#because i want you to know what it feels like to be haunted

[kominigiru]

he wishes for the cloths of heaven.

summary: You’ve lived through his descent into obsession countless times, through fire and ash, through the birth of the man you fear he will become. And in every cycle, Phainon doesn’t remember. Until he does.

contains: 3.2k wc, gender-neutral reader, yandere phainon, time loop, regression

[01]: ENTRY HOUR

It always begins the same way.

You’re in the market, standing at the heart of the square as if summoned there. A crowd surrounds you, murmuring with low excitement, their eyes bright with awe and ignorance. They speak in half-whispers; about the man on the ground groaning in pain, and about the hero standing over him like judgment given form.

You look down. The stranger clutches his ribs, coughing between gasps after having been punched to the gut. You remember this part. He’d brushed past you earlier, jostling your bag, maybe trying to take a coin or two. But he never got the chance. He always never will.

You already know how this goes.

Phainon stands before you. He’s beautiful in that tragic, unbearable way. Familiar. Haunting. Comforting only because once, a long time ago—or maybe in a dream you keep reliving—you know him.

Or thought you did.

Or still do, in that aching, slow-poison kind of way.

He sees you. He always sees you.

There’s no trace of blood on him. No soot or scorched scent—as if violence has never dared to touch him. He turns to you, holding up the small cloth bag you dropped. The fruits you’d bought earlier, still nestled inside.

You don’t move. You’ve done this too many times.

His head tilts just so, the smile staying carefully in place—but his eyes flicker, uncertain. There’s always a moment where something falters in him. Like he’s waiting for this loop to be different. Like he knows.

“Hey…” he says. And then, with such sincere concern that it used to tear at you: “Are you alright?”

You answer the same as you always do, voice too smooth from repetition. “Yes, thank you.” A pause. “Sorry.”

(What are you apologizing for? Dropping the bag? Running too late into the day? For what will come?)

You’ve tried changing the script before. You’ve snatched the bag and bolted. You’ve ignored him entirely. Once, you told him to leave you alone.

You always wake up the next loop with ash in your lungs.

Delaying it is the best you can do now. Stalling him with politeness. It’s the only thing that buys you time.

Phainon’s smile stretches, and the gleam in his eyes sharpens. You see pride there. Relief. Devotion—so bright that it burns. As though your words were something sacred, and he, the ever-faithful priest, has been waiting all day just to receive them.

Your stomach coils. Your heart flutters in your chest, treacherous and weak. There’s a warmth that spreads inside you—slow, crawling, and wrong.

(It disgusts you.)

You take the bag. His fingers brush yours. The touch is light, but you feel it like an ember pressed to skin.

“I was worried for a moment,” he says. “You looked pale.”

“I’m fine,” you lie.

Phainon eyes you like he wants to believe that.

The crowd behind you is dispersing, now that the performance is over. The groaning man has been dragged away by guards. Another faceless thief punished. Another small disturbance silenced.

He walks beside you now. You don’t remember starting to walk, but somehow you’re moving down the cobbled path, and Phainon is there, matching your pace.

“You always carry too much on your own,” he says, gesturing at your bag, tone light, teasing.

You manage a polite hum, clutching the bag tighter.

And then, soft as ever, he says, “I’ve missed seeing you.”

The words knock the breath out of you. Not because they’re unexpected—he always says them—but because they never lose their weight. They fall on you like stones, each one heavier than the last.

He doesn’t know—doesn’t remember—that you’ve lived this moment a hundred times before. But you do.

And every time he says that, he means it. Like he’s aching for you. Like he’d burn the world down just to see you smile again.

(And one day—soon—he will.)

“I’ve been busy,” is what you always say.

You don’t remember when you started giving that answer—only that the truth became harder and harder to find each time you looped. Once, maybe, you gave him a different response. Something honest. But that was in your first life, a hazy memory blurred by ash and time. You were a different person then—softer. Naive.

You barely remember that version of yourself now. That first life feels like a dream slipping between your fingers, too distant to hold onto.

Phainon’s expression doesn’t shift. He wears the same understanding look he always does when you say those three words. The same gentle smile, the one that once felt like sunlight and now presses like a knife around your throat.

You used to love that smile. Now it just terrifies you.

Because you’ve seen what lies beneath it. What it becomes when devotion rots into obsession. When love sharpens into something that cuts.

“Teaching the children, right?” he says.

You nod, too stiff.

The script continues.

You can almost recite his lines along with him. Sometimes he teases you—“I’m starting to think they’re stealing you from me,”—and sometimes he drifts into memory, speaking of those student days beneath Professor Anaxa’s guidance, when everything was simpler and he didn’t look at you like the world ended and began in your eyes.

This time, he doesn’t say either of those things.

And that should’ve been your first warning.

He’s quiet a moment too long. You feel the weight of his gaze, heavy and unfamiliar in its stillness.

Then…

“Do you not get tired?”

Your body locks up.

Your breath stills.

Your heart thunders.

He has never said that before.

Everything else has looped like clockwork, minor variations aside. But this line—it’s foreign. It doesn’t belong. It’s like hearing a wrong note in a melody you’ve memorized, jarring and wrong in a way that sends ice through your veins.

You turn to look at him, eyes wide. “What do you mean…?”

Phainon meets your gaze, and something in his expression has changed. There’s no confusion. No soft amusement. Just a quiet, unreadable calm that makes your fingers tighten around the bag you’re carrying.

The street around you fades into background noise—the shuffling feet, the clatter of carts, the merchants haggling. It all feels far away now. Too far.

“You work so hard,” he says gently. “You wake up before the Ascent Hour. You teach all day. You give and give and give. Do you ever think of stopping?”

Stopping?

You can’t speak. There’s something stuck in your throat. You feel as though you’re standing at the edge of a cliff, and he’s just taken a step toward you.

Your fingers tremble.

“You don’t have to carry it all alone, you know,” Phainon murmurs, leaning in slightly. “You have me. I’d take all of it from you, if you let me. The work. The weight. The burden.”

The choice, you think, but don’t say.

Because he doesn’t mean help. He never has.

You’ve heard this voice before—not here, not now, but after. After he becomes the man that you will fear. After the city burns. After you beg him to let someone live and he smiles and says, “Why does it matter? You’re safe. That’s all that ever mattered.”

Your throat is dry. You force a smile. “I… I don’t mind. I like the work.”

“But does it make you happy?” he asks.

You don’t have an answer. And somehow, you know he’s not expecting one.

He steps closer. Close enough that you can smell the warmth of the sun on him, and beneath it, faintly—smoke.

“I think,” he says slowly, like tasting the thought for the first time, “you’d be happier if you didn’t have to pretend.”

Your stomach sinks.

Something’s wrong.

Something’s wrong.

Something’s wrong.

Something’s wrong.

Something’s wrong.

He’s never spoken like this before. Not in this part of the loop. Not with this kind of clarity.

You step back without meaning to. He notices.

A beat passes.

Then Phainon smiles again, gentle and knowing.

“You’re scared,” he says. Not accusing. Not angry. Just… sad. As if your fear is the only thing in the world that could ever wound him.

Your mouth opens, but nothing comes out.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “I’m not going to hurt you.”

Maybe not you, but everyone else—he has. He will.

You’ve seen it.

A thousand endings where fire blooms across cities. Where blood coats his hands and your name spills from his lips like a prayer.

You swallow. “I need to go.”

“Okay,” he says softly, stepping aside.

You walk away. You don’t run. But your mind screams at you with every step.

Something changed.

You don’t know how many more loops you’ll endure.

The Curtain-Fall Hour slips quietly into the Entry Hour, and like every time before, you wake with the same bitter awareness tucked beneath your skin:

You will live this day again.

And again.

And again.

You rinse in silence. Your eyes are hollow in the basin’s reflection, like you’re watching someone else go through the motions. But the moment water touches your face, you’re brought back.

Children. Teaching. Routine.

That is your anchor. That is what keeps the world from spinning out of control.

You towel off and set to work, peeling and slicing the fruit Phainon had retrieved for you yesterday—the fruit that should have been stolen, had he not intervened.

You grimace.

His name alone sends a tight ripple down your spine. You hate how even thinking about him can still stir emotion. And worse—familiarity. You hate the way your fingers still remember the shape of his hand brushing yours. How your chest still reacts like it did the first time, when his love felt like sunlight and not fire.

You refocus.

Small slices. Bite-sized. Easy to chew. You’ve done this hundreds of times—maybe more. You know the measurements by heart. The right sweetness that will make the children smile.

By the time Ascent Hour glows through the windows, you’ve baked enough fruit cookies to feed a full class. You tuck them into a woven basket, along with a book or two.

You step out, prepared for normalcy—needing normalcy.

But normalcy is a luxury that has long abandoned you.

You always meet them near the Court of Seasons. And when you arrive, the children are already there.

And so is he.

You freeze the moment you see him.

Phainon stands with the children, cloaked in soft laughter. His snowy hair gleams in the sunlight, his posture relaxed and regal, yet casual. The children giggle around him, tugging at his sleeves.

It should be picturesque. It would be, if not for the twist in your gut.

He’s not supposed to be here. He’s never here during this time. This hour is always yours—yours and the children’s. He should be at the palace or riding across Amphoreus on duty. In every loop before, he’s absent until midday at the earliest.

Another deviation.

Your throat tightens.

When you step closer, the children notice you immediately, and the quiet thrill in their voices momentarily cuts through your dread.

“You’re here!”

“Good day!”

“What are we reading about today?”

You manage a small smile for them. “Good morning,” you say gently. “I brought something sweet today, since you’ve all been doing so well.”

Their excitement renews, loud and bright.

And then—Phainon turns.

He’s already smiling, but when he sees you, it deepens—bright and full, like the kind of smile carved into marble. You’ve seen that smile before, so many times.

“It’s good to see you again,” he says, as if it’s been longer than a day. “I was waiting with the children for you. They’re really good kids.”

“They are,” you say cautiously, casting a glance toward him.

The children chime in again, voices overlapping.

“Of course!”

“Our teacher taught us to be well-behaved!”

Phainon laughs—and you hate how natural it looks. How convincing. His upper body shakes slightly with the motion, and you catch the way he glances at you mid-laugh, as though gauging your reaction.

You don’t smile.

“You’re not busy today?” you ask, voice careful. Your grip tightens around the basket.

His answer comes too fast.

“No,” he says, all ease and affection. “I made sure I had free time today so I can spend it with you.”

Your lips part slightly, but nothing comes out at first. You force something neutral.

“You didn’t have to… trouble yourself.”

“It’s no trouble,” Phainon replies. His gaze lingers too long. “There’s nowhere else I’d rather be.”

Your stomach twists.

Wrong. This is wrong. This is too early.

He shouldn’t be this close again yet. Not until the week’s end. Not until the dream burns out and resets again. But here he is, planting himself into your quietest hours.

You glance at the children. They’re already picking out books from your basket. One tugs at your sleeve.

“Can we read the one about the lion that swallowed the sun?”

You kneel and nod. “Of course. That one’s a favorite, isn’t it?”

Phainon lowers himself slowly beside you, uninvited. He doesn’t speak. He just watches you, head slightly tilted.

You hand the child a cookie and feel your skin prickle as Phainon’s hand brushes near yours again. Not touching. Almost.

His hand stops just short of yours.

You stare at his open palm, hesitant and confused. There’s no trace of malice there, not in the way his fingers hover so gently, or in the slight curl of his wrist like he’s trying not to reach too far.

“Can you give me some, too?” His voice is soft, almost pleading. There’s a tightness in it. Something like longing. Something like loss.

You blink at him, incredulous. “These are for the children,” you say, tone flat.

He tilts his head, a lopsided smile tugging at his lips. “Well, can’t you spare a few for a friend?”

Friend.

He says it so gently. So deliberately. Like he’s testing it. Like he’s waiting to see if it feels wrong to his own ears.

You stare at him for a few moments, gaze unblinking. There’s something pathetic in the way he’s crouched beside you, palm outstretched, expectant. Something childlike and pitiful. It’s almost surreal—he, the one who would one day set the world on fire for your sake, looking at you as though this is what he truly wants. A sweet from your hand.

You sigh.

You reach into the basket and pick out two biscuits. You press them into his open palm.

“I will only give you this much and no more,” you tell him, eyes hard. “You understand?”

With his other hand, he lifts two fingers in a mock salute. “Yes, teacher!”

There’s laughter from the children around you, who seem to think he’s being silly. They don’t notice how tightly he holds the cookies—how he almost crushes them with his hand. They don’t see how his smile flickers for a fraction of a second, like he’s about to say something else—something not meant for this moment.

You don’t give him the chance.

You turn to the children, your voice warmer now—on purpose. “Who else wants cookies?”

Their hands shoot up with cheers and excited chatter, and the next few minutes are spent in a whirl of handing out treats and books, settling them down on the blanket. You read aloud, letting the familiar rhythm of the story wrap around you like armor.

And Phainon?

He sits beside you the entire time. Silent. Patient. Watching.

He doesn’t eat the biscuits.

He holds them in his lap, fingers curled protectively around them as though they’ll vanish if he lets go.

And for just a second, you risk a glance his way.

His eyes are on you.

You quickly return to the text, trying not to let it show—the thrum in your veins, the fear that’s blooming slow and heavy in your chest.

The script is slipping.

The lesson ends as it always does—with the children full of laughter and crumbs, chasing each other, their minds still buzzing from stories and sweets.

You pack the blanket in silence. The books are neatly stacked. The empty basket rests in your arms like a final weight. And then—

“I’ll walk you home.”

You freeze.

Phainon stands beside you with that easygoing smile.

“…You don’t need to,” you say, your voice careful, light. “It’s a short walk.”

He only tilts his head. “I know.”

You blink. “Then—”

“But I want to,” he interrupts, taking a step closer. “It’s not like I don’t know the way.”

You grip the handles of the basket tightly.

No. He shouldn’t know the way.

“Phainon,” you start, tone low. “You have duties, don’t you?”

He shrugs. “It can wait a little longer.”

You swallow thickly. “You’ve never said that before,” you murmur, as if testing the words.

He stops. Blinks once. Then smiles wider. “Haven’t I?” It’s innocent. A tease. But it isn’t.

Because his voice dips—just slightly—into something heavier. As if he’s catching up to himself. As if a thread has pulled taut somewhere behind his eyes, tugging at buried things.

You don’t reply. You just start walking. And, of course, he falls into step beside you.

The path is quiet. Too quiet. You can hear the hush of wind through the trees, the soft clicking of your shoes on the stone path, the creak of your basket as you hold it tighter and tighter.

Phainon walks with his hands behind his back. He hums a little, like he’s trying to pretend this is all normal. Maybe for him, it is.

“You used to hum that,” he says suddenly, voice gentle. “When you cooked.”

Your steps falter.

You never hummed that song in this life. Not even once. You haven’t sung it since—since before—

“…That’s not possible,” you whisper.

Phainon turns to you. “What’s not?”

You don’t answer. You can’t. You focus on walking, faster now, hoping to outpace the dread growing inside you.

“I missed this,” he speaks, unprompted, again. “Walking with you. Watching your shoulders relax a little, when you think no one’s looking.”

You stop. You stop walking entirely.

Slowly, you turn to face him.

His eyes are shining. Soft. Full of something—longing, ache, a grief he doesn’t yet fully understand.

“Phainon,” you say, and your voice comes out hollow. “What is wrong with you?”

He doesn’t answer right away, but his smile falters.

Then he leans closer, head tilted, like he’s peering through you instead of at you. And in a voice so quiet it could be mistaken for prayer, he murmurs, “I keep seeing you die.”

Your blood runs cold.

He tilts his head the other way, searching your face, eyes glassy now. “I don’t know when. Or how. Sometimes it’s fire. Sometimes it’s… worse. But you’re always gone. And I’m always too late.”

You can’t breathe.

“And every time I see you again,” he adds, his voice breaking into something raw, “it’s like I’ve finally come home—until I remember you leave me.”

You stagger back.

He doesn’t follow.

He just looks at you, eyes wide, voice trembling. “Why does that keep happening? Why do I keep waking up without you? Why does it feel so real?”

This time, you run.

[02]: ASCENT HOUR (soon!)

© 2025 kominigiru.

crossposted on ao3!

[puppysuh]

SEX EDUCATION .ᐟ ( markhyuck x reader )

synopsis. mark is a virgin, the only virgin in the NCT fraternity house. it’s borderline embarrassing, so who better than to ask his roommate (who is very much not a virgin) and his overzealous girlfriend for some help?

rating. mature. (minors + ageless blogs dni)

warnings. dirty talk (bucketloads of it), voyeurism/exhibitionism, references to religion, spanking, cunniligus, meanie hyuck + inexperienced mark, humiliation kink, degrading, pet names (babygirl, baby, slut, princess), hyuck is very very condescending, mark knows most of what he knows from porn

author’s note. i have no excuse for my actions. i even winced when proofreading this because this is so so fucking dirty… but i must give the people what they want. it kinda veered away from the whole megaperv!haechan idea but i promise you he will be revisited because megaperv!haechan haunts my waking thoughts 😋 pleaseplease leave comments i love reading them hehe

might have edged @claudaze for this fic to the point where sis was fighting sleep… when you wake up n see this i hope i have done your vision justice :3 also @yvvnii commented on my original thought post for this as well 🙂‍↕️ i hope you like this baby AND @cigsaftersuh also asked to be tagged :3 should i start an official taglist… 🤔

“So… you want me to teach you how to have sex?” 

Mark Lee is in a dire situation. At the age of 22, he’s in college, taking a course in astrophysics and engineering. He’s lived a pretty normal life so far, done everything a frat brother should, except for one thing. 

Mark Lee, aged 22, has never had sex. 

It’s not something he particularly wants to be ashamed of. Given his religious nature, he should be satisfied with his virginity, should be proud that he’s saving himself until he meets the right woman. He could go on and never find a wife, and he would happily die a virgin, but he’s a frat brother, and a virgin frat brother is the last thing he wants to be. 

As of late, he’s been partying like a fool. He shouldn’t be– parties aren’t really his scene anyways– but he does anyway, hoping that at one of them, he’ll get drunk enough and finally break his chastity with a girl he’ll never talk to again. But he can’t even bring himself to drink alcohol, let alone get drunk, and every party ends with him going home early, stone cold sober and still, unfortunately, as virgin as he was before the party started. 

It’s sad. He shouldn’t be bothered by it at all, but when he sees his housemate Jaehyun bring home yet another girl (the 3rd one this week?), he gets jealous, because whilst his frat brothers are fucking like rabbits, he’s getting just as much action as a stone on the side of an abandoned highway. It’s gotten to the point where his roommate, Donghyuck, begs him to get out of the house, because he has his own girlfriend, and he can’t bring her home if his virgin roomie is wallowing in self pity under the covers every weekend. 

He doesn’t know that the reason why Mark doesn’t get any action is because he doesn’t know how to, not because he’s unattractive, because he is attractive.

The Nu Chi Theta house is one of the most popular frat houses on campus, with every girl (and even some guys too) wanting to sleep with at least one brother once in their life. There’s no shortage of hot guys in the house, and it's rumoured that to even secure a place in the house, you have to pass some kind of frat house beauty test. It’s ridiculous, and when Mark received his acceptance letter, he couldn’t believe it. He thought it would be an opening for him, a way to get invited to crazy parties and unlimited hookups, a way to finally stray from the cuffs of religion his parents were so insistent on keeping him locked up with.

What he didn’t think about, however, is how hard it would be to let go of said religious cuffs without feeling insanely guilty when he so much as strayed from the path his parents had set out for him. 

No drinking, no partying, and definitely no sex. That’s what they told him before he left, and whilst he’d shrugged it off at the time, those words followed him years later, right up until he finally decided that enough was enough. 

After walking in on Donghyuck and his girlfriend making out on his bed, he knew he had to do something, which leads him to his current situation.

“Mark, be serious with me right now.” Hyuck raises his eyebrow and tilts his head, and Mark physically curls in on himself. “You’re telling me… that you’ve never had sex because you don’t know how to?” 

“Yes, and now I’m asking you to teach me how to. I’ve seen– heard you and your girlfriend. You guys aren’t exactly… discreet.” 

“Yeah, that’s because she doesn’t want me to be discreet. She likes it when everyone knows who’s fuckin’ her.” 

Mark winces. How can Hyuck talk about you like that when you aren’t even here? He wishes that he doesn’t turn out like that, and then he remembers who he’s being taught by, and it makes him feel sick to his stomach. 

Maybe this is a bad idea. Maybe he shouldn’t be asking for help, maybe he should just find a video about it on Pornhub and try his chances from there. 

“If you’re having second thoughts, I can tell you that the hub won’t solve your problem.” It’s almost like Hyuck is a mind reader. “You’ll end up embarrassing yourself, and Taeyong will end up having to kick you out. If anyone finds out one of the NCT boys is a virgin and learnt how to fuck from the worst porn site on earth…” It's Hyuck’s turn to wince. “Look, I’ll teach you. Hands-on experience and all.”

“You mean…” 

Hyuck smiles, and Mark asks himself what exactly he’s gotten himself into. “I’ll let you fuck my girlfriend.”

You would do anything for your boyfriend. If he asked you to rob a bank, you’d hand bejewel a balaclava with pink rhinestones and shoot down the clerk with a matching gun. If he asked you to walk around campus on a leash, you’d happily get on all fours. 

So, when he asks you to start flirting with his roommate, you do so with a smile on your face. 

Mark Lee is cute. You’ve seen him around a couple of times, all baggy hoodie and reading glasses, barely saying a word to anyone and keeping to himself in his room. He’s the kind of guy you can’t help but become curious about, and one day, you ask Hyuck about him. 

“He’s kind of a loser,” he tells you between leaving kisses on your neck. “You don’t need to worry about him.” 

“But he doesn’t seem like he has a girlfriend.” You pull away and hold your boyfriend’s face in your hands. “I have a couple of friends who would drop dead at the chance to fuck an NCT guy. If he wants a girlfriend, I can get him one.” 

“It’s not a girlfriend he wants, baby, it’s sex.” 

“There’s a party next week. He can find a hookup there.” 

Hyuck scoffs. “You’re so dumb. He’s a virgin, and if he wanted a girlfriend, he wouldn’t even know how to bag himself one.” The smile he’s wearing is dangerous, and you raise your eyebrows. “Which is why…” His hands slide up your waist and slip under your baby tee. “... I need you to do me a favour.” 

That favour is the reason why you’re currently posted up against the kitchen counter in the NCT house, licking a popsicle like it’s the most delicious snack on Earth whilst staring holes into Mark from across the kitchen. You know he’s avoiding looking at you, which is why you walk up to him and tap him on the shoulder, wearing a knowing smile on your face.

“Just because Hyuck’s my boyfriend, doesn’t mean we can’t be friends. I mean, I’m friends with practically every guy here!” You widen your eyes like a doe and wrap your lips around the top of the popsicle, reveling in the way Mark gulps nervously, his Adam’s apple bobbing and eyes glued to the bright red trail of juice dribbling down your chin. “You can talk to me, y’know.” 

You take a step closer, and that seems to be Mark’s breaking point. He sharply turns on his heel and all but runs out of the kitchen, abandoning the glass of water he was nursing on the counter. You bite off the tip of the popsicle, smiling happily to yourself as you skip after him.

When Mark gets back upstairs, Hyuck is waiting for him, sitting cross legged on his bed with a smile on his face, one akin to the one you were wearing in the kitchen. You…

“I knew you’d end up running away from her. You’re more of a loser than I thought you were, dude.” 

Mark’s jaw drops to the floor. “She was in on it? And you never thought to tell me?” 

Hyuck shrugs. “She was giving you an example of how a girl would approach you at a party if she wanted to fuck you.” He eyes Mark up and down before snickering to himself. “Clearly, you failed.” 

“It was a test? And she knew?!” Mark is panicking now. His secret is basically out of the bag; you’re going to tell all of your friends that there’s a virgin in the NCT house, and they’ll tell their friends, and then he’ll get kicked out and have to live with his parents, a pious virgin for the rest of his life. 

Ironically, Mark grips the cross pendant hanging from his neck. Hyuck catches him doing it, and quirks an eyebrow. “You think God’s gonna tell you how to fuck? You have got to be kidding me.” 

“Maybe I don’t need to lose my virginity. Abstinence doesn’t sound that bad, I mean, I’ll become a priest, live in peace for the rest of my life and-” 

Mark is cut off by a sharp slap around his face. “Don’t go into religious psychosis over some pussy. I’ll still teach you, but it might be a little harder than I initially thought.” His eyes narrow, and Mark gulps again. “I didn’t think my girlfriend licking a popsicle would scare you that much.” 

“I scared him?” Mark feels like he’s just been dragged into hell by his collar, because you’re standing by the door, the popsicle and any traces of it gone from your face as you stare at him incredulously. “Oh- I didn’t mean to! I was just doing what you told me to do.” 

“And you did it very well baby.” Hyuck is approaching you, and you resume wearing that pleasant smile, allowing him to slip his arms around your waist and lead you into the bedroom, swiftly locking the door behind you. “And now, you’re gonna do something else for me.” 

Mark watches the way the two of you interact, and he hates to admit it, but he’s jealous. You look at Hyuck like he’s your everything and you’re absolutely entranced by him, gaze never breaking, even when his wandering hands slip under your skirt. He doesn’t pay any attention to the rapidly forming erection in his loose joggers when you and Hyuck start kissing, his hands full of ass pulling you closer into him. It’s borderline disgusting, the way your eyes roll back under your lids, and he really should close his eyes, but-

“D’you think he’s motivated enough now, princess?” He’s snapped out of his trance by the two of you staring at him, Hyuck’s face flushed and your chest heaving gently, lashes fluttering as you take in the sight of Mark standing there, hard as rock and red as a tomato.

“Y-yeah,” you stutter, smiling. “Should I-”

“No.” You stop in your tracks, watching as your boyfriend sits down on the bed, spreading his legs and patting his thigh as a motion for you to take a seat. “You sit down too, Mark.” He looks up at his confused roommate. “Class is now in session.” 

If Mark told himself several hours ago that he would be watching his roommate talk dirty to his girlfriend, he would’ve laughed, and then spat out his coffee. He can only watch as Hyuck pulls you forward in his lap, paying no mind to the way your skirt bunches at your hips and displays your ass in a thong that leaves little to the imagination. 

“First things first…” Hyuck looks at Mark from his side of the room, his hands stationed on your thighs straddling his lap. “You need to get the language down. It’s part of foreplay, you got that?” Mark nods. “Good. Now…” Hyuck kisses you fleetingly on the lips before looking you in the eye. “You have to tell her she’s a good girl. Most girls are into that sort of thing.

“Tell her what you wanna do to her.” Hyuck pulls your hips forward on his lap, and you groan. “Tell her you wanna fuck her, that you wanna make her feel good, better than she’s ever felt.” Your lashes flutter, and although Mark can’t see your face, you smile, wrapping your arms around your boyfriend’s neck. “See? She likes it, don’t you, pretty?”

“Yeah,” you whisper, grinding down onto him more. “Want you to fuck me.” 

Hyuck laughs. “This isn’t about you. This is about Mark.” He looks past you again at his roommate, who looks like he wants to be swallowed alive by the ground. “Are you learning anything?” 

He gulps before reciting what he’s learnt. “Talk dirty to her. Tell her what you want to do to her, that you want to…” Hyuck raises his eyebrow, a signal for Mark to continue. “...that you want to… fuck… her.” He smiles, and Mark sighs a sound of relief. 

This is difficult for him. He’s awkward, because it’s generally awkward to watch his roommate have borderline sex with his girlfriend, the same person who just gave him a raging hard on from licking a popsicle. He’s also undoubtedly jealous, because even though he doesn’t know the first thing about having sex, he wants to have sex with you, but it seems like Hyuck is doing a better job at riling you up than he ever could. 

“See how I’m touching her?” Mark redirects his focus to where Hyuck’s hands are, and it looks like he’s everywhere. “I’m not giving her what she wants just yet. I have to tease her, make her want it.” He looks back at you “Do you want it, baby?” 

You pout. “Quit teasing me!”

You’re so cute. Mark understands why Hyuck would go for a girl like you– you’re too easy; easily obeying, easily teased, easily fucked. You’re perfect for a guy with a crazy sex drive, and he’s perfect for a girl who loves to devote herself to her boyfriend. You’re a perfect couple, and Mark can feel the jealousy begin to ebb its way back into his system. 

“Don’t worry, Mark. You’ll get a turn soon enough.” Hyuck taps the back of your thigh and you nod, climbing off of his lap and onto the bed. He doesn’t have to say anything, but you know exactly what he wants you to do, pulling down your skirt and bending over on the bed, ass up in the air and head buried in the pillows. “Get over here. Look at what all those things I told you about do to her.” 

Mark almost hesitates, but when he sees Hyuck scope the meat of your ass before pulling the cheeks apart, his moves are almost robotic, and what he sees almost sends him into shock. 

He’s never seen a pussy in real life before, only in the videos, and even then he can’t bring himself to look properly. Watching pornography is basically a sin, so he only watches the censored ones, and when he comes face to face with your pussy, he feels like he’s about to explode. 

You’re still wearing your underwear. That much is apparent given the lace decorating your hips, but your cunt is so wet, it’s all but swallowed the seat of your panties, and your labia bulges around the pink fabric. It’s much more lewd in person, and Mark is frozen in his place, mouth open with no sound coming out. 

“Say something, loser. Isn’t she pretty?” 

Mark gulps before speaking. “Y-yeah.” His voice cracks, and you giggle, the syrupy sound going straight to his dick. 

“He’s so nervous,” you breathe, swaying your ass in his direction. “Such a virgin.” 

He should be embarrassed. He should really leave, let Hyuck do whatever he wants to you behind closed doors and forget this ever happened, yet he feels nothing of the sort, instead sitting down on the bed and placing a shaky hand on your ankle. “I-” 

“You what?” Hyuck sounds pissed, which is odd considering this was his suggestion. “Say something. She’s not gonna sit and wait for you forever. My girl has needs.” 

My girl. Mark gulps again. “I… I kinda wanna… eat her out.” 

Whilst you moan a little and shove your face deeper into the pillows, Hyuck claps Mark on the back, and his annoyance is replaced with a smile. “There he is! Do you want me to teach you, or do you think you got it?” 

Cunniligus is his favourite type of porn. He would rather die than admit it, but when Mark fantasises (and trust, he does), he imagines himself in between a pair of thighs, and his mouth attached to a juicy pussy. He never thought he’d get the chance, but with the way your hips sway gently, he just wants to grab onto you, pull your panties aside and-

“Do it.” It’s your voice that echoes in his head now, and he finally looks at your face. Your eyes are filled with lust and you bite down on your bottom lip, lashes fluttering as an invitation. “C’mon Markie, don’t think about it, just-” 

You’re cut off by a pair of fingers massaging your cunt. Hyuck pulls aside the seat of your thong, and gestures to your dripping arousal. “You heard her. Dig in.”

He shouldn’t, he really shouldn’t, because if he does, he’ll be breaking a plethora of rules set out for him since birth. This is someone else’s girlfriend, a stranger if anything, but all that fades away when he hears your reaction to Hyuck’s fingers slipping into your needy pussy. Your back arches, and you whine out like a mantra, but it isn’t the name of your boyfriend. 

It’s Mark’s name that you whine, gasping when you feel a harsh slap on your ass. “That’s not my name, pretty. Unless you want my loser roommate that bad?”

This is wrong, this is wrong, this is wro-

Mark’s lips make contact with your pussy, and he’s gone. 

He’s a messy eater, inexperienced for sure, but the feeling of his hot tongue on your folds has you collapsing into the bed. Mark’s tongue is everywhere but nowhere all at once, and when his hands come up to grip your ass, you melt into his touch.��

“There you go.” Hyuck’s voice mingles with your moans in his ear, and Mark groans. “Seems like she likes you.” For him, this is all a show, watching his loser virgin roomie tongue fuck his girlfriend. Hyuck always knew you were a slut, but he never knew you would fall this far, drool staining his pillowcase as you grind desperately onto the tongue of a guy who had never seen nor touched a pussy in his life. 

“When she’s moaning like that, it means she’s close.” Mark’s eyes flick up to his roommate, his hands still superglued to your ass and tongue still buried deep into your cunt. “Remember what I said about teasing? Can’t make her cum yet, or she’ll be too tired for what comes next.” 

What comes next? Mark’s rhythm is interrupted by Hyuck’s comment and he pulls away, licking his lips and wiping the sweat from his brow. “Do you mean…?” 

His roommate nods with a smile. “I do mean that. I’d go first but– and I hate to say this– you were so good at eating her out that if I fuck her now, she’ll cum way too early.” 

“Need it so bad…” Both boys look at you, and one scoffs whilst the other gasps. You’re a mess, probably more of a mess than Mark. Blackened tears run down your cheeks, your lipstick is smudged and drool trails down your chin as you look back at the both of them. “Want you both. Please.” 

“Both?” Mark balks. He didn’t even know that was possible. 

“What a fucking slut.” Hyuck slaps your ass and you groan, a tear running down your cheek and a dribble of arousal running down the back of your thigh. “You don’t get both regularly, but suddenly you want two cocks instead of one? C’mon, babygirl. Don’t be greedy now that Mark’s around.” 

Ordinarily, Mark would never be able to talk to anyone like that, let alone a girl, but when Hyuck says it, it sounds so natural, and your reaction is very different to what he would expect. You arch your back, eyes rolling into the back of your head. 

You like being degraded. That much is clear from the way you chase after Hyuck’s snide comments, the way you bite your lip whenever he calls you a slut. Mark raises his eyebrows. 

“She likes it when you talk dirty to her,” he whispers, looking at his roommate. “Is she… is she always like this?” 

“Always has been, and probably always will be. Why do you think she agreed to this whole thing?” Your boyfriend cards his fingers through your hair before pulling you up so that you’re flush against his chest, ass brushing against his erection through his jeans. “She wanted to humiliate herself in front of you, Mark. She wanted you to know how needy she is. For her, it was never about helping you.” Mark watches the way you shudder when Hyuck’s hand trails down your belly, fingers resting just above the peak of your clit. “Pretty girl’s always wanted to be stuffed full with another cock. And she’s always wanted it to be you.” 

Mark’s breathing is shallow. You knew he was a virgin, but you wanted him anyway, wanted to see him crumble and let himself go. 

Instead of being weirded out by this information, his lip quirks up in a smile. “Is that so?” 

Your eyelids flutter. “Y-yeah. Thought you were p-pretty.” 

His head tilts, and he’s suddenly filled with a wave of confidence. “Really? Or did you just like the fact that you would be the one to take my virginity? Isn’t Hyuck enough for you, princess?” 

The room falls silent, save for the intermingled sound of shallow breathing. Hyuck is shocked that Mark would ever say something like that, let alone use that tone, but when the shock subsides, he smiles. “Why don’t you show her how much of a slut she is?”

Mark smiles at his roommate, reveling in the way you shudder against him. “I’d love to.”

© PUPPYSUH 2025 — do not copy, repost or translate my works without permission.

[skzficdump]

The Night I Let You Go (And Couldn't Breathe After)

paring: bangchan x fem!reader

gender: angst, fluff, a fight before tour puts distance between you, and bangchan can’t stop thinking about you

word count: 1.5k (1507)

warnings: nun

You knew something was wrong. Even before he walked through the door that night, you could feel it.

Bang Chan had been drowning in work for weeks — rehearsals, late-night studio sessions, choreography clean-ups, last-minute meetings with the tour team. He barely texted. He barely ate. And when he did come home, his energy was like a ghost of him — tired eyes, slumped shoulders, and a quietness that didn’t suit the man you loved.

You weren’t mad at him. You were worried. But when people are overwhelmed, they push away the ones they love — and that’s exactly what Chan was doing to you.

That night, when he finally came home close to midnight, you were waiting on the couch. He kicked off his shoes and muttered a barely audible, “I’m home,” not even meeting your eyes.

You tried to keep your voice steady, calm. “Chan… can we talk?”

He sighed, rubbing the back of his neck like he always did when he was stressed. “Y/N, not now. I’m exhausted.”

“I know you are,” you said gently, “but I can’t keep acting like everything’s okay when it’s not. You’re not okay. And we’re not okay either.”

That’s when his eyes finally met yours — tired, but slightly defensive.

“I’m doing everything I can. What else do you want from me?”

Ouch. That stung more than you thought it would.

“I’m not asking for more. I’m asking to be part of your life right now, even when it’s messy. You keep shutting me out, Chan.”

His jaw clenched, and he looked away. “I just… don’t have time for this. For drama.”

There it was — the word that made your chest ache. Drama. He didn’t mean it. You knew he didn’t. But it still hurt.

You didn’t scream. You didn’t cry. You just stood up and said, “Good luck on tour,” before walking toward your room.

You didn’t think that night would end like that. No one ever plans a goodbye to feel like a fracture. But somehow, you and Chan had broken in the worst possible way — quietly.

It wasn’t a screaming match, it wasn’t tears on the floor. It was exhaustion. Distance. The sharpness of silence when love wants to speak but pride gets in the way.

And he left the next morning without even looking back. No kiss. No message. Just… gone.

You didn’t know how much it would haunt him.

And just like that, the fight happened. Short, quiet, but sharp. And he left for the airport the next morning without saying goodbye.

He hated himself for it. The second his plane took off, he knew he messed up. He had a full tour schedule ahead of him, but his heart was stuck back in Seoul — in that quiet living room, with the look on your face when you closed the door behind you.

For the first few days of the North American tour, Chan went into “leader mode.” He buried himself in rehearsals. He kept smiling during interviews. He helped the younger members get through their jet lag and stage nerves.

But the second the lights went down and the crowd disappeared… it hit him.

You weren’t there.

You weren’t texting him "good luck" before the show. You weren’t calling him to remind him to eat. You weren’t there when he walked back into his hotel room, cold and empty and echoing too loud in the quiet.

And worst of all… He left when you were hurt. He left when he should’ve stayed. He left without fixing anything.

The first night, he told himself you both needed space. That once the tour settled, things would fall into place.

The second night, he couldn’t sleep. He stared at his phone for hours, typing messages he never sent:

I’m sorry. I messed up. Are you okay?

But he deleted all of them. Every time.

Because he didn’t know if you wanted to hear from him. He didn’t know if he deserved to.

Felix noticed first. The way Chan barely ate. How he stayed in the studio even after everyone else left. How he’d sit by the hotel window at 3 a.m., staring at nothing.

“Hyung,” Felix said gently one night, “you need to talk to her.”

Chan didn’t even look up. “She probably hates me.”

Felix shook his head. “She doesn’t. She’s hurt. That’s different.”

But Chan didn’t believe it. Not when your voice haunted him every time he tried to sleep.

“I just want to be part of your life… even when it’s messy.” “You keep shutting me out.”

You were right. You’d always been right. And now he was thousands of miles away from the one person who grounded him — who made all the chaos worth it.

He started seeing you everywhere.

Every time a fan gave him a plushie that reminded him of you. Every time he passed a street musician playing a song you loved. Every time he looked in the mirror and barely recognized the man looking back.

During the third show, when the lights dimmed before their final encore, he had a full second of panic.

You weren’t in the crowd.

You always tried to be, even when it was just as a little silhouette backstage or watching through a livestream. And now?

Gone. Because of him.

He finally broke down to Felix two nights later in the hotel room.

“I feel like there’s a hole in my chest,” he whispered, voice cracking. “I miss her so much it physically hurts.”

Felix handed him his phone.

“Then fix it. Before it’s too late.”

Chan stared at the screen… then shook his head.

“She deserves better. She deserves someone who doesn’t drag her through my storms.”

Felix smiled sadly. “She never asked for perfect skies. She asked to be there with you.”

What you didn’t know was that Chan had already started preparing a small surprise for you. Even before the fight. Just a little corner of his hotel room he wanted to decorate with your photo, your favorite snacks, and a note he planned to leave on your pillow for when you visited later in the tour.

But now the gifts stayed untouched, hidden in his suitcase. It was like they stared at him every night, reminding him of what he lost.

And you? You tried to go on with your days like normal, but everything felt off. Every time you saw a picture of him at the airport, or heard someone talking about the tour, your stomach twisted.

It wasn’t until Felix texted you two nights later that something shifted.

"Hey, Y/N. I know things are weird. But he’s not okay without you. Neither of you are. Please… come to LA. I’ll help you."

You didn’t even have to think twice. The next thing you knew, you were on a plane with your heart racing faster than the jet engines. Felix met you at the airport in a hoodie and mask, like some undercover angel, and helped sneak you into the hotel where the boys were staying.

Your hands were shaking when you reached Chan’s room.

“Don’t knock,” Felix whispered. “He’s expecting me.”

He slid the keycard into the door, opened it slightly, and gave you one last nod before disappearing down the hallway.

Inside, the lights were low — warm, soft. A candle was burning on the nightstand. And there he was. Sitting at the edge of the bed, looking like he hadn’t slept in days.

When he turned and saw you… Everything cracked.

“Y/N…?”

You didn’t say anything at first. Just ran into his arms. And he held you like he’d been drowning for days and you were the only breath he had left.

“I’m so sorry,” he whispered over and over into your shoulder. “I was stupid. I was stressed and scared and I pushed you away, and that’s the last thing I ever wanted to do.”

“I know,” you murmured. “I just wanted to be there for you. That’s all I ever wanted.”

He pulled back, eyes glassy. “I left without fixing it. I left when we were broken. I thought about you every second on that flight. Every second here. I was going to fly you out myself if Felix didn’t beat me to it.”

You both laughed a little through the tears.

Then he stood up and led you to the corner of the room where a tiny surprise was waiting: a little photo of you both framed on the table, next to your favorite snacks and a hand-written note.

“I miss home. And home is you.”

That night, you didn’t talk much more. You didn’t have to. You just lay curled up in bed together, his arms around you, his lips pressed to your hair as he finally — finally — slept like someone at peace.

And maybe things weren’t perfect. Maybe they never would be. But that night, in a quiet hotel room in a city far from home, you both found your way back to each other.

And that? That was everything.

[kxsagi]

this might be a bit niche but 🙏🙏

can you do blue lock boys with a reader who went to music school and used to play the piano when they were younger, but then grew up and refused to play whenever someone asked because they didn't wanna embarass themselves and only rlly were in the music school cuz they were forced to

BUT THEN one random day the bllk guys (any is fine) catch them playing/learning how to play a new song and yea 🥀🥀

“𝐧𝐨𝐜𝐭𝐮𝐫𝐧𝐞 𝐢𝐧 𝐃(𝐚𝐦𝐧 𝐬𝐡𝐞’𝐬 𝐜𝐮𝐭𝐞)”

a/n: this was actually fun to write, thank you!!!

ft. isagi yoichi, itoshi rin, itoshi sae, michael kaiser, nagi seishiro, mikage reo, karasu tabito, chigiri hyoma

isagi yoichi

he finds the dusty keyboard in your room and is like. "wait. you play piano???" 

you’re already shaking your head and backing away like it’s a haunted object. “nope. not anymore. don’t even ask.” 

but he’s persistent in the nicest way like: "come onnn, i bet you’re amazing. imagine if you played the blue lock theme on piano– actually no, wait, imagine if you played a love song. like, a romantic one. for me. like, by accident." 

you're like, "do you ever stop talking?" 

he finds you playing one day when he comes home early – your back to the door, eyes focused, tongue poking out in concentration. it’s a soft piece, unfamiliar to him, but he’s mesmerized. 

you jump when you see him standing there like a lovesick puppy. “yoichi, what the hell– why didn’t you say anything?!” 

he just grins. “you looked too pretty. like, i couldn’t interrupt the main character moment.” 

proceeds to sit beside you and smash random keys. 

“teach me how to play twinkle twinkle little star, i want to serenade you at our wedding.” 

itoshi rin

“you went to music school?” 

his face when you admit it is unreadable. and you panic. 

“don’t ask me to play,” you snap. “i sucked and i hated it.” 

but he becomes quietly obsessed with the idea. not in a romantic way, he says. just curious (lies). 

catches you at the piano in a practice room one day, thinking you were alone, quietly practicing some melancholic piece that sounds like heartbreak bottled into notes. 

he just… stands there 

you turn around, startled, and he’s like: “… that was beautiful.” 

“rin, i literally messed up five times.” 

“you still made me feel something.” 

he now uses the excuse “can you help me relax before matches” to get you to play. 

acts unaffected, arms crossed, but turns his head to hide the way he stares at your hands. 

swears he’s not writing poetry about you later. swears. 

itoshi sae

“you play piano?” “no.” “you went to music school.” “i didn’t play in it.” 

he doesn’t believe you. not one bit. 

so one night, he hears it – soft chords floating through the hallway of your apartment, a melody you’re slowly piecing together. 

he walks in, leans against the doorframe and watches you without a word. 

you stop mid-note. “… what.” 

“why don’t you play more often?” 

“cuz i suck.” 

he chuckles. walks over. tugs you by the waist and sits you on his lap, facing the keys. 

“play something for me. even if it sucks.” 

and you do, half-mortified, but his arms are around you and he hums along even though he doesn’t know the song. 

you’re like "sae please stop making this romantic i will die.” 

and he says, completely deadpan, “that’s the point.” 

michael kaiser

he absolutely reads your old recital bio online like it’s forensic evidence. 

“you were a prodigy. your title was literally ‘tiny piano tornado.’” 

“please delete yourself.” 

doesn’t push you to play. instead, just casually hums classical music in your presence like a manipulative cartoon villain. 

you end up fiddling with the keys again one day, headphones on, secretly trying to relearn a piece you used to hate. 

he catches you mid-practice – headphones still in, mouthing the notes to yourself. 

he just sits on the floor and watches. absolutely smitten. 

you scream when you finally notice him. “you’re gonna give me a heart attack!” 

he smirks. “you already did. fell for you just now.” 

calls you mozart girlie forever. 

says he’s “too emotionally moved” to do anything after hearing you play, even if you were just practicing scales. 

nagi seishiro

you once mentioned music school and he just blinked at you. “so like. high school musical?” 

“… no.” 

he forgets until one rainy afternoon when he walks in and sees you hunched over a keyboard, playing a lullaby. 

he just plops down beside you and goes, “that sounds sad. is that song about heartbreak or taxes?” 

you give him the side-eye. “it’s about a bird.” 

sits silently for a moment. 

“… still kinda sounds like taxes.” 

but when he hears the emotion in your playing – how your hands hesitate, how you frown in concentration – he goes quiet. 

“you’re really good, y’know.” 

you blush. “it’s not a big deal.” 

“it is to me.” 

suddenly he’s wide awake for the next three hours just thinking about you and that damn piano. 

mikage reo

the moment he finds out you went to music school, he’s dragging you to a baby grand piano in his mansion. 

“reo, i haven’t played in years–” 

“great! makes the comeback even more dramatic!” 

you try and fail to escape. 

until one day he walks in on you in his music room, hunched over the keys with a stubborn look on your face. 

"i knew you'd cave," he grins. 

you glare at him. 

but then you play. and stumble. and restart. and mess up again. but you keep playing. 

he sits beside you, absolutely glowing. “you’re so cute when you’re concentrated. i could marry you right now.” 

gives you obnoxious applause every time you finish a piece, even if it’s a disaster. 

records you secretly and makes it his ringtone. 

when you get mad, he says “it’s because i want to hear you all the time.”  

karasu tabito

he definitely clowns you for going to music school at first. “what’d they teach you? dramatic hand flourishes and emotional trauma?” 

but the moment he catches you actually playing something – slightly off-key, frowning at your own tempo – he shuts up completely. 

like, he genuinely forgets to breathe. 

says nothing, just stands there slack-jawed like he’s watching a studio ghibli moment unfold. 

when you finally notice him, he blurts: “you looked hot. sorry. i mean good. i mean talented.” 

trips over his words worse than you tripped over that chord change. 

later: “i take back every joke. you’re a goddess. the piano is lucky to be touched by you.” 

chigiri hyoma

finds out about your music school past and goes “you must’ve looked so elegant.” 

you: “i looked like a tired gremlin who was forced to play mozart at 7 AM.” 

catches you playing on a random day, lit by soft sunlight, playing a song with more emotion than skill, but it hits. 

he watches, entranced, then quietly asks: “do you still hate it?” 

you shrug. “less now. i kinda missed it.” 

he smiles. “i missed it, too. and i didn’t even know it.” 

asks you to teach him a duet. 

you agree, and you two end up messing it up hilariously, laughing more than playing. 

the next week, he buys you a new sheet music book and says, “i wanna fall in love with every version of you, even the ones you tried to leave behind.” 

© 𝐤𝐱𝐬𝐚𝐠𝐢

[gayerthanevertbh]

teacher's pet.

chapter ii: satisfaction

n.r masterlist | teacher's pet series

summary: after days of silence, professor romanoff returns only to harshly critique your essay, calling it cowardly and empty. though hurt, you accept her challenge to write with more emotion. She offers to help—on her terms. you leave her office shaken, breathless, and unexpectedly alive, clutching a book she says might undo you. something between you has changed. you don’t know what—but you’re already craving more.

pairings: professor!natasha romanoff x student!reader

warnings: tension (especially from natasha), but nothing much.

note: sorry i do seem passionate to write this that's because it's also from my inner conflict. hope you enjoy this one :)

You didn’t mean to read Anna Karenina again. It wasn’t part of the plan—if there had ever truly been a plan to begin with. But something about the way she held the book yesterday, fingers resting gently on its spine like it was sacred, haunted you. You couldn’t get the image out of your mind. So, after dinner, you cracked open your old copy, promising yourself you’d only skim. Three chapters later, the weight of sleep pulled you under with the book still in your hand, pages bent slightly where your fingers had slackened. When morning came, you packed it into your bag like it was a necessity. Somehow, it had become one.

Later, after class had ended and your peers had already trickled out of the room, you approached her desk slowly—carefully, like it was an altar and you weren’t sure if you were worthy. You placed your first assignment on the polished wood, trying not to look at her. If she caught you looking, you feared what she might see. Or worse, what she wouldn’t.

She glanced at the paper with a quiet, unreadable hum, her head tilted ever so slightly. Was she judging it already? Judging you?

“I—I hope this is okay—” you began, awkward and too soft.

She cut you off. “No, no. This is fine. I do have a question for you, though.”

Your heart jumped. You looked up, blinking fast. “What is it?”

She leaned back in her chair with the kind of elegance that didn’t demand attention but always got it anyway. Her gaze locked on you like she was trying to make sense of something only she could see. It made your insides twist.

“Why Russian Literature?” she asked, her voice low and deliberate. “You had options. American Lit, for one. You look like you’d fit right in there. You’re... American, aren’t you?”

There was something about the way she said it. Something dark and curious, but not unkind.

“I’m actually an immigrant,” she continued. “That’s why I teach this course. I’m from Russia.”

You knew—or at least suspected—but you still feigned surprise. Her American accent was flawless, like she’d worn it for decades until it felt like skin. You found yourself nodding, strangely honored that she offered you this glimpse into her past without you asking for it.

“Russian interests me,” you said, unsure if that was entirely true. It wasn’t just the literature that interested you.

“But do you want to learn it?” she asked, more sharply this time. A challenge, not an invitation.

You stumbled for a second. “Of course. I’ve wanted to dive deeper into it since senior year. I’m… enthralled.”

She nodded slowly, her eyes never leaving you. Your skin burned under her attention. You felt like a child trying to hide a secret in plain sight. She had this way of looking at you that made you feel both exposed and important.

“When did you move to the States?” you asked, needing the attention to shift.

“I was fifteen,” she said, her eyes softening with memory. “My father had a company here. So we left. I don’t regret it. My sister and I still speak Russian at home.”

You smiled, awkwardly, grounding yourself with the scrape of your shoe against the floor. There was something surreal about her—this woman who everyone claimed was cold and distant, now offering pieces of herself to you like they didn’t cost anything at all.

“That sounds nice.”

Then she smiled—genuinely, for the first time. Not the polite, practiced curve of her lips she wore in class, but something warmer. Something real. You wondered if she did this with everyone. Talked like this. Shared pieces of herself. Or were you—somehow—an exception?

“You’re an interesting one,” she said, her tone impossible to place.

Your breath caught.

She stood, tall and composed, walking to the door and opening it for you. “You may go. Perhaps I’m wasting your time.”

You almost laughed at the absurdity of that. She could never waste your time. Not when every second near her left you aching for more.

Instead, you nodded and walked out, the air in the hallway feeling colder now. You exhaled, letting the warmth of her office dissolve behind you, but you couldn’t stop thinking about the interaction. Her story. Her eyes. The way she made you feel like you mattered, even if just for a moment.

And the worst part? You already knew the paper you submitted wouldn’t be enough. Not for someone like her. As you’ve read once on the internet, she is one of the toughest professors in NYU. So for her liking your paper, it’s very unlikely. But the hope was there, that somehow she’ll be interested in you, maybe even become a favorite. But why are you so focused on that? You had a redemption, you are an academic weapon. This shouldn’t be in your head. 

Just as soon as you were heading back to the library, you see a girl by the wall biting her nail. She looked up at you, and smiled curtly. 

“You are from the Russian Literature class.”

You remember her, that was the same girl who looked at you yesterday from behind. You tipped your head, as a sign of politeness, and smiled brightly like nothing could ever torn you apart.

“You were staring at me yesterday.”

“That’s because I’ve never seen you before.”

“Well,” you said, letting out a nervous laugh. “Aren’t we all unfamiliar with each other?”

She nodded, agreeing with you. “I’m Wanda,” she sticks out her hand, and you shook it. “Sorry if I sounded like that. You know, I just moved here from Sokovia.”

There are a lot of people from Europe, you thought. Am I the only American in an American University?

God you hate how you’re curious sometimes, that your mind alone speaks for itself. 

“Y/n,” you stated. “And you do look like you’re from Sokovia.”

“I think it’s the accent I have,” she mentions, and you could definitely hear the thick accent in her throat. A man appears into the scene and it seemed like they were siblings, except this one was a blonde. “This is Pietro, my brother.”

He smiled at me, removing his glasses. “My sister has told me about you.”

You tilted your head, eyebrows furrowing. Was she stalking you now? 

“I didn’t know that.”

“Sorry,” she muttered. “I don’t know, you seemed quiet yesterday. I mean, all of us were. I don’t know, I guess I wanted to be friends with you.”

“You could’ve just asked,” you chuckled quietly. “How long have you guys been here in America?”

“Four months before the semester started,” Pietro added, including himself into the conversation. “You seem like an America expert. Care to show us around sometime?”

You wanted to laugh when he called you an America expert. America expert? Was that supposed to be a compliment? A joke? A quiet insult wrapped in polite curiosity? You weren’t sure, and honestly, you didn’t care. The words slid off you like water—because the truth was, you didn’t even believe in the idea of America anymore. Not like you used to.

You’d grown up hearing that this country was a dream—some glistening ideal of freedom and justice and endless opportunity. But you knew better now. You knew that half the time, America didn’t even know what it was doing with itself. Couldn’t take care of its people, couldn’t remember its promises, couldn’t admit its history without shoving it into a museum or a hashtag. You’d seen too many cracks in the illusion to still be patriotic, and maybe that was cynical for someone your age, but you called it realism.

You were fluent in the language of disappointment. You could name all fifty states and all the ways they’ve failed someone like you.

So no, you didn’t mind being called an “America expert.” Because experts knew things. Experts saw through the glitter. And you’d long stopped pretending that this country—your country—was great. You just knew how to survive in it.

“I would love that,” you said with a warm smile, even though your brain was already trying to mentally rearrange your packed schedule to figure out when exactly that could happen. Classes, readings, assignments, your part-time job—it all blurred together like an unfinished puzzle. Still, making new friends didn’t hurt. Especially not the kind who made New York feel a little less cold.

You started to picture it—taking Wanda and Pietro to your favorite spots in the city. Maybe walking across the Brooklyn Bridge just as the sun began to set, painting the skyline gold. Grabbing coffee from that little place in the West Village that always smelled like cinnamon. Visiting used bookstores in East Village, or grabbing falafel from the food truck by Washington Square Park. Small things that made the city feel like yours.

“Are you going to the library?” you asked, slinging your bag over your shoulder and adjusting your coat.

“Not right now,” Wanda replied, shaking her head as she tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “I have to go to the bank and deposit some money. Rent’s due soon,” she added with a wry smile. She reached out and gently placed her hand on your shoulder, giving it a light, familiar squeeze. It felt like something unspoken—a quiet seal of friendship forming between the two of you.

“I’ll see you around?” she asked, her tone soft but hopeful.

“Definitely,” you said, and this time you meant it without needing to check your calendar. For the first time in a long while, someone outside of your usual circle felt… easy. Like a breath you didn’t realize you’d been holding.

As she turned and walked off down the block, you lingered for a moment, the buzz of the city swirling around you, the memory of her touch still resting on your shoulder like warmth.

“How was your second day of school?” your mother asked, her voice echoing lightly through the kitchen as she searched the fridge for something cold. From the corner of your eye, you could see MJ lounging on the couch in the living room, her legs tossed over the armrest, laughing at something on the TV. A sitcom, probably—the kind where the characters never grow up, but the laughter track insists it's funny anyway.

You took a slow breath, then shrugged. “It was okay,” you replied, keeping your tone casual, your eyes trained on the glass you were filling with water. You didn’t feel like unpacking the details of today—the sharp, quick conversation with Professor Romanoff still sat heavily in your chest, like it had carved a small hollow there. No one needed to know about that.

“My professor seemed nice today,” you added, as if that was all that mattered.

Your mom looked over her shoulder and smiled, her hands full with a container of strawberries. “Wasn’t it Professor Romanoff?” she asked, eyebrows lifting in subtle curiosity. “Maybe she likes you. You’re smart, Y/n.”

From the couch, MJ chimed in without even looking up, “She’s right. Maybe she likes you because you’re smart and driven.”

You nearly choked on the first sip of water, then gave a dry laugh. “I don’t think I’m that smart,” you muttered, your voice low, almost dismissive. “Or that driven.”

But still, something warm flickered in your chest at the suggestion. The idea that Professor Romanoff—this impossibly composed, unreadable woman—might see something in you. Something worth remembering.

“What did you guys learn today?” your mother asked, finally closing the fridge and turning around, leaning on the counter like she had nowhere else to be but here with you.

You placed the glass down on the counter and said, “Professor Rogers taught Literary Theory. Nothing too wild. It’s only the second day, so we’re just scratching the surface.” Then you added, a bit more animatedly, “I’m glad I picked Russian Literature as my elective, though. Even though American Lit was an option.”

Your mom nodded, interested. “Why Russian?”

You rubbed at your temple with your fingertips, the answer already formed from the first day of class. “We covered American Lit in so much detail back in senior year. Hemingway, Fitzgerald, Morrison… I needed something different. Something that would push me a little. Russian literature’s heavier, darker—I don’t know. It just feels like it’s got more teeth.”

She smiled at that, a small, knowing curve to her mouth. “Sounds like you.”

You didn’t reply, only gave a small smirk. You weren’t sure if that was a compliment or not.

“Why don’t you and MJ go out and play tennis?” she suggested, wiping her hands on a towel. “It’s only 6 p.m., still plenty of daylight.”

“Can’t do that, mama,” MJ said, already seated beside you, sipping from your water like it was hers. “Y/n needs to study, and I definitely need to study. Midterm prep already exists in my mind.”

You gave your mother an apologetic look. “Rain check?”

She threw her hands up in mock defeat. “Okay, okay. I was just suggesting. Don’t let college kill your fun completely.”

The night crawled slowly, time stretching out like wet ink bleeding into paper. You sat hunched over your desk, the overhead light a pale halo casting long shadows across your notes. Professor Rogers had assigned a reading and response for Literary Theory—dense, philosophical, the kind of thing that made your brain throb if you read it too fast. You’d been at it for hours, trying to weave something thoughtful out of the chaos of semiotics and Saussure.

Meanwhile, MJ lounged comfortably on your bed, legs crossed, laptop balanced on her knees as she typed something mindless. A soft playlist buzzed gently from her speakers—Lana, maybe Phoebe Bridgers—comforting in the way only background noise could be. The two of you were wrapped in your own silences, broken only by the occasional click of a keyboard or the rustle of paper.

You turned around and held up your draft with both hands, paper slightly wrinkled at the edges. “Do you think this is good?” you asked, like it didn’t matter, though it clearly did.

MJ looked up from her screen and took the essay, scanning it with a quick, practiced eye. “Seems pretty good to me,” she said with a shrug. “But you know I’m not much of an essay person. I can barely finish reading one, let alone write one.”

“I know,” you replied with a small smile. “But your opinion still matters to me.”

MJ gave you a look—fond, maybe a little exasperated. “Everything matters to you.”

You laughed under your breath and sunk into the mattress beside her, your body folding into the comfort of the sheets. “Of course it does,” you murmured, staring at your paper again, even though you weren’t really reading anymore. “I just… I don’t know. I keep thinking about how Professor Romanoff looked at me earlier.”

MJ raised an eyebrow. “Looked at you how?”

You didn’t even have the words. Like she saw through you. Like she knew you were trying too hard and still failing. Like she was unimpressed.

“She’s intimidating,” you finally said. “I’m scared of what she’s going to think of this assignment. It doesn’t feel good enough.”

MJ stared at you for a second, like you had said something deeply out of character. “You never say that,” she replied, tone cautious. “You’re always so sure of yourself. Confident. You walk around like you have a plan for everything. Now you’re anxious about a two-page response paper?”

You looked down at your hands. “I don’t know what changed. Maybe it’s the way she talks—so direct, like she already knows you’re going to disappoint her. Like she expects better even before you fail.” You paused. “She’s very… particular. I don’t think she’ll like anything on the first try. Maybe not even on the second.”

MJ shifted her laptop to the side and gave you a more serious look. “Well, don’t expect the worst. Seriously. You’re good at this, Y/n. And it’s only the second day of school.”

You wanted to believe her. But all you could feel was that gnawing ache of wanting to be seen—really seen—and fearing that when Professor Romanoff did, she wouldn’t like what she found.

You smiled anyway, mostly for MJ’s sake, and rolled back toward your desk. “I hope it’s not too bad,” you said, trying to sound casual.

“It’s terrible.”

That was the first thing she said, and it felt like your spine snapped straight under the weight of it.

You wanted to go home and cry yourself to sleep, bury your face under the pillow and forget the feeling of being so thoroughly seen—and dismissed—in a single breath.

“I gave you a C minus,” Professor Romanoff continued, her voice sharp, precise, and perfectly unbothered. She spoke the way she walked—calculated, cold, confident—as though emotions were a currency she couldn’t afford. “Because I know that you could write better.”

You blinked twice, heart pounding as you looked down at your paper. There it was, in red ink, like a wound: C–. The margin was littered with notes, tiny fragments of her voice immortalized on the page. Brutal, but never careless. You didn’t want to cry, but you felt the pressure rising behind your eyes, slow and warm.

“But this?” she gestured with her hand like the paper had personally offended her. “This is empty. It’s like I can’t feel you in it. There’s no urgency, no rawness. It reads like you’re hiding. And this—” she tapped a paragraph, the pen tip punctuating her judgment “—this isn’t a copy and paste from the internet. I know that. But it might as well be.”

You swallowed thickly. “But it’s not from the internet,” you said, defensive and small. “I wrote it—”

She cut you off, her voice sharper now. “The point of studying Russian Literature isn’t to regurgitate analysis. It’s to suffer with it. To ache through it. You think Dostoevsky wrote Notes from Underground for you to summarize it like a bored teenager doing SparkNotes at midnight?” Her tone was razor-edged, but not mocking—never mocking. She didn’t waste time on cruelty. Only precision. “You have to let yourself fall apart a little. That’s what this literature demands.”

You stood there, wordless, holding the bleeding paper like a fragile thing, as if your grip would change the grade. She looked at you once, briefly, and for a flicker of a second, you could’ve sworn there was something like softness in her eyes. Not sympathy—God, no. But recognition. Like maybe she knew what it was like to want to be good at something, and still come up short.

Still, she said nothing else.

You wanted to sit down on the cold tiled floor and tell her how hard this week had been, how you hadn’t slept, how you were trying—trying so hard—but everything felt like it was slipping through your fingers. You wanted to beg her to see that this wasn’t laziness or carelessness, it was fear. Fear that no matter how hard you worked, you still wouldn’t be enough.

But what was that struggle worth, really?

“I’m sorry about this, Professor Romanoff,” you said finally, voice quieter than you meant. “I’ll do better.”

She leaned back in her chair, clasped her hands, and sighed. The sound made your stomach twist. You whispered, “It’s just that... I don’t know what you like.”

“Why is it important for you to know what I like?”

You hesitated. “So I could get better grades.”

She tapped her pen against the desk—ancient, dark wood, intimidating in its own right—and nodded like she wasn’t quite surprised. Around you, her office seemed to shrink and expand all at once. Bookshelves crammed with leather spines. A small, worn couch in the corner that looked like it had heard a thousand secrets. You wondered if she ever sat there, grading your work, judging your voice from that comfortable distance.

“I’ve seen your work for Professor Rogers,” she said, casually, as if the confession didn’t just throw you off balance. Your face burned. They talk about me?

“But please,” she added, voice warming just a fraction, “more emotion. If you want, I’ll help you. We can... structure your own feelings. Channel them. If you're willing.”

You blinked. “Structure my own feelings?” You almost laughed. “Why would you want to help me?”

That smirk. Slow, dangerous, knowing. It hit harder after a few days without seeing her—like a match struck in a dark room. It made your stomach ache in a way you still didn’t have the language for. Not quite fear. Not quite want. But something sharp and consuming in between.

“Come to my office three times a week,” she said, almost like a dare. “Preferably around four. I can only stay until six. You and I could... help each other.”

You stiffened. Help each other? What did that mean?

“And what do I do in return?”

Her eyes gleamed with something close to delight. “I like the way you think.” She reached for the shelf behind her and pulled down a thin, well-worn paperback. The cover was creased, the pages slightly yellowed. “This is one of my favorites.”

You glanced at the title—The School for Fools by Sasha Sokolov—a book you’d never even heard of. It didn’t scream erotica, but something about it felt intimate, unraveling, almost like a dare. You wondered why she would choose this for you, out of all the Russian authors she could’ve assigned. But of course, you didn’t ask. Natasha Romanoff wasn’t the kind of person you questioned—especially not after three days of silence so loud it nearly swallowed you whole.

“Read this,” she said simply, finally. Her voice was calm, but it landed like a command. “Let it undo you. Then we’ll talk.”

You took the book slowly, fingers brushing hers by accident—or maybe not. The edge was frayed, and the cover had softened with age. It was warm from her touch. You didn’t look up right away. Just held it. Let yourself feel the gravity of her gaze on you, let it press into your skin the way the silence had.

You looked at the pages, then finally back at her. And something inside you tilted. Not with fear. Not quite. But with a kind of quiet undoing.

A little breathless. A little terrified.

But mostly?

Alive.

“I’ll read it,” you murmured, your voice softer than you intended, but sincere. “I’ll see you tomorrow?”

A beat. Then a smirk—sharp, devastating. The kind that had been missing for days.

“Likewise, Y/N.”

You slipped out before you could say anything else, the door clicking softly behind you.

Your heart was rattling. Your hands still tingled from the book.

You should’ve been nervous.

But instead?

You couldn’t wait to see her again.

taglist: @aru-son @ihartnat @blackwidowbabe @snowdrop1026

[jordiemeow]

humbly requesting edging bob reynolds 🙏🙏

short but yeahhhh edging bob. mmmmm

warnings: 18+ smut, handjob, vibrator usage, edging, restraints mentioned, sub!bob

There's just something about the lack of control that really gets to him. It's impossible to think about the things that have plagued him for so long—his father, the healed needle scars on his arms, the Void that haunts his thoughts every time he's alone for too long. Every thought is consumed by you and what you're doing to him.

He's not sure how long it's been. Five minutes? Ten? Thirty? An hour? He has no concept of time. All he knows is the obscene wet sound of your hand pumping up and down his cock, slick with lube and the absurd amount of pre-cum spilling out of his tip each time he grows close to his peak.

And every time, you're there to deny it.

It's not cruel. Sure, you get some sort of sadistic pleasure out of it, but you're doing it for him. Prolonging the pleasure to erase the suffering he normally feels.

"F-fuck, please. S'too much. I can't." His voice is raised a few octaves than usual, breathy little whines filling his room in the compound. Hips canting up into your hand in an attempt to move, because there's no other way to go but up.

You hum in faux-pity. "Too much for you?"

All he can do is nod jerkily, hands tugging uselessly at where they're bound to the metal headboard. That's the part you enjoy most. If he really wanted to, he could break out of them with ease. Unleash that power within. But he'd much rather succumb to the overstimulation of your firm hand than that.

Very gratifying.

Your hand withdraws, and he's not sure whether to sigh in relief or disappointment. Except the sound that he releases ends up being much more like a yelp when the hum of the vibrator you've been tormenting him with fills his ears, and that quivering toy is pressed right against his leaking tip again.

"You can take it," you promise, reaching up to stroke his cheek with your clean hand.

"I can take it," he repeats dumbly. Always so eager to please.

And he does. He lets you bring him to the edge again and again, whether it's with the vibrator dragging up and down his pulsing length while you fondle his balls, or with your hand squelching around him in fast strokes. Head tipped back, lips bitten red as his hips stutter upwards into a slick hand fruitlessly in an attempt to finally get that release.

It's hard to keep him so on-edge for so long. To keep uttering the words "not yet, not yet" every time you feel him convulsing underneath you, abs tensing painfully. But you've always been more patient than him; now is the perfect time to prove it.

And God, he looks gorgeous. Brown curls sticking to his sweaty forehead, muscle in his cheek twitching and lips parted around another desperate whine of your name.

"P-please, just—" He gasps out, back arching up off the sweat-slick sheets beneath him. "I've been so good. Lemme cum, please, I've waited for so long—"

You've made him wait for so long that you almost pity him, enough to slow down the pace of your hand a little and consider his plea. "That's it. Ask nicely for me, baby."

"Nggh—! Okay, yeah. Yeah, please, please. I’m begging you, just— let me— I'm almost there—!"

And finally, finally...

"Okay, baby. Come on. Let go and cum for me."

His hips jolt upwards one more time into your hand before he comes undone, his eyes never once leaving yours. Brows pinched together in pleasure, lips parted to moan in pleasure as his climax hits.

"Oh my god, yeah, fuck, thank you!" He cries out, hips jerking upwards into your tight hand. You milk him through it, watching the thick ropes of cum spill endlessly onto his stomach.

And he's still thanking you five minutes later, delirious from overstimulation as you cradle his head to your chest, stroking his hair through the aftermath of it all.

What a good boy.

—

taglist: @lvve-talks @won-every-lottery @pittsick @voidsuites @artaussi @ashdaidiot — (join here)

[sxorpiomooon]

People's first impression of you - a pick a card reading

with a little bit of fashion suggestions too<3

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Pile 1-

LMAOOO I know bitches MAD. There are alot of people that just linger around you. Very very cool girl vibe I wonder if you all love the symbol of star, metallic jewellery sort of things, hinge cut or bangs and prefer using wired earphones? Bubble gum plays in my head have y'all checked the acubi style? Jewellery suits you all alot metallic so do try it. Anyways people might want to dress you up? You ooze coolness? Wherever you go people stare you don't have a well put together style but people LOVE your style. Women in general look up to you more and you are very messy. I'm seeing nana as well? Unconventional pretty the type of pretty that haunts people. People also feel as if you give off some ominous vibe they might be very scared of you and might think of you as someone who's very scary. I see people not wanting to even talk to you at first simply bc they're scared. Alot of rumours go around about you that make you seem more scary? People might even think that you will beat them up if they say something wrong 😭 women look up to you ALOT one sound keeps playing in my head it's in russian but I can't seem to name it. Whenever you go people always stare at you not because they necessarily want to but because they cannot help it. Men are naturally submissive and scared of you too lmao might make up shit about you simply because they have no balls.

Pile 2-

I see alot of mixed opinions people might not be able to grasp you easily so they might at times form a judgement about you that they themselves are aware of not being correct. She's a star started playing in my head y2k fashion, long time to go by cassie I heard "keep em in your pants" very cliche old rom coms, flared jeans. Anyways, people think of you as someone who is unpredictable like they always have to be on their toes with you because they never know what you are upto. "You look like a bratz doll" is what I heard lol. People also might not be able to lie to you very easily even the ones that you've met for the first time. There's a certain type of pull that you have that makes people very uncomfortable in lying to you. Some people also see you as someone who's extremely hardworking and resilient. I see these are the people that have actually observed you I saw those tools in the chemistry labs. Some of you take chemistry classes or work in a lab where people find you very fascinating. You turn things into magic is what I'm hearing 🪄 this emoji hahaha. You are capable of building and making new magical things. People wish to talk to you alot because they are very fascinated by you and observe you alot this is men mainly

Pile 3-

People might think of you as very distant this is also physically for some reason? Alot of people on the internet also have alot of opinions on you. Do you use discord or twitter? People form first impressions of you there are well and I feel like alot of population that chose this pile is the more digitally active one. I'm also feeling cold so anyways people might feel a bit sorry for you? People might think of you as someone who's suffering in someone why am I seeing snow or seeing so much cold "it matters where you are" from that one song started playing. People might also get the impression that you might not have the best family life? They might want to offer you help but you might seem too closed off. I'm seeing alot of black clothes and this reminds me of that daughter from the atypical family. People might also see you as very brave too they might actually be impressed "I wish I was half as brave as her" is what I'm hearing. Do you try to hide yourself with your clothes? People might also get the idea that you are very over burdened with things and situations. I keep seeing people constantly wanting to be close to you or help you out in some way but you close them out every single time. There is a girl in particular that has very pure intentions. I'm seeing the movie soulmates the korean one such brilliant movie do give it a try

Pile 4-

I believe that the photo you felt the pull towards speaks alot but still people listen when you talk. You are very fluent and straightforward in your manner of talking I wonder if you have sun in your 2h or a prominent sun. You have a very clear and commanding way of talking. love you love you love you love you that one instagram song keeps playing in my head. People see you as someone who is a leader it's like when you enter a group you are automatically handed over the title of the leader without anyone having to say it. Someone who sees the bigger picture and is a visionary. Everyone looks up to you alot especially your juniors or people younger than you. You are someone who knows what they want and have a clear goal in life. I'm seeing table tennis for some reason all of a sudden? Anyways zendaya is very similar to this. Someone who overcomes challenges very easily. Hmm at times people might feel as if you are slacking off? Or not doing as much as you can? I'd usually say this is people being jealous of you but this is coming from your closest ones. And this is not them hating on you but a genuine advice. Everyone knows that you have a tremendous amount of potential and you are working hard but not as hard as you can. "Are you scared of your own potential" and I heard "raw" immediately the black swan movie came in my head. You are also a very brilliant friend to everyone even to strangers.

[pinkpurplesunrises]

I was just trying to breathe (and then you knocked)

+/- 7500 words - the long story - Alexia Putellas x Reader - Maybe this will heal the loneliness - Angst and Fluff - Mentions of loneliness and grief - Please read with care.

I was feeling a bit lonely, that's when my creative brain hit and got this out of my system. I loved the process of writing this one. Felt kind of reassuring and relieving. I tried my best spanish. I hope that you like this. Please leave some feedback if you want to. Enjoy reading!

The coffee’s bitter. You ordered it with sugar but the woman behind the counter must’ve forgotten. Or maybe you didn’t speak loud enough. It doesn’t matter. You drink it anyway.

The little cafe is nearly empty, which suits you fine. There’s a kind of comfort in being alone among strangers. Like being a ghost no one realizes is haunting the room.

You’ve been coming here almost every day since moving out. Not because it’s good. It isn’t, really. But because it’s somewhere. Somewhere to sit. Somewhere to feel like life is happening around you, even if you’re not quite part of it.

It’s early spring but the wind outside still bites. You’ve got your coat wrapped around you too tight and your scarf smells like the box you pulled it out of. You tell yourself you’re just tired. Not lonely. Just tired.

You scroll your phone with the sort of dead-eyed hope that maybe, this time, there’ll be something different. A message. A job interview. A friend remembering you exist. But all you get is the usual silence.

You’re halfway through your lukewarm toast when the door opens. You don’t look up at first. Too used to people coming and going. But something makes you glance up. Maybe it’s the shift in the room. The way cold air rushes in behind her, carrying the kind of gravity that some people just have without meaning to.

She’s tall. Not just in height, but in presence. Blonde hair tied back. Headphones around her neck. Suitcase at her feet. She’s got this look in her eyes that’s both determined and completely elsewhere.

You watch her order, half-listening. Her voice is low. Raspy like she hasn’t used it much lately. Her accent marks her as Catalan. She says 'gràcies' like it’s a muscle she’s trying to keep from forgetting how to move.

She picks a seat by the window. Not too far from you. Just two tables down. Close enough that you can hear the quiet zip of her backpack opening. The creak of her leather jacket when she sits.

You try not to stare, but you do.

Because there’s something about her that feels familiar. Not in a 'have we met before?' kind of way. But in that deeper, unspoken language of grief. The way she keeps her eyes down. The way she sits like she’s been carved out from the inside. Like she’s trying to take up less space than she actually does.

She’s young. Your age, maybe. Eighteen, give or take. But she looks older in the way people do when something big has happened. Something that cracked them open and left the wound just under the skin.

You wonder what she’s running from. Or maybe what she's running to. The suitcase hints at movement. Transition. Maybe she’s leaving someone. Maybe she’s lost someone.

You don’t mean to, but your eyes catch hers for half a second. She doesn’t flinch but she doesn’t smile either. Just looks. Like she’s trying to decide whether or not you’re real.

You glance away. The toast tastes like cardboard now.

There’s a strange electricity in the air. Not romantic, not yet. Just present. A kind of awareness. Two people orbiting just close enough to feel the pull.

She sets her coffee down with a little too much force. Like maybe her hands are heavier than they should be. She stares out the window like it’s easier than looking at the world.

And you... you do what you always do. You say nothing.

But something in you shifts.

You think: maybe she’s just as lost as I am.

You think: maybe we’re both just pretending not to fall apart.

You don’t know her name yet.

You don’t know that she just buried her father two months ago and hasn’t really spoken to her sister since. She tries with her mother. It's all a lot.

You don’t know that the suitcase beside her holds more than clothes. That it holds a thousand moments she hasn’t let herself cry about. Jerseys that still smell like the old house. Letters she never sent. A football tucked into the corner like a relic from a life that feels like someone else’s now.

You don’t know that she got a call from Barcelona and said yes without knowing why. That she’s scared, too. That she sat in the buss for an hour too long before deciding she wasn’t ready to arrive yet.

But you will.

You’ll learn all of it, eventually. In glances. In silence. In the way she finally says your name one night like it’s an answer to a question she didn’t know she’d been asking.

But for now... it’s just you and her.

Two strangers. Two cups of bitter coffee.

And the slow, quiet beginning of something that neither of you has words for yet.

You don’t expect to see her again.

People like that, they pass through. Like train station echoes or songs heard in a shop you never find again. Beautiful in the moment. Gone before you realize you were holding your breath.

But life... as it turns out... has a strange sense of timing.

It’s three days later. The hallway in your apartment smells like paint and dust, and the landlord is still pretending that 'we’re fixing the boiler next week' means anything. You’re halfway up the stairs with two bags of groceries cutting into your fingers when you hear it. The soft thud of footsteps. A door clicking shut.

You glance up.

And there she is.

Same suitcase. Same leather jacket. A different hoodie. This one a deep navy blue. Sleeves stretched over her hands. She’s staring at the apartment across from yours like it’s a puzzle she doesn’t know how to solve.

For a moment, neither of you says anything.

She turns when she hears you. Slow. Careful. Like maybe she was hoping she’d be alone. Her eyes widen a fraction when she recognizes you. But still, no smile. Just that same guarded curiosity. Like she’s waiting for you to speak first.

You do.

“…Hey.”

She nods. “Hi.”

Your voice sounds stupid in your ears. Too sharp. Too awkward. You shift your weight, adjusting the bags in your hands as if that might distract from the heat climbing up your neck.

“I guess we’re neighbors now?”

A pause. She nods again, then glances at the door. “Yeah. I think so.”

You catch the edge of her accent again. Soft and clipped. Heavy with something unspoken. She fumbles for the key like her hands don’t quite trust themselves. When she finally gets the door open, it sticks. Of course it does. Everything in this building is a little broken.

You speak before you think.

“Want help?”

She hesitates.

And then... barely... she steps back. “Sure.”

You wedge your foot against the doorframe. Lean your shoulder into it and it groans open with a reluctant creak. The air inside is cold and stale. Like no one’s been in there for a while. The lights are off.

You step back, letting her enter first.

“Thanks,” she says, quiet. She doesn’t look at you when she says it.

“No problem.”

You’re not sure if you’re supposed to leave now. She’s halfway through dragging the suitcase over the threshold when she glances back.

“I’m Alexia.”

She says it like it’s a warning, not a name.

You tell her yours. You don’t add the way your heart skips a beat when she says hers. You don’t ask why it sounds so familiar. You’ll figure it out later. The small articles. The youth matches. The 'future of Spanish football' label she’s already tired of hearing.

For now, she’s just Alexia.

She nods again, as if sealing some silent contract between you.

And then she disappears inside, door closing with a soft finality.

You don’t see her again for two more days.

You think about her, though. Not obsessively, just… often. In the way your brain keeps replaying the way she stood. Shoulders too tense, like she was trying not to shake. You wonder if she’s eating. If she’s sleeping. If the apartment next door is just as cold and empty as it looked.

Then, one night, you hear it.

It’s late. Past 1 a.m. You’re sitting on your floor. Curled under a blanket. Eating cereal and watching a dumb movie on your laptop with the volume low. And then, through the thin wall, you hear it:

Crying.

Not loud. Not dramatic. Just… quiet. The kind of crying people do when they’re trying not to be heard. Choked and slow. Like something being wrung out of her.

It punches a hole in your chest.

You don’t know what to do.

You press your ear closer to the wall. Not to spy. Just to know. To be sure you’re not imagining it. But it’s real. Raw and muffled and awful.

You want to knock on her door. You want to bring her tea. You want to do something. Anything. To ease the weight in her voice.

But you don’t.

Because what do you say to someone you barely know. Who carries grief like a second skin?

So you sit there, still, listening to the sound of heartbreak leaking through plaster.

And somehow... in the stillness of that night, something in you softens.

You’re not alone in your loneliness anymore.

And neither is she.

You’re not a morning person.

Not in the cute, relatable, oops-I-snoozed-again kind of way. More like a slow-moving existential ghost who regrets all life choices before 10 a.m. You’ve made peace with that. Sort of.

You're wrapped in an old hoodie. You're staring blankly at the kettle as it rattles its way toward boiling, when there’s a knock at your door.

Not a loud knock. Just a hesitant, single rap. Like whoever’s on the other side isn’t even sure they want to be there.

You don’t expect it to be her.

But when you open the door... there she is.

Alexia.

She looks like she hasn’t slept. Her hoodie’s creased at the elbows, and her ponytail is slightly lopsided in a way that makes you feel like maybe she didn’t look in a mirror this morning. There’s something raw in her expression. Not emotional, exactly, but stripped back. Honest.

“…Sorry,” she says, voice raspy. “Do you, uh...”

She clears her throat. Looks down at her feet like they might have the courage she’s missing.

“Do you have any food?”

You blink. “Food?”

“I haven’t gone shopping yet.”

You process this slowly. You think of the crying through the wall. You think of the dark, empty apartment. The way she looked at her suitcase like it had teeth.

“Um. Yeah. I mean. Kind of.”

You open the door wider.

She hesitates for a second, then steps inside like she’s doing something illegal. her eyes flick around your small kitchen-living-room situation. The cluttered counter. The single dying plant on the windowsill. The cereal box you forgot to put away.

“This is fine?” she asks.

“It's all I've got,” you mutter. “I’m not exactly… a breakfast person.”

She doesn't answer. She just sits at your tiny table. Silent. You pour two bowls of cereal. Slightly embarrassed by how unimpressive your hospitality is, and push one toward her.

She digs in like it’s the first real meal she’s had in days.

You try not to stare. But it’s hard not to notice how fast she eats. Not messily. Just… focused. Like the bowl is a battlefield she’s determined to win.

You clear your throat. Unsure if you should fill the silence or let her have it.

“So… you just moved in yesterday?”

She nods. Swallows. “Yeah.”

“I didn’t think I’d see you again after the café.”

She offers a faint shrug. “Didn’t think I’d end up across the hall.”

There’s a pause. The kind that stretches just a second too long. You sip your coffee. She pours herself a second bowl without asking. And you respect that, actually.

“You got plans today?” you ask. Mostly just to hear something other than the scrape of her spoon.

Her expression shifts. Just slightly. A flash of something. Nerves? Determination?

“Yeah,” she says. “First day. At Barça.”

You pause mid-sip. “Barça like… Barcelona? Football Barça?”

She nods, casual. Like it’s nothing. Like she didn’t just casually drop a bomb.

You try to play it cool. Fail miserably.

“Wait. You’re a footballer?”

Another shrug. “Trying to be.”

“Oh.” You pause. “Cool.”

It’s the least cool thing you’ve ever said.

She gives a small, almost-smile. Barely there. But enough to knock the wind out of you for a second. It softens her face. Rounds the hard edges you didn’t know you were watching for.

She finishes the second bowl. Looks up.

“Thanks,” she says, quietly. “For this.”

“No problem.”

You’re not sure if she means the food, or the silence you gave her while she ate it. Maybe both.

When she leaves, the room feels heavier. Not in a bad way. Just… quieter. Like something’s changed. Like you let someone in, even just for a moment, and now the air can’t go back to how it was.

You rinse out the bowls and wonder how long she hadn’t eaten.

You wonder why you care.

You wonder if she’ll knock again.

And then you sit back at your table. Staring at the empty seat across from you. Trying to ignore the very stupid. Very real ache blooming in your chest.

It’s just cereal.

It shouldn’t mean anything.

But somehow, it already does.

You’re at your second class when your mind starts drifting.

It’s not that the lecture is boring... not really. It’s just that your thoughts keep sneaking away. Folding back into the apartment building. To the quiet next door.

You wonder how Alexia’s first day went.

Did the team impress her? Did they laugh with her or at her? Did she feel like she belonged. Or like she was still trying to find the rhythm in a song she barely knew?

You catch yourself hoping she’s okay.

You don’t know why.

You shove your phone into your bag, trying to focus. But even when you’re scribbling notes... your brain loops back to that breakfast, to the way she ate like she hadn’t eaten in days and the way her eyes flickered with something unreadable when she said 'Barça.'

The afternoon passes in a blur.

By the time you get back to your apartment, the sky’s bruised purple and the building smells like rain.

You unlock your door and slip inside. Kicking off your shoes. The walls here are thin. Thinner than you thought, and as you settle onto your couch... you hear it again.

That sound.

A soft, choked breath.

Then a voice. Quiet, but cracked with emotion.

You freeze.

It’s Spanish.

A voice you recognize now. Alexia’s.

You lean closer to the wall. Heart hammering.

“Mamá...” she whispers, voice barely more than a tremble.

You catch the ragged edge. The ache beneath her words.

“No sé qué hacer...” she says, voice breaking. “Siento que... que mi hermana me odia. Que... no puedo arreglarlo.”

You imagine her curled on the floor. Knees pulled close. Phone pressed to her ear like a lifeline.

“Es como si todo lo que perdí...” she breathes. Voice thick with grief. “...se juntara y no pudiera respirar. No puedo ser fuerte ahora, mamá. No sé cómo.”

You don’t move.

You just listen.

The kind of pain that lives in silences. The kind that feels too big for words.

“Quiero que me entiendas,” she says. “Pero no sé si pueda perdonarme a mí misma. Por dejar todo atrás, por no ser perfecta...”

The line goes quiet for a moment.

Then, soft and broken:

“Te quiero...”

You don’t know what else she says after that.

But you feel it. The raw, fragile hope tangled up in her voice.

She’s not okay.

But she’s still fighting.

And you... you want to be part of that fight.

Even if you don’t know how.

For the first time since you moved in, the loneliness feels… less like a wall and more like a bridge.

You pull your knees close. Heart aching in the best and worst way.

Because sometimes, the loudest words are the ones whispered between walls.

You don’t cook often.

Not because you hate it. Though some days you’re convinced that’s true. But because you’re better at eating food than making it. Your usual approach is to keep things simple: cereal, toast, instant noodles. You’re not the 'let’s make a three-course meal' type. More like the 'please don’t set the kitchen on fire' type.

But today… today you do it on purpose.

Or at least. You try.

You spend an hour fumbling around your tiny kitchen. Trying to follow a recipe for something that looks way more impressive than it turns out. Smoke alarm? Yep. Flour everywhere? Definitely. Pasta boiled dry? Absolutely.

The dish looks… let’s just say it’s not going to win any awards. But it smells good enough to convince you that your effort matters more than perfection.

You wrap it carefully in foil. Slip it into a plastic container and take a deep breath before knocking on Alexia’s door.

Your heart pounds like you’re about to confess a terrible secret.

She opens the door. Eyes widening at the sight of the steaming container in your hands.

“What’s this?”

You shrug, cheeks burning.

“I, uh… I made too much. Thought you might want some.”

She studies you for a moment. Like trying to figure out if you’re serious or joking.

Then, with the smallest smile, she steps aside.

“Come in.”

Her apartment smells different from yours. Cleaner. But colder.

You sit at the edge of her couch. The silence thick but not uncomfortable.

Alexia unwraps the foil carefully. Then takes a tentative bite.

Her eyes flicker.

“It’s… good,” she says softly.

You laugh, relief flooding you.

“Good for someone who almost burned the kitchen down.”

She laughs too. Low and real, the kind that reaches her eyes.

For the first time, the walls between you don’t feel so tall.

And maybe, just maybe, this is how it starts.

You sit cross-legged on her couch. The remnants of your overcooked pasta sitting forgotten between you.

Alexia picks up the empty container. Turning it in her hands.

“Thanks,” she says again. Quieter this time. Like it means something more than just food.

You notice something else. Her water glass is empty and there’s no sign of any other drinks.

“Do you have anything to drink?” you ask. Trying not to sound like you’re prying.

She shakes her head.

“Didn’t get groceries yet.”

You nod, understanding. It’s hard. Easier to let days pass without the effort.

Without thinking much, you say, “Hey… I’m going out to get some stuff. Want to come with me?”

Her eyes flick up. Surprised.

“I mean, if you want,” you add quickly, feeling awkward.

She hesitates.

Then, slowly, a small smile.

“Okay.”

The two of you step out into the warm afternoon. The city humming softly around you.

Walking side by side feels strange at first. A new rhythm you’re both still finding.

At the store, you grab a basket and start picking up essentials: bread, juice, fresh fruit.

She lingers at the shelves. Eyes scanning, then reaching for the yogurt.

You watch her. Noticing the careful way she selects things. Like she’s learning, or maybe relearning, how to take care of herself.

In the checkout line, you talk about little things: the weather, music, the tiny plant in your kitchen that’s somehow still alive.

She laughs. A full unguarded laugh when you admit you once bought instant noodles thinking they were healthy.

It feels easy. It feels good.

And for the first time, the silence between you isn’t heavy. It’s comfortable.

You walk back together. Bags in hand. The city folding around you like a promise.

Maybe this is how healing starts.

One small step.

One shared moment.

One grocery trip at a time.

You’ve made it a thing now. The dinners.

Not formal, not planned far ahead, just a rhythm slowly settling between you. You cook; she eats. Sometimes you talk. Sometimes you sit in comfortable silence.

Tonight, you notice she’s quieter than usual.

You watch her as she picks at her plate. Eyes distant.

You don’t push.

Not yet.

Instead, you refill both your glasses and sit back. Letting the space between you fill with the sound of your quiet breathing and the city humming outside.

After a while, she looks up.

“Did you… want to hear something?”

You nod, heart thudding.

She breathes in, slow and steady.

“My dad died… about a month before Barça called me.”

Her voice is soft, but steady.

“That call... it was everything I ever wanted. The dream.”

She swallows hard, eyes flickering.

“My mom told me to go. Said I had to go. That he’d want me to.”

You reach out, but she shakes her head. Almost smiling sadly.

“But my sister… she saw it differently.”

Her fingers curl around the fork. Tightening.

“She said I was running away. That I didn’t care about him or her.”

Her voice breaks just a little.

“I think… maybe she hates me for leaving.”

You don’t say anything, because what could you say?

Instead, you reach across the table and gently touch her hand.

She doesn’t pull away.

And maybe... for the first time, she lets some of the loneliness out.

You squeeze her hand softly. Hoping she knows you’re there.

No words needed.

Just presence.

You still can’t cook without a minor disaster, but the ritual has grown on you.

Thursday night. You get home before Alexia. Open windows to let the apartment breathe and start something simple that smells like effort. Garlic sizzling, tomatoes stewing, a loaf of bread warming in the oven. She’ll arrive from training hungry and tired. You like the idea that warmth meets her at the door.

It’s almost seven when the knock comes. Earlier than usual. You wipe your hands on a dish towel. Already smiling. But when you open the door it isn’t Alexia.

The woman on the landing is small. Brisk silver strands threaded through chestnut hair. Same hazel eyes. Softer around the corners. She holds a cloth tote and an umbrella still speckled with rain.

“Perdona,” she begins. Accent rich and familiar. “Alexia no está?”

You blink, switch mental gears. “She’s… still at training. I think. Did you want to come in and wait?”

She sighs. Half-laughs at herself. “Ay, claro. Se me olvidó su horario.”

Her disappointment is gentle. Practiced. You feel it brush past you like a draft.

“I’m her...” You falter. Neighbor? Friend? Almost lover? Keeper of Thursday night dinners? None of the words fit neatly. “I live across the hall.”

“Eres la vecina,” she nods with a soft smile. “Me llamo Eli. Soy la madre de Ale.”

She offers her hand. It’s warm, calloused. The kind of hand that’s done a lot of caretaking.

You step back automatically. “Would you like to wait inside? She should be back soon.”

She hesitates. Politeness warring with concern. Then steps inside. The umbrella drips quietly by the door.

Your apartment smells of tomato and oregano. Eli inhales, visibly surprised. “¿Estás cocinando?”

“Trying to,” you murmur, cheeks warming. “It’s… kind of our Thursday thing.”

Her brows lift. Equal parts amused and touched. But she just nods and takes a seat at the table. Resting her tote gently down.

You hover for a moment. Uncertain what to do with someone’s mother in your kitchen. So you fall into your fallback plan. Feed the silence. You stir the sauce again. Slice more bread than necessary, and try not to stare when she scans the room. Your books left open. Your clumsy knife technique.

“Has estado cuidando de ella?” she asks softly.

You shrug, slicing another piece. “We’ve been… keeping each other company.”

She nods, eyes softening. “Eso ayuda. Comer juntas cura más de lo que parece.”

You don’t reply. But your hands move more gently after that. Somehow, the small comment quiets you in a good way.

A key scrapes the hallway lock. You gave your spare one to her. You had forgotten already. Quick footsteps. A gear bag thunked against the wall. Then her voice: “Mamá?”

You meet Alexia in the doorway before she can panic. She’s fresh from training. Skin damp. Cheeks flushed. Her shirt clinging at the collar. When she sees her mother seated at your kitchen table. Her face crumbles for a second. Caught off guard.

“Pensaba que llegarías más tarde,” she says. Stepping in quickly.

“Me equivoqué,” Eli says with a small smile.

Alexia looks at you then, almost apologetic. “We can skip dinner if it’s too much...”

But she trails off when she sees the table. Three plates. A pot still steaming. Bread folded in a towel.

You shrug. “It’s tradition now, right?”

Her expression softens. Tired, grateful. “No rompamos la tradición.”

While Alexia showers, you and Eli ferry the dishes to Alexia's apartment. She insists on it, mumbling something about her place finally needing to smell like food.

The apartment’s still not quite lived-in. Boxes, a rug still rolled up in a corner but the photo on the shelf catches your eye. Two girls, arms tight around each other. A beach in the background. The hair shorter. The smiles wider.

Dinner starts a little stiff. Elisabet asks about training. Alexia responds in short bursts. Distracted by her water glass. You offer small talk about your classes. About the weather. About the neighbor upstairs who seems to always be vacuuming at night. Anything to ease the edges.

But eventually, things soften. Alexia tells a story about a teammate’s terrible playlist in the locker room. You laugh. Eli laughs, too, hand over her mouth. And for a while, it’s easy.

Then Eli glances at the photo on the shelf, and you watch Alexia’s spine straighten almost imperceptibly.

“Cómo está Alba?” she asks, quieter now.

“Está… todavía enojada,” Eli replies gently. “Necesita tiempo.”

Alexia’s jaw tightens. She looks down at her plate. “¿Y si nunca…?”

She doesn’t finish the thought. You don’t push her to.

You tear a piece of bread in two and place half on her plate. She glances up. Meets your eyes just long enough for something unspoken to settle between you.

Eli reaches across the table, hand covering Alexia’s.

“Lo arreglarán,” she says. “Tu padre estaría orgulloso de ti, Ale.”

Alexia doesn’t cry. But you can feel her holding it back like it’s breaking against the walls inside her.

You don’t say anything. You just pour more water. Give her space to breathe.

Eventually, dinner ends. Eli yawns behind her hand, and Alexia insists on walking her to the taxi. At the door, she turns to you.

“Gracias por todo,” Eli says, and hugs you with surprising strength. You hug her back. Quietly floored.

You wait on the couch until the door clicks again. Alexia walks in, still damp from the night air. Eyes a little red.

“Sorry if that was weird,” she says. Rubbing her hands over her face.

“It wasn’t weird,” you reply gently. “It was dinner.”

She gives a soft laugh. “Thanks… for keeping it going.”

You smile. “Tradition.”

She stands there a second, watching you with something unreadable behind her tired expression.

“You make things less hard,” she murmurs. Almost like it slips out before she can filter it.

Your heart stumbles, caught off guard. But you nod, soft. “You do, too.”

She walks you to the door. Neither of you says it, but you both feel it. That something is shifting. Not in a rush. But slowly. Trust making its way through the cracks.

“Next week,” she says, almost teasing now, “I’m cooking.”

You laugh as you step into the hall. “God help us both.”

The door clicks behind you. You stand still a moment, breathing. Then lean back against your side of the wall, wondering if she’s doing the same just a few feet away.

The ritual holds.

Thursday dinners continue.

And beneath it, something steady is growing. Not fast. Not flashy. But real.

At first, you tell yourself she’s just tired. First weeks on a new team. Endless drills. Media obligations. You stir your pasta with one hand. Phone face-up beside the cutting board. Waiting for her name to flash. But it doesn’t.

The days after her mother’s visit stretch out strange and quiet.

You don’t see her in the hallway. No knocks. No text.

No Thursday dinner.

You think about checking in, more than once. But you don’t want to crowd her. And still... when you lie down at night, the quiet through the shared wall feels different. Heavier. Not just absence but something heavier beneath it.

Until Saturday night.

It’s late. You’re curled on the couch with a book you’ve been pretending to read for an hour. The streetlamp casting long shadows across your floor.

Then you hear it.

Muffled. Familiar now in the worst way. Crying.

At first you freeze. It’s not loud. Not the gasping kind but it’s raw. Choked. Like someone trying not to break and failing anyway. You sit up slowly. Heart already crawling up your throat.

You wait... ten seconds, maybe thirty. But it doesn’t stop.

And then you’re on your feet.

There’s no answer, but you hear movement inside. Bare feet on tile, the low creak of a door opening.

You cross the hallway barefoot, knock once. Soft, unsure. Nothing.

Then again, firmer.

When it finally swings open, Alexia’s eyes are red. She doesn’t try to hide it. Doesn’t apologize. She just looks at you like she isn’t sure if she should speak or collapse.

“I’m sorry,” she says and it comes out broken.

You shake your head. “Don’t be. I just... I heard you.”

A pause. Then she steps back, opens the door wider. “Come in.”

The apartment is dim. Lit only by the glow from the kitchen window. There’s a half-folded hoodie on the floor. A photo frame face-down on the table. Her voice catches as she tries to explain.

“I just… I didn’t want you to see me like...”

You close the door behind you gently. “You don’t have to explain.”

She falls into you.

And then, without thinking, you do something stupid and brave.

You reach out. You think she might pull away. That she’ll shrug it off or pretend it’s nothing. But instead...

No warning. No sound. Just collapses forward. Arms around your waist. Face buried into your shoulder. The sob that rips out of her is the kind that’s been waiting days. You hold her tighter.

She doesn’t let go.

You don’t either.

You feel her whole body tremble. Hands gripping the back of your shirt. Hair damp at your neck. It goes on for minutes. Maybe hours. Time suspends when grief is involved.

And all the while, you whisper nothing. Just hold her. Anchor her. Let her know she isn’t alone in this echo.

When her crying finally slows. Throat raw, breath uneven. She pulls back just enough to look at you.

“I have my first match tomorrow,” she whispers.

You nod. “Barça?”

She nods once, then looks away. Her voice drops to something so small it barely exists. “Él no estará.”

Your chest tightens.

“My dad,” she adds, like she needs to clarify, though she doesn’t. “He’d been waiting for it since I was twelve. Said the day I wore that jersey for real, he’d… he’d cry right in the stands.”

She laughs once, bitter and quiet. “Now I’m the only one crying.”

You brush a strand of hair behind her ear. Careful like touching glass. “He’d be proud. You know that, right?”

She shrugs. “It’s not the same.”

You want to say something. Anything. But some pain doesn’t have words. So you settle for the truth. Quiet but full.

“I’ll be there.”

She looks at you. Startled.

“I promised myself,” you say. More to her than to you now. “The first time you wear that jersey… someone who gives a damn should be watching.”

Her lip trembles. You think she might cry again. But instead, she nods.

“Okay.”

She walks you to the door slowly. As if time has started again but neither of you are ready for it.

“Get some sleep,” you say softly.

She nods again. Then... just before the door closes... she reaches for your hand. Squeezes once. Not needing to say thank you because the squeeze says it all.

You walk back across the hall with your heart full and aching.

Tomorrow, she will wear the colors she’s dreamed of.

Tomorrow, her father won’t be there.

But you will.

And maybe, just maybe, that will be enough. For now.

You don’t even like football.

That’s what you tell yourself. Walking toward the stadium early. hands deep in your jacket pockets and heart pulsing like it’s tied to something bigger than nerves.

You’re not sure what you expected. Myaybe an echo chamber of people, maybe it would make you feel like you were intruding on something too sacred. But instead it feels oddly… tender.

The kind of day where the sky holds a little too much light Like it hasn’t decided whether to be spring or grief. You walk with the slow trickle of fans entering early and you sit low in the stands. Close enough to see expressions. To feel the weight of the anthem when it rolls across the pitch like a held breath.

You don’t know which number is hers. But then she steps out.And you know. Of course you know.

She doesn’t look at the crowd. Not right away. She walks with her head high and her shoulders back, but there’s something in her arms. Her gait. The tension in her mouth that says: I’m holding something in.

Her teammates greet her. A few smiles. One ruffle of her hair. And the anthem begins.

Then she turns. Looks up toward the stands. Scanning.

And for one brief second... your heart in your throat... her eyes land on you.

She doesn't wave. Doesn't smile. But she sees you. And it’s enough.

You don't cheer like everyone else. You just press your hands into your thighs and let the music rise through your ribs like something that belongs to someone else. And all the while, you keep watching her.

She's good. Of course she is. Fluid, fast, intentional. You don’t understand half the movements but you understand the look on her face. The focus. The weight. The ache she carries with her every step.

You glance a few seats to your left and recognize her mother instantly. Eli small and straight-backed in her seat. And next to her, someone else: younger, sharper-edged. Her sister?

She has Alexia’s eyes.

They both sit still through most of the game. Hands tense. They don't cheer wildly. They just watch. Like it costs them something.

The game ends 2-1. Alexia doesn’t score but she assists the second goal. A perfect pass that splits the defense like glass. The stadium erupts.

But she doesn’t smile.

Not even after the whistle. Just stands still. Breathing hard. Chest rising under the crest of the shirt she always wanted. She turns toward the stands again.

You watch it happen like a private moment made public. Something cracks. And then she walks... jogs... across the field. Past her coach. Past her teammates. Straight toward the edge of the barrier.

And her face changes when she sees them. Her mother.

Her sister.

Her sister is already on her feet.

You think you see her hesitate. Just for a second.

Then Alba leans down. Arms open.

And Alexia folds into her like she was always meant to.

Her shoulders shake. Her hands cling to her sister’s back. And the sob she lets out. Raw and shaking. Makes you forget there’s anyone else in the stadium at all.

You see Alba pull her closer. You can't hear them. But you imagine it.

Lo siento. Lo siento. Estoy aquí.

Her mother presses a hand to her mouth. Wipes her cheek. Doesn't interrupt.

You don’t move. You don’t look away.

Because this... this moment... is everything.

It’s not the dream she planned. Her father isn’t there to cry in the stands. But her sister is. Her mother is. You are.

And maybe that’s enough. Maybe grief is something that never stops echoing. but on some days, it finds harmony.

When she finally steps back, her face blotched and red and so alive, she lifts her head again. Scans.

Finds you.

And this time, she nods.

Not a wave. Not a smile. Just that.

A single, quiet, thank you. Shared across a stadium full of noise.

You stay seated even as people start to leave. Your chest hurts in the way that means something changed.

You showed up.

And so did she.

And though you don’t say it aloud, you know in your gut.

This is only the beginning.

You hear the knock late.

You’re sitting on the floor of your apartment again. Bowl of microwaved leftovers abandoned beside you. TV remote untouched. You didn’t even change after coming back from the stadiu. Just tossed your jacket off. Kicked your shoes halfway across the room and sat down like the match had left too much in you to do anything else.

So when she knocks. Soft. Hesitant. Your body knows it’s her before your brain does.

You open the door.

She’s still in her training gear. The Barça crest still pressed to her chest. Her cheeks are pink like she never let the adrenaline fade. Her hair’s tied back and messy. She looks...

Tired.

And something else, too.

You don’t say anything. Just step aside.

She walks in slow. Doesn’t sit. Just stands in the middle of the room like she’s not sure if she came here for food or air or something heavier.

Finally, she speaks.

“I didn’t want to be alone.”

You nod, gently. “You’re not.”

She turns, slowly. Looks at you in that way she’s done a few times now. Eyes raw. Guarded. Vulnerable and unreadable at the same time. “My mom and Alba went back already. I didn’t ask them to stay. I don’t know why.”

“You don’t have to know why,” you say.

She exhales like it’s a surrender.

Then sits, slowly, on the edge of your couch. Silent.

You follow. Curl up opposite her. Not touching. Not crowding. Just near.

“It meant everything,” she says. Eyes not quite meeting yours, “that you were there.”

You nod. “I told you I would be.”

Alexia looks at her hands. Turns her wrist over like there’s something she needs to read there. “I thought I would feel proud today.”

“You didn’t?”

She hesitates. “I did. But I also...” Her voice catches. “I just kept thinking. He missed it. He missed me. And I... I think maybe I’ve been angry at him for that.”

Silence. You let it exist.

Then...

“I think that’s okay,” you say, careful. “To be angry.”

She swallows. “And with Alba too. She needed me to grieve with her and I... left. I left to chase a dream. And I don’t even know if I did the right thing.”

“You did the brave thing,” you say. “You didn’t run from it. You carried it with you.”

She blinks hard. Doesn’t cry this time. But there’s something else in her face. Like the edge of a decision she’s been circling around for weeks.

Then she leans forward. Eyes suddenly locked on yours. “I don’t want to feel this alone anymore.”

Her voice breaks open on the word alone. And suddenly, everything you’ve been pretending to ignore for weeks rushes forward like a breath held too long.

You don’t think. You don’t plan. You just shift closer. Knees brushing. Palms against the couch cushion between you. You wait.

“I’ve been so afraid,” she whispers.

You nod. “Me too.”

And then she leans in.

Not rushed. Not dramatic. Not a crash. But a slow, trembling choice. Her eyes flutter closed just before her lips find yours. Soft, careful, questioning.

You kiss her back.

Not because you’d planned to.

But because you couldn’t not.

Her hand brushes your jaw. Your fingers find the side of her leg. It’s slow. Like you’re both afraid to wake something fragile.

When you pull back, her forehead rests against yours. You both stay like that for a breath. Two.

Then she says, “I don’t know what this is.”

You smile... small and full. “It doesn’t have to be anything yet.”

She leans back. Eyes still on you. “But I want it to be something.”

You let that settle in the space between you. Like a promise. Like an answer to a question you’d never asked out loud.

Outside, the world is quiet. Barcelona holds its breath.

Inside, she leans into you again. This time not for a kiss, but to rest her head on your shoulder. A small surrender. A bigger beginning.

You reach for her hand... and this time... she doesn’t let go.

The walls here are thick. Solid.

They don’t echo voices. Or carry the sounds of late-night crying through plaster. They don’t creak when someone shifts their weight on the other side. They don’t hum with loneliness.

And you both notice.

You joked about it once. Early on. Standing in the empty living room with a cheap pizza box on the floor and keys in your hand. Alexia had walked from room to room like a kid in a museum. Barefoot and wide-eyed. Until she leaned in behind you and whispered, “Now we can finally discover each other without paper-thin walls, eh?”

She had kissed your neck afterward. And then the joke was less funny and more true.

It’s been two years since that first knock on your door.

Since cereal and grief and quiet Thursday dinners that turned into lifelines. Since that first Barça match where she found you in the crowd before she found her family in the front row. Since the night she whispered, “I don’t want to feel this alone anymore,” and your world split open.

Now?

Now, you have your own mugs lined up in the kitchen cabinet. One has the Barça crest on it. The other is chipped and plain but always ends up in her hand anyway. There’s a bike leaning against the hallway wall she keeps saying she’ll fix. A laundry basket overflowing in your bedroom and two passports tucked into a drawer with the little ticket stub from your first trip to Ibiza.

Alexia is thriving.

She walks through the door most nights with grass still clinging to her socks and a smile that tells you how training went before she even speaks. Her English is sharper now, more confident but she still mumbles through early mornings and sometimes mixes up your shampoo with hers.

You finished your studies a few months ago. Your degree hangs beside the kitchen calendar. Crooked because neither of you are handy but perfect anyway. You work full-time now. Something stable. Something good. And most evenings when you both get home, you drop your bags in the same corner and say the same thing:

“Hey. You okay?”

And the answer, more often than not, is yes.

Some days are still heavy. Grief doesn’t leave completely. It lingers, soft-edged and familiar. But Alexia talks to her sister now. They’ve built something new. Not the same as before but strong in its own way. Her mother visits more, too. She still brings flan and always kisses your cheek twice like she’s known you longer than she has.

You think about how far you’ve both come, sometimes. Especially on nights like this.

She’s curled up on the couch. Your legs tangled with hers. A match replay humming low on the TV in the background. You’re half-watching her more than the game. The way her brow still furrows when she watches herself play. The way her fingers drum against your ankle like she can’t not touch you, even unconsciously.

You lean into her shoulder.

She turns, soft-eyed, and murmurs, “Sabes qué?”

You smile, lazy. “¿Qué?”

She doesn’t say anything at first. Just brushes her thumb across your knee, gaze lingering.

Then, quietly:

“Gracias por quedarte.”

You close your eyes, just for a second, breathing it in. Her voice. Her presence. This place that is now yours.

“I never wanted to be anywhere else,” you say.

And you mean it. In every room of this home. In every part of this life you’ve built slow and true. You mean it.

Outside, the city moves on. The world spins.

But here... with thick walls, warm skin, and all the time in the world... you stay.

Together.

[prettyiwa]

Relationship: Sakura Haruka x Florist!Reader Content Tags: First Meetings, Strangers to (eventual) Lovers, Wound Tending, Sakura is a good citizen, Hanakotoba (obv), Koi no Yokan, Everyone's in their early 20s, the use of epithets for Suo and Nirei until their names are learned, References to their nomenclatures Summary: A month after moving back to Makochi, you were saved from being mugged on your way home. After your saviors walk you home to ensure your safety, you can't help but want to repay their kindness by patching them up. Word Count: 2.7k

A/N: This idea has been haunting me since the beginning of April. It was supposed to be a little Ha-Ha funny joke between friends and it somehow snowballed. Thank you @owoasis for letting me talk your ear off about this and Haruka for the past couple months. Tagging @kweenkatsuki-fics because you've also been instrumental in this becoming a thing 💜 Kinda relevant: I see Nirei as becoming a school teacher, probably for elementary or middle school. By the time Florist moves to Makochi, he stopped dyeing his hair and it's his natural color.

Illuminated by the street lamp, the maple tree that sits at the edge of your yard glows and you’re surprised by the reluctance that pulls at your heart at the sight, the signal of your impending separation. It’s been some time since you’ve felt so at ease with strangers, much less the odd trio escorting you home.

A glance to your left shows your two-toned savior more comfortable than he has been since dispatching your would-be muggers. The steady blush that dusted his cheeks is gone, though you’re somewhat crestfallen at its absence. You’ve grown a little fond of the sight, its easy appearance at his friends’ light ribbing.

Without effort, your lips shape into a smile as you slow, different from the customer-service one you’ve worn all day. “Well fellas, we have arrived,” you say, turning on your heel to meet their faces.

Eyepatch and Freckles both reciprocate your smile as they come to stop at the opening of your path while your savior brings his right hand to rub the back of his neck. Red stains his knuckles and you swear there’s some swelling.

Your smile fades and your brows stitch together as concern grips your chest. “Are you hurt?”

That flush returns, spreading across his cheeks as his hand freezes in its ascent. Bringing it before his face, he assesses his knuckles before flexing twice. Though he tries to hide it, you’ve been around your brother’s training long enough to know what to look for. The corners of his lips downturn and his face tightens imperceptibly before trying to relax—you can hear the words before he speaks them.

“Don’t worry. ‘M fine.”

Your eyes track the fall of his hand, its profile looking a little fuller than his left.

“Please let me help.”

The two behind him exchange glances but seem almost… tickled by the development, appearing to be in no hurry to return to their evenings.

“What—? No, it’s fine.”

“Sakura, don’t be rude!” Freckles objects, playfully chastising him as though they’ve done this song and dance hundreds of times before.

Pressing your lips together, you try to stifle your smile for another reason. Sakura? Is that his name, or a nickname? Certainly, if you were friends, his propensity for blushing might earn such a name from you. As it is, Freckles’ school teacher look and particular earnestness has you thinking it might be his name, which makes it almost feel like fate.

“Please,” you repeat, more emphatically this time. “It’s the least I can do after you put yourself in harm’s way for me.”

It doesn’t matter if he dropped your assailants with the skill of someone who’s done this many times before; they still brandished knives, meaning this stranger risked quite a lot on your behalf.

With a sigh, he relents, following you as you lead them up the path to your house. You gesture to the bench in front of your closed amado, satisfied to hear their diverging footsteps, entering the yard you’ve yet to turn into a garden. Flicking on the garden lights, you ask them to wait outside while you grab your supplies.

Out of habit, you’ve kept the first aid kit near your kitchen sink, and retrieving it has you remembering the countless evenings you’ve spent patching up your brother following his training sessions with your father. Moving to Makochi, you expected some incident or other given its history (even if your grandmother insisted things were better since the establishment of Bofurin eight years ago). Honestly, you wished you had left this life behind, but by the same token, you don’t mind that it allowed you to meet these three. As you prepare a bowl with ice water and epsom salt, you can’t help but be grateful for your prior knowledge.

Their voices carry in the silence, some comment about old habits dying hard and a sharp bite about how he couldn’t wait for the night patrol to act. Upon the sliding of your door, they fall quiet, allowing the calm of the night to settle in your bones as Sakura’s friends observe you with clear amusement.

“Thank you for sticking around.” Thank you for so much more.

Watching as you set everything up, he waits for you to look at him before joining you on the bench, precariously perched on the edge as though reluctant to make himself comfortable. When you hold out your hand, you half-expect him to hesitate.

“I-I wouldn’t have bailed after you asked,” he says, voice trailing off as he places his hand in yours. He turns toward your amado rather than face his friends, apparently unable or unwilling to look at either you or his friends. The calluses on his palm are similar to those you’ve grown used to, denoting years of martial arts experience. His hand is warm to the touch and his fingers twitch when you adjust your hold.

“It’s cold,” you warn, guiding both your hands into the cold water.

He hisses, nearly jerking his hand out of your grasp before stopping himself, the water coming to splash the bench. “Shit, that’s freezing!” His face twists in mild discomfort before morphing into something apologetic, eyes landing on yours. “Sorry, I didn’t mean—”

Your laugh interrupts him and he relaxes, letting you gently feel around the abrasions on his knuckles. “It’s fine. I’m used to this.”

Glancing up, you find him watching from the corner of his steel blue eye, his blush spreading toward his ears as you make eye contact. Desiring to offer him a small mercy, you return your attention to his hand, bringing it from the water now that the blood has been washed away. It looked worse than it is, though there’s still some swelling—he was likely telling the truth when he said it was fine, but you’re grateful he allowed you to help regardless.

“It’s probably rude that I’ve waited so long to ask,” you start, submerging his hand once more to help reduce swelling, “but might I know the names of my saviors?”

“Ah, right!” Freckles steps forward just a bit. “I’m Nirei Akihiko! We probably should have introduced ourselves before offering to walk you home, huh?”

At least you’re not the only one who had a lapse in propriety (beyond their timely intervention, you’re glad these three found you, as calm and casual as they are).

“I’m Sakura Haruka.” His hand shifts in yours, fingers twitching where they meet yours, pulling your attention back. Not for the first time tonight, you’re mesmerized by his heterochromatic eyes, clear with pride and some other emotion as he lifts his chin a bit, looking at you head-on. Heat warms your cheeks under his attention, and it’s you who feels the urge to look away.

“I’m Suo Hayato,” he says, offering you an escape, something extra tucked into his perpetually genial smile.

It’s easy enough to return, to suppress your own fluster and provide your name. They roll it over in their minds, tasting the way it sits on their tongues, though they don’t speak it aloud. In turn, you consider their names, and your previous thought about fate comes to laugh at you.

“It’s nice to properly meet you all. Though…” They all pause and you feel the weight of their stares as you duck your head to hide your grin. “I have to say, it’s a little funny meeting the three of you as the new florist on Tonbu Street. From your names alone, I think you three are my new favorite people in Makochi.”

Suo graces you with a smile—genuine, this time, if you had to guess—and Nirei brightens beside him. Your eyes flicker to Sakura and you think that pink is becoming a favorite color of yours.

“Ah, so you’re the one who took over Hanami Flower Shop?” Nirei asks, pulling out a small notebook and pen from his pocket.

“I did.” After checking your watch, your fingers prod Sakura’s hand once more. “It was always the plan that I’d take over for my grandparents, but when my grandfather died last summer, those plans moved up. I’ve only been here for the last month.”

“That would explain why we haven’t run into you sooner,” Suo says. Sakura grunts, looking away by the time you look up.

“It would. The shop has kept me plenty busy.” Between establishing yourself and receiving Mother’s Day orders from nearly every family adjacent to Tonbu Street, you’ve scarcely had time for yourself. June looms ever closer and part of you worries how you’ll handle it alone.

A comfortable silence falls as you lift Sakura’s hand from the water, dabbing it dry with a clean towel. After a minute of watching you tend to his friend’s hand, Suo says, “You know, we used to assist with the deliveries for your grandparents.”

The implication is clear as he leaves the statement hanging. Despite your urge to check his reaction, you remain focused on Sakura’s hand, releasing it only after you’ve dried it to satisfaction. The way his hand hovers, awaiting your application of polysporin, makes you feel as though you two are old pros at this.

“So it was you guys who’ve been helping. They used to tell us that some ‘Furin kids’ would help out when they didn’t need to. You have my sincere thanks.”

“It was our pleasure,” Nirei says, his grin audible. “I’m sure we’d be happy to help you out, too!” A quick glance confirms the way he’s looking between Suo and Sakura, pressuring them to agree.

“Hey! Don’t volunteer us when you’re gonna be busy with the school!” Sakura barks, jerking toward Nirei as his hand closes around yours. Realizing what he’s done, he releases his grip and deflates, openly apologetic. “Th-That’s not what I— Dammit.” His eyes search your face, falling to your smile before he ceases his sputtering, and his hand relaxes in yours.

“You’re fine. I wouldn’t want to impose on you guys or assume any additional help.”

“It wouldn’t be an imposition. Right, Sakura?” Suo says, enunciating his name in a teasing tone.

Is it often that they prod and goad Sakura into action? If so, it seems to be something he tolerates. You tut as he moves his hand again, ceasing the movement, and though you keep your attention on preparing the wrap, you feel heat radiating off him, likely caused by another flush.

“I—! N-No, it wouldn’t be…” The words tangle on his tongue, tripping over one another while he formulates his response. He sighs as you move around his hand, wrapping his knuckles with gauze. As you secure it with tape, part of you wishes to grant him another mercy by keeping your attention down, but you haven’t that excuse anymore. As if waiting for you to meet his gaze, he speaks. “I… was actually lookin’ to help out last week, but I… didn’t see the ol’ lady around.”

“Oh.”

Again, heat sits high on your cheeks as your smile disappears, the thoughtfulness of his desire to help settling softly on your skin. He lets your fingers drag over his freshly bandaged hand for a moment. If you knew any better, you’d think there was something more to his words, but as it is…

“How unexpectedly courteous of you, Sakura!”

Sakura’s eyes snap to Suo and he half-rises from the bench, removing himself from your touch. Busying yourself with cleaning up, you try to contain your blooming attraction.

“Oh, shove off with that shit! I wasn’t tryin’—”

Your laugh rings out, interrupting his quick dismissal, prompting him to sit back down and look at you once more before his gaze falls back to his hands.

“They’re—you’re, I guess—busier this time of year,” he justifies, voice low.

“Between Mother’s Day and wedding season, business does pick up for the shop. It’s sweet that you thought of us.”

Despite his creeping blush, the way it climbs up his neck and deepens on his cheeks, he doesn’t look away from you, giving you a chance to appreciate him. In the low light of your garden lamps, you’re drawn particularly to the gold of his left eye. As you smile at him, he bites the inside of his cheek.

“I wouldn’t have much to pay you guys. I hardly have anything to offer thanks for tonight.” Nothing substantial, anyway. Nothing beyond— “Actually… would you three mind waiting once more?”

Giving you varying sounds of acceptance, you take your leave, gathering your kit and the bowl as you do. Nirei looks all too content while Suo smiles that smile at Sakura, eager to exchange words in your absence.

On your kitchen table sits a vase of campanula, perfect blooms that won’t make it into any of the arrangements that have been ordered. Though you doubt any of them know hanakotoba, the simple fact that you know will be enough. Quite literally another means of offering thanks.

After clipping them over your sink, you look up and meet the single California poppy left from your visit to Poppy Happy Square in the thin vase that sits on your windowsill. Clarity rings in your heart as you realize what has been lingering in the peripheral of your mind since first seeing Sakura’s golden eye.

With your flowers in hand, you meet the boys outside once more, gathered near your fence. Their eyes drop to your hands, surprise present in the widening of their eyes and the parting of their lips. Suo is the first to recover, offering you arguably the most gracious smile you’ve seen from him. He steps forward, hand outstretched to receive your offering.

“It’s not much, but I figured it’s the kind of thanks you might expect from a florist,” you say, passing him the white bellflowers.

Nirei accepts the purple ones with wide eyes, a ghost of a smile present as he turns them over in his grasp. Sakura can’t take his eyes off the remaining flowers, the pink campanula and the golden California poppy. You wait until he looks up, that spattering of pink present.

“Thank you for tonight.” Passing along the pink flowers, keeping the poppy as you try to find the words. It’s different from your previous gift, its meaning unrelated to your desire to gift it. Your fingers tingle where they hold the flower, the sensation spreading up your arms, anxiously dancing across your chest as you push it forward and say, “This is… Well, it’s because your left eye reminds me of one of my favorite flowers. I’d like you to have it.”

He takes it, fingers warm against yours for the briefest moment, unaware of the way the smallest brush of his touch sets you alight.

“It was a pleasure to meet you three. I hope to see you around town again,” you say, taking a beat, weighing their names in your mouth before breathing life into them. “Suo, Nirei, and Sakura—thank you.”

They warm, each looking at the flowers before returning to you.

“We’ll be certain to see you around,” Suo says, half-turning toward the street.

“It was really nice to meet you,” Nirei agrees, following.

Sakura lingers, still focused on the delicate blooms held between his fingers as he chews on his lip. His blush is present on his cheeks, spreading when his eyes meet yours, unexpectedly serious as his tongue stumbles over your name. Clearing his throat, he speaks it again, louder, though not without care, and that burning feeling behind your heart turns smoldering. “Thank you for patchin’ me up or whatever. A-and for the flowers.” His bandaged right hand comes to scratch the back of his neck and his eyes shift to the side. “See you around Tonbu Street.”

Your answering smile is involuntary, giddy and excited, only widening when his eyes flicker to you, catching sight of your grin before quickly looking away again.

“I’m looking forward to it.”

With a nod, he joins the others, offering you an awkward wave once his back is to you, his hand returning to the back of his neck. If not for the dimmed lighting offered by the street lamp, you might know for certain whether his blush truly extends to his neck, though you’re inclined to believe it to be no more than a trick of the light for now.

His voice replays in your mind, the deliberate way he spoke your name, and you feel it in your heart. Sakura Haruka has the potential to be someone important in your life. The edges of such a thought feel almost like an inevitability.

Flower Glossary:

Canterbury Bell/Campanula: Gratitude, Constancy

California Poppy: Do not refuse me

(header credit)

Hanakotoba Masterlist | Misc Fandoms Masterlist | Next ❧

[dakusan]

N O   S A I N T   I N K

Tattoo Artist!Han Jisung x Reader | blah blah blah

🔞synopsis: Tattoo Artist AU. You just wanted a tattoo. What you got was a cocky artist with a praise kink, a filthy mouth, and the ability to make you cum so hard you forget your name. What starts as innocent skin-on-skin becomes texts at 3AM, breathless calls, panties on the floor, and getting ruined over a tattoo chair by a man who calls his dick “emotionally supportive.”

💌a/n: HELLO DEMONS. welcome back to my sin bin. and YES. i spun the wheel of filth™ again because i have too many prompts, too many requests, too many ideas and i am ONE feral braincell away from combusting. this week’s winner of the roulette: jisung x reader, tattoo shop edition. hence why this was posted late — i had no idea what to write and then accidentally birthed a full plotline, two orgasms, a man with separation anxiety, and the best dick of your fictional life. oops 😇 p.s. reblog this or i will haunt your mirrors at 3AM whispering “dumb little slut” in han’s voice. p.p.s. if you message me your fave skz member, i might drop you a mini filthy tattoo artist!AU ficlet just for them. no promises. only threats. p.p.p.s. light a candle. hydrate. send this to a friend

⚠️ warnings: 18+ | MINORS DNI | EXTREMELY NSFW | Oral (f. receiving) — graphic, intense, life-altering | Pussy eating obsession (Han is a munch) | Filthy, unrelenting dirty talk — degradation + praise mix (chaos edition) | “Good girl,” “slut,” “mine,” “cum for me” energy | Clit stimulation + g-spot pressure = brain cell deletion | Multiple orgasms (yes. multiple.) | Fingering, choking, possessive hand-gripping

📌 Please read responsibly. Hydrate. Stretch.

📍credits: dividers by @cafekitsune

🎧 » MOVE — Taemin « 0:58 ─〇───── 3:32 ⇄ ◃◃ ⅠⅠ ▹▹ ↻

Late afternoon, Seoul.

The sky is bruising purple with evening haze. You’re standing outside a tattoo parlour in a tucked-away alley—NO SAINT INK—recommended by a friend who said, “Go there. Ask for Han.”

You’re nervous. Not just because it’s your first tattoo—but because your stomach won’t stop twisting with that type of anticipation. The kind you feel when you know something irreversible is about to happen.

The parlour looks nothing like the industrial, hyper-masculine shops you've passed before. It’s dark, yes—but with soft underlighting. Neon signs buzz low in the windows, one glowing "SINNER'S HANDS" in deep red. Another in cursive:

“we only leave beautiful scars.”

You push the door open, bell jingling. It smells like antiseptic and incense. Lo-fi hip hop pulses from hidden speakers. The walls are matte black, scattered with flash art—some delicate, some obscene. A few erotic, one absolutely feral. You step toward the desk—

And then you see him.

Han Jisung.

Slouched in a leather chair behind the counter, legs spread wide, one hand holding a sketchpad, the other spinning a tattoo gun idly between his fingers like a toy.

Dark, slightly wavy hair. A few strands falling into his eyes. Rings on nearly every finger. One silver bar in his eyebrow. Another glinting on his lip.

He's wearing a sleeveless hoodie, arms covered in ink—some intricate, some scrawled like afterthoughts. His forearms flex as he shifts, glancing up at you lazily, and then—

Freeze.

He smirks. Not the kind of smirk you’re used to. This one slides slow across his face like silk on skin—cocky, amused, interested. He sets the sketchbook down and stands, sauntering over.

“You lost, angel?”

His voice is warm gravel. A little teasing. He’s already clocked you as a first-timer.

You swallow. “No. Um… I think I have an appointment? For 5PM?”

He leans against the counter, gloved hand flipping through the schedule.

“Name?”

You give it. He taps the page. “First ink?” he asks, gaze flicking over you.

You nod.

His eyes drag down your form and back up again—like he’s marking you before the needle ever touches you. “Cute.”

A pause.

“Alright. You’re with me.”

The moment he leads you past the curtain, everything quiets. Not literally—there’s still the low thrum of lo-fi beats playing through overhead speakers, and you can hear the soft buzz of a machine in the next booth—but something in the air shifts. You’ve stepped into his space now.

The room is dim, intentionally so. Not cold or sterile, but intimate. The walls are painted a charcoal grey, with scattered framed sketches and flash art displayed like gallery pieces. A small desk against the back wall is cluttered with ink bottles, gloves, stencils, and scribbled notes on napkins. There’s a chair in the center—sleek black leather, mechanical levers gleaming faintly under the spotlight aimed above it. It's positioned deliberately beneath a halo of warm light, like a stage for sin.

Han gestures for you to sit.

You do, heart already hammering harder than you'd like to admit. Your hands grip the armrests automatically, more out of nerves than necessity.

He sanitizes his hands in silence, then slips on a pair of black nitrile gloves with practiced ease. The snap of the first one makes you flinch. He notices.

A flick of his mouth—half amusement, half something darker.

“So. You still sure about it?” he asks, voice calm but low, like smoke over velvet.

You nod, holding out the reference image you brought—a small, simple design. Meaningful. Something you’ve thought about for months. A delicate poppy, petals slightly unfurled…But at the base of the flower, instead of a regular stem, it grows from the open mouth of a tiny anatomical heart.

Han doesn’t look at the paper right away. His eyes stay on you for just a moment longer than they should. Then he takes it gently, fingers brushing yours through the gloves.

“Pretty,” he murmurs, gaze flicking from the paper to your face. “Subtle. Clean lines… this’ll look good on you.”

You try to smile, but your throat feels tight. “Thanks.”

“Where do you want it?”

You hesitate. Then, softly: “Ribcage.”

That earns you an arched brow and the barest flicker of a smirk.

“Shy spot. I like that,” he says, turning to prep his materials. You watch the muscles shift as he reaches for a stencil pad. “Okay, shirt off. Just what you need, nothing more. I won’t bite.”

You freeze.

He pauses for a beat. Then tilts his head, eyes crinkling slightly. “Unless you beg,” he adds with a wink.

Your cheeks go hot. You laugh—nervously. It feels like your skin is already burning.

You carefully lift your shirt just high enough to expose the side of your torso, tugging the fabric over your bra, folding it under your arm to keep it out of the way. You're acutely aware of how much skin you're showing—even more so under that bright, direct light.

He kneels beside you with the stencil, gaze focused. You expect him to avoid eye contact, to be clinical—but Han is anything but.

His fingers brush your waist, and they stay there, warm through the gloves. His hand spreads slightly, holding your skin steady as he gently presses the cool stencil to your ribs.

“Breathe for me, yeah?” he murmurs, glancing up at you with a crooked smile. “I’m gonna press it right here…”

You suck in a breath, chest rising.

He places the stencil deliberately. Slowly. His face is close—close enough that you can see the curve of his lashes, the faint sheen of gloss on his lip ring. You smell cedar and musk on his hoodie. His fingers flex slightly against your side.

He looks up.

“You’re already twitchy,” he says softly, voice dropping just enough to make you forget how to breathe. “Gonna be a fun ride.”

You don’t know if he means the tattoo. And neither does he.

He stands and moves to the table beside him, switching out tools like it’s second nature. The machine buzzes to life with a sharp mechanical hum.

You tense.

He catches it immediately.

“First pinch might sting,” he says, voice suddenly gentle, almost coaxing. “I’ll talk you through it. You’re good.”

You nod again, trying not to clench your fists.

Then his hand is back on your body.

He anchors you with one palm spread wide over your side, right above your hip. It’s not forceful, but there’s weight to it. A possessive steadiness. The leather chair creaks faintly under the shift of your body.

And then the needle touches. A sharp, sudden sting. You wince.

“Breathe. Just like that. You’re doing so well, pretty,” he says, voice a constant hum in your ear. “Your skin takes ink like a dream. Fuck, this is gonna look good.”

You exhale through your nose, trying to focus on the sound of his voice instead of the burn.

It helps. But not in the way it should. Because Han doesn’t shut up. Not once.

“Don’t squirm too much… unless you want me to slip.” “You’re soft here. So fucking soft.” “Bet you’re the type who likes being teased, huh?”

You let out a choked laugh, more from panic than humor. He grins, eyes glinting.

The buzz of the machine, the heat of his palm on your skin, the constant commentary—it all blends into a haze. You’re dripping adrenaline and something else entirely. You feel like you’ve been stripped down far deeper than your shirt allows.

After what feels like both a lifetime and a blink, the needle slows. He lifts it. “Almost done. You’ve been such a good girl for me.”

The words land like a slap and a stroke at once.

He sets the machine aside, reaching for a fresh cloth. He wipes your skin slowly. Not rough. Not rushed. Every pass of his hand is careful, gentle.

You’re trembling now. Just a little.

He leans back finally and exhales. The air feels different. Like it’s shifted again—thicker.

“There,” he says. “Wanna see?”

You nod, throat dry.

He helps you up—guides you to a mirror near the corner. His hand stays on your back.

You look. And for a second, you forget how to breathe again. The tattoo is perfect. Clean, delicate, exactly how you pictured it. But it’s not just the ink that makes your chest ache—it’s the fact that it’s his. His hands made this. His touch. His art. On your skin.

“My work’s on you now,” he murmurs behind you, voice low and close. “You’re not gonna forget me, are you?”

You shake your head. You couldn’t if you tried.

The moment you slide your shirt back down, your skin feels… different. Not just because it's slightly tender from the ink, but because his touch still lingers. Like heat soaked into your bones. Like a fingerprint on your soul. You shouldn’t be this affected—he’s just your tattoo artist. Right?

You sit there for a moment longer than necessary, blinking as he finishes cleaning his station. His gloves come off with a snap, and he tosses them into the bin. You glance up, and—yep—he’s watching you.

Leaning casually against the counter, arms crossed, hair a little mussed, rings catching the light. Smug as hell.

“You survived,” he says, voice bright with that chaos-riddled lilt again. “Didn’t cry. Didn’t puke. I’m impressed.”

You roll your eyes. “High praise.”

“I’ve had grown men pass out from rib pieces,” he shrugs. “One guy farted. Loud. Mid-linework. I almost dropped the machine.”

You snort despite yourself. “Well, thanks for not comparing me to the Fart Guy until the end.”

He grins, wide and gleaming. “No, no, you’re top-tier,” he says, stepping closer to grab your care sheet. “Didn’t even whimper. Except for that one part where your breath hitched and I thought—y’know, for a second—you might come on the chair.”

You nearly choke. “Excuse me?!”

“Kidding,” he sing-songs. “Unless…?”

Your glare is ruined by the flush racing up your neck. You stand and grab your bag in a hurry, trying to save face. “You’re awful.”

“I’m delightful.”

He leads you back toward the front desk, swaying just slightly with each step, like he’s got too much energy stored in those shoulders. You swear he’s bouncing on the balls of his feet. It’s giving feral golden retriever with a tattoo gun and a praise kink.

You hand over your card while avoiding eye contact.

He hums dramatically as he takes it, flipping it over like he’s studying an ancient rune.

“You sure you don’t wanna tip in other ways?” he says, deadpan.

Your jaw drops.

He grins, swipes your card, and taps it dramatically against the reader before handing it back. “Joking, obviously. Unless that wasn't a ‘no,’ in which case, I’m free next week—Tuesday, after 7?”

You grab the receipt from the printer and scowl at him. “You flirt with all your clients like this?”

“Only the pretty ones who shake when I touch their ribs.”

You stare.

He smiles wider.

“Okay, okay—last line, I swear,” he chuckles. Then, softer: “Hey. Can I get your number?”

The way he asks it—it’s not sleazy. It’s bold, sure. But there’s this undercurrent of actual interest, like he’s asking for something more than just your digits.

You blink. “Why?”

“‘Cause I want it?” he says, grinning. “Also, in case your tattoo needs a touch-up. Or emotional support. Or if you just feel like sending me hot selfies. It’s a multi-purpose thing.”

You hesitate. Your pulse says yes before your mouth does. He notices. He always notices. You hand him your phone, and he immediately types his own number in, labelling it:

HAN “WILL NOT SHUT UP” JISUNG 🖤

He sends himself a text from your phone, winks, then gives it back. “Now we’re connected,” he says “Digitally. Spiritually. Carnally—well, not yet.”

You open your mouth to sass him. “You were so close to being cool,” you say.

“Close is my middle name.”

You snort and shake your head as you step toward the door. “Bye, Han.”

“See you soon, angel.”

You’re out the door.

The texting started immediately. Like, within minutes of you leaving the shop.

What began as tattoo care check-ins (“don’t scratch it or I’ll spank you—unless?”) turned into daily chaos. Then nightly chaos. Then a full-blown flirtationship spiralling out of control.

Han texts like he lives inside your brain—firing off filthy one-liners between jokes that make you wheeze-laugh at 1AM, switching between “you’re my filthy little secret” and “pls tell me I’m cute or I’ll cry.”

You finally cave after he begs you to get ramen at 9PM “as friends who have sexual tension.”

You show up. He’s already sitting cross-legged in the booth, hoodie sleeves rolled up, lip ring glinting, chopsticks twirling in one hand like he’s about to duel someone.

He greets you with: “You look edible. I meant that in a respectful way. Mostly.”

You try to play it cool. He doesn’t let you.

The whole night is full of dumb jokes, spicy noodles, and under-the-table foot nudging that turns into ankle grazing that turns into—

“You keep that up, baby,” he murmurs across the table, “and I’m gonna drag you to the bathroom and remind you what these fingers can do.”

You nearly choke on your drink. He laughs, head tilted back, so proud of himself.

You leave flustered. He kisses your cheek in the parking lot. Just your cheek. But his hand lingers at your waist. His mouth is right next to your ear.

“Call me when you can’t sleep,” he says, low. “I’ll make sure you get tired again.”

You almost trip on the curb.

The calls eventually started and slowly became routine. Especially those 1AM phone calls, they were like clockwork. You, in bed, breath heavy as his voice would melt through the speaker.

“You touching yourself yet?” “You want me to talk you through it?” “Want me to tell you what I’d do if I had you on my lap right now?”

He moans in your ear when you do what he says.

Filthy. Unfiltered. And when it’s over—when you’re breathless and ruined—he says the softest things:

“Wish I was there to hold you.” “You’re so fucking hot, but you’re also cute and funny and it’s unfair.” “You still like me, right?”

It’s not just lust anymore. It's want. Sticky, addictive, confusing want.

It started with a text.

Just one. Sent on a whim while lying in bed late at night, staring at the first tattoo he gave you—delicate black lines peeking from beneath your shirt, still soft to the touch even weeks later.

[You, 11:23PM] thinking about getting another one

You didn’t expect a fast reply. But Jisung’s name lit up your phone in under two minutes.

[HAN “WILL NOT SHUT UP” 🖤, 11:24PM] oh?? 👀 where when how much skin we talking is it just an excuse to see me again (pls say yes)

You rolled your eyes. Typed back:

[You] hipbone small script and maybe what if it was both

His reply came in a blink:

[HAN “WILL NOT SHUT UP” 🖤] come by the shop this friday after hours no distractions just me. you. ink. doors locked. lights low. …for professionalism, obviously 🙃

You stared at the screen for a long time before replying.

And then:

[You] see you friday.

Friday. 9:04PM.

Seoul’s city pulse is just starting to dim when you push open the door to NO SAINT INK for the second time.

The bell doesn’t ring. He told you it wouldn’t.

The neon signs are still lit—SINNER’S HANDS flickering a slow blood-red glow in the window—but the rest of the shop feels different. Empty. Still. Like something waiting to be touched.

The lights are dimmed. Only one small lamp buzzes near the back, casting long shadows across the matte-black walls.

Your steps echo a little as you walk inside. Then—

“Back here, pretty.”

His voice, low and smooth, floats from behind a curtain in the far booth.

You follow it. Pull the curtain aside. And there he is.

He’s already set up.

Tattoo machine prepped, gloves laid out neatly beside his sketch pad. He’s wearing an oversized black tee tucked loosely into ripped jeans, sleeves rolled just enough to show off the ink that curls around his biceps like living things.

He doesn’t look at you at first.

He’s focused on the script you’d sent him earlier—your design. A small phrase, handwritten in your own messy scrawl: “still hungry.”

When he finally glances up, it hits you like the first time all over again.

The way his lip curls. The way his eyes bite first and ask questions later. “Look at you,” he murmurs, voice dipped in something dark and fond. “Back for more.”

You lean against the booth’s edge, heartbeat already in your throat. “You said professionalism, remember?”

He stands slowly. Walks toward you. You can feel the heat radiating off him in waves.

“I lied.”

A beat. Then—

“Where’s it going again?”

You lift the hem of your hoodie just a little. Hook your thumb beneath your waistband and tug it down, just far enough to expose the sharp curve of your hipbone.

His gaze drops.

Stays.

He doesn’t speak for a moment too long. Just stares—like he’s trying to memorize you before he ruins you. “That’s dangerous, you know,” he says softly. “Letting me touch you there.”

You try to swallow. Fail. “You’re the one who said no distractions.”

He smiles. “You’re the fucking distraction.”

He gloves up without another word.

You lie back on the chair, heart slamming in your chest, every inch of skin suddenly too hot.

You’re not sure what you expected. Something casual? Familiar? But the moment his gloved hand touches your bare hip—steadying you, fingers spread firm and warm—the entire world narrows to him.

“Breathe for me,” he murmurs, positioning the stencil. “Just like last time. You remember how good you were for me?”

You exhale shakily.

“You gonna behave again tonight, pretty thing?”

You whisper: “Maybe.”

He leans in. His mouth is close to your skin. His voice—barely a breath. “God, I hope not.” He’s still positioning the stencil.

And you? You're laid back on the chair, hoodie bunched beneath your ribs, waistband tugged low, every nerve ending on alert. The soft lamplight paints shadows across his jaw as he kneels between your legs, eyes focused.

And then—

“You know,” he says lightly, pressing the stencil into place, “I’ve seen a lot of hipbones. But this one might be my favourite.”

You snort. “Wow. So original.”

He grins without looking up. “What, you don’t believe me?”

“I’m sure you say that to all your clients.”

“Only the ones who sext me about popsicles and then block me for ten minutes.”

You go still. He finally glances up. Smirks. “Yeah. Thought I forgot about that?”

You mutter, “I hate you.”

“You love me,” he says immediately, like it’s a fact. “You want me to ruin your life. Slowly. Lovingly. With tattoos and aftercare.”

You cover your face. “Shut up.”

He laughs—a low, breathy sound. Then, softly: “I’m starting the line now. Hold still, baby.”

The machine whirs to life.

It’s quieter than you remember. Or maybe you’re just more aware—of everything. The way his gloved hand steadies your hip, thumb dragging along the edge of your waistband. The needle’s sharp kiss. The buzz settling into your bones.

And Han’s voice. God, he never stops talking.

“This spot’s sensitive,” he says, totally casual. “Most people squirm. But I like that.”

You tense. He notices. Of course he does.

“Relax,” he murmurs, dragging the line smooth. “You’re doing perfect.”

Another pause. Then—

“Don’t suppose you’re into pain, are you?”

You don’t answer. You don’t have to. He chuckles under his breath. “God, you so are.”

But then, just like that—his tone shifts. He quiets. Focuses. And the teasing melts into something heavier. “Almost done,” he says, more softly this time. “You’ve been so good for me again. Always are.”

You blink. Your heart skips.

He wipes your skin again, slow and reverent, then leans back to look. He’s still crouched between your thighs, eyes focused, lips parted slightly as he takes it in.

“Fuck.”

You blink. “What?”

He looks up at you. No grin now. Just quiet, open admiration. “It’s gorgeous,” he says. “Like… stupid good.” He presses a kiss to his gloved fingertips and taps them against your skin.

“Still hungry,” he reads aloud. “God, I could write essays on that.”

“Don’t,” you whisper.

“Too late. MLA format. Double spaced. Thesis: you’re gonna kill me.”

You roll your eyes, but you’re flushed. Breath shallow. Because now that the needle’s done…

He’s not moving. His hand stays on your waist. His eyes flick to your lips. Then back down. Then—

“You want me to touch you?”

The question lands like a live wire in the room. But he doesn’t push. Doesn’t smirk. He just waits. Like he’s offering something sacred. Like he’d back off the second you said no. But you don’t. You can’t.

You nod. Barely.

His fingers tighten on your skin. “Nah,” he murmurs. “Say it. I want to hear it.”

You swallow.

“…Yes.”

“Yes what, baby?”

Your brain short-circuits.

“Jisung—”

“Use your words, pretty thing. Or I’ll stop before I start.”

You suck in a breath, eyes locking with his. “I want you to touch me.”

He moves instantly.

The gloves are still on when he presses his palm flat against your hipbone, fingers spreading possessively. His hand feels huge there—like it was made for this exact spot.

“Fuck. Been thinking about this since the first time you came in,” he mutters, voice dropping into something rough, reverent. “You looked so fucking good in that chair. All nervous and squirmy.”

He bends down.

Kisses the edge of your new tattoo, so soft it almost hurts. “My name’s not even on you,” he whispers, “and I’m still acting like you’re mine.”

Your stomach flips. You whimper.

And he grins, but it’s different now—hungry, not cocky. “Take your pants off.”

You blink.

He meets your eyes. “Let me take care of you.”

You obey—slow, breathless, trembling under his gaze. You slide them down and toss them aside. He leans in again, eyes tracing over the new ink and everything below it, slow and starving.

You’re not wearing much underneath, lacy pink panties, with a very obvious wet spot on your center.

He groans softly. “You’re already wet.”

You gasp when his fingers brush over you, lazy, like he has all the time in the world. “All this from a little needle?” he teases. “Or is it the artist?”

“Fuck you,” you breathe.

He laughs. One low, wicked exhale. “Oh, you will. But not yet.”

He leans back, peels his gloves off slowly—dragging each finger loose one by one, like he’s unwrapping a gift. Tosses them into the bin without taking his eyes off you once.

Then he lowers himself between your legs.

Spreads your thighs just a little further apart with both hands. You hear him exhale.

“Fuck. This is gonna kill me.”

He doesn’t touch you yet. Just leans in.

And presses a kiss right above your knee. Then the inside of your thigh. Then a little higher. And a little higher.

Your breath hitches when his lips ghost just beside the fabric.

“Soaked through lace,” he murmurs. “That’s so fucking pretty, baby.”

You’re shaking now.

He mouths over the wet spot—not even pulling them down yet. Just letting the heat of his breath and the drag of his lips torture you. You feel the scrape of his lip ring as he kisses you again, open-mouthed, right there.

“Bet you’d cum just from this,” he whispers. “My mouth through your panties. Barely even trying.”

You whimper. One hand fisting the edge of the chair.

His fingers slide over the wet spot next, slow and teasing. Two fingers rub a lazy circle, barely pressing—just enough to make your hips twitch. “I should leave these on,” he says, almost to himself. “Just push them to the side. Make you beg for it.”

You breathe, “Jisung—please—”

That does it.

He hooks his fingers under the waistband and drags them down—slow, deliberate, watching every inch of you get exposed.

He groans loudly the second you’re bare. “Holy fuck.”

Then he’s leaning in again, this time nothing between you. He kisses your inner thigh first. Then lower.

Then—

His tongue drags one long, obscene stripe up your center. You cry out, hips bucking—he presses a hand to your stomach, holding you still with an effortless command:

“Stay fucking still.”

Then he goes back in. He licks you like he means it—messy, slow, then fast and deep. His tongue circles your clit with practiced chaos. He moans against you, loud, like you taste like something sacred.

“You taste like fucking heaven,” he groans, voice muffled.

His hands spread you wider, his tongue dipping into your heat, nose pressed right up against your skin.

Then he sucks. Hard.

Your head falls back—gone.

“That’s it,” he purrs. “My perfect little slut. Look at you.”

Your hands tangle in his hair. You tug. He groans again and ruts into the fucking air, desperate for friction while he eats you out like he’s starving.

“You gonna cum on my mouth?” he growls, voice wrecked. “You want me to keep going or make you beg for it?”

You try to answer—can’t.

He pulls back for just a moment, lips and chin shining. “Use your words, baby. You know the rules.”

“Please—fuck—don’t stop, please—Jisung—”

“God,” he groans. “Keep saying my name like that and I’m gonna cum in my fucking jeans.”

Then he dives back in, faster now, tongue fucking into you, hand moving to circle your clit with soaked fingers while he sucks and moans like you’re his last goddamn meal. He’s everywhere—his mouth, his hand, the filthy hum of his moans vibrating straight through your core. He doesn’t pause to tease, doesn’t stop to talk this time. He’s all action now. Starved. Feral.

“Fuck,” he growls between licks, the words hot and wet against your folds. “You taste so fucking good. Gonna make me lose my mind.”

His tongue pushes in again. He flicks it fast, then slow, then sucks at your clit with a deep, wet moan that makes you cry out, back arching clean off the chair.

“There you go,” he pants, not even breaking rhythm. “Just like that. Give it to me, baby. Come on.” His voice is breathless, desperate—like he’s the one about to cum.

You’re shaking. Legs trembling. It’s too much. It’s not enough.

Your hands are clutching his hair, holding him right where you need him, and he just groans louder, grinding his face deeper like he wants to live between your legs. His lip ring catches against your clit—again, and again—and your thighs clamp around his head instinctively.

He doesn’t stop. Doesn’t even flinch.

He just moans into you, hands gripping your hips tighter, holding you down as your whole body starts to unravel. You feel it in your spine. In your toes. In the fucking air.

“You close, pretty thing?” he slurs against your clit. “Yeah, you are. You’re fucking dripping—making a mess for me. So fucking perfect. All mine.”

That breaks you.

You cum harder than you ever have in your life—with a sob, a gasp, a full-body spasm that crashes over you like a goddamn tsunami.

You hear yourself. You scream his name.

Jisung. Jisung. Jisung.

And he takes it.

He drinks it down like a man possessed, moaning into you like you’re water in the desert, like he’s been waiting his whole life to taste you fall apart. He doesn’t even stop when you cum—he licks you through it, tongue softening only slightly as your body twitches and bucks and pleads for mercy.

It’s too much. It’s so good it hurts.

“J-Jisung—fuck—wait—too much—”

Only then does he pull back, chest heaving, face absolutely wrecked. His mouth, his chin, even the tip of his nose glistens with you. He looks dazed.

Blessed.

He runs a hand down his face and just stares at you—spread out, soaked, shaking, glowing.

Then: “Holy fuck.”

You blink up at him, still gasping, brain static.

He grins—wide, flushed, proud as hell. “I knew it. I fucking knew it. Best pussy of my life.” You try to sass him. You really do. But all that comes out is a whimper.

“Aw,” he coos, leaning down to kiss your cheek. “Dumbed you out already?”

He brushes your hair back, kisses your forehead. “You okay?”

You nod. Barely.

“You want more?”

You nod. Desperately.

He chuckles, voice thick with affection and wrecked restraint. “Yeah, baby. Me too.” Then he stands up, undoing his belt with shaking hands, and murmurs: “Get comfy. ’Cause I’m gonna fuck you so good, you forget your own name.”

You’re still gasping. Still trembling. But your eyes follow the movement of his hands—shaking slightly as he undoes his belt, then the button, then the zipper.

He pushes his jeans down—

And your breath catches. You knew he’d be pretty. But not like this. Not this.

Thick. Flushed. Slight curve to the left.

And not just the look of it—the feel of it, even before he’s inside. You know instinctively it’s going to destroy you. That kind of snug fit that presses into all the right places and leaves no room for secrets.

He strokes himself once, slow and slick, precum already leaking from the tip. “Gonna be good for me, baby?” he asks, voice shaking as he fists his cock. “Let me feel that perfect pussy now?”

You nod. Dumb. Ready. So wet you feel it drip onto the chair beneath you.

He lines up—rubs the head of his cock over your folds, up and down, teasing your clit before circling your entrance. You’re still sensitive. Still twitching. And he feels it. “Still throbbing for me,” he murmurs. “God, you’re unreal.”

He pushes in. Slow. Deep. Too much. Too good.

You cry out—your body arching, your hands gripping the armrest and his forearm and anything you can reach.

Because he fits. Perfectly. Thick enough to make you stretch wide, gasp, feel it in your lungs. But not enough to hurt. No—just enough to ruin you.

“F-fuck,” he groans, head falling forward. “You’re squeezing me so tight—Jesus—don’t move yet, I’ll cum too fast—” He bottoms out, hips flush to yours. He stays there for a second. Still trembling. His cock twitches inside you.

“I’m gonna die,” he whispers. “I’m gonna die in this pussy.”

You laugh—a breathless, broken thing—and he grins like he’s proud.

Then? He pulls out halfway. And slams back in. Hard. And again. And again. Fast. Unhinged. Like he’s been waiting to do this for weeks. “Oh fuck, that’s it. That’s it, baby—keep takin’ it—so fucking perfect—”

He’s rambling now. Whimpering.

Each thrust hits so deep you swear you see stars. It’s a rhythm that shouldn’t exist, shouldn’t be real. Every stroke dragging against your g-spot, every snap of his hips making your thighs quake.

And he’s talking. So much.

“You feel that? Huh? You feel how good you make me?” “You’re all mine. This pussy? Fucking mine. Say it.” “Say it, baby, c’mon—tell me who it belongs to—”

You choke out, “You—it’s yours, Jisung—fuck, you’re so deep—”

He moans—wrecked. “God, I’m not gonna last—fuck—you’re too good—you’re too fucking good—” Then he bends down—mouth at your ear, hips still pounding into you like he’s trying to brand your soul.

“One more,” he whispers. “Just one more, yeah? Be my good girl and cum for me again—come on—cum on my cock—let me feel you—”

You barely get the chance to nod. Because then—he changes rhythm.

Not slower. Not gentler. Worse. He fucks you harder. Deeper. Like his body knows exactly how to hit every nerve inside you. Like he’s memorized your walls. And maybe he has. Maybe from the moment he first touched you in that chair, his entire brain rewired for this—for you.

“So fucking tight,” he pants, voice cracked open, almost panicked. “Shit—look at how you take me—look at that, fuck—”

He’s holding your waist again, but carefully—just above the fresh tattoo. His fingers dig into your ribs, grip locked in, not letting you squirm away as he slams into you, pace frantic, unrelenting.

“Can’t touch your hips,” he growls, “so I’m gonna hold you right here—just like this—until you fall apart again.”

Then his hand slides down. Finds your clit. And rubs. Fast. Tight.

You moan loud.

“Tell me what it feels like,” he pants, eyes locked on your face, wild. “Come on, baby—talk to me. You know the rules.”

You try. You try so hard.

“It’s—fuck—Jisung—it’s too much—I-I can’t—”

His hand doesn’t stop. His cock drives up into you like it’s chasing your orgasm, like he can feel it coming and he wants to drag it out of you with his bare hands. “Yes, you can. You’re my good girl, right? My perfect fucking baby—tell me what you feel.”

You sob. “It’s everywhere—it’s so deep—I feel you in my stomach, Jisung—”

That makes him moan—full, wrecked, helpless. “Yeah? That’s it, baby. You feel me stretching you out? You feel how hard you’re clenching around me?”

He’s unhinged. Fucking you like he needs to feel you cum on his cock. Like it’s his only goddamn mission in life.

“Don’t hold back. Let me have it. Show me how good I make you feel.” His fingers tighten, rub faster. His cock keeps slamming up into that perfect, perfect spot.

And you break.

You fall apart on him with a cry that splits the air—your orgasm ripping through you like a detonation, a white-hot snap that makes your whole body lock up and tremble.

You cum hard. Harder than before. Harder than ever.

And he feels it. Feels you clench around him like a vice, walls pulsing, soaked, squeezing every last bit of him until he’s gasping into your throat. “Fuck—fuck—I’m gonna—baby—I’m—”

He slams in once, twice more—then stills. Buried deep. Groaning so loud it echoes. And cums. Hot. Fast. Deep. He fills you up with a desperate, whimpering exhale—head falling into the crook of your neck, fingers flexing tight on your waist as he rides it out, hips twitching helplessly inside you.

“Jesus—holy fuck—how are you real—”

You don’t know what you say. You don’t know if you’re breathing. All you know is he doesn’t let go. Not even after. His arms wrap around you, one hand sliding up to your ribs, the other cupping your jaw gently as he leans in and kisses your forehead.

Sweet. Messy. Possessive.

“I’m so fucking in love with your pussy.” he mumbles against your skin.

You laugh—wrecked and breathless. “You just came in me.”

“I did. I’ll take responsibility.”

“You didn’t even mean to.”

“That’s what makes it romantic.”

But then he goes quiet. Both of you do. Still joined. Still pulsing. The only sound in the room is your breathing—shaky, shallow, shared.

Han’s body is draped over yours, his skin hot and sticky, his face buried in your neck like he might actually die if he moves. He’s not even thrusting anymore—just lying there, full-on koala mode, arms around your waist, cock still twitching inside you like it doesn’t know it's over.

“I think I saw God,” he whispers.

You blink, still boneless and floating.

“Pretty sure she winked at me and said ‘Good job, Jisung.’”

You snort into the crumpled pillow beneath you. “Was she hot?”

He lifts his head just enough to deadpan: “She looked like you.”

A pause.

“Except taller. And clothed. And not full of cum.”

You let out a noise that’s half wheeze, half scream, face flushing as you try to twist away—but he tightens his grip, groaning as his still half-hard cock shifts inside you.

“Nooo, don’t move,” he whines. “You’ll make me hard again and I’ll die. You’re too powerful.”

You roll your eyes. “You just came in me, and now you’re being dramatic?”

He lifts his face, eyes wide. “I’m always dramatic. But now I’m dramatic and post-nut mushy.”

You smack his arm—lightly. He grins and kisses your shoulder like he’s never been happier in his life.

Then, suddenly gentle: “You okay? Need anything?”

You hum. “Water. A towel. A new pelvis.”

“I can offer you one of those things.”

He pulls out slowly, careful. You both wince a little, and he immediately fumbles for the nearest clean towel, muttering, “Shit, sorry, sorry—damn, we really did that, huh?”

He cleans you up softly, thoroughly. Tongue poking out in concentration, hands warm and reverent. You watch him in the dim light—his flushed cheeks, mussed-up curls, that stupid satisfied look on his face like he just won the lottery and the trophy was you.

He helps you sit up, eyes wide looking you over as if wanting to make sure you are okay and not just saying you're okay.

You smile at him, dazed. “That was insane.”

“You’re welcome.”

Then, quieter: “I really like you, by the way.”

You glance at him. He’s suddenly shy—voice small, fingers playing with the hem of the towel. “I mean—I know this was hot and wild and unholy, but like. You’re not just hot and wild and unholy. You’re…” He scratches the back of his head. “Cool. Funny. Gorgeous. Smart. And you have great pain tolerance and taste in art and—I dunno—your moans live in my soul now.”

You blink at him. He shrugs. “I just think you’re neat.”

You laugh. You can’t help it. You lean in, kiss him soft. He melts instantly.

Twenty minutes later, you’re both curled on the couch in the back lounge. Your legs are over his lap. You’re sipping water. He’s holding your hand and doodling hearts on your thigh with a sharpie.

“So,” he says, yawning. “When do you want your third tattoo?”

You give him a look. “Planning ahead?”

He smirks, smug. “Just making sure I get to fuck you again.”

You flick his forehead.

“Ow—okay, okay. For art. Not for horny.”

But you both know the truth. You’re absolutely getting another tattoo. And this man is going to absolutely ruin you again. With love. And dick. And filthy words. And then cuddle you like a little spoon with separation anxiety.

So the answer? Yeah. Yeah you will be seeing more of him. More dates. More dick. More tattoos. Guess it's fate.

[tojihavoc]

Broken souls

synopsis + warning -> You're married to Toji but you haven't been able to fuck due to past trauma, SA (dni if this triggers you), sad but he comforts you; healing dynamic; I tried making it as heartbreaking as possible so I'm sorry :( Not proofread

You lay with your hands wrapped around yourself, naked, on the cold tile floor as it grazes your ass cheeks. The rain patters on the glass outside threatening to make a sound. Your body shakes violently as you can't stop reminiscing about what happened years ago. The assault. You screaming no. That you didn't want it. You can't help but feel his hands all over you. You think about it every minute, every day, all the time. Like a permanent tattoo of a memory you wanna forget but you can't. A shadow that you want to murder but it still lurks. You were getting ready to take a shower, clothes off, in a way you hated. Because everytime you looked at your naked body, you saw what he saw. The way he took you without permission. How you pleaded him to stop. Your body shook with fear and hatred as you just couldn't handle seeing yourself like this. Strong, muscular arms, wrapped around you in a powerful embrace as you saw Toji sitting on the giant, pristine, bathroom floor next to you running his hands up your naked back.

"What the fuck happened oh my god. Did you fall? Do you need to go to the hospital? Whats wrong?"

You instantly began to let out a strangled cry and covered your mouth. You couldn't even take a fucking shower. That's how pathetic you felt. His non-consensual fingers touching you haunted your mind for so long.

Your voice trembled. "I-i'm sorry.… I didn’t think it would still be like this. I thought after we got married, after everything, I thought I’d be okay., I thought it would be fine." You fumbled your words as you continued crying and letting out gasps.

"Can I hold you? I wont if you don't want me to." He asked running his fingers through your hair. You nodded and he lifted your naked body up off the bathroom floor and took you to your room where he clothed you in your night clothes, silent the entire time while you sobbed uncontrollably. After he dressed you he wrapped his arms around you and made you sit on his lap. You look into his eyes and utter the dreadful words. “Something happened to me... before.”

He looks at you with a gaze you've never seen before as he runs his hands down your back. He whispers back, "you don’t have to be sorry. I wish you didn’t feel like you had to go through it alone. Is this why you always freeze when were about to fuck even though were married?" He runs his hands over your bare thigh as he kisses your forehead.

"I can't not feel his hands on me. It haunts me everyday.I t’s not that I don’t want you. God, I do. I crave it sometimes, just being close to you. But when it starts to feel real, my body just… shuts down." Your eyes let loose a new stream of tears. "It's not fair to you" you whisper back. "I can't even give you sex."

Toji grabs your hands holding them tightly in his. "Never say that again. Fair doesn’t matter. You think I married you just to get in your pants? Why didn't you tell me? God y/n you have to share these things with me I need to know my girl is okay" he looks at you pleadingly.

A week laugh escapes your throat but it cracks "You do like my ass though. I thought you'd hate me. How could you want me if I was touched by another guy? I can't even look at myself without feeling disgusting. Like i'm a whore. Maybe it was my fault he didn't stop." You fiddle on his lap nervously.

A sharp voice cuts through the air like a knife's edge. "Don’t you ever say that shit about yourself again. It was NOT your fault. No y/n look at me...please I need you to look at me." And you meet his gaze. He holds you closely. "The freezing… the panic… the way you shut down when we get close. I thought it was something...but not like this. Don't ever call yourself disgusting. And you're not a whore you're the love of my life. My woman. How could you use these words to describe yourself? You're not ruined. You're not less. I'm here for you baby."

He rocks you back and forth on your lap as you just sob like a child in pain who wants their mother. He rocks you gently caressing your body, making sure it's okay. "You're not dirty. You've been carrying this all by yourself and it's a lot to handle." You cry on his shoulder as your body goes weak and you just can't block out the screams you made, the way his skin felt against yours while you were screaming for help, the way no one came as your mouth was forcefully clamped shut.

"I wish I could take every ounce of your pain, I'm so beyond sorry. You don’t owe me sex. You never did. You owe yourself healing, and peace." You lean forward, slowly, until your forehead rests against his chest. His arms wrap around you like armor gentle, strong, sure. Your breathing simultaneous.

You sob for hours and he just holds you. You never shared with him the full story. Only snippets but never the full thing. You're not sure if he wants to hear, but he does. You share with him what happened. How your body was violated and your pleas ignored. You're shaking the entire time as you vocalize how bad it was and how it still haunts you. How you can't even take a fucking shower without thinking about it. Your body frozen on the floor as your unwanted orgasm rode over you but it didn't make you feel good. Only shitty. How your favorite underwear was kept in your closet for weeks after it happened because you didn't wanna look at them, but didn't wanna wash them either. He lets you speak your entire story without interruption. He runs his hands over you and you see a look on his face you've never seen before.

And then you see it. A tiny droplet of tears that fall down his beautiful, handsome, face as he's unable to meet your eyes. Not full on sobbing mode like you, but just enough to let his extremely tough exterior finally break through. He blinks, tries to hide it by rubbing his hand over his face, but another follows. His shoulders stay stiff, like even crying is something he’s trying to do quietly so he doesn’t scare you, so you don’t feel like you have to comfort him. But he can’t stop it. The full story. Every painful, raw, unfiltered detail you told him breaks him. He’s quiet at first. Not because he doesn’t care, but because he’s processing and fighting the urge to rage.

His jaw clenches but when he finally speaks, it’s low, rough, and thick with emotion, "You didn't deserve that. I'm so incredibly sorry. I’d take every bit of that pain from you if I could. I should’ve been there. I should’ve protected you. I would've killed him with my bare hands. I'm so fucking proud of you you dint understand" he wraps his arms around your waist pulling you under the covers as a few tears fall from his eyes. You turn towards him and hold him, tangled in this newfound embrace. You kiss his cheek.

"It feels good to share this with someone" you whisper.

"You can share anything with me. I'd never judge you. I don't care how hurt or broken you think you are, I will always love you." He pulls you into his arms, gently, like you’re something sacred. His hands shake a little as they wrap around you. He doesn’t say “I’m sorry” a hundred times. He just holds you. Lets the tears fall quietly into your hair. Lets you feel safe in the softness of him.

“I didn’t think I’d be ready to have sex. Maybe not for a long time… maybe not ever" you whisper quietly. "But I think you could change that. I don't know, it's so complicated I feel everything at once" you mumble.

"If that’s never something you’re ready for, then it’s never something we do. You don’t owe me that. You don’t owe me anything but honesty. And you already gave me that." He kisses your cheek.

"You’re really okay with it? Even if that part of our relationship never happens?" You turn to look at him.

"Yeah. I’m with you. Not for what we do in bed. I love you. You’re strong, you’re honest. You’re still healing, and you let me be close to you anyway. That means more to me than anything else ever could. Even if all we do is cuddle and you steal my shirts, and us going to 7-Eleven for slushies in the middle of the night. I don't need you sexually to feel close to you. This IS intimacy. "

You run your hands through his and snuggle closer to him. You don't need to say anything. He already knows. You don’t cry this time because you don’t feel afraid. Or guilty. Or small. You feel loved. Just as you always wanted. And for once, that feels like enough.

I hope you liked reading please consider liking or following if you enjoyed :)

[spitefulsatanfics]

❝ 𝑻𝒉𝒓𝒆𝒆 𝑾𝒐𝒓𝒅𝒔 𝑯𝒆’𝒍𝒍 𝑵𝒆𝒗𝒆𝒓 𝑭𝒐𝒓𝒈𝒆𝒕… ❞

by little devil 🕯️

pairings: dean winchester x she/her reader, sam winchester x she/her reader, castiel x she/her reader

genre: intimate one-shot drabbles | tender, emotional, romantic tone: soft, thoughtful, domestic + heartfelt

theme: the three words she said that changed everything rating: PG-13 for feels and forehead kisses

warnings: canon-level themes of emotional vulnerability, softness, domestic fluff, implied trauma recovery, and one very important slice of pie

🥧 𝐃𝐞𝐚𝐧 𝐖𝐢𝐧𝐜𝐡𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫 – “𝐁𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐌𝐞 𝐏𝐢𝐞.”

It was late summer when she said it—one of those golden-hour evenings where the sky was more honey than blue and the world didn’t feel like it was trying to kill them for once. They were somewhere off I-70 in Kansas, parked at a dusty old roadside gas station that sold every kind of sugar-coated sin you could imagine.

Dean had made it his personal mission to restock the Impala like they were prepping for a three-month apocalypse: jerky, beer, chips, energy drinks, maybe some weird beef sticks Sam would roll his eyes at later.

He leaned against the hood of Baby, arm slung lazily over the driver’s door, and called through the open window where she was curled up, legs tucked under her, flipping through a battered copy of Dracula she’d snagged at a thrift store two towns back.

“You want anything?” “Hmm?” She looked up from the book, licking her thumb to turn the page. “From inside. I’m makin’ a snack run.” She tilted her head, squinting into the sun like some ethereal daydream brought to life.

Then, with a soft grin that damn near wrecked him:

“Bring me pie.”

Dean blinked. Paused. His brain stuttered like a misfiring engine.

She didn’t say it like a joke. There was no teasing in her voice—just something easy, fond. Like she knew it meant something to him. Like she wanted to meet him in the language he understood best.

Food. Ritual. Comfort.

It was the softest command in the world, and yet—it unraveled something in him like thread from a worn flannel. She trusted him with her craving. Her hunger. Her joy.

“What kind?” he asked, voice rough. “Surprise me,” she said, like it wasn’t a risk at all.

So he did. Came back with three slices—apple, cherry, and banana cream.

She laughed when she saw the box, that soft belly-laugh that made his chest tighten.

“Overkill much?” “You asked for pie,” he said, nudging it into her hands. “I deliver.”

She fed him a bite of the cherry one. Right off the fork. Fingers brushing his chin, eyes full of mischief.

“Thanks, Winchester.” He wiped the corner of her mouth with his thumb. “Anytime.”

And that was it. That was everything.

Because to Dean, “Bring me pie” wasn’t just a request.

It was I trust you. It was I’m safe here. It was I see you, and I love how you love.

He’d bring her pie for the rest of his damn life.

📚 𝐒𝐚𝐦 𝐖𝐢𝐧𝐜𝐡𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫 – “𝐘𝐨𝐮’𝐫𝐞 𝐌𝐲 𝐏𝐞𝐚𝐜𝐞.”

It was raining when she said it.

Not a storm—nothing dramatic. Just that soft, steady drizzle that turned the world silver and blurred the edges of everything. They were holed up in some sleepy town library, two towns south of the latest hunt, pretending for a single evening that monsters didn’t exist.

Sam was seated at a wooden table with his laptop open, fingers flying, researching God-knows-what with his usual quiet intensity. She was curled up in the chair across from him, oversized hoodie and all, flipping through a book with one leg draped over the armrest like she owned the place.

It smelled like old paper and rain. The kind of smell that soothed instead of haunted.

She didn’t say anything for a while—just watched him from behind the rim of her tea mug.

And then, softly, almost absentmindedly:

“You’re my peace.”

Sam froze mid-keystroke. Blinked. Slowly looked up.

She wasn’t even looking at him when she said it. She was still gazing at the window, following the raindrops as they slid down the glass.

But Sam’s world stopped turning.

Peace. Peace.

Not warrior. Not savior. Not freak or hunter or tragic son. Not the broken man with too much weight on his shoulders and too many regrets buried under his ribs.

Peace.

“Say that again,” he whispered, his voice raw with something he didn’t have a name for. She looked at him, brows lifted in surprise. “You’re my peace,” she repeated. “When everything else is chaos… you’re not.”

Sam swallowed hard.

No one had ever said that to him before. No one had ever looked at his stillness and called it beautiful.

He stood, crossed the space between them, and dropped to his knees beside her chair.

“You’re mine too,” he murmured, burying his face in the soft fabric of her hoodie. “God, Y/N, you’re mine too.”

They stayed like that until the rain stopped.

🕊️ 𝐂𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐞𝐥 – “𝐈 𝐔𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐍𝐨𝐰.”

The motel room was dim. Quiet. One lamp flickered gently in the corner, and the rain tapping against the windows was the only sound between them.

Castiel stood near the bed, shoulders stiff in that trench coat that had seen more battles than any human soul could carry. She sat on the edge of the mattress, fingers clutching the hem of her sweater, twisting it in slow, anxious knots.

He had told her he loved her.

And not casually. Not like humans did. No—Cas had spoken the words with all the gravity of the stars he was made from. He had looked her in the eyes and said:

“I love you in every way I know how to exist.”

She hadn’t responded right away. She’d just stared at him, wide-eyed and silent, the weight of those words pressing down on her ribs like a cathedral.

“I’m scared,” she said finally, voice a whisper in the storm. “I’m not like you.” “That’s why I love you,” Cas replied, gently. “Because you are not.”

She looked at him then—not past him. Through him.

And then, something shifted behind her eyes. Her hands relaxed. Her shoulders softened.

She rose, stepped toward him, and with her palm against his chest—right over where grace burned blue behind his ribs—she said it.

“I understand now.”

Three words. That was all.

But to Castiel, they felt like wings.

She understood. Not just the words, but the depth of them. The eternal ache of a being who had always loved without knowing how to be loved back. Until now.

“So do I,” he whispered, drawing her in.

He kissed her forehead like a benediction. She leaned into it like a vow.

The storm outside raged on. But between them?

There was only stillness.

𓆩 💬 𓆪 Three words. That’s all it takes. To heal. To undo. To begin again.

Dean heard it over cherry pie. Sam found it between raindrops. Cas felt it behind soft silence and infinite stars.

Three words. Yours. Theirs. Forever.

𓆩 💬 𓆪

[rekino2114]

Fem! Gojo : Nobody understand me and my only best friend died... Life sucks...

Y/n carrying a bag of sweets : Babe I bought some mochi, you want some?

Fem! Gojo : OMG Y/n! Hi!

I don't know how to ask this but I want you to make a Y/n comforting Gojo directly or indirectly, I feel like Y/n existing in general massively improve Gojo's mood.

Gojo is genuinely so glad to have you in her life.

As the strongest she is full of responsibilities but that's not what bothers her the most, she can easily take care of most of them, the problem is that no one really appreciates her for what she does, they just assume she's going to fix any problems cause she's the strongest she can do anything, and even if she can it would be nice to get some recognition a simple thank you would be enough

No one can really understand her, they never could they're not the strongest after all, they weren't basically destined to protect the jujutsu world by the literal minute they opened their eyes, they aren't regarded as the pinnacle of strength and the person who the entire world is relying on, no one except her is, and no one except her could understand how it feels like

After all it's not like she can't go around and say "oh I'm too strong and I'm sad because of it" that would just make her look more of a jerk than most people think she already is

And then there's the whole situation with geto, she still doesn't like thinking about that. The fact that she lost her best friend still haunts her. She doesn't regret killing him, of course, but she can't help but think that if she had just talked to him, if she tried to understand him....she wouldn't have to have killed him at all

But everything changed when you came into her life. Even if you couldn't truly understand her like everyone else, you still tried your best. You made sure she knew she was appreciated and loved whenever she was near you, and she couldn't have asked for more

Around you, she wasn't the strongest sorcerer of today. She wasn't the honored one. She was just herself satori gojo, your girlfriend, and that was by far her favorite title

"I swear I love you so so so much sweetie"

"Calm down tori, all this just because I brought you some sweets?"

"No it's more than that"

"For what?"

"For staying by my side for all this time, you have no idea what that means to me"

[sikyulioness]

___

Too Late for Regret – Part 8: If You Knew What It Cost Me

POV: Reader (You)

___

He’s still there.

Still trailing behind, like a ghost tied to my shadow.

Always close enough to see me.

Never close enough to touch.

But tonight... I stop walking.

And I don’t know why.

Maybe I’m tired of running.

Maybe I just want to hurt him back.

He stands a few steps away, waiting like he always does.

His breath is uneven. His face unreadable.

I speak first—sharper than the wind.

“How does it feel,” I ask, “to be in another woman’s arms… knowing you’ll never be in mine again?”

The words tear out of me. I don’t even flinch.

But he does.

His jaw clenches. And then, slowly, he speaks.

“It felt… empty,” he says. “Even when I didn’t know why.”

I scoff. “Don’t lie to me.”

“I’m not,” he says. “That’s why I’m here.”

He takes one step forward, eyes heavy, voice low.

“Because being with her… being anywhere without you—it never stopped feeling wrong.”

I laugh bitterly.

“You chose her, Jinwoo. You didn’t trip and fall into her arms. You stood at the fork and walked away from me without a word.”

“I know,” he says. “And I hate myself for it.”

His words hang in the air. I hate how honest they sound.

“I was scared,” he finally admits. “Of what I was becoming. Of dragging you into it.”

“Don’t give me that ‘for your own good’ excuse,” I bite.

“It wasn’t an excuse.” His voice cracks. “It was a mistake.”

He steps closer—but still doesn’t reach for me.

“I didn’t leave you for Cha Hae-In. I left because I thought I had to protect you from what I’d become.”

“Then why didn’t you come back?”

His silence is the loudest answer of all.

“You didn’t even try,” I whisper. “I waited. I broke in silence. And you were just… gone.”

“Because I thought you’d be better without me,” he says. “But all I did was take the choice away from you.”

His eyes glisten—but no tears fall.

Not yet.

“And now you think what?” I say. “That following me around like some tragic puppy will make it all okay?”

“No,” he breathes. “I just want you to know the truth before you decide if I deserve to stay.”

“You don’t,” I say flatly. “You don’t deserve any part of me.”

I see it. The flicker of pain behind his calm.

Good.

But still... he doesn’t walk away.

“I know,” he whispers. “But I’m staying anyway. Not because I deserve you—but because you deserved someone who never would’ve made you feel like this.”

“And if I can’t be that person… then I’ll carry the weight of what I did until I die.”

I stare at him.

This broken, haunted version of the man I once loved more than air.

He doesn’t move. Doesn’t beg.

Just stands there.

Letting the silence settle between us like ash after a fire.

And for the first time…

I wonder if maybe he's finally feeling what I felt every day he was gone.

___

[naughtyneganjdm]

Threads of Desire - Chapter 8

Summary: Y/N goes to dinner with Negan and his family where tensions are high leading Y/N and Negan to grow closer.

Characters: Negan Smith, the reader (OC), Jordyn, etc.

AO3 Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/61111030/chapters/169959844

Warnings: Swearing, Angst, etc.

Notes: I recognize I haven't updated this story in a very long time, but I have been so crazy busy that I just haven't had the time to edit the things that I have written. Now, I have some more time on my hands, so I will do my best to finish this story as soon as I can. I want to finish the stories I have so I don't feel guilty about leaving things unfinished. I know this was originally a Christmas story (I'm sorry), but now we'll just have that be a background thing instead of focusing on it. Winter themed stories in summer never hurt, right? Once again, sorry for taking so long to update. Thank you if you do decide to continue on to read it. If you want to read the other chapters since it has been so long, be sure to check them out here.

Life was not going the way that Y/N expected it to. After attending that event with Negan for her old college, it felt like a big part of her life changed and in a very significant way. Things never went this way for her. So much was changing and it was doing it at an incredible pace. Looking forward to her future was not something she was used to, but she felt hopeful. Especially in terms of her job. Even if she knew that it could lead to some drama. Sadly, she couldn’t tell if she was handling everything well or not. It was hard to admit that while she was excited about certain aspects of her life, sometimes? She was overwhelmed.

With the position that Guy offered her at work, she knew that Maggie would eventually erupt on her. Their friendship had been running on its last leg for a long time now and when Maggie found out about the job offer that she accepted, she was certain their friendship would be over. And honestly? She didn’t know how she felt about that. For so long she catered to Maggie because of the past and because of a promise she made. Now? She had stopped taking Maggie’s shit. She was pushing back against things lately. It wasn’t normal for her, but Maggie was a constant in her life. Even if it was a shitty constant, it would be strange no longer having her in Y/N’s life.

That ultimately made her think of Daryl, the man that was incredibly furious with her earlier in the day for accepting the job at Vixen. What was sad was that Daryl was the first person she told most things in her life to because she trusted him. Daryl was the number one person she had always confided in. She was always honest and open with him. So to have him angry with her over something that she so badly wanted in her life? Now that was very upsetting.

Guy was also a new curveball. When Guy started to insert himself into her life, she thought it would be something negative. Someone that would haunt her and be a pain in the ass. Especially after Negan warned her about Guy. For the longest time, she thought Guy was a piece of shit and, well? That really didn’t change much, but he was a piece of shit that she actually liked. Instead of one that she thought she should be afraid of. Someone she thought would ruin her life in order to get what he wanted from her actually turned out to be someone that felt like a friend.

And then? There was Negan. The man she had yearned to be seen by for almost a decade. Now that he was finally seeing her, she felt awkward about it. Having the attention of someone who had been so blind to her affections felt strange. Even though it made her feel good, there was a guilty sensation that ate away at her causing her to question everything. Right now? She didn’t know what was stressing her out more. Daryl, Maggie or Negan?

Most of her life, she always overthought everything. Saying her mind never stopped would be an understatement. So right now? It was working overtime trying to play out every scenario and situation. As of late? Things felt like a dream. Some kind of warped reality she made up due to lack of sleep. Never did she think Daryl would be the person to not support her. Nor did she ever think she’d stand up to Maggie or have the attention from Negan that she had so desperately wanted for so long.

Even now, seated beside Negan at the front of his car while Jordyn excitedly talked about the day she spent at work with Y/N felt surreal. Over the last few years, she had stepped up to be Jordyn’s mother. But a lot of her parenting and Negan’s parenting? It was done separate. Never really together, unless it was something official. So being together, interacting with each other like a family? It was a feeling she wasn’t used to.  

Gazing between Negan and Jordyn made her smile. To match Jordyn’s excitement, Negan’s voice was raised trying to put forth as much energy into the conversation and it was sweet. Getting to see Negan interacting with his daughter was always a gift in itself. It was one of Y/N’s favorite things about Negan. How Negan was as a father always appealed to her. How she felt was a strong sense of joy and happiness in the moment. But it was confusing. This didn’t feel like it was a moment that should belong to her. Negan was still dating Maggie. Nothing about them was official as far as relationships went, but there was a warmth growing at the center of her chest enjoying the moment that she was witnessing. This was the kind of life she had always longed for. Getting to experience it like this? It brought forth a lot of conflicting thoughts, but she knew right then and there? She was happy.

“How long do you think he will take to make the dress?” Jordyn questioned, inviting Y/N into the conversation since she had been quiet throughout most of the discussion. “It seemed like he was really going to do it.”

“Oh, I think he’s going to make the dress for sure. I’m not sure how long it will take him to have it made. I’ll have to talk to him about that,” Y/N addressed the question with a big smile, happy to see that Jordyn both enjoyed her time at work with her and was looking forward to the promise that Guy made her in creating the dress for her. “It was a really beautiful design that you came up with Jordyn. I think it will turn out great.”

“Maybe you’re turning out to be like Y/N and you’ll have a knack for fashion design,” Negan winked, squeezing his fingers tighter around the steering wheel while he drove. Nodding his head about, Negan’s lips parted, but he stopped himself from saying something that was obviously on his mind. Whispering, he finally built up the strength to ask what he wanted to. “So…we like Guy Vixen now?”

Pausing to consider that question, she knew why Negan was asking it. Especially since he knew details from Maggie about the situation at the start. Outstretching his hand, Negan placed it in over Y/N’s and gave it a small squeeze.

Swallowing down hard, she became nervous. Earlier when she told Daryl about accepting a job at Vixen, Daryl was very disappointed in her. Would Negan react the same since he didn’t want her working there either after he found out Guy wanted to sleep with her? That night Negan had begged her to accept a job with him, so would he also be frustrated with her for the decision she made?

“I think we do,” she alerted Negan, biting down on her bottom lip. There was tension in her body, not because they were talking about Guy, but because she was afraid of how Negan would respond. Right now, Jordyn seemed to be distracted in the backseat of the car watching something on her tablet. They had stopped at a light and Negan looked to her for some kind of visual confirmation that things were okay with the man in charge of the company she worked at. “Guy actually offered me a position at Vixen. A real one. Not one where I’m just someone’s assistant. It has a huge pay raise and it’s technically the job that Maggie had when she started. I’d get my own office and everything.”

“No shit?” Negan’s raspy voice grumbled, his dimples becoming slightly more prominent when he gave a nod and looked to make sure the light was still red. “Just like that, huh?”

“Yeah. He’s been having me working with him the last few days and I think he might see the value in having me around,” she thought aloud, noticing that Negan’s grasp on her hand grew tighter. Although, it was more of a supportive squeeze and not one of anger. Here was the hard part. Telling him that she accepted the job. “I agreed to take it. He’s already raised my pay and at the start of the year I’ll have the new position. I just have to sign a few more papers and then everything will be set.”

“I can’t tell if this is something you’re happy about or not because I’m getting mixed emotions from you,” he muttered, giving her another once over. Hell, he wasn’t wrong. There was joy in the fact she was getting this opportunity, but she didn’t want Negan to have the same reaction that Daryl did. “He didn’t force himself on you or anything, right?”

“No, I made it clear that I don’t want that from him and it’s never going to happen,” she responded only after she made sure that Jordyn was still distracted with what she was doing. Nodding his head, Negan gave a weak smile. “I am happy about this. It’s what I always wanted. To work with him and really have an opportunity at the company.”

“That’s awesome then,” he asserted, his smile growing larger now that he knew how she felt. It felt like a huge amount of weight had been lifted from her chest realizing that Negan was supportive of this decision instead of being upset with her. “I’m excited for you. And just know, if it doesn’t turn out to be what you want, I will always be on back burner to find you something else if you want to.”

“You’re not upset that I took the job?” she was almost afraid to ask causing Negan to snort out, giving her an odd expression.

“Why would I be upset with you? It’s your life. It’s your decision and it seems like it’s one that makes you happy,” Negan noted with a shake of his head, his nose wrinkling at the idea that she thought he would be upset with her. “As long as you’re comfortable and safe, that’s all that matters.”

“Thank you,” she exhaled loudly, her fingers hooking tighter with his. Forcing herself to look away from him, she was incredibly relieved to know that he wasn’t like Daryl. Instead of being offended, he was actually very supportive of her.

“Did you think I would be angry?” Negan inquired, his thick eyebrows bouncing up in realization that she was so tense, visibly worried about telling him.

“It’s complicated,” she didn’t really want to take the time to tell him about Daryl, especially since that was something that was between her and her friend. Involving Negan would only make things awkward. “I just didn’t…want you upset with me.”

“If I get mad at you for something like that, you can put me in my place,” he huffed out, shaking his head as he spoke. A lump developed in her throat realizing in that moment she was comparing the differences between Daryl and Negan. The one that was meant to be her best friend condemned her while the other was very supportive. “I was a little surprised to know that you talked with him about me.”

“Yeah, well…” she sucked in a sharp breath of air when Guy came to mind. “Sadly, I think he’s become more so a friend that is way too interested in my personal life.”

“I noticed,” he snickered, stroking his thumb over the back of her hand while he continued his drive with his other hand. Recalling the odd interaction between him and Guy earlier made him snort again. “He seems to support the things that went on with us.”

Knowing that it was an inappropriate conversation to be having in front of Jordyn, she sighed loudly and just nodded her head about, “So…what did you two talk about in terms of me?”

“Not now,” she whispered under her breath getting a wicked smirk to tug at Negan’s handsome features. There was that arrogance that Negan had. “You gave him more details than I did. He just knows we haven’t fully…”

“Uh huh,” Negan’s eyebrow arched with him gazing back over his shoulder to make sure that Jordyn wasn’t paying too much attention to what they were saying. “I mean, we started to. I just only got the first couple of inches in.”

“First couple of inches into what?” Jordyn spoke up from the back with Y/N reaching to smack at the center of Negan’s chest. Choking, Negan sat up straighter in the car and let out a nervous breath. “Why are you two acting weird?”

“I was just talking about the car honey,” Negan lied, his face flushing over with red. Clearing his throat, Negan shook his head and tried to think of something to quickly change the discussion. “So, are you excited to see your grandparents?”

“Smooth,” she spoke quiet enough, cringing at the idea that Negan’s daughter could somewhat hear what they were saying.

Trying to sway from the discussion, Negan got Jordyn to talk about her grandmother for a few until there was a moment of silence again. Speaking quietly, Negan pulled his hand back and placed it on the wheel, “So, does that mean we are official? Now that your boss knows.”

A small laugh escaped her throat and she was more so amused that was his question, “I guess that all depends on you. Maybe we’re officially fucked up. Because if I remember correctly, you are still dating Maggie, aren’t you?”

“I’m working on that bit,” he frowned, biting at his bottom lip when he released an upset breath that their playful banter led them to Maggie.

“We can’t be official when you’re still with her,” she suggested realizing that Negan tensed up when she brought up Maggie to him.

“You won’t let me break up with her Y/N. I’ve tried. I wanted to text her, you told me that was wrong. I tried to do it today at work, you didn’t let me do it then either. I’ve tried to break up with her and I plan to,” he promised, his throat tensing with the vein at the side of his neck becoming slightly more prominent. “I just haven’t gotten ten minutes alone with her to the point where I can. I keep getting thrown in these situations.”

“Breaking up with someone through text is just so…fucked up,” she noted eliciting an annoyed breath from Negan who adjusted in the driver’s seat beside her. “And as far as breaking up with her at work? Jordyn was there and it would have caused a massive shit storm.”

“I’m pretty fucking sure she knows I’m about to break up with her,” he claimed with a tip of his head, curling his fingers tighter around the steering wheel. “I think that’s why she was avoiding things so much. She’s trying to think of a way to stop it from happening. The next time I’m alone with her, I’m breaking up with her. That’s why I don’t think this thing between us…”

“You can’t have both of us Negan,” she stressed to him causing a loud rumble of a sound to fall from his throat. “Dating us both…”

“With the intentions of breaking up with Maggie as soon as I can,” he bickered back with her, his eyebrows furrowing as he spoke. “I want to make things official between the two of us.”

“You can’t do that when you belong to someone else,” she reminded him, a sense of sadness flooding into her features when Negan stole a quick glance over at her. “You understand that, right? You hated what you did to Lucille when you were married. You told me that.”

“And I told you, Maggie isn’t Lucille,” he countered, his Adam’s apple bouncing in his throat as he spoke. “I don’t regret what happened between us. And I won’t. I thought I would. I thought it would bother me. And for a little while, I let it. But now I know how things are, now that I’ve experienced things a certain way…I want you. If you wanted to be with me, you could be.”

“Okay, so what if I agree to things? Then what? What happens if you have me and then you decide I’m not good enough?” she rambled on, keeping quiet enough in hopes of Jordyn not hearing. There was a sound coming from the backseat from Jordyn’s tablet which made Y/N more at ease realizing Negan’s daughter was distracted.

“We’ve only scratched the surface and I’m fucking addicted,” he scoffed, a muscle in his jaw flexing. Hearing that only perplexed her. Was it true or was it something that he only felt because this whole thing was new between them? Sometimes, a taste of something new was addictive at the time, but the longer it went, the less appealing it became. So what was it? This was everything she wanted him to say years ago, but now it felt almost wrong. “I know you don’t like the idea of cheating, but with two people who are meant to be together…”

“Are we?” she asked, her voice broken. It sounded nice, but she didn’t know if that was honest. “What if you only feel this way because I’m something new? There is something intriguing and exciting about an affair, but there might come a time where you realize it was Maggie that you truly love. And then I become someone completely that I didn’t want to be.”

“My relationship with Maggie was bound to end at some point soon,” he pointed out as he pulled into a parking garage in the area they were meant to be. Huffing out, he looked disappointed that she was sticking to her guns about this. “She couldn’t keep pretending to be someone else around me this long. It wouldn’t have lasted.”

“Really? Because she did a fucking great job for four years,” she countered surprising Negan with her response since it was a smartass remark. “It’d be one thing if she only just started dating you, but four years is a long time Negan. Truthfully? I’m surprised you two aren’t married already. Especially with how in love with her you appeared to be. By how eager people were to meet Maggie at that event, I would have thought you were going to ask her to marry you this Christmas or something.”

“Hmmm…” Negan swallowed down hard, his Adam’s apple bouncing in his throat when he considered that comment. Honestly? It made him feel guilty because he did ask Maggie to marry him. Multiple times in the past. And every time she turned him down. Which infuriated him at the time, but he was thankful that she had done that. Pulling into a spot, he was quiet for a moment and debated telling her that. If he did tell her that, he didn’t think this would go well. At all. Exhaling loudly, he shook his head and turned to look at Y/N. “Maggie isn’t the marrying type. I think we both know that. I have never been able to see a future with Maggie. I appreciated not being alone, but when it came to marriage? No.”

Was that a lie? Sort of. Maggie didn’t seem like the marrying type. But, saying it like that didn’t mean he didn’t try. It just wasn’t telling her every detail. Maggie never wanted children with him nor did she want to get married. That was something she made very clear. Negan at the time just hoped she would change her mind. However, Y/N was a great mother to Jordyn and she didn’t seem like the type that wouldn’t want to get married.

Unfortunately, his relationship with Maggie was something that he was very confused about. Because he was fairly certain most of it was fake. And he started to wonder if Maggie ever liked him in the first place. In his opinion? He felt like Maggie had done everything purposefully. Like it was a game for her. Something to intentionally keep Y/N and Negan separated. How could there ever be a future in that? Maggie went out of her way to take advantage of Negan only to hurt her best friend. And he fell for it. Which ultimately made him feel terrible. If Maggie hadn’t done what she had he wondered if him and Y/N would have been together. Maybe they would have been married by now. They could have had another child, but instead he was pretty much in the same place that he was right before Maggie had gotten with him.

“My whole opinion of Maggie changed once I found out what she had done. What she’s been doing,” Negan admitted, looking down toward his lap with a long exhale escaping his throat. More than anything he was disappointed in himself that he let things happen the way he did. “You can’t come back from that. Even if it was a four-year relationship.”

“I see,” she didn’t know how to respond. What could she really say to that? It was a sensitive topic for her to even approach or think about.

“Everything okay?” Jordyn questioned from the back of the car noticing the silence that was between the two of them. Looking back at Jordyn, Negan gave a nod and sighed loudly. “Is grandma and grandpa here or…?”

“Uh, I don’t know,” Negan broke the silence, digging his phone out of his pocket to check to see if he had gotten a text.

Thankfully a text from Negan’s mother confirmed that they could walk to the restaurant which would hopefully put a stop to this conversation. It was nice at first but as the conversation went on, it got harder to deal with.

On the walk to the restaurant, Jordyn was eager to hold both Negan and Y/N’s hands. Being with the two of them seemed to make her very happy. That was one thing that was nice about today. Getting to spend more time with Jordyn. That was something that Y/N always looked forward to.

“I think this is cool,” Jordyn blurt out, looking between the both of them with a big smile. “It’s been a long time since I’ve gotten to go out with my dad and my mom.”

“Your…” Negan paused, his eyes growing wide at the idea of Jordyn calling Y/N her mother. Surprise flooded into Negan’s features and he looked to Y/N. Considering Jordyn had never really called her that before, it wasn’t something that Negan had been expecting. After Guy said what he had at work today, obviously it was something that had been lingering in Jordyn’s mind. “Your mom?”

“Y/N,” Jordyn bobbed her head in the direction of Y/N, giving a big smile. Tipping her head back, she looked between both Negan and Y/N before shrugging. “The way I see it? She is pretty much my mom, right? I mean she does everything for me. She goes to all the special events. She takes care of me. Mr. Vixen called her my mom today and I think he’s right. I know she’s not my real mom, but…she’s been there my whole life. So she might as well be my mom, right?”

“You don’t have to call me that though,” Y/N thought aloud, wanting to put it out there that she didn’t want to take away the title from Lucille. That was the last thing she wanted. To erase the memory of Lucille from their lives. “I’m okay with just being Y/N.”

“She’s not entirely wrong though Y/N,” he pointed out, clearing his throat when he thought about what his daughter had said. “Lucille will always be her physical mother, but you’re really the only mother she has ever known.”

“Exactly,” Jordyn skipped along, letting out a shuddering sound with the cold air that was surrounding them. “It’s not often the three of us get to spend time together. So I like it. We should do it more often.”

“I agree,” he stammered, nodding his head in response. “I think the three of us make a good team together and we should spend more time like that. We should have been doing that all along.”

After a moment of thinking something out inside of his head, Negan cleared his throat before speaking up again. Giving Jordyn’s hand a tight squeeze, he offered up a weak smile and nodded toward Y/N, “Do you like spending more time with Y/N or Maggie?”

“Daddy, that’s a pretty silly question,” Jordyn chuckled, looking back at Y/N who honestly seemed to have lost some of the color in her face. “Maggie is okay, but I just told you that Y/N is like my mom. And your mom is always more special.”

“So that means you would be okay if I started spending less time with Maggie and more time with Y/N?” Negan confirmed with his daughter who happily nodded her head about. While this was something that was touching to Y/N, it was something that she wasn’t sure they should be talking about. Especially since Negan was still dating Maggie and involving Negan’s daughter in this didn’t feel right. “Because I was thinking of having Y/N start to spend a lot more time with me. With you. With us.”

“Like…having her move in?” Jordyn blurt out and it made Y/N’s heart race at the idea. This is why she was wishing that Negan didn’t involve his daughter. This wasn’t something that an eight-year-old was going to understand well. “Because that would be awesome. We could have sleepovers in my tent all the time. We could do movie nights. That would be so cool.”

“Well, maybe eventually we would go to that,” he considered, a smile tugging at his lips with his daughter getting excited. Really, she seemed to enjoy the idea of having Y/N around more and that was a good thing in his mind. “But I just want us to be together more often. Sometimes spending the night and we will see about everything else.”

“I would be okay with that,” Jordyn assured them, looking between them with a big cheesy smile that mirrored that of Negan’s. More than anything that was Y/N’s dream six years ago. Hell, that was still her dream four years ago. And while she would love it now, she didn’t know how she felt about everything. Even though she loved Jordyn with everything that she was, something about all of this still felt very sour. “When are you moving in?”

“Oh, I’m not…” Y/N panicked, her face growing hot with her heart skipping a beat in her chest. This was exactly why she didn’t want to involve Jordyn in this right now. Especially with nothing being official or even started yet.

“There is my grand baby,” a woman’s voice called out, thankfully pulling Jordyn’s attention from the conversation. A moment later Jordyn was releasing their hands and running out toward where Negan’s parents were waiting for them.

“What are you doing?” Y/N reached for Negan to pull him in closer to her when Negan’s mother pulled Jordyn into a big hug after kneeling down. Negan’s bright hazel eyes were gazing into hers with her shaking her head. “Negan, involving Jordyn in this when you’re not even broken up with Maggie…”

“Look at them,” he whispered, stepping in closer to Y/N while they stood together outside in the cold. Nodding over toward his parents with Jordyn, Negan swallowed down hard and shook his head. Closing the distance between them had Negan’s words vibrating against her ear and it drew chills down her spine. “I don’t want to end up being like my mother.”

“What does that mean?” she stepped back, her eyes gazing upon Negan with him biting down on his bottom lip when his mother called out to him. His eyes narrowed as he moved toward his mother to wrap her up in a big hug. Standing back, she watched Jordyn excitedly talk with her grandfather while Negan spoke to his mother. The way Negan just said what he did had chilled her to the bone. Yet? She didn’t understand what he meant by that.

“Look at you,” Negan’s mother boasted, letting go of Negan to step forward toward Y/N. Holding her arms out, she waved Y/N in for a hug which Y/N happily accepted. One nice thing about Negan’s mother is that she was always kind to Y/N. Accepting her quickly into the family and never being rude to her. Y/N met Negan’s mother when Lucille was still alive. Even though it was strange, Y/N had consistently been around Negan so she had grown to know Negan and his family pretty well. “My God, you are beautiful. Look at you. You are just glowing.”

“I was thinking the same exact thing about you,” Y/N smirked, reaching down to grab a hold of Negan’s mother’s hands to give them a tight squeeze. “You haven’t aged a day Mrs. Smith.”

“I love this one,” Negan’s mother boasted out, happily shaking Y/N’s hands about. “I don’t think I’ve seen you since Jordyn’s birthday, but the little one talks about you so much, I feel like we’ve never really been separated for long.”

“Well, we will have to change that,” Y/N insisted, laughing when Negan’s mother moved in to give her another big hug. Just beyond them, she saw Negan’s father stepping in beside him. While Negan had some of his mother’s traits, the genetics were strong on Negan’s father’s side of the family. There was no doubting that the man standing beside Negan was his father. He was shorter, completely white haired and chubbier than Negan, but everything in the man’s features showed that he was Negan’s father. When Negan’s father placed his hand in over Negan’s shoulder, she could see that Negan cringed at the touch, but he was doing his best to hide it. Almost immediately Negan pulled from his father to reach down to pick up Jordyn. It was his attempt at hiding that he didn’t want his father touching him, but Y/N knew why he had done it. He may have hidden it well, but she knew Negan was not a fan of his father. Giving Negan’s mother one final big hug, she pulled away and sighed loudly. “Maybe we will have to do something weekly together.”

“Oh! Like a girls’ night. We can bring Jordyn along and the three of us could do something special every week,” Negan’s mother agreed with her, nodding over toward Jordyn who seemed very enthusiastic about the idea of that. “I would love that.”

“You know, you were not the face I was expecting to see,” Negan’s father finally spoke up, drawing everyone’s attention to him. “I was expecting to see that stuck up one. The one with the pretty green eyes, but visibly wants to be other places whenever we are around and looks like she would rather crawl out of her own skin.”

“Maggie won’t be joining us today,” Negan informed them, with a deep rumble of a sound as he pulled Jordyn in closer to his chest. Hooking her arms around Negan’s shoulders, Jordyn cuddled in closer to her father. Sadly, Negan looked lost. Being around his father seemed to immediately shut something down inside of him. “I promise you Y/N is better company.”

“Oh, we don’t question that kiddo,” Negan’s father snickered, patting Negan firmly on the shoulder several times. Grimacing, Negan’s eyes slammed shut and Y/N knew Negan would rather be anywhere but there. “Does this mean that you two publicly acknowledge that you’re knocking boots and you’re an item? Because if so, it’s been a long fucking time.”

“Dad,” Negan’s face went red and both Negan along with his mother looked like they could have died on the spot with Negan’s father saying what he did.

“What does that mean?” Jordyn could tell that whatever was said was something bad, but Negan immediately shook his head. “Knocking boots?”

“It means that daddy is in a relationship with Y/N,” Negan responded, his throat tensing up when he told his daughter somewhat of the truth without going into details. “And to answer your question…” Negan swallowed down hard, looking out at Y/N who seemed fixed on him. “It’s complicated.”

“What isn’t complicated with the two of you?” Negan’s father rumbled as someone from the building called out Negan’s name. Heading into the restaurant, they were seated at a table where Y/N was between Negan and Jordyn. Jordyn wanted to sit by her grandmother and Y/N, so this was how they ended up seated. “Negan, I can’t tell you how long I’ve wanted you to break up with that woman. While she was nice on the eyes, I never understood why you started dating her in the first place.”

“Honey, you’re embarrassing him,” Negan’s mother warned his father which had his father dramatically rolling his eyes and waving his hand about in the air. Finally giving her attention to Negan, his mother shrugged her shoulders and spoke softly. “We’re just surprised it took this long is all.”

“What do you mean by that?” Negan muttered, his smile unsure with him shifting in the seat beside Y/N uneasily.

“Anyone with eyes could see the two of you were together,” Negan’s father claimed, waving his hand back and forth between Negan and Y/N. Negan was thankful his dad used the word together instead of knocking boots. Still, Negan could tell that Y/N was ill at ease with the assumption. “We just assumed you two had a fight and that’s how Maggie came into the picture. Just a rebound woman to replace what you were missing with Y/N.”

“Wow,” Y/N stammered, speaking quiet enough so only Negan heard her in that moment. Dropping her head down, she couldn’t believe that Negan’s parents actually believed that Maggie was the rebound. When that was so far from the truth.

“You used to talk to me all the time about being in love with a younger woman, but we already knew,” Negan’s mom recalled, helping Jordyn to pull up something on her tablet while they talked. “You were so scared to tell us, but we had accepted the relationship long before you were trying to tell us about it. You were always beating around the bush.”

“I’m just curious, how did you figure that the two of us were together?” she blurt out and she could tell that was not a question that Negan wanted her to ask. Especially with everything that was going on between them with Maggie. Placing his hand in over hers, Negan shook his head, but she motioned him to wait. “What were the signs?”

“Honey, cover Jordyn’s ears for a minute,” Negan’s father asked of Negan’s mother who gave her a husband a glare but did as she was asked. An amused giggle fell from Jordyn with Negan’s father speaking up quietly. “I don’t know if I’m right, and no judgements from me if I am, but I always thought the two of you were sleeping together when Lucille was still alive.”

“Honey,” Negan’s mother hushed, but his father just continued to ramble on causing his mother’s face to flush over with red.

“Obviously, your mother thought otherwise, but you don’t just keep some hot little college thing around your wife all the time,” Negan’s father insisted making Y/N’s face go hot and she forced herself to look away from Negan’s father. Clearing his throat, Negan coughed and couldn’t believe his father actually said that. “You were always touching each other. Always so close to one another. Lucille never seemed worried about it, but it wouldn’t have been the first time you cheated.”

“Thanks for that dad,” Negan grumbled under his breath, his jaw twitching with anger when his father reminded him of the fact that he wasn’t loyal during certain stages of his marriage.

���I’m not, we didn’t…” Y/N finally lifted her head, shaking it as she spoke. “I wouldn’t have done that to Lucille. Lucille brought me into the family and treated me very well. I couldn’t have done that to her.”

“Then I guess you were right honey,” Negan’s father noted, leaning in closer to his wife while he continued on the conversation. “As far as realizing the two of you were going heels to Jesus was how often the two of you were together. I can’t tell you how many times we stopped by to check in on you only to see you two in bed together sleeping. It’s not that hard to realize that you’ve just gone to pound town when you’re in your skivvies son sleeping in bed with a hot young thing.”

“Jesus Christ, for the love of God please stop,” Negan begged of his father, his heart hammering in his chest at the euphemisms his father was using to describe sex. By the look on his father’s face, it was obvious his father didn’t understand why Negan was getting so worked up. “You’re in front of Jordyn.”

“Her ears are covered,” his father blew it off like it was nothing. “You do this thing with your eyes son and you looked at her in a way that made it look like the moment we were gone you were going to pounce on the poor thing.”

“What he’s trying to say…” Negan’s mother interrupted before his father could make things any worse. “There was something in the way the two of you looked at each other. Something that was undeniable. At first, I wasn’t the biggest fan of the idea of all the time he was spending with you since you were his student, but with how well you took care of my boy and my grandchild? I didn’t mind,” Negan’s mother explained why they assumed Negan and Y/N were together in the past. Yeah, they slept together in bed a lot of times, but that’s all it was. Two friends comfortable enough with one another that would talk endlessly during the night and just fall asleep beside one another. Back then, Y/N thought there was more because Negan was desperate to cuddle her. But it took a while for her to realize that it meant nothing. He just wanted to feel like he wasn’t alone. Now? Negan’s mother was focused on Y/N. “I could tell your love was pure for Negan. You looked at him with so much love that I knew when he was going through so much, he’d be okay. And trust me, for a while I wasn’t so sure he would be okay. But you saved my boy. The more you were around, the more I saw the old him returning to us after Lucille passed away. Soon enough, I was spending more time with you than I was Negan. That’s how much you were around. No one does that if they don’t love someone.”

“Fuck,” Negan released a small rumble of a breath, his eyes gazing upon Y/N who just looked sad. His parents were confirming everything that Y/N had said in the past and it made him feel guilty that things ended up the way they did.

“What broke the two of you up in the first place?” Negan’s father wondered, waving his hand about like it was finally alright for Negan’s mother to uncover Jordyn’s ears, but Negan’s mother shook her head since the conversation was still going. “Was it a fight? Did Negan cheat again? I mean…”

“Again?” Negan slurred, an annoyed breath escaping his throat with his father throwing his hands up in the air to almost justify his actions. That was the second time his father brought it up tonight. “Yeah, Negan cheated again. That’s how he ended up with Maggie. Is that what you expected to hear?”

“I’m not surprised to hear it,” Negan’s father stammered, leaning back in his chair to stare out at his son. “Lucille was your high school sweetheart. And she was perfect. You were always very good at fucking up the best things in your life. Your school. Baseball. Lucille. Y/N…it’s a surprise that Jordyn turned out so well.”

“Well that was just mean,” Y/N blurt out in anger with Negan turning his head surprised to hear her speaking up in the first place. Sure, she was upset with the discussion in realizing that Negan’s parents saw the things in her that Negan never did, but this was not something you would expect to hear from a father. “What if I was the one that cheated? I was the young one. Maybe I broke Negan’s heart. Why do you assume the worst in Negan all of the time? The reason Jordyn turned out as well as she did is because of Negan. He’s a great father. And I see it in everything he does with his daughter. She’s not going to question when she grows up if her father loves her or not because he will never make her doubt it.”

“You weren’t the cheater,” Negan’s father snickered, going to say something further, but the waitress returned to get their drink order. Negan’s mother finally released Jordyn’s ears when it seemed like the discussion may have been over. Thankfully, Jordyn didn’t seem to care much that she was left out of the discussion since she was watching something on her tablet. “Your dedication to my son was very pure. The only thing that would have fucked up your relationship would have been him being an idiot.”

“Well, you’re not wrong,” Negan scoffed, rubbing at the back of his neck in a moment of tension. “We weren’t together because of me. Because…” Negan motioned toward Jordyn again and his mom covered her ears after Negan suggested she do so. “Because I fucked her best friend.”

“Negan,” his mother breathed out from where she was seated watching Negan give a dramatic smile and throw his hands up in the air. “Honey, that was loud.”

“Well, us Smith boys do tend to get loud,” Negan snarled, releasing an annoyed exhale. Biting down on his bottom lip, Negan folded his arms out in front of his chest and he could see that Y/N was staring out at him. “I guess I just have a thing for fucking up with my significant other’s best friend.”

“Not something to be proud of son,” Negan’s father corrected Negan after Negan announced what he had done to Y/N. “Probably shouldn’t say that when she’s sitting right next to you. The woman was nice enough to take you back after all of that. I guess she’s more like Lucille than we thought. You certainly have a type, don’t you?”

“What can I say? When it comes to cheating, I learned from the…” Negan bit down on his bottom lip realizing where this conversation was going. And that was heading toward a fight with his father. Yeah, Negan wasn’t the best of people, but his father was no better. Considering his father was an abuser most of his life both physically and mentally, this wasn’t a discussion that felt right. Especially knowing his father was unfaithful as well for as long as Negan could remember. It was the pot calling the kettle black and he was angry as hell. Clearing his throat, Negan pushed his chair back and gave them a nod. “I’ll be right back. I have to use the little boy’s room.”

Instead of waiting for a response, Negan got up from the table and moved over toward the bathrooms. Pushing the door open to the men’s restroom, he made sure that he was alone. Stepping in front of the mirror, he braced his hands in over the counter and stared out at his reflection. Every part of him felt like it was on fire. His heart was hammering in his chest and he could tell that he was shaking from the anger he was experiencing. A red color had donned his cheeks and he felt both frustrated along with upset at the same time.

Frowning, he could see from the corner of his eye that the door was opening. Noticing that it was Y/N, he felt a lump in his throat developing. Slowly turning to face her, he felt a strong sense of remorse. He should have said something. Apologized. Done something. Anything really. But he noticed that she locked the door and it made him tip his head to the side. Before he could react, she was moving across the bathroom and in no time she had led him into her arms. Lowering down, he accepted the gesture finding comfort in the hug that she was giving him. Tension flooded from his body with his head nuzzling in against the side of her neck. With her fingers stroking at the back of his neck, he felt every ounce of anger flooding out of him. Instead he felt vulnerable in the moment, closing his eyes tightly. Cuddling her in close Negan was shocked that after everything she was comforting him.

“Take a deep breath,” she instructed sinking her fingers into his hair, speaking softly in order to get him to relax. Nuzzling her nose in against the side of his neck had him exhaling loudly. “I know what he does to you. Don’t let him get under your skin.”

“It’s hard,” Negan admitted, tipping his head back enough to stare down at her with his hazel eyes. Thankfully, he had confided in Y/N a very long time ago about all the things that his father had done. They really were extraordinarily close in the past because he told her just about everything. And the way she was able to calm him was very evident in the way she was handling everything.

“I know,” she whispered, palming in over the side of his face with her right hand while her left reached down to grab a hold of his hand to give it a reassuring squeeze. Leaning into her touch, Negan’s eyes came to a tight close and he released a tremoring breath. “He knows he has a grasp on you and that’s why he does it. He pokes until he gets you angry and then he plays victim. This is what he does. Any time he does it, let’s just take a deep breath and count to ten. Focus on something else. We’re going to get through this dinner and then you don’t have to see him again until you’re forced to. Okay?”

“I don’t mean to be an asshole,” Negan explained, his breathing still broken with her cupping his face in her hands tenderly. “When I tell you I don’t want to be like my mom, I mean, I don’t want to end up in a relationship like she is with my dad. Be with someone who is no good for me. Who is no good for my children, yet stay because there are no other options. My father cheated on my mother. He abused both of us and yet I’m supposed to just smile and pretend none of that happened. Act like he was a model father when he…”

“You don’t have to pretend anything,” she assured him, sweeping her thumb across the curve of his jawline. “I don’t expect you to play friendly. I know you are only doing this for your mother and for Jordyn. Just because your mother puts up with him and allows it to be this way, it doesn’t mean you have to.”

“I’m so fucking sorry,” Negan blurt out, ignoring his thoughts about his father in the moment, apologizing finally for what he felt so guilty about for in the past. Cuddling his forehead in against hers, Negan bit down on his bottom lip. Sighing loudly, his hands dragged down over the side of her neck to drop at her hips to grab a hold of them. “I can’t imagine it’s easy for you to hear that my parents recognized your affections for me when I didn’t.”

“Don’t,” she hushed him, her hands placing in over the center of his chest. Palming up over the side of Negan’s neck to brush her fingers into his hair, she felt the warmth of Negan’s breath over her lips. “I don’t want to talk about that right now. Not with your father making you…”

“I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I was building this beautiful romance with you and I fucked it up so bad. I dropped the ball and my father is right. I fuck up everything good in my life. If I wouldn’t have thought with my fucking dick, we could have been so fucking happy,” Negan grunted under his breath, his right hand caressing up over the lengths of her back. “We probably could have been married and had a baby.”

“Or we could have driven each other nuts and broke up immediately,” she chuckled realizing that he was letting this whole thing eat away at him with what his parents had said at the table. “You can’t just assume we would have been living a fairytale.”

“But I know we would have been. You heard my parents. They said they saw the way you looked at me. How you saved me,” Negan lingered on the words that his parents said before they ended up in this bathroom together. “If I would have gotten over my biases, if I would have allowed us to get together…you wouldn’t have had to live a life of pain for four fucking years. And I could have had the life I wanted. Instead, we both fucking went through four years of shit and for what?”

“Don’t do this. We can’t go back and change things,” she interrupted his thought process, her hand palming in along the side of his neck. Sweeping her thumb over his jawline had him leaning into her touch. “Yes, my feelings are hurt. Yes, there is a lot to say and a lot to process. But what happened, happened. We can’t change it. We can’t make it better. We can only go forward. And going forward means focusing on the here and now…”

“How can you say that about me when I’m…” he paused, a breath catching in his throat when he forced himself to look away from her. “When I’m a carbon copy of him? I’m just like him. I ruin everything good in my life, he’s not wrong. I cheated on Lucille, just like he cheated on my mother. I had something perfect going with you and I fucked that up. I allowed someone to take advantage of me and while I would love to blame Maggie for it, it’s my fault. I did it. I knew she was your best friend, I knew…”

“Negan, shut up,” she cupped his face in her hands, getting his hazel eyes to stare into hers. By his expression, she could tell that he was having a meltdown. “You’re not your father. You never laid a hand on your daughter. You never hit her. You will never hit her and you’re a good father. That little girl loves you. She will never question your love. You never hit Lucille. You never hit Maggie. You’re not abusive.”

A tremoring sound escaped Negan, his breathing broken while she caressed at the sides of his face with her thumbs trying to calm him, “I know you. You’re a bit of an asshole, you’re ignorant sometimes, but you would never hurt the people you love physically or mentally. We know what your father did to you and your mother. Just because your mother decided to ignore what he did does not mean you have to. You’re not him. You’ll never be him. Yeah, you fucked up, but who hasn’t? You’re a fucking human Negan. But you know what’s good about you?”

“No,” he whispered after a moment, his Adam’s apple bouncing in his throat as she pressed her forehead to his again.

“You admit you were wrong. You regret the bad things you did. It may take you some time to see it, but you feel guilty. A bad person, a person like your father does not do that. They don’t have remorse. They think they were always good and you don’t,” she gave him a peptalk realizing truly how much being around his father upset Negan. “Don’t let his words eat away at you. You are the toughest son of a bitch I know…”

A nervous half laugh escaped Negan’s throat with him lowering his head. Sweeping her thumb in over his cheekbone, she sighed and pressed a tender kiss over his forehead, “Thicken that skin, ignore him and let’s get through the night. You don’t have to force yourself to see him again until you have to. He’s gonna keep trying to bring you down, but don’t let him. Let his words bounce off like they’re nothing.”

“Yes ma’am,” he slurred, his eyes locking with hers again. Stepping in closer to her, he buried his head against the side of her neck and she instinctively wrapped her arms around him to give him a hug. Stroking her fingers at the back of his neck, she sighed and closed her eyes tightly. “You were always the person to pull me out of the worst versions of myself. I never deserved you in my life.”

“Yeah, well, unfortunately you’re stuck with me,” she joked, caressing at his scalp after brushing her fingers into his hair. After she said that, he pulled back ever so slightly with the warmth of his breath lingering over her lips. Taking a moment, he closed the distance between the two of them. Nuzzling his nose in against hers had a chill running down her spine. Pressing in closer, he faintly brushed his lips against hers. It was gradual at first, taking its time to grow in strength. His fingers slid in over the side of her neck, her lips parting and allowing his tongue to tenderly caress in over hers. When they parted, Negan nipped at her bottom lip, tugging faintly at it. The soft caress of her fingertips over the center of his chest had goosebumps pressing in over his arms. “We should probably get back to the table before your mom and Jordyn start to worry.”

Agreeing, Negan accepted her hand when she held it out for him. Following her toward the door, she unlocked it and led him out. In the hallway, one of the waiters saw them together and gave them an odd expression but went back to their business. Approaching the table, Negan noticed that their drinks were on the table. His father’s head was buried in his phone and his mother was deep in conversation with Jordyn.

“There you are, I thought you ran away on us,” his father snorted, setting his phone down on the table beside him. “I thought the two of you were fighting or something with the shit that was coming out of your mouth. I probably would have dumped you myself if I was Y/N after all of that.”

“Yeah, see, that’s the thing about Y/N…” Negan started, helping her down into her seat before taking his that was beside her. “You see, the two of us…we aren’t…the two of us have never…”

“What Negan is trying to say is that we really don’t want to talk about our past. The only thing that matters to us is the now. Not the mistakes we made in the past. I don’t want the person I love to have to constantly think about what he did wrong. Because I already watched him be in a very dark place. And it took a lot of work to pull him out of it,” she interrupted Negan, drawing his attention to her as she started to respond for him. “All you need to know is that I love him. I have always loved him. He’s the most amazing man I’ve ever known. He’s an amazing father to Jordyn. And I love him as he is.”

The sound that escaped Negan’s throat was an emotional one as she reached out to grab a hold of his hand, hooking her fingers with his, “So you will have to excuse me Mr. Smith if I ask you to stop reminding Negan of his mistakes. We worked really hard to be in the place we are now and I don’t want him going back. Because I love him and I want him happy. Talking like this, well, it’s very negative. And I don’t like the overall way it makes me feel. Because you should be proud of what your son made of himself. Especially in terms of being a father.”

There was a deafening silence at the table. Negan’s fingers hooked tightly with hers, his heart hammering inside of his chest. No one had put his father in his place like that and she still managed to do that while being polite. It was respectful, but also let his father know that she didn’t like the way he was saying or approaching things.

“I love you,” Negan blurt out, his Adam’s apple bouncing in his throat. Moving forward in his seat, he used his free hand to press it in over the side of her face. Almost instinctively his lips covered hers in a long, drawn-out fashion. It was passionate. More so sweet. Not sexual. It was an emotional kiss as he had no doubt meant what he just said. By the time they parted, Negan’s father cleared his throat uneasily. 

“Alright then,” his father spoke, but Negan was still focused on Y/N. There was a sense of shock in her eyes with his confession. Nodding his head, he wanted her to know that he meant it, with his thumb sweeping in over her chin. Leaning in, he peppered a few more gentle kisses at her bottom lip before cuddling his forehead in against hers. And he didn’t care that he was showing her the affection that he was in front of his parents. Because in that moment? He had never been so sure of anything. “I’m sorry I made things uncomfortable.”

“I knew there was a reason I liked you,” Negan’s mother gave a wink when Negan and Y/N separated, extending her hand out to place it in over both Negan’s and Y/N’s to give it a supportive squeeze. “I’m glad the two of you found each other.”

“Me too,” Jordyn spoke up, noticing that everyone seemed to be silent. “As daddy always says, I think we’d be lost without Y/N in our lives.”

“Exactly,” Negan gave his daughter a wink who returned with a big, cheesy smile that made him chuckle.

“I guess I need to learn to watch what I say sometimes. I apologize,” Negan’s father grumbled under his breath, his eyes not looking at Negan, but Negan knew that it was a big thing for his father to do in the first place. His dad was not one to apologize, ever. “I just run my mouth off sometimes.”

“Yeah, it’s okay,” Negan lied, but instead of getting emotional or headbutting with his father over things, he just accepted the one apology he may have ever heard from his father. That was likely to never happen again. Things weren’t okay. And even though he was about to tell his parents that him and Y/N weren’t an item, Y/N made sure that he didn’t have to. Especially since he was sure that they would have ripped him a new asshole if they found out that he was still with Maggie. Y/N let the image stick in his parents’ minds and he appreciated that. “It is what it is.”

“He really is the best dad,” Jordyn alerted all of them, setting her tablet on the table and pushing it forward so that she was focused on the group instead of the electronic she had been playing with for a while. “He’s fun. He’s nice. I wouldn’t want another one. He makes me happy. And I love him very much.”

“I love you too baby girl,” Negan winked, motioning Jordyn to come around toward him. Getting up from the table, Jordyn eagerly moved to her father and wrapped her arms around Negan’s shoulders. “I love you so much.”

“I love you too,” Jordyn stammered, a laugh falling from her throat with Negan peppering kisses against the side of her face.

This wasn’t what Y/N expected when she came to dinner tonight with Negan and his family, but at least she was able to put Negan more at ease with his father. Sure, they weren’t completely honest with his parents, but it was what was best for Negan right now. And that’s all that mattered. But one thing kept repeating in her mind. Negan blurting out that he loved her. She didn’t know how to feel in that moment, but for the first time? She actually believed him.

----

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[darlingdream1010]

Ghost Biology- day 29

Danny has pursued his dreams the most realistic way he can. He’s not an astronaut, but he studies things that are strange and not of this world. In a way, he’s got a piece of space right in front of him, at his beck and call.

For some reason, Danny feels like it isn’t from space at all…

It squirms in the small testing plate, pushing and shoving against the ceiling like a rabid animal trying to get at him.

Danny looks at it with calculating concern. He knows it’s dangerous. Other scientists do dangerous things as well. Usually, they do it with each other. A team.

Danny, he works alone.

-

“Hey Dan’, can you pass me one of those turkey sandwiches?” A coworker calls from one of the break room tables.

Danny flinched at his choice of nickname. There’s no real reason why he should dislike it. So he stays silent.

He picks up the sandwich the man wants, his fingers splayed mostly on the wrapper part of it. Yet, when he hands it over, his colleague—no, the scientist, looks at him with contempt.

What did I do to wrong?

He’s resisted asking that question for a while now, but maybe it’s his old rebellious teenage self coming back to haunt him.

“Eh…you know, you can just have that one.” He’s glaring at Danny’s fingers.

He looks down.

Just one. Just his pinky. It’s touching the sandwich bread.

“O-oh, I washed my hands, of course.”

“No, no, it’s not that.”

It is.

Danny feels something churn in his stomach. He takes the sandwich for himself—he likes turkey—and goes to eat alone. That means taking the nearest table and watching everyone else leave it.

In their hurry to get away from him, they block his view of the other scientist. The other scientist, who, try as he might, cannot get his hand to pick up a sandwich without it falling right through.

-

Someone’s building a research team again.

It’s an exciting question they’re investigating; everyone in the labs are buzzing about. All are vying for a spot.

Danny doesn’t volunteer, nor does he get asked.

What they do is whisper.

“Not picked again? Must be because he’s cursed…”

“I heard he isn’t cursed, but something inhuman entirely.”

“Someone who used to work hear called him the Banshee.”

In the daylight, he ignores the rumors dutifully. Deep breaths and factual thoughts push away the doubt.

Danny is human. He studies things that aren’t.

I am human.

-

It’s when his vision is blurry and his mind is swimming on one of those nights where the whispers torment him, that a new piece to study arrives. It lays in his curled fist. He takes it in like treasure worth millions. Strokes it curiously.

A lock of glowing white hair, splattered with a bit of blood.

Overcome with excitement, he jumps from the stiff cot he sleeps in. Danny hurries to his station in the middle of the night, eager to prove himself useful. Even if he does it alone it is still possible he could make history…!

It is at this dreadful hour. When he tests the hair and compares it to human hair—his own—and with the green goo he has acquired. Just like he does every night he gets another piece to study, he remembers.

He sees the irregular DNA intertwining with the human. It does not matter which of the three specimen he sees it in, because the answer is the same.

Danny Phantom is no longer a child, but he can never escape being a ghost.

The knowledge breaks him, making him sob uncontrollably and tear out his hair. The white and black hairs grace the floor like feathers.

The sounds of grief and confusion echo hauntingly down the halls. The sounds reach scientists working late into the night, but they are familiar with it now. Only the newest members fret. It will only fuel another wave of ostracization. Whispers. Rumors. Even laughter.

Danny realizes this as well, and he falls to his knees.

After all he fought for in his hometown…then, everything he escaped for… The only thing he had left was his chance to pursue something at least close to his lifelong dream. There was no more Jazz, or Sam, or Tucker. Just foolish little Danny thinking he could make friends here. Heal here, perhaps. But—

He was not welcome.

He worked hard.

He worked late.

He slept here.

He did his best.

What did I do wrong?

Tears burned hot trails down his cheeks.

The comprehension that he will never have the one thing he wants, the thing he’d fought for as a kid, because he does not deserve it—does not deserve to be treated like a human. It tears the little boy inside of him apart.

-

Nocturne takes pity on him and welcomes him into the realm of dreams.

Similarly, his ghost half does its best to grant him his pitiful wish. It cannot kill itself, but he can pretend. Curling in the dusty depths of his minds eye, where even the sun will not see it—

-

And so he wakes up to do it all again, with no mind of the events of the night before…