#he needs to quit stalling and do something

[muntitled]

Playtime

Pairing: Nam-gyu x fem!reader

Summary: You weren't ready to kill anyone in Hide And Seek, thank God he's there to help

Warnings: Language, Blood, Gore, Violence, Religious Trauma, Murder, Mentions of Rape Dark Fic, Smut (+18, mdni), Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Dub/Con, PiV, Rough Sex, Blood Play, Ingesting Bodily Fluids, Dom!Namgyu, Sub!Reader, Mutual Masturbation, Spitting, Dirty Talk

A/n: I'm not responsible for the media you consume

Nam-gyu could taste colours.

He's quite sure that if he jumped off a high enough ledge, he'd fly.

Ever since they entered the gameroom with its low ceiling and labrinth streets, he's been on a bender unlike any other. A bender he's struggling to enjoy in its entirety because something almost akin to a conscience has been niggling away at him ever since he ran into you during Hide and Seek.

He was straddling a corpse, playing in its blood while Myung-gi called for him to hurry up.

You'd run into the same alley. You and your frightened eyes and your red vest clean of blood. He'd been smiling but that's because his face couldn't conjure up any other expression even if he tried.

And he did try.

He tried stepping towards you. Only to show you how to properly hold that knife you carried with such uncertainty.

But you'd already fled.

He knew you didn't have it in you to kill anyone.

That's why he was doing this. He was a good boyfriend.

"I don't get why we can't just kill it" Myung-gi watches with displeased eyes as Nam-gyu drags the living body of a middle aged man through the

He's stalling their movements significantly trying to pull the man whose own legs have no use for him now. Nam-Gyu made sure they weren't working. He made sure the man could not run. But he also made sure the man wasn't dead.

Nam-gyu's still twitchy, from the pills and from all the blood. It could've been so easy to stick another knife inside a hot body- it would've been way more fun. But then he thought of you. Your wide eyed gaze. Your trembling hand around the whimsical dagger.

That's when he stopped himself. That's when he whispered, to the frightened old man in the blue vest, “I'm not gonna be the one to do it,”

He could've killed this man. He could have watched the knife sink right through his blue vest.

He giggles to himself. Thinking about those corpses and their doll-like eyes. Their comatose little bodies. The fear. The peace.

"Thing is," he's speaking without noticing he's speaking. Nam-gyu drags the man through the ground like he's lugging a sack of potatoes. Like they don't have 15 minutes left in the game.

The man is either infuriatingly heavy or Nam-gyu's too high- it's proving to be a Herculean task even with his two hands on the collar of the old man's shirt. Myung-gi doesnt slow down his very serious gait but he cranes his ear back. "I kinda... like," Nam-gyu giggles to himself, still trying to find the space between reason and hallucination, "I kinda fucked things with my girl when I-" he rolls his eyes, "killed that bitch Se-mi," he groans as he pulls the man closer to an already open door. A dead end. "So now I kinda have to make up for that. You're in love too, you get it."

"You dont know what love is," says Myung-gi and before Nam-gyu enters the dead end door he looks at the man, chest rising snd falling from all that heavy lefiting. "Why would you say something so hurtful- and so true?"

"Why are we stopping here-"

"Tonight I'm gonna need her." Nam-gyu says, kicking the metal door further open to reveal you cowering in the corner of a dimly lit room. Dragon flies are painted across the wall and yet you're crouched like a shy little beetle in the corner. Nam-gyu nearly stops himself from cooing.

"I get antsy at night." He says, turning back to Myung-gi who regards you with a pitiful gaze. "Im so sick of jerking off-"

"Stop talking."

"I needed to get her a gift." Nam-gyu gestures wildly at the old man he's lugged across the streets, the man with wild eyes and broken legs.

He drops the man's collar and the blue vest's head hits the ground with a loud thud.

Nam-gyu's already walking towards you in the corner.

"Here, babe, I've brought you a gift-"

You're out of it. Spiraling. Cradling your legs. Trying to tell yourself this was never supposed to be about hurting others. It was only supposed to be about surviving. And now, here you were, face-to-face with the very reason you're in these games anyway.

"What am I supposed to do with him, Nam-gyu."

"Isn't it obvious?" He crouches down in front of you. Over Nam-gyu's shoulder, you notice his accomplice, player 333 looking immeasurably ill.

"Kill him, silly," as soon as Nam-gyu's words drop, Player 333 steps out of the room, murmuring lowly under his breath. Soon its just you, an old man pleading for his life and Nam-gyu.

You're shaking your head when your eyes meet that of the man you're supposed to kill.

Round.

Wide.

His fight or flight activated and going crazy. Someone who's prepared themselves for their own impromptu death.

Nam-gyu, still crouching in front of you, drags your face back to him by the tip of his finger.

He's blood soaked and crazy but familiar. His presence grounds you.

"I'd rather they gun me down-" the words dont leave your mouth before hes clamping your mouth shut with his hand. His mood is like a switch. Gone is his smile.

"Dont do that." He says, "babe, don't do that- I fucking killed that bitch, Se-mi, now you wanna suffer the same fate?"

Your words are muffled through his mouth but your tears spill over his hands "We're all going to hell anywayI-" your mind is flooded with Bible verses. Church sermons. All of them from your childhood. All of them condemning you. They're kickstarting a wave of panic and regret and shame and you're falling. You're drowning.

"Babe," he cradles your face once more, his thumbs drifting over yojr tear streaked cheeks, "Hell? We're already here. This is it, okay? I'm just gonna need you to be a big girl and do this one big thing for me." You look over his shoulder and you see the man's eyes, pleading. He could've tried to crawl to the door. He could've tried. But he's smart enough to know when he's right between the predator's jaws."

"What did you have out there, Princess? Hm?" Nam-gyu's still cradling your face like a baby. His bloodshot eyes are still gazing down at you like you hung the moon. His hands are trembling and he's leaving blood on your cheeks but you listen.

"A junkie boyfriend who left me in crippling debt?" You ask,

"Ok, I deserved that-"

You've avoided Nam-gyu since the lights out massacre. Since he lost himself to this place. And now, here you were, needing reassurance from the worst possible voice of reason. His eyes tracked your movements ever since hide and seek began. It was almost like a mirror of when you two were dating outside the games. The only difference is, he had been the liability then, with the shifty eyes, you'd save him...

This time he promised he'd save you.

"But you forgot something," he leans in closer until his lips graze your ear. For once you're feeling something other than fear. Other than existential doom. When he whispers his next words, gone is all hope for your humanity.

"That asshole who raped you," his voice is gentle, "Made you loose your job? I killed him."

Your brows furrow and you try to pull back but he's smelling your hair now, patting down on your braids like you mean something to him. Like you're a thing he's enjoying playing with.

"You what?"

"Yeah babe, you think I'd let him rape you and get you fired? I was a shit boyfriend, yes. But I loved you out there, and I love you in he-"

In between his words that resurrected all the ghosts of the outside world, everything that landed you in this hell in the first place, you'd detangled yourself from his limbs. By the time Nam-gyu finished his confession- about the disappearance of your boss right after you lost your job- your knife was already digging clean through the blue players vest, already unwrapping Nam-gyu's little present.

Just one kill and it saved you from yet another game.

You're out of it

Unable to look away.

The world is still.

The knife feels stable, like it's being held between two boulders.

You now know what it feels like to kill someone but before you can really drown in it, you hear his voice boom behind you

“Jesus fuck! That was so hot, did you see its eyes?!” He's pacing on unsteady feet across the room,” biting at his fingernails before crouching down beside you.

“Babe you need to see its eyes when you do it, that's the best part fuck-” you watch with wide eyes as something foreign overtakes Nam-gyu's entire being. You'd only seen him like this one other time. The lights out massacre. When he stabbed that girl over and over.

Now he's trying to open the eyelids of a corpse, as if you weren't sitting there.

“Fuck, he's already gone,” hes slapping at the corpses cheek but yku look down at your blood soaked hands bleeding heavily.

“It's okay,” he says, speaking louder than he needs to, “It's okay, Princess, we'll get another one-” You're about to protest but he's already standing up, dragging you off the floor in the process. His hands are cold and trembling in yours.

His lips are dry and warm as they pepper kisses all over your face.

“Which means-” more and more kisses- and maybe even a lick- “we have ro be really quick yeah?”

“Quick with what-”

He's already pulling his pants down far enough to pull himself out and your eyes widen as you step back. His pupils are blown. Two obsidian orbs, like the death in the room was another pill to him

“Y-You wanna have sex now?” You gesture wildly, “Here?”

He steps closer until he's completely made your personal space, his own. You turn your head away but he's breathing right against your cheek, plastering his body to you, “I need to fuck you,”

“Gyu-” he's twitchy and his words are slurred, and he's grinding against you with the urgency of a desperate man.

“Please-” he pushes your hair away messily, kissing up the side of your neck, “Play with me just for a bit, hm? Look at how pretty you look with all that blood on you-fuck-” he chuckles lowly, bringing your hand down until you're wrapping it around his exposed cock. “I nearly came watching you do it…” he whispers, squeezing your hand around his cock, “C'mon there's no one here…”

“There's a corpse right there-”

“He's not here anymore.” he's stroking himself using your hand. A part of you wishes you'd be more disgusted. A part of you wishes your moral code was still intact. But the body betrays. And right now your cunt is leaking while your boyfriend with his wild eyes jerks himself off with your hand, as if you were an object. “C'mon, please,”

You're not even sure why his asking anymore. His other hand is already mapping out the contours of your hips, already slipping under your shirt to paw at your breasts

You gasp when he pushes himself between your legs humping frantically against you as he pebbles your nipple between his thumb and index.

“Need it so bad, Princess, please,”

Your hand around his cock isn't even moving anymore, his hips are pushing forward in an act that has your mind slipping.

“I could fuck you like this,” he mumbles, “-without actually fucking you…”

You moan out loud, back arching off the wall, “I swear I'd cum,” he says, “That's how bad I want it-”

“Are you… Nam-gyu are you high?” You try to grapple onto reason with both hands because you were sinking fast. Your eyes were heavy lidded and you were jerking him off now on your own accord.

“Mm, and horny, babe I need it. Don't tell me you don't need it-”

“He spits on his hand before making it disappear through the waistband of your sweats-”

“Jesus this pussy-” in your hand, his cock twitches, right when his cold fingers make contact with your cunt, slick with its own arousal.

“Y-You're disgusting-” you try to say. As if your hips weren't rolling against his hand, as if you didn't drag your hand up and down the length of his shaft.

“Only for you-” his eyes roll back, “I'll be whatever you want me to be,” he says before dipping down to whisper. “I'd live inside you if I could-” That alone has your mind descending further and further into this pit of hellfire you're both swimming in.

“That's it,” his hand rubs circles around your clit. Fast, demanding circles that have you wincing, “Your pussy wants me so bad. You want me so bad I’m- fuck-” Its like he’s not talking to you and that alone makes you delirious.

“Gonna let me cum inside?”

Right when you're on the edge of it all, right when your about to cum, it stops. He's pulling your pants down- slotting himself messily between his legs before he brings his hand under your mouth.

“Spit.” He says, “Spit for me baby quickly.”

You do.

And when he uses it to lube up his cock your head hollows itself of all reason. You need him just as badly and soon, you're bucking upwards, guiding his cock in.

Through the slightly open door, your heart screams. Helpless, violent screams, and for a moment you delude yourself into believing you really have died and gone to hell.

But now the head of his cock is slicing right through you. He stabs you with it, slamming himself in until he's fully sheathed inside you. Your hand paws at his back. You wish he was shirtless so you can sink your nails into his back. Bring him closer. Until you've consumed him whole.

“You're pussy's so good- fuck. Between this, and the pills… Don't know which is better, baby-” he's already fucjing you at a quick and desperate pace against the wall. He lifts your leg up by hooking a hand under your thigh, only slotting himself in deeper.

With his other hand, he lifts the knife up. He lets it glint under the fluorescents. He lets you see it

“I could hurt you too.”

There's no rule that says I can't. I could make you all pretty with your eyes all empty. He presses the knife to the side of the neck as he fucks you, his eyes keenly zeroed in on your hot, sweating dark skin against the pointed tip. His cock oozes precum inside you.

“But your eyes are already pretty, yeah? My pretty baby

“Gyu- I'm gonna cum-”

“Fuck-”

He tilts the knife a little too deep, until a single bead of crimson dots your throat. You don't notice but he does.

“Im gonna cum inside you,” he says, fucking you harder against the wall. You nod, and when he dips his head between your neck to lick that bead of your blood, you feel his cock twitch inside you.

“Wanna taste you, your pussy, your skin, your blood- fuck-”

He's shooting his load inside you as he spews his unholy vitriol. It fills and then it spills and you're creaming around him as you slip into your own orgasm. It muddies your head and you cry out clutching at him like you want him completely inside you..

The door opens.

A blue vest, stops and stares at you two with wide eyes, before shuffling out.

You're both breathing heavily, both on a high that feels impossible to come down from. He's tracing patterns with the knife on your skin and you know next time he cuts you it won't be an accident.

[niniwritesxo]

please write namgyu x reader keys and knives games where hes whipped for the reader basically 😁😁😁😁😁😁😁😁😁

‘that was hot’

nam-gyu x fem reader

warnings: knives and death

i realized midway writing this he might not be THAT whipped but bare with me ;(

✶⋆.˚꩜ .ᐟ˙⋆✶ ✶⋆.˚꩜ .ᐟ˙⋆✶ ✶⋆.˚꩜ .ᐟ˙⋆✶ ✶⋆.˚꩜ .ᐟ˙⋆✶ ✶⋆.˚꩜ .ᐟ˙⋆✶

you didn’t know how much longer you had.

the voice had stopped announcing the countdown. which made it worse. made it feel like it could all end mid-step, mid-breath, mid-blink.

a player fails to kill = a player dies. and you were still holding your knife like it might bite you.

you hadn’t stabbed anyone.

hadn’t even tried.

and now you were just walking one hand trailing the wall to steady yourself, hoping some corner would give you a clue on what the hell to do.

you’d thought you could stall. thought you might be able to outlast it.

but the walls were closing in.

and every second felt like a countdown in your ribs.

just then

you heard something.

low. muffled. not footsteps, a struggle. a grunt. and something heavy shifting.

you turned the corner slowly.

and your stomach dropped.

nam-gyu.

his knee was pressed down hard on a guy’s chest. one hand over the man’s mouth, the other gripping a knife already stained red.

his head tilted at the sound of your steps

and the moment he saw you, his whole body stilled.

then he smiled.

like finally.

like you were exactly who he wanted to see.

“there you are.”

your fingers tightened around your useless knife.

“what—”

“what are you doing?”

he shifted his weight without taking his eyes off you. his hand was still clamped tight over the struggling man’s mouth.

“holding him for you.”

you just stared at the him.

“what?”

“you didn’t kill anyone, right?’’

“figured i’d help you out.”

he said it like it was nothing. like it wasn’t a man dying under his hands.

“why?” you asked.

nam-gyu raised an eyebrow.

“because you���re interesting.”

your chest tightened.

“you don’t even know me.”

“i’ve seen enough.”

“you’re different.”

he let go of the man’s mouth just long enough for the guy to choke out a noise then clamped his hand back, barely looking down.

his eyes stayed on you. steady. focused. curious.

“you going to do it?” he asked quietly.

“or should i just finish him and let you die?”

you flinched.

he saw it.

“don’t worry. i don’t want you dead.”

his voice dropped just a little. like the end of that sentence was something he didn’t quite say, yet.

you stood frozen. the man beneath him was crying now, barely trying to fight. he knew what was coming.

and you?

you weren’t sure what scared you more, the idea of doing it or not doing it.

“you need to pass,” nam-gyu said simply.

“i don’t need him.”

he wasn’t pushing you. wasn’t threatening. just watching. waiting. like he wanted you to step forward on your own.

and maybe it was the way he looked at you, not like you were weak, but like you could do it if you just let yourself.

like he already knew you would.

so you moved, step by step. slowly.

he didn’t stop you.

he sat back on his heel, still pinning the guy, and kept his eyes on your face the whole time.

you knelt.

your hands were shaking. the knife in your grip felt heavier than anything you’d ever held.

nam-gyu’s voice came low, quiet.

‘’fast. it’s easier.”

you nodded once. barely.

and you did it.

the man stopped moving almost instantly. the silence after felt louder than any scream.

you stayed still. not crying, not shaking, just still.

then,

a low exhale.

nam-gyu leaned back, letting the man’s body fall limp beneath him. he looked at you like you’d just become something new in front of him.

like he liked it.

“well.”

a slow grin crept into his mouth. not manic. not wild. just pleased.

“that was hot.”

you looked up at him sharply, stunned.

he laughed, soft under his breath, rubbing a hand over his jaw.

“took you long enough.”

“but goddamn.”

you didn’t respond.

your heart was still too loud.

but your eyes met his and something flickered between you.

not safety.

not trust.

but something magnetic.

something dark.

he reached over slowly, took the knife from your hand, and set it down beside you.

“next time…”

“don’t wait so long.”

he stood, gaze still dragging down over you like he was trying to memorize this version of you. the blood, the resolve, the quiet shock in your eyes.

“you looked good like that.”

then, with a sharp wink and one last glance:

“we’ll find you another one soon.”

and he disappeared down the hallway.

leaving you breathless.

alive.

and weirdly satisfied.

[thewinter-eden]

You Live Like This? - PT IV

Series master list PART 2 INFO

pairing: Bang Chan x fem!reader rating: mature, dark themes summary: home invader!Chris makes good on his promise to rob your ex to avenge your painful breakup, only to find that you're already there trying to collect your belongings. In order to keep your ex-bf from including you as an accomplice in his inevitable police report, you have to pretend you don't know the robber who keeps flirting with you. (plus like a lot more)

warnings: camping, murder, Ateez mentioned, mature

word count: ~7k

The second campground is bigger, more wooded, and far more secluded than the first one. After spending the whole day finding familiar faces nearly every time you stop for gas, you’ve finally adjusted to the idea of losing the solitude of your journey.

The people in the campsites on either side of yours are strangers, which supplies you with some comfort as you set up your gear and get a fire started.

Every time you find yourself getting lost in your routine, you realize how much you’ve been enjoying this experience. depending on yourself for your own place to sleep and a place to rest, trusting in yourself to see that you have food to eat—it’s such a stark contrast from the way you lived with so much doubt and worry so many months ago, that you can now rely on yourself and see that you are taken care of.

You’re proud as you put your tent together. The heat of the summer hits your skin harshly but you take it in peace. You will have shade. When your work is done, you will be fed and satisfied, you’ll have something to drink, you’ll have a book to read, you’ll have the sunset to watch.

When your equipment is all up and ready, you stand back with a glad smile. This is the work of your hands and the product of your own financial effort.

While your spirits are high, your energy has diminished quite a bit since yesterday, a second full day of driving wearing on you. This time, you plan to get dinner out of the way first thing and then head straight to bed. You’ll need to get as many hours of sleep as possible for the rest of the trip to be able to keep yourself alive on the road, and the necessity of stopping for the night during daylight hours should afford that without issue.

“You’re Chan’s friend, right?”

Or so you thought.

You’re in the middle of dumping a can of soup into a sauce pan when someone scurries into your campsite. He’s not exceptionally tall, but he has a muscular build and a full face with soft features that stand out against the thick biceps that strain the sleeves of his black t-shirt.

You lift an eyebrow, setting the pan on the grill. You don’t actually mind the intrusion, now that you’re comfortable with your routine and confident in the face of being somewhere so far from home. “Yeah, I guess? And you are?”

“Jisung,” he supplies with a cute smile. “Channie Hyung sent me to make sure you’re not being bothered by an annoying ex boyfriend?”

Huffing a short laugh, resentfully touched by Chan’s thoughtfulness, you spread your arms indicatively. “I’m good, thanks. You can report back the all clear.”

He laughs politely and takes in your humble camp. “I like your setup. I bet it takes you, what, ten minutes to unpack?”

“Twenty,” you say. “I’m getting faster though.”

He nods appreciatively. “Our mega camp takes like an hour. Minho is our camping enthusiast and he has all this bougie gear. A ton of tables and shelves and a portable shower stall and shit. It’s crazy.”

Despite his intrusion on your peace, you find that you don’t feel stressed by his friendly company.

He’s polite and respectful, and doesn’t come with a shared ton of baggage. Compared to finding Chan or Woosung suddenly in your personal space, this new guy is like a breath of fresh air.

“That sounds nice, though,” you comment kindly. “I rely on the public campground showers.”

Jisung shrugs. “I usually do too. There are eight of us and it takes too much time and too much water to wait around and take turns.” He shoots you another sweet smile. “I’ll go report back to my benevolent leader now, so he can come say hi. He said he had some caustic experiences with the guy that he doesn’t want to exacerbate.”

That’s nice.

It’s thoughtful of him.

Even going so far as to send a friend ahead of him to keep from causing problems with Woosung.

“Before I go, do you want any help with anything? The guys over there have our camp handled, so I really don’t have anything to do until dinner.” The man rubs his hands together in anticipation, but you just shrug.

“I really don’t have much to do. I pretty much just have to get my fire going, that’s it. But thank you, you’re very kind.”

Your compliment, though nothing short of polite, seems to go straight to his head. He grins, cheeks flushing pink. “I can help you get it going? Unless you’d rather me get out of your hair, then I’ll scoot—no worries.”

He’s not overly intrusive, and he seems genuinely willing to back out of your space if you want him to, which puts your mind at ease about a complete stranger suddenly appearing in your area. If you’re totally honest with yourself, he’s kind of adorable, and it’s not at all an imposition to spend a few more minutes chatting with him.

“Actually, if you have any idea how to do this properly, I’ll let you give it a go. I’m still learning the camping thing.” You gesture to the fire pit almost bashfully. You can start a fire on your own, of course, but if he has any tips from experience, you’re happy to take them.

Jisung’s face transforms into an expression of dutiful focus, his entire body jumping forward with a start to take on his new task. “Oh, for sure, I got you.”

The burst of energy amuses you, but you just stand back and let him go.

He crouches next to your pile of wood and kindling, confident movements arranging some of the pieces into the fire pit. “Have you been camping before?” He asks conversationally.

You try to stay out of his way, pulling up your chair to sit a few feet to the side instead of kneeling down where he’s working. “I’ve done a few single nighters just to introduce myself to things. It was so new to me that I actually went to a couple of classes to learn the basics.”

He chuckles with you, but doesn’t make fun of you like you halfway expected. “Oh, so you’ve been doing this on your own the whole time?” When you nod, he looks impressed. “Wow, it’s so cool that you jumped into something like this by yourself. I’ve only ever gone camping with friends, usually the whole group of eight. This is your first long trip then?”

You chat easily for a few minutes while he gets a good blaze going, and then smile gratefully as he steps back with a grin.

“There. You can put more on once this starts to go down. When the bigger pieces of wood burn most of the way up, that’s the best time to start cooking. You’ll get more control and consistent heat that way.”

You make a mental note of the information, reminding yourself to write it down in your binder after he leaves. “Thank you, I appreciate it.”

He dusts his hands off and shrugs cheerfully. “No problem, happy to help.”

Before you can decide if you should politely offer for him to stick around or just wait for him to excuse himself, he rubs a hand over his arm and turns to you with a sheepish upturn of his lips. “So, apparently there are some cool ruins here.”

You’re reminded of the gas station cashier and the obnoxious interaction with Chan, your face immediately heating. “Oh, yeah, I heard that. Some famous ghost story or something.”

Jisung’s expression brightens at your recognition. “Yeah! The Kingston Steps. None of us are really followers of that sort of thing, but a few of us were gonna go check it out after dinner, since we’re here anyway. Do you want to come with us? We were just gonna go see it and come back, no big deal. I think it’s by the lake.”

The self-isolating part of you reflexively stirs up a number of excuses for not going, but you stop yourself before you can refuse the invitation. You are already here, and while you’re not invested in the merit of any ghost stories, you would value having photos of the experience to go in your collection.

Going with him and his group is a good way to keep yourself from psyching yourself out about going alone and feeling ridiculous about it, the way you always do when you convince yourself to try something new.

“Yeah, that would be great, if you guys don’t mind. I can always go by myself, though. I’m not all that cut up about my ex, you don’t have to babysit me.” You shoot him an awkward chuckle, carefully delivering the response in a tone that should allow him to rescind his offer without any discomfort.

But he just shakes his head quickly, eyes widening in earnest. “No, not at all. You should come with us, it’ll be fun. You can meet the guys. Show Chan we’re not all heathens.”

You blink. “What?”

He rolls his eyes with a snort. “Channie hyung just spent like the last half hour telling us not to bother you. Like we would trample all over your camp or something. He’s protective, but he warned us off like we were gonna embarrass him.” Jisung seems to realize what he’s telling you, and abruptly puts his hands up reassuringly. “My point is, if you want to be left alone, we’ll respect that. Just kick me outta here and I’m gone.”

Squinting in confusion but not at all concerned about Jisung or his friends approaching you, you struggle to connect the dots. “But he sent you to check on me?”

Jisung’s hands drop to his sides, eyebrows lifting in an attempt to appear casual. “He thought we would get along.” His tone hitched slightly, like that’s not the whole story. “He said you and I are pretty similar, and would probably click quickly.”

You watch a redness rise in his ears, and suddenly you’re remembering this morning—Chan’s voice telling you he’s not good for you.

Realization of the situation settles in with a trace of disappointment. He still thinks he’s not good for you, and he’s pushing Jisung in as a replacement.

Your smile falls, but not enough for Jisung to notice. “He’s right,” you say quietly, politely. “It’s good to meet you, Jisung.”

His cheeks flush to match his ears. “Yeah, you too.”

You don’t want to accept this newly arranged replacement, no matter how kind he is. It feels like being shoved along the line, pushed on to be someone else’s problem.

Like he won’t feel bad about not returning your texts or reaching out to you if he hands you Jisung as your consolation prize.

But if he’s going to play this game, seeing if he can just pass you off like it means nothing, it gives you a chance to read him from a new perspective.

If he really doesn’t return your interest, you’ll find out while you’re spending time with Jisung.

You can play this game.

Pulling yourself together, you shoot Jisung a friendly smile. “See you after dinner then.”

Your acceptance pulls his posture high instantly. The excitement on his face is contagious, and your shoulders relax with an easy breath.

Before he leaves, he spins back with a start. “Oh, and if you want one of us to walk you to the restrooms after dark, just in case, we’d be happy to lend an escort. You’re like all the way across the grounds from them. If you don’t want to risk running into your ex alone, we’ve got you.”

You’re surprised by his offer, but touched. “Why?”

He shrugs, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “You’re hyung’s friend.”

Blinking slowly, you can only nod and mutter a soft thanks.

He tips a playful salute and disappears down a path that cuts through the trees.

Maybe there are benefits to traveling with a few extra people. You hadn’t realized that you were so far away from the camp restrooms, and the thought of trying to find them in the dark by yourself doesn’t comfort you.

By the time Chan meanders over to your campsite, you’ve run into another problem. Your fire has burned through all of your wood, and your soup isn’t warm yet.

You’re standing at the side of your car, peering inside at the stack of books you keep in the floorboard, wondering which of them you can bear to sacrifice to your cook fire when he appears next to you.

“Oh, your fire’s gone out.” Chan mutters, picking up a stick and poking through the ashes. “You got more wood?”

You shake your head, embarrassed. You have a system of buying a bundle of wood at a gas station every day, along with a fresh gallon of water and a new canned option for dinner. “One has always been enough before. That’s all I bought.”

He straightens, turning to you. “Do you camp a lot?”

When you don’t answer, Chan chuckles under his breath. “Okay, look, this happens. You should always get a little more than you think you need, just in case.” He notices you poking through your book collection, and makes a noise of surprise, pulling your head out of your car with a hand on your arm. “No, no, no, burning your books is a medieval and inefficient way of salvaging a fire.”

The smirk he hits you with makes your cheeks heat with embarrassment. “I don’t have more wood.”

He closes your car door before you can set your library on fire. “There’s a camp host around here somewhere, he’ll have firewood for sale. Sit tight, I’ll be right back.” He leaves you with a reassuring squeeze to your shoulder.

You slump down on the picnic table bench, mood effectively dampened. Obviously there’s a learning curve to trying something new for the first time, but you hadn’t wanted to be witnessed while you worked out the kinks. It’s good for you, you suppose—and better to be in the company of people who are willing to help you than completely stranded by yourself.

You pick up your trusty film camera and snap a demoralizing shot of your dead fire.

If you’re going to make a fool of yourself in front of people, you might as well keep a momento to remind you to buy more fucking firewood.

The next person to invade what little peace you have left is Woosung.

Because of course it is.

“Having trouble with your fire?” He snorts, sitting himself at your table.

You scowl. “Go away, Woosung.”

“My girlfriend and I use a camp stove. Propane. Works on a dial. Never fails. You’d know that if you had any idea how to run a basic campsite.”

You fight the urge to defend yourself. You’d chosen not to dole out money for an expensive camp stove, or even a cheap single burner, when you could expand your repertoire of skills and learn how to cook over a fire.

Trying to make a stand for yourself to him is a waste of breath. You have nothing more to invest in him or his opinion of you. “That’s nice.”

“Who are you kidding? You live on your couch. You eat instant ramen. It’s not like you can cook on a regular stove. And what’s that? Progresso? Why am I not surprised?”

Not bothering to answer, knowing you only have nasty things to say to him, you turn away and focus on stirring the tepid pot of soup as though it’s still cooking. You want to make a snarky comment about how if his girlfriend is so inspiring, she must be missing him back at his camp, but you don’t want to give him any invitation to rib you about being bitter about him being in a new relationship.

Especially when you couldn’t care less.

In fact, you’re hoping his new girlfriend will distract him from seeking you out.

But alas.

He remains.

“What have you been up to all these months? I haven’t heard from you since that crazy burglary.” His voice hits you with an odd edge that tenses your shoulders.

The last time you’d seen him, you’d been running out of his apartment under the pretense of sheer terror. You hadn’t prepared yourself for discussing the incident so long after it happened, when you’re not actually as shaken up about it as you acted.

This is delicate territory.

“This and that,” you say vaguely.

“You meet anyone? Reconnect with any old friends? Got any fun stories to share?”

You glance at him over your shoulder, watching him trace the grain of the picnic table nonchalantly. You’re paranoid.

He’s not fishing for a confession, he’s just being a dick.

“That’s none of your business. Please go.”

He snorts, shoes scuffing as he leans forward. “I just keep thinking about that day, you know? How crazy it is that some whacko broke into my apartment in broad daylight.”

You turn on him sharply, face burning with anger. “I don’t feel like reminiscing with you. I want you to go. Just leave me alone.” You have to get him out of here before you let yourself act guilty, before you give yourself away when he’s just trying to make you uncomfortable.

Chan chooses that moment to appear with an armload of firewood, wide gaze flashing between you and Woosung.

Your ex clocks him instantly, twisting himself to assess the man. “So this is the guy. Good for you, finding a new boyfriend.” He says with a sneer, like he hasn’t brought up his yet unseen girlfriend every chance he gets. “I hope he can cook. This is what you’re feeding him?”

“He’s not my boyfriend.” You say abruptly, snatching Woosung’s attention back to you. Even if he doesn’t suspect your involvement in the robbery, you don’t need him discovering Chan’s. “Please leave, Woosung.”

Chan puts his head down and moves to your fire pit, arranging some of the wood in a log cabin formation.

“You know she’s helpless with all this, right?” Woosung directs this to Chan. “I’ve never seen anyone less suited for the outdoors.”

That stings, especially considering you’ve been enjoying your new hobby.

He’s trying to hurt you.

He doesn’t know whether or not you’re capable of camping.

It’s just bullshitting to get a reaction.

Chan doesn’t answer, busily pushing some small kindling into the open spaces between the wood. His eyes flick to you, assessing your reaction, and when you lift your chin reassuringly, he angles himself away again.

You don’t need rescuing.

But you get the distinct impression that the moment you do, Chan would be on his feet in the blink of an eye.

Woosung glances at you. “Is he deaf? Dumb?”

“Fuck off.” You snap instantly, appalled by his behavior—by the question. You know why Chan isn’t talking. He’d been wearing a mask in front of Woosung all those months ago, but his voice could be recognized.

He won’t speak, not when it puts both you and himself at risk.

You have no intention of making that a difficult task for him. “Don’t talk to him. Get away from my camp.” Your words are delivered quietly, dangerously low. “Unless you want to be kicked out by the park rangers, you can get lost.”

He shrugs and lifts himself from your picnic table. “Whatever. Enjoy your Progresso.” He shoots another rude laugh at Chan and shuffles away, hands tucked carelessly in his pockets.

Like an afterthought, he pauses and turns back to you. “I’m so glad that lunatic didn’t hurt you that day.” His eyes flash from you to the man crouching by your fire pit, lips curling in a smirk, and then he spins on his heel and saunters on down the road.

Chan rises, watching him leave until he’s out of sight. When he’s sure that your ex is gone, he turns to you. “I’m sorry, I just—”

“I know.” You cut him off, sliding your legs out from the bench and joining him at the fire pit, trying to put the odd interaction out of your mind. “Thanks for getting this for me. I’ve got matches, I can light it from here.”

He steps back, standing silently until you crouch and reach for the rest of the wood that he’s acquired for you.

“Wait, hold on.” He blocks your hand. “That’s why you burned through your supply the first time. You wanna get your fire started first with a few small logs, and then throw the biggest pieces on once you got some good heat. It will burn longer.”

He takes your matches from you and lights the kindling, talking the whole time, showing you how to efficiently get a hot flame burning. It’s the same way Jisung did it, but he takes care to warn you to burn your supply more gradually.

When you once again have a roaring cook fire and a few extra logs to keep it going later, you focus on stirring your soup. “Thanks for this,” you utter quietly, still embarrassed. “I’m still learning. Like he said, I’m not experienced with any of this.”

He squats next to you in the dirt and plays with a few twigs. “The guy’s a jerk. You’re doing great. Don’t let him rattle you.” He touches a hand to your shoulder and then points at your soup. “If you really want to blow some smoke in his eye, so to speak, I can show you a staple camp breakfast. Once you master that, no one can question your camping skills.”

You stare at him blankly, trying to reconcile the apparent agreement he has with Jisung with this extraordinary effort to help you. “All I have is hash.”

He shakes his head with a quick smile. “I’ll bring you the stuff. You’ve gotta get away from the canned crap. Trust me. It elevates your whole experience.”

“I only buy canned food so I don’t have to mess with fresh ingredients. I can’t keep them cold driving all day anyway.”

“A cooler and a bag of ice fixes that. Seriously, it’s worth the cost of groceries. I can have you going tomorrow morning. Don’t you want to see the look on his face when he walks by and you’ve got a feast of bacon and eggs? Also, if you haven’t eaten bacon and eggs that are infuse with woodsmoke, you haven’t truly camped.”

The only egg you can imagine is the one that’s gonna be on Woosung’s face, and it’s enough to convince you. Plus, Chan is offering you a valuable wilderness skill. You’d be foolish to turn him down. “I’ll pay you for the groceries and the wood.”

He waves you off. “First lesson is free. Don’t worry about it.”

You’re already feeling better about the whole trainwreck of your first solo roadtrip. “Thank you.”

Chan grins at you, rising to his feet. “And the firewood was free. Woosung said they have a propane stove, so they didn’t need it anyway. Don’t give me that look, you already gave me permission to rob him.”

You just stare at him in dumb silence.

How long had he been listening to your conversation before he revealed himself?

He surveys your site with hesitation before glancing back at you. “I really don’t like that he found your camp. You sure you don’t want to squeeze into ours for the night?”

Your response is a hard frown.

“No, I’m serious. You’re all the way over here alone and he knows it.”

His concern is touching, but you have to be able to overcome this obstacle on your own. Chan won’t be there for you forever. “I’ll be fine, Chan. Your friend already invited me to see those ruins. We’ll go explore, then I’m gonna wash up, and go to bed. Just come back in the morning.”

He pauses, watching you thoughtfully. “I’ll send someone to walk you over there.” He says. “Sun’s going down and you’re like five minutes from the showers.”

You try to protest, but he just zips up his jacket with finality and gives your arm another squeeze. “I’d do it myself, but I’m trying not to make trouble for you with that asshole. See you after dinner, okay?”

All you can do is nod as he leaves you to your dinner. Heart uncomfortably confused, you settle in to eat your sad little bowl of soup and watch the sun begin to go down.

The whole group appears as soon as you’ve finished washing out your pan and stirring up your embers to let them burn out on their own.

Jisung approaches you first, Chan lingering behind him with the others. “The explorers have arrived!” Jisung announces. “Ready to see if we can get ourselves cursed?”

Chan smiles at you, a tempered, detached expression that sends a jolt of insult through your blood.

You look away and focus on Jisung. “I want to get my camera, and then I’m ready.” He waits for you while you get into your car and loop the strap of your film camera around your neck, and then you’re off.

“What do you think of your trip so far?” Jisung asks you as you walk the campground road towards the lake. The group is loud and rowdy behind you, the friends joking and picking on each other to pass the time. “Are you enjoying camping?”

“I am,” you say honestly. “There have been quite a few surprises along the way, but it’s been fun. I like the peace of it.” You glance back at Chan, only to see his eyes dart away from you.

“Channie hyung said he didn’t know you were gonna be here. It’s crazy that you just ran into us like that.”

“Yeah. Crazy.” It bothers you more than it should that you’re getting this lukewarm shoulder from a guy you barely know, but clearly your feelings for him are stronger than you’d wanted to realize. Hadn’t he been sidled up next to you, only an hour ago, taking time away from his friends to help you? Is he still the guy who wants to be ���good for you’? Or is he just being a friend taking pity on you?

Your mouth sets in a hard frown. “I didn’t know my ex was gonna be here either.”

Jisung continues talking, asking about the situation with Woosung, commenting appreciatively on your vintage camera, but your responses are halfhearted and distracted.

You’d hoped to be gauging Chan’s reaction to you interacting with his friend, but he’s ignoring you.

His apparent sudden disinterest disappoints you more than you thought it would, but you’re not discouraged. If he has no problem with you being close to Jisung, you can prepare yourself to get over him, once and for all.

And in the meantime, Jisung is nice. He’s kind, funny, not at all unattractive, and not in the slightest the consolation prize material you had initially accused him of being. You can be just as happy getting to know him as you were discovering Chan.

At least, you hope you can.

A few minutes of light hiking later, you come up on the ruins that you’d seen all over the postcards in the gas station this morning.

They’re beautiful in a nostalgic sort of way. A solid set carved in stone, standing alone among the over grown rubble of the mansion they once belonged to. Ivy clambers up the sides, moss ornamenting the outsides of each step but worn away from the centers where millions of tourists and campers have stepped.

Despite the obvious age of the ruins, the stairs stand strong, only crumbling at the edges with little affect to the integrity of the structure.

It’s amazing that every other part of the mansion has practically turned to gravel while the staircase remains proud and almost whimsical.

“Wow, cool!” One of the guys exclaims, rushing forward to hop onto the first step. “Who wants to go to the top?”

“No way.” One of them, you think his name is Felix, walks around the edges of the monument. “I don’t play with that shit.”

“You think you’re gonna be cursed for life?” Another, Minho, starts climbing the stairs with a grin. “Or death?”

“This is awesome.” Jisung runs up after him, clutching to the back of Minho’s shirt when he realizes there’s no railing to hold onto.

You lift your camera, peering through the viewfinder as you snap shot after shot.

The guys crawl all over the stairs, with the exception of two.

You realize Chan has come to stand next to you, watching his friends clamber over the stone and play like they’re going to push each other off. “It’s beautiful, right?” He says, taking a few pictures on his phone. “I’m glad we didn’t miss this.”

Your skin prickles where his arm brushes yours. “Glad that cashier gave us such a romantic spot for our honeymoon.” You quip smartly, catching his wide grin in your peripheral.

“Ah, he was just too much fun to play with.” Chan nudges you with an elbow, and then abruptly returns his arm to his side like you burned him. “So, what do you think of Jisung? He likes you.”

What the hell is wrong with this guy?

He’s going hot and cold on you, and it’s exhausting.

“Well, that was your plan, wasn’t it?” You return simply. “As far as stand-ins go, he’s an interesting choice.”

Chan blinks at you, wide eyed and stammering.

Shaking your head, you move away from him towards the stairs. “Jisung is great. I like him. Thanks for the introduction.”

He watches you go.

Jisung turns just in time to see you start up the steps, and hurries down with a beaming grin to extend a hand. “This is so cool—careful, though, the steps are worn super smooth. Hyunjin has already slipped like twice.”

You slap your hand into his and let him guide you up, pausing to take a few more pictures here and there, until you’re standing at the top with Minho and Hyunjin.

Chan remains at the bottom, staring up at you and Jisung with a tension in his jaw that fills you with satisfaction.

It’s his game.

You’re only playing by his rules.

“Come on, Jisung, let’s take a picture.” You slip your arm through his and let your camera hang against your chest, sliding your phone from your pocket and holding it up to catch both of you smiling widely over the abrupt drop off at the top of the stairs.

Jisung’s arm loops around your waist to keep you steady, his other hand throwing up a peace sign. “Let me get one too. Let’s all get in this.”

It’s a treacherous position to group all four of you in the narrow space to take the picture, so when you lean into Jisung, it’s not even an attempt to get under Chan’s skin.

But your eyes flick down to find him as you feel Jisung’s hand curl around your hip, and see fire flash in his expression.

Success.

You’ll have to apologize to Jisung later, but for now, the aggravation in Chan’s posture is exactly the result you wanted.

A figure in the background of Jisung’s picture catches your attention when he shows the selfie to you.

Woosung, standing in the rubble at the bottom, gazing up at you with irritation written all over his face.

You turn so suddenly that Jisung nearly drops his phone trying to catch you before you can trip over the edge.

The only people on the ground are Chan, Felix, and a few other random campers milling through the ruins.

No Woosung in sight.

“Alright, it’s getting late.” Chan’s voice calls up, beckoning for his friends to come back down. “Long day of driving tomorrow. We need to sleep.”

Jisung turns to you with a sweet smile. “Walk you back?”

Chan shoves his balled fists into his pockets and looks away, shaking his head with an inaudible mutter.

You slip your hand back into Jisung’s. “That would be great, thank you.”

He sticks around long enough for you to gather up your overnight bag and change of clothes, walks you to the restrooms as promised, and then leaves you to spend your second night alone.

It’s colder that night, and you have to dig your second sweater out of your car to add layers and flip the edge of your sleeping bag over your face to get warm enough to fall asleep. Your dreams are restless, riddled with charming robbers and cruel exes.

When morning comes, you unzip your tent to find your fire already started.

There’s no telling where the wood came from this time.

Chan’s head pops up from behind the picnic table at the sound of you stirring, and spreads his arms to gesture at the collection of ingredients and supplies on the surface. “Morning,” he says with a grin. “Sleep well?”

Is this ‘I want to be good for you’ Chan or pushing-you-at-Jisung Chan?

You decide not to fight it. You can spend this whole trip giving him terse responses and guarded glares, or you can save your energy and just pretend he’s a normal guy, a friend helping out.

It’s better than wasting your emotional energy on each confusion interaction.

“I slept okay.” You poke your legs through the door, setting your heels on your outdoor rug. “It got pretty cold last night.” Before you can ask him how he slept, the smell of coffee hits you, and your eyes flash to the cook fire. Your blue percolator is sitting on the grill, steaming and gurgling away. “You made coffee?”

The hard shell around your heart cracks.

You’re a goddamn sucker for coffee.

Damn you.

He rises to his feet, grabbing one of your cups off the table. “Yeah, I figured you’d want some. Thought I’d get it going for you to warm you up for sitting through a cooking lesson with me.” He pours you a rich, brown, insanely delicious smelling serving and brings it to you. “Careful, it’s hot.”

You cradle it in your hands, staring at him in bewilderment. “You don’t like coffee but you know how to make it? In a percolator?” It’s a bygone skill for most people, especially those who don’t drink coffee to begin with.

He shrugs. “My friends like it, so when it’s my turn to cook I make the coffee too. Is it good? I notice you drink it black so I tried to make it smooth, but I’m not sure how strong your roast is.”

The coffee hits your tongue with a scalding nutty richness that immediately warms you from the inside out. “God,” you mutter, sinking into the nest of your sleeping bag still bunched around you. “You gotta show me how you made this.”

Chan beams, flushed with your praise. “You like it?”

You nod, inhaling the steam like oxygen. “Mm-hmm.”

For a second he just stares down at you, your chill-blushed face surrounded by a thick cocoon of sweaters and sleeping bag, and the tips of his ears redden.

You scowl under his scrutiny. Him staring at you like he’s about to pinch your cheeks is not good for your plan to avoid catching feelings again. “What are you looking at?”

He shakes his head. “Nothing. I just…” he pauses, head cocking to the side. “Nothing, you’re just cute.”

“You should see me in the mornings.” You shoot back automatically, an ironic grin spreading across your face—because you know you’re not cute. You know your hair is a rat’s nest, your face printed with pillow creases, eyes probably puffy.

Chan’s eyes flash, an expression you can’t interpret. He’s thinking, debating saying something, but eventually extends a hand to you. “You ready to get cookin’, master chef?”

You’re loath to escape your little huddle of warmth, but you don’t want to waste all of your morning hours before you even get on the road again, so you pry a hand off your cup and slap it into his.

He pulls you up, steady as a statue as you sway on legs that haven’t held your weight in nine hours. He keeps your hand firmly trapped, eyes fixed down on you.

You’re in dangerous territory.

Clearing your throat abruptly, you reclaim your hand and skirt around him to set your coffee down on the picnic table. “So, what’s first?” You feel his eyes on you as you stretch the tightness out of your back, but he just joins you and starts organizing the ingredients he’s brought.

As you watch him arrange a small carton of eggs, packet of cheese, package of bacon, and a number of small potatoes and seasoning bottles, your eyes catch on something red, half hidden by a dish towel.

It looks like broken ceramic.

You move the towel, and find a broken mug, shattered into pieces. Fragments of the words ‘downward spiral’ stare up at you.

And on top of the pile of ceramic, slightly crumpled from the weight of the towel, a blue sticky note, with the words ‘You should have just asked for it’ scrawled on top in Woosung’s handwriting.

Your heart thuds angrily in your chest. “Did you put this here?” Terse, vicious, accusing.

Chan leans over to see what you’re staring at. “No? What is that?”

It’s your favorite mug, the one you had gotten from Woosung’s apartment. The one you had left at home.

How the hell did Woosung get his hands on it?

Before you can fly off in a rage and storm your ex’s campsite, you throw the towel back over it and focus your attention on Chan, breathing forcefully through your nose to calm yourself. “Nothing. Go ahead.”

He’s wary of your sudden irritation, but he doesn’t push you, instead reaching for the ingredients again. “Alright, so basically, when you’re camping with an iron skillet like you’ve got here, you wanna keep bacon as a staple ingredient. The grease doubles as your cooking oil for everything else, and it keeps your pan conditioned and makes it easier to clean when you’re done.”

You follow him between the fire and the picnic table staging area and back again, listening intently as he walks you through the motions of breakfast, showing you how to wrap potatoes in tin foil and place them directly on the grill while the bacon cooks.

He never seems to stop talking, gesticulating minutely into the air every time he has to pause to think of a better way to explain what he’s doing or consider his next course of action, checking in with you every so often to make sure your eyes haven’t glazed over.

You’re concentrating, but more on trying to make sense of the shattered mug and the somewhat ominous message than on the recipe for eggs and bacon.

By the time he gingerly pulls the softened potatoes off the fire and cuts them into chunks, dumping them into the sizzling leftover bacon grease with a mess of eggs, Jisung has shuffled his way over to your campsite with another young man, both of them in thick, oversized hoodies and faces scrunched with sleep. They nod half-closed-eyed greetings to you, mumbling good mornings and sliding into one side of your bench.

Chan watches them, unimpressed, his spatula hovering in the air. “What are you guys doing here?” His eyes narrow at Jisung, like the intrusion is an unwelcome one.

“Minho hit the sauce pretty hard last night.” Jisung mumbles sleepily. “He’s not up yet. We’re hungry.”

Your eyes snap to the two potatoes and single package of bacon and only four eggs, and then flash to Chan in a panic. “If the rest of your cult club are gonna come over here we’re gonna be out of food.”

The second newcomer, Hyunjin, slides his phone out of his pocket. “I’ll text Changbin hyung to bring more food.” He slumps over the table, chin propped up on his forearms as he blearily shoots off a text message.

Chan turns to you, an annnoyed upturn to his lips. “Is that okay?”

You shrug. This is all his doing anyway. “Of course it’s okay, obviously they can’t fend for themselves.” You’re mostly teasing, just to get their reactions, but Jisung just gives a drunken-looking smile and closes his eyes blissfully, breathing in the appetizing smell of breakfast.

Back to playing into Chan’s schemes, you suppose.

“Do you guys drink coffee?” You ask, already rummaging through your boxes for the other two cups you keep in your set.

“Don’t give them your coffee.” Chan groans, watching you shake out the dust from your unused dishes. “They’ll drink you dry, please don’t offer them your stuff.” He plucks one of the mugs from you obstructively. “Let them wake up the old fashioned way—a good kick in the pants—”

You snatch the cup back from him. “Knock it off,” You shoulder past him and grab the oven mitt, picking up the percolator and pouring two cups. When you turn back to the two new guys, you set the cups before them with an apology. “I don’t have cream or sugar, but Chan made it really smooth, so it shouldn’t be too offensive to you if you don’t normally take it black.”

“Thank you!” Jisung leans back with an excited gasp, cradling the mug with the same thrill that you had done half an hour ago, and elbows his companion. “Hyunjin. Coffee. Say thank you.”

Hyunjin’s eyes pop open, sucking in a big whiff of the beverage. “Oh yes. Thank you.”

You can’t fight the warm flood of gratification as they both gaze at you like you’ve brought them out of the cold. Just when you thought the best thing about mornings while camping was basking in the comfort of your sleep-warmed clothes and sucking down a hot cup of coffee, you suddenly find yourself watching an attractive man with a pinked nose cooking for you while two of his friends huddle together in massive hoodies with sleepy eyes and pouty lips, inhaling your coffee like there’s no life without it, realizing it’s somehow even better like this.

Two more members of their group arrive soon, with more dishes and more ingredients, immediately putting it on to cook while Chan plates the first round of breakfast. “Sit here,” he puts you next to Jisung with a tight smile, sliding your blue enamel plate towards you. “Try that out,” He says with a tense pat to your shoulder. “See if you ever want to settle for corned beef hash out of a can again.”

There he goes again, pushing you off on his friend.

Jisung scoots over a little as you crawl into the bench next to him, offering a cute smile back when you give him an overly warm grin.

If Chan wants to watch you ignore him, you’re just petty enough to oblige.

Chan tops off your coffee while you give your meal a chance to cool, watching the two new guys prepare an army’s worth of food over your small cook fire. One of them, Changbin, mentions the insufficient amount of firewood, and the other, Seungmin, mentions texting another member of their group to bring some over.

Before you know it, there are eight hungry men milling around your campsite, introducing themselves to you over the sounds of their growling stomachs, squeezing onto the benches all around you. You find yourself pushed against Jisung’s beefy shoulder on one side and Felix’s more angular one on the other.

Instead of feeling invaded and suffocated, you eat your unfairly delicious smoky breakfast with a happy glow, merely listening to the mindless chatter of the young men around you.

The muscular one across from you leans forward, sniffing at Jisung’s mug. “Why does your coffee smell better than mine?”

Jisung shrugs and gestures at you. “Don’t ask me, it’s her coffee.”

“We ran her out of coffee, you assholes.” Chan mutters from somewhere further down the bench. “Most of you are drinking our coffee.”

Before the man next to you, Changbin, you think someone said, can ask you what kind of coffee you buy, a line of police cars drive by your campsite in a rush of whooping sirens. One of them is a truck, hauling a boat on a trailer, kicking up dust all the way down the forest road.

“I wonder what’s happening.” Hyunjin mutters.

It’s only later, when you’ve just finished packing your camp back into your car, that a police vehicle pulls up behind you and you find out what happened.

The officer who steps out of the car calls you by name. He holds out his phone to you, a picture of a familiar face on the screen. “I understand you know this man?”

You glance at the device, expression twisting in unrestrained disgust at a selfie of Woosung. “Yeah, that’s my ex boyfriend. Why?”

A number of possibilities cross your mind, and you wonder how sunk you are. Had he recognized Chan? He’d called the police to arrest the man who robbed him, and informed them that you had been an accomplice?

On top of everything else screwing with your trip, now you’re going to miss Ateez because you’re locked up in a jail seven hundred miles from home.

“He was found murdered this morning. We just pulled his body out of the lake.”

to be continued

< last part

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♡ he ate and left no crumbs ──

જ⁀➴ a kunigami rensuke war au. 5k words

synopsis: in which kunigami rensuke, a young soldier bound by a quiet promise, faces the ravages of war and the weight of love waiting in the shadows of an uncertain future.

a/n: PLEASE LISTEN TO THIS PLAYLIST, it makes everything 100% better! btw this piece was written for a ticket from the ask roulette carnival! visit their original ticket here!

everyone loved kunigami rensuke, but not the way you did.

to most, he was a good boy with kind hands and a strong back, someone who always held the door, who nodded at elders and never left a chore unfinished. they knew him by the shape of his silence, by the way he never said more than he had to.

but before he became the boy people whispered about in quiet reverence, before his name softened into memory and myth, he was just someone you hadn’t quite noticed yet.

everything began on an ordinary tuesday, the kind you wouldn’t have remembered—if not for him. you remember because it had just rained, and the cobblestones were still slick with puddles. you were carrying a too-heavy basket and grumbling about it under your breath, the kind of task someone else was supposed to do. and there he was, already outside the bakery, sleeves rolled, arms dusted with flour, reaching for the same stack of firewood beside the door.

you didn’t say anything at first. just glanced.

then, without a word, he took the basket from your hands like it was second nature.

“it’s alright,” you started. “i can manage.”

“i know,” he said.

but he carried it anyway.

that was the first time you noticed how broad his shoulders were. how he moved like he didn’t want to startle anything. like kindness was just a reflex.

he didn’t ask your name until the fourth time he helped you. didn’t use it until the sixth. he always looked like he wanted to say more but never knew how, like he was trying to carry something between his teeth and didn’t want to let it drop.

you started staying longer at the bakery after that. lingered by the window while pretending to adjust the display. you’d watch him knead dough with strong hands and that same quiet concentration, lips pressed together like he was deep in thought.

one evening, he had something wrapped in a cloth, still warm from the oven. he looked almost shy as he offered it to you, eyes flicking between your hands and your face.

“they let me try something new today,” he mumbled.

“it’s not much. just a different filling.”

you bit into it without hesitation, and your eyes widened. soft bread, still steaming, with a honey-sweet center that melted on your tongue.

“kunigami,” you said, mouth full. “this might be the best thing i’ve ever had.”

he flushed. looked down. scuffed his boot against the dirt.

“i—i made it for you.”

you blinked.

he didn’t look up, just kept talking, voice quieter this time.

“the first one. i told them it was just a test batch, but… i already knew who i wanted to give it to.”

you didn’t say anything right away. just held the bread to your chest and smiled like you didn’t know what else to do with something that soft. something that honest.

you walked home slower that evening. he stayed closer than usual.

and neither of you said what it really meant.

but the bread was warm in your hands.

and his fingers brushed yours like maybe—just maybe—he’d do this forever, if you let him.

somehow, weeks blurred into months.

you never called them dates, not out loud. but that’s what they were, wandering through the sunday markets with your arms full of wildflowers, splitting one paper-wrapped pastry between the two of you. he once paid for a locket at the jeweler’s stall with coins he swore he didn’t need. said it reminded him of you. you still wear it under your blouse, even now.

he taught you how to braid bread dough. you taught him how to whistle.

he walked you home every night. you stopped pretending it was a coincidence. you laughed more around him. he started reaching for your hand without thinking.

and though no one said it, not officially, not aloud, everyone in town had already begun to think of you as his.

one afternoon, he took your hand without a word and led you toward the town square. the sun was still golden and soft behind the clouds, and his grip was warm and sure—like he had a plan.

“what are we doing?” you asked, already smiling.

“you’ll see.”

he stopped by a small vendor cart tucked beside the bakery steps, where the old man with the crooked hat only came on fridays. he bought you a pouch of candied almonds, slipping the coins into the man’s hand before you could even offer.

“you remembered,” you said, a little breathless.

“’course i did,” he said, not looking at you, just watching the way you lit up when you took your first bite.

you teased him, like always.

“you’re getting soft on me.”

he gave a half-smile and bumped your shoulder with his.

“i don’t mind, if it makes you happy.”

you looped your arm through his, resting your head lightly against his shoulder as you walked. the world felt distant in that moment—like it could stay just like this, forever.

then the church bell rang.

once.

twice.

you smiled, almost without thinking.

“a wedding,” you murmured, pausing mid-step.

kunigami turned slightly, following your gaze as the breeze carried the faint sound of celebration through the square: petals being thrown, a bride’s laughter, children running ahead in ribbons and polished shoes.

and for a second, just one small second, you saw it.

you in white. him waiting at the altar, shoulders stiff in a borrowed suit. his hands trembling when he took yours. his voice steady when he said your name.

do you take him—always. always.

his fingers brushed yours, and you wondered if maybe he was thinking the same thing.

but then the bell rang a third time. and a fourth.

and it didn’t stop.

it wasn’t just a wedding bell anymore. it was the signal.

the crowd shifted. heads turned. someone ran from the chapel steps, clutching a parchment roll, calling for quiet.

“by royal decree—due to rising tensions beyond the border—”

your smile faltered. kunigami went still beside you.

“—military enlistment will begin at the turn of the season. all able-bodied boys aged seventeen and older are to report for registration—”

the words blurred after that.

your hand tightened around his sleeve before your body even realized what you were doing. you didn’t look at the speaker. you looked at him.

“you’re eighteen,” you whispered.

he didn’t answer right away. just kept his eyes forward. jaw set.

“i know.”

he didn’t flinch, didn’t speak.

but his eyes weren’t on the crowd.

they were on the bride walking into the chapel, veil floating behind her like a promise.

and you knew,

he was wondering what it would’ve looked like if it had been you.

it was early, and most of the village was still asleep. only the soldiers and the wind were awake. the two of you agreed to meet up in the chapel.

and when you saw him, he looked different in uniform.

his coat was stiff. his boots too polished. he kept adjusting the straps like they were choking him. he’d cut his hair shorter than you’d ever seen it—like someone had taken part of him with the scissors.

but when he saw you, his shoulders dropped. and for a moment, he looked just like your rensuke again.

you walked up to him slowly, heart pounding in places it didn’t belong. he smiled when he saw you, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes.

“you’re early,” he said.

“so are you.”

he laughed a little.

“i couldn’t sleep.”

“me neither.”

you both fell quiet.

it wasn’t like the usual silences you both had, this one felt sharp. temporary. like a match that had just been struck, already fading.  then, like he couldn’t hold it in anymore, he reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a crumpled sheet of paper.

your breath caught.

you knew that paper.

“you left this at the bakery the other day,” he said, smoothing it out gently. “i saw it before you came back.”

it was the little sketch you’d made, drawn in charcoal on the back of a receipt. a crooked house with wildflowers in the yard. a tiny oven puffing smoke out the chimney. a bench under a tree. a window with two cups of tea drawn on the sill.

you’d barely spent ten minutes on it. yet he memorized every detail.

“i want to build this for you,” he said, holding it out with both hands like it was a blueprint. like it was sacred. “not something fancy. not something grand. just this.”

his voice softened, almost ashamed.

“i know it’s messy. the world, i mean. and i don’t know what i’ll come back with. but if i make it—when i make it—this is what i’m working for.”

“you really remember it?” you whispered.

“down to the window with two mugs,” he said, smiling faintly. “you drew it small, but i saw.”

“i didn’t think you looked.”

“i always look.”

your throat tightened. you reached for the sketch and held it close, the crinkled edges warming beneath your fingers like it could hold the future in its folds.

he stepped closer. looked down at the drawing like he could see more than ink.

“that little room on the left?” he said, tapping the page gently. “that’ll be the kitchen. you’ll bake in the mornings, and i’ll burn toast pretending to help.”

“of course you will,” you said, laughing through your tears.

“and that room here, just off the kitchen—that’ll be the baby’s room,” he added, voice dipping with something tender. “the first one. a little girl, i think. i’ll carve her name into the windowsill the day she’s born.”

your breath hitched.

“next to that’ll be the living room. not much in it. just us. your books, a soft couch, maybe a radio if we’re lucky. and a rug our kids will fall asleep on during storms.”

he traced the sketch like it was real, like he could already touch it.

“then our bedroom. the creaky floorboards. the warm lamp. and me, always getting up too early to knead dough or check if it snowed. and you, wrapped in every blanket.”

you said nothing. you couldn’t.

“and the porch,” he whispered. “don’t forget the porch. you drew a bench. we’ll sit there when we’re old. i’ll hold your hand even when it hurts my joints.”

you laughed, shaky and soft. then he looked up, eyes a little glassy now.

“that’s what i’ll come back for. not medals. not glory. just this. just you. just… home.”

you reached up, cupped his cheek.

“we’ll fill every room, rensuke. i promise.”

then he reached into his coat. pulled out something small. a little cloth pouch. tied with string.

“what’s this?” you asked, voice trembling.

“almonds. from the same vendor,” he said softly. “they’re still sweet.”

you took it with both hands. held it to your chest like it was the most precious thing you’d ever been given.

“i’m coming back.”

you looked at him. he wasn’t smiling. he was serious. like this was something he needed you to believe more than anything.

“i’ll come back. i’ll send letters. i’ll write you every week. and when the war ends—”

his voice broke. he tried again.

“when the war ends… i’ll come back for you. i’ll take you to the river. we’ll eat bread on sundays again. and i’ll—i’ll marry you. right here. in this chapel. i promise.”

you felt it all at once. the weight. the fear. the fierce, aching hope of it.

“rensuke—”

“you can open your own bakery. i’ll help, even if i’m terrible at it. we’ll have two kids. maybe three. i’ll build the crib myself. we’ll hang flowers over the door. and every year, i’ll buy you almonds—”

you let out a shaky laugh through the tears.

“that’s not fair.”

“i know.”

“you’re saying too many beautiful things.”

“then say yes to them,” he said, eyes fierce and soft all at once. “say you’ll wait for me.”

“of course i’ll wait for you.”

you stepped forward, forehead pressed to his chest, and he wrapped his arms around you like he could memorize the shape of you. his heart was racing. or maybe yours was.

“say you’ll marry me,” he whispered into your hair.

“i’ll marry you,” you whispered back. “i’ll wear the white dress, and you’ll bring almonds, and we’ll grow old in that little house.”

he didn’t move. didn’t breathe.

“you promise?”

“i do,” you said, voice steady now. “i promise. i’ll be yours. no matter how long it takes.”

the whistle blew in the distance. you clutched his coat tighter.

“you come back to me, rensuke,” you said. “you come home.”

“i will,” he swore, pulling back to look you in the eye. “i swear on everything—i’ll come home to you.”

but he didn’t kiss you. just cupped your face like he was afraid you might slip through his fingers. his thumbs brushed your cheekbones, so gentle it almost hurt. he leaned in, close enough for your breaths to mix, your noses to touch.

and then he paused.

“not yet,” he whispered. “i’ll kiss you when it’s done. when i come back. when you’re in white and i’m standing at the end of that aisle—i’ll kiss you then. not a second before.”

you blinked hard, lips parting, but no sound came.

“that’ll be my first victory,” he said, voice thick. “and you’ll be my prize.”

and slowly, like it shattered him, he stepped back.

left you there with a promise on your lips, and a kiss you never got to taste. you stood there long after the train had gone. fingers cold. chest full of promises. and the pouch of almonds still in your pocket.

he had said forever. and you had believed him.

but forever is a cruel thing to say right before goodbye.

the first months were the hardest. not because of the cold, or the drills, or the mud that clung to his boots for days at a time.

he could live with the cold.

he could live with the shouting, the bruises, the weight of the rifle pressing into his spine.

he could live with waking up at dawn and sleeping on damp earth, chewing food that tasted like metal and silence.

what he couldn’t live with was missing you.

he missed you in a way that didn’t pass, it settled in his chest and made a home there.

he missed your hands and your voice and the sound you made when you tried not to laugh.

he missed the bench you drew. the way you leaned on him like you never needed to ask.

so he wrote to you.

whenever he could, wherever he was. in trenches, under flickering lamps, in the lull between gunfire. sometimes with dirty fingers and blood on his boots, sometimes with shaking hands and mud still drying in his sleeves. but always to you.

the first one came only a week after he left.

my love,i thought i’d be too tired to write. turns out, i’m more tired without you. the barracks are cold, but i keep thinking about the window you drew. the one with the two mugs. when i come back, mine will always be for you. – rensuke.

the second came two weeks later, tucked with a pressed wildflower between the pages.

the field was full of these today. nothing else good to say about it, really—except that it reminded me of your sketch. the one where flowers were growing out front. i didn’t even like flowers before. i do now. tell the baker i still miss the almond bread. tell him he’s got competition when i get home. – rensuke.

the third one was longer. you’d read it ten times over by the end of the week.

they’ve started training us with heavier gear. my hands are raw. you’d probably fuss over them. i wish you could. a boy cried last night. said he didn’t want to die. i didn’t know what to say, so i told him about you. about the house. the kitchen. the baby’s room. it helped. i think it helped me too. when this ends, i’m going to build that life with you like i said. every nail, every beam, with these hands. just wait for me. always yours. – rensuke.

you folded that letter into your pocket and carried it with you through every market, every morning, every storm. the words stayed close to your heart. some days they were the only thing that kept it beating.

and in the quiet of your little room, with your hands ink-stained and your eyes heavy from waiting, you whispered the same thing into every reply.

come home.

come build what we dreamed.

and kunigami rensuke, who once kissed flour off your nose and talked about nursery windows—was made to march through fields of screaming mud, watching boys collapse next to him with their eyes still open.

he didn’t write about that part. not at first.

he wrote about you.

because it was the only thing keeping him human.

my love,we stood for hours today. i could barely feel my legs by the end of it. one of the boys fell and didn’t get back up, but no one stopped. that’s the rule now—you don’t stop. but i keep thinking about that crooked house you drew. the one with the chimney that leans a little to the side. it makes me smile. i’d fix it for you. i’d paint it the color of your favorite apron. i miss you more than anything. i hope you’re still saving that ribbon for your hair. i hope your hands are warm tonight. i’ll come back. i promise. – rensuke.

you read that letter by candlelight, pressed it to your chest and wept into your sleeves. you had no idea where he was when he wrote it. no idea what he'd seen. what he was becoming.

but still, you believed him. you had to.

the rain came hard that day. it wasn't the kind that passed quickly. it fell like the sky was angry, like it wanted to drown everything still standing. the battlefield turned to sludge beneath their boots, trenches caved in under the weight of water, and the fog made it impossible to see more than a few paces ahead.

they were told it was a routine movement. they were told the enemy had pulled back.

they were lied to.

gunfire cracked before dawn, tearing through the gray. they scrambled—young boys in too-large uniforms, slipping on wet roots and shouting each other's names. they were scattered. they were surrounded.

kunigami’s first instinct was to find riku.

seventeen. barely up to his shoulder. quiet, kind. carried a picture of his little sister in his breast pocket, and once shared half a chocolate bar with kunigami even though rations were thin.

he spotted him by the treeline, blood already soaking through his trousers, one hand pressed weakly to his thigh.

“riku!”

no response.

“riku, look at me! come on, stay awake, kid.”

kunigami dropped to his knees in the mud, heart pounding so loud it drowned out everything else. he threw riku’s arm over his shoulder and tried to stand, he was heavier than he looked. or maybe kunigami was just exhausted.

every muscle screamed. but he didn’t stop. they had to move. they had to go now or not at all.

“you’re alright,” kunigami muttered, more to himself than to riku. “you’re alright. i’ve got you.”

he didn’t think about dying. not yet.

not until the sound of enemy boots pounded through the brush just behind them.

“shit, shit—”

he staggered forward, half-carrying, half-dragging riku through mud that sucked at his legs like quicksand. his shoulder ached. his lungs burned. his fingers were numb from gripping the rifle too tight, from not letting go of the only thing he could still save.

but it wasn’t enough.

a shot rang out behind them, close. too close.

he felt the wind of it pass his cheek. heard the bark of a tree splinter.

riku stirred weakly, eyes glassy.

“tell my sister—” he choked.

“don’t,” kunigami snapped, voice cracking. “you’ll tell her yourself. just hold on.”

but he knew. he knew they wouldn’t make it out.

his boots slipped again. he crashed hard against the trunk of a fallen tree, dragging riku down with him. his chest heaved. his arms screamed. riku’s weight was slumping.

there was no way forward.

kunigami dropped his head against the bark, rain soaking into his collar. he was shaking. he tried to breathe, but it felt like drowning.

and for one brief, quiet second, the war slipped away. the shouting blurred into a hum. the pain dulled. and all he could see was you, barefoot in that imaginary yard, apron tied loose, holding out a warm roll in one hand and a mug of tea in the other.

you smiled like he’d never left. like he'd made it back. like it was real.

this is it, he thought. this is where i die.this is where everything ends.this is where i fail you.

he closed his eyes. drew in a shuddering breath.

i’m sorry. i wanted more time.

then—footsteps.

he barely registered the sound of boots slamming into the mud, the low, desperate shout of his name. someone grabbed him by the collar. dragged him upright with a grunt.

“kunigami—”

his eyes cracked open. blurred.

“what the hell did you do,” takeshi growled.

kunigami blinked. he couldn’t answer. couldn’t think. his fingers were numb. his body felt like stone.

“you said you’d watch him. you said—”

and then the fist came with no warning. it landed across his jaw. sharp, brutal. kunigami slumped sideways, blood in his mouth, the taste of copper thick and warm.

he didn’t fight back. he didn’t move.

“where is he?”

“where the hell is riku?!”

kunigami’s lips moved. no sound came.

“you let him die!”

another punch—this one to his ribs. a scream threatened to rip out of him, but he swallowed it. choked on it.

“you should’ve stayed down with him,” takeshi spat. “should’ve rotted there too.”

he fell to his knees beside him, panting, rain soaking through both of them. the forest around them was silent, save for their breathing. and kunigami? he didn’t even cry.

he just curled a hand near riku’s dog tags still clenched in his palm, mud-caked, bloodied, bent at the edge—and whispered, almost to no one,

“i tried.”

takeshi didn’t respond. didn’t look at him. and for the longest time, kunigami stayed there on the ground. hand still wrapped around something cold that used to mean a life.

the world just moved on.

and kunigami rensuke, well, he stopped moving too.

the war ended in spring.

they rang the bell in the church tower just after dawn, and for once, it wasn’t for mourning. the sound echoed through the hills like laughter returned to the world. there were ribbons on windows. flags draped across doors. a warmth in the air that didn’t feel borrowed.

you stood at your gate, heart full and trembling, watching the road.

he’d come home today. you were sure of it. even if his last letter came months ago. even if the silence had stretched too long.

you told yourself the war had taken too much of him. that maybe he was still healing. maybe his hand couldn’t write, but his heart still remembered.

he promised.

you whispered it into your morning tea. you said it under your breath at the bakery. you folded his old letters and kept them tucked into your pocket like scripture.

he said he’d come back.he said he’d build the house with the crooked roof.he remembered every line of it. even the mugs in the window.

you told the girls at the shop that you'd marry him before the leaves turned gold. that he wanted a room for your books. a window for the cradle. that he swore he’d plant trees even if he didn’t know how.

you laughed like it wasn’t killing you to wait.

the streets were full now. people shouted names. ran into arms. wept into uniforms.

one by one, the men arrived.

you clutched your coat tighter around you. the ribbon in your hair was the same one he touched the day he left. you imagined his voice behind you,

“it suits you,” he’d say, all red ears and clumsy smiles.

and then—there he was.

a tall figure through the crowd. broad shoulders. reddish hair in the light. your breath caught.

rensuke—

but it wasn’t him.

he turned, and his face was wrong. and so was the next man. and the next. maybe he was just late, that’s all. maybe the train. maybe the march took longer. you were still waiting when someone tapped your shoulder.

a man you didn’t know. dirty boots. torn coat. eyes like a wound that hadn’t closed right.

“are you… were you waiting for kunigami rensuke?”

you blinked.

“yes,” you whispered. “he’s mine.”

the man paused. his mouth opened. closed.

“i was with him.”

your heart stilled.

“where is he?”

“is he alright?”

“is he still recovering? he hasn’t written in months—maybe he couldn’t—but he’s coming, right? he said he would—”

the man’s face crumpled.

“he didn’t make it.”

the world dropped out from under you.

you didn’t hear the cheers anymore. couldn’t feel the cobblestones under your feet. your fingers trembled as the stranger reached into his coat and handed you something small, softened by dirt, warped by blood, barely holding together at the seams.

it was your sketch. the house you drew.

the crooked roof, the mugs in the window. he kept it. all this time. even at the end.

and then it started to rain.

but your cries were louder.

you collapsed to your knees in the street, sketch clutched to your chest, sobs ripping through your ribs like they wanted to take everything with them. people turned. watched. but no one moved. because grief like that—loud and raw and holy—was something they didn’t dare interrupt. he had promised. a house. a life. forever. and now all you had was paper in your hands, soaked in blood and rain and everything he never got to say.

what do you call the girl who ironed her best dress for a wedding that never came? who memorized a last name she never got to take?

what do you call someone who waited like a wife, wept like a widow—

but never got to be either?

it had been five years since the war ended. most days, kunigami didn’t count anymore. time moved differently here, in the quiet stretch of coast where the sea touched the sky and nothing felt urgent.

he worked when his body allowed, slept lightly, and lived in the corners of a village too kind to ask questions. his right hand never fully healed. his ribs still ached when it rained. but he breathed. and some days, that felt like enough.

he never made it back with the others.

a month before the troops were set to return home, he and another soldier, takeshi, had been sent across the river for supply relay.

it was a calm mission, barely watched. and maybe that’s why he didn’t expect it. the shove came quick. silent. one second he was standing, the next, the river swallowed him whole.

when he woke, he was alone on the rocks, lungs burning, shoulder torn. the locals found him half-dead. patched him up with herbs and warm hands. he couldn’t walk for weeks. couldn’t write. couldn’t even speak. and by the time he could move again, the war had ended without him.

but he never forgot her. not even once. not even when his own name felt strange in his mouth. if she still waited. if she’d stopped hoping.

but he whispered her name like a prayer. and he swore to himself, quiet and steady, that one day, he’d find her. even if she had moved on. even if she didn’t recognize him. he’d find her.

because he had promised. and promises were the only thing he had left.

i hadn’t meant to come back.

i was just passing through, looking for a warm meal, maybe a bed that didn’t creak with every breath, when i saw the sign.

the same weathered wood, the same crooked lettering that had been nailed to the post when i was seventeen. the old bakery still stood, vines curling up its brick walls. the bench out front hadn’t moved. neither had the ache in my chest.

everything looked smaller now. quieter. but it was still home.

or at least… it used to be.

my feet moved before my mind caught up. i walked the same stone path we always used to take, passed the leaning fence where i used to wait for her, and the bakery window where she’d wave at me with flour on her cheek.

by the time i reached the road to the chapel, my hands were shaking. and then the bell rang.

for a moment, i forgot how to breathe. it was the same sound we’d heard years ago while walking home after closing up the shop. everyone stood outside the chapel, dressed in spring colors, smiling and waiting. someone was getting married.

and then—i saw her.

she walked slowly down the aisle, veil catching the light, a bouquet of soft blooms cradled in her hands. she moved like the air itself parted for her. like even time had paused, just to watch her, just to say goodbye to me one last time.

i watched from the shadows. just behind the hedges, far enough that no one would notice. far enough that i could fall apart in silence. my hands trembled.

god, she was beautiful. and then—it hit me. all at once, like a storm to the ribs.

every version of her i’d ever loved. her voice echoing in the bakery after we locked up.

her grin when i handed her bread too warm to hold. her eyes, tired but soft, as she leaned against me in the cold. her fingers trembling as she pressed a crumpled sketch to her chest like it was the only future she could hold onto.

i want to build this for you, i told her once. and i meant it. i still do.

even now, i can see it, the little crooked house. the window with two mugs. the porch swing. the nursery where i’d carve our child’s name into the sill with clumsy, shaking hands. the life we whispered about when the world was too loud to dream in daylight.

i still love her.

every breath of her.

every memory. every smile. every moment i never got to have.

but she was already walking forward. and she wasn’t walking toward me. her steps slowed at the altar. and that’s when i saw him.

takeshi.

no. no, that… that couldn’t be right. my breath caught in my throat, sharp and sudden like i'd been punched again.

takeshi?

i blinked hard, like maybe i was wrong. like my mind, still scattered from everything it had survived, was showing me ghosts. but it wasn’t a ghost.

it was him. standing at the altar. he looked like he belonged there. takeshi.

the same bastard who found me broken in the dirt and didn’t say a word to her. the same comrade who threw me off that boat. who left me behind when we were finally going home.

the one who looked me in the eye after riku died and said, you should’ve brought him home. who hit me like grief was a weapon, and i was the only one left to hurt.

and now—now he was the one holding her future.

he could’ve told her.

he knew.

he knew i was alive.

he saw me breathing, broken but breathing, and he still went home and told her nothing.

he let her mourn me. he let her believe i was gone.

and i, i couldn’t write. i couldn’t even hold a pen. my right hand wouldn’t close, my ribs cracked, my mind stuck somewhere between fever and memory. i screamed her name into pillows when the pain got too sharp. i carved her initials into wood when my fingers started working again. i held that sketch like a prayer.

and he, he took everything.

i looked back up. she was reaching for him.

her hands in his.

and she smiled, like she was finally safe. finally home.

i remember that smile, she used to give it to me. and in that moment, everything inside me shattered.

the house.

the mugs in the window.

the baby’s name on the sill.

the almonds in her coat pocket.

the porch swing we never sat on.

all of it, ours.

all of it, gone.

she gave it to someone else. and i hadn’t even known. then the bells rang again.

i stood there, frozen in place like something buried in frost. i blinked—just once—and in that single breath, i let myself see it differently.

her in white, walking to me.

her arms wrapping around my neck.

her lips meeting mine at the end of that aisle.

me in the suit.

me saying the vows.

me kissing her like i swore i would, like it was the only thing i’d lived for.

but it wasn’t real, because she was already his. she had already chosen, and i was five years too late. i turned before the music started. before she said i do. before i saw her kiss someone else like she meant it.

i walked away from the chapel. from her.

from the ghost of a boy who promised forever and the man who bled his way back, only to lose her in the end.

i’ll go somewhere far. somewhere no one says her name.

somewhere almonds don’t taste like goodbye.

somewhere i don’t look at windows and think, there should’ve been two mugs there.

because she was my home. and nothing in this world hurts more than watching your home smile for someone who knew exactly what she meant to me.

i don’t know where i’m going, but wherever i end up, some part of me is still there, standing outside that chapel, watching her walk toward someone else with the smile she once gave to me.

carrying every vow we whispered in the dark like they never happened, and maybe the world will forget my name, maybe no one will remember the promises or the porch or the almonds in her coat pocket.

if anyone ever asks, tell them i loved her—enough to crawl my way back through hell just to keep a promise she’s already forgotten. tell them i waited, even when my hands couldn’t hold a pen, even when the pain begged me to let go.

and tell them i’m still there, stuck in that moment she smiled for someone else, still wearing a heart that only knows her name, still the man who can’t be moved.

it had been sixty years.

the town had changed. storefronts repainted, streets renamed. the bakery they used to pass on the way home was long gone, replaced by a laundromat that smelled like bleach and rain. no one remembered the war anymore. not really. only rusted plaques and the occasional wilting flag remained.

y/n never had children.

people used to ask, back when she was newly married and still learning how to smile like she meant it. they’d say things like, “you’d be such a good mother,” and she’d nod, say “maybe one day,” and tuck the ache away like it didn’t already have a name.

but the truth was, she couldn’t bring herself to. not because she couldn’t, but because the life in her chest had already been lived once, in a dream she never got to keep. a crooked house, a porch swing, two chipped mugs. and him.

rensuke.

the boy who said “when the war ends, i’ll kiss you at the altar.”

the one who carried her sketch like scripture.

the one who left with every piece of her heart and never came back.

they said he died in the line. no body. no letters. just smoke and silence. she believed them. she had to. it was the only way to keep breathing.

she buried the sketch in a drawer, lit candles for him every year and whispered his name like prayer.

but grief doesn't listen to time. so even now, on a quiet walk far from town, with her knees aching and her scarf pulled tight against the wind, something still tugged her toward the trees. a forgotten path. a bend in the hill she hadn’t taken in years.

and there—she saw it.

a house.

not just any house. their house.

crooked chimney. a porch swing swaying gently in the wind. wildflowers spilling over the edge of the path. and in the kitchen window: two mugs. waiting.

her chest tightened like a fist. she stepped closer, afraid to blink. afraid it might vanish. but it didn’t. it stayed. it breathed.

the door was closed. the yard was swept. the silence wrapped around it like something sacred. there was no name carved into the frame. no sign. but she knew.

everything about it was exact.

just as she had drawn it. just as he had described.

the almond tree beside the porch. the little bench. the way the swing faced west, where he said he wanted to watch the sun set on a life they'd built.

her fingers brushed the windowsill.

“someone must’ve had the same dream,” she whispered.

but even she didn’t believe it.

because who else remembered where the mugs should go? who else would’ve left the chimney crooked on purpose? who else would’ve built this, down to the tiniest, most impossible detail?

her hands trembled as she reached into her coat pocket.

the locket was still there. its brass dulled. its clasp fragile, wrapped in the same red ribbon he had tied around it, decades ago.

she pressed it to her chest. then she pulled it away, slow, like it might shatter. his name was still inside.

with what little strength she had left, she stepped to the edge of the porch—

and let it go. the locket landed in the grass with a soft whisper.

because he never got to come home, and she never got to wait long enough. and yet, somehow, the dream still lived, not in memory, not in hope, but in wood. and love, even the kind left behind in the dirt of a battlefield, even the kind buried under sixty years of silence, still remembers what it was made for.

it still knows the shape of his hands.

still looks for him in places he never got to return to.

still hurts in the exact shape of the life we never got to live.

finally, after standing for a long time, she turned away before she could change her mind. unbeknownst to her, she never saw what lay just beyond the trees, where the shadows grew thick and the grass grew tall.

two names carved into the stone, one long faded by wind and time, the other still new, waiting.

y/n kunigami, beloved wife.

the other was newer, the engraving still crisp and clear,

kunigami rensuke, beloved husband.

જ⁀➴ © sevarchive ✦ masterlist ; like/reblogs are appreciated ꣑ৎ

[ford-pines-lover]

Haunted

Can't breathe whenever you're gone...

Here's a new one everyone!! @chillinglyadventurous here it is!!!

Tags: SFW, a bit dark in the beginning, lighter at the end, ford x reader, some drinking

Stanford Pines x Reader

You and I walk a fragile line 

Ford was sitting in his usual spot in his lab. The incessant whirring of his machines were no longer audible. No current projects were being worked on. There were many sheets of paper around his workstation, some of which are probably letters to you. There weren’t many things that made this old man tick, but when something did, it was quite significant. Thoughts of you and what you had been clouded his mind. The way you left had left scars in his riddled mind. 

Stan paced around the shack, worried about how his twin was doing. It didn’t take much to worry him about Ford, but this time it was different. Ford had lost you. Ford had lost the one strong connection in his life. The last time that had happened, he got sucked through the portal. He lost his friendship with Bill. Well, it was more intimate than a friendship one would say. It was certainly astonishing how a mortal could worship a demon of sorts. 

The change was imminent. There was nothing either of you two could do to stop it. You had left for the city. You had already told him when you two started dating that you were a year away from finishing medical school and couldn’t stay in Gravity Falls, no matter how badly Ford wanted you to. No matter how badly you wanted to. The end was inevitable. It always was. Why did it hurt Ford so bad when it was so clear? 

You still visited Ford on your time off of med school. You two celebrated Thanksgiving and Haunakkah together. You shared secrets that you would never want anyone else to know. You and Ford got drunk once. Like actually drunk. He doesn’t remember what happened but you do. He asked you to marry him. Stay with him. Live with him. It hit you like a truck. You couldn’t be doing any of this. Shouldn’t be doing any of this. 

You went out to your car and cried. This whole thing felt wrong to you. Like you weren’t supposed to be happy. Why were you holding yourself back? The next morning you were gone, with a note left on the fridge reading:

Hi my love. If you’re reading this then I am back on campus. I was called away for a clinical trial that my university wanted me to be a part of. I am so sorry that I couldn’t say goodbye. I promise I will call when I have some time. Stay out of trouble. :) <3

Your stardust

A year after starting clinicals, you came down to Gravity Falls most weekends. Each weekend you were pulling away. Just stalling for the end. Of course you never wanted the end. Of course neither of you wanted the break. There was always this lingering question and fear in the air with every visit. There was a lack of conclusion, like a hidden message with every clandestine meeting.

The stolen kisses.

Forbidden goodbyes.

Then the hours picked up at work and the weekend trips were no longer possible. The calls after work became obsolete. Love became scarce. Then you were nothing short of a memory. 

I have known it all this time

Ford stares down at his notes. It had been months. There was not a moment, though, that you didn’t cross Ford’s mind. His notes in his journal are a clear cut of that. These notes were never something he would ever have you read. They were his. His inescapable thoughts that clogged up his daring mind. 

Y/n, please come home. It’s been 200 days without you and I don’t know how much longer I can last, my love. I think of coming to see you, but perhaps that’s not the best idea. I don’t want to make a show in front of your new hospital. I crave you every moment. I’ve not forgotten about us and who we used to be. I long for us to be together again, yet I don’t think that’s possible. You’re the light of my life, the center of my universe, and I need you back. I can’t stand the idea of you being in the arms of another man. Or person. I love you.

There were tear stains on the paper smudging some of the ink. Quiet sniffling was all that Stan needed to hear before he ran down to the lab. The lab had become a mess with Ford going into a major depression. Coffee mugs everywhere, plates and dishes of uneaten food. While everything seemed desolate in this lab, there was still the quiet tune of classical music that Ford always played when he was working. It was calming for him. 

“Hey, Sixer, let’s go for a drive?” Stan offered. He put his hand on Ford’s shoulder. It was a small step. Things between them and this whole situation will get better. Ever since the break up, Ford had pushed everyone in his life away. Stan was nothing more than a stranger living in his house. 

A sniffle. Then a sigh. “Sure.” He knew that if he were to decline, it would just stress Stan out more. That’s counterproductive. Keeping his family safe is the number one thing. That’s what he’s here for. Though there is this unriddled fear of opening up to his twin. This fear that something bad will happen. Ever since he came back from the portal his mental state has not been all there. It has started to cause his physical state to deteriorate as well. Ford has a five-o’clock shadow, dirty sweater that he hasn’t wanted to wash, and he’s gotten weaker due to the lack of nutrition and exercise. 

The car ride was serene. Shows of fireflies and crickets out the windows. So far it has been quiet. Nothing but the creatures and the vehicle that were making noise. There was a full moon tonight, more specifically the strawberry moon. It signifies the ripening of strawberries and the beginning of summer. It was so nostalgic for both Ford and Stan to just sit and admire the night sky. Pointing out all of the constellations and the planets that they could see with the naked eye. Stan always said Ford was a nerd for knowing every single constellation. He could also name all of them in the southern hemisphere. Stan would never admit it, but he wishes that he could have the same mind as Ford. 

“So,” Stan starts. He decided to park in a secluded area. The trees were full and there was a clearing where they could sit and stargaze. Perfect for taking is slow and easy. “Wanna talk about it? Take your mind off of it? Might help, ya know?” He chuckles and grabs a soda from the console of the car. He opens it with a pop! and takes a long sip.

It takes Ford a minute to gather what he wants to say. Did Stan already know what was bothering me? Ugh, I feel funny. I know this isn’t healthy for me, so I should just be honest with him. I hate feeling pins and needles in my hand.. Ford flexes his right hand and realizes he can’t fully close it. “Stan?” Ford looked at Stan, worried. Suddenly a wave of pain flows through his head. Ford took a deep breath, but not wanting to upset Stan anymore decided to let it go. “Okay, so I…” He breathes through the pain, “I miss her. More than anyone could imagine. It’s–ow!–debilitating at this point.” He holds his head with his left hand. 

“Sixer, at this point you might have to give her a visit, you’re worrying me.” Stan reaches over to his twin and takes a good look at his face. “Smile for me, once.”

Ford does so. Only to see that the right side of his face is not reacting to the stimuli. “Is there…”

“Nope. Okay, so I am driving you to the closest hospital.” Stan started up the car and fiercely put the car in drive. Trees flew past as Stan sped through the countryside. Ford was starting to look a little more worse for wear, but Stan figured there was enough time to make it to the closest ER. Unfortunately that was a bit over an hour away. All the way in Bend. If Stan drove quick enough he would make it in about an hour give or take. Hopefully just enough time. 

But I never thought I'd live to see it break 

You were sitting on a computer in the ER. It was a quiet night, nothing super exciting happening. There were the usuals with the falling off rocks or trees. A couple cat bites. Nothing serious worth noting. You had a bachelors in biology and neuroscience, so anything having to do with brain trauma was your forte. Learning how the brain functions and works was always something that you were passionate about. 

Working as an ER doctor was always something you wanted to do. When you were around 4, your dad took a video of you saying you wanted to be a “home-scientist doctor” whatever that means. Somehow you feel like you fulfilled 4-year-old you’s wishes. 

There was still that thought that lingered in your mind though. What if you decided to stay in Gravity Falls? What if you stayed with the man you loved instead of becoming a doctor? Why couldn’t you have both? Why don’t you just open a small clinic in Gravity Falls? You had met Ford while on your summer trip through every state in the U.S. You had seen online that there was this one particular town that held anomalous and curious creatures. Of course you had thought these things were all “tourist traps” to try and get money from all the people passing through. It did work of course, since you did stop through. 

Upon entering the Mystery Shack, you are greeted by two young teenage children. 

“Welcome to the Mystery Shack!! Where we are just west of weird!” you see the brown haired girl come up to greet you. “Are you looking to tour?”

“Actually, yeah that would be great,” you say, smiling. 

Your train of thought is interrupted by some paramedics rushing through. There seemed to be two men, one on the stretcher hooked up to an IV and one yelling and asking what was going on. Wait. You knew that voice. 

“Dr. L/N. Room 618.” Your attending gave you the patient’s charts. “You’re on duty.” You gave a curt nod and prepared for what could happen. Because this most definitely is Ford. There’s no doubt about it. Why else would Stan be here? Unless he was being kind and helped someone off the road? 

You open the chart. Stanford F. Pines. 63 years old. Shit. 

“Hey, Pines.” You try to smile through the pain of seeing your ex-lover in the hospital that you now called home. You scan through the chart for more information on why he could be here. He’s not conscious. Neurological damage. “I’m Dr. L/N, but you already know that-”

“Kid, can’t you see my brother’s dying? Come and do something! Anything!” Stan had tears streaming down his face. “I can’t lose him again.”

“Stan..” You walk over to Stan. “He’s going to be okay. I promise you.” You go out of the room and order a CT and an MRI. You’re going to make damn sure that that man doesn’t die on you. That is not going to happen today. 

It's getting dark and it's all too quiet

“Hey, doc, come look at this.” One of the interns hands you the scans of Ford’s brain. His brain is nothing short of normal. Except for a minor brain bleed. Nothing that could cause severe damage.

“Okay, good, just a brain bleed and it seems to have repaired itself. Thank god.” You let out a major sigh of relief. You start to walk over to the room when the intern stops you again. 

“No, wait, what is this attached to his skull?” There was some sort of distortion within the image. The MRI seemed tampered with, but this is something that typically happens when metal goes through the machine. 

“I- I’m not sure.” 

And I can't trust anything now

Back in the room, Ford is studying you carefully. You’re intently talking to a colleague. A male colleague. Not like it matters. Until his mind starts rushing with thoughts. Was this someone you were close with? What was this stuff the nurse gave me? I missed her face and eyes. Why is she so close to him? What were those scans in their hands? 

Stan could tell that Ford’s mind was running all over the place. “Hey, Sixer, what’s the matter? Cat got your tongue? Can’t stop thinking about your hottie over there? I do gotta say, you have great taste in women, if you ever want to share–”

“Stanley, enough. She might not even be mine anymore. Look at how close she is with that… coworker? Nurse? Someone? I don’t know!” Ford starts to feel his heartbeat pick up. Why was I getting all worked up because of a girl? 

“Well, she sure cares at least a little bit. She made sure you were top priority for scans tonight.” Stan proudly gleams. “Plus I saw her panic when she walked in, it was priceless.” 

“Did she really?” Ford seemed to have calmed down from hearing that. What was in that medicine the nurse gave me? Seriously! It is not like me to act this way!

“She absolutely did, and here she comes now,” Stan smiles as you walk back into the room. 

And it’s coming over you like it’s all a big mistake

You walk into room 618 with Stan sitting by Ford’s bedside. Ford is conscious once again and the nurse has been giving him medicine to keep him stable. He looks so soft here. You’ve never seen him where he’s been completely vulnerable. There’s usually one barricade up just to keep himself safe. You’ve never understood why he was like that in the first place. It’s like he was put through something incredibly traumatic and can’t let go of it. Stan told you that he has been through some “inter-dimensional portal” and that is why he was gone for 30 years. The story didn’t make sense from a scientific level, since it was scientifically impossible, or improbable, for a portal to even exist. 

Ford sees you enter the room. His eyes like saucers. He can’t fight the feeling of relief when he sees your face. “Hey, I–I’ve missed you.” His face was soft yet angled with worry. He was concerned with how you would respond since that came out without thinking. 

You smile and sit on his bedside. Oh how you’ve missed him. “Hey, Ford. It seems you have had a small brain bleed. Nothing too bad, it resolved itself.” You look at him longingly. This is wildly inappropriate patient-doctor behavior, but you just can’t help yourself. At least you’re not like Izzie Stevens and Denny Duquette from Grey’s Anatomy. That was probably what inspired people to write the code of conduct for patient-doctor behavior. 

“I’m gonna be okay then?”

“You are. I would like you to stay overnight just to monitor your symptoms.” You get up and start to take vitals. “Did you guys really drive all this way? Or were you already here?”

Holding my breath

“This was the closest and best ER in a 60 mi radius. Plus it’s not like he would want to see anyone but you, Y/N” Stan said gruffly. He softly smiles, knowing that his twin is going to be okay. 

“Stanley!” Ford’s face flushes a complete crimson. He hides his face in embarrassment. You missed this.

“Well, I’ve been thinking about you too, Stanford.” You go over to shut the door of the room you were in. “I’ve regretted not talking to you. You meant a lot to me and honestly I’ve been thinking about it, and I think I’m going to start my own clinic down in Gravity Falls.” You go back to his bedside and hold his hand. You trace his fingers. It was one of your favorite things to do. 

“Stardust, why? Don’t you love it in the city? You’re not one for small town living.” Ford’s voice went soft as he softly brushed your face. 

“Well, I still have to talk about it with my supervisor, but I think it’ll go well. There are plenty of unknown injuries and it would bring in money for the hospital.” 

“Well, then.” He smiles wide. “I think it’s a marvelous idea.” 

Won’t lose you again

2 months later

You are sitting on the porch of the Mystery Shack, drink in hand. It was just something to celebrate the clinic being built and up and running. Ford has agreed to help out in any way he can with the knowledge he has, and you run and sometimes help people. It’s a complete hit in this town, all of the people are happy to be able to have affordable healthcare so close. 

You look down at your left hand and admire the ring on your finger. It was dazzling, like nothing you’d ever seen. You were ready to spend the rest of your life with this man. Even if it meant having to check his vitals everyday and making sure he’s taking care of himself. 

“Hey, love?” Ford grabs your hand and smiles wide. “I have something to give you.” he reaches into his pocket to reveal many envelopes. “These are letters I used to write when I missed you, which happened to be often.” he chuckled and scratched the back of his neck. 

There just so happened to be one envelope from every day since we stopped talking. 

What a man.

“I love you.”

“I love you too.”

[justrandomthoughtsandthings]

you know what's funny? all the Justice Leage|DC x Danny Phantom crossover fics, that start with or otherwise include the premise of the Justice League (often led by Justice League Dark, and John Constantine in particular) summoning the new Ghost King to ascertain his threat status.

like. there's something very human about that. believing that, because you have named yourselves the defenders of your world, that you have any authority to demand answers of interdimensional royalty -- of anyone, really. the Green Lanterns, sure, they're quite literally a universal force and are such recognized. but only thru the lands that agree to that or are included in a sector that is under any Lantern Corps jurisdiction.

the Infinite Realms are under no one's jurisdiction but their own, so the thought of the justice league demanding answers from them is akin to a random child coming up to you in the airport and demanding you give them something. like, I'll entertain this conversation cause you're adorable but also, you have no power here, child. where is your adult?

and, from what I've seen, no one can get Constantine to do what he doesn't want or need to do. not even Batman, who is just a man.

so he'd love to be holed up in the House of Mysteries, leaving the capes to mess around and find out. but then that would make it his responsibility, so he's there to oversee the summoning and step in if neeeded, but personally has no desire to add another curse to his coat.

anywho, I'm just imagining the Justice League summoning Ghost King Danny and demanding answers and, like any teenager who knows he'll have no repercussions for doing so, he tells them to fuck off (imagine, if you will, the same joy you feel when your parents say that you're allowed to go against the rules in school because the rules are arbitrary and self-serving at best and harmful at worst, and you won't get in trouble for it even if you get detention/suspended at school)

and they're all aghast cause, what? who do you think you're talking to? and Danny's all, no, who do you think you're talking to? I am the King of the Infinite Realms, Protector of Amity Park, Keeper of the Stars, *insert all his other random titles a la Thor and Loki stalling*, and you do not make demands of me, mortal. then he just dips, cause really? a tiny lil containment circle? ha!

[halcyon-writings]

nav.

— In which Mydei for once approves of the old Castrum Kremnos tradition of gifting a weapon to the one you were courting.

Before you can say anything to him, Krateros gasps when he sees you. Your reaction is immediate, practically jumping in alarm, because a man like Krateros was never this frazzled, much less shown as much anyway.

“What is it? What’s the matter?” You ask, thinking that you must have something on your clothes, already patting at yourself with a confused concern.

Immediately the Kremnoan warrior begins to cough. Now it’s your turn to be worried. You could’ve sworn that the older man was turning an alarming shade of red. "Please, forgive my outburst," He says, voice slightly hoarse from his abrupt coughing fit.

Then he clears his throat again, eyes moving to your side once more. This time you turn your head as you follow his line of sight. For a moment you don't quite see what he's talking about, in fact. you're still as confused as ever. Then his gaze becomes a bit more pointed as he continues to stare. Slowly, it dawns upon you.

"Where did you acquire such a style of weapon?" Krateros asks.

You remove the bladed weapon from its sheath, admiring the work in the steel. After all, it was rare for any weapons to be forged in the style of Castrum Kremnos, aside from something speciality made, but those sort of weapons cost an arm and a leg since they needed to truly last with as many of the battles that would be witnessed..

"Ah, Mydeimos gave it to me," You say, a small smile on your face, "I was surprised to see him with a weapon when we were sent out to clear some of the black tide, but then my own weapon was unfortunately broken, luckily he offered me his."

If Krateros' jaw dropped any further, it would have already been on the floor by now.

You pause, noting his silence, "Is... is something the matter?"

He is quick to shake his head, "Not at all."

(Perhaps the first sign was the fact that you were one of the few who were allowed to refer to Mydei as Mydeimos at all, aside from someone such as Lady Aglaea or Lady Tribbie.)

You watch his retreating form, still a bit perplexed. But your eyes return to the blade in your hands. You hum as you give it a few light swings, noting the weight being nearly perfect, just requiring a bit of training to properly handle it. Hm, you truly were lucky that Mydei had a similar weapon you could use.

-

Mydei had been (dragged) asked to accompany Tribbie into the market as the older of the two had moved in a flutter of wings from stall to stall. Even if it was the same wares each day, the small demigod always had the time to admire each and every work of craftsmanship.

Tribbie had said nothing with how easily he agreed, in her words, "De seems really happy today."

He was, ecstatic even. As they passed Chartonus' forge, which he thanked the other for his work on such short notice. He pretends not to see Tribbie's knowing smile either. Simply, looking the other way, which also meant, he saw the approaching Krateros.

Trinnon and Trianne had flown off with a giggling Tribbie as Krateros approached, Mydei uncrossed his arms, tilting his head in a silent question.

"You saw," Mydei spoke, his tone even.

Krateros nods, and despite the more frantic aspect of his appearance, there was a... lightness to the old fighter. One that made the crease of the man's brow go away for just a moment.

"Do they even know the significance of recieving such a gift?" Krateros asked softly.

At this, the Prince shook his head, warmth blossoming in his chest and heat rising up his neck. "In the heat of the moment, maybe not yet. But I know they will understand."

The softening of the Prince's eyes made Krateros pause, before he too couldn't help but shake his head with a small chuckle; his own reservations forgotten. The youth these days, he thought.

It wasn't like Mydei was going to outright tell you that the weapon you currently wielded was all but a proposal gift. It was a longstanding tradition that for once, Mydei didn't scoff at. If he couldn't be at your side every battle, then the weapon you wielded would protect you in his stead.

(That and perhaps he wouldn't admit that he quite liked the sight of you wielding a weapon in the style of Castrum Kremnos. Perhaps he'd see if he could find armor that suited your style and that of Kremnos as well...)

When he sees you later, the knowing look in your eyes makes his heart skip a beat. There was no need to worry, after all.

[maybellewriting]

Viltrum! Mark x Pregnant! Reader

This blurb was inspired by @michaelmyerspersonalslut and their post that I came across. Thank you angelcorus for requesting Viltrumite Mark! Warning: Contains angst, mentions of death and violence. If I missed anything, I apologize. Word Count: 900 plus

You’d seen the news, yet you couldn’t imagine this Mark destroying Chicago if you hadn’t witnessed it for yourself on TV. You stayed in the city, wanting to be as close to the hospital that you’d agreed to go to if you’d gone into labor. You were sore, your feet ached, and now you had a man with Mark’s face inspecting the nursery. You had texted your Mark. There wasn’t a doubt that everyone in the world needed him right now. More than you. The worst that had happened was this one helped you to the couch and propped you up with a pillow against your lower back. He didn’t quite hide how his face scrunched up at the book in his hand. Mark flipped through pages that were colorful, meaningless. “Not a fan of Dr. Seuss?” He perked up at your voice. His gaze was a tad softer before he snapped the book shut. “If rhyming about green foods is what a human doctor expects of a growing child, then it’s a miracle you’ve made it this far.” He doesn’t quite understand why you smile, but he’s glad to see it. Mark has seldom played the part of a fool. Only to entertain his mother’s few secret expectations of childhood in his youth and for you when you were alive in his dimension. You were beautiful. You lit up the room when you were happy. But now when you are glowing with child? He’s more than a tad weak. If you wanted something? He felt obligated to fetch it. So when you move to bend to get your cup from the coffee table, he’s there faster than you can comprehend handing you your drink. “Thank you.” He doesn’t reply with a ‘you’re welcome’. Mark merely watches you drink before setting the book on the coffee table. He seats himself beside you. His hands rest awkwardly in his lap, lost in thought about what he should do. The plan was to find you again, yet there’s the complication of your pregnancy that bogs him down.

The promise of a Viltrumite child would get him more resources to ensure you’re taken to Viltrum safely. It’s his baby, after all. “Are you going back out there?” You ask, unsure of just what you could do to keep him here, to keep this particular Mark happy. Every moment that he was with you gave others the opportunity to hide or run. It was stupid. You knew it. Though you had probably stalled him the longest out of anyone so far. Life had grown more precious for both you and your Mark once you realized that you were bringing someone into the world. You were powerless, pregnant, but one thing couldn't be denied. You were helping. Mark mulls over his words with care. “The destruction of this dimension isn’t ideal.” He murmured slowly, as gently as he could in the hopes that you’d understand why he accepted Angstrom’s offer. “However,” Mark continued, “I would have given anything to live the life that this dimension’s Mark is living. A life where you’re happy, content, and creating a life together.” The Viltrumite jerks his head towards the nursery. “My existence is to fight and conquer.” You nod. It’s odd hearing your fiance’s voice so smooth and speaking so eloquently. It’s difficult to hear him say such things. Even if he isn’t yours.

“So when the offer came with the opportunity to see you again, to do things that were as easy as breathing as a price? How could I refuse?” When his hand rests on your belly, it’s not as jarring as you thought it would be. You’re a bit used to people reaching out to feel your belly by now. As if being pregnant made you a spectacle. You swallow down your confusion and apprehension. His sincerity catches you off guard with the misguided affection and devotion he felt. “Mark,” The warm hand on your belly slows in its careful circles as he meets your gaze. “You can’t think that this is right. I live here. Those people did nothing wrong. They don’t deserve to die.” His lips purse for a moment. “You’re kind.” His tone makes you feel like he’s talking to a child. There’s an anger that blooms in your chest with that as your hormones begin to rear their ugly head. “But these people were nothing to me, and I refuse to cry over an anthill when it’s in the way of the sole person that showed me how to live instead of simply surviving.”

Just like that your anger fizzles out as a fear takes you. This man looks like your Mark, he sounds like your Mark, but his heart is so different. Or is it? When your Mark missed a date, it’s as if he’d move Heaven and Earth to fix it, or how he’d go out of his way to fulfill your pregnancy cravings despite his work running him ragged. What could push this one over the edge to see you as another ant in the anthill of your dimension?

Your eyes drift to the coffee table, silent with his confession. Tears sting your eyes. His hand lifts from your belly to your cheek in a single caress before you pull your head away. “Please don’t.”

“You can shed tears for the both of us. I think your compassion will make you an amazing mother.”

The whir of the drone that waited outside of your apartment door is loud as Mark leaves and follows him to observe the carnage he was willing to commit in your name. It leaves you in the deafening silence of your home, unable to turn on the news with the new guilt that hangs on your shoulders.

Was this your fault?

[kunazz]

THINKING ABOUT….jjk men giving you head. they all just can’t get enough, dropping to their knees whenever they have the chance just to take in their mouth, gagging and slobbering all over your length.

i think gojo would be the type to push you into a bathroom stall, not caring about who’s around, he’s already undoing your belt anyways, he’s just too needy, and he needs to feel the weight of your cock on his tongue before he goes insane.

suguru would have a little bit more decency, he doesn’t like people watching, he thinks that you’re too perfect for those monkeys to lay their eyes upon, especially when your face scrunches up just when you’re about to cum. he’d most likely suck you off in your car.

nanami would be the type to appear as though he’s more ‘classy’ and ‘respectable’ but he really isn’t. you’re in the library for something? he’s already on his knees under the table; you’re making food in the kitchen? let him suck your cock whilst you’re mixing whatever it is you’re making. he’ll quite literally drop to his knees anywhere, you don’t have to ask.

sukuna would make you work for it a little, he’d start by palming you under the table when you’re having dinner with friends, he’ll work you up all night until you break and start begging for his mouth, say you’re desperate — that you might die if you don’t have his lips around your cock in two seconds. that’ll get him dropping to his knees, he’ll definitely suck you off wherever he pleases, he doesn’t really care, but he likes doing it in alleyways more, it makes him feel like a cheap slut — but he won’t admit that to you.

mahito loves giving you blow jobs. no seriously it’s become an addiction, he doesn’t care what you’re doing, even if you’re driving he’ll slowly run his hand up your thigh, feigning innocence before he breaks, and finally sinks lower to suck you off. he’s the definition of a cockslut.

[siriuslylantsov]

morning glory

pairing: spencer reid x reader

description: following the events of drunken confessions. the next morning after spencer tells you he loves you, albeit drunk and half asleep, you don't know if he means it.

tags: fluff, gn!reader, hangover but i dont dwell on it, whiny!spencer (lol), so so soft, r is so unsure but she just needs reassurance.

a/n: omg my first pt 2 as per popular demand (3 people asked), happy reading!

wc: 1.6k

i love you. 

three words that bounce from one end to the other in your head, like a pendulum, reverberating across the hard surface of your skull. it echoes through the small space of your ear canal, taking up entirely too much space. it repeats with the beat of your pulse, heart thudding in a steady rhythm. 

suffice it to say, you barely slept. running the words over and over for some kind of clarity. instead you preoccupied yourself with watching spencer sleep, like you are now.

with the sunrise, came light. light that filtered through the curtains just enough that you could see his face. his lips are slightly parted, soft puffs of air that don’t quite reach you. they’re pulled down minutely, in a little frown, seemingly how his face falls when he's unconscious. it's sweet. his eyebrows twitch, creasing momentarily, you wonder if he’s dreaming, or if it's a nightmare. 

your fingers itch to reach out and touch him, soothe the line. but he's so peaceful, you don't know if you want to wake him up. you never get to see him like this, without the weight of the world on his shoulders, unthinking. so you stall a bit, let the wave of serenity pass before it comes crashing down in the form of a violent hangover. 

you probably stay like that for an hour, an hour spent admiring his features. it's easier than confronting what he said. he’d stayed in the same position all night, curled up on his side, facing you. you’re leaning on your elbow now, looking down at him from above. his face moves, nuzzling into the pillow beneath his head. it causes that same stubborn strand of hair to fall loose. 

you give in and touch him this time, tucking the piece behind his ear. you trace a finger over his brow bone and then down the slope of his perfect nose. this causes him to stir, eyes fluttering open as he takes in his surroundings before they land on you. they instantly soften.

“morning,” you whisper, wary of your volume.

“hey,” he croaks, voice riddled in sleep. all his features pull up, twisted in a grimace as his head throbs. he rolls onto his back, bringing his fingers up to his temple, rubbing the pads of them in between his eyebrows. 

“where's your aspirin?” 

he hums in thought, or in pain, it's uncertain. “the um- drawer,” he points beside him aimlessly, eyes still closed. he's about to move to get it but you stop him, leaning over his body to reach the bedside table next to him. you reach over him, hovering awkwardly over his body. you shiver imperceptibly when his hand settles on your waist for support, an unconscious action, you suppose. when you find it, you give him a pill and he swallows, his hand falls back to his side.

“what time is it?” he grumbles.

“quarter to twelve,” you respond, barring a quick look at the analog clock that sat on his dresser. 

he harrumphs, something of acknowledgement. you didn’t think he’d be this grumpy waking up but you don't mind, it's awfully cute.

“it’s so bright,” he says, squeezing his eyes shut further, if possible. 

“your eyes are closed.”

“my retinas are burning,” he whines, throwing his arm over his eyes to shield him from the sunlight in a thespian flourish. 

“so dramatic,” you huff as you get up to close the curtains, the smile in your voice irrefutably evident. you peek out the window first, your car is still parked outside, you stayed the night!

when you sit back down on the bed, his head seeks you out, laying gently on your lap. you card a hand through his hair, the action seemingly appropriate. he lets out a hum, satisfied.

“do you remember much from last night?” you ask, trying to come off casual, the question is loaded to say the least. plus, you don't know if alcohol affects an eidetic memory the same way. maybe he remembers everything, like always.

“no,” he says with a little shrug. “well, i remember going to the bar and morgan spilling a shot on his shirt but that's it.”

oh. so not that differently.

“well, i'm sure he’ll appreciate you remembering that,” you chuckle, ruffling his hair. with a long sigh, you decide to not bring it up. it’ll come back to him, surely. you’ll wait for him to come to you about it. 

you lift his head off your lap and let him sink back into the pillows. “how about you freshen up and i’ll make you some toast?”

his eyes peek open, barely. “yes please,” he replies meekly, a small smile in tow.

-

you put slices of bread into the toaster on his counter, leaning against it as you wait. what happens if he doesn't remember? will you tell him? how do you even bring that up?

hey spencer! last night you told me you love me. do you?

the loud spring of the toaster startles you back to the moment. behind his bedroom door, you can hear the faint sound of his shower running and you remember you’re still in his clothes. god, you're gonna have to wear yesterday's clothes back home. you mindlessly take the hot toast out and set it on a plate, wincing when you hold them for too long. you put 2 more slices of bread in, for you of course. 

you decide to make some eggs too, pulling the carton out of the fridge and getting a pan from beside his sink. you move with surprising ease through his kitchen, like you’d been there before. you haven't, but again, it's so easy with spencer, it apparently extends to his home too. you hum absentmindedly, cracking an egg into a bowl and beating it with a fork. you don’t know it yet but spencer's watching you, having finished his shower.

-

it all comes back to him slowly, as he puts on a new change of clothes, skin still a little damp.

asking penelope for a drink, drinking it, thinking, thinking about you, you showing up? maybe he was magic. you sitting with him, talking to him, taking him home. he remembers stumbling up the stairs, his arm thrown haphazardly over your shoulders and yours hooked around his waist.

“you're so nice, y’know?” 

“yeah? you won't think so tomorrow morning.”

you tucked him in, stayed when he asked you to. you told him about your breakup and he told you, oh, he told you he loved you.

shit. 

he has to make this right. he's quick to feed his arm into the last sleeve and walk out of his room. however, he stops when he sees you. swaying lightly, humming a tune he recognises from last night, standing there in his clothes. he thinks he might die. clearly, he wasn’t paying much at all when he woke up earlier. damn headache. 

-

“i told you i loved you.”

your head snaps in his direction, unaware of his presence. you jump a little before calming. “yeah... you did,” you confirm, trying to keep your tone light. it wasn't a question but you still answer. he remembers.

“and you told me to tell you again when i wake up,” he recalls.

you chuckle quietly, “i didn't realise you heard that.”

“i did.”

you nod, slowly, expectantly, for him to say something else, anything else. 

“i love you.” there it is.

“you mean that?” your voice comes out way smaller than you intended. he still hasn't moved.

“of course i do,” he says with a sigh, inching his way closer. you look like you're going to spook.

“okay,” you breathe, looking down at your fingers, you begin to ramble. “it's just, last night- you were drunk and sleepy and well, tired and i didnt know if you were being honest or just saying it on whim.” 

he's suddenly in front of you and you can't look at him. he's fine with that, it makes it slightly easier.

“hey, i mean it. i love you. i’m sorry i said it how i did, it wasn't fair. and you don't have to say anything back, i just- want you to know.”

you look up at him now, eyes searching, and when you find sincerity in his eyes, you soften, muttering out a quiet “okay.” your lips twist to the side, trying not to smile, but glee fills out every nook and cranny of your body. he takes this as a good sign and lets out the breath he didn't realise he was holding, smiling back at you.

“so,” you start, seemingly casual. “how do you take your eggs?”

spencer laughs, amused by your change in topic. he nods toward the bowl of already beaten eggs, “scrambled.”

you nod, firmly. you pick up the bowl and move to the stovetop, but not before grabbing his fingers with your free hand and pulling him with you. 

your thumb glides along the curve of his forefinger as you hold it between your bodies, waiting for the pan to heat up. you’re biting your lip so much, you think you might draw blood. you’re unbearably happy. and you think you’re doing a good job of hiding it but you’re not. spencer can see the way you giddily twitch by his side, opting on not saying anything about it as he smiles softly.

“you love me,” you tease, singsong, dragging out the ‘love’. your head leans against his shoulder. 

“mhm,” he confirms. ”you’re never gonna let me live this down, huh?”

“nope,” you chirp, pressing a chaste kiss to his shirt.

reblogs and replies are appreciated | m.list

[alisonsfics]

the stupid one

pairing: ex-bf!bucky barnes x reader

summary: your breakup with bucky had all been his fault. he got scared and called it quits. and he regretted more than you knew. but he’d never admit that to you. at least, not while sober.

inspired this lyric ~~ “i know i’m the stupid one who ended it. now i’m the stupid one regretting it. it took me a couple drinks to admit it” (“moving along” by 5sos)

a/n: we’re ignoring the super soldiers can’t get drunk plot point just fyi

word count: 2.3k

warnings: alcohol, mentions of smut

Fuck— Bucky was drunk. When he’d walked into the bar an hour earlier, he told himself he would only have a drink or two.

And he stuck to that promise…until he got a jarring notification on his phone.

1 year ago today, look back at your memories, from his photos app. As soon as he opened it, he knew it was a mistake.

It was photos from one of his date nights with you, at a fancy Italian restaurant he picked out.

The first photo was a selfie of the two of you, Bucky pressing a kiss against your cheek. The second photo was a picture he’d taken of you showing off the specialty cocktail you’d ordered— which you’d only ordered because it came in a glow in the dark glass. When it came out and was the side of your head, Bucky couldn’t stop laughing.

Before he knew it, Bucky felt that tight feeling in his gut. The one that couldn’t help but pop up when he thought about you.

When Bucky broke up with you, it was like he cut off his air supply, and he’d been struggling to survive ever since.

He still wasn’t entirely sure why he did it. All his friends asked him, and he never had a good answer.

All he knew is that if he’d kept dating you, he probably would’ve married you. He didn’t know why that scared him so much. Probably because he’d lost everyone he ever loved. He thought if he could break up with you before he fell deeper in love with you that somehow he’d be spared the heartbreak.

He knew now that wasn’t true.

All of sudden, he’d been at the bar for hours and scrolling through pictures of you the whole time.

His fingers were shaking as he clicked your contact and pressed call.

The decision was entirely fueled by the alcohol swimming through his system and not his brain. He didn’t know what he was going to say, only that he wanted to hear your voice.

On the other side of town, you nearly jumped out of your skin when Bucky’s name popped up on your screen. It rang and rang and rang, all while you were frozen still.

Bucky was starting to think you wouldn’t answer. I mean, hell— he wouldn’t even blame you.

Then he heard a quiet “hello?”

“I uhh— oh, hi. I’m surprised you answer.” He mumbled, stunned.

“Bucky, what’s wrong?” You asked, noticing the obvious slurring in his words.

Bucky felt a tear slip down his cheek. Hearing your voice again was like magic. His heart swelled in ways it hadn’t in months. “I just really miss you, doll.” His voice broke in the middle of the sentence.

He waited for you to say something anything. He’d even let you yell at him if it meant he could hear your voice for a little longer.

“Have you been drinking?” You asked.

He stalled. “Just because I have doesn’t mean I don’t mean it. I messed up, doll. I don’t know why it’s taken me so long to realize.” He told you, nervously.

“Do you need a ride home? You shouldn’t drive.” You breezed over the confession.

It pained you to talk to Bucky. He’d broken your heart and never really given you a reason for the breakup. You knew he was scared of getting hurt, but he hurt you in the process.

Despite the aching in your chest from hearing his voice, you still wanted to make sure he was safe.

“You always take such good care of me. I don’t know why I threw that away. God, I’m such an idiot.” He mumbled.

You focused on taking deep breaths. The emotion in his voice tugged on your heart. It’d been so long since you’d seen that side of Bucky. The side that adored you.

“Bucky, promise me that you’ll ask someone for a ride or call a cab?” You asked, feeling your voice get caught in your throat.

“Yeah, I promise I’ll—” his voice got cut off by his phone dying.

Bucky stumbled aimlessly through the bar. All he wanted was you. He wanted to feel the way you clung to him when you slept. He wanted to taste the peach lipgloss on your lips. He wanted to hear you tell him you loved him.

The pit in his stomach only got deeper as he hopped in a cab and headed towards his empty apartment.

He tried to pretend he was heading home to you— that he’d somehow never screwed things up and you were at home waiting for him.

By the time the cab pulled up outside his door, heavy raindrops were thudding against the windows.

He chucked a few loose bills in the driver’s hand before stumbling out of the car.

The rain instantly soaked his body— a cold freezing rain. It coated every inch of his skin and clothing.

He stood there, eyes closed. The cab drove away, and he just stood. Wanting the rain to wash away this nightmare.

His shirt clung to his chest as he felt the cold seep into his bones.

He opened his eyes, slowly— and they landed on you, sitting on his doorstep.

Had he done it? Had his prayers actually been answered? Had he gone back in time?

The familiar warmth of your eyes pulled him in. He felt like he was walking in slow motion as he crossed the sidewalk towards you.

“What’re you doing here?” He yelled over the rain. You stood before him in a rain jacket with your hood up. You’d been standing in the rain waiting for him to get home.

“I wanted to make sure you got home safe.” You told him.

Relief washed over him. He felt around his pocket, searching for his house key. Noticing the look of panic on his face, you grabbed the spare key from under the doormat and unlocked the door for him.

He stumbled inside. Instinctively, you held onto his hips to steady him. “Don’t worry, I’ve got it.” He slurred, failing to instill any confidence in you.

“C’mere, Bucky.” You said, simply. You wrapped your arm around his waist and led him up the stairs.

He threw his flesh arm around your shoulders, leaning into your touch. “I love you s’much, sweets.” He mumbled into your neck. He nuzzled his nose against your neck, softly kissing your skin.

You fought every ounce of your nature that wanted to melt into his touch.

He was drunk. He wasn’t thinking straight. You reminded yourself.

“Let’s just get you up to bed.” You redirected his affection.

He wasn’t so easily distracted. His hot breath blew against your neck. Reminding you of quickies together in his car. Or even sleepy mornings in bed when you’d both been too tired to do anything. So, he’d just perfectly jut his hips against yours, both of you still completely clothed as he would groan and whine in your ear.

“Perfect, you’re jus’ perfect,” he mumbled, continuing to kiss your collarbone.

You lowered him down onto his bed. You wanted to run out the door. To never see him again. It was certainly preferable to the specific torture of having your ex-boyfriend, who you still had feelings for, drunkenly profess his feelings for you.

But, you saw him lying on his bed in soaking wet clothes from the rain. And you saw the hurt in his eyes. The same one you often saw when you looked in the mirror.

Before you could change your mind, you peeled his wet shirt off of him. Next, you took off his shoes, socks, and jeans.

He watched silently as you ventured into his closet and emerged with a pair of sweatpants and a dry shirt.

“Thanks, sweetheart,” he mumbled, as you pulled the dry clothes onto his body.

After you’d finished, he leapt towards you, clinging to your frame. Your arms were pinned to your side as he hugged you. “Can you stay tonight?” He mumbled against your skin.

You wanted really wanted to. To curl into his side under the sheets and drown in the smell of his citrus cologne. To forget about the lonely nights and tears shed.

“I shouldn’t.” You said, trying to pull out of his grasp. But, he was still a super soldier and much stronger than you. “I’m a mess without ya, sweets.” He said, looking into your eyes.

Those damn eyes.

You gave in immediately. “I’ll sleep on the couch, but only to make sure you’re okay.” You resigned. He pressed a chaste kiss to your temple before whispering goodnight.

After he got into bed, you retreated downstairs to the couch. Part of you was hoping that when you woke up, it would be a dream.

You woke up to the smell of fresh coffee brewing. You sat up, stretching the sleep out of your muscles.

“Morning,” Bucky entered the room holding two cups of coffee.

“Good morning,” you mumbled, the events of last night coming flooding back to you.

He sat down beside you, this thigh brushing up against yours. He handed you one of the mugs. His fingers brushed against yours in a way that made you jump and nearly spill your coffee.

“I only remember bits of last night, but I feel like we should talk.” He said, nervously.

“I should probably go.” You tried to excuse yourself.

Bucky placed his hand on your knee. “Please, stay,” he begged softly.

“This is too much for me, Bucky. I can’t go through all this again.” You said, looking up at the ceiling trying to will away the tears.

As soon as a tear rolled down your cheek, he brushed it away with his thumb. “Please, don’t cry, doll.” He whispered. Heartbreak was written all over both your faces.

“I need to apologize for last night. I crossed a line, but I want you to know that everything I said last night was true. I meant it all. It wasn’t drunk nonsense, I swear. But I know that I shouldn’t have dumped that all on you. I’m really sorry.” He said, genuinely.

His eyes were trained on your face— watching for any reaction. Any hint of a smile or a frown.

You felt a chill run down your spine. You didn't know what to say. Of course you still loved him, but getting hurt again haunted you.

He sensed a rejection coming. He leaned his head slowly onto your shoulder. It took everything in his power to not fall apart. “I know it’s not fair, but I just need to know, doll. Have you missed me the way I miss you?” His voice creaked.

“Why should you be allowed to miss me? You called it off. Cause yeah I’ve missed you like hell, but that’s because you decided you didn’t want me in your life anymore.” You finally snapped.

“I swear on my life, that’s not why I ended things. Of course I wanted you in my life and of course I loved you. That’s not why,” he defended. As much as you didn’t want to, you believed him.

“Then why? Please just tell me because you’ve never given me a straight answer.” You begged him for the closure you’d chased for months. You couldn’t even grieve your relationship because you still didn’t know why it ended.

Bucky’s eyes turned glassy, and he bit the inside of his cheek. You could see how much these past few months had weighed on him.

He reached over— slowly, hesitantly— and interlaced his fingers with yours. “I don’t know how to be a husband— or, a dad. I barely knew how to be a good boyfriend.” He confessed.

You gently squeezed his hand. “I wasn’t asking you to do those things yet. We weren’t even at that point.” You told him.

“But I knew how much I loved you. I fell harder for you everyday. I knew if I stayed, I would end up marrying you. Which sounds like a dream, like a beautiful dream— but a really fucking scary dream too. I didn’t want to disappoint you and have you resent me. I figured it would just be easier to end it before we got to that point. It would be so much harder to lose you when there’s a ring on this finger.” He said, looking down at your hand in his.

You pressed a soft kiss to his lips. His eyes fluttered closed, not having time to kiss you back before you pulled away. “You were never going to lose me. You said you weren’t a good boyfriend, but you were. You’re the love of my life, and you made me feel so special and seen. I know you feel all these expectations, but those aren’t mine. I just wanted you.” You promised him.

“I’m not enough for you.” He admitted, weakly. You shook your head, cupping his cheek with your hand. “You are all that I need.” You said.

He closed his eyes, a few rogue tears rolling down his cheeks. The relief was written all over his face. Forgiveness. Finally.

He felt your lips press against his cheek, kissing each one of his tears away. “To answer what you said last night, I’m a mess without you too.” You told him simply.

He smiled at you before leaning down to kiss you. There was familiarity but also a little bit of exploration. He didn’t waste a second before letting his hands roam your body. You melted into his touch like the first time.

Your bodies jumped back to old habits as you laced your fingers through his hair and he pulled you into his lap.

His lips still fit perfectly against yours. Like you both were built for each other— and no one else.

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[lazysoulwriter]

define this feeling ── pedro pascal .✦

requested! thank you. content: casual-to-something-more, soft angst, established situationship, Pedro catches feelings first, gentle reassurance, lots of quiet intimacy & tender humor.

---

Rain rattles against the kitchen window like a drummer who won’t quit, steady and insistent, turning the downtown lights outside into watercolor streaks. You’re propped on Pedro’s counter, sock-clad feet swinging while he searches his fridge for something resembling dinner. It’s the kind of easy, half-dressed weeknight you two have perfected over the last couple of months—just close enough to feel like home, just distant enough to keep anyone from labeling it.

Or so you thought.

Pedro clears his throat. “Okay, hypothetical.” He pulls out a carton of eggs, sets it down, then meets your eyes. They’re too warm for hypotheticals. “Let’s say two people… spend an embarrassing amount of time together. They cook, they kiss, they do other things—” You grin. “Extremely hypothetical so far.” He chuckles, but his knuckles drum the countertop. “And this has been going on for, what, seven… eight weeks?” “Ten,” you correct without thinking. Something flickers behind his smile—satisfaction, maybe hope. “Ten. Right. So at what point—” he breaks an eggshell with more force than necessary, yolk slipping into the bowl— “do they talk about what they actually are?”

Your heartbeat stutters. You’ve dreaded this conversation, convinced it would come from you first and break whatever fragile magic you’d been enjoying. Seeing the question in his eyes instead knocks the breath from your lungs.

“What we are?” you echo, stalling for time.

He nods, wiping his hands on a dish towel. “Yeah. Because I keep trying to file us under ‘casual,’ but it doesn’t feel like a file big enough anymore.”

You hop down from the counter, suddenly restless, and start lining up two mugs—his chipped Star Wars one and your stolen diner mug. A silly ritual that shouldn’t feel intimate but does. “I like… the way things are,” you offer carefully.

“I do too,” he says, voice low. “But I like you more.” When you glance over, he’s leaning against the stove, hair a little mussed, earnest brown eyes locked on yours. “And I’m starting to think—I don’t know—recipes probably need name labels, but people shouldn’t.”

Your laugh comes out shaky. “That’s not how labels work, Pascal.”

He sighs, tipping his head back toward the ceiling like he’s searching for a script up there. “Look, I’m not asking for an essay or matching tattoos. I just…” He steps closer, fingers brushing your wrist as if he can’t help himself. “Sometimes I want to introduce you as my something, and the words get stuck.”

There’s the thrum of rain, the tick of the wall clock, the wild fluttering of your pulse. You’ve protected this almost-relationship because you’ve seen titles ruin things—turning soft colors harsh, casual laughter into expectation. But you’ve also never seen someone tiptoe around your fears so gently.

You lift one shoulder. “What would you want to call me?”

“Depends.” He chews his lip. “Can I audition a few?”

“Audition away.”

He holds up an invisible cue card. “My girlfriend—too high school?” Your cheeks warm. “A bit.” “Partner?” he tries. “Grown-up but sounds like we started a law firm.” You snort. He brightens, encouraged. “Ooh, how about favorite person? Too sappy?” “It’s… adorable,” you admit, heart loosening. He tosses the imaginary card. “Okay, okay. Unpopular opinion: I sorta love girlfriend. I like that it sounds like you got promoted from friend to something secret and cool.”

You stare at him, this man who already knows your coffee order, your allergy to mango, the silly way you hum theme-park tunes when you’re nervous. The word girlfriend used to feel like a cage; now it sounds a little like belonging.

He laces his fingers with yours. “I’m not pushing you,” he murmurs. “I just need to know if we’re going in the same direction, or if I’m the only one who keeps picturing you borrowing my sweats five years from now and yelling at me for forgetting to record whatever prestige series you love.”

“That’s a very specific future,” you tease, voice wobbly.

“I’m a very specific man.” His forehead rests against yours. “So… what are we?”

Your answer tumbles out soft, certain, surprising even you. “I think… we’re two people who made something casual and then kinda accidentally fell into something real.”

He pulls back just enough to search your face. “Accidentally, huh?”

“An unplanned road trip,” you clarify, “where neither of us wants to turn around.”

His grin blooms, crinkling the corners of his eyes. “So… girlfriend?”

You inhale rain-scented air, feel his thumb tracing lazy circles on your wrist, and let the word settle on your tongue like sugar. “Yeah,” you breathe. “Girlfriend.”

Pedro kisses you before the final consonant finishes vibrating in the air—slow, deliberate, like he’s sealing an envelope. His hands cup your jaw; yours fist in the hem of his faded T-shirt, anchoring yourself to this new certainty.

When you finally break apart, he whispers, “Can we celebrate by making ridiculously buttery scrambled eggs and dancing to ‘Sway’ in the living room?”

You laugh, giddy. “That’s how you celebrate?”

“It’s the only way.” He taps your nose. “Stay over tonight?”

“Girlfriend privilege?” you ask, eyebrow arching.

“Exactly. Comes with free coffee in the morning and an illegally comfortable hoodie.”

“Then it’s a deal.” You squeeze his hand. “But tomorrow, I’m auditioning a label for you.”

He presses a kiss to your knuckles. “I’ll wear whatever name you pick, mi corazón. As long as it’s tethered to yours.”

Rain keeps drumming, eggs sizzle, and somewhere between the first bite and the last spin across the living-room floor, the word casual vanishes for good—replaced by the quiet certainty of something worth naming, worth keeping, worth growing.

---

✦ please do not copy, repost, or translate this work. © lazysoulwriter // i write with a lot of love and care, so please respect that.

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[moonastro]

groom persona chart

saturn in the houses

what is a groom persona chart? this chart exhibits qualities that your husband will have and possible placements that can be seen in their chart. it is simply a chart all about your spouse in a woman's chart. the asteroid groom can be identified using the code 5129.

saturn in the groom persona chart will portray how your spouse may find limitations and trouble evaluating with you as a partner. it can suggest what can hinder and slow or disturb your relationship.

--a little reminder before we get into this, if there's another planet conjunct Saturn in your groom persona chart this may influence the impact majorly.

(for example if pluto is conjunct ---saturn---there can be secrecy, manipulation, even physical conflict involved that hinders your relationship,----if jupiter--- is conjunct saturn, this may suggest your spouse not being open, not being open minded, not learning from their mistakes, not having a big presence, like not taking important initiatives).

Saturn in 1st house: your spouse may not pay attention to your needs as much as you would like them to, which can of course cause some disruption to your relationship. this can be from them not paying attention to your interests, your hobbies, just anything that may link to who you are as a person which can cause frustration. can act cold and distance when not meaning to, your spouse may have some fear of rejection or being scared of you judging him so this placement can cause very slow burns, perhaps your relationship can be a constant long line with how he opens up to you. this placement can suggest him having a practical view of how your relationship should be so he may be the stick to the rules type of guy, perhaps can come across as being bossy a bit too.

saturn in 2nd house: there can be some type of security that your future spouse may lack. he may not be happy about your living conditions, and this can be how you decorate the house, layout of furniture, even area that you live in, he just may have this lack of security. your spouse can also tend to be very frugal with his spendings, this can cause some hindering within the relationship as he may not contribute to the grocery shop for example, or may not agree to spend his money on the things you want him to and this can be vice versa also.

Saturn in 3rd house: this placement can bring your spouse to be a chatter box but in an unnecessary way. there is fine chatter boxes where you want to hear them talk all the time, but for this placement this may suggest either nonsense talking that your spouse may tend to do that could cause some setbacks make something stall within the relationship. this could suggest them and you having a communication barrier so whether that misunderstanding each other because of different interests or perhaps its having different mother tongues etc.

Saturn in 4th house: here some things that can stall your relationship is something to do with boundaries, perhaps you may not respect one another or your spouse may not respect you. and this can be from many things such as ego trouble. the thing with this placement is that there can be stalls involving some home or property issues. there can be a sense of responsivity that you may have in the relationship, a bit like feeling like you have to do everything yourself wo this can also cause some hinders within the relationship. this placement can indicate settling down together rather late, like having a family, moving in together, buying a house etc.

Saturn in 5th house: there may be some type of immaturity with your spouse. they may not take things seriously which can hinder your relations with one another. or this can suggest them acting quite egotistic in front of others when with you, this may suggest them being just genuinely proud of having you as their partner in public but it can just change their character if that makes sense which you may not like which can cause some setbacks or pauses. this placement may suggest either your partner not wanting to have children or you may not want children and this may be an indifference that you may have with one another as say if you dont want kids and they do so they may not entirely be happy about it. sometimes, your partner may be too inconsistent like always going away to party, or wanting to just constantly be out of the house and do something, he may be very free spirited but you may not like that as you may prefer to spend time together or just chill and so this can cause some indifference also.

Saturn in 6th house: your spouse may not respect or hinder your daily routine. like you may have this specific way of doing your daily things and your spouse may not stick by it. this can also suggest your partner not taking care of their health as much also so constant sickness or physical inability can hinder your relationship some type of way. your spouse can also encourage kind of these bad habits or not be as strict about it when it comes to your health. there can be possible need for them to try something new because your spouse may be too focused on doing the same thing over and over again. they can be very stubborn with how they do things and especially may become quite un open to changes especially when that disturbs their routine or their day that they are used to. this placement CAN suggest your future spouse having an illness that can hinder something in the relationship and it doesn't have to be something big it can be something like allergies etc.

Saturn in 7th house: your spouse may tend to be un loyal. well maybe not actually but still may flirt, be invested in others while being in a relationship with you. this can also cause some mutual disagreements with who, or what the other is spending their time with it doesn't have to be un loyal but the company that he may keep can cause some distance between you two. on the other hand there can be hindering to do with contracts, jobs, law stuff, so all these things you may have struggles with while being in a relationship with your partner. also, this placement can suggest having some problems with the actual wedding, perhaps you may not even tie the not until later on the years.

tw-mentions of trauma

Saturn in 8th house: your spouse can be emotionally just not there...like they may completely lack any kind of emotion. your spouse may also exhibit signs of isolation, not wanting to spend time because they may become frustrated very easily, or this can suggest that you both may become quite frustrated with one another. this may also suggest your partner may exhibit toxic behaviours such as often times putting themselves as the victim or may project their unresolved trauma onto you or even your children (if you decide to have any). on the other hand, this placement can suggest your spouse often hiding his real motives and feelings towards anything so you may be just laying there confused by what he actually needs or wants. this placement also suggest your spouse being dependant on you for money, whether its you controlling his money, or him asking you for money etc.

Saturn in 9th house: there can be some type of disruption caused by where your future spouse may have different values, views etc. there can be some difference in where you two grew up in so this can indicate your spouse being from a different background also, but in this case this may suggest them not giving up his traditions and his teachings or the things that he learned to suit you. so this can indicate lots of rebelling against your wishes and can even suggest going behind your back on a lot of things.

Saturn in 10th house: your spouse may have some type of setback involving being too money focused, may worry about money all the time. can also literally suggest them being distant with you and by that this can come in a way where he may be constantly working or preoccupied by materialistic things rather that you. there may be some hinders to do with actually having a job or having a stable financial situation. for example your partner may not keep his jobs for too long which can of course cause some financial problems. your morals and his may differ also, this can indicate a spouse that may be older so there can be differences or hinders to do with age gap differences. so perhaps, he may want to settle to fast, he may take on the authority role and want to keep in charge which can cause some hidden resentment.

Saturn in 11th house: this may suggest your spouse being too serious about everything. may suggest a problem that involves goals and achievements so your spouse may lack having goals in life which can often suggest them having a lack of interest in a lot of things. another problem that can cause some lack within the relationship is one of your social circle, whether its you not acquainting your husbands friends or there might be a problem with who he hangs out with. like the friends that your partner has may not meet your liking, (depending on the degree, or the aspects can also tell you in more detail, like if in aspect with jupiter--this can suggest some hindering with how they make their money- may not try to provide or are careless with their spendings) your spouse can be more social than you so this can create some ignorance between you and him.

Saturn in 12th house: so with this placement your partner may have secrets that he prefers not to share with you. mostly this can suggest them not owning up to it unless he is confronted about it and then this can infuriate him. the thing with this placement is that he may not share his feeling towards you up front. there can be this uselessness that he may have within the relationship, he may be stuck in situations and may not do anything about it which can of course just build up the tension and problems. for this placement this can also suggest addiction being something that hinders or limits the full potential of your relationship with your spouse. this can be smoking, drinking etc. i have noticed a lot of people that have this placement their partners having anger issues😅.

[norristeria]

Miss Independent ! LN04

━━━━━━ Part of the LOVESICK IDOLS anthology!

SUMMARY 𝄡 You can buy your own diamonds and flowers, you always have. This independence is so sacred, it blinds you to Lando's need to provide.

PAIRING 𝄡 Lando Norris x A-List Actress! FemReader

TAGS 𝄡 Fluff, Angst.

WORDCOUNT 𝄡 4k.

NOTE 𝄡 The idea hit me in the face in the middle of the night & I knew I had to get the words out before they vanished. I don't know if I like it, it's quite messy ( & not as poetic as Thy Trophy, I fear⏤I'm keeping all my pretty metaphors for another fic lol ) but oh well! This is not proofread so if you see a typo, no you did not... Enjoy!! <33

likes, comments, reblogs are much appreciated!

It all began with the bouquet of peonies.

Paris’s avenues stirred to life with the coming of spring, perfumed by the powdery scents drifting from adorned Haussmann balconies and overflowing flower stalls. Color, in all its revelry, reclaimed its dominion, dazzling eyes long dulled by winter—a resurrection both olfactory and optical, which served as a gentle reminder that Hope would always prevail.

Even the blinding fabrics of the archival pieces chosen by your stylist could not compare to Mother Nature, who had woven her finest tapestry the moment April’s soft sun had peeked through the clouds.

The prosaic birthed Beauty, and what could embody both better than a bouquet of flowers?

There, tucked on a side table in a corner, the peonies reigned. You had spotted them the moment you had walked in, and since then, they had haunted your gaze and mind.

Pink and violet blurred at the edge of your vision. Whenever the stylists were not looking, you would breathe in, hoping to catch their delicate scent, but were left only with frustration and the stiffness of your stance atop that damned pedestal.

You had been invited to yet another dinner—something of the “upmost importance,” according to your agent—and now you had to decide on a dress.  

Not on sunlit café terraces, nor in the gardens of the Tuileries, no, but here, in a showroom lit by artificial light and chilled by aggressive air conditioning.

Since morning, people had poked and prodded, measured and tightened corsets, adjusted layers of tulle and silk. More doll than human, you suffocated in the vast white hall of the 30 Avenue Montaigne, longing to trade its sterile walls for the breezy avenues of the 8th arrondissement.

Your gaze drifted again to the peonies, and you sighed.

Spring would have to wait.

Suddenly, your phone rang. The chime cut through the whispering—though not-so-discreet—remarks of the stylists, their brutal musings on the shape of your hips or the width of your arms.

You silently thanked whoever had called for silencing them, even if only for a heartbeat.

Unable to move—a stylist was pinning lace across your torso—you asked your assistant, Marguerite, to bring the phone to you. When you saw the name written on the screen, a breathless smile spread across your lips.

“Hello!”

“Hi, my love,” came Lando’s weary voice.

“How’s Japan?”

You heard the rustle of bedsheets through the speaker as he shifted. Night had long fallen in Suzuka, stealing away the euphoria of race day and leaving only its ghosts—the stress, the nerves, the doubt.

“It’s fine. It’d be better if you were here, though.”

You winced, guilt flaring sharp in your chest. You closed your eyes.

“I know, I know. I’m sorry... I’d rather be with you than do these stupid fittings.”

You ignored the scalding looks from the stylists.

Lando did not reply. He sniffed. Your heart broke.

How you wished you could pick up its pieces, but the corset pressing against your ribs held you prisoner in your pain.

You dreamed of following Lando across the world, cheering from the paddock instead of watching grainy videos shared online. But your career came first—whether you liked it or not. Your agent made sure of that.

Such was the price of passion: loving by proxy, surviving on scattered calls and whispered promises.

The gods had not been kind to you. They punished your love, destined to transcend physical laws and only exist on different time zones.

His breathing echoed in your ear as you searched for a distraction, something to take his mind of the weekend. He rarely called during races—it reminded him too much of your absence in the McLaren garage.

You knew this call meant more. It was flare in the dark.

Your eyes swept the room once more and found the peonies. They would do.

“Oh!” you exclaimed, perhaps a little too brightly. “Dior has the most adorable bouquet of peonies I’ve ever seen. Hold on, I’ll send you a photo!”

You snapped a picture and sent it before he could say a word.

“Don’t you think they’d look perfect in the apartment in Monaco?”

The apartment. Not yours. Just another in-between you lived in. Not quite London, not quite New York. Not quite Monaco, not quite Paris. Such was the life of an actress, a never-ending wanderer.

“I trust your taste more than mine,” he said.

You nearly cried when you heard the smile in his voice. One spark of joy in Lando was enough to ignite your own. They had grown so rare these days, each one deserved celebration.

The start of the season had been rough, and it had not let up—even with the glory.

Heavy is the head that wears the crown, especially when your name is Lando Norris, and the internet has decided to make you its scapegoat.

You spoke of anything and everything, trying desperately to pull him from the darkness, though you knew—traitorous and stubborn as they were—those thoughts would crawl back to him later, whispering their lies in the night.

Minutes passed. A seamstress pricked you five times. Then came the question, sudden and soft.

“Do you think you could make it to Bahrain? With the triple header, we won’t see each other for another two, maybe three.”

Despair bled into every word. But you didn’t hear it—Marguerite was trying to tell you something. You bent toward her, the corset biting into your waist.

“Hmm?” you asked distractedly, straightening up. “Ouch!”

The stylist apologized, trembling, needle still in hand. You sighed and waved her off.

“Sorry, Love,” you said. “Marguerite was asking about my lunch order. What were you saying?”

“Nothing. Forget it.”

You wanted to insist, but he beat you to it.

“I should sleep. Jon will kill me if I don’t. Talk to you tomorrow?”

“Of course. Good luck for tomorrow. Dream of me.”

“Always.”

You hung up.

An hour later, after endless fittings and the final selection—a Spring 1998 gown—you said your goodbyes, promised Marguerite to update her on your whereabouts, and stepped out onto Avenue Montaigne, bodyguards in tow.

The peonies had colored your thoughts, and you were determined to bring a piece of Parisian Spring back to Monaco.

Your flight would not leave till late afternoon, leaving you enough time to find a florist. Luckily, you did not have to walk far. Monsieur Dior had loved flowers, and the whole neighborhood bloomed for him.

The chime of the shop’s bell greeted you. That small melody lifted your heart, though you couldn’t explain why.

You saw them instantly.

An explosion of color rather than a mere bouquet, the peonies demanded attention. You imagined them in your white-walled Monaco living room, an impressionist painting come to life, and did not hesitate.

You pointed to them, all smiles. The florist quickly wrapped them in tissue paper.

“That’ll be two hundred euros, please.”

You did not blink and paid absently, already lost in the scent of the blossoms. They wrapped around you, filling the hollow Lando’s absence had left.

Your phone rang again, just as you stepped outside. You frowned.

“You’re not asleep?”

“Can we FaceTime?” Lando asked, ignoring your question.

“Of course. One sec…”

You fumbled for an angle, nearly dropping the bouquet. The peonies spilled into the frame, half-hiding your face.

“Oh... you bought them?” His voice was unreadable.

Odd, you thought.

“Yeah! I couldn’t resist. I hope they survive the jet ride, but I don’t see why not! What do you think?”

“They’re beautiful. Not as beautiful as you, but close.”

You snorted.

“Flatterer.”

A silence.

“Are you okay?” you asked gently.

He sighed.

“Nervous. And I can’t sleep without you.”

“You have my hoodie, don’t you?”

“Not the same,” he mumbled. “And your scent’s fading.”

Your heart clenched.

“I promise I’ll talk to Christopher and my agent. Maybe I can free up a Grand Prix weekend. Miami? I’m not due back in Sicily until mid-May.”

Paris blurred around you. The Grand Palais, the Champs-Élysées. None of it mattered when Lando needed you.

Eventually, after reluctant goodbyes, you hung up and walked on under the bright Parisian sky.

Far away, in a hotel room in Suzuka, Lando sighed and, with a swipe of his thumb, canceled the peony order he had placed with a florist in Monaco.

Then came the restaurant.

Amid the empty plates and crumpled napkins, red circles had seeped and stained the once-pristine tablecloth of the three-star establishment. The wine bottle lay on the table, empty, but its effects were palpable.

The candles that had not yet melted cast a hypnotic glow on your face and illuminated what Lando loved most about you: your pupils, dilated from intoxicating love?

You had long since abandoned any sense of decorum. The tip of your stilettos had begun to stroke his calf, leaving Lando to grip his cutlery so hard his knuckles had turned white.

When you bit your lip, he snapped and stood up so abruptly he almost knocked over his chair.

“I’m going to the bathroom,” he muttered.

But instead of heading toward the back of the restaurant, he went the other way, stopping in front of the waiter. Lando handed him his card in an agitated gesture, running a hand through his curls. His thoughts were already drifting to the warmth of your skin, the softness of your lips, the tightness of your–

“It appears Madame has already paid, Mr. Norris.”

Both the effects of wine and desire evaporated in a heartbeat, leaving him pale. His hand froze in his hair. He blinked. His mouth opened, but no sound came out.

“What do you mean ‘she already paid’? When?” he finally choked out.

The waiter consulted his ledger.

“She left her card earlier in the evening. Here it is.”

He slid a black leather folder across the stand. From it, a metallic rectangle protruded. Lando inwardly cursed.

The black-and-bronze Centurion card, a symbol of wealth and privilege.

Now his nemesis.

Lando snatched it up. An intrusive thought crossed his mind as he held it in his large hand. What if he broke it? He’d pretend it was an accident, of course, but this temporary setback would give him the chance to finally, finally, provide for you.

He shook his head and returned to your table. The card dug painfully into his palm, a sharp reminder of its constant, unbearable presence.

You looked up when you heard him approach, a seductive smile painted on your red lips, completely unaware of the storm rising inside him.

You gaze dropped to his hand, which you admired for a few seconds, then lifted back to Lando’s now-dull green eyes.

“You got my card?”

He sighed and handed it back to you.

“Let’s go.”

Lando helped you with your coat, his hands lingering longer on your shoulders than etiquette would’ve allowed, and together you left.

“Next time, I’m paying,” he said as you waited for the valet.

“Of course,” you replied distractedly, tracing his jawline with the tip of a finger.

Your mind was already elsewhere, on the rest of your evening and the promises your smoldering gazes had recklessly sealed. Lando’s, however, remained stuck on the matter of the bill and the uneasy feeling that had spread through his veins like poison.

Insecurity.

His movements turned mechanical as he heard the engine of his Lamborghini roar. He tipped the valet, thanked him in a flat tone, opened the passenger door for you, offered his hand to help you sit down, then slipped behind the wheel.

His large hand instinctively found your bare, warm thigh—and squeezed.

In the hollow of his palm, the imprint left by the metal card still burned.

But it was the necklace that broke the camel’s back.

The streets of Monaco held a familiarity that comforted Lando after the chaos of the triple header. The narrow lanes and tight turns—walked instead of raced—distracted him from the season and the pressure it carried. The Monaco Grand Prix was still far enough away that he could see the city as nothing more than Home.

He rejoiced in the familiar scent of the Mediterranean Sea, curiously mingled with the tang of luxury car exhaust and the heavy perfumes spilling from boutique doors. Monaco oozed opulence, and you, at his side, fit so seamlessly into this surreal world.

His gaze wandered to you, dressed head to toe in haute couture. In a giddy rush of love and admiration, he stole a kiss from your lips.

Sometimes, he still could not believe you were his.

Hand in hand, the two of you wandered through the principality, with no purpose other than to enjoy each other’s company. You had managed to negotiate a break from your current project—Christopher Nolan would not need you in Sicily for The Odyssey until the end of May.

Lando had pounced on the opportunity, inviting you to join him in Monaco. Your moments were counted; every chance was too precious to be wasted.

Eventually, your idle stroll led you to the ever-crowded Casino Square. You weaved through a sea of phone cameras and autograph requests, sunglasses on, love-drunk smiles on your lips.

“Y/N! Can I get an autograph?”

“Lando! My son’s your biggest fan!”

“Can we do a fit check for my TikTok?”

When a fan strayed too close to you, Lando pulled you behind him and, in a sudden flash of protectiveness, veered you off your usual route, his hand against your lower back.

“What are you doing?” you whispered to him.

“An Oscar-winning actress deserves a proper gift,” he replied with a mischievous glint.

He ignored your questions and wrapped an arm around your waist. Your fingers laced through his on instinct—your body recognized and sought his.

Together, you slipped away from the crowd, past terracotta and granite facades, until you stumbled upon the discreet Cartier boutique tucked into the corner of the square. The chaos outside had already begun to fade, but you both knew iPhone lenses were still quietly tracking your every move.

The rules of paparazzi didn’t apply to phones—much to your dismay.

It was funny to think that just four months ago, you would never have had to consider such a thing; still cocooned in secrecy then, wrapped in love and shadows.

Though he hated the sacrifice of privacy he had made—your little paradise now dissected by the public eye—Lando could not suppress the flicker of pride that warmed his chest.

No more misplaced hopes from admirers; he could walk beside you in broad daylight, and finally, silence them all.

“It’s been almost two months since I got that Oscar,” you teased, realizing where he was leading you. “And you’ve said the same thing every time.”

He only shrugged.

“So what?”

You laughed softly and rolled your eyes.

A doorman opened the door, ushering you into the hushed, velvety quiet of the shop. The boutique, curiously empty, felt as though it had been waiting just for you.

A man greeted you both with open arms.

“Madame L/N, Monsieur Norris, what a joy to see you again! May I offer you a glass of champagne?”

You were guided to a private salon, away from wandering eyes. Some fans would have pressed against the glass just to glimpse at a fragment of your day.

“It’s been some time since we’ve had the pleasure, Madame L/N.”

The salesman’s attention naturally fell to you, and Lando didn’t mind. You were a loyal client—draped in their creations at every red carpet, every press tour, and even in the quiet of your everyday life.

The man waisted to time to present a diamond bracelet. You slid it on gently. The stones, dazzling and vibrant, were blinding, but you remained unmoved by its beauty.

And thus began a familiar dance. A necklace, then an emerald ring, ruby earrings. Each time, you shook your head.

Lando watched you, entranced by the dhow you were unconsciously putting on, happy to offer his opinion when you asked.

“That one’s cute.”

“Oh, gorgeous.”

“Pretty.”

When he complimented yet another jewel, you delicately placed the ring back in its crimson box, raising an eyebrow at him with a knowing smirk. He knew every one of your expressions—that spark in your eyes meant affectionate exasperation.

“You’re not being very helpful, you know.”

“Not my fault you make everything looks good,” he said, glancing at the salesman. “Right, Hervé?”

“Absolutely, Monsieur Norris.”

You stared at the glittering display before you—each piece more beautiful than the last—a pout tugging at your lips.

Lando had to resist the urge to kiss it away.

“Hmm. I don’t know. Nothing really speaks to me.”

“Perhaps you might consider this one?”

Lando tuned out Hervé’s voice. He stood and walked around the room, his gaze caught by thousands of gems shimmering in the light. The luxurious kaleidoscope made his head spin.

He blinked and stopped before a particular display. The necklace inside seized his attention instantly.

“Have you tried this one yet, love?” he asked, mesmerized by the play of light across its surface.

Hervé stood to get a better look.

“Ah oui. Our Reflection necklace. Crafted in eighteen-karat white gold and set with no fewer than three hundred and seventy-six diamonds. A masterpiece of craftsmanship.”

He stood up, unlocked the case and brought the box to the Louis XVI-style table, placing it reverently before you.

Lando returned to your side, unable to tear his eyes from the jewel. The reflection of the diamonds danced across the molded ceiling and glinted in every glass pane.

He could not wait to see them against your skin.

“It’s beautiful,” you murmured. “Could I try it on?”

“Of course, Madame. May I?”

With gloved fingers, Hervé fastened the necklace around your throat. The diamonds and gold sang a symphony of excess as they settled against your skin. Lando’s mouth went dry.

“What do you think, darling?”

He stammered a few inarticulate compliments, unable to look away from your diamond-clad neck.

His gaze dropped lower.

He swallowed.

“That’s the one.”

“I think so too.”

His phone rang, shattering the moment.

You cast him a sharp look before offering Hervé an apologetic—or rather embarrassed—smile. You loathed rudeness.

He shot you a sorry glance, excused himself and stood up.

“I have to take this. Excuse me.”

The call with Jon lasted less than five minutes—but it was enough.

When Lando returned to the room, Hervé was handing you a bag.

You turned toward him as he entered, a radiant smile on your face. For once, he did not return it. He did not linger on your beauty either. No. His eyes went straight to that damned paper bag.

His heart dropped and reverberated in his now-empty mind. Its echoes gave rise to a strange unease that took over him completely—the same one he had felt at the restaurant.

“We can go. I already paid.”

“What?” he asked, voice hollow.

“You were right,” you said, oblivious—or indifferent—to his torment. “The necklace was the best choice.”

“You paid?” he repeated.

“Yes. I didn’t know how long your call would take.”

Something deep within Lando finally snapped.

The male ego is a curious thing. Poke it—and brace for the fallout.

Lando clenched his fist as a plan began to take shape in his mind.

“Love, have you seen my card?” you asked three days later from your shared bedroom.

Lando, lounging on the couch, quickly shoved the said card into the pocket of his hoodie. The metal clinked against his silver ring.

“No,” he cleared his throat. “Why?”

You stormed into the living-room, one hand tangled in your hair. Stress radiated off you in waves. Lando swallowed hard as a cold sweat slid down his spine. You had a gift for making him panic with a single glance—and of the two, he was certainly not the better actor.

“Shit! I had it this morning! I saw this bag that looked really nice.”

“I can get it for you, if you want,” he offered, almost shyly.

But you didn’t hear him—too busy tearing through cushions and knick-knacks, muttering under your breath.

“It’s alright, baby. I’ll buy it for you,” he tried again, more insistent this time.

You straightened up, frowning, the catch-all bowl clutched in your hand.

“I’m perfectly capable of buying this bag myself, Lando.”

The words cracked through the air—sharp, wounded.

Way to go, Norris. That’s not how you’re going to win her over.

“I never said you couldn’t,” he murmured. “It would just make me happy to do it.”

You ignored him and went back to searching. Lando watched, mouth slightly ajar. So, you weren’t even going to acknowledge him? He called your name several times, but you stayed deaf to his pleas.

“Can you just let me spoil you for once?!” he finally burst out.

The peonies, the restaurant, the necklace—all the frustration he had buried deep in his chest bled out in his voice—an uncontrollable hemorrhage of ego.

You arched a brow and placed the bowl back on the table with a frightening calmness. The soft chime rang through the silence as you slowly stood.

“Who are you talking to like that?”

“I just–! I mean– Argh!”

Lando dragged a hand through his curls, pulling at them—a gesture he had picked up from you. Love bred mimicry. The little quirks of one became second nature to the other.

“You don’t let me buy you anything,” he said again, softer.

“That’s not true. You gave me that dress not long ago.”

“Yeah. Because it was Christmas! Four months ago, Y/N.”

You scoffed and crossed your arms. From where he sat, he could see the tension in your shoulders, the pinch of your lips.

You were angry.

“Look, I—” He pinched the bridge of his nose. “It just feels like… like you don’t need me.”

The truth burned his throat. He lowered his gaze, afraid to see pity, or pain, or worse—incomprehension—in your eyes.

“That’s ridiculous.”

He exhaled, eyes shut.

“Maybe. But that’s how I feel.”

Silence fell over you both, thick and heavy. It struck him full in the chest. His heart thundered in his ears.

Why couldn’t you try and understand him? Why were you so stubborn? How long would you speak at cross purposes?

Eventually, the couch dipped beside him, and your scent wrapped around him.

“I don’t need you to buy me bags or necklaces, Lando,” you said, voice gentler now.

He flinched and his heart stung.

“But… I guess I understand why you’d feel that way. And even if it doesn’t make much sense to me…” You sighed. “Well, I suppose I can try.”

Lando looked up, chest already lighter. His pinky found yours on the cushion, and when it did, he did not let go.

You looked at him, lips pressed tight.

“One gift a month.”

“One big gift a month. Small ones have no limit.”

A beat.

You sighed.

“Fine.”

You held out your hand to seal the pact, but Lando pulled you into his chest instead.

There you stayed, quiet. He nestled into the curve of your neck, inhaling your scent—yours and yours alone—and closed his eyes.

“I’m sorry for not listening to you earlier,” you whispered minutes later, your throat vibrating against his lips.

“It’s okay.”

You pulled away, bracing a hand against his abs. Lando tried to tug you back against him, already missing your warmth, but you resisted, determined to make your point across.

“No, it’s not. Communication is important in a relationship, and I didn’t consider your feelings, only mine.”

He cupped your face and kissed you deeply before meeting your gaze. A mischievous grin crept onto his lips.

“Let me get you the bracelet and ring to match that Cartier necklace and all is forgiven.”

You rolled your eyes but did not argue. That alone made Lando beam.

Victory tasted sweet—but not as sweet as your lips, which he kissed again. His hands roamed, and yours soon followed.

But just as quickly, they stilled.

You pulled away, eyes narrowing.

“Is that my fucking card in your pocket?”

Lando winced.

[nochepsicodelica]

Part I

"Hey, uh-uh. What did we say about stealth-ing in the house?"

Crap. You stand in the kitchen for a few seconds longer, thinking about how you're going to play this off.

"I didn't even make a sound, your hearing is amazing, baby!" You say, attempting to boost your lover's ego to distract him from this for now.

"Didn't hear you, I saw your shadow scurrying after you into the kitchen. Now quit stalling and come here."

"I reek of sweat and blood. Maybe I should shower first," you divert once again.

"Get over here or I'm coming to you, and I'm not gonna be a teddy bear about it."

You sigh and put your duffel bag down, dragging your tired feet to the living room. Before Toji can get a look at your mug, you put a hand over your mouth, not touching, just hovering over it. Finally, you step out into the bright, warm toned light, and look at Toji, like a bunny in the face of an enormous bear that could crush it with a single paw.

He crooks a finger, beckoning for you to come closer. From where he sits, he can see a scratch beneath your eye and one on your cheek.

"I know you're tired, but I need to see my girl," he says, making your heart shake like a rattle.

You drop your hand and take more purposeful steps towards him, ready to crawl into his embrace like you always do after the day begins to close out.

"Yeah, come here, baby," he says, making room for you on his lap, and sure enough, you weren't lying. As you settle onto his lap, the combination of your sweat and the irony smell of the dried blood on your clothes is potent. Does that stop him from holding you tight? Hell no, he handles you like you're fragile, because he knows you are. Your tiredness allows you to be that way after a long day of showing the contrary. He can't ever stress enough to you how much he understands that.

"What'd you eat for lunch?" Toji asks, rubbing your back while you rest your head on his shoulder.

"Lance and his wife invited me to go get ramen with them, but I wasn't that hungry then, so they gave me a couple granola bars," you mumble.

"Nice people. They really do treat you like you're one of their own kids."

"Mhm," you hum, turning your head to bury your face in his neck. He smells like safety and comfort. You come home to this every day.

"Let me see your face, doll," he murmurs. "I'm not gonna yell at you or get you in trouble or whatever bad thing you think is gonna happen. Just wanna see your pretty face," he says, in response to your hesitance.

You sigh, nervous for no reason. It's really not that bad, but it is noticeable. Slowly, you pull away from his neck and sit up for something you think will be incredibly anticlimactic, but... anything for Toji.

He stares at you, long and hard, inspecting every inch of your face for deep serious cuts. So far the only major damage is your busted lip.

"Are you mad?" You ask, as he runs the pad of his thumb over a thin, jagged cut on your cheek.

"No reason for me to be. Does your lip still hurt?" He asks, unable to look away for too long. Your lips are one of his favorite things to look at and he stares at them plenty, so it's not unusual for you.

"Not really," you respond, shaking your head. "It hurt like a bitch when it happened, but not so much anymore. Lance had some extra disinfecting wipes in his glove compartment so I cleaned it up a little on the way here. I'm fine."

"Hm. Any serious damage to your body?" Toji asks, massaging your shoulder blades, instinctively. "Arms, legs? How's your back?"

"I'm fine, baby," you insist, smiling at all the concern he's showing.

"Any scrapes on your hands or knees?"

"Probably, but i'm okay. Seriously, i'm fine."

"How 'bout a warm bath?" He suggests.

"I'm f--" you start, expecting another question of concern. "Wait, um..."

"A nice... toasty bath," he utters softly, carefully, to further entice you. "with those relaxing bubbles you love so much."

It sounds amazing, but only one thing could make it perfect.

"Can you stay with me? In the tub, I mean," you clarify. "I'll do a pre-wash. Get all the nasty off and... and i'll call you in once i'm done. You don't have to, of course," you add, a sheepish laugh following. "But, I would love you a million, billion, gajillion, if you did.

"Sounds perfect, doll," he agrees, leaning forward to kiss your cheek. Normally he would turn that last bit into a full fledged banter about you loving him when it's convenient to you, but your energy is limited, so he'll put it on hold for now. "You let me know when you're ready."

Despite him asking that of you, he does not let you out of his sight at all. He leans against the doorframe of the bathroom and watches you. Watches you remove your worn, filthy clothes. Watches you scrub your body down, head to toe. Your back has faded scars scattered over it, you have little cuts just below your ribs and scratches on your waist, and yet Toji thinks you've never looked more beautiful. He can't imagine you without a few scuff marks. He met you that way, he knows you that way, but all in all, he loves you in all ways, whether you've been grazed, you're healing, or scarred.

This may be one of his favorite rituals to do with you. Lying back against the tub with you sitting between his legs and resting against his chest, you jump between guessing how you both got your scars...

"Hm... severe rope burn?"

"Yeah! How'd you know?"

"You know the one I have on my ankle? Yeah, rope burn. Your turn."

"That's a blade's doing, isn't it?"

"Nope, this is my chains' doing. Yeah, I know, I know. Laugh it up, doll. Even the best mess up sometimes."

...and appreciating the fact that you're both so good at what you do, that you're still here.

"Gimme a kiss, baby," Toji requests, smirking fiendishly as his gaze darts between your eyes and your lips.

"Mm-mm," you say, shaking your head with a teasing grin. "Not with my lip all ugly like this."

"Not ugly. You look hot as fuck. Now give me a damn kiss."

You give him a quick peck, and he scoffs like you offended him with something so chaste.

"You wanna try that again, and give me a chance to, you know... be ready?"

"No, not really," you jest, gasping when he pinches your butt under the foamy water to show his disapproval of your response. "Alright, alright. Just be gentle," you plead, caving in to his needs, as usual.

"Yes, ma'am," he responds, grinning victoriously as he pulls you in closer to get a proper taste of your lips. They're soft as ever, despite their current, temporary appearance, and kissing you is as sweet and satisfying as it's always been. Nothing will ever change that for him.

"Fucking love you," he murmurs, the words a soft breath against your lips.

"Love you, too, baby," you respond, before going in for more.

A/N: Reader and Toji have different handlers. Lance is reader's handler, Toji still works with Shiu.

[evilminji]

You think the Zone has its version of Comic Con?

Like? Think about it. You have literally all of time to work on it, your Magnum Opus, your life's work. That DREAM comic. All the supplies you could ever wish for. Endless paper. Endless ink. You can practice and practice for CENTURIES until it's JUST right.

Wouldn't you want to share it?

There are definitely Ghosts who have Obsessions that make them collect.

And two people meeting would lead to a group. Lead to a bigger group. Lead to a large group. A gathering. A crowd even. Eventually you need a Lair to meet IN. It becomes An Event.

People hear about it.

Want to bring other art mediums. Food stalls. Report on it. It grows. Shoot offs start happening. Niche meet ups.

But like?

Unlike comic con? It's all FREE. Sure, you might have fork over the ecto to make your copy. And yeah, weaker ghosts can only do that so many times. Will have to prioritize. But? They can come back after leaving for a nap. Ask a buddy to come with. There ARE work arounds.

Just? Imagine the unbelievable HIPE? Danny would feel? But be unable to TELL anyone about? Zone Con happens several times a year! Cause so many people wanna come. The Zone being infinite, after all.

Problem 1? They're using THEIR standard of a "year". Which is actual 5 earth years. So it's only happens every year and a half for him. And Problem 2? He can't even TALK about how excited he is about Z Con with anyone (outside his friends and family) because they haven't heard of it and might Ask Questions.

It's ALSO held in a part of the Zone that's like? Three days of flying away from the portal. And no amount of begging is gonna get any of his loved ones to camp in the Speeder for around six-ish days just to go to a Con.

So you can imagine his DELIGHT. His utter JOY and *Target Spotted* "!!!" Noise, when? In the crowd? He spots A HUMAN! Hi fellow human!!! Omg, wanna be Con Besties? *doesn't even wait for an answer*

So now? This sad, blonde, deeply lost and kinda alarmed, trench coat dude? Is Danny's new Z Con Going Bestie! You got a map yet, bestie? No? That's cool, he has one. By the way, he has human food in the Speeder if you nee-

YES!

Cause, see, here's the THING. John? Lost to the Realms Infinte. Or Infinte Realms. Translation was iffy... and on fire... like the rest of the building. It was him or the kids those psychos had kidnapped, for what fucked "ritual" the voices in their heads, that THEY thought were demons but frankly he's pretty sure was just feedback from-

Look, doesn't matter, he had to choose. He always knew someday he'd have too. That even twisting Luck and talking fast wouldn't quite be enough. And he had to decide, in that moment, which outcome mattered more to him. They get out safe, or he does.

Wasn't much of a question, was it?

So, there he is. Staring down oblivion and all those debts unpaid. 'Bout to see who's gonna come for him this time, and take what left of wretched soul. When? He bleeds on the FUCKIN two-bit crap circle they squiggled in God only knows what. Remembers that "oh YEAH, set dressings!" Sometimes when you focus too hard on insuring a Good Outcome?

You weird weird as shit byproducts happening on the side to balance it all out.

Or BAD ones.

He wakes up someone fucking green and crowded. For the life of him can't tell you which one it is. And THAT was of course, bout two days ago.

Biggest and most immediate problem? He... does NOT recognize what flavor of magical fuckery this is. Doesn't seem Fae. And doesn't smell like Hell. There are... there are honest to God BOOTH BABES hanging around. Hunks too. The view is LOVELY.

And nerdy.

Very, very nerdy.

But he isn't THAT out of touch. So he should recognize SOMETHING. Or at least the languages. But nope! It's like aliens and magic had a nerd baby and dipped it in GREEN. And the worst thing? Is there is food everywhere, but it all glows and John's not stupid enough to eat it.

Then? Sweet merciful fuck. Salvation! Some teeny bopper Barely No Longer Teen fresh faced INFANT of a Hero kid. With a SHIP. Who has FOOD and a clear idea of where they are. Hello~ John's new BEST FRIEND. Yes. Absolutely. Con Buddies, whatever.

Just feed me, kid.

Only? Once he inhales like 5 "Fenton rations"? He only gets half way through introducing himself before getting interrupted. Kid hears "magic" and "occult Detective" and just? Goes "oh! So you wanna check out the magic Ally with me? Sam wanted me to pick up some witchy stuff!"

..............how magic?

(In Which? Constantine becomes Danny's interdimensional Con buddy)

@the-witchhunter @hypewinter @hdgnj @mutable-manifestation @lolottes @nerdpoe