#but i have a feeling these haven't changed

[woso-writing]

Mi amors

Alexia Putellas x reader

A/n: Sorry for kind of going MIA, but I have had absolutely no motivation to write, but I think I'm back now, and this has been in my drafts for a while so have this while I write the requests people have given me.

Summary: You and Alexia decide that it is time to take the next step in your relationship.

You and Alexia had always been close, from the first time you both turned up to La Masia for your trials for Barcelona, both of you being the new girls together really started a friendship to last a life time.

However, when you were in your teenage years, round about when you were 15 you started to realise that you were different from most of the girls you knew, you could never explain it at first but ultimately it was as simple as you liked girls, well one girl in particular, your best friend, Alexia. You were always the quiet one of the two of you so when Alexia came out and was confident in her sexuality it came as no surprise to you, it also came as no surprise that you hid that part of you away for quite a few years before you actually worked up the courage to at least tell those who were the most important to you, which obviously included Alexia.

Safe to say that there was no need for you to actually worry and although it took a few years, the pair of you both admitting your feelings for one another.

That was six years ago and you can safely say that they have been the best six years of your life, sure there had been arguments along the way, but you wouldn't change your life for anything.

You and Alexia had always talked about wanting kids some day, but with both of your careers going so well, neither of you knew when the right time may come, but deep down you knew that you wanted your kids to be able to watch their mums play as they were growing up rather than just hearing stories about your careers. That is what has brought you to where you are now, you and Alexia have just got home from your last match of the season and you decide now is the best time to talk to Alexia.

"Lex, ¿Podemos hablar?" (Can we talk?) You ask your girlfriend.

"Si mi amor, ¿Qué ocurre?" (Yes my love, what's wrong) Alexia responds.

"Creo que es el momento adecuado." (I think it's the right time) You say, hopeful for a positive response.

"¿El momento adecuado para qué, cariño?" (The right time for what darling?) Alexia questions, intriqued.

"Para que podamos formar una familia" (For us to start a family)

"Sabes que quiero esto, pero no puedo detener mi carrera ahora mismo, pero pronto, nena." (You know I want this but I can't stop my career right now, but soon babe)

"Espera, no te lo estoy pidiendo, quiero llevarlo, solo quiero que al menos uno de nuestros hijos crezca viéndonos jugar el deporte que amamos." (Wait, I am not asking you to, I want to carry, I just really want at least one of our kids to grow up actually seeing us playing the sport we love) You say trying to make sure that the conversation doesn't get completely shut down.

"¿En serio? ¿Estás seguro de que quieres hacer esto? Falta mucho tiempo y quiero que estés seguro." (Really? Are you sure you want to do this, it's a very long time out and I want you to be sure) Alexia says, forever being the voice of reason.

"Por supuesto que estoy seguro, no hay nadie más con quien preferiría tener una familia." (Of course I am sure, there is no one else I would rather have a family with) You say, reaching out to grab Alexia's hand and stroke your thumb over her knuckles.

"Ok entonces, esto es, comencemos nuestra familia" (Ok then, this is it, let's start our family) Alexia says, the biggest smile on her face.

You and Alexia share a kiss before starting to look through your options on how to move this decision along.

It has been about six months since that conversation and you still haven't told any of the girls you are pregnant, instead telling them that you had a slight injury and that is why you hadn't been at training or even seen them since you found out that the ivf had worked, however you knew you had to tell them at some point and decided you were going to do it at today's match, you were obviously showing by now so you had to make sure none of the girls saw you until the meeting when Pere would say that Alexia had something special to tell the girls.

"Muy bien, escuchen, hoy es un partido importante, pero todos sabemos que podemos salir y ganar, así que simplemente sigamos el plan de juego y vayamos a otra semifinal de la Liga de Campeones, pero primero, Alexia tiene una gran noticia que contarles" (Right you lot listen up, today is a big game, but we all know that you can go out there and win it so just stick to the game plan and let's get to another champions league semi final, but first, Alexia has some big news to tell you all)

"Sí, gracias Pere, bien chicas, no hay mucho más que decir sobre el juego, pero sí hay algunas noticias importantes que les hemos estado ocultando" (Yes, thank you Pere, right girls not much else to say regarding the game but yes there is some important news that we have been keeping from you) Alexia says as you walk in and look at how shocked most of the girls are.

"Oh Dios mío, sabía que algo más estaba pasando, felicidades chicas, ¿Qué tan avanzado estás?" (Oh my god, I knew something else was up, congrats girls, how far along are you?) Mapi shouts as she practically sprint to come and embrace you in a hug.

"Gracias Mapi, alrededor de seis meses." (Thanks Mapi, around six months)

The rest of the girls conratulate you and then they have to start going out for the match, Alexia being the last one in the changing room with you.

"Buena suerte mi amor" (Good luck my love) You say giving Alexia a kiss on the head, something you had both done for as long as you could remember before a match.

"Gracias cariño," (Thank you darling,) She says before kneeling down and placing a kiss on your bump, "Adiós pequeño, deja de patear a mamá por mí." (Bye little one, stop kicking mummy for me)

"Eres linda Alexia Putellas, ahora vete que te estarán esperando." (You're cute Alexia Putellas, now off you go they'll be waiting for you)

Alexia leaves and then you walk out to sit on the bench with the girls who haven't started. All the girls play really well and the game ends in a 4-0 win for Barca, Alexia scoring 2 of the goals and dedicating it to you and the baby each time. As soon as the final whistle blows and you start to walk on the pitch with the other girls, Alexia runs straight over to you, being overprotective of you as usual.

"¿Estás bien nena?" (Are you okay babe?) She asks, putting an arm around you.

"Soy perfecta Lex, no puedo esperar a que el pequeño te vea jugar tan bien como lo acabas de hacer" (I am perfect Lex, I just can't wait for little one to be watching you play as well as you just did)

"Ahh no fue mi mejor, pero creo que este va a ser tan bueno como su mamá." (Ahh it wasn't my best, but I think this one is going to be just as good as their mummy) Alexia says back to you.

"Eres demasiado modesto Lex, pero vamos, no voy a mentir, me gustaría irme a la cama lo antes posible" (You're too modest Lex, but come on, I'm not going to lie I would like to get to bed as soon as possible) You say, giving Alexia a kiss on the cheek as you start to walk back inside.

Alexia follows you and gets her stuff from the changing room, deciding to just get a shower when you are get home so that you can get to bed quicker, Alexia knowing that it had been a long day for you. when you do get home you pretty much walk straight up the stairs and change into one of Alexia's hoodies and a pair of shorts to sleep in before getting into bed and deciding to read a bit of your book while you wait for Alexia to finish showering, once she has you feel the covers move and Alexia's arms wrap around you, the latter giving you little kisses on your forehead as she lays down.

"Hola tú, linda ducha mi amor?" (Hello you, nice shower my love?) You ask Alexia, opening your eyes after you must have dosed off whilst reading.

"Habría sido mejor si hubieras estado ahí, cariño." (Would have been better if you were there darling) Alexia says, smirking at you.

"Está bien, descarado, por mucho que te ame, me estaba quedando dormido." (Okay cheeky, now as much as I love you, I was just falling asleep)

"Oh, lo siento bebé" (Oh I'm sorry baby)

"No, está bien Lex, ya que eres tú." (No it is ok Lex, as it's you)

After that you both turn your bedside lights off and then you cuddle into Alexia, getting as close as humanly possible to your girlfriend before falling into a very deep sleep.

A/N: Hope you all enjoyed, let me know if you would like a part 2 with reader and Alexia after baby is born, and if so give me some baby name suggestions.

[mistyrani]

Sistery (part 2)

Jeong Dahyun x Male Reader

t/w: incest, angst

part 1

Morning light spills through your apartment's window, painting the room in soft gold.

You wake on the couch, neck stiff, body aching from the cramped sleep, but your mind's heavier, last night's blur of Dahyun's heat, her moans, her body against yours crashes back, guilt twisting like a knife.

She's your sister, and you hooked her up, crossed a line you can't un-cross.

You sit up, rubbing your face, trying to shake the shame, but yours twitches at the thought of her, making you curse under your breath.

The bedroom door opens, and Dahyun steps out, fresh from a shower, her hair damp, wearing a tight crop top and denim shorts that hug her curves, her face is casual, like nothing happened.

"Morning, Oppa," she says, voice light, grabbing a banana from your counter. "You look like shit. Good sleep?"

You force a laugh, throat tight. "Kinda... it's not a five-star hotel."

You stand, stretching, "Listen, I took the day off. Annual leave. Thought we could... do something. Get out of the city. Maybe the beach?"

Her eyes light up, a grin spreading across her face, and for a moment, she's just your sister again, not the woman who rode you last night. "The beach? Hell yeah! Incheon's close, right? I haven't been in there forever."

She bounces on her toes, her crop top shifting to show a sliver of midriff.

"Cool," you say, grabbing your phone to check for nearby beaches.

"Let's hit Eurwangni. It's quiet, not too crowded. Pack light, we'll grab food on the way."

She nods, darting back to your room to grab her bag, her shorts clinging to her ass as she moves. You clench your jaw, forcing yourself to focus, keys, wallet, anything but her. Last night was a mistake, a one-time fuck-up. You're taking her to the beach to reconnect, to be her brother, not... whatever the hell you became.

An hour later, you're driving, Dahyun in the passenger seat, windows down, K-pop blasting from her phone. She's singing along, her feet propped on the dash, her shorts riding up to expose smooth thighs.

"You're such a city boy now," she teases, glancing at you. "You forgot how to have fun."

"Just wait until I dump you in the sand," you shoot back, smirking.

She leans closer, she changes the song, blasting her voice again, she looks happy, not weighting any of your last night.

You shift in your seat, focusing on the road.

At Eurwangni Beach, the sand's warm, the waves gentle, and the salty air feels like a reset.

You set up a blanket, and Dahyun kicks off her sandals, running toward the water with a laugh. "Come on, Oppa!" she calls, her crop top lifting as she splashes into the shallows, her shorts soaking through, clinging to her hips.

You follow, slower, trying not to stare at the way the wet shorts outlining her ass, her thighs.

You splash her, and she squeals, revenge with a handful of water, her laughter bright but edged with that same naughty glint.

"You're gonna pay for that!" she says, lunging at you, her body colliding with yours, wet and warm. Your hands instinctively grab her waist to steady her, and for a second, you're too close, her breasts pressed against your chest, her breath hot on your neck.

She pulls back, eyes locked on yours, her smile faltering.

"Dahyun," you start, voice low, warning, but she steps back, breaking the moment, her grin returning like nothing happened.

"Chill, Oppa, it's just the beach," she says, but her tone's too playful, her eyes too knowing.

She flops onto the blanket, stretching out, her wet clothes clinging to every curve, her nipples hard through her top.

"Sit with me," she says, patting the space beside her. You hesitate but sit, keeping a careful distance.

She pulls out her phone, snapping selfies, then nudges you. "Get in one, come on."

You lean in, awkward, and she presses her cheek against yours, her damp hair cool, her perfume cutting through the salt air.

"Smile, Oppa," she murmurs, her lips close to your ear, and your cock stirs again, the guilt clawing harder now.

The photo captures you both, the ocean behind you. She posts it to her Instagram, captioning it "Big bro's still got it," you roll your eyes responding to that.

"We're so close on that photo," you say, shifting your shorts because you feel uncomfortable down there.

Her eyes flicking to your lap, where your shorts are doing a shit job of hiding your half-hard state.

"Are we?" she asks, her voice low, teasing, as she leans back on her elbows, her body on display, her thighs parting slightly.

"Why? can't handle me?" Her words are playful, but there's that edge again, the same one from last night when she climbed onto you, her pussy dripping, begging for your cock.

You stand abruptly, brushing sand off your shorts. "I'm grabbing food," you say, "Stay here, don't get into trouble."

She laughs, "whatever..." waving you off.

You head to a nearby stall for fish skewers and sodas.

When you return, she's lying on her stomach, sketching in a small notebook, her shorts pulled tight against her ass.

You set the food down, and she sits up, cross-legged, her top riding up again.

"Thanks, Oppa," she says, biting into a skewer, her lips wrapping around it in a way that feels weirdly deliberate, her eyes locked on yours.

You look away, focusing on the waves, but your cock's betraying you again, and she knows it, her smirk barely hidden as she licks sauce off her fingers, slow and suggestive.

"You gotta stop that," you mutter, voice low, and she raises an eyebrow, feigning innocence.

"Stop what?" she asks, leaning closer, her hand brushing your thigh as she reaches for a soda.

"I'm just eating. I can't eating, Oppa?" Her tone's teasing.

"You know what," you say, grabbing her wrist, gentler this time, but firm. "We can't... do that again. Last night was a mistake."

Her smile fades, her eyes searching yours, and for a moment, she's not the bold, flirty stranger, she's Dahyun, your sister.

"Was it?" she asks, voice soft. "I... I don't know, Oppa. It felt real."

She pulls her wrist free, looking out at the water, her expression unreadable. "But yeah, you're right. We shouldn't."

The sun sets low, as you and Dahyun pack up from Eurwangni Beach. The sand's still clinging to your shorts, and the salty breeze lingers in your hair. Dahyun's still in her crop top and denim shorts, damp from the sea.

You toss the blanket in the trunk, and Dahyun slides into the passenger seat, her backpack at her feet.

The drive back to Seoul is quiet at first, the radio humming low with some ballad she doesn't bother changing.

Her bare legs are stretched out, one foot tapping to the rhythm, her shorts riding up to show the smooth expanse of her thigh.

You grip the wheel, eyes fixed on the road, but your cock's already stirring, betraying you as her floral perfume fills the car.

"Today was fun, Oppa," she says, breaking the silence.

She shifts, turning toward you, her crop top pulling tight across her chest, nipples faintly visible through the fabric. "Thanks for taking me. Been a while since we did something like this."

"Yeah," you mutter, throat tight, trying to keep your eyes on the highway. "Glad you had fun."

She leans closer, her hand resting on your thigh, light but deliberate, her fingers grazing the seam of your shorts, "You okay?" she asks, her tone teasing, her hand sliding higher, brushing just below where your cock's hardening fast.

"You're all tense. Beach didn't relax you?" Her lips curl into a smirk-pout, and you know she sees it, the bulge growing under your shorts, impossible to hide now.

"Dahyun," you warn, voice low, gripping the wheel tighter. "Don't start. We talked about this."

She doesn't pull back. Her fingers trace slow circles, inching closer to your crotch, "Talked about what?" she murmurs, leaning over the center console, her breath hot against your ear.

"How you fucked me last night? How you came all over me?" her voice is low, and your cock throbs, fully hard now, straining against your shorts.

"Fuck, Dahyun, stop," you growl, but your hips shift slightly, betraying you as her hand cups your bulge, stroking slow through your shorts "We can't do this again. You're my sister."

She laughs, soft and wicked, her fingers slipping under the waistband of your shorts, wrapping around your bare cock. "Then why're you so hard, Oppa?" she whispers, her thumb smearing precum over the tip, making you hiss.

"You want me. I can feel it," her hand strokes you, firm and slow, and you groan, your foot easing off the gas as you fight to keep the car steady.

"Fuck, I'm driving, Dahyunah..." you say, but your hand's already off the wheel, grabbing her wrist, not to stop her, but to guide her, urging her to stroke faster.

Her touch is searing, her fingers knowing exactly how to work you, and the car swerves slightly as your focus slips, "Eyes on the road," she teases, her free hand sliding to her shorts, unbuttoning them, slipping inside.

You glance over, catching a glimpse of her fingers working her pussy, her panties pushed aside, her lips glistening with wetness. "Fuck, Oppa, I'm so wet," she moans, her voice hitching as she rubs her clit, her other hand still pumping your cock.

You're losing it, the road blurring as she leans closer, her lips brushing your neck, her tongue flicking out to taste your skin. "Pull over," she whispers, her hand tightening on your cock, stroking faster.

"Shit," you mutter, spotting a secluded turn-off ahead. You veer off, parking in a shadowed patch off the highway, the car hidden by trees, you kill the engine.

After seconds, she's on you, climbing over the console, straddling your lap. Her shorts are half-off, her crop top pushed up, exposing her tits, nipples hard and begging.

You crash your lips against hers, your hands gripping her ass, pulling her against your cock.

"Fuck me, Oppa," she gasps, grinding her wet pussy against you, her panties soaked, her hips rocking hard.

You yank her panties down, your fingers sliding into her, tight and dripping, and she moans, loud, her head falling back. "Yes, fuck... like that."

You shove your shorts down, your cock springing free, and she doesn't hesitate, lining you up, sinking down onto you.

Her pussy's tight, so fucking tight, gripping you as she starts to ride, her tits bouncing in your face.

You suck a nipple, hard, your hands squeezing her ass, guiding her as she fucks you, the car rocking with each thrust.

"You're so big," she moans, her pussy clenching around you, wet and hot. "Fuck, I love your cock, Oppa."

Her words are filthy, wrong, but they drive you wild, your hips slamming up to meet her, the wet slap of your bodies filling the car.

"Fuck, Dahyun," you growl, your hand sliding to her clit, rubbing hard, making her scream. "Cum for me, now."

She's shaking, her nails digging into your shoulders, her pussy spasming as she cums, her juices soaking you, her cries echoing in the small space.

You're close, too close, her tight heat pushing you over. "Fuck, I'm gonna cum," you groan, pulling out just in time, your cock pulsing as you cum hard, thick ropes spilling across her stomach, dripping down her thighs.

She collapses against you, panting, her body slick with sweat and cum, your chests heaving together.

The silence hits hard, the reality of what you've done, again.

She's your sister, and you're fucking her in your car like some animal.

Guilt burns, but her body, still pressed against you, her breath warm on your neck, keeps the desire alive.

She pulls back, her eyes soft but flickering void, wiping your cum off her skin with her fingers slowly, like something snap on her.

The drive back to your Gangnam apartment is dead silent, the hum of passing cars the only sounds filling the void.

Your knuckles are white on the steering wheel, your jaw tight, as the weight of what just happened in that secluded turn-off settles like a stone in your gut.

You glance at her, but she doesn't look back, her expression unreadable, her lips pressed into a thin line. The playful, flirty edge she had earlier is gone, replaced by something heavier, regret, maybe, or her own battle with what you've done.

You want to say something, anything, to cut through the tension, but the words stick in your throat. What do you even say? "Sorry I fucked you again"? "We need to stop"? Like every option feels like a lie.

You pull into your apartment's parking lot, the silence even quiter as you kill the engine.

Dahyun grabs her backpack, avoiding your eyes. "I'm gonna shower," she mumbles, as she steps out of the car.

You nod, muttering a weak "Yeah, okay," and follow her up to your apartment, the weight of your actions dragging your steps.

Inside, she heads straight for the bathroom, not sparing you a glance, her sandals slapping against the floor. The door shuts with a soft click, and the sound of running water starts soon after.

You stand in the middle of your living room, staring at the closed door, your chest tight with guilt and something darker, something that keeps your cock half-hard even now, despite the shame.

You collapse onto the couch, your shorts are still crumpled, stained with traces of her, and you toss them aside, grabbing a fresh pair from the laundry basket.

The bathroom's water runs, and you imagine her under the spray, washing off the sand, the sweat, your cum that dripped down her stomach and thighs.

You wonder if she's scrubbing harder, trying to erase what happened, or her fingers tracing where you touched her, her body still craving what her mind knows is wrong.

The shower stops, and the silence is louder than before. You rub your face, trying to pull yourself together, you need to fix this, set boundaries, before it spirals further.

The bathroom door opens, and Dahyun steps out, wrapped in one of your towels, her hair dripping, her skin flushed from the heat. The towel barely covers her, clinging to her breasts, her hips, ending just below her ass.

She doesn't look at you, heading to your bedroom to change, but the sight of her, fresh, "I'm gonna change," she says, her voice soft but flat, like she's trying to keep it together.

"Yeah," you manage, standing, needing to move. "I'll... make some coffee."

The coffee machine gurgles, filling the apartment with a sharp, bitter aroma, but it does little to ground you.

You're standing in the kitchen, hands braced on the counter, staring at the steaming mugs as if they hold answers to the mess you've made.

The bedroom door creaks open, and Dahyun steps out, now in a loose sweatshirt and leggings, her damp hair tied up, her face scrubbed clean but still carrying that sharp, womanly edge.

She looks softer, more like the sister you remember, but the way her leggings hug her hips, the faint outline of her curves, reminds you of what's changed.

She glances at you, her eyes guarded, and heads to the couch, sitting cross-legged, grabbing a mug. "Thanks for the coffee," she says, her voice quiet.

You nod, taking your own mug, and sit on the opposite end of the couch, keeping distance. The silence is thick, you sip your coffee, burning your tongue, but the pain's a welcome distraction.

"Dahyun," you start, voice rough, "we need to talk about... everything."

She tenses, her fingers tightening around the mug, her eyes fixed on the steam rising from it. "Yeah," she says, "I know."

She doesn't look at you, her shoulders hunched, and for the first time, you see her vulnerability, the confident, flirty Dahyun replaced by someone grappling with the same guilt tearing you apart.

You set your mug down, leaning forward, elbows on your knees. "What we did... it's fucked up. You're my sister. We can't..." You cut off, the words feeling hollow after you've crossed that line twice. "It can't happen again."

Her eyes flick to you, sharp, then soften, glistening with something like tears. "I know it's wrong," she says, her voice trembling.

"I... I didn't mean for it to go that far. I was just... I don't know, Oppa. I missed you, and you were here, and I..." She stops, swallowing hard, her fingers twisting in her sweatshirt. "I got carried away. I'm sorry."

Her apology hits you like a punch, the guilt doubling because you're the older one, the one who should've stopped it. "No, Dahyun, it's my fault," you say, voice low. "I should've shut it down. I'm your brother, not... this."

"I fucked up. I let it happen."

She shakes her head, her lips parting like she wants to argue, but instead, she scoots closer, her knee brushing yours. "Don't take all the blame," she says, softer now, her hand hovering like she wants to touch you but doesn't.

"I wanted it too. I... I still..." She cuts off, biting her lip, her eyes darting to your lap, where your cock's betraying you again, stirring at her frame, her scent.

She notices, her breath hitching, she's moves closer now, her hand resting on your thigh, not teasing this time, like she's testing herself as much as you.

"Dahyun," you warn, shifting back, but your voice is weak.

"I know we said we'd stop," she whispers, her eyes locked on yours. "But... it's hard, Oppa. I see you, and I..." Her fingers tremble, inching higher, and your cock hardens fully, straining against your sweatpants.

You grab her hand, stopping her, but the feel of her skin sends a jolt through you, and you’re both frozen, breathing hard.

"We can't," you say, but it's a plea, not a command.

She leans in, her face inches from yours, her lips parted, her sweatshirt slipping to show the curve of her collarbone, the swell of her breasts.

"But...," she murmurs, but her hand doesn't move, her fingers brushing the bulge in your pants, and you groan low

"Just... one more time," she breathes, her lips brushing your jaw, her hand slipping inside your sweatpants, wrapping around your cock, stroking slow and firm. "Then we stop. I promise."

"Dahyun," you growl, your hands grabbing her waist, pulling her onto your lap before you can think. Her leggings are tight, her pussy hot through her panties as she grinds against you, her sweatshirt riding up to show her bare stomach.

You kiss her hard, your tongue tangling with hers, tasting coffee and her sweet breath. She moans, loud, her hand pumping your cock, her hips rocking, her pussy soaking through her leggings.

You yank her sweatshirt off, her tits bouncing free, no bra, her nipples hard and pink.

You suck one, hard, your teeth grazing, and she cries out, "Fuck, Oppa!" her hands tangling in your hair, pulling you closer. You rip her leggings down, her panties with them, her pussy glistening, pink and swollen, dripping for you.

Your fingers slide inside, tight and wet, and she gasps, "Yes, fuck!" her hips bucking, riding your hand.

"Oppa... I want you so bad," she moans, her hand stroking your cock faster, her pussy clenching around your fingers.

You pull them out, slick with her juices, and push her back onto the couch, spreading her thighs wide. Her pussy's perfect, begging for you.

You yank down your shorts, down enough to jutting out your cock, pre-cum leaking, you line up your cock, the tip brushing her wet folds.

"Do it," she begs, her eyes dark, desperate. "Fuck me, Oppa."

You thrust in, slow at first, her tight heat swallowing you, and you both groan, "Yes... so fucking big," she moans, her legs wrapping around you, pulling you deeper.

You pound into her, hard, the couch creaking, her tits bouncing with each thrust, her moans turning to screams, "Fuck, yes, harder!"

You're lost, the guilt drowned by her tight pussy, her cries driving you wild. You grab her hips, slamming into her, your thumb finding her clit, rubbing hard.

She screams, "I'm cumming!" her pussy spasming, milking you as she shakes, her juices soaking the couch.

You pull out, stroking fast, and cum hard, thick ropes spilling across her tits, her stomach, dripping down her skin.

She collapses, panting, her body slick with sweat and cum, her eyes half-closed.

You fall back, chest heaving, the reality hitting again, you've fucked her three times now.

Night falls over.

Dinner was quiet, a tense affair of instant ramen and awkward small talk about her art, her plans to leave tomorrow. You both avoided the elephant in the room.

Now, she's in the kitchen, washing dishes, the clink of plates and running water, the only sounds breaking the heavy silence.

You're on the couch, pretending to scroll through your phone, but your eyes keep drifting to her.

She's in her tank top, tight enough for her, her meaty body presses against it, and those shorts, clinging to her hips, barely cover her ass, in a way that makes your cock twitch although the guilt screaming in your head.

You stand, needing to move, to do something other than stare. "Need help?" you ask, stepping into the kitchen.

She glances over her shoulder, her damp hair tucked behind her ear, her face flushed from the steam, or maybe something else.

"I got it," she says, her tone light keep things normal.

She scrubs a plate, her hips swaying slightly as she shifts her weight, and you catch yourself staring, your cock hardening again, you turn away, grabbing a dish towel, pretending to dry what's already clean, anything to keep your hands busy.

"Thanks for today, Oppa," she says, softer now, not looking at you. "The beach... it was nice. Felt like old times, kinda." Her voice reminding you of the kid she was, the sister you've failed.

"Yeah," you mutter, throat tight. "Was good to get out."

You want to say more, to apologize again, to promise you'll stop, but the words feel useless after what you've done.

Her hand brushes yours as she passes you a wet plate, and the contact sends a spark through you, your cock fully hard now, straining against your sweatpants.

She notices, her eyes flicking to your crotch, and her lips part, just for a second, before she looks away, focusing on the sink.

"Oppa," she says, her voice low, almost a whisper, "you're making this hard." There's no teasing in her tone now, just an honesty that makes your chest ache.

You're setting the plate down, stepping back to put space between you. "I'm trying, Dahyun. I'm... fuck, I'm sorry," you rub your face.

She turns off the faucet, drying her hands on tea cloth, and turns to face you, leaning against the counter.

Her tank top rides up slightly, showing a strip of her stomach, and her shorts outline her pussy, the shape too clear, too tempting.

"I'm sorry too," she says, her eyes meeting yours, "I keep... pushing you. I don't know why. I just..." she stops, biting her lip, her fingers twisting the hem of her sweatshirt. "I see you, and I want you, Oppa. It's fucked up, but I do."

Her words hit like a punch, mirroring your own. You step closer, not meaning to, but drawn to her, your hands itching to touch.

"We said we'd stop," you say, voice hoarse, but you're close now, her perfume wrapping around you, her breath quickening. "We have to, Dahyunah. You're my sister."

"I know," she whispers, but she doesn't move back, her eyes locked on yours, her chest rising and falling.

Her hand reaches out brushing your arm, then lower, grazing the bulge in your sweatpants. "But you're hard again," she murmurs, her voice trembling, her fingers wrapping around your cock through your sweatpants, stroking slow. "And I'm wet. Again."

"Fuck," you groan, her hand moves, your cock throbbing under her touch. You grab her waist, pulling her against you, her tits pressing against your chest.

"We can't keep doing this," you say, but your hands are sliding under her tight tank top, finding her bare skin, her nipples hard as you brush them, making her gasp.

"Then stop me," she challenges, her hand slipping inside your sweatpants, gripping your cock, stroking faster now, her thumb circling the tip, slick with precum.

"Tell me to stop, Oppa." But her lips are on your neck, kissing, sucking, her tongue flicking against your skin, making you gone

You kiss her hard, your tongue plunging into her mouth, tasting her, her moans vibrating against you.

You shove her against the counter, yanking her shorts down, her panties with them, her pussy glistening, pink and swollen, dripping for you.

"Fuck, you're so wet," your fingers sliding through her folds, her clit pulsing under your thumb.

She bites lightly her finger, moans shyly but loud, "Yes, Oppa, fuck!"

You drop to your knees, spreading her thighs, your tongue diving into her pussy, licking her slow, then fast, sucking her clit hard.

She screams, "Fuck, Oppa, don't stop!" her hands tangling in your hair, pulling you closer, her hips grinding against your face, her juices coating your chin.

She's sweet, you're lost in her, your cock aching as you eat her out, her moans filling the kitchen.

She cums hard, her pussy spasming, her cries echoing, "I'm cumming, fuck!" her body shaking as you lick her through it, her juices dripping down your neck.

You stand, shoving your sweatpants down, your cock springing free, hard and leaking. You lift her onto the counter, her legs wrapping around you, her pussy open and begging.

"Fuck me," she gasps, her eyes dark, desperate, and you thrust in, her tight heat swallowing you, making you both groan.

"So fucking tight," you growl, pounding into her, the counter rattling, her tits bouncing under her sweatshirt.

She's moaning, "Fuck!! harder, Oppa!" her nails digging into your back, her pussy clenching with every thrust.

You're lost, the guilt drowned by her heat, her screams, the way she pulls you deeper, "Cum for me," you demand, your hand finding her clit, rubbing hard.

She screams, "I'm cumming again!" her pussy spasming, milking you as she shakes, her juices soaking you.

You're close, too close, and you pull out, stroking fast, cumming hard, "Fuck!!" spilling across her thighs, her pussy, dripping onto the counter.

You're both trembling, panting, the reality crashing back, you've fucked her again, on your kitchen counter.

"Fuck..." you mutter, stepping back, pulling your sweatpants up.

She's slow, sliding off the counter, her shorts still around her ankles, cum dripping down her skin, grabbing a towel, wiping herself clean.

"I'll... I'll go to bed." She doesn't look at you, heading to your room, leaving you alone in the kitchen.

a/n: part 3 for ending, stay tune!

part 3

[batboyblog]

I hate the internet, really social media's warping effect on what people think is important.

So take trans rights for a moment. The position right now of every Republican in elected office anywhere in America is "I want to personally feed all trans people into a wood chipper"

like even the most moderate, blue state, Republicans, your Susan Collins or Lisa Murkowski are at best open to adults (which they'd define as over 21 or over 25) being allowed to (pay out of pocket) transition medically and legally (maybe) but certainly not to be protected from discrimination under the law no no no. Thats the liberal moderate Republican stand

the mainstream norm is in favor of banning all gender affirming medical care, banning legal changes of gender, they haven't figured out how to ban changing your name but they're working on it, and banning cross dressing. Thats what I'd say 90% of Republicans feel rn, 100% of them want to ban transition for minors, you're not gonna find a Republican who isn't in favor of that.

And all that gets 1/10000000th the attention of whenever a Democrat says something about sports.

like the former Sec of Transportation who is unemployed and has no power to do anything said something about fairness in sports before saying that really it should be left up to local communities and schools to figure out not a federal issue. That same week New Hampshire a state I used to live in and now live about an hour from passed a ban on trans minors getting medical care, This marks the first and only New England state to pass such a ban.

guess which thing was ALL! over social media? as the end of fucking days in the discourse.

it just feels like Republicans are gleefully rubbing their hands together supervillain laughing about how they're gonna destroy all trans people and everyone is like "meh, boring" and then we have a total melt down if some random Democrat who's out of office, about to be out of office or is a random red district Congressman says "this sports thing, idk, we do need to talk about it" like do I wish they'd shut the fuck up? yeah sure, but its like you sprayed your thumb and also got shot in the gut, you'd pay attention to the gun shot and not really notice your sprayed finger.

besides which like I can count every Democrat who's said something stupid on one hand. Which again reference what I said about how ALL Republicans all of them support radical trans suppression. So like idk if you like trans rights you should want more Democrats because even the most shitty one on trans rights is better than the most liberal Republican? And 99% of them are totally supportive of all the trans rights vs Republicans where 0% of them support all the trans rights.

[wildrose325]

It's the first week of August.

I haven't had tumblr in... what, 7 years? Christ. I was 25...7 years ago.

It's the first week of August 2025. I'm 8 months pregnant with Charlie, my baby boy, and I'm so excited to meet him. Honestly, I never thought I'd want to be pregnant again. It's special, if strange. I hated it so much with Rosy, and I still hate aspects of it but that sheer surrealism of it is gone, I suppose that's because I'm already a mom, I'm not transitioning from being a teenager to being a mom, I'm transitioning from being a Young Mom to being, really, a grown adult. 32.

I remember being 9 years old in dance class, looking at the corner of the floor and thinking about 32. How far it felt. How unreal, to be an adult. And, idk, I know i've changed a lot (thank god) but in many, many, many ways I haven't changed a bit. I still have the same mind, same way of viewing the world. Short temper, easily riled. I've learned to be able to put others ahead of myself, Rosy and Tey and now Charlie.

I'm sitting at my kitchen island with coffee, watching my goats explore the backyard. We just got a chicken coop and 16 chickens last weekend. We're in our forever spot, not forever home though. Even then, it won't be forever. I'll up and leave all of this in a moment when Rosy needs me elsewhere. I deeply hope she has children at a younger age than 30, so I can be a very present grand parent and help her with everything she needs, so she doesn't feel so alone. Motherhood is very isolating, in a nonsexy way.

"The pain isolation!"

"...but you like pain isolation."

"NOT like this."

We've been in Asheville what, a year and a half? That's longer than most places we've lived! It still doesn't feel exactly like my home, Asheville is wayyy too liberal. It feels like someone else's town that I'm visiting, still. All of North Carolina does. But i'm settling down, becoming familiar with places. Our home feels like our home. Finally, no plans for movement, upheaval. It was so necessary for Rosy. She was really suffering from the move from Virginia, leaving her friends and home. She still cries about it.

But here! Man, the freedom. The farm life, the friend group, the building of something Teylor and I have dreamed about for 12 years. We have a real family now.

“August rain: the best of the summer gone, and the new fall not yet born. The odd uneven time.”

—

~ Sylvia Plath (via conflictingheart)

ugh. plath will always have a special, suicidal place in my heart

[asahicore]

hometown, part one - pjs (m)

pairing. jay x fem!reader

synopsis. Tired of his life in the big city, Jay moves to a small town by the Korean seaside and renovates an old bookstore to turn into a café. Fate would have it that you work at the restaurant right across the street from him—quickly, memories from your time at culinary school together float back up to the surface, accompanied by old feelings.

genre+warnings. exes to lovers, small town au, slightly aged up characters, dual timeline, maximal angst in this one i'm sorry guys... but a lot of fluff too dw, smut (MINORS DO NOT INTERACT!), deceased parent, sick grandparent

word count. 28,773

a/n. here we fucking finally are lmaoo if you were wondering why i haven't posted in 10 months, this is why !!!!!!! this is a very very long time in the making, i def had my ups and downs writing this, so i hope it will be worth it and you guys will enjoy lol pls pls pls let me know what u think, it would mean even more than usual !!!!!! and as always massive thanks to @zreamy for freaking out over hometown jay with me and for betareading this behemoth... ur such a ride or wtv it is british people say!

part two will be released in a week (12/08/2025) <3

small playlist here !

“De ceux qu’on aime, de ceux qu’on a aimés, il reste toujours quelque chose. Une sensation sur la peau, un petit rien qui palpite. L’amour est un oiseau, aussi fragile que capable de s’élever jusqu’aux astres. De ceux qu’on aime, de ceux qu’on a aimés, demeure toujours une lumière, pareille au soleil qui persiste sous les paupières quand on ferme les yeux.” 

“Of those we love, of those we have loved, something always remains. A sensation on the skin, a barely-there fluttering. Love is a bird, as fragile as it is capable of reaching the stars. Of those we love, of those we have loved, remains always a light, akin to the sun that perseveres under the lids when you close your eyes.”

Laurine Roux, Le souffle du puma [rough translation]

.

.

Watching the scenery flash by as he drives down the highway, Jay wonders if it’s normal to feel so little sadness about leaving one’s hometown behind. Oh well. It isn’t like there’s anything left for him in Seoul.

He’s still surprised his father insisted on helping him pack. He didn’t bother when Jay, 20 years old back then, moved all the way to France, but then again, his mother had been around to do it. Still, this is a four-hour drive down the country, and Jay has already hired a mover to bring down his bigger pieces of furniture, so the silent, tense afternoon they spent in each other’s company packing up Jay’s clothes, books, and all sorts of stuff really could’ve been avoided. 

He supposes he should be grateful for the attention, but after twenty-five years of not receiving any and resigning himself to that fact, it’s hard to suddenly backtrack and welcome it with open arms. Not even his mother’s death managed to change things—why would they change now? 

After the last of his things found a place in the overflowing trunk of Jay’s BMW, he and his father stand next to the car, avoiding each other’s eyes and saying nothing. Jay doesn’t even know what he’s waiting for. Some words of encouragement? A sign of affection, no matter how meager? 

“Guess you should go now. I don’t think this is an actual parking spot,” his father offers instead after thirty excruciating seconds, gesturing to the general area in front of Jay’s apartment.

“Right. Well, thanks for helping.”

His father nods rapidly. Jay has never seen him do that. “Of course.” He crosses the distance separating them in a few steps, and places a heavy hand on his son’s shoulder. “Take care, Jay.”

Tears prick at the back of Jay’s eyes, but he is used to not letting it show. “I will. You too, dad.”

His father looks at him then, and again in his eyes there is a glint of something unfamiliar to Jay. He can’t figure out what it means, or maybe he doesn’t want to. “Alright. See you around,” he says, like his son is an acquaintance he might or might not meet again.

Jay’s feet stay planted on the pavement as he watches his dad walk back to his own car a few meters down and drive away, thinking, Isn’t he the one who should be watching me go away?

He’s on his way now, and it might just be due to the speed of his car, but his heart feels light. He left Seoul for the first time five years ago, and he is leaving again today. The city he loved so dearly his entire childhood and adolescence is now full of reminders of things he’d rather leave behind. Despite its impressive size, he feels as though something is out to get him at every street corner. Here is the tteokbokki and sundae restaurant at which he always used to eat with the middle school friends he hasn’t contacted in years; here is the bus stop at which he’d wait after every hospital visit to his mother; here is the fountain at which the two of you agreed to meet for your first date.

It’s a very spontaneous, borderline irrational decision that Jay’s made, but he can’t handle living in Seoul anymore. Not just the constant whiplash from memories he’s been experiencing lately, but everything that comes with city-living has been getting on his nerves. The relentless honking, the crowded streets and public transport at every hour of the day, the god-awful odors wafting from the sewers, the list could go on and on. He used to be indifferent to it all; now he wants nothing more to escape it.

This will be his second time ever in Sojuk-ri. The first time was just over six months ago, when his mother asked him to take her there. They’d driven there and back in the same day because her cancer had already reached a stage that meant she couldn’t leave the hospital for too long. The doctors had only agreed to let go because having reached that stage also meant that it wouldn't make such a difference.

He doesn’t have much of a plan. The idea of owning his own café has been in the works for a few years now, ever since he moved to Paris, really, but it wasn’t meant to happen so soon, and it certainly wasn’t meant to happen in a town he barely knew. There might not even be a proper unit for a café in Sojuk-ri, and he’ll have to look around other villages. He’s already got five visits lined up with a real estate agent tomorrow morning. But maybe that’s why it feels so right—he can’t stress over the details if he hasn’t thought about them extensively. 

The few friends he has left in Seoul tried to reason with him. You don’t know anyone there, you don’t know if they’re the kind of people who’d visit a café. Everything you want to do, you can do here, and it’ll be easier and more stable. But he feels like he can’t breathe in the city. Maybe he’s running away. And so what if he is? Cliché as it may sound, he likes to think he’s running towards his future rather than away from his past. Clichés exist for a reason. Jay finds comfort in them sometimes, like so many people have had this experience before him, and he isn’t alone. Or worse, weird.

The brightness of the clouds is blinding through the windshield. Jay has a good feeling about this.

.

.

“Two tofu bibimbaps and one kimchi stew!”

“Got it,” you say, taking the handwritten kitchen order ticket from Yeonju’s hands and clipping it above the stove. She usually walks right back into the front of house, but you feel her lingering at the doorway, her gaze heavy on the back of your head. “What?” You’re usually one to mind your manners, but manning a kitchen alone during rush hour is reason enough to let politeness slip slightly.

“They’re not happy about the all-vegetarian menu.”

“Who’s they?”

“Everyone, Y/N! I’ve been asked four times why there’s no pork in the kimchi stew.”

It’s a good thing you’re not facing her—if your sister-in-law-slash-waitress saw the smile on your lips, the knife resting on the counter might be used to cut something other than carrots.

“That’s what they get for getting so drunk and breaking a chair last week.”

“That was just that one group of old men. I already told off Mr. Kim and Mr. Choi when they came in yesterday. You’re punishing our entire clientele for five stupid drunkards.”

You stir the soup base, pretending to ponder her words. “Let them think of it as a group project. If one party does poorly, everyone’s grade goes down.”

She groans. “Is that how I’m supposed to explain it to our customers? This isn’t Seoul. The people here need their meat. Actually, I’m not even sure this would fly in Seoul.”

“Sounds like their problem,” you say, shrugging. Yeonju groans again but finally walks back out.

From her seat on an overturned crate at the other side of the kitchen, cooling herself down with a paper fan, your grandmother chuckles and you exchange smiles. “You tell ‘em, honey. Back in the day, I’d ban them for a month if they got too rowdy. This is more fun.”

You sigh. “I’m just tired of this happening. No matter how often we tell them this isn’t a drinking place, there’ll be people going overboard once every few weeks. The bar is just a few doors down, I don’t know why it’s so hard to go there after eating.”

“Mmh.” You glance at your grandmother. Her eyes are closed, and that unsettling serenity has made its way back to her features. You’ve lost her, it seems. But that doesn’t keep you from rambling away.

“I guess we could stop selling soju altogether, but that would make us lose a pretty significant part of our revenue. And after work, Yeonju and I would have to actually go to the convenience store to buy it instead of grabbing it from the fridge here, so that’s out of the question. Have you ever seen Mrs. Kang’s face when you buy alcohol from her? She looks at you like a criminal as if she isn’t the one selling it. She’d be an awful drug dealer. Anyways, I’m glad there isn’t anyone here handing out drugs. Not that I know of, at least.”

Your grandmother’s smile stretches ever-so-slightly, so you take it she might be listening after all.

“I also thought we could close a little earlier. No one comes in at nine thirty to eat. Rush happens at what, six, seven p.m.? If we closed around nine rather than ten, Yeonju and I would have more free time and it wouldn’t make a big difference financially. How does that sound, Grandma?”

Yeonju walks in at that time, empty dishes stacked on her arms. “That’s a good idea, actually,” she says. “Your brother has been saying he wishes I was around more.” For some reason, she thinks it’s funny to punctuate her words with a suggestive wiggle of her eyebrows.

“Gross. Can you not refer to him as my brother when you’re talking about your sex life, please?”

“We’ve been married two years. You’ll have to get used to it at some point.”

“I won’t be used to it even when you’re celebrating your twentieth anniversary.”

“I’m glad you have that much faith in us,” she says, grabbing side dishes from the fridge and walking back out into the front of house. You wait for her to be gone to chuckle so she can’t hear that her joke made you laugh.

Today’s lunch rush ends earlier than usual, probably due to a smaller amount of customers. Fine, you’ll put meat back on the menu. Starting tomorrow. They can suffer a little longer.

After cleaning the kitchen and taking count of your stock, you close up store. The three of you walk the short way back to your family’s house, your grandmother in the middle, you and Yeonju flanked on her sides, each holding one of her arms. Your legs ache, and you’re immensely grateful for the few hours of rest ahead of you.

Once in a while, it happens that when you reach your bedroom, you feel inexplicably pulled to your bookshelf. There, you take out a familiar novel, and let it open naturally onto the page bookmarked by a picture, its edges frayed and worn with time. You don’t know how long you stand there, staring at the two happy faces immortalized by one of your friends’ phone camera, a sad smile on your lips. With your thumb, you trace the outline of the man standing by your side, a beer in his hand, his other arm around your waist, rosy cheeks visible even in the dimness of the room.

In the silence of your own room, you whisper, “How are you now?”

.

.

It happens in the blink of an eye.

Chef Lee, today’s mentor, has already started her presentation. No time to lose here—no ice-breakers or long welcome speech or going around the classroom introducing themselves one by one. Lee gave two introductory sentences and went straight into the first lesson of the year, a basic overview of the different cuts they’ll have to master for every dish. Everyone is giving their undivided attention. If it wasn’t for Chef Lee's monotonous drawl, a pin could be heard in the large, white room. That is, until the door suddenly opens and you barge in, out-of-breath like you were just running, eyes wide, not unlike those of a deer caught in headlights, Jay thinks. 

You’re unbelievably pretty.

But you’re also late, and judging by the look on Chef Lee’s face, that is a barely tolerable offense.

“And who are you?” she says. 

“I’m Y/L/N Y/N, Chef. I’m so sorry for being late, I got lost in the subway.”

A few snickers are heard around the room, undoubtedly a reaction to your countryside dialect—based on the conversations he had with his new classmates before Chef Lee arrived, Jay gathered that most people here were from Seoul. Thankfully, their teacher seems to feel the same way about mockery as tardiness, and gives the culprits a harsh glare.

“Please familiarise yourself with Seoul’s public transport as soon as you can, Miss Y/L/N,” Lee says, clearly already bored with this interaction. “You might find that it will come in handy.”

“Yes, Chef,” you say in a quiet voice and head to the nearest — and only — available station. Jay isn’t aware he is still staring at you until your eyes meet. From across the room, you smile at him, and it sends his heart into a frenzy.

Until this exact moment, he was readying himself to spend a year in a cutthroat, competitive environment. And he still is—but he thinks he’s found something that’ll keep him going.

.

.

Jay looks around the bleak room. It clearly hasn’t welcomed a human being in a while now. Yellowing paperbacks fill dusty bookshelves, the ones that have fallen to the floor open at random pages. He’s been told that since the sudden passing of the previous owner, no one has come to clean the place up—he’d been a widow for years already, and his two children lived abroad. Ignoring the real estate agent’s worried glances, Jay picks one up and brushes the dust off. He’s hoping for serendipitous words, confirmation that he’s doing the right thing, some good omen—anything will do. 

The book is in Russian. Jay does not know Russian. He’s not sure what kind of sign this is supposed to be, and so puts the book back down and resumes his tour of the room.

“I know it’s not in great shape right now,” the agent says as Jay inspects the tubes of unknown function that run up one of the walls between two old bookshelves. This place seems to be all bookshelves. “But I promise it’s all just clutter. One good sweep, and it’ll look good as new,” he adds with an unconvincing chuckle.

Jay walks to the one window that isn’t hidden behind a piece of furniture. The room is dark now, but with some rearranging, it could become very lively. Warm, golden sunlight filters through the white-paneled window, making visible the dust that floats in the air. He’d appreciate its beauty more if it wasn’t making the agent sneeze so much. 

At the back of this main room, an archway leads to a kitchen. Some tiles on the floor and on the walls are broken, and the oven looks like something Jay’s great-grandmother would’ve owned. There’s an awkward empty spot where the fridge should be, mold staining the ceiling, no corner that hasn’t been claimed by spiders and cobwebs. Jay wonders whether this room even has access to running water and electricity. Its only real attribute is its size, spacious enough to hold a few more kitchen appliances and for two or three people to work in.

“I’ll take it,” he announces.

“Really?” the agent exclaims, eyes almost bulging out of their sockets. But he remembers his job here, and quickly regains his composure. “I mean, that’s fantastic to hear, Mr. Park. Did you want to see the apartment upstairs?”

Jay smiles genuinely for the first time today and acquiesces.

The stairs lead directly from the kitchen into a one-bedroom apartment that’s about as rundown as the rest of the place. Fully furnished, too, although Jay suspects he’ll have to change out the sofa and the bed frame that look about a century old.

“I told you this one was a bit of a fixer-upper,” the agent says, eyeing Jay nervously as if he might suddenly go back on his words.

The young man bites back a laugh—talk about a euphemism. He doubted that in its current state, this place was at all inhabitable. But he didn’t mind, it meant he could truly redo it to his whimsy. “That’s alright,” he reassures the agent. “Do I sign the papers now?”

A few minutes later, the two men stand outside, shaking hands. “Pleasure to have done business with you, Mr. Park.” Jay wonders if the relief on his face has anything to do with the fact that this sale comes after seven unsuccessful visits. What can he say? He has standards.

“Call me Jay, please. We’ll be neighbors, after all,” he says, nodding his head to the real estate agency a few storefronts down the street.

“Right,” the agent says, smiling. “I’ll see you around, then, Jay. Let me know if you need help with the renovations, I know a guy.” Checking his watch, he adds, “Oh, and since it’s lunchtime, I highly recommend you try this restaurant right here. The true gem of our small town. The best japchae you’ll eat in your life.”

The mere mention of the dish tugs at Jay’s heartstrings, and a smile that only he understands the meaning of appears on his lips. He doesn’t say, I doubt that. Instead, he says, “Thank you. I’ll try it out.”

With a last nod of his head, the agent heads back to his office. Jay turns to the restaurant, and upon seeing its name in big, red LED letters — either turned off during the day, or broken — has to squash his hopes down. A restaurant called Kim’s Kitchen that serves japchae in a small seaside town, what are the odds? But the Korean coastline runs for thousands of kilometers, Kim is the most common name in the country, and japchae is practically the national dish. 

The smell of soy sauce, sizzling meat and burnt sugar hit his nose as soon as he walks into the tiny, homey place, as well as the cheerful noises of businessmen off on their lunch break, clinking glasses of beer and soju at 12:30 p.m.. Lucky for him, there’s one spare table in the corner, where he sits and waits for someone to notice him. It only takes a minute for a woman to approach him, black hair tied in a low ponytail — just like you used to wear, he thinks despite himself — and white stained apron over a pink t-shirt. She smiles at him in that polite but tired way that restaurateurs have about them before wiping his table and setting down cutlery and a plastic jug of water.

“You’re a new face,” she says matter-of-factly. 

Jay’s eyebrows shoot up. Does she usually recognize every face that walks through here? “I am, yes.”

“But you’re not a tourist.” She speaks in such a strong dialect that Jay wonders, perhaps naively, whether she’s exaggerating it. The chatter at the tables around him has dwindled down, other clients shamelessly eavesdropping on their conversation and staring at him. 

He clears his throat, a blush creeping up his neck. “Um, I’m not, no.” His words hang in the air for a few unbearable seconds during which he debates adding more—that he’s just bought the old bookstore across the street, that he plans to turn it into a café, that he is staying at the only Airbnb in town that remains available after summer. But he stays silent, and the waitress smiles again, more sincerely this time.

“Well, welcome to Sojuk-ri,” she says. The chatter picks back up; he must have been deemed not interesting enough by the curious eyes and ears around him. “And welcome to Kim’s Kitchen. We always serve japchae and bibimbap with beef or with the seafood catch of the morning. This week’s specialty is abalone porridge, because my husband got sick, again, and we thought we might as well make some for everyone,” she says, sighing. “Our side dishes today are cucumber kimchi, soybean sprouts and steamed eggs.”

“Could I get one serving of japchae and one of porridge, please?”

“Coming right up.”

As she walks away, Jay goes to retrieve his phone from his coat pocket. “One japchae and one porridge, Y/N,” he hears the waitress shout in the direction of the kitchen, and he freezes.

“On it,” a voice shouts back. The wind is knocked out of him.

To hear your voice again after five years is like waking up and realizing that the terrible nightmare he was having was just that—a terrible nightmare.

He whips his head up in the direction of your voice, although he’s not sure he could handle the sight of you right now. Knowing you were in the next room, breathing the same air, hearing the same sounds, was already a lot. Too much, even. He has half a mind to slip his coat back on and feel the harsh September wind on his face, but his brain and his legs seem to have stopped cooperating. His feet stay planted on the ground as if glued there. The noise in the restaurant has faded away. All he can hear is his deafening heartbeat.

There’s a screen made of thin wooden slats that hides the kitchen from view. He catches a glimpse of someone — you? — wearing blue jeans and the same apron as the waitress when she steps into the kitchen. What would you do if you saw him?

Scratch that, Jay thinks. What will you do when you see him, your new neighbor, your old friend?

The only way to escape this now is to annul the contract he signed five minutes ago and to flee Sojuk-ri, never to come back again.

Jay’s mind goes through every possible outcome as he waits for his meal. He could march up to you and demand an explanation. He could march up to you, fall to his knees, wrap his arms around your hips, and cry. He could pretend not to have seen you. He could pretend he’s forgotten all about you. He could tell you not a single day has passed without you haunting his thoughts. He could ask if you still think things really are better off this way. He could ask if you, too, have not had a moment’s peace since you last saw each other.

The waitress walks back out, holding a tray full of steaming food, and he gets another glorious glimpse of you. Because it really is you—your hair falling in a braid down your back, something he’s never seen before, holding up a spoon to your lips, your left hand ready to catch any drop that might fall.

Do you regret it?

Jay stares at the screen in front of him as the waitress sets down his plate and bowl, lightly saying, “Enjoy.”

Tears prick at his eyes as he chews on the glass noodles. If he wasn’t one hundred percent sure that it was you behind that screen before, he is now.

The agent was right—today and five years ago, it really is the best japchae he’s ever had.

.

.

Tears muddle your vision as you pack your belongings—well, “packing” is a pretty word for something that looks more like frantically stuffing things into your one large suitcase, backpack and tote bag. In September, you’d sulked at your family for not driving you up to Seoul; now, you’re grateful there were only so many things you could bring on the train with you.

Just yesterday, you were laughing and eating delicious jjajjangmyeon, tangsuyuk and fried pork dumplings at a Korean-Chinese restaurant with your friends and boyfriend. There were many things to be happy about—the end of your mock exams, Jay’s upcoming birthday, Jaemin finally getting a text back from the girl he had a crush on in high school, the nearing results for the numerous internships and stages your school offers worldwide.

You think of the concentration on Sumin’s face (and the annoyance on everyone else’s) as she takes precise photos of your food for her Instagram account, claiming the camera eats first; of the dramatic expressions and sounds Jake makes whenever he bites into something he likes; of Jaemin’s voice, louder than everyone else, as you sing Happy Birthday to Jay, joined by all the other restaurant-goers and the waiters who bring out pandan cake, two candles forming the number 20 alight.

You think of Jay’s hand squeezing yours under the table, of all the not-so-discreet glances throughout dinner, of the food he places on your plate instead of focusing on his, of the silent but comfortable walk back home in the chilly April weather, his jacket on your shoulders.

All it took was one frantic phone call for it to feel like a lifetime ago. Your mother’s words on the other side of your cell (“Your grandma fell— She’s in the hospital now— The doctors can’t tell us when she’ll wake up”) created a gap between the life you led up until 7 am this morning and the life you lead now. The girl who imagined travelling the world to visit her friends at their high-end, starred workplaces sometime in the near future isn’t the same girl drafting an email to her school to inform them she’s dropping out of the course and therefore withdrawing her application for a stage in one of the most reputed fine-dining restaurants in Paris, and therefore, in the whole world. The girl who watched her boyfriend blow his candles last night and thought, “This is the first of many birthdays we’ll be celebrating together,” isn’t the same girl bursting into tears at the sight of a hoodie he purposefully left on her bed for her to cuddle on the rare nights they spent apart. Now, she has to deal with the heartbreak of wondering whether it’s better to take it with her as a keepsake or to give it back to its rightful owner.

If your entire life wasn’t being heaved upside-down, you’d perhaps feel some pride at how efficiently you’ve managed your departure, all things considered. In just a few hours, aside from emailing your school, you’ve talked to your landlady, telling her you’ll pay your rent for as long as you’re legally obliged, giving her Sumin’s number to arrange a time to go over inventory and the state of the apartment—you’re still procrastinating calling Sumin to explain everything to her, but you know she’ll agree to help. You’ve cleared out your fridge and cupboards, preparing yourself a couple of snacks for the journey home, giving the rest to the nice lady in the apartment across from yours who once told you having a culinary student “as generous as you” as her neighbor was the best thing that’s happened to her in recent years. She’s one of the many people you feel impossibly sad leaving behind, but you have no choice. Your decision was taken rapidly, more reflex than thought. Your brother called shortly after your mother this morning, letting you know he and his fiancée would move back home from Busan in a few weeks if it turned out to be necessary.

You’ve even remembered to change the reservation at a fancy restaurant in Seoul for Jay’s birthday from a party of two people to four—he’ll celebrate with Sumin, Jake and Jaemin rather than with you. Another thing you hope Sumin will agree to take care of in your stead.

Perhaps the hardest part will be telling Jay. You have to, if only because there are things in his apartment you need to collect—although, truth be told, it’s not like your life depends on having any of them. But even if you’re leaving in a rush, you can’t not see him before leaving at all, it’s just the idea of sitting him down and letting him know what’s going on is too much. So, once you’re done here, you’ll head over to his, pick up everything you need, get him up to speed in a couple of sentences, and leave. You won’t kiss him, or hug him, or even look at him, because if you do, there’s a high chance you won’t be able to leave at all. 

You can’t think about what you’re doing right now. You can only do, do, do. You’ll take the time to think once the damage is done, once you’ve hit that no-return point that leaves you with no possibility to fix changes, only regret.

Because you know part of you has been regretting this since you’ve decided to do it. Part of you pictures being back home, taking care of your grandmother, running her restaurant, daydreaming of Paris and sleek kitchens and Michelin stars and all the people you left behind.

Of the one person you left behind.

.

.

Nothing should come as naturally to a grown adult as breathing. And yet, as Jay stands outside your restaurant the next day, he can hardly remember how it goes. Inhale, exhale. With a trembling hand, he opens the door. A bell resounds through the empty room. We’re not open yet! a voice, yours, calls from the kitchen. Inhale, exhale.

The screen is drawn back. He has no time to steady himself as you appear in the doorway, beautiful as ever. Your mouth opens, your eyes widen. What was it again? Right. Inhale, exhale, but his breathing is unstable, embarrassingly shaky. 

He can’t breathe and think and talk at the same time. So he stands there, barely breathing.

“Jay?” 

You look like you’ve seen a ghost. Maybe he is, to you.

But you also look as unbelievably beautiful as you always have. You look just as you do in Jay’s memories of you, and yet entirely different. Five years aren’t quite enough to say you’ve aged, but there is still something new in your features, something Jay only notices because he wasn’t there to witness the years gradually leave their mark on your face. Seeing you like this is a brutal reminder of the time since he last saw you, five years, four months and nine days to be exact. Three days before his twentieth birthday.

Yesterday, he fled before you could notice him scarfing down the food he’d ordered. Something about the blend of spices, the chewiness of the noodles, the crunch of the vegetables—it was all so distinctly you. Jay is usually one to savour every bite of his food, but in that moment, he felt like a starved man. He ate quickly and on the table left two ten-thousand won bills that more than covered for his meal.

Walking into the restaurant again, he knows what to expect. You, on the other hand… You’re surprised, that much is clear. Jay is scared to find out whether he’s a good or bad surprise. 

“Hi,” he says, but his voice comes out strangled. He clears his throat and tries again. “Hi.”

“Hi,” you reply. Neither of you speaks for a few moments. It’s not until your gaze drops to the glass Tupperware in his hands that he remembers what he came here for—or rather, what his excuse is for coming here. 

“I, uh, I’m moving into the old bookstore across the street. I’m going around giving rice cakes to, you know, introduce myself to the neighborhood, so, yeah, here…” Step by step, he bridges the distance between the two of you until he’s close enough to hand you the Tupperware. When you take it from him, you look down at it and scratch your ear like you’ve never seen rice cakes in your life, while he lets his arms hang limply by his side, too painfully aware of himself, of you, of your shared surroundings.

“Thanks,” you simply say, staring some more at the container before setting it down on the table next to you. You finally look at him again, and the confusion on your face is clear, but there’s a lingering sadness there that Jay feels deep in his bones. You haven’t gotten any better at hiding your emotions, he notices. “The old bookstore, you said?”

Jay amazes himself with the steadiness of his voice and his ability to keep his knees from buckling. This is a normal conversation between two people, he has to remind himself continuously, just a normal conversation. Although it doesn’t really help—standing in front of you after all this time, he feels like a tearful reunion or grand declaration of feelings should be occurring, not a normal, almost banal conversation. 

“Yeah. I’m turning it into a café,” he says. 

Slowly, a smile makes its way across your lips, and he almost melts into a puddle right then and there. “A café?” you repeat. “That’s surprising.”

He mirrors your smile to the best of abilities. “I fell in love with scones in London. No turning back since then…”

Your eyebrows shoot up. “You were in London?”

For a moment, Jay forgot that he lives in a world where you aren’t aware of something as crucial as his place of residence for the past two years.

“Yeah. After Paris,” he explains, unable to hide the guilt in his voice, especially as the gray cloud of a bad memory passes through your eyes. 

You nod, and he thinks that’s the end of that. But then, you ask, “Did you see the Queen?”

“Oh, of course,” he says after a pause—he’d needed a second to realize you were joking with him. As if you were friends on good terms. As if being in the same room after five years of distance and no-contact was normal. “I was on a first-name basis with all the Buckingham Palace residents.”

You scrunch your nose, your way of biting back a smile at a stupid joke. Jay is thrown back to a time when the two of you barely knew each other, and you still hadn’t admitted to yourself — or to anyone, for that matter — that you found him funny.

“How cool.”

“I know,” he says, smiling too widely.

You nod to the tupperware, filled to the brim with square rice cakes. “Can I have one of those?” you ask, as if only now that the ice has been somewhat broken, you could eat food made from his hands.

“Of course, they’re all yours,” he replies immediately. “I sprinkled powdered sugar, cinnamon and crushed hazelnuts on top.”

“Of course you did.”

Jay is vaguely aware that it is odd to be staring at someone this intensely, but he can’t help himself. His heart beats uncontrollably as he stands a few feet away from you, watching as you take a bite into the rice cake and smile. Your expression turns flustered when you notice his staring, and he remembers himself enough to take a step back and focus his gaze on something else.

“Jay?”

There’s white sugar at the corner of your lips. He discards the thought that he could wipe it away with his thumb.

“How come you’re not surprised to see me?”

His gaze snaps from your lips to your eyes. All of a sudden, they’re glossy, your eyebrows furrowed. Jay isn’t sure what he’d do if you started crying. Cry too, probably.

“I mean, you walked in here like it’s just another day. I don’t remember ever telling you I was from here. Did you-”

“I didn’t know. I ate here yesterday and saw you, but before that, I had no idea.” He wants to reach out to you, feel the warmth of your hands against his. He wants to tell you that he always knew the universe would find a way to bring you back to him. Instead, he says, “Crazy coincidence, right?”

You take a deep breath, processing his words. “Yeah, crazy coincidence,” you say in a tone that Jay can’t quite decipher, something he’s not used to when it comes to you.

There’s a small silence, unspoken words hanging heavy in the air, weighing down Jay’s tongue in his mouth. In the kitchen, a timer goes off. Your head swivels in its direction. “I should probably…” you start, but don’t move. Jay gets the message nonetheless.

“Right. Yeah, of course. I won’t keep you any longer. Hope you like the rice cakes.”

“Thanks.”

His hand is on the door handle when you call out his name, sending electricity down his spine. He turns around with embarrassing haste.

“Come have your meals here when you’re working on your café. You always used to skip them when you were focused on something… I don’t know if you still do, but the offer is there.”

Jay smiles. “Okay,” he says.

.

.

“You’re still here?”

Your voice makes Jay jump. He’s been alone for at least three hours now, and with the sun having set, the classroom is plunged in darkness, save for the streetlights outside and the bright lamp above his prep station. When he turns around, you’re walking towards him, and he can just make out a mix of surprise and amusement in your smile as you step into the light. There’s some concern, there, too, he’d like to think.

“I am. And you’re sneaking up on someone holding a very sharp knife.”

You reach his prep station, rest your lower back against the counter. “I’ve seen your chopping skills, Park. I’m not afraid of you.”

Playfully, he rolls his eyes. Is it just him, or have those jabs you like to throw at each other started to feel less sharp, less rough around the edges lately? Like a dull knife, “a knife that’s been loved too much,” his mother always used to say. You still use it because it’s familiar, but it’s not as efficient anymore.

“I’m not the one who showed up to a cooking course not knowing what a julienne was.”

“Yes, but that’s because you’re the one with a world-renowned chef for a dad.”

Jay tilts his head, taking the hit. “Well, dad is a generous term for that man.” Immediately, he wishes he could take back his words. Not only have the two of you never delved into any sort of personal matter, you’re not nearly close enough to do so—and he’s afraid you’ll think him ungrateful for the life he’s had, like he always is whenever he mentions his dissatisfaction with his dad to someone. He watches as you look down at your hands and tug at your sleeves. His stomach flips with embarrassment. He’s said the wrong thing, and now that you were finally starting to relax around each other, he’s gone and made things weird.

But then, you look at him, that mischievous glint still in your eyes, and ask, “Do you really want to get into your daddy issues right now? Nine p.m. on a random Tuesday?”

His shoulders sag with relief. He lets out a breathy chuckle, saying, “No, better not. What are you doing here, anyway?”

You wave a notebook at him. It’s simple, with metal spirals holding the pages together and a transparent plastic cover. “I wanted to go over some recipes at home and realized I left this precious thing here. What about you?”

“Also going over some recipes. It’s not going swimmingly, as you can see,” he replies with a sigh, gesturing at the mess of pots on the stove, of diced vegetables on the cutting board, of spoons and chopsticks and knives strewn around the station. It’s not like him to be so disorganized, and judging by the astonishment on your face, you know this. “I’ve been here since the end of class, and I still can’t get this sauce just right.”

You furrow your eyebrows. Jay waits for it—a teasing comment, a snide remark, if you’re feeling particularly mean. Something about how easy today’s lesson was, how this is something he should’ve mastered in no time. But the hatch never drops.

To Jay’s absolute bewilderment, “Have you even eaten?” are the words that come out of your mouth. He’s even more surprised to find that he indeed has not eaten yet. When he tells you this, you click your tongue and shake your head. Is he being… scolded? 

“That’s not reasonable, Jay,” you say, and it takes him a few seconds to be fully sure you’re genuine and not playing an elaborate, ultra-convincing trick on him. You grab a spoon, dip its underside into the sauce Jay has been breaking his back over the entire evening and bring it to your mouth. “Plus, your sauce tastes just fine.” You sound irritated. It only confuses Jay further.

“Just fine is not exactly what I’m going for, here.”

“Just fine will have to do for now,” you say with a tone that lets him know this is where the conversation ends. “Come on, let’s clean this up and go eat something.”

Jay has a feeling you don’t often run into people that don’t listen to you, and he decides he doesn’t want to be the first. So, quietly, he gets to washing dishes as you pack away his many tries at this stupid doenjang. He tells you to put them in the communal fridge or take them home to yourself—if he can go the rest of his life without having to look at another soybean, he’ll be happy.

“That might be a bit tricky if you plan to go into Korean cuisine,” you point out.

“Let a man dream, Y/N.”

This is how Jay finds himself under a red tent thirty minutes later, tipping back soju and munching on stir-fried anchovies with peanuts and crispy, burning-hot scallion pancakes that coat his fingers with oil. He hadn’t realized how hungry he was until he looked at the empty plates in front him and found himself ready for more.

“We go to one of the best culinary schools in Seoul, a city in which fine-dining options abound, and you bring me to a pojangmacha,” he states matter-of-factly, looking around at the people around him, all varying amounts of drunk, at the old lady wearing a plastic mask and frying all kinds of finger foods that go perfectly with alcohol.

“Seoul has nothing more delicious to offer than its street food.”

Jay tilts his head in agreement, raising his glass to yours. “Can’t argue with that,” he says, and the sound of your glasses clinking gets a smile out of you.

A few beats of silence pass. Surprisingly comfortable silence, Jay thinks as he watches you watch the passers-by. You suddenly turn to face him, and he picks up the bottle of soju, pouring the both of you a drink, pretending he wasn’t staring at you just seconds ago. “So, what was that thing about your dad earlier?” you ask unceremoniously.

The question should take him aback more than it does, but perhaps the shared bottle of alcohol has already worked its magic between the two of you—Jay doesn’t feel like it’s an inappropriate topic to broach with someone he’s only previously spoken about food and overly strict chefs with. “So you do want to get into my daddy issues on a random Tuesday at nine p.m.,” he jokes.

“Well, it’s more like ten p.m. now, so I think we’re good.”

He chuckles. “Alright. Well, how do I go about this without sounding like the most clichéd poor little rich boy ever? I had everything but a father. The man you see on TV, barking orders at his kitchen staff and criticizing the cooking show contestants like their food isn’t worth a dime, that’s basically the same man I had at home. Except most of the time he wasn’t even paying enough attention to have something to yell at me for. I could’ve been flunking half of my classes, and he would’ve been none the wiser.”

“Gosh. That… sucks,” you say, looking genuinely distraught. “I always thought he was playing it up for the cameras.”

Jay watches the clear alcohol swish around his glass. “His father was an army general and he himself was a cook in the army for a decade. It wasn’t an act at all,” he says, then drinks the soju. It burns on its way down. “It was okay at first. It was even good, sometimes. He wasn’t always there emotionally, and he spent a lot of time at work, but we didn’t argue every time we talked. But my mom wanted a divorce, she didn’t like being the wife of a celebrity chef, she didn’t care about the big house, and the fancy restaurants, and the articles in the magazines. When she left him, she said, “I fell in love with you for your kimchi stew. Now you charge hundreds of thousands of won for two scallops.” He was even more distant after that, to say the least.”

He pauses there, letting silence hang in the air between the two of you. You pour the last of the soju in Jay’s glass, then ask the owner for another bottle and another scallion pancake. “Go on,” you say, gently. Jay wonders for a second if he deserves your listening ear—but if you’re happy to extend it, he might as well take it. Getting it all out feels surprisingly good. Refreshing.

“Well, the weeks at my mom’s new apartment were great. We’d cook together, go out to museums, watch movies. I could talk about anything with her, even the embarrassing stuff. She felt like a friend as much as a mother. But my father… mostly, he wasn’t there. I couldn’t go to him. He was always at work, always off somewhere more important, he didn’t even show up to my high school graduation. The only times he would pay attention to me was when I cooked. I would stay up preparing banchan, fermenting kimchi, making pastes from scratch. He’d come home late in the evening, join me in the kitchen and teach me tricks. All without a word. I think it was the only way he knew how to show care. I’ve talked about this with my mom at length… I think he’s been taught that showing vulnerability means being weak.” He glances at you, your eyes wide open as if you used them to listen rather than your ears, your eyebrows furrowed in empathy. “I told you this was cliché.”

You smile. Something warm spreads in Jay’s chest—it’s the soju getting to him, surely. He continues before you can say something nice and make him lose his footing. “I desperately wanted to make him proud. I knew he wouldn’t bat an eye if I brought home the best grades or became the captain of some sports team. So I dedicated myself to cooking. And now, I love it, I really do…”

“But part of that is because you want him to notice you.”

Your eyes meet. The woman running the stand approaches then, setting down your soju and pancake on the table. “Does that make me a fraud?” Jay asks when she’s gone. It’s the first time he’s uttered the question out loud. He hopes it comes out casually, consciously self-deprecating, and not like something he’s been terrified of since the course started. 

You frown. “Of course not. We all have different reasons for cooking. Yours is just as valid as anyone else’s.”

Jay likes how seriously you take him. Between those who think his connections got him into the school and those who suck up to him, thinking it’ll get them a spot at one of his dad’s restaurants, not many of his classmates treat him as an equal, pure and simple. But you do. You’ve always been as snarky towards him as towards the rest of them, and you don’t question his presence in the classroom.

For a second, he dares hope he’s found a friend in you.

“What about you? What’s your reason for cooking?”

An introspective smile spreads on your lips as you ponder his question. “I want to make better japchae than my grandma.”

When Jay presses, you tell him about your hometown and Kim’s Kitchen, your grandma’s restaurant, the simple but hearty food that people keep coming back for. “It’s delicious, but I want to learn other techniques. Make more sophisticated meals. She says I think I’m a big-shot now that I’ve moved to Seoul and spend hours cutting carrots into identical strips. But I like it here, it’s so different to anything I’ve ever known. Sure, the chefs are on our asses about the smallest details, and everyone is simultaneously friend and foe, but outside of school, nobody cares about you. No eyes following your every movement, no gossip spreading from door to door. Living in a small town is like being trapped in middle school forever.”

He asks what the name of your town is, but you dismiss him easily. “The chances of you knowing it are slim, and the chances of you ever hearing of it in the future are even slimmer.”

Jay grew up without the affection of his father; you grew up with the unwanted attention of every adult around you. Somehow, it led you to the same point in life. Early twenties, an obsessive love of cooking, and a need to leave your past behind. 

Soon after that, as Tuesday tips into Wednesday, you decide it’s time to go. Jay tries to pay, but you insist otherwise. “You’ll get it next time,” you say.

The soju has stained his cheeks red, has warmed him up enough to not feel the cold November air biting at his skin. You’re clearly a better drinker than he is, helping him into a cab and deciphering his address as his speech comes out mumbled. He’ll regret ordering that third bottle in the morning.

Next time. Looking out the window at the rapidly passing buildings and people and street lights, Jay turns the words around in his head. He decides he likes the sound of them.

.

.

Indifferent to whether someone’s leaving or arriving, the bells of your restaurant’s door chime when Jay walks out, just as they did when he walked in. They continue to ring for a little bit, the emptiness of the restaurant amplifying the sound. It’s all you can do to stand there, your brain valiantly trying to wrap itself around what just happened and failing. 

The only proof that less than ten seconds ago, like an apparition, Jay stood in front of you, is the remaining glass Tupperware, filled to the brim with rice cakes and light brown toppings, your mouth already anticipating their softness and sweetness.

Soft and sweet. Those adjectives would describe something else you know.

Your brain is truly failing to understand how he could not only appear, but also leave again so suddenly. In and out within five minutes. And what had you done—invited him to eat here? You try to recall the short conversation, but every word spoken and heard is blurry, mumbled; a momentary black-out. His presence in Kim’s Kitchen was so nonsensical that nothing seemed appropriate to say. Maybe he has completely grown out of his habit to skip meals when he works, maybe the overwhelming smell and thought of food doesn’t cut his appetite anymore, and you wouldn’t have to coax him out of the kitchens or bring dinner to him when he perfects recipes. But you had to say something, anything to ensure you would see him again, as though you haven’t become literal neighbors, and as you walk back to your kitchen, you realize that you had buried the ache of missing him deep into the marrow of your bones. 

Deep enough to ignore, deep enough that it never went away.

Your knees suddenly buckle underneath you and you drop to a crouch. An unexpected, gasp-like sob escapes your throat. You cover your mouth with your hand, but it’s too late—the dam has broken. Holding onto the handle of the oven like it’s your only tether to this world, more sobs keep pouring out of you, and you do nothing to force them down. You need to get it out somehow, the shock of seeing him, here, of all places. The shock of your present and your past colliding, bleeding into one another like you have been desperately trying to prevent for years. The shock of your heart giving in so easily at the mere sight of him.

Except it wasn't just the mere sight of him, was it? It was his voice, still gentle, still carrying that lilt of amusement. His scent, the same woody perfume, masculine but not overbearingly so. The kindness, painfully obvious in his eyes and in his gestures: of course Jay would move in somewhere and proceed to deliver homemade rice cakes to everyone in the neighborhood. 

He was close enough to touch. Just a few steps, and you could’ve—what, exactly? Wrapped your arms around him, buried your face in his neck, as you once loved to do, kissed him? It’s ridiculous. Eight months of knowing each other, six of those spent dating; you hadn’t even spent a whole year together. And yet, here you are, half a decade later, mind still branded by a hot iron with every memory you have of him.

You’ve never cried so pathetically. Even when you left Seoul and everything you had built there behind, you barely let yourself cry—a few silent tears on the train back, and that was it. No time to wallow, you had a grandma to take care of and a restaurant to run. Seeing Jay today feels like mourning your relationship, five years after its untimely death. You knew you wouldn’t have been able to do everything that needed to be done while feeling this kind of pain, but you also know that feeling it all at once like this is impossibly worse.

You don’t know how long you stay there, crouched low, tears drenching your palms, shoulders trembling. But at some point, a pair of arms wrap themselves around you, and the familiar scent of rose water and medicine envelops you. Your grandmother. It’s not every day that she has the strength to come help you out at the restaurant, and the fact that you’re in such a state now that she’s here only makes you feel worse. In her arms, you feel like a kid again, crying over a dead goldfish or a mean comment on the school playground as she strokes your hair and shushes you.

“What on Earth has gotten you like this, my dove?” she asks gently. The sound of her voice calms you down, brings you out of your mind, stuck in the past, and back to this moment in time.

You sniffle and rub your eyes dry. “I saw someone I thought I’d never see again,” you say, voice heavy, sitting uncomfortably in your throat.

Your grandmother chuckles. You look up at her, and all the tenderness in the world is in her eyes. “Well, aren’t you a lucky one?”

“I don’t feel lucky.”

Brushing away tears from your cheeks with her thumb, she says, “You know, there are some people I’d do anything just to see one last time. This is a precious opportunity, dear. Don’t let it slip away.”

A small smile appears on your lips. “You don’t even know who this is about,” you murmur, and this is apparently funny enough for your grandmother to burst into laughter.

“Oh, honey, I don’t need you to tell me to know. It’s written all over your face.” She gives you a knowing smile, then is back on her feet, a hand extended out to you. “Now, come, we have work to do.”

.

.

The real estate agent didn’t lie when he called the old bookstore a fixer-upper: there are floorboards coming undone, flaky wallpaper that needs to be torn apart and reapplied, electricity and gas pipes that should definitely be checked by a professional. Jay has weeks, if not months, of work in front of him before he can start thinking about opening the café. 

But it’s his, and that is all that matters.

He has saved enough money working at upscale restaurants in Paris and London, and the only upside of having both his grandfather and his mother pass away in the past three years has been the inheritance, which has allowed him to pursue this otherwise unreasonable dream. And if he somehow runs out of money, maybe you’ll give him a part-time job as a kitchen porter.

Thankfully, the real estate agent did also not lie when he said he “knew a guy.” One phone call is all Jay needs for said guy, or Heeseung, as his parents would have it, to show up at the shop and have a look over it. The only thing he asks for in return is lunch at Kim’s Kitchen, and Jay is more than happy to oblige. 

Just like yesterday, you’re nowhere to be seen when the two men step inside the restaurant. The same waitress — Jay wonders if she’s a family member of yours — greets them and shows them to their seats, far from the kitchen, to someone’s great disappointment. On the menu today is abalone porridge, “again,” raw beef bibimbap, which Jay orders, and spicy fish stew, which Heeseung orders. Jay notices how intently Heeseung watches the waitress as she rattles off the dishes of the day and wonders if there’s something there, or if he’s just very hungry and low on patience. But from the way his eyes stay on her even as she retreats to the kitchen, he assumes it’s the former. Part of him is curious to know more, but a bigger part is very much aware that this is a man he met an hour ago and is not in the measure to ask, “Hey, got a thing for that waitress?”

But maybe Heeseung will give him the answer himself.

“The chef here is really good with spicy dishes. Not so spicy that you lose the flavors, but not so little that it becomes bland.” He’s probably just trying to make small talk, but Jay latches onto this like a lifeline, because the mere mention of “the chef here” is enough to get his heart racing.

“Oh yeah? Do you know her well?” he asks, conscious that this might not be the most normal follow-up question to a statement about your cooking skills. He tries to appear as nonchalant as he can, pouring water into his and Heeseung’s blue plastic cups.

“I do, actually. We’ve been friends since childhood.”

Childhood friends. Jay’s eyes narrow momentarily before the rational part of his brain reminds him that the man in front of him need not be an enemy.

“How do you know it’s a her, by the way?” Heeseung asks.

“Oh. The real estate agent mentioned it yesterday,” he replies, not even sure whether that’s true or not. “Y/N, I think it was?”

Heeseung smiles. “That’s the one.”

Why does your name make him smile?

Jay is not a great actor, but he puts on his best relaxed, just-trying-to-get-to-know-you, I-have-no-other-intentions face, and asks, “Are you guys, like…?”

Heeseung furrows his eyebrows, taking a second to compute Jay’s words, then leans back in his chair, a surprised expression on his face. “Oh, no, not at all. It’s never been like that. No, I’m, uh… There’s someone else I like, let’s just say.” Jay follows Heeseung’s gaze, turning around to find the waitress — Knew it — gathering the empty bowls from another table. When he looks at Heeseung again, he’s smiling in a shy, self-deprecating sort of way, but before he can ask him about it, Heeseung continues speaking. “Anyways, I’m sure our moms would love to see it happen, but since the two primarily concerned are against it, I doubt we’ll ever make them happy. In that regard, at least.”

“What do you mean, they’d love to see it happen?”

“Well, you know what moms are like,” Heeseung says, shrugging, but Jay gives him a look that says he does not know what moms are like—not theirs, at least. When it came to relationships, all his mother ever told him was to be careful. “Her mom has known me since I was little, and vice versa. Our moms are friends with each other. We’ve only ever been polite to each other’s moms. That’s enough for them to think we should get married.”

Jay almost chokes on his water then. “Married?” he echoes in a tone that makes him sound far more involved than he’s trying to come off as. He clears his throat. “I just mean, I didn’t realize it was marriage you were talking about. That’s pretty, uh, big,” he explains with an awkward chuckle.

If Heeseung finds his behavior suspicious, he doesn’t say anything. “I know. But here, it’s marriage or nothing. You better not be caught dating anyone for fun, because suddenly your parents, their parents, and basically every parent in this town is on your ass about getting married and having kids. A lot of people get engaged right out of university, or even high school, sometimes.”

“Wow,” Jay says, because that’s all he can think to say right now. Everywhere he’s been, being in your early twenties has meant dating apps, one-night stands and casual relationships. None of his close friends are even engaged at the moment, and he’s twenty-five. He’d be lying if he said he’d never imagined what yours and his future might have looked like when you were dating, but when he’d pictured marriage and children, you were both thirty at the very least.

“Yep. Things are changing, though. My parents already had me at my age, whereas I don’t even have a girlfriend. And I’m not the only one. Well, Y/N’s in the same boat, for one.”

Hope flares in Jay’s heart. “She’s not seeing anyone either?” he asks, thinking his tone sounds natural enough, but aware that his eye contact is far too intense. He can’t help himself.

“Nope. Now that you mention it, I haven’t seen her date anyone in a really long time. I’ve always assumed she’s just busy with the restaurant, but I should ask her about it. It’s probably just that there aren’t many options here…” he trails off, looking into the distance with a pout. But then, his gaze sharpens as he directs it to Jay. “Guess one more option has appeared, though. I think it’s safe to assume you wouldn’t have moved here all on your own if you were dating someone, right? You don’t have a wife and kids back in Seoul?”

Jay laughs, more out of shock than anything. “Definitely not, no.”

Heeseung leans back in his chair with a grin on his face, the brightest Jay’s seen him smile so far. “Perfect. I honestly have no idea what kind of men Y/N’s into, but you seem decent enough so far.”

“I’ll take decent enough.”

The food arrives then, and as they eat, Jay tries not to burst into tears at the thought that you made this meal. He is both relieved and sad when Heeseung shifts the topic from you to their renovations plans. They agree that it would be best to start with the studio, so that Jay can move in and not have to extend his stay at the guest house he’s currently living in for another month or two. There are things Jay can’t do himself, things for which he has neither the skills nor the time to learn, such as completely replacing the wood panels that line the floor or removing the old, deteriorating ceiling tiles. Apparently, in this town, every guy knows a guy: Heeseung has someone for water, for electricity, for gas, and they’re respectively a cousin, a brother-in-law’s brother, a long-time friend. Jay will get to do the fun bits himself—choosing the wallpaper and parquet flooring, building and arranging furniture, decorating the café. The sooner he can get a functioning kitchen set up, the better. He can only try out so many different cake recipes and sandwich-filling combos in the tiny kitchen of his current residence. 

Even when he goes to pay at the counter by the entrance of the kitchen, Jay doesn’t get a glimpse of you. It’s only when he exits the restaurant, the chime of the bell already a familiar sound, and he turns around to wish a good day to the waitress, that you peek out from behind the curtain. A smile and a wave, directed at him. You’re gone before he can return the attention.

He is inexplicably giddy all day—well, he knows the reason for his unwavering smile, but to Heeseung and his team, he lies that it’s “just excitement at seeing the project coming along so quickly.”

.

.

There’s a knock at the door just as Jay, fresh out the shower, slips his t-shirt on. He wonders who it could be at this hour—it’s almost ten p.m., too late for the old lady he’s renting from to drop by with food like she did yesterday night. He debates asking who it is behind the door, but ultimately decides, naively perhaps, that not only are the crime rates in this town probably extremely low, it wouldn’t make sense for a robber-slash-serial-killer to knock before barging into a house.

You look the opposite of a robber-slash-serial-killer as you stand at Jay’s door, a black plastic bag in your hand, a smile he can only describe as angelic on your lips. Bottles clink together as you raise the bag to shoulder-level. “Let’s catch up,” you say, but instead of letting yourself in, you turn and head somewhere else.

“Wait,” Jay says, but you don’t, so he scrambles to put on his slippers and grab his jacket from the coat rack. The two-room apartment he’s staying at sits atop his landlady’s house, and although she’d told him he was welcome to use it, he hadn’t ventured up the other set of stairs that lead to the roof. You seem to know your way around, though, so he follows you. 

From this high up, Jay can see the sea glittering in the distance, the small fishing boats rocking peacefully on the water, the many roofs strewn around the town, their colors lost to the night. It should be in this moment, as the beauty of the town he’s chosen to set up store in reveals itself to him, that he truly feels that he made the right decision, coming here. Or it should’ve been when he found the old bookstore; or when Heeseung told him the place looked much worse that it actually was, and that it would be a piece of cake, renovating it.

Alas. It’s only when you press the button to the fairy lights, flickering to life and casting a halo of golden light behind you, that Jay knows he’s really found what he came here for. He’s transfixed, feet frozen to the concrete, eyes glued on your face, but you don’t seem to notice. “Nice place, right?” you say, gesturing to the potted plants, the low wooden table, even the clothesline on which the fairy lights hang, like fireflies. It’s all he can do to nod appreciatively.

From a trunk he hadn’t noticed, you pull out two cushions and one blanket. The cushions go on opposite sides of the table, and you hand him the blanket. “Here, your hair’s still damp, take this,” you explain, not quite meeting his eyes. Without another word, you sit across from each other, Jay watching you carefully as you pull out bottles of soju, cans of beer and a packet of dried anchovies from your bag. 

“A successful trip to the convenience store,” he comments.

“To welcome you to the area,” you add. “And to catch up on lost time.”

Lost time. An appropriate way of describing the years that separate this moment from the day you let go of his hand. Would things have gone differently, had you known you would meet again like this down the line? 

He appreciates that you don’t tiptoe around the subject. You’re not strangers, you never could be, no matter how much time you might go without seeing each other. There’s a certain level of connection you can’t come back from. The two of you can’t start anew, and he’s glad you’re not pretending like that is what this is. And yet, there’s the gnawing feeling that you’re treating him more like an old friend than an old lover. You’re being almost too welcoming. You’d always made him feel special, like he was to you what no one else had ever been, what no one else could be—right now, he just feels awkward.

Dismissing all the questions burning the tip of his tongue, Jay settles for a safer one. Rather than on your face, he focuses his gaze on the way you fill the small glasses to the brim with soju. “How did you know I was here?”

“Mrs. Yoon used to be one of my schoolteachers. She’s also a friend of my grandma’s. She showed up to our house the night you got here saying she had just welcomed the most handsome lodger.” you say, imitating her. “Wasn’t hard to figure out who she was talking about. She’s pushing eighty and still getting excited about boys, of all things.”

You clink your glasses and tip your drinks back at the same time. “You think I’m a boy, Y/N?”

Jay can’t help the smirk that appears on his lips as you briefly choke, the soju seemingly going down the wrong pipe. “She probably does. You could be her grandson.” He knows you’re avoiding the question, but he lets you off the hook, just this once. There’s a slight furrow in your eyebrows as you pour a second glass for the both of you. You don’t wait for him before you all but throw it down your throat.

“So. How’ve you been?” Jay asks after a few moments of silence. Surprise flashes through your face for a second, as though you weren’t the one to propose this catch-up session in the first place. When you sigh, there’s far too much depth to it for a 26-year-old, Jay thinks. 

“I’ve been fine,” you answer simply. “Just working a lot.”

“Too much?”

You briefly meet his eyes. “Sometimes, yeah.” You must know this won’t cut it. Even when you were just getting to know each other, this sort of run-of-the-mill, surface-level answer didn’t fly between the two of you. So, Jay says nothing, waiting patiently for you to go on. “It’s not the work in itself that’s tiring. I’m glad my grandma’s recipes continue to be loved by so many people, and I’m glad she’s also letting me put my own twist on our dishes and come up with new ones. I work long hours, and we only close one day a week, but I like what I do. It’s this town…” you say, looking around yourself with disdain, as if the very buildings and roads that constitute Seojuk-ri are the ones you’re at odds with, “that’s exhausting.”

“Things haven’t changed, then?”

“Not in the slightest. People are still just as nosy, just as overbearing, just as sickeningly well-intentioned as they have always been. If anything, it’s gotten worse, because the old people have gotten older and the young people are starting to take on those characteristics, too. Don’t get me wrong, I wouldn’t trade it for the world. Everyone that I love is here. But if I have to go through one more conversation with another one of my school friends, mother of two at 24, about when I’m finally gonna have a kid, I might just take all of my family’s money and flee. I don’t want to hear about my biological clock anymore.”

Jay chuckles, cracking open one can of beer for you, another for him. You grab it immediately, taking large gulps as you look up at the sky with anger. “Gee, I wonder why,” he jokes. “I always thought it was your dream to give birth to twins before your frontal lobe even fully developed.”

You roll your eyes. “It’s not like there’s anyone here I’d want to knock me up,” you say. You pause at the same time, as it dawns on you both how your words could be interpreted. Despite himself, hope flashes through Jay. He already knew from his conversation with Heeseung that you were single, but to hear it from you — not in these exact terms, but still — is something else entirely.

“That’s… good to know,” he says for lack of a better alternative, feeling as flustered as you look. You’re both silent for a little while, exchanging quick, chaste glances, as though there’s anything to be shy about between the two of you.

“Your turn,” you say eventually. “I’ve been here this whole time, but you’ve moved around, right?”

He nods. Tells you about his time in Paris, about the two-year contract he got offered upon completion of his stage at the Michelin-starred restaurant—the one you’d also had your eye on. Tries not to read too much into your expression, which you seem to be keeping as neutral as you can. Wonders if it’s still a sensitive topic.

He quickly moves on to London. “Surprisingly, my favorite part of working at L’Arôme was getting to help out with the desserts once in a while. The techniques, the flavor combinations… I found them more exciting. So when I got the opportunity to work under a pastry chef in London, I didn’t hesitate for a second.”

Of course, he had to learn all the basics first. Ganaches, caramels, meringues, all sorts of dough… What he ended up falling in love with was the simplicity of it all. The cuisine his father, and therefore, Jay himself, had always been interested in was complex. Measured down to the milligram, temperature-controlled, extensively researched and tested-out—so much fuss for something that will be eaten in two, three bites. It was a different sort of culinary experience, one Jay realized he wasn’t as taken with. He liked irregular chocolate chips, cracked cake tops, frosting spread unevenly. As often as he could, he would go to a different café in London and try about half of the baked goods they had on display. For the first time in his life, Jay knew exactly what he wanted his next step to be, and he knew it was his decision and only his.

You listen intently, nodding along to his words, and Jay tries not to lose his focus when your smile turns particularly fond. You don’t even seem to realize what you’re doing, and that somehow makes things worse.

“And then, well, I ended up back in Seoul.”

“For your mom.”

“For my mom, yeah. And now I’m here.”

“And now you’re here.” A pause. Then, a mere whisper, “How?”

How, indeed. In the past couple of days, every time Jay’s mind drifted back to you — which happened far too often for him to keep count — he’d been in awe at the sheer improbability of your reunion. Of all the seaside towns you could’ve hailed from, it just so happened that it was this one, the only one he had any sort of attachment to. It was this sort of happening that made him reevaluate his lack of belief in some higher force, some ruling hand over the universe. 

“I came here with her a few months before she… you know. Died. Passed away. I never know what word is preferable. People have such weird ways of reacting to it.”

You shrug. “Whichever one you like is best. I like to just…” You guide your thumb across your throat, tilting your head as you make a clicking sound with your teeth. It’s a crude gesture, and Jay can’t help but laugh. You’re probably the only person he knows that would ever refer to someone’s death like that. He appreciates your trying to keep this conversation a light-hearted one—somehow, you must know his mom’s passing still feels raw in his best moments, unbearable in his worst.

“It was just a town that she liked. She couldn’t spend too much time away from home, so we were here for the afternoon only. Maybe if we’d stayed longer, you and I would have run into each other sooner?” Jay says, drawing a smile from you, which in turn always makes him feel oddly relieved. “Anyways, I think she came here a few times when she was young and wanted to relive those moments. Her life flashing in front of her eyes, something like that.”

You consider his words for a few seconds. “I wonder what sort of buried memories will come to the surface when I’m on my deathbed.”

And without missing a beat, as if the answer was written on his tongue, Jay says, “I’ll remember you.”

He hears the breath that hitches in your throat. You stare at him, seemingly caught off-guard, while in his head, like a cassette tape, he replays you. Late nights spent in kitchens. Late nights spent under the red tent of your favorite pocha. Conversations that started at sunset and stopped at sunrise. Knowing glances thrown across a classroom, a house party, a restaurant table. Falling asleep next to you. Waking up next to you. Your hair tickling his neck. Your hands on his waist, on his shoulders, everywhere.

A blush creeps up his cheeks. With effort, he tears his gaze away from yours, takes a swig of his beer in the hope that he can blame his redness on the alcohol. Eventually, you look away too, smile down at the empty glass in your hands like it, rather than the man sitting across you, just all but confessed its love to you.

The night goes on like this, for longer than either of you anticipated. The September night air should deter you from staying outside so late, but between the blankets around your shoulders, the alcohol, and the warmth of finding each other again, the cold truly has nothing on you. It’s only when you yawn, causing Jay to yawn for so long that tears brim his eyes, that you decide it’s time to go to bed. Your chat takes on a more light-hearted tone as you put away the cushions and he gathers the cans and glass bottles for later recycling; you don’t stop talking as you head back down the stairs, and stand in front of Jay’s door as you finish recounting an anecdote. Of course, he wants to invite you in, not even because he has anything salacious in mind, but just to prolong the night as much as he can — although he can’t say with total certainty that nothing would happen if you found yourselves in a dark room together — but he says nothing. If he’s going to do this again, he’s going to do it right and take it step-by-step.

When you’re ready to leave, you press a chaste kiss to his cheek, and if he wasn’t so stunned by the sudden warmth overcoming him, he’d have embraced you before you could turn around and leave.

As he tosses and turns in his bed later, Jay thinks back to his work trip to Japan from last year, where he’d learned about the art of kintsugi. He’d stayed at a guesthouse, where one shelf of a cupboard had been filled with bowls lined with gold. When asked about it, his host explained that to repair broken pottery, the Japanese sometimes mixed gold powder with lacquer in the cracked areas. The object was more beautiful broken when fixed than in its original state.

Maybe he is getting ahead of himself, maybe he is being overly optimistic, but he can’t help but think that the two of you, too, might become more beautiful than you ever were.

.

.

Sometimes it’s Jay that drags you out of the kitchens when it’s far too late to still be behind a stove, sometimes it’s you. More often than not, you end up at the same pojangmacha you went to the first time, where you and the owner are now on a first-name basis. She’s taken to asking whether the two of you have finally gotten together every time she sees you. You’ve taken to not answering and smiling at Jay, as if you’re waiting for his answer as much as she is. 

Other times, and on weekends, when the place you need to drag each other out of is the comfort of your respective beds, you will try out an upscale restaurant in Gangnam or Hongdae. Since that first outing of yours, Jay has insisted on paying for every meal, and you only stop opposing after the fifth or so time, when you realize that your feeling of owing him is completely one-sided. You learn many things about Jay over the course of these first couple of months—one of them being that he is the least transactional, most generous person you have ever met. He is on par with the village aunties who let you and your siblings spend the afternoon at their houses and filled your bellies with snacks your mother never bought you, for absolutely nothing in return. You wonder where he learned to be so kind. The most he’ll accept from you is a vending coffee machine when you notice him dozing off during break, and he’s too tired to argue.

You don’t know what to make of the growing friendship between the two of you. Between classes and your part-time job — three nights a week spent washing dishes at a barbecue place isn’t ideal, but rent in Seoul is high, and at least you don’t have to deal with drunk customers — you don’t have time to give it too much thought. Because while on paper, you really are just friends, in your head, things are slightly more nuanced by that. 

It’s not like you’re an expert when it comes to love. With one eight-month relationship during high school that you got little out of except for the basics of sex and some notions of the type of connection you want, and another one that lasted the three months of the summer between your first and second year at the local college, you’re actually very, very far from love expertship. But no need for a PhD to know that what you feel for Jay is not platonic—unless everyone else’s hearts start racing, palms start sweating, thoughts start blurring when their friends are around, and no one has bothered to let you know.

Who knows if he feels the same way? He hasn’t told you, and you definitely won’t be asking him, too scared to lose the person who might potentially become your closest friend here. One thing about you, however, is you won’t push your feelings down. Even if you wanted to, you wouldn’t know how—the women in your family have always compared you to an open book, sometimes reproaching you for it, sometimes praising you. Even you, in your twenty-one years of living, have yet to come to a conclusion on the constant transparency of your emotions. It’s a blessing not having to bottle things up only for them to explode later—you get to really live through your feelings as they come. It’s a curse, however, when you can’t hide your disappointment upon receiving a terrible gift, or when the desperation written all over your face only works to drive someone away.

Curse or blessing, you won’t try to pretend you feel nothing for him. Sure, you won’t throw yourself at his feet — it’s not like you’re that infatuated with him, at least, not yet — but you won’t ignore the warmth that spreads from your stomach all the way to your fingertips whenever Jay smiles at you. 

After all, there’s a small possibility he feels that same warmth, isn’t there?

.

.

You wake up painfully early. You know that with age, hangovers only get worse, and you’ve been careful not to go overboard when you drink—but last night was a case apart, so you might as well let yourself off the hook.

Your thoughts are muddled, as if still coated and sticky with soju, and your entire body is screaming for water. After drinking what feels like two liters of it straight from the tap, you prepare enough coffee for everyone in your house, knowing you’ll end up drinking half of it, and inhale the smell of the ground beans like they have healing properties. It’s in moments like these, when there’s no one to cook up some hangover soup and you must do it yourself because you’re the first one up, that you’re glad you cook for a living. Chopping some vegetables, boiling some noodles, preparing a broth, you could do it with your eyes closed, and you practically do. You’re not all there, half of your head still crunching beer cans, laughing over nothing with Jay as your conversation begins to make less and less sense. Sense—you at least had enough of it not to end up in his bed last night, which you knew was a real possibility when you showed up at his temporary apartment with alcohol in hand. There was a moment of pause yesterday in which he looked for a video to show you in his gallery. It gave you time to look at him, really look at him, for the first time since he magically appeared in Sojuk-ri. Like a caress, your eyes had languidly trailed from his well-kept nails, up his arms that had gotten insultingly bigger in your five years apart, up the throat your lips knew so well, to the face that filled your dreams more often than you’d care to admit. And, in your inebriated state, your thoughts had gone… there. They didn’t quite leave when he found the video of a dog, the reason he wanted to show it to you in the first place completely forgotten, and they have apparently still not left you now, as you peel carrots and ponder the universe’s way of doing things. Not very subtle, you conclude.

The sound of a door swinging open and hurried footsteps abruptly interrupt your thoughts. In the time it takes you to turn around, whoever it is rushing to the bathroom has already closed the door behind them. The thought of a family member of yours needing the toilet this badly first thing in the morning gets a giggle out of you, until you hear retching sounds. Your head snaps up, eyes widening as the awful noise continues, stomach turning. It lasts for another minute, then you hear the toilet flush, the sink run. You stare at the bathroom door worriedly until your sister-in-law, Yeonju, appears from behind it, Yeonju who got married to your brother five months ago, Yeonju who helps out at the restaurant and has never once complained, Yeonju who’s just gotten sick. In the morning.

Her steps halt the moment she sees you, her eyes widening, her mouth falling agape to mirror your expression. You stay like that for a few seconds, simply staring at each other, both of you at a loss for words as the meaning of it all dawns on you. “You’re up early,” she says finally.

“I am. I drank too much last night.” As she nods, you have another realization. The words come out of your mouth as quickly as they form in your brain. “I haven’t seen you have a drink in a while.”

A few more beats pass. “Don’t tell anyone,” she whispers. “It’s too early.”

You nod vigorously. “Of course.” Then, a smile breaks through the shock on your features, warm tears prickle at your eyes, and Yeonju looks away, fighting back a smile of her own. You put down your vegetable peeler and run to her as quietly as you can, and, dismissing for once the fact that she doesn’t like to be touched excessively, take her in your arms and hold her tight.

She allows it for a little bit, then, with a hushed giggle, says, “Okay, okay, don’t get too excited. It’s only been six weeks.”

You lean back, hands on her shoulders. “Six weeks?!” you say, whisper-screaming her words back at her.

“Mh-hm.”

“You’ve told Seungkwan, right?”

“I’ve only told him and my mother. I would tell yours, too, and Grandmother, but…”

“They’re not the calm and collected type, I get it,” you say, nodding seriously, as if you are the image of composure yourself. 

Indeed, “You’re crying,” Yeonju points out, chuckling as a tear rolls down her own cheek. “Stop crying. I’m going to be sick again, for a different reason this time.” 

“Shut up,” you laugh, and take her in your arms again. “I’m preparing you for the commotion that will inevitably happen.”

You let her go back to bed soon after, and pick your peeler back up. You should think of your brother, of your mother, of your grandmother, of Yeonju—but, for reasons you don’t feel strong enough to try and understand, the person that comes to mind is Jay. I want to see him, you think. And, for the first time in five years, the thought that immediately follows is, I can go see him.

So you do.

It's another hour before the soup is done and your family eats it, and then you’re putting your shoes on, retracing last night’s steps to Jay’s rental, the Tupperware he used for the rice cakes now cleaned and filled with your hangover cure. It takes a minute for him to open the door after you knock—you’re about to leave the soup at his door and turn back on your heels before it creaks open.

“Y/N?”

Everything about him is still veiled with sleep. His voice, deep and slightly groggy, his half-open eyes, his dishevelled hair, even his clothing—or lack thereof. You try not to stare at his naked upper body, but it’s hard not to when the realizations hit you that not only has he kept his habit of sleeping without a t-shirt, his torso has gotten impossibly more defined since the last time you saw it. You swear his shoulders didn’t use to be so broad.

But really, it’s the familiarity of the sight that has your head reeling so. How many times have you woken up to this Jay? He was always a morning person, and so the thought that he might still be sleeping at 10 a.m. hadn’t even crossed your mind. You hadn’t expected for such waves of memories to wash over you at the mere sight of him half-asleep.

He follows your gaze downwards, his own eyes widening. “Oh, sorry. Let me go grab a shirt.”

“No, it’s okay,” you blurt out, grabbing his wrist to stop him, and letting go of it just as quickly. “I only came here to give you this.” Jay looks down at the Tupperware in your hands like it’s an alien object. “It’s nothing fancy… just some noodles and vegetables. But it always makes me feel better after I’ve had too much to drink,” you explain, feeling more out of place with every word.

“Thank you,” he finally says, taking the container from your hands. “I think I might really need it.”

You try not to let it show, but you’ve never felt so helpless around him. Even when you were first getting to know each other, things had progressed so naturally, almost as if following a predetermined pattern, that there had been no room for shame, or embarrassment, or awkwardness. You’ve always prided yourself on your ability to take everything in stride—but this, this is putting a stoke in your wheels.

After all, when you last saw Jay, it wasn’t a goodbye, see you later, take care till then. It was meant to be a real adieu. Seeing him again undoes everything you had convinced yourself of these past few years: that you would both be better off that way, that if you truly loved someone, you’d know when to let them go, all sorts of inanities. You can’t accept that things could’ve gone differently.

“Well, I hope you enjoy it,” you say, unable to bring yourself to mirror the smile on his lips, before he can invite you in to have breakfast with him. You whisper, “Bye,” and take your leave under his watchful gaze.

.

.

A few days ago, Jay received a text from Jaemin, one of the few friends from culinary school he’s actually kept in touch with. It’s not like they call each other every day since graduating three years ago, but Jay isn’t surprised to see his name on his screen. All sorts of people have been reaching out to him lately—losing your mother will do that. He doesn’t even know how half of these people have heard of it.

Hey buddy, the text reads. I wanted to tell you how sorry I am about your mom. Call me if you need anything man. I mean it. 

Another one had come a few minutes later. Could you text me your address? I’d like to send you something.

It took Jay over a week to answer the many well-wishing messages flooding his inbox, but he got around to it eventually. When Ms. Lee, his dad’s house help, knocks on his bedroom door to tell him mail has arrived for him, he assumes it’s from Jaemin, although there is no sender information or return address. Everything sent as condolences for his mother, Ms. Lee takes care of. But this one is specifically addressed to him.

For lack of a better alternative, he is staying at his father’s apartment in Seoul until he finds his own place. He knows he couldn’t withstand staying by his lonesome in his mother’s apartment, surrounded by her things. Her absence would be overwhelming. If he stayed in a hotel room, he’d probably wither away. At least, here, he has one person worrying about him, making sure he eats his meals and gets some sunlight every day. He means Ms. Lee, of course—his father has become even more of a closed-off workaholic, as if that was even possible, in the two weeks since his ex-wife’s passing. 

He tears the envelope open, curious as to what Jaemin needed to send as a letter that he couldn’t have simply texted. Inside is a singular sheet of paper, folded in half. He takes it out, unfolds it. The sight of all-too familiar handwriting makes his heart stop. 

It’s a recipe for pine nut porridge. There’s just one word on the back: Eat.

In the three days between his mom’s death and her funeral, Jay barely stopped crying. His eyes were constantly achingly puffy, his nose perpetually red and runny. But since the day of the funeral, he hasn’t shed a single tear, as if he dried himself out, as if the tears and pity of others drained him. Now, holding the piece of paper that was in your hands just days ago, his body shakes with loud sobs.

He feels a twisted mix of sadness and hope. Your letter is at once a reminder of his loss, of his life without the two women he’s loved most, and a sign that he still exists in a corner of your mind. That you still care enough to do this. 

He remembers a conversation you’d once had about exes and past crushes. It was in the middle of a rainy night; he left the blinds to his bedroom up so that the only light you’d need was the one emanating from the moon and the stars, bright and fuzzy at the edges. Your head was resting on his chest and you were trailing your fingers up and down his arm when he asked if you ever thought about the men that came before him. You laughed, saying that he was the first man you’d ever been with, the others were boys. “And I don’t even mean that as an insult. We were so young,” you said. “I don’t think about them in the way you mean, no. But I do believe that with anyone you’ve ever loved, or even just held in your affections, you always carry a little bit of them with you afterwards.” 

He had felt jealous then, even though he understood what you meant perfectly and knew he wasn’t being rational. (He only stopped pouting when you said, “Of course you have nothing to worry about. I’ve never felt the way I feel about you with anyone else.”) But now, he’s glad for it. He pictures you, looking beautiful in your little corner of the world, wherever that is, with a little bit of him in your heart. He remembers the sunny day on which you met his mom, and he pictures you, four years later, hearing the news, writing down the recipe you knew by heart, sending it in the mail.

It’s only basic ingredients. Pine nuts are expensive, but he’s sure neither his father nor Ms. Lee will mind him using them. And so, for the first time in two weeks, he picks up a knife, and gets to cooking.

.

.

Jay has caught the flu. You’ve never seen him so pathetic.

Nestled under the covers of his bed, half of his face hidden, eyebrows furrowed as if he is in deep pain—stepping into his room, you first wonder whether it really is that serious, then you feel immediate guilt for accusing him of exaggerating, even if it was just in your head. You are so used to the men in your family, your brother especially, looking like they are on the verge of death when faced with the common cold. But Jay — reasonable, independent, reliable Jay — is the last person you know who’d play up being sick for pity or attention. 

“Here,” you say, putting a tray down on his bedside table. On it rests a bowl full of steaming, fragrant pine nut porridge that you’ve just prepared—easy to digest without being bland, it’s your grandmother’s go-to recipe for sickness of any sort.

“Thanks, baby.”

Even seeing him in his current state, you can’t help but tease him when the opportunity arises. “I think you’re the baby here.”

He manages a weak smile. “I hate that you have to see me like this. You shouldn’t feel like you have to take care of me, you know.”

“I know I don’t, but I want to.” You sit at the edge of his bed, gazing softly down at him as you brush away the hair that has stuck to his forehead with sweat. He can barely keep his eyes open, and his skin is alarmingly warm against your palm. “You’re still so hot. I mean your temperature, Jay,” you say, admonishing him slightly when his smile widens. He’s running a fever and still he’s able to see innuendos in your innocent words.

“Sorry,” he whispers. You pinch his earlobe. 

“Wait for the food to cool down, and hopefully it’ll make you feel a bit better. Just give me a shout if you need anything,” you say, rising from your seat.

“Wait, Y/N.”

“Mh-hm?”

He hesitates. “Will you stay?”

It isn’t like Jay to ask anything from you. In your four months of knowing each other, you’ve always been the one who overshares, who coyly asks for favors, who texts him at all times of day and night. He listens to your anecdotes from seven years ago, remembers the names of all your friends and family members, does everything you ask him, does things you didn’t even ask him, and never complains. You do it because you expect him to do the same in return, to rely on you as you do on him. Maybe if you bore him by recounting in excruciating detail what you did that day, and where you went, and who you saw, and what they told you, he’ll feel like he can share worries weighing on his mind or memories that come to him out of nowhere. Maybe if you make him go to the store to get green onions and butter, then make him go back because he got the wrong brand of butter, he’ll feel like he can call you at six in the morning because he needs a second opinion on whether his tie and socks match, or whatever it is that men care about fashion-wise.

It’s working, you think, albeit very slowly—after your first time bonding over drinks and fried food, it took him three weeks to mention his dad again. It was another two before he told you more about his childhood, his mother, his school years. You’re greedy for everything he has to offer—you’ve never been so curious about someone, never craved so intensely to know what was going in their mind at any given moment. If he actually got a penny each time you asked him, “Penny for your thoughts?” he wouldn’t be rich, but he’d have an impressive amount of useless coins. 

In your two months of dating, your efforts have become more visible. You don’t feel like you’re picking at an iceberg anymore, nor do you have to soften him up with alcohol and snacks. He always tells you what you want to know, and increasingly doesn’t need to be asked—you almost cried of happiness the day he started going on an unprompted monologue about how versatile and nutritious beans were, and how he could still taste the bean stew his grandmother had cooked once when he was eight and never again since. 

Compared to words, actions are a bit more complicated. While he seems to do anything you ask, he has a harder time doing the requesting. Small things maybe, can you fetch him the salt, can you peel the potatoes; but he’ll always be the one who drives the two of you somewhere, he’ll never let you carry any of the groceries, he’ll never ask you to move your head even if his arm is killing him, he’ll always let you pick the movie you watch or the food you eat. When you insist on cooking for him, he insists on helping out. You pushed him all the way to the living room once, but he was back in the kitchen within the minute.

All morning, he’s been adamant on you going home, because he can take care of himself, and you’ll get sick, and “Who’ll take care of you when you get sick?” as if he wouldn’t be glued to your bedside the entire time. Only after some time do you agree that you’ll stay in the living room and check on him every once in a while, then go with him to the doctor tomorrow if it’s still this bad.

So when, finally, he asks you if you will stay, there’s only one possible answer.

“Of course, baby.”

.

.

Jay quickly settles into a new sort of routine.

He wakes up around nine a.m. every day without the need for an alarm, which, to him, is the height of luxury. He takes his time eating breakfast and getting himself ready, then heads out of the apartment with the strict necessities in the pockets of his coat and an empty tote bag. By that time, Heeseung and his men have started work in the soon-to-be café, and he drops by, standing there unnecessarily, watching the progress happen in real time. Most days he stops by the convenience store nearby to buy them soft drinks and various snacks. Sometimes he stays with them until lunchtime, sometimes he walks around the neighborhood, greeting everyone he walks past, smiling to himself when he realizes that they’re increasingly more polite, friendlier, less apprehensive of him and his sudden arrival. Then it’s lunch and he goes to your restaurant, by himself or with Heeseung and his team, eats like a king, and if he’s lucky, you’ll tell him to wait until your shift is over and you’ll spend your afternoon break with him. If he isn’t, he’ll go home and diligently practice new recipes, or less so diligently watch reruns of The Great British Bake-Off and consider it research.

Thankfully, more often than not, you grace him with your presence for a few hours in the afternoon. Part of him feels bad and keeps on telling you to go get some rest if you feel too tired in-between shifts; part of him knows he would be devastated if you actually did. You show him where everything is, from the singular bus stop to the post office to the pharmacy. You take him to the beach a couple of times, sitting in the hard sand or venturing out to the water, wincing at how cold it is against your feet until one of you inevitably splashes the other one and a chase ensues, both of you quickly wound out of breath from too much running and laughing. It makes him wish he’d been a high schooler with you—they are such adolescent moments, and he wishes he could feel the total carefreeness of them, but the weight on his heart every time he looks at you is too heavy. He wishes he knew you from before, he wishes the feeling of having known you his entire life wasn’t just a feeling but reality. Seeing you in your hometown is one step closer to that, but when he sees you talking to Heeseung and remembers that Heeseung knew you as a seven-year-old, scraped his knees on the same pavement, sat in the same classrooms listening to the same teachers, jealousy rears its ugly head and makes his stomach twist.

Sometimes the time spent with you is tinted with such sadness that he wishes he’d never met you, so that this could be a real fresh start for the both of you, but these thoughts never stay long. He reminds himself that finding you again is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity that he won’t waste on melancholy and what-ifs. 

So he forces himself not to dwell on the past, but it’s a tough resolution to uphold when most of your conversations revolve around it. Of course, you tell each other about your plans for the future, where you want to go with the restaurant and how he plans on running the café, but catching up seems to be the priority for the both of you. Jay is reassured by the amount of questions you ask him—you seem to want to be filled in on the years of his life you weren’t a part of as much as he does yours. He’s somewhat surprised at how easy it is to talk to you again. Only somewhat, because he can’t imagine feeling anything but absolutely himself around you, with a few instances of the nervousness and self-conscious awkwardness that only your gaze could provoke in him, but still surprised, because every time he thought about meeting you again, he was sure your break-up would hang like a sword over your heads, threatening to make every interaction stilted and uncomfortable.

You don’t talk about the break-up. It’s there, somewhere in the air between you, but you don’t call it by its name. And actually, anything that has to do with your relationship, past or present, isn’t mentioned. Jay is too afraid to bring it up in fear of breaking the connection, fragile as it may be, that you’ve reestablished over his first week of being here. Instead, he tells you about the kitchens he worked in, about life in France, about how much better the Seoul metro is than the London underground, and don’t even get him started on the Parisian métro, but he doesn’t tell you about how much he missed you at that time and how he wanted to share every little thing with you but couldn’t. So now, he does: the ridiculously cheap baguettes and pastries, the ridiculously expensive rent, the omnipresence of and accessibility to culture, “and the food, oh my God, the food, you would’ve lost your mind.” You smile at this, a small, sad smile, and Jay regrets everything he’s ever said. He almost says something like, “You deserved it more than I did,” but before he can, you say that that sounds nice.

You tell him that your life hasn’t been as fun as his since leaving culinary school, but he absorbs every detail you give him, no matter how small, and wants nothing more than a step-by-step recap of what you’ve been up to since the last time he saw you. You’ve mostly been running the restaurant, which requires the sort of time and energy your grandmother simply doesn’t have anymore. She thankfully hasn’t had another fall since the first one five years ago, but the toll on her health has been so great that the days where she is both physically and mentally sound enough to help you in the kitchen are fewer and further between. About three years ago, you found someone to hold down the fort while you enrolled at the nearest culinary school and completed the credits you needed to get your Restauranteur’s Certificate. The prestige of that school was nowhere near that of the one in Seoul, and arguably you didn’t even need it, because you wouldn’t be applying to work at restaurants other than Kim’s Kitchen, but it was more of a principle thing and everyone in your family insisted on you getting it. 

“That’s about it, I think,” you say dismissively. If you’ve missed him, you don’t tell him.

It’s not like either of you tries to hide it, but of course, people are quick to notice how often you and Jay are seen together, despite his very recent arrival. Even though you’d complained of it many times when you and Jay dated, the extent to and speed with which gossip spreads in this town comes as a shock to him. It starts with seemingly harmless questions from Heeseung and the three men that work with him. At first, they’re simple questions about himself, where is he from, what did he do before coming here, why did he come here, how is he liking it, does he know anyone—their curiosity knows no bounds. They’re usually unsatisfied with surface-level, one-sentence answers. And just when he thinks they’re satiated, the mere mention of you gets them going again, oh how did the two of you meet, did you get along, did you know she lives here?

When he asks you how he should reply to such inquiries, you instruct him to do as he feels. “Be ready for everyone to be in your business no matter what, but it’ll be even worse if you tell them we dated. I’m used to that kind of talk, but I don’t know how you’ll feel about it. Well, you’ve received media attention, so you know what it’s like.”

Media attention is something of an overstatement. As a kid, he appeared a few times on his dad’s cooking show, and since then, he’s been interviewed for a grand total of three food-centered magazine articles. He can’t say he “knows what it’s like,” because no one has ever cared about his personal life, let alone his love life.

But Jay isn’t a great liar. And while part of him doesn’t want to lie or even omit the truth about your relationship — he’s very proud of having once had the honor of calling you his girlfriend — he also doesn’t want to barge into your hometown and be an annoyance to you. So the first time Heeseung asks him what kind of relationship the two of you had, before he’s had the chance to discuss it with you, he errs on the safe side and says “We were… friends.” But his tone is a dead giveaway, and Heeseung just replies with a dubitative, “Interesting.”

Within days, the word has spread that he’s not just the odd tourist in the off-season. No, this guy is here to stay, the whispers around him seem to say, all polite nods and friendly smiles when he turns to look at them. When he brings it up, you give him a look that says I told you so and remind him not to mind them, that it’ll blow over the minute something else interesting happens.

Except Sojuk-ri is not a place where interesting things abound, especially at the end of September when all the excitement and busyness of summer is slowly fading. And so the braver ones start to show themselves. He’ll be eating at your restaurant, and the people sitting at the tables nearby will engage him in redundant conversations. “The food here is good, right? Y/N is a great cook and a lovely girl. I heard the two of you met at school? What brings you here, if not her?” He has the feeling that making a bad first impression in a place like this would be social suicide, so he answers as cordially as he can, hoping they’ll back off when they realize he won’t be giving them any information they haven’t heard already.

But they don’t. Older gentlemen will be standing arms crossed or hands clasped behind them right in front of his shop, watching as Heeseung and his team work. When he arrives, without fail, they’ll go, “Ah! So you’re Jay. What an unconventional name. And what are you planning on opening here?” He’ll explain that he goes by his English name rather than his Korean one since coming back from living in Seattle as a kid and liking the sound of Jay more than Jongseong. He’ll tell them that he’s turning the old bookstore into a café downstairs, and an apartment for him upstairs. They’ll either wonder out-loud what their town might do with a café, or celebrate the arrival of a new business in the area. “If you sell iced drinks in the summer, you’ll make a ton of money!” they’ll say with a big smile and a slightly-too-harsh tap to his shoulder.

Their female counterparts aren’t much better. When the weather allows it, they gather under the gazebo, sharing snacks and trading gossip—Just like on TV, Jay thinks the first time he sees them like this. If he happens to pass them by, one of them will stop him, a stranger calling his name with unsettling familiarity, and wave him over. Something about them tells him it’ll do him no good to ignore them. And truthfully, he quickly comes to not mind and even enjoy these encounters; it’s only a matter of getting used to their overbearing nosiness. They want to know all the basic stuff, of course, where’re you from, what’re you doing here, what’s your relationship with Y/N, but it’s the juicier details they ooh and ahh at, what do your parents do, oh, poor thing, how did she die, is that why you moved here, and anyways what’s your relationship with our Y/N? Of course, they don’t buy it that the two of you never dated: from his reddening cheeks to his loss of composure, anyone with two eyes and their head screwed on right can tell that saying, “We were good friends,” is one hell of an understatement. Embarrassingly quickly, he buckles under the pressure. They coax the truth out of him with persistent questions and persimmon slices.

“I guess we did date for a little bit,” he admits the second time one of these run-ins happens.

“Ah, see! We knew you weren’t telling us everything. And how long were you together?”

“Six months,” he mumbles, hiding his shy smile behind the cup of barley tea they’d poured him. To these women who have been married for as long as or even longer than he’s been alive, six months must be laughable. But to Jay, those six months were never topped—in intensity, happiness, or length.

They collectively ‘aw’ at him, expressions of endearment — and pity, Jay thinks — on their faces. “You’re still in love with her, aren’t you?” one of them asks, more a statement than a question. He looks down at the cup, warm in his hands, smile faltering. In their eyes, he seems to turn from a cute, excitable puppy, into a pitiful one. “It’s okay!” they reassure him. “You’re here now, you can get her back. She hasn’t dated anyone since she’s come back from Seoul, you know!” 

He only manages to create a believable lie when they ask how things ended. “It was a mutual decision. She had to move back here to help out at the restaurant, I was going to Paris, it would’ve been too hard to stay together while we were so far apart.”

When he says he has to go, they don’t hold him back.

Unfortunately for Jay, the seventeen-year-olds are as interested in his love life as the seventy-year-olds. He’s scouring through the ‘1 paperback for 1000 won’ section outside of the second-hand bookstore when he hears them. Giggles, at first. Then hushed whispers, light slaps on arms, “You go talk to him,” “No, you go.” Approaching footsteps. A finger taps his shoulder twice, someone clears their throat behind him, and he turns around, expecting the worst. It comes in the form of a young girl, still in her school uniform.

“Yes?” he says, as politely as he can despite his frustration growing at the prospect of repeating the same conversation he’s been having for the past week. The girl, Yewon, if the name tag on her navy blazer speaks the truth, seems to forget what she meant to say, and just stares at Jay wide-eyed for a few unbearably awkward seconds. Her two friends have stayed behind, some feet away from her and Jay, and it takes one of them yelling “C’mon!” for her to remember what she came here for.

“Um, you’re Jay, right?”

“I am, yes.”

“And you used to be Y/N-unnie’s boyfriend?” It’s asked with such a perfect mix of straightforwardness and clumsiness that Jay can’t help but smile.

“Indeed.”

Her eyes widen again and she whips her head backwards, nodding frantically at her friends who gasp and slap each other’s arms. “And do you have a girlfriend right now?”

“No, I don’t.”

“So, are you and Y/N-unnie going to date again?”

That takes him longer to answer. “I don’t know. This is the first time we’ve seen each other in five years.”

For approximately three seconds, Yewon looks like she’s never heard more crushing news. Then, her features return to normal, and she says, “Okay! Thanks, bye,” and runs back to her friends, three black heads walking away as they whisper conspiratorially to themselves. Jay isn’t sure what to do with himself for a few moments afterwards.

But the most embarrassing of these moments by far is when his landlady shows up at his door one late afternoon, behind her two women with eyes exactly like yours beaming right at him. “I have friends who’d like to meet you,” she exclaims, and walks in without Jay’s invitation. It is her house, after all. “I’ll prepare some tea!”

While she busies herself in the small kitchen, the two women step inside. The younger one shakes his hand vigorously, a huge smile on her face as she introduces herself as Mrs. Ryu, your mother, and the other woman as Mrs. Kim, of Kim’s Kitchen fame, your grandmother, who just bows her head politely, smiling serenely. Quickly recovering from the shock of three women, two of them strangers, appearing at his doorstep, he bows back, bending from the waist, then shows them to the living room. He hands them cushions to sit down, awkwardly waiting for one of them to say something as he settles across the coffee table from them. Your grandmother just looks out of the window, peaceful as ever, while your mother asks question after question, the same ones as everyone else, and nods at every answer he gives, like they’re a confirmation of what she already knows, like she just wants to hear it for herself. The way her eyes never once leave his makes him doubt whether she has some sort of mind-reading, lie-detecting ability. 

Jay prides himself in his capacity to adapt to any situation, to just go with the flow and make others feel easy around him—but this is too much, even for him. He doesn’t know what to say, where to look, what to do with his hands. Before he himself knows what he’s doing, he stands up and excuses himself to the bathroom. He locks the door behind him, looks at his reflection in the mirror, hoping it’ll give him an answer as to what the fuck is happening, to no avail. He texts you instead, and is surprised when you answer right away.

Jay Hey

Your mother and grandmother are at my apartment?

Y/N Are you asking or telling me this?

Jay Both

Y/N Lol

That’s what you get for going around town telling everyone we used to be together

I had to have an awkward convo with them yesterday, your turn now

Good luck!

Jay Aren’t you going to help me out?

Y/N Nope

:) 

So that’s useless. He was hoping you’d tell him why they had come to see him or whether there were things he shouldn’t say, but all you’ve done is let him know an “awkward convo” was on the way. When he comes back to the living room, your mother is still looking at him expectantly, only tearing her gaze away from him to thank Mrs. Yoon for pouring her a cup of steaming green tea.

“Jay, you’ve always lived in big cities, haven’t you?” Mrs. Yoon asks as he takes a seat next to her. When he nods, she smiles compassionately. “You must not be used to this kind of attention. I hope no one’s offended you.”

He chuckles. Not used to it is one way to put it. “It’s definitely been… surprising.”

Your mother and Mrs. Yoon laugh. Your grandmother smiles, and her features are so similar to yours that Jay feels like he gets a glimpse into the future for a millisecond. “This is just our way of welcoming you,” Mrs. Yoon explains. “Newcomers are rare around here… Old-timers like us, we’re used to knowing people your age from the moment you’re born. I know it might seem overbearing, but we can’t help but be curious about you.”

“Especially when it turns out that you know my daughter quite well,” Mrs. Ryu says, a knowing glint in her eyes as she peers at Jay over her teacup. His tea goes down the wrong pipe. His guests laugh as he does his best not to spit liquid all over them. “I’m not here to admonish you, Jay, if that’s what you’re scared of. Or lecture you, or anything of the sort.” She puts her cup down with a sigh. “Y/N has always told me about everything going on in her life. When my children were growing up, I made sure to be someone they could always come to to talk about anything, good or bad. It’s worked out to varying degrees between the three of them, but Y/N has never been one to hide things from me.” Here, she gives Jay a look he can’t quite decipher. “And yet, I only really learned about you yesterday.”

Today is nothing but surprises for Jay. He knows how close you are to your mother—he remembers the frequent calls you’d make to her, the way you’d mention her as often as you would any friend, the way you’d always say, “I’ll just ask my mom about it,” whenever you encountered a problem, no matter how big or small. It doesn’t make sense that she wasn’t aware you had dated someone for six months.

“I thought you knew Y/N had a… a boyfriend in Seoul,” he says, feeling oddly uneasy referring to himself that way in front of your mother.

“Oh, I did, I did. Don’t worry, I haven’t forgotten that she made you say hello a few times on the phone,” she says, laughing. The amusement on her face quickly fades, however. “But things haven’t been quite the same since she came back. Of course, everything happened so quickly back then, and we were all so worried, it just wasn’t the time to talk about relationships.” She turns her head to Mrs. Kim, takes her hand between both of hers, and your grandmother closes her eyes, her lips stretched in that calm, unwavering smile. Jay wonders whether she’s been listening to the conversation at all. “She was… She was sad. And not just because her grandma was injured and she had to leave school, I could tell. It was a difficult time for her. I should’ve been there more.”

“Don’t blame yourself, Seokja,” Mrs. Yoon chimes in. “You had to take care of your mother.” Your grandmother opens her eyes and smiles at her daughter.

“I know. It wasn’t easy for any of us, that’s true. We all had a lot on our shoulders, but I think Y/N took the brunt of it. And she never complained. Well, now she does, but she never did back then. Anyways, it took me a month to realize that something else was going on with her, why she seemed so… listless. It was only when I asked that I learned you two had broken up. She wasn’t even answering her friend’s call, Sumin, I think her name was?”

Jay doesn’t want to hear this. He knows your mother means no harm, but your unhappiness after the break-up is the last thing he wants to talk about this morning, or ever, really. Because of course, it brings him right back to his own unhappiness back then, nesting itself in every last crevice of his body and soul, reminding him of how it made every day feel the same, every food bland, every color dull. Even before he arrived here and saw you, it’s been a committed effort of his not to think of that period of his life, not to reopen the wounds that have taken so long to heal. What’s the point? He doesn’t want for one unfortunate event to taint his memories of your time together. He wants to remember the feeling of making you laugh, the sight of you in the morning, all dishevelled hair and warm skin under the sheets, the sound of your humming while you cooked. Your break-up he locked up in a box and pushed all the way to the back of the closet, only reopening it late at night when melancholy comes in sleep’s stead.

He has forbidden himself, and he’s done his very best at it, to think of how you were feeling. Naturally, he was dying to know how you were—doing as awfully as him, or letting life go on as if nothing happened? Did images of him appear in your head at random times of your day, memories you thought forgotten suddenly resurfacing, or did he never cross your mind? All these questions and uncertainties only hurt him more. He texted you once, a week after you left. A simple How are you?, forever unanswered, because you blocked him immediately. His phone number, all his social media, everything. He didn’t try, but he assumed he wouldn’t even be able to contact you by email. And so, for the five years that followed, he tried to limit his thoughts of you to moments you had really shared, to focus on the tangible rather than the imagined. It stung too, of course, but somewhat less.

She was sad. Listless. In just a few words, your mom has undone all of his efforts.

“Back then, all she told me was that you weren’t together anymore. I tried asking her once more later, but she reacted so badly that I never mentioned it again. All that to say, the town gossip made its way to us, and it’s only yesterday that she told us everything that happened.” He looks down at the contents of his teacup. “Oh, Jay,” she says, letting go of her mother’s hand to grab his. Jay is mortified to feel tears pooling in his eyes at the unexpected gesture. At least now he knows who you get your empathy and kindness from. “I know this is not a fun conversation to have. And I know it must’ve been hard for you, too.” 

He nods, dropping his head even further down. She pats the back of his hand.

“It hasn’t been easy, no. But… I’m happy I get to see her again.”

Your mother mirrors his small smile. “I think she is, too,” she whispers, and he can tell she means it. He dares to believe it’s the truth—the opposite would be too painful.

“I found her crying in the kitchen the day she saw you for the first time,” your grandma says. So she was listening this whole time.

“Mom!” Mrs. Ryu exclaims just as Jay echoes, “Crying?”

“Oh, they weren’t sad tears. I don’t think so, at least. I think she was just shocked. Overcome with emotion, if you will,” she explains, addressing Jay a polite smile. “And this kind of emotion means something, don’t you think?”

The three women look at him like they know something he doesn’t.

It’s a lot to process at once. In the past five years, he’s been realistic enough to not delude himself into thinking you were either crying yourself to sleep every night since the break-up or not sparing him a single thought. He knew, or in some ways hoped, at least, that you were dealing with it like him: that there were good and bad days, that you wished things could’ve ended some other way, or not at all, but that you mostly tried to look at what was to come rather than what was left behind. 

And today, on an otherwise peaceful Saturday morning, he’s gotten the confirmation that you suffered. That it wasn’t easy then, that there seem to be unresolved feelings now. What is Jay meant to do with this knowledge? It doesn’t make him happy. He could never be happy knowing you were, or are, in pain. Part of his ego might be comforted in knowing he wasn’t alone in his pain, but the bigger part of him that still longs for you would rather you forget about him and move on than hold onto him and hurt.

He doesn’t know what to say, so he stays quiet, takes a sip of the bitter, over-brewed tea. This doesn’t seem to bother his guests.

The silence doesn’t last long—four heads whip in the direction of the door as it creaks open. “Mom, Grandma, keep this behavior up and I’m sticking you both in the retirement home. Don’t count on me to take care of you,” you say as you walk into the apartment without so much as a knock. Relief washes over Jay as he watches you take your shoes off and make your way to the living room, meeting his eyes and shaking your head as if to apologize for your forebears. Your grandma contents herself with closing her eyes again and turning towards the window, letting the sunlight hit her face, a smile on her lips. If being old means you get to check out of conversations at any given moment without appearing rude, Jay doesn’t much mind aging. 

“I’m not of retiring age yet, honey. We’ll talk about that later,” your mom says. “Plus, we weren’t doing anything wrong, just… getting to know our new neighbor. Isn’t that right, Jay?”

“We live across town, we’re not neighbors,” you say before Jay can reply.

“Please, everyone in this town is a neighbor.”

Jay is happy to fall back and watch you and your mother’s back-and-forth, with interferences from Mrs. Yoon here and there. You’re here; you came. Jay really thought you were going to leave him alone in this, but here you are in the flesh—why? To make sure your mother wouldn’t reveal something embarrassing about you, as if anything anyone said could change his opinion of you? Or perhaps, to protect him in some way, to tell him, If we’re going to do this, we’re going to do it together?

He meets your gaze from across the table. It lasts just a fraction of a second, but there’s a glint in your eyes, something like the complicity he thought he’d lost all those years ago. He allows himself to think you’re here for him.

You manage to shift the topic of the conversation away from you and Jay, and he feels like he can breathe properly again. There wasn’t that interrogation-like quality that sometimes comes with meeting the family to his discussion with your mother and grandmother, but he is glad nonetheless to not be the subject at hand anymore, and can talk more freely now that every word directed at him doesn’t feel like added weight on his shoulders.

Fifteen minutes later, there isn’t a drop left in the teapot and the conversation naturally comes to an end. Your mother looks around at everyone and, with a smile, says, “Well, I think we’ve inconvenienced you enough, Jay. Sorry for bursting in like this again.”

“It’s all good,” he replies, and means it.

“You should come around for dinner soon, okay?”

“I will, thank you.”

A few more niceties in this vein are exchanged, Mrs. Yoon says she will drop off some side dishes for him sometime during the week, as if he is a starving, overworked college student and not a classically trained chef. Your grandmother tells him she’ll go check that “the boys are doing a good job fixing up your café.” 

You stay behind. Jay doesn’t know if the three women are exceptionally good at reading the room, or if he missed some silent signal of understanding between you and them, but they don’t question your not following them. The sudden quietness makes Jay feel like a giant in a too-small space, a room that can’t possibly contain the two of you.

And yet. You sigh and head back to the living room, going for the couch rather than the cushions on the floor, but Jay can’t bring himself to join you, and so sits back at the same spot from earlier.

“Seriously, Jay?” you say, chuckling, but he detects an actual trace of annoyance in your voice. Unable to hide your thoughts as always. You pat a spot on the couch next to you. “Come here.”

But Jay doesn’t move. Can’t. All he can do when he looks at you is search for traces of grief. He had five years to work out all of his feelings around your breakup, and he thought he had sorted through everything, gone through all the phases. Seeing you again, he feels like he has to start over. The past week hasn’t felt real, he thinks. He thinks it so hard, he says it out loud, only realizing what he did when he sees your expression soften.

“It’s been weird, hasn’t it?”

“Weird is one way to put it, yeah.”

There’s a pause, during which he spends every second worrying about what sort of turn this conversation will take.

“Is this a good time to talk about the elephant in the room, then?” you finally say.

He looks around, eyebrows furrowed with worry. “There’s an elephant in this room?!” he whispers.

You burst into laughter. “I see your humor hasn’t improved over time.”

“Seeing as you’re laughing, I’d say yours hasn’t, either.”

“Touché.”

Silence settles between the two of you again, creeps inside Jay, makes him wait for your next words with bated breath. 

He had a feeling that all the skirting around the subject you’d been doing would come to this. It’s not that you’re pretending it didn’t happen, that would be impossible, for him, at least—he looks at you and he’s transported back to Seoul five years ago, at school, in one of your apartments, in the streets after dark. But you haven’t been actively tackling it either and with every passing day, the weight of unspoken words grows, making every conversation, every look at you harder and harder to navigate. This is new for the two of you, who in your six months of being together, had mastered the art of communicating—you never didn’t speak to each other. You especially were good at saying what was on your mind without ever being hurtful, and you’d helped Jay stop bottling his feelings up when he thought he could get over them himself and not have to trouble you with them.

Nothing you say could ever burden me, baby, you’d told him. I want to know everything that goes through your head. 

And many things have changed since then, but maybe this hasn’t—the look you have in your eyes now is the same one as then, soft and inviting, aware that conversations aren’t always as easy as they are necessary. 

“You’re here,” you say after some time. Jay was so caught up in his own thoughts, entire minutes could’ve passed without his noticing. You spoke so quietly, he wonders if he imagined it until you add, “You’re in Sojuk-ri.”

He smiles, stops himself from replying with something annoying like What an astute observation, Y/N, it would only be stalling. So, for lack of a better alternative, and because he assumes you have more to say, he whispers, “I am.”

“We used to date.”

Jay isn’t sure where you’re going with this. He nods, unable to suppress a grin. “We did, yeah,” he replies, louder this time.

“Then I broke up with you.”

A chuckle escapes his lips. “You’re on fire this morning,” he says, because he can’t help himself, and warmth envelops his heart at the sound of your laughter.

“I just want to recontextualise.”

“Woah, big words.”

“Big word, singular. And shut up. I’m trying to be serious, here,” you chide, still smiling.

“Sorry.”

A sudden shadow passes over your face, making your eyebrows furrow, your smile disappear. Jay’s heart drops, his feelings, as always, a mirror of yours. You rise from your seat on the couch and make your way to him. Every step you take echoes inside of him and grows louder as the distance separating you decreases. Then you’re standing in front of him, and he looks up at you, and there’s something like a magnet under his skin, desperately reaching out for yours, that makes his hand wrap around your ankle. His eyes stay trained on your face as you lower yourself to the ground and cross your legs. If you mind his touch, you don’t say or show it. 

“You’re right, it doesn’t feel real,” you say. Your eyes sweep his face, focus on one part at a time. You simply stare at him for a moment as though trying to convince yourself that it is, indeed, real, that he is really there, not a figment of your imagination but a person whose flesh and bones used to be as familiar as your own. He lets you look to your heart’s content, because it allows him to look at you, too.

His loose grip around your ankle tightens ever so slightly and you look down at his hand as if suddenly noticing its presence there. After a second of what seems to Jay like hesitation, you place your hand atop his. “Would you still have moved here if you knew this was where I lived?”

“I would’ve come here years ago, if I knew,” he says with a small smile.

You furrow your eyebrows. “You didn’t even try calling.”

This takes him aback. Was that what you’d wanted? “I texted you, and you blocked me right away.”

The crease between your brows deepens. “I know.”

“You also didn’t try calling.”

“I sent you a letter.”

For some reason, it astonishes Jay that in all of five years, communication between the two of you amounted to one unanswered text and a letter with no return address. “You did. That was nice of you.”

Finally, this gets a smile, albeit subdued, out of you. “I know.”

“If I’d managed to call you somehow, would you have picked up?”

“Yes,” you say immediately. Then, “No. I don’t know.” Then, in a smaller voice, “It hurts too much to think about the other ways it could’ve gone. The better ways.”

Jay sighs, tucking a stray strand of hair behind your ear. “Then let’s not think about them. It won’t do us any good.”

Your eyes meet. The sadness in yours tugs at his heartstrings. “Are you mad at me?” you ask, the tremble in your voice making it sound like you’re on the verge of crying, and it’s all Jay can do not to take you in his arms and hold you tight against his chest.

“No. Not at all,” he says, and he hopes his tone alone is enough to convince you. 

The magnet under his skin is uncontrollable. It raises Jay’s hand from where it was resting on your shoulder to your face, makes it cup your cheek, makes his thumb swipe slowly across your skin, right where tears are threatening to fall, as if preventing them.

“I tried being mad at you,” he says. “I tried a bunch of emotions. Sadness. Indifference. Nostalgia. But anger made things so much worse. It didn’t feel right, because I’d never been angry with you before. And it felt… It felt like admitting things could’ve gone differently. It felt like grieving a version of us that never existed because it never got the chance to. I decided to focus on the actual memories we had, and remember them fondly, instead of wasting my energy on being angry.”

A single tear falls from your right eye, wetting the top of Jay’s thumb. “I understand why you did what you did, Y/N,” he continues. “You had your reasons. You handled everything the best you could. It hurt like hell, but I can’t be mad at you for that.”

Jay doesn’t have to hold himself back from embracing you; you do it for him. Arms wound tightly around his neck, face in the crook of his neck, you quite literally cry on his shoulder. He hadn’t realized how close he himself was to crying until tears start falling freely from his eyes, mouth trembling as they gather at his jaw before dropping down the back of your t-shirt. Between sobs, you say, “I’m sorry. Even if you aren’t angry, I’m so sorry, Jay.”

He has never expected anything from you, least of all an apology. Yet hearing those words heals some of the fissures in his heart, puts the pieces back together like superglue. He doesn’t need or want a repeat of your break-up conversation, and he doubts you do. He doesn’t want to hear how staying together wouldn’t have been a possibility, how you’d both have too much going on, how you were too young to hold each other back, how the distance between France and South Korea was too substantial to dismiss.

He wraps his arms around your waist and brings you closer to him. Closing his eyes and trying not to let your proximity overwhelm him, he strokes your hair, rubs your back, tells you it’s all okay. “Don’t apologize, baby,” he says, the nickname unwittingly slipping from his lips. “We’re here now, that’s all that matters, isn’t it?” He feels you nod against his shoulder, but your sobs don’t relent.

Would it be very wrong if Jay said he missed having you like this? Of course, he hates to see you unhappy, but there’s a part of him that has always been endeared by the sight of you crying. If he could, he'd destroy whatever's upsetting you in a heartbeat, but at the same time, he can't help but selfishly rejoice in the fact that it's him you go to for comfort. It’s in his arms that you find what it is you need to get over what’s troubling you; under his touch that you slowly calm down.

He doesn’t know how long the two of you stay like this, nor does he care, but at some point, you lean back and take a deep, stabilising breath. Jay feels a page turn when your eyes meet—there might be no way to change the past, but the future is a blank canvas, the cursor at the start of a new document, and it’s up to the two of you how you want to write it.

You smile, and so does he. “I missed you,” you say.

“I missed you, too.”

There are more things to be said, but you’re both talked out. You have so much time ahead of you anyway.

.

.

The party started an hour ago, and Jay wants to leave already.

Not because it’s boring, the music bad, the conversation dull—not at all. If anything, this is a good party. One of the more fun ones he’s been to. On a regular day, he’d have no intention to leave until the early hours of the morning. But this isn’t a regular day, because you’re here, and somehow look prettier than you ever have before. Jay doesn’t know what it is—your hair, your outfit, your makeup, or maybe you’re secretly a witch able to cast beauty spells that work on already unfairly beautiful people such as yourself. He can’t stop looking at you, can’t stop searching for you in every room he walks into, and he tells himself that it’s because there really is something different about you tonight, ignoring the voice at the back of his mind telling him to quit finding excuses. 

He finds you in the kitchen pouring yourself a drink, on your own for the first time tonight. “Hey,” he says when he’s close enough for you to hear him. He stands next to you at the kitchen counter. You look at him, smile, and return his greeting, in a small voice that he likes to think is intimate. Instead of loudly talking over the loud music like everyone else, you lean into each other and speak in low tones.

“I’m glad to see you,” you say.

“Me too,” he says, a grin he can’t suppress on his lips. “Any particular reason?”

You look around the room. “Just… this week was a lot, and I thought a crowded party like this was what I needed, but it turns out I was wrong. I’m way too tired to socialize with people I barely know. It’s nice to see a familiar face.”

As much as he likes to distance himself from most of his peers, at the end of the day, Jay, too, is just a man. A lot of his bedtime scenarios with you revolve around being your knight in shining armor in one way or another. Were they usually more dramatic than saving you from a tiring party? Yes, especially if he’d watched a superhero movie that evening. Nevertheless, he sees his chance, and couldn’t be quicker to grab it. “Do you wanna get out of here?”

The rest of the evening feels like a movie. Jay thinks that when he looks back to this moment, he’ll remember it as slightly fuzzy around the edges, like the two beers he had during the party gave a delightful haziness to the rest of his night. He feels light-headed just looking at you.

After quickly thanking and saying goodbye to the host, a classmate of yours who’s drunk enough not to be suspicious of your leaving together at ten pm, you walk around the streets of Seoul. The sky above you is dark and starless, but the many restaurant, bar and shop signs are so brightly lit it might as well be the middle of the day. There are about as many people as you would expect on a Saturday night in Hongdae, but Jay likes being there with you, feeling as happy as the smiling partygoers around him look, guiding you through the crowd with a hand on your lower back. You eventually reach the Han River, content to laugh at each other’s silly anecdotes and talk about a myriad of topics until hunger gets the best of you and you settle on finding the nearest fried chicken shop.

You’re both quieter as you eat—you jokingly remark that the two of you must’ve been really hungry, but Jay has something else on his mind. He tries not to stare at you too openly, but it’s a struggle: when the thing that’s been at the center of all your thoughts for the past few weeks is sitting right in front of you, it’s hard to do anything other than look at it.

It isn’t especially hard to know how you feel. Unless Jay likes you so much that he’s deluded himself into thinking the sentiment was reciprocated, he really doesn’t think you are immune to him. He’s made sure not to fall into the trap of ‘she isn’t into you, she’s just nice’ by paying attention to the small things: the smile that you try in vain to suppress whenever he compliments you, the way you stand closer than necessary when you work together in his or your kitchen, the small, innocent touches to his arm that linger, especially when you’ve had a couple of drinks. He doesn’t assume you’re in love with him because you laughed at a joke he made once. Rather, he’s observed, compared, spent hours sitting on his couch, looking into the distance, analysing. He’s come to the conclusion that you won’t slap him in the face and kick him in the balls if he makes a move.

At least, he really, really hopes so.

He pays for the food and you head out together, both seemingly more contemplative and lost in your thoughts than when you came in earlier. Without a word, you start walking in the direction of the subway station, and after a minute or two of intense self-pep-talking, Jay finally manages to take your hand in his. You react to his touch immediately, fingers interlacing with his with all the ease in the world. It’s near destabilising, how naturally your hands seem to fit together. For the rest of the way, the two of you exchange glances and smiles, and Jay almost runs into passersby and poles every fifty meters. 

The next train arrives in five minutes. Jay keeps your hand in his as he turns to face you, and you mirror him, gently swinging your arms back-and-forth between your bodies. You look down at them, smiling, while he keeps his gaze trained on your face, smiling, too. He can’t see himself, but if he could, he’s sure the unbridled affection he’s currently feeling for you would be evident in his features. His heart is overflowing with unfamiliar but somehow comforting emotion, and he feels, at this moment, to a disconcerting degree of certainty, that he will never love someone quite as much as he loves you.

Three words burn the tip of his tongue, and he’s desperate to do something, anything, really, that will make you see how his entire being aches for you. But with your hand in his, he feels paralyzed, like a cat has fallen asleep in his lap and the slightest movement will wake it up. All he can do is stand there and control his breathing, a task that becomes complicated when you look up at him, a sheepish smile on your lips.

“Do you wanna come over for ramen?” you ask, voice a mere whisper, keeping your conversation private amidst the busy subway station. You just ate, so he isn’t particularly hungry, but he has an inkling you aren’t really offering ramen.

Jay doesn’t know what he expected, but it certainly wasn’t for you to drop the facade the moment he steps inside your apartment. You don’t even give him the time to shrug his coat off or rid himself of his shoes, and you certainly don’t pretend like you’re going to prepare some ramen—the second the door closes behind him, you turn around, grab his face in your hands, and press your lips to his. Just like with your hands earlier, his body reacts to you before he can even comprehend it. Maybe it’s because he's imagined this moment so many times, reality has become indiscernible from his daydreams, and he knows exactly what to do; he’d rather think it’s because the two of you are meant for each other. 

His eyes close and his palms rise to meet the dip of your waist, pulling you towards him with such unintentional intensity that the two of you stumble backwards until his back hits your door. You press your body against his, stomach to stomach, chest to chest, mouths never straying apart, but it’s somehow not enough, and he wraps his arms around you in a futile attempt to meld your bodies to each other.

You stand there for who knows how long, Jay has better things to do than count the seconds, but long enough for your stillness — only your lips have been moving — to make the sensory light of your entryway turn off, leaving you in darkness. This seems to pull you out of your trance, and centimeter by centimeter, you lean back, gaze riveted on Jay’s lips, then his eyes. They meet only momentarily. Your arms were wrapped around his neck, and now, stepping back once, you let your palms glide over the length of his arms until they reach his hands. You keep them there as you look down at the ground.

“Sorry,” you say, and Jay can’t find a single reason on Earth why you should be apologising. “I thought that if I didn’t do that now, I’d never find the courage to.”

He smiles, and, taken by a sudden surge of confidence, raises a hand to cup your face and make you look at him. “I’m glad you did.” He bends down to trap your lips in another kiss, softer this time, slower, because now that he knows you won’t slip through his fingers like sand, he wants to take his time. 

He hopes he’s not being too cheeky when he asks, “Where’s your bedroom?”, each word whispered against your lips. To his great relief, you don’t seem to find him impertinent, smiling as you lead him to your room.

Something stops him on the threshold while you turn on the lamp on your bedside table. The room is bathed in a warm, golden glow, and the light reflects perfectly on your bare skin as you lift your sweater over your head, leaving your top half covered by nothing but a bra. Jay doesn’t mean to stare, but he does—the mere sight of you has him breathing heavily, his muscles contracting in anticipation. Nothing outside of this room is of any importance to him in this moment—only this is, only you are. He walks towards you, more single-minded than he’s ever been.

One hand on your lower back, the other cupping the side of your face, he stands close enough to feel your rugged breath against his lips, but doesn’t lean in any further, simply taking the time to look at you. The unbridled lust in your eyes, your agape mouth—he knows he’s the one making you feel this way but can’t bring himself to believe it. “You’re beautiful,” he whispers, because he means it, and it’s all he can think of. How beautiful you are. How you’re letting him, of all people, see this side of you.

Your mouth closes into a smile. “Can you just kiss me, please?” you ask, and Jay doesn’t need to be told twice. He gets the message—no more dilly-dallying.

As your lips meet again and fall into a slow, sensuous rhythm that has Jay’s heart beating uncontrollably hard, your hands find purchase in the fabric at the bottom of his sweater. You don’t want to be the only one half-naked, it seems, and when Jay obligingly gets rid of his sweater, you tug at the remaining black sleeveless tank on his upper body. He laughs and says, “Don’t worry, this can come off too.”

Something in your eyes makes Jay laugh again when he takes it off, his torso now on full display. Your smile is so genuine, like you’re just happy to be here, to see him like this. It’s surprisingly innocent for a moment like this. He feels a little self-conscious at your unabashed staring, but tries not to mind it. If you like it, he likes it—all he can do is hope his efforts in the gym haven’t been for naught. Still grinning, you exhale a slow, shaky breath, and say, “Okay.”

“Okay?”

You nod. “Mh-hm.”

Like magnets your lips find each others’ once more. Jay makes you step backwards until the back of your legs hit your bed, and, propping one knee on your mattress to stabilize himself, lowers you down onto it. Hovering over you, he breaks away to look at you, in search of a sign that you’re okay with this, and the sheer want and trust in your eyes reassure him that this is more than okay, and actually, can he get on with it please.

He lets you set the pace. You kiss him with a feverish sort of intensity that he is more than happy to return. He focuses only on the feeling of your lips moving against his, because if he lets himself be distracted by anything else — your hands tugging at his hair, your breasts pushing up against him, your hips bucking ever-so-slightly into his — he’s scared he’ll lose total control over himself. What that would entail, he isn’t sure, and doesn’t care to find out, not right now at least, not for your first time together. 

He breaks away to let you both catch your breath. One hand firmly holding you by the hip, the other on the side of your neck, thumb brushing up-and-down your throat, a barely-there pressure, he presses kisses to your jaw, your ear, your neck. A small hum escapes your lips when he reaches a spot in the crook of your shoulder, and he doubles down there, biting and sucking on your skin hard enough to leave a mark, the sound of your soft moans drowning out everything else.

“Jay, please,” you whisper. This makes all the blood in his body gather in one spot, and for the first time since arriving at your apartment, he realizes just how much he’s straining against his trousers. You seem to notice this too, and, looking him straight in the eyes, place a hand on his bulge, then repeat, “Please.”

Jay thinks he might pass out.

That simple touch of yours, as well as the knowledge that you want this as badly as he does, has his entire body screaming out for yours. But he’s barely started, and perhaps he’s a more patient person than you are, because he doesn’t want to give in just yet. The word “please” sounds too good on your lips, and he wants to hear it over and over again, just for that confirmation that he is the only one who can provide you with what you need.

“Okay, baby,” he says, but gently takes your hand off of him, placing it on his shoulder instead. 

Then he starts making his way down. A kiss to the side of your chin first, then your throat, then your collarbone. Slow hands on your warm skin, he reaches behind your back to unhook your bra, and you arch slightly to grant him easier access. He has to take another stabilising breath when your upper body is fully revealed to him, but you squirm, grip on his shoulder tightening, and he concedes not to take things too slow.

It feels like everything that’s happened in his life has led to this—a grand, elaborate scheme just to hear the gasp torn from your throat when his lips wrap around one of your nipples. He’d smile with unbridled pride if he wasn’t so wholly concentrated on the task at hand. He drinks in every satisfied sound you make, savours the feeling of your nails digging into his skin, makes a note of every little thing that has you arching your back in a desperate attempt to get closer to him.

You whine when one of his hands trails up the inside of your thighs, slowly but surely approaching where you need him the most, although never quite making it there. He tells himself that one day, he’ll drag this out, just to see how long he can withhold it from you, how long it would take before you start begging. But right now, he needs it as urgently as you do.

You’re warm and damp against his palm. Your hips seem to move of their own accord in the search for even the slightest of friction—Jay doesn’t know what he’s done to deserve this, to deserve you, but he knows that he’ll do everything to keep it. 

It’s far too easy to reach underneath your short black skirt, hook his fingers under the waistband of your tights, and pull them down along with your panties. Your lace panties, Jay notices, which match your bra, and he is reminded of a party during his last year of high school when Bang Yedam, a friend of his at the time, newly self-appointed sex expert since he’d lost his virginity at summer camp three months ago, had drunkenly assured him: “If a girl is wearing a matching set of underwear when you hook up, you didn’t fuck her. She fucked you.” Jay had nodded like it was gospel. Now, hovering over your half-naked figure in your bed, he smiles to himself. He thinks of you getting ready for this party, and maybe it was a coincidence, and you just liked wearing matching underwear, but maybe, just maybe, you’d worn this in the chance that he might see it. You’d worn it because you wanted him to see it.

With that thought in mind, he finds the sweet spot in the crook of your neck again, pressing kisses there as he slides two fingers between your folds. He shouldn’t be so surprised to find you so completely and utterly soaked—if your jagged breathing and increasingly louder whines weren’t enough, then this is the physical confirmation that you want him just as badly as he wants you. “You’re wet,” he whispers, lips moving against your jawline. He doesn’t mean to tease, he’s just so astonished, so in awe that he’s able to get you like this, that he can’t help but speak the words out loud.

You try to hide your face behind your forearm, but his free hand is quick to guide it away. “Whose fault is that?” you mumble, attitude immediately fading away when he presses the pads of his fingers to your clit and starts to draw slow, regular circles.

He can’t explain the feelings that overcome him. Watching your eyebrows furrow, your cheeks glow, hearing your breathing and your moans get louder, feeling your hands grabbing at him and pulling him impossibly closer—he feels all of your pleasure like it’s his own. Of course, when he’s had sex before, his partner’s pleasure was always as, if not more important than his own, but this, this is something else. He wants to give you this forever. He wants to give you everything he has. 

He slips a finger inside of you, and you whimper out his name, and he wants to die. You take it in so easily that he’s able to add a second one just moments later. Your fingernails dig into the skin of his bicep as he continues to press kisses to your neck, fingers repeatedly grazing a spot deep inside that has you clenching around them. The pitch of your moans change, higher, whinier, your hips buck upwards without you seeming to even realize it, and it dawns upon Jay that he’s about to give you an orgasm for the first time ever. He’ll be damned if the mere thought isn’t enough to make him come, too.

And then, just as he’s sure that you’re on the brink of coming undone on his fingers, you grab his wrist and pull it away from you. He’s hurt you, or he read you completely wrong and you were hating every second of it, or—

“I want you.”

He’s confused. You just had him. He was knuckles deep inside of you. “But-”

“Jay. I want you,” you repeat, hooking your fingers around his belt loops.

Oh.

“Are you sure?” he asks, because it’s always good to ask, but also because he finds himself almost wishing you’ll say no. He knows that he’ll last an embarrassingly short amount of time once inside you, and he feels like he’s doing a good job so far and doesn’t want to taint it. 

But you just laugh, start to undo his belt, his trouser button. He lets it happen, focuses on his breathing instead. “I’m very sure. There are condoms in the first drawer,” you say, nodding your head towards the bedside table. 

Jay tries to be normal as he finds said condoms and strips; meanwhile, you readjust yourself on the bed so that your head rests on the pillows. You look at his face, smile, then look downwards, watch him put the condom on, and smile harder. He would usually feel so self-conscious at this point, like he’s being evaluated, but you make him feel like he has nothing to worry about.

Your body looks lazy on your mattress, one hand on your stomach, the other next to your head; one leg resting, one hiked up. A work of art is what you are, Jay thinks. And you’re waiting for him, an angelic look on your face that makes him want to do the most sinful things to you. He repositions himself on top of you, propping himself up on his forearms, kisses you to calm himself down, but it’s no use. You wrap your hand around him, pump him a few times, rub the tip of his cock against your clit. That alone has a deep grunt escaping his throat—he really won’t last long.

Then finally, you align his head with your entrance, and he pushes in, both of you immediately gasping at the overwhelming feeling of being united like this. Your voice is strained when you tell him to go slow, and you claw at his back as he makes his way inside of you, inch by inch. Jay hopes you’ll leave marks for him to find tomorrow and every day after that, proof that this is really happening, that it isn’t an umpteenth dream of his. He waits for a few moments once he’s all the way in, lets you relax around him. He can practically feel the tension leave your body once the pain of the stretch fades away and only pleasure remains in its wake.

His movements start out shallow and slow. He doesn’t want to hurt you, doesn’t want to lose the little control he’s still holding onto, albeit with struggle. But every thrust, every torturous slide of his cock into you has his grasp on reality slipping from him. Of course, you’re not helping: with his face buried in the crook of your neck, your mouth is practically by his ear, your moans so loud he feels them in the tips of his fingers.

“This feels so good, Jay,” you whisper. Something inside him snaps. 

Jay grabs the backs of your thighs and hooks your legs around his hips. He’ll find the spot deep inside you his fingers had reached earlier, he’ll make you cry out until your voice turns hoarse, he’ll make you say his name until it’s the only thing you know how to say.

He doesn’t know whether you have neighbors or whether your walls are thin. He also couldn’t care less. His thrusts are deeper, quicker, harsher, but just as regular. You are perfect around and underneath him, and he is slowly losing his mind. He, who usually barely makes a peep during sex, so concentrated on doing things right, can’t stop himself from moaning and grunting, the sounds dampened against your skin. 

He isn’t sure how long he’s been fucking you, but it can’t be more than a few minutes—and yet, here you are, mouth wide open, crying out as your orgasm washes over you. Jay comes seconds later.

His soul has left his body. You seem to be in a similar state. He continues to move, shallow thrusts to get every last drop of pleasure from him and from you until you are both completely spent. He eventually slips out, kissing the side of your face as he does, and rolls onto his back. He quickly discards the condom, then turns towards you, warm satisfaction and bliss spreading from his stomach throughout his entire body at the sight of the contented, peaceful look on your face. Strands of hair stick to your forehead with sweat. He brushes them away, whispering, “You’re so beautiful.”

You chuckle. “You mentioned that earlier.”

“And I’m mentioning it again now.”

Opening your eyes, your gaze bores into his. “And you’re very handsome,” you whisper back, palm coming up to cup his cheek. You take the time to just look at each other, and Jay thinks this is what heaven must be like. He bends down to press a kiss to your lips, then another, and another—why would he stop when he finally has you all to himself? 

You giggle in-between kisses, and of course Jay joins in, light-headed and light-hearted with a giddiness unlike any he’s felt before. He doesn’t stop when the both of you are smiling so hard your teeth bump against each other, which only makes you laugh more, makes him tighten his grip around your waist. 

“You know,” you say eventually, looking up at the ceiling, “I think I might like you. Just a little bit, though.”

Jay lifts his head from your neck, stares at you like you’ve just told him Santa Claus was real all along. You glance at him, a shy smile on your lips that you try to suppress.

He’s grinning so much it hurts. “Yeah?”

You shrug. “Mmh.” He’s never been so endeared by someone trying to play it cool.

“Well,” he starts, taking his time pressing more kisses to the side of your face. “I know I like you. And not just a little bit.”

“Okay, it’s not a competition,” you say, although your smile has reached your eyes by now. You’re not doing a very good job hiding your happiness.

“Mmh, except it is.”

You attach your lips to his again—an effective way of getting him to shut up. But this time, they’re not the chaste, gentle kisses from moments ago; they’re immediately deeper, hungrier, an obvious aching for something more. The energy that Jay thought he had completely lost comes rushing back to him, a surge of desire rising within him again.

He’s never wanted anything so intensely. But a sudden question appears in his mind, and he knows he won’t be able to shake it unless he’s made sure the both of you are on the same page.

“Can I be your boyfriend?”

Your gaze softens. “I thought you’d never ask,” you reply before kissing him again.

He hopes this never ends.

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[chastiefoul]

a/n: i haven't been the same since this dropped... he's so husband here. anyways. blurb.

-

“sooo, where are we going?” you asked from the passenger seat, legs barely still from excitement. nanami let out a deep chuckle, giving your hand a squeeze as the other one gripped the steering wheel, driving with ease.

”have you forgotten or should i mention once again that it’s a surprise?” his eyes crinkled with affention when he smiled, and as sunlight that’s peeking between the clouds hit him just right, you momentarily forgot what you were about to say. luckily the turning signals was there to bring you back promptly. or else how would you explain that the sight of your husband for one year and lover for five still runs your mouth dry at times?

”how about a hint for a kiss?” you negotiated, your stomach couldn’t help but be awake at the softness of his thumb, as he rubbed the back of your hand gently. a gesture that easily became a habit for the man; who seemed like he didn’t even realize he was doing it. “tempting, my love. but i can’t really say when i haven’t even-“

a kiss to his cheek shut him up quick.

the man looked like he just won a lottery, lips all smiles as his cheek tried to contain his unruly grin—as if he himself wasn’t prepared for it. “lovely.” he changed gears, his palm pressing against yours.

“i’m still not telling you, unfortunately.” 

“so we’re keeping secrets from each other now?” you asked, playful. 

“if it will get me to see your adorable reaction when you realize where we’re going for our date then yes, my lips are sealed.” 

you narrowed your eyes in an attempt to look upset, yet as his lips brushed over your fingertips, all you could think about was how handsome he looked in that turtleneck; his green long coat that you initially thought wouldn’t do a single person justice proved you wrong by settling on his body nicely, it fit him so well—way more than the limited appropriate words in your vocabulary could describe. 

before you let your mind escalate, you realized you’re brought to a familiar place. a place that you spent looking a little too long on your phone once, a month ago. a place you mentioned in passing to nanami in your pillow talk when you’re sure he could barely kept his eyes open. 

jaw opened, you turned to him. 

“you remembered?” 

nanami tilted his face in question, as if saying, ‘is he not supposed to?’

you were still in shock even as nanami parked the car and pulled the handbrake. his gaze could finally rest itself fully on you, as he let out a happy smile seeing your reaction. “this. this makes everything worth it.” his eyes softened, putting a palm over your cheek as he held your face closely. 

it’s just a place. it’s just an hour drive. it’s just a date. 

but your heart couldn’t help but soar, your chest cheered, everything within your body came alive. because nothing could ever outshine the feeling of being heard, the feeling of being seen. 

“love? are we getting out or do you want to spend the rest of the day making heart eyes at me? i don’t mind either way, just so you know.” his tone light and everything gentle, his finger brushed over the area under your eye soothingly. his easy smile ever left his side.

”getting out. we’re definitely getting out. i can do the latter later, when we get home,” you replied quickly, leaning into his touch, hoping he could sense the gratitude there. nanami’s lips moved an inch wider. 

“a sound plan,” he chuckled, his chest rambled in anticipation and excitement; something that he learnt never really died down when he’s by your side. 

[halogenwarrior]

Really good analysis! I think what makes the bad examples bad is that the story doesn't recognize that it's telling about characters making a step for the better, i.e stopping the genocidal faction from committing genocide by force which is the immediate threat even though it won't make the racism that leads to that kind of thing go away, but actually tries to present it as if the characters fixed racism and, say, has an epilogue 20 years later where killing John Racist actually stopped racism and there is little to no backsliding or complications beyond a token nod to "well we haven't fixed everything yet". But if the story recognizes what it's telling and doesn't pretend to be about how racism was ended forever, then that's a perfectly fine story to tell, and sometimes it feels like people on the site believe that if you introduce racism or any other kind of injustice in a setting that means it has to be completely solved by the end and that has to be the point of the story, and if this doesn't happen it either means the author supports the injustice or the author believes that killing John Racist will solve racism even if the story did not actually show that, it just ended with killing John Racist and showed that as a happy ending.

That said, I would love to read a story that centers a social movement and the complexities of how it enacts change not dependent on a few individuals! There definitely are authors who have the skill to write on that sweeping epic level while still maintaining the humanity of the characters, though it's definitely harder than focusing on a few characters killing fantasy Hitler because he's the biggest threat right now.

It's always disappointing when a series makes a big deal about societal and structural problems in it's setting, making readers think it has interesting things to say about the subject, only to then resolve the problems by fighting The CEO of Racism, John Racist, so that all of society's problems would then get better because they promoted a new CEO.

[nekoboydreams]

Hello again, Neko! I'm not sure if you've seen any of my previous asks before- I think I've done about three maybe four...? But that was quite some time ago. I'm a little torn between trying to continue with my asks, or just wait until someone else eventually asks the same question I asked and you happen to answer them- 😅 I have A LOT of questions, but for now, I stick with the three that I have while writing this. (I also have questions on each of my posts!)

I'm curious... (This is something that will be mentioned in my latest fanfic as well!-) What stops Pierrot from just.. Killing Harlequin? I mean- It seems that Pierrot hates him that much, moreso now that Harlequin is attempting to take away his beloved again... Is it morality? The fact that he's aware of whatever pain Harlequin might feel bc of their shared past? Or maybe (in my opinion), bc they're like brothers?

Can they sense spirits (More specifically Pierrot)? Like, can any of them sense when a spirit is near? (This would play a HUGE role for one of the A.Us I created! If they can't, I might just have to scrap the idea :( ...)

Something a bit random- How would Pierrot react towards a dominant female? My version of MC, (due to her past) she refused to be anyone's bitch. Don't get me wrong, she's still a sweetheart, but in certain situations, that could change. Her trauma won't let her get dominated- (Just thought of this while writing this down- Is MC in the game a virgin, or no? My version of the MC lost her virginity already 😔)

Little comment: You know, I'm honestly surprised that no one sees the circus crew like brothers. I've only ever seen comments comparing Pierrot and Harlequin's relationship to that of a divorced a couple, and things like that. I haven't seen one person compare their relationship to a brotherly type relationship. (I think I might be the only one who sees them that way- :') ...)

I also wanted to say this, I honestly love your game (and Pierrot) with ALL my heart! It's been my hyperfixation for a month now! I'm just as obsessed with Pierrot as he is with (me) :)))) I would literally give him my heart and SOUL if I could- That being said, could you give him a big kiss for me? I'd really appreciate it! :) (Oh! And... Hug The Fifth One for me? I honestly can't wait to meet him. I feel like him and my version of MC would be besties <3)

(Also... HEARTS OF MOTIVATION!!! 💜💜💜💜💜💜 You get six bc 1, I have enough to go around, and 2, you deserve/need them! :] ...)

Hi! I’ll be answering things as I can unless the question has already been answered before!

Why doesn’t he just kill Harlequin? Let’s just say… he can’t, even if he wanted to. And the truth is he doesn’t. I’ve mentioned before that the circus cast shares a deep bond, and none of them would let one of their own die so easily. Jester is also always around, making sure things don’t spiral out of control.

No, unfortunately they don’t have any sort of spiritual sensitivity.

Pierrot has said he’d be willing to shape himself however MC desires so I don’t see why he wouldn’t accept it!

Thank you for the kind words! But maybe don’t go offering your soul to monsters so casually… just to be safe, haha.

[sidefanficaccounttohidemyshame]

I wrote a letter to my favorite characters and then they all came to life and came to my house and fucked me dumb?! Part 1/?

This is the most blatant wish fulfillment 2015 tumblr "oi! She doesn't bloody want you" type of fanfiction I would've fucking killed seventeen men for when I was 12. I refuse to edit this. No beta we die like men. This whole thing was inspired by this manga I feel like, if this ever did happen (and yes gods please let this somehow happen to me except maybe not with Valeria I feel like she'd start a meth lab in my house) they would all kill each other in days. We're just pretending Ellie and Dina haven't met in this universe and Owen was a comphet situation that happened yeeeears ago and Ambessa isn't dead and most of the bad things haven't happened <3. We're going to put our suspension of disbelief glasses on and have a good time today. This story works best if you read it like an obviously fake aita post. Enjoy lesbians. Also fuck ai I don't respect clanker lovers, I just like the em dash because it's perfect, and you can tear it from my cold dead hands. Dedicated to Loki, one of the gods I actually work with. Also I was 100% joking about actually wanting them to come life my mental health would TANK if I had to deal with even just one of these people in real life. Ellie's trauma alone would turn my bedroom into a therapists office daily.

Warnings: discussion of sex but no smut this time, masturbation mention, interdimensional sexting, constant threats of murder, guns, reader gets punched, reader is black, first person, the authors obvious self-insert, cursing, I def wouldn't read this at the thanksgiving table, girly reader, she/her pronouns used, and references to vaginas and tits (sorry butches and dolls, if this gets enough traction I'll write a couple other versions of it for u) , literally the most self-indulgent bullshit on earth but I know it'll be devoured

💕💕💕💕💕💕💕💕💕💕💕💕💕💕💕💕💕💕

I've always had a soft spot for the tough characters. The women who look like they take no shit, like if I mouthed off to them they could rip me in half lengthwise.

I'd spent MANY a night with my hitachi in one hand and my phone, opened to ao3, or tumblr—and once, a long, long while ago, wattpad—scrolling through a fanfic about one of my beloved characters.

Sevika. Big. Strong. Loyal as fuck. The type to sneer at the stuffed animals I have on my dresser—I don't put them on my bed cause I don't have enough space for all of them and I can't just pick favorite, that'd be so mean—one second, and have three more sat on a new shelf she built for them the next.

Ambessa. Not evil, but far from good. A woman who'd give me everything in the world and then some. Sure, she's a "warlord" and she'd most definitely have me living in a cage next to her desk, but who am I to not support women?

Abby. Gorgeous and built like a fucking tank. Full of love and a need for control I would READILY hand over to her. The softest out of anyone of my faves for sure. I could spend years cuddled up next to her on the couch, watching romcoms and making fun of each other for crying at the sad parts. And even longer making her little protein packed lunches cut into Sanrio character shapes for her to take to work after the gym.

Ellie. Full of rage and curiosity. She should've been an astronomer in a band part time. She should've spent her weekends going to Pokémon conventions, getting into arguments with kids about whether fire type or ghost type are cooler. She should've made better decisions. She should've done a lot of things. It doesn't stop me from loving her character all the same.

And finally, Valeria. Genuinely terrifying. A woman determined to get what she wants at all costs. Truly independent and full of raw intelligence and cunning. If it's between her and the bear, I'm calling the cops on behalf of the bear, cause I know I couldn't beat her in a fight. That being said, I couldn't change her. But maybe I could show her what life looks like when 'winning' isn't your only goal. Probably not though.

I've read enough about them to write a series of novels on each of them, and that day was no different.

I truly do not know what happened. None of us do. I just know that whatever it is, it was probably stupid.

I had just left out offerings for all my gods, finishing with Loki. I'd bought a bunch of pop rock chocolate bars and I already knew he'd be psyched to try one. I'd placed it on his altar, lit the candle, and out of selfishness more than anything, I started talking.

About my day, my week, my job. How tiring it'd been. I loved writing, and I was happier than I'd ever been being able to support myself with my work, but the deadlines, and the book signings, and being in the public eye albeit how negligible the amount of reach I really had was starting to get to me.

"Don't get me wrong, I'm grateful! I do NOT want it to go away. Let me be 100% clear about that. But I just want some more time to be, you know? Or at least some more time with people who'll let me simply exist. Oh my god, it's just like in this fanfic I read the other day—" I then proceeded to recount every detail of the last few fanfics I'd read, mostly because they couldn't physically manifest in front of me and tell me to shut up.

"Maybe I should try doing some character exercises with them? It might ease my writer's block a bit."

I nodded to myself. Satisfied with my excuse to play around and avoid writing the thing I actually needed to submit before the twenty-fourth.

"Yeah. That's what I'll do. Thanks Loki, you always know how to help me with this kind of thing."

Then I stayed up until four in the morning writing letters to each of the women I listed a couple paragraphs ago.

It did help a bit, actually. Writing a letter to someone who doesn't exist really brings up some deep, uncomfortable truths.

In case you're interested, here's what I wrote. Just scroll past it if you want to get to the fun part, that's what I usually did.

"Dear Sevika,

You're most likely horribly busy. You're a councilwoman now, I'm super proud of you by the way, you've managed to defy literally every obstacle in your way in order to get to a place where you have a chance of helping your community in ways you probably never thought possible, but strived towards anyway. I really envy that about you. You're a lot stronger than me in that way.

There are many things I would change about the world I'm in if I had the tenacity you do.

(Here's where I wrote multiple paragraphs of super personal shit I absolutely refuse to put on the internet, I will put this exact same message under every other one. Sharing is NOT caring, sharing spreads disease.)

Anyway, I think of you often. I find myself wishing you were here, or that I was there. Just with each other. Wrapped in each other's embrace in a comfortable silence. Or just sat near each other even, a jazz record playing on the vinyl you insisted we buy at the thrift store near my house, reading silently while I admire the sight of you in the reading glasses I had to bully you into buying. It's so odd missing someone who's never been there.

Thank you. For existing. You've given me reason to keep going and you're literally a drawing.

All the love."

"Dear Ambessa,

God they don't make them like you anymore and for that reason I grieve every single day.

I just look at you and see such beauty. I have no doubts in my mind that my work ethic and living space would appall you, there's a pile of dirty laundry on the chair I'm supposed to be writing this letter in instead of my bed as we speak. I hope there'd be parts of me you'd see as beautiful too.

(Personal shit paragraphs, I lied about copy and pasting the message. Hi. This is fun. I might throw in one personal thing as a treat in on of these)

I feel the need to speak formally with you despite the closeness I ache for from you. Despite that, I can't help but want to take care of you. I know you're used to pampering beyond what any one person could possibly offer, but in my daydreams, we go out to dinner and I walk you to the pier, and I tell you all the stories I'm too scared to show the world.

I can't tell you how proud I would be to be yours.

Sincerely."

"Dear Abby,

Hi love. God this is weird, I should definitely be working right now instead of doing this. I don't even know what I'll do with this letter when I'm done.

I guess I'll just say that I think you're beautiful. You do so much for everyone around you when life has been anything but kind to you and I truly wish you could have the softest life possible.

I want you in my life desperately. I want to bake cookies with you on Sundays, and braid your hair for you, and have you sit and help me retiwst my hair every couple months. I'd let you pick whatever movies we watched every time as payment. I sound like a redditor. I need to go to bed.

Goodnight, lovie."

"Dear Ellie,

I hope the world is treating you well, even though I know it isn't. I guess I hope it starts to. I would love to hear some space facts or hear you play the guitar or just put on a dvd with you.

(Personal shit again, I bet you thought I'd stopped randomly, huh? This section is just about grief. I won't say towards who specifically, but that's the little glimpse you get.)

I wish you peace. God knows you've fought for it enough.

All the best."

"Dear Valeria,

God you're terrifying. I'd gladly let you ruin my life. I'm sorry this letter is so horny, it's 3am right now. I also just think you're really cool. I don't think I could figure out how to become a kingpin if there was a wikihow article on it. Honestly, there probably is.

I wonder what your hobbies are. What your life would be like. I want to crack open your skull and climb in and just see how you see the world for once.

I'd apologize for that being creepy, but I'm 100% sure you'd say something worse to me and not regret it even a little bit.

(I didn't write her any personal shit. Even thinking absolutely nothing would come of this I didn't chance it.)

I hope it's all worth it for you, in the end.

Kisses."

I didn't sign my name on any of them. Even though I knew no one would ever see them, the idea of any of the letters being read was embarassing on a primal level. The next morning, I got up and burned them in the fireplace before I got my day started.

I fed the cat, I wrote, I answered emails, I drank coffee, I even went on a little walk to the park. I sat on an old log bench and counted every bee I saw, like I always did in the summer.

I went home early, tired despite having done as much in a day as a retired ceo.

I was all but ready to sink into the couch and watch as many episodes of say yes to the dress as I could before I got started on dinner when I noticed my mailbox.

I had my normal junk mail, complete with a random magazine I'd never read but will never unsubscribe from.

And five letters.

Naturally, I called ConEdison the second I could to check for a gas leak.

Mundane before magical, always. It'd make a lot more sense that I had some kind of mental break and written letters back to myself and forgotten then whatever the fuck was in those five envelopes.

I mean how the fuck would mail even work in the last of us?

Nothing though. The gas was fine. I felt ok, but I guess everyone thinks they're ok when they're having a break from reality.

I didn't open the letters for five days. I was scared what I'd see to be completely honest.

In those five days I got three more.

Here's the gist of what they said:

"Who is this? Where do you know me from? Your name isn't familiar, I know you're not one of Babette's girls.

Keep talking. That sounded nice.

Sevika."

"Dearest,

I apologize, I'm forced to assume I'm not exactly familiar with you as you haven't shared your name, but I have to assume we've met before. I can't say I've ever had someone speak to or of me in the way you have. It's amusing.

Pick up your laundry. A clean space can't make your current state any worse, now, can it?

This is by far the strangest proposal I've ever received. But I am intrigued.

Let's see if you'd carry my name well,

You are cordially invited to the Merida estate. I am expecting your presence within the week. Please give me your current state of residence so I can send for transportation.

I'll see you soon,

Sincerely,

Ambessa."

"Hi,

Who is this? And how are you sending mail to the wlf base? No one has seen anyone leave anything at the base and this letter showed up outside. If there is a postal system somewhere I'm not aware of, I'd love to discuss it in more detail and get involved. If you're in the base, I understand you might not want to meet, but leaving for the sole purpose of leaving me a love note when you could've left it at my door is not only dangerous, but very unnecessary.

As for the content of the letter, I'm not sure what to say. Thank you, first of all. I wish I could say the same for you, but I don't know who you are.

What is retwisting? Does it have something to do with Redditor? And where are you finding movies? And ways to watch them?

Please respond to this ASAP. And if you have enough paper to send letters, I'd greatly appreciate it if you could send some as well.

I hope you had a good night's sleep.

Kind regards,

Abby."

"Who the fuck is this? How did you get this address? What the fuck do you want?

Ellie."

"I'm going to find you. Keep that attitude when we meet.

Besos."

The second two were from Ambessa, again. Basically scolding me for not replying sooner.

I wasn't going to respond.

If it was a delusion I was experiencing, it would definitely not have been smart to keep playing into it. And if, some-fucking-how, it was really happening, what was I supposed to do? Be penpals with the most mentally unstable women on different planes of existence as me?

On the other hand, the world is on fire, and the president is evil, so maybe, it'd be worth it to respond a little. Just one letter back each, I figured. Maybe apologizing for being so forward, and explaining that I didn't think anyone would see it or respond, and that I'd actually tossed the letters into a fireplace in fact (Abby was especially stunned to hear that). Maybe explaining to Ellie specifically that I physically could not attack her and I didn't want to, mostly out of being a decent human being, but partially because there was zero chance I made it out of a fight with her alive.

That one letter didn't stay alone for long.

"So you're just, sending these letters with magic? You're a witch? Like Streganonna? How do you know me?" Were Abby's most pressing questions. She also thanked me profusely for sending paper, and bandaids, gauze, neosporin, anything else i had in my first aid kit I could shove in an extra large envelope.

"Fascinating. I have to say I'm even more intrigued now, dearest. Please, tell me where you are so I can send for you." I did not want Ambessa knowing my address. Especially considering whatever curtain kept our reality's separate was obviously breaking, we didn't need an actual dictator being made aware of the current political state of the world (this also didn't last long, I ended up venting about a lot more than my own personal life to her pretty soon. She knows about every war I know about now, and we're pretty much all screwed).

"I didn't ask how you sent it. Or how you knew.

Send me more, cariño. I'll let you crack me open if I can split you in half first.

Kisses." Was all Valeria said.

Ellie stopped threatening me and started asking how I knew her. After that creepy ass letter, it felt wrong to not explain it to her. It did seem like it'd do more harm than good, but what was I supposed to do? Imagine not knowing something like this forever. If she was real it was probably a snapewives situation or something where the creator (fuck Neil, free Palestine btw, the link in my bio has links to help people out) channeled the experiences of people from an alternate universe. That made the most sense out of every other explanation I could come up with.

And it felt like it'd be wrong to only respond to Ellie...

So, I kept sending them letters. For months.

I told them about each other. That went over about as well as you expected.

Ellie and Abby didn't respond to me for weeks, with Ellie just writing back "Tell me where she is."

Sevika and Ambessa clearly had met somewhere before, and refused to elaborate on how or when. But neither of them were particularly fond of the idea of me speaking to the other.

"She couldn't give you the life I could. You'd be royalty. A goddess among men. Stop responding to her." That letter came with several pieces of jewelry that each looked like they were worth about seventeen months of my rent.

"That bitch couldn't fuck you right."

That letter came with nothing.

I sent them photos, and cassette players and tapes of my favorite songs which they were all utterly fascinated by, and supplies for Ellie and Abby. It seemed like any sized package from any store or postal service worked as a method to send stuff, even if it seemed slightly too big for the fireplace. There was never any metal or plastic residue. I tested it frequently.

The more we talked the more I started to dread the idea of the letter s suddenly stopping.

I nearly had a panic attack when Abby let me know she was going on patrol for the first time.

It freaked the both of us out when we found out the letters just showed up close to wherever she was.

I was achingly curious how it all worked, as were they. All of them tried to find more about how it worked in their own way, Valeria especially.

She took the news of being in a video game the easiest.

"I always had the feeling no one but me was real." She'd said.

After a while, and multiple promises that Valeria wouldn't blow up my home if she got the chance to, I sent them pictures of me, my house, my senior cat, who Valeria sent me 8,000 US dollars to take to the vet one day when I told her she was sick.

"I don't like seeing animals hurt. That's all. If there's any left over, spend it on something nice, and send me a photo. Don't send it to any of those other bitches or I'll kill them."

I even sent them memes I saw, that I immediately regretted because explaining memes to people who've never seen them makes you sound insane.

"I could make a better mémé." Ellie had purposefully started miswriting the word meme ever since the first time I told her how it was pronounced.

She also stood by it, and sent me a realistic picture of a dinosaur holding a flower with the words 'this is a meme' under it.

"That is better than every other meme I've seen, you're right." I framed it.

It was by this time I started fully believing it was real.

I can't draw for shit, and unless I was secretly the most talented cat burglar in the world, there was physically no way I could get the money and jewelry I'd received.

I tried to send it all back, but Valeria just sent back 16,000$ and threatened to keep doubling it if I didn't "behave".

Ambessa did similar, except she never sent cash since she knew I couldn't use Noxian currency.

She sent luxurious fabrics, jewelry, body oils that smelled shockingly close to my perfume—which she knew about, cause I sent her a piece of paper I'd rubbed a little of my perfume onto once, cause I'm a whore—and once the most beautiful ring I'd ever seen.

I knew what it probably meant, and refused to speak on it.

I didn't know what I'd say if I did.

I told them about history, Ellie and Abby about the past 22 years, to which they both felt sympathy about, but not much, considering they were living through a literal zombie apocalypse. Reasonably so.

Most of their responses on politics boiled down to "that's awful. What are you doing about it?"

To which I responded "almost nothing, I'm black and also I don't want to get shot and killed by a cop."

Ambessa and Sevika were a different story.

Neither of them were strangers to injustice, but for different reason. After a bit of prompting, they apparently even met in person, and didn't kill each other! Ambessa actually was willing to build a school in Zaun, for god knows what reason. They sent me a letter from both of them with a small, sketched drawing of the both of them sitting next to each other.

I was completely fucking baffled I'm not gonna lie.

It got dangerous fast, the letters.

I never lied to any of them about each other. I told them everything both when promoted and unprompted. I grew to consider them all friends. If not, maybe a bit more. But they were just flirty by nature, they didn't actually mean anything! They couldn't. How would a relationship with them even work?

I found out eventually. Valeria sent me a fucking filthy letter. The kind of thing you need to read sitting down.

And god, I knew it was wrong but I just wanted to make her feel an inch of what I felt for her, so I got my little camera, and I went down to the bougiest lingerie store I could find, and I bought a light pink set—her favorite color—with her money. I took a couple photos of myself in it, sprawled out in bed. Hands dangerously close to my pussy. Then I sent her the pictures as well as said worn lingerie.

"Good girl. Again." She sent it with a brand new set she'd bought for me. And I listened. Because I really really wanted to be her good girl.

I did tell everyone else. God they're so fucking gay, was that actually the catalyst for this?

I think it actually was.

It'd been one day. I was dreading the responses. I knew I wasn't cheating, but I felt something for all of them and I know they all felt the same to different extents and I didn't want to assume what was ok and what wasn't.

I spent the day emailing my editor, asking for clarification on their notes and begging them to lie to me about the date of the next deadline so I could pretend it was earlier and actually finish the third draft in time.

And something downstairs fucking exploded.

I thought it might have been my cat, for a terrifying second before I saw she'd been sleeping next to me the whole time, and had just then been woken up by the noise.

She froze for a second, the way she did whenever someone was visiting.

Then she darted out of the door, to hide somewhere until whatever terrifying thing had caused that noise went away.

Then I heard the yelling.

I fucking sprinted downstairs, running into my living room in nothing but a t shirt that just barely covered my ass I'd gotten from an ex years ago cause I didn't exactly think I'd have company.

And there they were.

They didn't look exactly the same. Noses were slightly bigger, eyes were less pigmented, bodies were somehow fucking bigger than they looked animated, and Ellie's tattoo was slightly less defined than I would've thought it was.

But it was them. All about to fucking kill each other.

Then my dumbass came in, "oh my god, oh my fucking god, please stop! Wait—" then I'd gotten punched in the face and everything went black.

I woke up like ten minutes later, no headache or anything, just a fat purple bruise and an ice pack on my face.

"You fucking murderer. You killed her."

"I did not kill her. I didn't even hit her. It was that one, Vika."

"It's Sevika."

"That's not what she called you."

"No, it's what you call me."

I sat up, grateful for the blanket someone had draped over me.

They all immediately swarmed me, Sevika stepping away from my completely wrecked fireplace that she was trying to fix.

"Darling, are you alright, how are you feeling?"

"Baby, oh my god,"

"I'm so sorry, doll, I didn't mean to, I'd never hurt you, I'd never let anyone hurt you."

"Agehnei koosnb bdhauao."

Or that's what I assumed they all said, it's all kind of a blur. They all spoke at once, reaching for parts of me and glaring at each other.

They were all covered in soot like a bunch of lesbian Santa Clauses.

I started laughing like a maniac, my swollen jaw aching a bit with the smile stretching onto my face.

"Oh...hooooh my god,"

It quickly devolved into sobs, freaking them out even more.

I started scrambling around for my phone, I remembered when I first started researching psychosis that thing where you hold up your phone camera to see if what's in front of you is real, cause the brain hasn't quite figured out how to accommodate for phone cameras when it comes to hallucinations.

I couldn't find it, until a manicured tanned hand passed it to me over my couch, "thank you," I choked out through sobs.

They were there. I took several photos. And videos. They moved and talked and they all stared at me like dogs that had just gotten finished tearing the couch apart.

"Holy shit." I managed after a few minutes of struggle filled breathing.

"Told you I'd get you." Valeria said from behind me.

I turned to her, in complete awe.

She leaned in, "you gonna try on that set for me in person, muñekita?"

A hand swiftly reached up and pushed her back, and she immediately pulled out her gun.

"NO! NO! Ok, rule, no fighting or shooting or killing in or out of my house!"

Valeria huffed, but didn't pull her piece out, so I considered it a small win.

"Ok...you're here...oh my god, you're here!" I said, about the start crying for a whole other reason now.

"If I'd known you'd be this weepy, I would've brought you tissues, dearest." Ambessa said, putting her hand on my thigh.

"Does anyone know how?"

Ambessa gave me the most predatory grin I'd ever seen.

"I made it happen. I told you I'd send for you." She said, not breaking eye contact with me as she rubbed circles along the part of flesh she'd managed to snake her way to under the blanket.

Sevika spoke, "Merdada, you didn't."

I gasped, filling in the gaps as to what she could've meant.

"Bessa..."

"What? What did she do?" Abby asked. I gasped again, feeling more and more like a hallmark movie heroine with every freckle I counted on her face.

"Oh Abby, you sound so sweet." I said, watching her face flush red.

Ellie stepped in, "she's not. She's a fucking killer's what she is."

"Ellie! Oh my god, come here."

She did and I gave her the biggest hug, enjoying her warmth and feeling utterly terrified by the fact that I could feel her rubs through her shirt.

She was pulled away by Sevika and I could tell another fight was about to break out so I moved the blanket and stood up.

"Ok, I haven't eaten since yesterday afternoon—"

A series of grumbles and grimaces were immediately thrown my way, "—so can we sit and eat maybe? I'll order a pizza or something."

Everyone nodded and I opened up my phone, desperate for a reason to not make eye contact with any of them.

It didn't work, cause they all seemed insistent on putting their faces as close to my screen as humanely possible except Valeria.

"Just call, it'll come faster." Valeria said.

"I promise you it won't."

Valeria took the phone from me and promptly called the place for me.

"Any toppings?"

No one said a word. The tension in the air so thick I wasn't completely sure they could hear her over it.

"Just pepperoni. Mhmm. Ok." She said, winking at me.

"Can...can the discussion this warrants wait until after we eat?" I asked.

They all nodded, except Sevika, who promptly went back to trying to fix my fireplace, followed by Abby.

They both needed something to do with their hands, I couldn't blame them.

Ambessa spoke, firmly and swiftly. "I don't see what there is to discuss. I'm here. We are to be wed, and you will be coming back to my world with me."

"Like hell she will—"

"If it's even possible to go back, she's coming with me. Le doy dos semanas antes de que la decapiten y te lleve con ella." Valeria leaned down and whispered into my ear.

"Valeria, literally no one here speaks Spanish, I know!" I interrupted her before she could speak, "I need to learn, but duolingo costs money and is run by robots now."

"Lo hablo. Pero ella tampoco va a volver contigo. ¿Qué se supone que hará cuando te arresten? ¿Esperarte mientras te pudres en la cárcel sin dinero ni posibilidad de conseguir trabajo?" Said Abby.

"Ok, Abby speaks Spanish, no one else does can we please share what you both just said with the class?"

Valeria rolled her eyes "¿Oh? ¿Entonces ella debería ir contigo y ser comida?"

Then Abby reached for her gun.

"CAN WE PLEASE FUCKING CALM DOWN." I couldn't stop myself from shaking, "this is literally the first time I've even seen a gun in person and the five people I care about more than anyone in the world are about to kill each other can we please just take a minute?"

They didn't say anything, just stood, seething at each other.

"Thank you. Can I trust you all to not kill each other in the time it takes me to put panties on?"

Every head turned to stare at me the second I said it, which was the intended effect.

I even stretched slightly, letting my shirt hike up a bit.

"Careful, baby." Sevika said. "You're about to get yourself in trouble you can't get out of."

I am ashamed to admit I shuddered a bit.

"Maybe I want that. Be good and don't kill each other and I'll put on something that shows off my tits." I said before reaching for my tv remote and putting on the sports channel for the first time in my life, hoping whatever was on would be enough to distract them for a minute.

I tried to hold back my smile as I heard everyone but Valeria gasp as the tv turned on.

I rushed upstairs and put on my favorite nightgown. The pink one that was just long enough to be appropriate in company but fit me like a glove, and cupped my heavy tits perfectly, showing off every curve, every jiggle as I moved, every bounce I leaned into a bit more than necessary.

I overheard the surprisingly civil small talk from downstairs as Valeria filled them all in on the rules of soccer (I think?).

"So the game is actually happening right now?"

"Yes. I usually don't have time to watch it live."

"Not a great signal from the mob front?" Ellie said, jokingly.

"What exactly did she tell you?"

I came down just as the delivery guy came by, Valeria opened the door like it was her house and gave him the money in cash before I could reach for my bag.

Then she guided me by the small of my back to the couch.

And all eyes fell on me.

"Eat." Sevika said, opening the pizza box like she wasn't completely unsure how it worked.

I did. And I watched everyone visibly lower their defenses as I nibbled on a slice of pepperoni pizza. My favorite, which Valeria knew. "It's basic for a reason." I'd told her.

Ellie and Abby stared at the pizza like it'd bite them, and it'd be the best experience of their lives.

Sevika turned to them, I watched her recognize hunger on their faces.

"Fucking eat something. I'm not fixing the fireplace myself if you both pass out."

They stared at her quizzically, before I slid the box towards them.

Ellie tentatively took the first bite, hissing when it burned her tongue a bit before devouring her slice in about a minute. Abby followed suit. I just knew if she'd been born here she'd be patting the grease off with a paper towel instead of relishing in the calories the slice had, cause it'd mean she'd have enough energy to live another day.

Ambessa sneered at it. "You couldn't have gotten her something more substantial? Bread with cheese and cheap cuts of meat is what you'd spoil her with?"

"Te dispararé en el momento en que ella no esté mirando." Valeria said, earning a chuckle from Abby.

They shared a brief, soft moment where smirks melted just enough to become something close to a smile for half a second.

Everyone had eaten, and Abby had picked up the box and taken it to the recycling in the span of time it took for everyone to notice my tits were spilling out of my dress.

It was getting dark out, and the cat needed feeding. She'd hide for the rest of the night and miss getting her dose of medicine.

I told them as much, but no one moved to give me a way out.

"You know...Sevika and I talked." Ambessa said.

"Yeah? About what?" Abby said, voice low as she kept her eyes locked on chest.

Sevika rubbed her hand along the back of my neck. A gesture that should've been possessive.

"Sharing her."

[theonlyonesora]

Somewhere Between You

Ex! Charles Leclerc x You (Reader) x Arthur Leclerc

CHAPTER TWO – OF COURSE HE HAS A TYPE

But now you're 27.

And you're coming back.

To Italy, this time, a vineyard outside Tuscany, all golden light and pastel linen. For Lorenzo's wedding, of course.

He and Jules had promised to be each other's best men, but Jules was no longer here, only you, the closest thing Lorenzo had to his brother.

Life, as it often does, rewrote that plan.

So when Pascale called and asked if you could help with the preparations—"just the little things, because no one knows the Leclercs like you do"—you said yes.

Because how could you say no to Lorenzo?

How could you let something like heartbreak keep you away from people who were once your second family?

You weren't in love with Charles anymore. Of course not. That would be ridiculous.

It had been seven years, and you had rebuilt an entire life since then. An entire you. Besides, not showing up might have said otherwise.

And yet... Somewhere deep in your stomach, the idea of seeing him again twisted like a ribbon in the wind.

Charles Leclerc.

The boy who once held your entire world in his hands and let it go so easily it still broke your heart.

He had a new girlfriend now. Alexandra Mleux, model, multilingual, mysteriously always radiant.

The internet loved her.

Everyone loved her.

Even you might have loved her if she weren't his.

You tried to focus on the wedding, on silk scraps, tailored lapels, and handwritten business cards. But memories aren't easily silenced. Not here.

Because the sea still smells the same, the salty, sun-warmed breeze rippling through the open windows like an old lullaby.

Some things haven't changed.

But you have.

And so has he.

The boy who used to wait outside your door with untied shoelaces and a hopeful smile?

He's a man now.

And you're no longer the girl he left behind.

.

You’d barely landed when it started going sideways.

You were expecting a driver holding a little sign with your name. Maybe a stiff “Welcome” and a quiet ride where you could mentally prepare for the week ahead, organize your emotional armor, maybe even rehearse how to casually bump into Charles without combusting on the spot.

Instead, you got Luca. The wedding planner’s assistant. No sign, no uniform, just a loosely buttoned linen shirt, sunglasses too big for his face, and a voice that moved faster than your jet lagged brain could process.

“Ciao bella, sorry, no one planned for your arrival apparently—last-minute changes. But no worries, I’ve got you. The others are already at the estate.”

Estate?

You blinked. “I thought everyone was staying in hotels…”

He snorted. “No, no, cara. That changed last week. They wanted it to feel more intimate. All the guests are in chalets now. It’s a small private compound, like...a wedding village. Very charming. Very rustic. Very…together.”

Together.

Wonderful.

So much for slipping into a hotel room when the emotional tension became unbearable. So much for late-night crying into overpriced minibar wine while avoiding shared air with Charles.

You stared out the car window as the countryside rolled by, the olive trees blurring like watercolor. Intimate, they’d said. Close quarters, they meant. The universe really was a fan of irony.

“And you’ll be in Chalet Four,” Luca continued, “with the other best men.”

You turned your head slowly. “I’m sorry—best men?”

He looked at you like it was obvious. “Yes, it’s a mixed bridal party. Lorenzo wanted it modern. You, Charles, Arthur, and Giulio. You’ll all be coordinating details together—suit fittings, speeches, rehearsals, bachelor party—”

“Oh my God.”

Luca laughed. “Don’t worry, it’ll be fun.”

You were going to kill Lorenzo.

It was already bad enough that you didn’t know Charlotte very well, aside from the polite texts and the one brunch where you mostly smiled through mouthfuls of croissant and grief. Now you were sharing a chalet with him. With them.

And as if that wasn’t enough, there was Alexandra.

Of course she was here. Of course she was helping Charlotte with everything bridal. Apparently she had a flair for fashion. A shared language, how sweet.

Great. So Charles had a type now—fashion girls with polished nails and cheekbones sharp enough to cut tension. Perfect.

You shifted in your seat and pulled your sunglasses down over your eyes, even though you were inside the car.

You weren’t going to cry. You were too old for that. But you also weren’t sure whether to laugh or throw yourself out of the moving vehicle.

You weren’t still in love with him.

You were just…surprised. Caught off guard.

This was fine. You could survive this.

After all, it was just a wedding. A few days. How hard could it be?

It will be posted every Tuesday and Friday!

Tag List: @charlesgirl16, @starrgir1, @thechosen-neo

[thoughtfulchaos773]

Carmy: Sometimes they just, they try too hard.

2x03 Sundae

Claire is a part of a cycle of carmy enjoying and recognizing the good, and his family ruins that feeling in some way, and that way is the constant push of how wonderful, good, beautiful, great it is.

Rewatch- Carmy is exasperated each time someone tells him or tries to tell him how great Claire is, how she's the good thing. This may be why it's so uncomfortable for viewers. It's just trying way too hard, as Carmy describes, and any kind of push coming from others makes him shut down, which is part of the reason why Claire was good a long time ago but no longer.

And Carmy has known for some time that Claire is not the good he recognizes anymore.

And looking back, there's a hint that Carmy has always known it's Sydney for some time. In 1x06, when Carmy shares that he dreads anything good happening because he believes something bad is likely to follow. I wondered during my first watch if such a sentiment relates to his argument with Natalie, who wants Carmy to get rid of trauma. However, it seems more connected to Sydney, with the potential for something new and good that could come from being with her, collaborating with her, and changing things for the better. This makes the most sense, especially since he was not kind to her earlier when she wanted to present something new.

Carmy realized the moment he saw Sydney that she was the good that his family had eagerly wished for him. He just keeps it close to his chest for the last 3 seasons. But it is revealed in season 4, where Carmy has never really answered truthfully about what he enjoys or finds amusing or even good. But he does so in the Season 4 premiere with Sydney, admitting to her, "I like this," which was similar to the same tone of telling Claire, "I want you to have my number." He saw both things as good, but he is too scared to show even a hint of enthusiasm about either.

P.S. I'm not saying he wanted Claire to have his number exactly, but he thinks that Claire may be as good as his family describes at this stage. He doesn't actively acknowledge that Sydney is the good thing that he has the potential to embrace until his panic attack.

Times have changed, and Carmy is more truthful. In the season finale, he passionately declares that Sydney is the “good” in his life, something he has known since he first laid eyes on her. Although it’s a risk that his family could potentially ruin this good thing, as they have often done in the past.

But it's no longer his family doing the ruining. Now, reflecting on his past actions regarding Sydney, Carmy realizes that his family is no longer the cause of the absence of his joy; he has become his own source of pain. His family has welcomed Sydney into their lives, embracing the good she brings and they haven't tried too hard to keep reminding Carmy how great she is in their lives. It's Carmy as he tries too hard to keep her in his life, making promises he can't keep.

Carmy may be right this time; that's not running away from the good. He's not quitting because this time he trusts his family with the good. Carmy wants to break the pattern, shifting the blame from his family for pushing away good things to himself. Carmy is leaving to become the good that Sydney reflects. He feels that his cooking career has yielded nothing good and instead is the source of his misery and the breakdown of his relationship with Sydney. It's the thing that's pushing the good away.

But just wait until Carmy realizes that the best part of himself —the good parts — brought Sydney into his life. And there's nothing except having to be there, with Sydney, and there's no need push or ruin the good he wants to hold.

[ffrostedfflakies]

Next door neighbour! Nanami x reader

Wc: 982

A/n: This was going to be a short drabble but then the story just kind of..ran away ig...

Moving is a daunting feeling for anyone, and for you, this is the first time you've been able to move out. (The economy is terrible, okay.) So you picked this lovely apartment block that apparently has a nice neighbourhood with even nicer residents!

At least that's what the realtor said.

You move the last box into you apartment, releasing a deep sigh after doing so much. Beginning to unpack you ponder on where exactly to put your figurines when you get a gentle knock at the door.

' Who could that be? A neighbour?'

You make your way to the door, opening it to find a giant wall of suited muscle. Looking upward, you're greeted with literally the most gorgeous man you've ever seen. Blond hair slicked back meticulously, Amber eyes with golden flecks behind thin, rectangular wire framed glasses peer down at you, the man presented a timid, yet warm smile.

holyfuckholyfuckholyfuckholyfuckholyfuck

"Hello, I saw your moving truck and just wanted to introduce myself to my new neighbour," he opens out his hand in a handshake," I'm Nanami Kento, I live next door."

"Hi Kento - I can call you Kento, right?- sorry if I'm being too forward I just haven't met anyone around here or made any friends yet, and so I'm kind of excited." You ramble.

Kento chuckles slightly, his laugh a deep rumble, at your nervousness, the sound sending a shock right down to your nether regions.

"That's absolutely no problem, It would be an honor to be your first friend if that's alright with you?" he replies.

"I would love that." you respond.

That was the dumbest decision you've ever made.

Sure. You like being friends with the guy. He's jaw droppingly handsome, kind, polite. Helps you out when you need it.

But you literally cannot stand it anymore, he's too nice. He stands so close to you when you're together, holds your bag when you need it, always asks you out to these amazing dinners, but never call them a date!

You want so much more, but you don't really know where he stands on the matter.

So you decide to ask him. You have the perfect opportunity. Tonight he's coming over for a movie night. It was supposed to be a moment where you try and convince him that LaLa land is the best movie ever made and he should watch more whimsical films but that can be put on the back burner.

"Ken," you call out. In the months you've become friends, you've taken to calling him Ken. At first, he used to shrug it off, but now it seems he's fully accepted it. He looks away from the movie, looking down at you, giving his full attention to you. "Do you like hanging out with me?"

He gives you a funny look. "Of course," he responds, " I wouldn't be here if I didn't, to be honest, that would be a waste of my time."

'So why do you treat me like that?'

"But you don't treat me like a friend," you point out, "You take care of me, whenever I need you you're just.. there, no questions; you even fixed my lightbulb when it when out that one time and refused payment for it! I'm sorry but that's not friend behaviour."

He gives a slight smirk at your response, "Really? So what type of behaviour is it."

You pause for a moment, really looking into Nanami's eyes. Every time you look into them, you feel as if you are the centre of the world. More specifically, his world. Like nothing can stop what's going on between you. This time, it feels like he has put every emotion he feels for you into one look. Happiness, devotion,

Love.

'He's literally pushing me to say it.'

"Boyfriend behaviour. Its boyfriend behaviour." you blurt out.

"Well, I'm glad you finally caught on. I admit this isn't the usual way I pursue someone, but," he pauses for a moment, taking a deep sigh as if he was readying himself, "from the first day you moved in and we met, if I'm honest, I was smitten. But I didn't want to change what we had. Or at least, what I thought we had. I thought it would make things awkward, me being your first friend, and also falling for you.

"So...you decided to show me through gestures instead of telling me?" you whisper, as if your voice has just completely left you in that moment.

Nanami swallows deeply, his adams apple bobbling with the movement. You fix your gaze onto it, fully entrance for just a moment.

"Yes." he whispers back.

Your eyes lock onto each other, not wanting to move an inch, before Nanami grabs the back of your head and crushes your lips together. His lips are soft, almost pillow-like, and he tastes like the wine the two of you shared, strong and almost bitter, but with a sweet aftertaste, but that's just because it's Kento, your ken. and this has been something you've been waiting for for so long now.

Your tongues wrestle each other, teeth clashing against each other ever now and then, the kiss turning almost desperate, with both of you pouring all your yearning and longing for one another into the kiss. You move your hand to grip his blond locks, and he lets out a deep groan at the action, the sound reverberating throughout your entire body.

Kento brings his other hand to rest on your hip, the large hand being a grounding presence whilst your head gets all fuzzy from the kiss.

You break away slowly, both panting from the exertion you just made. Kento's face was flushed slightly all the way down to his chest, or at least from what you could see, his blond hair tousled from your hands.

"Now, was that boyfriend behaviour?" he pants out.

"Yeah." you grin.

Thanks for reading!

Edit: The LaLaLand statement was an actual thing that a friend said to me. I get it, the movie is great, but the best movie of all time? BOLD statement.

[cyborrrg]

DAY 2 of JamWeek25: Agony

The absolute pain and agony I felt drawing this is the real theme of the day 😭 hang tight there'll be comfort with this hurt in the coming days!

As promised on twt, a braindump of this scenario that constantly plays in me head⬇️⬇️

I have a very specific scenario running on a hamster wheel in my head 24/7 for this post-suchdol, but before the final battle scene.

It plays out first with John waking up in bed with Sam. They've done this a few times. Slept in a tangled mess of each other's arms after sharing a heated and intimate night. He was the first to ask Sam to stay, absurd as it was. Maybe the basement had driven him mad, he thought. But he wont deny the connection they had was a comfort.

When John's mind debated with himself with the matter of his heart, the word love made it's stance in his mind. Was this love? Was he capable of something so precious. So.. meaningful. Could he love Sam the way Sam deserved to be loved?...

As his mind swirled with these questions, Sam stirs beside him in bed. But when John turned... it wasn't his charming, beautiful Sam besides him but whatever horrifying excuse of his corpse.

John falls out of bed into a pile of corpse of familliar face. Faces whose lives were lost in the Kuttenberg Quarter's razing. Because of him. John did this to them. And John would kill Sam eventually if he continued to delude himself in the fantasy that he could love him.

And then John wakes up, breathless and sweating. He's in Jobst's Camp he remembered. He had first heard of the siege in Kolin from tavern chatter. Everything in him longed to take action, but what could he do? So John stayed a little longer than he was needed for in Kolin, watching after and comforting Sara, assuring her that Sam would be okay. That he would come back to her in once piece.

The lie tasted like bile in his tongue.

After a few weeks, John was summoned to Jobst's court and he immediately left for his camp. Upon arrival, John insisted rather aggressively for Jobst to take action against the praguers. He had the numbers if he summoned all his bannermen.

But Jobst was careful if anything. A coward, John decides after days and weeks of pestering. The old Margrave would not risk losing his army until news of a possible victory arrives. And John knows that Samuel would die before Jobst would send help.

When he awoke from his nightmare, an all too common occasion as of late, his first instinct is to drown his emotions. His hurt and pain. The helpless poison of hope that longs for Sam's safe return, and the reality that he could possibly have been cold and dead and long buried in the Suchdol grounds this whole time. He wished he could claw his wretched heart out and put himself out of this misery.

Realizing he's drained every last drop of his wine, he dragged himself up, dressed and left his tent in search of more wine. Anything to keep his mind off the image of Sam's dead corpse and the hundred of ways why it was his fault.

John found the path to the stores in the dim early morning. Most of the nobles haven't roused up yet, so usually the ambience was filled with soldiers bickering and guard changing shifts. This morning however, there were plenty of shoutings, he caught a threat or two, armored metal clanging and boots scrambling on the ground. Attracted to the noise, John followed it to the gate where he saw a lone rider circled by guards with spears and spikes all pointed at him, ready to run him through, horse and all. As he squinted, he realized the rider bore the emblem of the Prague Militia on his coat.

A soldier saw him and insisted he head back into the inner camp for safety and as he turned to be led away, he hears the all too familiar voice of Henry of Skalitz, announcing himself as a messenger of the Lords of Leipa.

John stopped in his tracks upon realization. He feels a sliver of hope, cold and numb on his fingertips. He shoves the soldier besides him and calls out at Henry, putting a stop to the soldiers aggression at the poor boy.

A welcoming grin grew on his face as he pushed the soldiers aside, walking through to Henry. As he emerged, Henry managed to control his panicked steed enough to rein it to the side and John's eyes widened in the revelation of who laid upon Henry's arms.

He's never felt fear in this way before. A fear so entwined with guilt that he can't see where one began and ended. He's never feared for someone's life to such degrees in his whole life.

Sam laid limply in Henry's arms. Unmoving. John wondered if this was another nightmare. If it was, at least he could save Sam in it, right?

His legs threatened to buckle under him when he ran towards Henry, yelling at the surrounding soldiers to help him get Sam down. A handful came to aid him, John taking hold of Sam's shoulder carefully and tenderly, and never letting him go as he cradles the wounded man in his arms upon the ground. He was hurt. He had been slightly patched up, rather quickly, but the red was bleeding through the pale cloth. John could tell instantly these recent wounds were gained not from a battle. Someone tortured him. Someone dared to lay their hands on his Sam!

Rage mixed into the fear. And as he took his hand, cold like the dead, John shook him in his arms, desperate for a sign of life, Sam did not respond. The soldiers gawked around him, confused. John snaped around at them and his next words were a distressed command. "GET THE SURGEON."

He didn't care that the surgeon was reserved for the nobility. He was going to save Sam or die by John's hands. John's grief.

Sam would not leave him. John had promised Sara he would return to her. The least he could do now was make sure to keep his vow. He won't allow Sam to leave. Not if he can help it. Not before he apologized to Sam for everything. For meeting him. For wanting him. For brining death, pain and sorrow before him and his cherished loved ones. For the pathetic shouting match he initiated in Kolin as Samuel was adamant on leaving for the Devil's Den, for revenge. For destroying whatever tenderness they had between them until that point. For not uttering the words of how much of his heart Sam had come to possess instead as he watched Samuel ride out of Kolin. He wouln't let Sam go before he hears him speak his name again, he didn't care if it would be in anger and hatred.

He wouldn't let Sam go before him...

whoa you've reached the end- thank you for reading all of that.. I had the time to really flesh this scene out, in my head, this weekend while picking edamame at my family's farm :'D

hrmm maybe I'll find the will to write this fic out. it isn't long, max 5 to six chapters but sometimes words are hard😭

[jotctumb]

The Murderbot Diary Fic Recs

I have some Murderbot fic recs. This isn't a best-of list, rather it's meant to showcase just a tiny fraction of how wide a range of amazing fic is out there. (AARH Edit how did I misspell Murderbot in the title?)

Gen Fic: That The Light Is Everything Ratthi goes missing. Deals with themes of grief and loss. The author asks the reader to trust them, and that trust is really paid off in this rich and moving fic.

Priority Client SecUnit has to look after one of Mensah's adolescent kids during a crisis. It gets off to a hilarious start with SecUnit nervously being made to hold a baby while it downloads child-rearing mauals. The fic as a whole is fun, exciting, and sweet.

Plastic Plague People on Preservation face an extended life-changing environmental crisis. This one's thought provoking and a bit 'heavy.' Heartwarming, but not an easy feel-good fic. One of those fics where you can spend a lot of time thinking about the themes.

More Gen Fic, Emphasis on Original Characters:

Background Radiation In this Corporation Rim is Hell story, Nico flees home with his autistic brother Luca to keep Luca safe. Sadly Nico faces his own new challenges as he brings the messed up philosophy of the Rim with him to his new home.

Survivor Murderbot and Co. try to assist an OC SecUnit who has been through major trauma. But is this SecUnit a danger to others? How much will they risk for the victim versus those who were complicit in its mistreatment? This OC really made a powerful impression on me.

Life Partnership, Romance, or Ambiguous (Gen Edition) (Categorizing fic when one or more characters is asexual can get kind of confusing. Lines get fuzzy.

Parallel Signaling (ART/SecUnit) ART POV for Artificial Condition through Exit Strategy, but that really doesn't capture the originality of this story. It is very much NOT just a canon retelling. I felt I knew ART better after reading this.

It will Fail on You (ART/SecUnit) Long life sounds like a happy thing, but what if you were offered a chance to live ~200 years, and you never expected to live long enough to grieve your humans? https://archiveofourown.org/works/67137652/chapters/173365222

Made for each Other (Gurathin/Murderbot) An interesting take on Gurathin's augments and how they affect how he relates to Murderbot.

Is it Slash if there is No Sex? Kink and Desire

That Time I Got Drunk And Yeeted A Love Potion At A SecUnit (Gurathin/Murderbot, kissing, bondage) In this hilarious story, SecUnit gets accidentally drugged and feels an overwhelming impulse to tie Gurathin up and revel in the fact that he is now Safe. From what? Who knows! He's just Safe. He has been Secured.

Boots (Gurathin/Murderbot) Maintenance and Repair as kink and love. The sequel Guns is explicit. The first fic Boots is more about taking care of things and people (for AO3 it's rated "other.")

Explicit (But It Might Not Look Like What You Expect):

You (Gurathin/Murderbot, WIP) There are some cases where sex or touch-averse people feel differently about being the one doing the touching versus the one being touched. As of chapter 12, this slow burn story currently shows Murderbot working through past trauma and realizing it is capable of experiencing touch in a positive way. I want to quote Gurathin's check-in protocol because it's a delight, but this post is crazy-long already.

Shared Senses (Gurathin/Murderbot) Riding the feed allows Murderbot to experience sex. https://archiveofourown.org/series/4914649

Enemies, Closer WIP, multiple pairings involving Murderbot, Gurathin, ART, and an OC CombatUnit This story is it's so much sweeter than you might guess from the tags. Which is not to downplay the tags but like, all the people the reader cares about are trying and mostly succeeding at being good people. The dark stuff is done by the bad guys and isn't excessively drawn out or graphic.

[Redacted] I really wanted to link a fic which does something that I haven't seen before--it shows a couple go through a temporary period of sexual activity which ends after one party comes to a realization about what they want. Pretty cool to see that in a fic! But I'm told that author has been a target of harassment in the past so I felt hesitant to link it. Also my description just spoiled it. Go read enough fic and you can have the pleasure of stumbling across it blind!

Rarepairs or Rare Interpretations:

the rhythm of the rain keeps time (Gurathin & Mensah, some romantic feelings do arise) Gurathin makes a slow recovery from drug use and trauma, with Mensah's help. Note that although listed as unfinished, this fic is actually a series of time-consecutive shorts. At least of present, there's no cliffhanger.

Secrets (Murderbot & Gurathin, unrequited.) Gurathin's backstory here is fascinating, the story's take on the frenemyship is fascinating, and there is also an amazing sequel which is nearing completion. (The sequel is also unrequited--rare in fic but so common in real life! Which is one of the themes of the sequel--the gulf between stories dramatic enough to get made into fic, and thus which play a large part in SecUnit's knowledge of the world, versus ordinary life.)

Adjustment Period (Gurathin/Ratthi) The Corporation Rim is Hell, except instead of depressing, this author created a hilarious set of cultural conflicts. If you don't usually read romance, you might still like this as the focus is on the culture clash.

Humor: Human Friends Murderbot muses on its relationship with Gurathin, Three muses on its relationship with Ratthi (uhh I didn't manage to communicate the funny bits but this did make me laugh)

Maintenance Manual for SecUnits models 36b-27f Mensah POV! Everyone else too, but especially Mensah. It turns out that surrpisingly, the maintenance manual is useful not just for maintenance, but for understanding SecUnit's needs. This fic does have a serious side but it's also hilarious.

This list is a follow-up to this post, where I talked about why I support portraying asexual characters in a whole range of ways, and how Murderbot fanfic is such a trove of fiction wrestling with these themes. I could have made a whole post just examining all the different ways people approach "shippy" themes! In this case I wanted to show a variety so I listed a lot of non-shippy fic too. But there's so much thought and care in the shippy fic, I hate it when people dismiss these stories as ignoring Murderbot's identity.

This took ages and I only scratched the surface. (If I rec stuff in the future I'll probably just quote the AO3 summary.) And there's so much fic I haven't read yet, even by authors I know I like. Happy Reading!

[goodnightngoread]

cornelia street

summary: you'll never walk cornelia street again

pairing: johnny storm x fem!reader

warnings: angst, lovers to exes, slightly suggestive, mean?reader, strong language, depression (?), lower case intended.

word count: 2k

author's note: ty anonymous user for the request !! i hope it's angsty enough for you but i also couldn't help but add a little bit of an open ending bc im a sucker for that. ALSO TY ALL FOR SO MUCH LOVE ON MY FICS I WANNA SMOOCH ALL OF U !!!! divider by @uzmacchiato

"i'm renting a place on cornelia street," you sigh.

the hand lazily tracing patterns on your back stops suddenly, before slowly beginning again. you hear johnny's heartbeat start racing in his chest as your ear is pressed against him.

"oh? what made you change your mind about leaving your place?" 

you sit up from your spot on his bed, where the two of you have been lounging for hours. today you weren't at your corporate job, and today he didn't have to be johnny storm of the fantastic four. you were just you and he was just johnny.

"are you not…happy about it? i thought—" 

"no! no i am, i just didn't think you wanted to move from your place." he affirms. his large hands are gently easing you back into his embrace. everything he did seemed to disrupt your nervous system, just a single touch from him putting you in a trance.

you lay your head back down gently, "yeah well, i changed my mind." you turn your head to look up at him, "i figured with me coming over all the time it would be easier to have my apartment closeby."

he smiles and laughs under his breath, "you usually sleepover here anyways."

"and i love it, but it would be nice to escape from your family to be alone for a while," you giggle. you love the rest of the team, but with a new baby in the house it's hard to have a non-hectic day.

he raises one eyebrow, "ohhh that's why—" he starts before you quickly pinch his side to silence him. "hey! you said—"

"i didn't say anything. you were the one implying that," you laugh. "now shush and go back to rubbing my back, lavaboy."

you wake up from the memory after your friend, katie, snaps her fingers. she says your name timidly, "hey, i got the last box. you good?" she's been your rock the past few weeks, bringing you chocolates ,chinese takeout, and being a shoulder to cry on.

you take one last look around the apartment before nodding, "yeah sorry i was just… thinking." she takes a long look at you, her eyes examining your face before she gives a slight nod.

"right," she mutters. "well, at least you won't have to be down the street from him anymore."

"yep," you breathe. it's for the best you tell yourself. paying the early lease break fee was way less painful than staying here and having to know you're only a block away from him. it's been about two months since you called it off with johnny. actually, you're not sure who ended it.

"are you seriously mad at me right now? i don't even know what i did wrong—" he exclaims, running a stressed hand through his blonde locks. you have half a mind to slam the door on him as he follows you through your the entrance to your apartment.

you cut him off with a scoff, "you tell me? what would you do if i were the one flirting up a storm with a news reporter!" you throw your coat on the couch as you attempt to flee to your bedroom. just before you can escape, you feel him grab your wrist, not enough to hurt but strong enough to keep you there.

"just tell me what i did. i was just trying to be nice for the cameras—"

"because that's how you acted with me when we met!" you tug your wrist from his grip, eyes watering in anger. "yo-you were kind and charming and i thought you were just trying to get me in your bed for a night." 

"baby, you know you have me, i'm yours," he begs.

"am i, though?" you shake your head in disbelief as you lift your hand up, ring finger painfully plain. "we've been together for two years, johnny. you haven't even brought up marriage or-or even fucking moving in!" you press your palms into your eyes, knowing that your makeup is ruined for sure.

now it's johnny's turn to stare in disbelief, "i thought you weren't ready, you never told me explicitly that you wanted that!" the lines in his face are getting harsher the more he tries to defend himself.

"god, do i have to spell out every fucking thing for you?" you know you shouldn't be this mad. but when you saw him laugh and lean into the reporter's touch, you couldn't help the ugly jealousy bubbling under your skin. can you blame her for blushing or for pressing into him further? anyone would jump at the chance to revel in the fact that johnny storm is flirting with them. "do you even see a future with me?"

"of course i do!" he stops himself then starts again with a huff, "you know what? we're not having this conversation right now. you're not thinking straight," his feet are leading him to the door.

his hand barely touches the knob before you hurriedly declare, "if you leave johnny, we're over." the silence is loud. heavy breathing and the creaking of the wood floor underneath his feet being the only noises echoing.

after a beat, he firmly grasps the handle before yanking the door and fleeing from the scene, solidifying your end.

the knocking coming from your front door shocks you from the nightmare you were just having. you sit up, forehead sweaty and head dizzy, before the knocking sounds again. this time, a loud voice coming from behind it. it registers in your exhausted brain that it's katie. 

she calls your name again, this time more aggresively, "open upppp! the pizza is literally searing my fingerprints off!"

you quickly stumble to the door before you swing it open. katie steps in like she owns the place, manouvering through the room in determined speed. she plops the grease-stained carboard box onto your kitchen table before heaving a sigh of relief. "jesus christ i thought you were never gonna open—" she pauses once she sees your post-nap state, "are you okay? what happened?"

you wave her off, "nightmare. you know, the usual." you try to laugh it off, but you and her both know what's happening in your heart. you press a sweaty palm to your flushed face. "maybe the couch is haunted and i just won't learn my lesson."

her eyes don't leave yours as she opens the cabinets and feels around for paper plates. she has a pitying stare that you want to pretend isn't for you. with a small sigh, she passes you your plate before reaching and tearing off a piece of pizza. "you probably wouldn't have such bad sleep if you, i don't know, slept in your bed for once?" 

"you know why i can't," you snap. 

instead of taking hurt in your attitude, she cooly blows air on her slice before devouring a large bite. with her mouth full she gets out a, "babe, i don't know how to help you."

"i just—," you feel your voice crack as hot tears slide down your cheeks, "i want this feeling to go away." katie steps forward to pull you in for a tight hug. you feel bad for her. she puts up with your mood swings and tear stains and stillsaves you when you feel like you're drowning.

"shhh. i know," she strokes your hair with her hand that isn't covered in pizza grease. "it'll be okay, they say time heals all wounds—"

"no," you sob. "i don't think time can ever heal this," voice thick with the realization that it was really over. 

"stop it."

"what? i'm not doing anything," johnny laughs. you can feel his smirk through his voice.

"yes you are," you say, not even turning to face him. if you did you would lose all resolve. "i can feel you over there just staring and wanting."

you're both barefoot with messy hair and unbrushed teeth as you decided breakfast was much more important. you're in nothing but one of johnny's old t-shirts. one that he claims looks better on you anyways. you can feel his gaze on your bare legs as you mindlessly flip over a pancake.

"who says i'm staring at you? i'm starving and you're taunting me with taking 10 minutes to cook a single pancake," he tries his best to sneakily steal another piece of bacon even though you both know you can see him. 

you nudge his side with your hip, "you lack patience you absolute child." you turn the burner off while sloppily pouring syrup on the fresh stack. feeding him a bite before taking one of your own. the delight on his face is enough to make your day. the morning sunrise falls perfectly on his face, making him glow without the need for powers. 

as you finish breakfast and start setting the dishes off to the side, you look around the kitchen. the whole place screams both your names. funny magnets on the fridge from traveling together, a bottle of wine that sue gifted you to open on your anniversary, johnny's space themed mug, and photos of your life scattered throughout. it felt like home. you wanted it to be just you and johnny like this forever. 

"johnny, i know we haven't brought it up but what if—," your proposal is cut short by his watch beeping urgently. it's moments like this when you remember why progressing your relationship took as long as it did. 

"hold that thought honey, i gotta go!" he exclaims before he rushes off to your patio. you don't even have time to bug him about your neighbors complaining about the constant "flaming on" before he's already taken off. 

"another day then," you ruefully sigh before closing the patio doors.

the air is chilly. biting. it's december in new york which means tourists and snow. two things you can't stand. you're waiting for your hot chocolate to be called at the counter when you hear a small "flame on!" come from behind you. you almost snap your neck from turning around so hard. behind you, a little boy is holding his mom's hand as he clutches a johnny storm action figure in his left fist. his cheeks are red and lips almost blue, but the cold doesn't seem to stop his need to have the figure clutched in his ungloved hand.

a barista calls your name, smiling as they tell you to "have a good day!" you force a polite smile before thinking, don't tell me what to do.

it's almost comical how much the city screams his name. it's like you're stuck in a twilight zone of some sort. destined to stay in a city where you'll always be reminded of your ex. 

you're so lost in thought, you don't even notice where your feet start taking you. not until you notice cobblestone beneath your feet and mossy bricks climbing the buildings. you feel a lump in your throat. 

you're here. cornelia street.

the only place in new york you swore off forever. you guess your body just found itself back naturally. like it wanted to go home.

before you know it, you're walking. faster than when katie called you and said she saw a stray cat near the bodega. your heart is racing so fast that you think about calling 911 or a priest or anyone. the blisters on your feet are rubbing in anguish with every step you take. i'm gonna hate myself tomorrow, you think. you don't mull on the fact any longer because then there you are.

you knock before your brain tells you to stop and go back to your new apartment and cry on the phone to katie. you wait a few seconds. nothing but silence on the other end. you figure it's a sign to turn around and never look back. move on.

but then the door opens.

"hey," you breathe. shaky breaths coming and going with every beat of tension.

johnny stands in front of you, unruly hair and big blue eyes and oh so beautiful. "hey," he sighs.

[mytearsricochetm]

Illicit Affairs

Pairing: married!reed richards x reader

Summary: reed had always been a loyal man, until he wasn't.

Warnings: infidelity, angst, mentions of pregnancy. Skipping one because it'll spoil the end

A/N: i haven't watched fantastic four yet but reed's so hot i had to write this. Also not proof read so sorry for any mistakes

Reed Richards had always been a very loyal man–to his friends, his work, his values and his wife. So when he said he hadn't meant for this to happen, he meant it.

You were the new hire in the Baxter building. A fresh out of college aerospace engineer with one of the greatest minds he'd ever seen and with bright eyes that showed how eager you were to learn more and help change the world.

It started innocently–just like all affairs did–late nights working on a project, subtle brushes of hands when he handed you a piece of chalk, jokes over coffee and lingering looks when no one noticed.

Until one night, while you two were solving a bunch of equations on the board he kissed you. You pushed him away at first, murmuring 'we can't do this. What about–' but he cut you off with another kiss and this time you didn't have it in you to pull away.

The same thing happened the next day.

And the next.

And that's how you to fell into a routine of stolen moments and lies. He'd lie to Sue, saying he was just working late and go to your place, where he'd take off his ring and for a few hours pretend he was yours. You'd do your part by not wearing a strong perfume or make up that could cling to his clothes.

He wouldn't say he didn't feel guilty–he did– but not enough to stop. Sure, he did love Sue and the life they've spent years building, but he also loved you– God, he loved you so much it made his heart ache sometimes. You and your stupid little quirks, the way you tapped your pencil against your lips when you were focusing or how you could make anyone understand whatever topic you explained, no matter the dificulty.

Tonight was one of those nights of lies and tangled sheets.

He was laying on his back with your head over his chest and one of your legs draped over his. You were both naked, a light layer of sweat covering your bodies.

You were running your fingers over his chest, pressing kisses to the skin as you basked in the afterglow of your time together. When you looked up, you noticed him staring at you.

"What?" You whispered as you lifted your head slightly and pressed a kiss to his jaw.

"You make it hard to leave." He always hated leaving you. You had never asked him to stay, or to leave his wife or beg him to stay the night. You just gave him an sweet understanding smile and kissed his lips softly. That's what killed him.

You sat up just enough to look at him,"Then don't."

You looked at him for a second and saw something flash behind his eyes. Hope. And maybe the grief and guilt that came with what you were doing.

"You know why can't."

You nodded, sadness flooding over you as you were reminded that no matter how many times he took off his ring for you, he still went back to her.

You plopped back down onto the mattress, laying on your back and putting some distance between you two. "I know."

Reed sighed, propping himself up with one elbow and scooting closer to you. He brushed a strand of hair off your face with his free hand. "But you also know I love you, right?"

You nodded, a smile tugging at the corner of your lips. "I love you too."

He leaned down, brushing his nose against yours as he pressed a chaste kiss to your lips. "I'm going to figure something out, I swear. You're not gonna be a secret forever."

Your eyes lit up with hope. You didn't know what to say– you just nodded and he pressed a kiss to your forehead.

When he left that time, for the first time since you started this whole thing, you felt like things could really work out between you. That you could be together.

It'd complicated and messy–you knew that– but you wanted it anyway.

He didn't show up at your place for two weeks after that. You saw him at work and he still answered your texts but you could tell something was wrong. He usually never went for longer than three days without paying you a visit.

But you didn't think much of it. You thought he was just busy and stressed, if he was planning to ask for divorce there were tons of things he needed to get done. Get a lawyer, paperwork, division of assets and all the things you needed in a divorce. So you didn't press and waited.

He finally showed up on friday night. You were curled up on the couch half-watching a movie with a t-shirts you'd stolen for him when you first started seeing each other. He opened the door with the spare key you'd given him.

You sat up, a smile on your face. "Hey. Where you've been–"

He cut you off, "baby, we need to talk." He looked conflicted, his dark brown eyes full of something like guilt, like he already knew you weren't going to like what he was going to say.

You nodded your head, turning off the TV to pay your full attention to him. "What's wrong?"

He hesitated for a few seconds "Sue's pregnant." He said softly, as if that was going to soften the blow somehow.

Your heart twisted in your chest. "W-what? You- You told me you had stopped trying a while ago."

"I know, i know." He said quickly. "We weren't really trying. It just happened."

You took a deep breath, running your hands through your hair as you tried to stop yourself from crying. "So what now?" Your voice was weak. "Are you... Are you going to stay with her?" You knew the question was dumb. Of course he was going to stay with her. He wasn't the type of man who'd abandon his baby.

"She's carrying my child. I can't leave her–even if i want to."

You stood up, taking a few steps back to put more distance between you two. "Yeah, of course."

"Don't do that" He said as he took a step towards you. "Please, baby. I didn't mean–"

"Don't call me that." You felt stupid. How could you have thought this was meant to go somewhere? Things that start in the shadows never work out.

"I'm sorry." He paused, for the first time in his life he found himself with a problem that he didn't know how to solve. "I'm not trying to hurt you. I just thought you should hear it from me. I owed you that."

"This is it for us, isn't it?" You asked, your voice trembling slightly.

Reed didn't say anything, silence settled between you two but that was all the answer you needed.

You let out a short bitter laugh. "You said you were going to figure it out, that you loved me. And I was stupid enough to believe you."

His jaw tightened and he finally spoke again. "I do love you."

"Then why didn't you do something about it sooner?!" You exclaimed. "You made promises to be with me while you were out there getting her pregnant!"

He flinched.

"I think you should go now." You said wrapping your arms around yourself so he wouldn't see how your hands trembled.

He stood still for a few seconds–like he wated to argue – but he didn't. He just looked you one last time before walking out the door.

You didn't see him much for the next two weeks. You made sure to avoid him in the hallways and always walked out of the lab when he came in. You didn't stay late anymore, just went in to do your job and then go home right after.

He couldn't blame you. He just decided he'd give you space until you decided to talk to him again– if you decided to ever talk to him again.

Today you were just finishing up your work–thinking these would be just another night of sitting by yourself in your aparment and thinking of everything that had happened.

It was just a normal day–until it wasn't. A blast struck the building and you felt everything around you shake.

It wasn't the first time someone attacked the building or the city, but the fantastic four were usually able to stop it before it got out of hand. It seemed it wasn't one of those times today.

The walls trembled again and the emergency alarms starting ringing a second later. You grabbed your phone and rushed to get to the door.

But then there was another blast, closer to where you were. You felt how the windows broke and glass came fliying towards you and stabbed into your stomach. Your eyes rang, stumbling backwards until your back hit a wall and you slammed into the ground.

You tried to stand but something heavy pinned you down. When you looked down you saw it– a metal bar and parts of the walls that had crumbled. You started to panic when minutes later you stopped feeling anything from your waist down.

Reed found you shortly after but it was already too late. You were still breathing but your face was pale, stained with ash and blood.

"Reed..." You whispered followed by a cough.

He ran beside you and kneeled, immediately streching his arms so he could grab onto the things crushing you and lift them. "I'm here, baby. I'm going to get you out."

But you knew it was too late. You couldn't feel anything other than your arms and you were sure you were losing blood. "I love you. I'm sorry about how things ended."

He shook his head, still trying to lift what was crushing you. "Don't do that!" He exclaimed desesperately. "You're not dying!"

You tried to shook your head but it barely moved. "It's okay."

"No. It's not." Tears were falling down his face. "God– I'm sorry. I should've told Sue early and this wouldn't be happening."

Your eyes were losing focus when Reed let go of the debris. He sat next to you and wrapped his arms around you, taking one of your hands and placing it against his face.

He held you as your heart finally stopped beating and he stayed there for hours. He didn't care about anything, not if the threat was contained or the rest was okay, he just needed to hold you because he knew once he let go he'd never get to again.

Reed Richards–a man who had always been loyal–was now going to be forever haunted by the one time he wasn't.

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