said. 

You took it upon yourself to be of use when possible, providing what support you could for him to get some well deserved rest more frequently than he was able to achieve on his own. You decided you would never comment on it much either, at least not in a way that would make him feel worse about it than he did to begin with. 

Meaning you chose to never bring up the times he fell asleep on you during movies, where you’d get up as best you could without waking him up. He would wake up on the couch, no recollection of falling asleep, and a text message from you reminding him that you would be home soon. You felt a smidge bad about lying to him, but he needed the rest at any given chance he had. You didn’t blame him for it, so no use of bringing details up. The guilt he could feel because of it wasn’t worth it. Call you crazy, but you cared about his feelings. 

That was exactly what had happened now, Vessel had taken a couple melatonin in hopes to get some rest after his thirty-something hours of being awake. About an hour ago, he had told you that he was off to bed, joked that if you didn’t see him for three days then call it a miracle. 

You let out a startled laugh seeing a couple texts come onto your phone screen from him. 

Ves: i can’t sleep :( Ves: this is unfair 

Of course this happened, it was his luck. Completely unfair. The utmost injustice for the guy. The universe must have it out for him at this rate of things. Unfortunate.

You: you poor thing :(

You absently giggle to yourself after you receive no response back for a couple minutes. The mental imagery of him being huffed up in his bed with blankets wrapped around him, staring at his phone with a frown, is quite comical in the grand scheme of this. It wasn’t anything to allow to slide past him either, for him to sulk over while sleepy to the extremes (or at all, if you were to be especially honest with him) over some light teasing. You had lived with him long enough to know this, let alone be his friend for long enough. So, yeah, Vessel tended to act a bit “childish” while tired. 

You: do you wanna come to my room for cuddles? 

Promptly after leaving you on read, a lazy knock is at your door before being pushed open to reveal Vessel waddling to the edge of your bed. He flops face first into your mattress with a loud, over-the-top groan. He lifts his head just enough to pout at you, knowing your eyes are boring into him. You can’t help the soft sigh you let out as you reach your hand to scratch at the back of his head. Seeing him in this state made you feel a softness for him you tended to ignore. And you quickly stop thinking about it once he makes a noise at how good your nails feel on his scalp. 

“That feel good, yeah?” You breathily laugh, it’s delirious sounding. If he wasn’t too sleep deprived to catch it, he didn’t mention it or have any reaction to it. 

He sinks his face deeper into the fluffy blanket spread across your bed. You weren't sure how he was breathing in this position. “Mhm…” he amuses in agreement. 

“Do you want to come up here? Lay on me?” is offered to him. You tap at your chest with your free hand, although he can’t see what you’re doing at all. 

He makes a disgruntled noise. 

“No? It’ll be more comfy, Vess. You may even get to fall asleep,” you try to sweeten the deal. 

Another sound comes from him in time with turning his head to the side to say words lacking in muffledness. “Don’t want to move.” His voice is quiet and slowed, stretched thin. 

You laugh out. Your hand stops moving in his hair, you retract it back. “Well, then, no more head scratches.” 

Vessel snaps to look at you, chin resting on the blankets, eyes a little widened. Then comes his signature pout, the one you were imagining before. It doesn’t ever get any less cute. 

“Fine,” he mutters unenthusiastically. 

He picks himself up limply, dragging himself up your bed, and drives his face into your neck. This is where he melts down into nothing. His body deflates itself into yours, in a way that felt like lines blurred between where your body starts and where Vessel’s ends. 

Because of this, you stay silent for a couple moments, half-shocked and half-savoring of this feeling. Your hand hovers around the back of his head until his hand draws your hip impossibly closer to him. That’s when your fingers dip back down into his scalp. Your other hand strokes up and down his arm at a soothing pace. 

Cuddling wasn’t a new thing happening in your relationship, if you’d call being roommates with him a type of relationship. Cuddle sessions happened often between the two of you. Happened during movies on the sofa, if either of you had a nightmare, simply couldn’t sleep (much like what’s happening this time), if Vessel had a particularly long day. Thinking of it, cuddles had taken place every single day in the past as long as you could remember. 

When did that happen? 

When did you start remembering how all he seemed to want was an excuse to be close to you lately? How pouty he turned when you had questioned him about it instead of going with it naturally? When did he start coming behind you while you did the dishes or cooked a special meal for you both? When did he start to get closer to you on the sofa, blaming it on the lack of blanket, despite that one being a specifically huge one for sharing purposes only? When did he start to ask to hold your hand because he was “cold”? When did he start allowing himself to have this intimacy with you, and why? More importantly, when did you start to feel as if all these things were normal, letting them slip by you like this was always something that took place? Maybe like it was supposed to be happening.

“...and it’s frustrating that I still can’t sleep. Do you get what I mean?” Vessel’s voice comes into your main focus, becoming almost like an echo through your skull at how out of focus you were. 

During that time, he had moved his face out of your neck. Had opted to squish his cheek against your chest instead, nose half-stuffed into the cotton of your sweatshirt. 

“Mhm,” you hum. Bearings still aren’t with you fully, still distance in sound. 

Vess’ hand pinches at your side, making you jump in surprise. Well, you were surely back on Earth with that. “You weren’t listening to me.” You could hear the effects of his mouth being in a squished position. How cute. 

“Yes, I was!” you lie. 

He takes a pinch at you again. “You were not. I can tell when you’re lying.” He dryly laughs, empty of emotion, like that information should’ve been obvious to you. Maybe it should have been… 

“Okay, I’m sorry,” you admit, “What were you talking about?” 

He sighs dramatically, which you lightly flick him on the ear for, going on to summarize what he’d said, “What I said was that I’m really frustrated about how melatonin doesn’t work that much anymore. I take ten milligrams for fuck’s sake! I just wanna sleep.” He trails off at the end, changing to be more hushed. 

Your hand on his arm gives him a small squeeze, holding there for a few seconds too long. “Is this helping?” you ask. “You know, doing this? Me being here?” 

Same mhm from before is made. “More than you know.” Oh…

His face nuzzles more into the fabric of your shirt, balls up the bottom of it into his fist. He pulls forward with a gentle tug. He was not past greediness. This hand sneaks under the material, reaching up just enough to be able to palm at the flesh of your stomach. You feel him grin. It’s gooey, (love)sick, honeyed. He’s satisfied. 

All the while, you had some things coming into perspective that would be due for another time. Vessel needed rest. 

For once, Vessel was able to fall asleep within minutes. He hadn’t felt so at peace, so safe, in many moons. Eventually, he slowed in his breathing, had fallen asleep in record time for maybe his entire lifetime. He was safe with you, truly safe. He would never tell the tale, but you felt something of what the word “home” was meant to serve. 

[yearning-for-autumn]

First off love all your fics they are amazing you never fail to amaze😍🔥Can you please please please write an azris x chubby fem reader! The boys are possessive and ravage her like the goddess she is (she is a tad insecure but azris wil remind her she’s a thick baddie)🙌🏼🙌🏼 Give me all the smutty triad bond goodness! 🤤 Thank youuuu🫶🏼

Ask and ye shall receive. This kind of turned into subby Eris and I don't know how or why. I had milkmaid dresses on my mind so I did make reader a farmer's daughter...my vibe was sexy chubby milkmaid with the braid crown...does that make sense?

If this feels clunky it's because I haven't written in months but I feel like i've risen from the dead for this one, it's what Azris does to me.

Princess Problems

Warnings - Smut, talks of insecurities

Pairings - Eris x Azriel x Reader

Wordcount - 1,500

You threw your head back in a silent scream, the sound getting lodged in your throat until it emerged as a low rasping groan. You would have been embarrassed could you think of anything past Azriel, Eris, Azriel!

The two males shared a grin at the noise Azriel had drawn out of you. Pure male pride radiating from their smug faces. His tongue delved deeper as he continued his attention with renewed enthusiasm. Eris licked a stripe up the column of your neck and followed it with a light kiss to your jaw. 

“Azriel’s mouth is so talented, isn’t it Princess?”

You huffed in response, shooting him a pointed look. As if you could give him a verbal answer when Azriel’s tongue was wet and hot and curling perfectly inside your cunt, your hips hungrily meeting his licks, grinding against his face. Your stomach rolled with the eager thrill of pleasure, building steadily. A desperate hunger only Azriel could sate. Your thick thighs clamped around his head as the pleasure pulled taught, snapped, and you gurgled through a moan as it rushed through you in harsh clamping waves. 

It took a moment to catch your bearings, and blink your eyes open, taking in the sight of Azriel, hair mussed and flopping into his eyes as he drowned in your thighs. He waited patiently, eyes never leaving yours as he waited to be let up for air. You gasped and unclenched, freeing him, and he emerged with a gasp of his own. He flashed a cocky grin at Eris. 

“You wanna taste her?”

Eris grinned and tipped forwards to catch Azriel’s lips with his own, the two sharing your essence between them, their tongues dancing filthily as if they were performing for you. Hands moved first, tangling in the shadowsinger’s hair, then Eris scrambled into his lap, deepening the kiss and grinding down against Azriel’s straining leathers, their desire only heightened by the taste of you. You watched breathlessly. 

It had taken a while for the two males' passion for you to evolve into affection for each other. The first few times you had fallen into bed with them, they had been in competition; avoiding shared touch, fighting over positions, focusing solely on you. It had taken a stern conversation for you to open their eyes to the possibilities. Once the first steps had been taken, the rest fell perfectly into place. They fit together like jigsaw pieces. 

An old feeling bubbled to the surface again. You weren’t a warrior like Azriel, nor royalty like Eris. In fact, you were a farmer’s daughter. Not special at all. And yet these extraordinary fae had chosen you to ravage each night. You watched the dance of their tongues, Eris now squirming in Azriel’s lap. He submitted so beautifully to the shadowsinger. You simply got in the way. 

You sat up a bit more, crossing your legs. Eris broke off the kiss and blinked, trying to snap out of the haze Azriel was so practised at putting him in. Azriel looked your way as well, and pulled a face. 

“You know I don’t like those thoughts, Sweetheart.” He said with a disapproving voice, noticing instantly when you were worrying about something. His eyes were still black with lust, but he lifted Eris off his lap and crawled over you, pushing you down onto your back. 

“Do I need to remind you who got Eris all riled up in the first place?”

You tried to look away but his hand gripped your cheeks firmly and pulled you back to face him. 

“You.” He answered for you. He ran a scarred finger between your heavy breasts and the centre of your belly until he reached your centre. He came up with it coated in your juices and pushed it into your mouth. 

You grimaced at the taste of yourself and he laughed darkly. 

“Don’t like it?” 

You shook your head. 

“Don’t misbehave then.” He said with a smirk, enjoying the bratty huff it elicited. Eris moved to your side, running a hand down your arm softly. You looked into his sympathetic eyes. He had first hand experience of Azriel’s tough love. 

“You’re so beautiful.” He sighed wistfully. You looked away, suddenly feeling unworthy of his praise. 

“I’m not much of a princess.” You said, then cringed. It’s not like you were usually one to critisize yourself. But thoughts had crept in over time, whilst spending more and more of it in the royal sphere. You had calloused working hands, broad shoulders and what had been referred to once as ‘child bearing’ hips. A farmer’s daughter. Perhaps a farmer’s wife one day. Not a princess. Not a High Lord’s courtesan, or even, a High Lady. You were used to heavy labour, to hard work, not party planning and courtier meetings. Eris frowned deeply. 

“What do you mean by that?” He asked. You shrugged. He flashed a look at Azriel who looked equally confused. Neither of them were used to hearing any insecurities from you, and you could tell they thought it was about your looks. Azriel pushed himself up, massaging your hip under his calloused hand. 

“Have we not been attentive enough? Have we given you a reason to think that you aren’t the most stunning princess in all of Prythian?” Azriel questioned. You sighed. 

“It’s not that, it’s just...you two work so well together. Both of you are used to this life. I’m just a farmers daughter. I don’t fit into your world. You'd be better off with someone from nobility.” You swallowed.

This earned you a growl from Eris, but Azriel put a calming hand on his leg. 

“What Eris is trying to say, Sweetheart, is that we would not work without you as the glue holding us together. We don't want anyone else, we want you.” He said, gazing down at you with such an intense look you couldn’t avert your own eyes from his. Eris nodded in agreement.

“And you're very sexy.” He said. Azriel rolled his eyes.

“Your lovely High Lord’s brain is scrambled, care to look after him for me, clearly I have a more important job now.” You furrowed your brow and he elaborated, “Making you feel as good as you look, Sweetheart.”

You gave him a doe eyed look, not used to receiving so much praise at once, but also recognising a direct order when you heard one. You felt silly for raising your insecurities when you could have been having mind-blowing sex instead, but Azriel’s gentle kiss against your lips before you descended your mouth onto Eris’ cock gave you the reassurance you needed. He heard you. He cared. 

Eris let out a very un-high-lord-like squeak as your tongue swirled around the head of his length, quickly devolving into open mouthed panting. Azriel snorted. 

“As if you would think you don’t fit with us. Poor poor Eris, her tongue is a sinful thing isn’t it baby?”

You couldn’t laugh around Eris, but your amused hum had his hips bucking hard, Azriel pumped his own length at the sight and gave a rare look of pained pleasure as he hissed at the contact. 

“Been wanting to do this since you suffocated me in those delicious thighs.” He said with a twinge of desperation, sinking deep into your soaked entrance. You were filled from every direction, spitroasted between your lovers, and loving every second. Your mind quietened, focused solely on the pleasure of your lovely males and of course, the soft roll of your own that crept into your belly with every roll of Azriel’s hips. 

He was uncharacteristically soft and you were about to pull off Eris to ask him to hurry when his hands buried into the soft flesh of your hips hard enough to leave bruises, and he slammed back in with the force of a male desperate to come. You moaned gutterally around Eris’ cock, and were almost gagged by his responding thrust. 

“Oh fuck, oh f-fuck, fuck.” Eris whines, losing any decorum as he buried his hands in your hair and came hard down your throat. You swallowed it all, licking up the drips that dribbled from his length after you had pulled away. He squeezed his eyes shut. 

Azriel was pounding deep inside of you, his shadows swirling frantically around his hips. You always wondered if they shared in his pleasure. You let out a closed mouthed whine, burying your face in Eris’ stomach as you surrendered to your pleasure. You were nearing the peak, legs shaking, but you couldn’t fall over the edge without more. Eris leaned down without needing to be asked, knowing what you wanted. His hand snaked underneath you and pressed down on your clit. You ground into his fingers desperately as you chased the feeling that was now in reach. Clenching around Azriel in harsh waves, you released. The pressure turning to toe-curling relief. Azriel growled as the tightness of your pussy milked his own orgasm from him, his hips jerking erratically until he was completely spent. 

The three of you cosied up, with you cocooned between them, Azriel’s hand stroking your hair softly whilst Eris seemed to fall into a light sleep against your shoulder. Your chest loosened as you realised. It was the three of you. You belonged.

A/N - Do they have princesses in Prythian?

[heavensgaze]

fanart for some clangen // warrior cat comics i've been very into lately !! all of the blogs will be linked below the cut.

PLEASE go check all of them out if you haven't.

Lilac is from @mammoth-clangen - your comic has been on my reading list for ages now and when someone suggested Lilac for this it gave me the perfect opportunity to sit and read. i love the choice to write in first person from the perspectives of the characters. it creates a really intense emotional weight in the story. your art is also just SO stunning. your environment and background work is to die for. Lilac is such a good character. he has this quiet dignity around him that i really love in a character.

Coalfrost is from @rainy-wc - rain has heard me gush about shoreclan and The Watchful Eyes of the Sea so so much already but that's not going to stop me from doing it here too. the atmosphere of the comic is so mysterious and bleak in the best way. the way you write the dialogue really feeds into the culty energy, with everything seeming so innocent on paper but also so incredibly guarded that something must be going on. i love the jagged shapes and the use of color so much too. you know i love coalfrost... i can't wait for people to see more of her.

Flowerdaisy and Rapidpaw are both from @sunclan-rising - i fell in love with your art the moment i saw it. i love the vibrant colors and sharp lines, and how varied each character's shapes are. it gives them so much personality. seeing what happened to little rapidpaw broke me, and then i remembered that flowerdaisy is practically a kit herself at 18 moons??? i can't imagine how this is weighing on her, and can't wait to see where it goes from here. (also sorry for flopping and calling them peakpaw... a classic jj L, i fear TT_TT)

Greenberry is from @fallenclan - i've probably read through fallenclan in its entirety four or five times at this point. i ADORE the way you draw cats, and the longevity of the comic is such an inspiration to me. i think one of the coolest things about fallenclan is how everyone seems to have their favorite little background character, regardless of their relevance. you're so good at making every single character have so much personality, even if they only show up once or twice. greenberry is my personal fav!! people who know me will know that a character having "green" in their design (or name, in this case) is a surefire way to my heart. she's MY clairvoyant little sweetie...and i was so excited to see her get her new accessory.

Leapmist is from @ask-littleclan - first off... it was SO hard deciding which littleclan cat to draw. your character designs are so next level and inspiring to me!! and the comic is BEAUTIFUL??? the colors are so tasty and the way you use all of the space on each page is insane. like i can only aspire to have that level of visual interest. i chose leapmist because i LOVE how pointy they are, and i figured they deserve it considering their new promotion. i'm so very excited to see where the story goes, and i hope you're able to get lots of rest and that the new term goes super smoothly for you!

Yewstar is from @righteous-pines - if it's not very obvious from the content of gardenclan, i LOVE a story about religion. i'm very excited to see where your comic goes, especially since it starts with this guy losing a life? his design is SO fun. i love a grumpy old man, and his spiky fur and beard are such good details. i am such a big fan of how you draw cats, especially the really round ones. it's SO fun. and the detail and backstories you've given everyone are crazy intriguing.

Doll is from @ask-graveclan - i was torn between drawing doll and whispstar (I LOVE GREEN CATS!) but doll's design is kind of everything to me. every single cat in this clan is breathtaking. seriously. i could look at your art all day? graveclan is so full of mystery and intrigue... i need to know who killed this absolute SWEETIE. i hope her and sunpaw stay safe as they investigate... i'm also so invested in their little ghost romance too...

Siltsplash is from @loudclan-clangen - i've actually made fanart for loudclan before. it feels like ages ago now, but i don't think i would have gone down the clangen comic rabbithole at all if i hadn't found loudclan. it's SO special to me. Siltsplash and Wildfirecry are my faves, but since i've drawn the latter before, Silt was the obvious choice :3 i LOVE them so much and they've suffered more than christ on the cross... i love their relationship with their adopted sons, and their relationship with owlstar, even if i think they should be allowed to throw rocks at him forever. your art is so charming. i love the way you draw cats and i love how expressive everything is. your ability to convey emotion not just through their faces but through colors and framing is SO impressive to me. and the worldbuilding you've done is also so good. it's such a fresh take on the warrior cats formula. you are one of my biggest inspos for Our Garden Under Heaven. i'm SO excited to see where this story goes... and scared. but mostly excited!!

i'm so sorry that i'm incapable of being brief, but i hope you all know how much i love and appreciate your art!! thank you for doing what you do!

[jussstlovely]

Nothing's Gonna Hurt You Baby

Hyung Line Bf! Enhypen members comfort you when you’re stressed.

Mostly fluff but some angst, WC: around 2k altogether

Warnings: kissing, hugging, and use of pet names instead of y/n

Disclaimer: NSFW accounts DNI, please

an: Just a little something I wrote. Right now I am writing headcannons more than full fics, so I will open my requests if you have something you want me to write, (please read my rules page before requesting). Anyway, hope you enjoy!

Heeseung 희승

It was a Friday night when he heard the keys opening the door. He popped up to the sound, a smile forming on his face, but quickly disappeared when he saw you with an upset expression and tears in your eyes. He immediately got up to hug you, holding you there for a few moments before he pulled away to look at you. 

“Baby, what happened?” he asked with worry. 

“I had a hard day”, you were trying to hold back your tears as you replied, he noticed. 

“Do you want to talk about it?” 

“Mm…no, not right now, at least”

He agreed and took your heavy bag off of your shoulder. 

Once he left to take your bag to his room you completely broke down. Heeseung couldn’t hear your silent cries and you were thankful for that, the reason why you were like this is was because of the workload that your teachers gave you. This week was long so you were looking forward to its end, but of course, your teachers had to assign 3 exams on Monday and 2 projects that took at least a day to work on.

You didn’t notice when your boyfriend came back into the room, and that he was there comforting you by rubbing your back. You forced yourself to stop crying. 

A moment of silence passed between you two before you got up trying to go to your room. Heeseung stopped you. 

“Where are you going?” he asked in a soft voice. 

“I’m sorry but I need to start studying, I’ll be in my room” you replied quietly. 

You were stopped by his hand gently grabbing your wrist. 

“Have you eaten yet?” he asked. You shook your head. “Love you should eat, would you like me to make you some ramen?” 

Your head popped up to that question and you nodded your head in reply. 

He smiled, “Okay, come sit down here and I’ll make you your ramen” 

You quietly moved to sit on the chair, admiring him as he made your ramen, his eyebrows furrowing sometimes to focus. 

“Okay, here you go my love, eat up,” he says as he hands you the bowl filled with ramen. 

The smell of the ramen was enough to make your stomach grumble in hunger and without hesitation, you took a bite. 

Heeseung moved to sit next to you, staring at you in awe and care.

Some moments passed before you showed him your empty bowl, and he smiled in return. As he got up to rinse your bowl you quietly admitted what had been stressing you out. He heard it. 

“Well, I promise that I’ll help you every step of the way, I’ll always be here. But you look tired, why don’t we take a nap first?

“Okay,” you said as you got up to hug him. 

After a few minutes, you two moved to your guy’s room and flopped on the bed together. 

As Heeseung pulled the covers up, you looked up at him with admiration. 

“What?” he asked with a grin. 

“Nothing, I’m just lucky to have you” 

“I’m lucky to have you, baby. I love you”

“I love you too.” Soon you guys fell into a deep sleep, both with smiles on your faces.

︶ ︶︶ ⊹ ︶︶ ୨♡୧ ︶︶︶ ⊹ ︶︶

Jay 제이

When you get stressed, you tend to block out everyone from your life, just for a moment, until you feel ready to talk again. You've been doing that ever since you were young when the fights or the amount of homework was too much, but you finally stopped when you met Jay. 

Jay can read you like an open book, he knows when you're tired, angry, or sad and he especially knows when you’re stressed. 

So whenever you’re stressed now, instead of locking yourself up in your room, you go to him for comfort. He usually just cuddles with you or cooks you something, but today, he was busy working on a new song, you remember him telling you to not come in his room until he’s done working on the song but today has been such a hard and stressful day it had completely slipped your mind as you walked towards Jay’s room with tears coming down your face, you just wanted a hug from him. 

Once you opened the door, he was surprised to see you there at first but that surprised look turned into a worried look as he saw you crying in front of him. 

“Aww baby what happened?” he asked as he gestured to come closer to him. 

“Can I have a hug?” you asked sniffling. 

“Of course baby, come here” 

You guys stayed in that hug for a few moments until he asked again.

“Ugh, I just feel so stressed right now, I have so many assignments to do, and one of my friends isn't talking to me and I don’t know what I did, I mean-“ 

“Baby,” he interrupts your rambling. 

“Yeah?” 

“It’s gonna be okay, you’re gonna be okay I promise I will do everything that I can to make your stress go away,” he said as he wiped the tear from your cheek, you didn’t even notice that you were crying again. 

“Thank you”

“Of course sweetheart”

“Do you want to hear what I’ve been working on?” 

You replied with an enthusiastic nod which made him smile. 

As he grabbed his guitar you went to sit on his bed, he faced the chair to you and started playing your favorite song. 

‘Whispered something in your ear’

‘It was a perverted thing to say’

‘But I said it anyway’

‘Made you smile and look away’ 

While he was playing you couldn’t help but smile and tear up.

‘Nothing’s gonna hurt you, baby’ 

As he sang that lyric he looked up at you with a smile on his face, this was exactly what you needed,

‘Nothing’s gonna take you from my side…’

Soon the song ended and as he moved to put his guitar down you rushed to hug him in your arms. Tears started pouring down your face again. 

“Thank you I needed that. You did such a good job!”

“Thank you, baby, I love you” 

“I love you too” 

︶︶︶ ⊹ ︶︶ ୨♡୧ ︶︶︶ ⊹ ︶︶

Jake 제이크

You came home from a tough day at school and work, all you wanted was cuddle with your boyfriend, but when you came home, it was silent and the lights were off. You were sure Jake would tell you if he went out. You were about to call him until you heard him talking to his friends. Oh, he’s playing video games right now. 

Taking off your shoes and dropping your bag on the chair you headed to your room until you saw him come out of his room, headset still on, carrying an empty but dirty plate. 

“Oh, baby hi!” Jake said coming to hug you.

“Hi, Jake,” you said in his arms with a tired expression.

“What’s wrong? You okay?” he asked as he noticed the sad tone in your voice. 

“Can I talk to you?” you asked with tears forming in your eyes. This made Jake start worrying about you, you wanted to talk? About what? About you guys? About your relationship?

“Uhm yeah okay, just give me a sec, I have to put these dishes in the sink”.

“Okay, I’ll be in your room”.

Once you were in his room, you went to sit on his bed, trying your hardest not to cry. 

Once Jake came in, he closed the door and went to sit in front of you. 

“So, what did you want to talk about?” That’s when you surprised him by wrapping your arms around him, crying on his shoulder. 

“Woah, baby, what happened? Talk to me”. That’s when you finally told him about how poorly your day went, you told him every detail from how horrible your classes were to how the customers and employees treated you, even telling him how you were starving all day because you forgot to pack your snack and lunch. 

“I’m so sorry baby, what can I do to help?”

“Just stay here with me?”

“Of course baby,” he said as he moved to lay down with you. 

You two stayed in each other’s arms until he got a call from his friends, telling him to hop back on the game. 

“Dude I’m with my girlfriend right now, she had a hard day,” he said on the phone. To which his friend apologized, and Jake went back to lay with you. 

“It’s okay, you can go back to playing with your friends babe.” 

“No no it’s okay, I’ll stay here with you”.

With that, he went back to holding you in his arms, until he got another call, this time on his PC. 

“Oh my gosh!” he yelled as he got up abruptly, about to end the call until you told him again that he should go play with his friends. 

“Are you sure?”

You nodded in reply. That’s when he had an idea.

“Do you want to sit with me while I play?” he asked from his chair. 

“Hmm sure,” you said as you went towards him. You climbed on his lap and put your head on his shoulder as he answered the call with his friends. 

As you were laying on his shoulder, listening to him talk to his friends, you started humming your favorite song at the moment, ‘Nothing's Gonna Hurt You Baby’. Jake must’ve heard you because he started singing the lyrics quietly while he was muted. 

You looked up from his shoulder, “You know that song?”

“Yeah, I love Cigarettes After Sex”. You kissed him.

“Wha-What was that for?” Jake asked, slightly surprised by your boldness. 

“Nothing, I just love you”

“Well, I love you too”. He said as he kissed you again. 

Several kisses later, his friends started calling him, but he ended up leaving the call. 

“Why’d you leave?” you asked, he looked down at you with a soft smile. 

“Because I’d rather spend my time with you,” he said as he got up from his chair, taking your hand and leading you to his bed. You followed him. 

Once you two got under the covers he turned off all the lights and said goodnight. 

“I love you”

“I love you too baby”.

︶︶︶ ⊹ ︶︶ ୨♡୧ ︶︶︶ ⊹ ︶︶

Sunghoon 성훈

You and Sunghoon have been dating for 2 months now, and it’s been amazing, he’s so caring and loving and cute, ugh, he’s such a perfect boyfriend, so why are you arguing with him right now? 

“No, Sunghoon, it’s the fact that you didn’t do the dishes when I asked you five times today”

“Okay, I’m sorry, I’ll do them right now,” Sunghoon said, walking towards the kitchen. 

“No, no, that’s not the point!…do you know how stressful my week has been? School has been giving me hell, and after that, I have to go work and deal with crappy customers, and then I get here expecting a clean home, but then I see these dirty dishes piling in the sink, and I end up having to do them every. single. day ....all I want is to come home to a nice clean house, and I understand that you’re busy too, but I’ve asked you five times today. Is that too much to ask for?”

“I-I didn’t know that that’s how you’re feeling” 

“Yeah, that is how I’m feeling,” you said as you grabbed your keys and headed towards the door.

“Wait, baby, where are you going?”

“I’m going to get some fresh air,” you said as you slammed the door shut. 

It was now silent in the apartment, Sunghoon didn’t know whether to run after you, stay here and clean the dishes, or just lock himself in his room. You guys never fought, and the way you just reacted worried him, why couldn’t he just listen to you and do the dishes when you asked?

As you got into your car, you completely broke down, why are you feeling like this? Why did you yell at Sunghoon? He didn’t deserve that. You should apologize, but you’re not ready to talk to him right now. He probably wants to break up after that, it’s only been 2 months, and he’ll get over you easily, but you’re not ready to leave him, you love him. Oh my gosh, you love him. 

Back at the apartment, Sunghoon was lying on his bed worrying about you when he heard the keys to the door open. He popped up, you’re back. 

When you opened the door to your apartment, the first thing you noticed was the clean dishes, you smiled and started walking towards Sunghoons door. 

There was a knock on his door, and he got up to open it and saw you, mascara was smudged by your eyes, and you were starting to cry again. You went to hug him immediately, and he hugged you back tighter. 

“I’m sorry, Sunghoon, I didn’t mean to yell at you. I've just been so stressed out lately, and I took it out on you, and I feel so guilty-“ 

“Shh, it’s okay, love. I’m sorry that you’re stressed, and don’t apologize it’s not your fault it was mine, I should’ve listened to you when you asked me,” he reassured you, leading you to sit on his bed.

“No, I’m sorry, please don’t leave me, just stay here with me, please” 

He was surprised by your words, “Sweetie, why do you think I’ll leave you?” 

“I thought that after that fight, you wouldn’t want to put up with me-“

“No, no, of course not, babe, I’ll never break up with you.” He gently grabbed your chin, making you look up at him. 

“Baby, I won’t ever leave you like that, okay? And please don’t feel guilty for getting mad at me when it was my fault.” 

“Okay,” you said, leaning your head on his and looking into his eyes. 

You two stared at each other for a few seconds before Sunghoon closed the gap between you both. 

Sunghoon grabbed your waist to pull you closer, and you started threading your fingers in his hair, then you both pulled away, slightly out of breath.

He stared at you with loving eyes. 

“I love you Y/n”

“I love you too, Sunghoon” 

In those moments, you both hope that there will be many more days together and how lucky you are to have each other.

Hope you enjoyed it, if you did please like, comment or reblog! thank you 𓂃۶ৎ