#i shared a snippet from it a while ago

[luvo27]

Look its about how sometimes alfred will threaten to/talk about resigning from his job and wondering about the dynamic of how alfred would have raised bruce as an employee instead of a parent and the skewed power dynamic and how threatening to resign might have been one of the ways alfred was able to actually get bruce to listen to him and how it would have been so effective because bruce was a child who lost his parents violently and would not want to lose another and its about how this relationship shapes the way the Batman and Robin dynamic works. Does love make the most sense when its a job. Is firing robin a test to see if they love him when they dont have to or is it him proving to them he loves then when it isnt a job. I dont know what im talking about but do you see where my mind is at

[cece693]

Me, Jealous?

pairing: hannibal lecter x male reader tags: jealous hannibal lecter, reader is amused, not hannibal (nbc) canon,

A date at the opera was hardly what you would call romantic. The venue itself might’ve been grand—old, world architecture with gilded flourishes on the ceiling and plush velvet seats arranged in perfect rows—but everything about it felt like a stage set for egos. Brighter-than-necessary overhead lighting illuminated acres of expensive fabrics—lustrous silk gowns and tailored tuxedos that cost more than what most people made in a month—and you could all but taste the arrogance in the air.

It wasn’t your ideal location for a date by any stretch, but your husband had turned on his rare brand of doe-eyed pleading, sweetly murmuring “Please?” in that honeyed timbre that usually meant he had something up his sleeve. You should have guessed there was more to his insistence. In fact, you’d sensed an undercurrent of excitement radiating off of him from the moment you’d left your shared home. It became painfully obvious why he was so eager once you arrived and found him being whisked away by a woman whose understanding of personal boundaries seemed nonexistent.

You didn’t recognize her, and maybe she truly had no idea Hannibal was spoken for—or maybe she was fully aware and enjoying the attention anyway. Possessively, she clung to Hannibal’s arm, her manicured nails splayed like a decorative cuff on his impeccable suit sleeve. Her laughter at his every remark was irritatingly saccharine, the type that left you rolling your eyes behind the rim of your champagne flute.

Hannibal, naturally, glanced your way every so often. He had a certain glint in his eye—like a cat playing with its prey—anticipating your jealousy. A lesser spouse might have felt their heart clench, might have shot daggers at the other woman or stormed over to reclaim their partner. But you’d been through these small tests before. This was Hannibal’s game, and he loved to provoke a reaction just to study it, to taste it the way he might taste a fine wine. But you knew better than to give him exactly what he wanted without having him ask sweetly.

Leaning against a marble column, you let your gaze skim over the crowd. Most of the attendees were too busy boasting about their knowledge of obscure operas or discussing the perfect brand of caviar to notice you, but you still felt a few curious stares. Being Dr. Lecter’s husband was a precarious sort of prestige—people either hovered like anxious sycophants hoping to impress you, or they observed you from a distance with feline curiosity. Tonight, though, you simply had no patience for idle chit-chat. If Hannibal wanted to play, let him. It wouldn't cause a rift in your relationship like others might believe. Because that was the unspoken truth: no matter how many admirers clung to his arm, Hannibal’s nights were solely yours. It was you he felt anything akin to love.

Your eyes continued to roam the opulent hall: heavy drapes fell from high windows, shimmering under the bright chandeliers. The murmur of voices rose like tidal swells, and snippets of classical music drifted in from the stage where the orchestra had tuned mere moments ago. It was then that you caught sight of someone else—a man with neatly combed dark hair and a tailored suit that fit him so flawlessly it seemed hand-stitched. You recognized him vaguely; he’d been polite when you first entered, a quick hello exchanged in passing while the audience was still finding their seats.

Now, he stepped away from a small group he’d been conversing with and headed in your direction. Despite the chatter around you, his voice was pitched low when he finally spoke, creating a sense of intimacy amid the bustle. “Good evening,” he greeted. “I see we meet again.”

You inclined your head politely. “We do. Enjoying the performance?”

“I’ll be honest—I’m not much of an opera fan. But I make appearances when necessary.” He motioned around him, lips curving in a self-aware smirk. “Comes with the territory, I suppose.”

You let out a laugh—short, genuine, and surprising even to yourself. “I can relate.” You took a sip of champagne, feeling its effervescence linger on your tongue, and cast a glance across the hall to find Hannibal watching you. He stood a few paces away from his clingy companion, but his gaze was entirely fixed on you. You could practically feel the heat of his scrutiny.

The newcomer followed your line of sight. “Husband?”

You nodded. “That’s him,” you confirmed, swirling the champagne in your glass to give your hands something to do. “He’s…quite sociable tonight.”

“Lucky man,” the stranger said, his brown eyes gleaming with sincere admiration. He leaned in just enough to keep his words between the two of you. “I hope I’m not being too forward, but I’d much rather chat with you than half the people here. You seem—” he paused, searching for a precise term—“less rehearsed.”

Your lips curved into a small, wry smile. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

And honestly, it was. In a sea of plastic smiles and pretentious laughter, Adam was a breath of fresh air. He asked about you in a way that felt genuine—inquiring politely about the arts, about your tastes, about what you liked doing in your free time. The conversation flowed so effortlessly that you didn’t notice the time slipping by.

For nearly an hour, you and Adam talked, a soft bubble of quiet warmth in the midst of the bustling foyer. Eventually, the bell sounded to signal the final act was about to start. Adam extracted a slim black business card from his wallet and handed it to you, smiling. “Let me know if you ever want a less formal chat. I’d like that.”

You looked down at the card and then back at him, feeling amusement dance along your features. “I’ll consider it,” you said, inclining your head in gratitude.

He nodded his goodbye, rejoining the flow of people returning to their seats. Suddenly aware of how your heart beat just a bit faster, you turned and found Hannibal already at your side, the tension emanating from him as palpable as the hush that once again fell over the audience. He offered you a measured smile—overly polite. The humor never touched his eyes, and his hand came to rest protectively (or possessively, depending on perspective) around your waist.

As the two of you made your way back into the darkened auditorium, Hannibal’s grip did not loosen. It was as though he wanted the entire opera house to see exactly to whom you belonged. His free hand brushed down the front of his suit in an almost nervous gesture—though he’d label it a mere habit. The moment you settled into your plush seats, you could feel his gaze flicker to the business card in your hand. There was a storm in that glance, a controlled fury that might have burst into a full hurricane if not for the need to maintain civility in public.

Slyly, you slid the card into your pocket without breaking eye contact, a hint of a smile tugging at your lips. You could imagine the wheels in Hannibal’s mind spinning: envy, curiosity, possessiveness, all swirling like a tempest. And you? You were calm—steady. His petty pageantry in parading around with another woman felt all the more transparent now that he watched you with such thinly-veiled anger.

Yes, Hannibal Lecter was a possessive man, a petty, petulant prince if ever there was one. But you knew just how to handle him. Smoothing the lapel of your own jacket, you let the lights dim around you. The orchestra swelled, the final act beginning, and Hannibal’s hand tightened over your own. You felt a rush of satisfaction that cut through the boredom of the night, a sense of triumph in how quickly the tables had turned.

By the time you and Hannibal exit the opera house, the swell of applause still echoing behind you, the tension between you is palpable. You trail after him through the opulent lobby—your pace unhurried despite the stony silence radiating off his shoulders. Outside, the Bentley gleams under the streetlights, and Hannibal unlocks it with a snap of his wrist that betrays his simmering mood.

He slides behind the wheel, and you settle in the passenger seat. There was no music playing, not even the subdued hum of classical radio that Hannibal often preferred. He eases the car away from the curb with smooth precision, but his knuckles stand out white on the steering wheel, his maroon eyes fixed ahead. In the hush of the Bentley’s interior, you can almost feel his anger swirl like a tangible thing. Where others might quake at that quiet fury, you find yourself quietly amused. You’ve seen the beast’s temper before; this is just another piece on the chessboard.

The drive home feels longer than usual, the only sound the rhythmic hum of the tires and the low purr of the engine. You steal a glance his way every so often, noting how his jaw tightens, how his lips press into a line. He’s stewing. But you allow the silence to remain unbroken, letting him feel the full brunt of his own jealousy. If Hannibal truly wanted this result—wanted to provoke or be provoked—he can drown in it for a while. A small, satisfied smirk forms at the corner of your mouth before you quickly wipe it away.

When the Bentley glides up the winding driveway to your home, Hannibal parks with more force than necessary. The headlights cut off abruptly, and for a moment, neither of you moves. You can sense him hesitating, perhaps wrestling with the possibility of speaking first. Then he sets his jaw and steps out, slamming the door behind him with quiet aggression.

Inside the house, the familiar warmth of low lamps and the faint aroma of polished wood greet you. You shrug off your coat and hang it neatly by the door. Hannibal’s own coat is flung onto a nearby chair with none of his usual precision. He’s already stalking through the foyer, shoulders rigid, making a pointed show of ignoring you. That’s how you know he’s furious: Hannibal never leaves his clothing in disarray without intending it as a message.

You follow him into the sitting room, where he has paused in front of the fireplace, one hand curled at his side. “Was it fun?” he asks without turning around. His voice is taut, every syllable thick with petty jealousy.

“Surprisingly, yes,” you reply, taking measured steps toward him. “Given the circumstances.”

He swivels to face you, maroon eyes narrowing. “I suppose I should be pleased you enjoyed yourself.” There is no pleasure in his tone—only an accusation, a reminder that his own orchestrations haven’t played out the way he intended.

You hold his gaze, refusing to rise to the bait. “I’m not the one who spent half the evening being clung to by someone who didn’t know how to keep her hands to herself.”

Hannibal’s lips twitch, and for a moment, you think he might admit to his mischief. Instead, he inhales slowly, as though collecting himself. His voice drops. “I want to see that business card.”

A short laugh escapes you. He’s come straight to the point, then—jealousy still raw. “What business card?” you ask innocently, already knowing he saw the whole exchange.

“Don’t pretend with me,” he snaps, more sharply than usual. “This—this Adam, or whatever he calls himself. Why would you need to keep his details if you have no intention of—?”

You step closer, crossing the room until you’re mere inches away, resting a hand lightly on his lapel. “I assure you—I merely think he could be a good friend,” you say, your tone calm, soothing. “And please don’t pretend it doesn’t suit you to have me cultivate connections. You’ve pushed me into social circles all this time; was it only acceptable when you pulled the strings?”

Hannibal’s eyes flick to your hand on his jacket, and in that micro-moment, you sense the conflict in him: the desire to shake you off versus his need to feel your touch. When he speaks again, his voice is clipped. “You don’t need a friend like him. I know his sort.”

You arch an eyebrow. “Considering you barely spoke to him, that’s quite an assumption.”

His expression darkens. “I’m not asking for your opinion. I’m telling you. Give me the card, and forget about him.” He’s trying to reassert control—like a child demanding a toy be taken away so nobody else can play with it. You let the silence stretch, your fingers sliding up to smooth the lapel of his suit. You’re not trying to antagonize him, not exactly. But neither are you in the habit of rolling over for his demands.

“Hannibal, you know that I love you. But no, you can’t have the card.”

His nostrils flare; he’s on the precipice between fury and something else—hurt, maybe. You lean in, pressing a kiss to his jaw, an unspoken assurance that all his insecurities don’t need to exist. He’s still yours, and you are his. “I’m not keeping it from you to be cruel,” you murmur. “But I do enjoy his company. Don't kill him just because you felt threatened."

His response is a quick, sneering exhale. “Threatened,” he repeats incredulously, as if the concept is beneath him. But the tension around his eyes says otherwise. You guide him backward until his legs meet the edge of the armchair, urging him to sit. He settles, still bristling. Standing before him, you slide one hand through his hair, letting him feel your affectionate calm.

“I don’t want to fight,” you say quietly, “especially not about something so small.”

“There wouldn’t be a fight if you would just—”

“—hand it over?” you finish for him, smiling ruefully. “Let it be, Hannibal. If you want to grill me about Adam, do so tomorrow. Right now, we’ve both had a long day.”

He looks up at you, and for a moment, the flash in his maroon eyes reminds you of a predator debating whether to lunge or retreat. But then his gaze softens, ever so slightly, and he exhales. You recognize this as a truce—a temporary surrender in a war of wits and possessiveness that defines your relationship.

Slowly, you lean down, capturing his lips in a quiet kiss meant to soothe. After a second’s hesitation, he kisses you back, and you feel the rigid line of his shoulders relax beneath your touch. The two of you remain that way for a breath or two—locked in a silent détente—until he finally pulls back. The storm in his expression still lingers, but there’s the promise of a calmer tomorrow.

You trace your thumb along his jaw. “Come to bed,” you suggest gently. “We can talk in the morning if you still feel so strongly.”

Hannibal nods once, gaze flickering with unresolved emotions. He stands, tugging you closer by the waist in a gesture that speaks of both affection and ownership. “Just remember,” he murmurs, voice low and controlled, “you belong to me.”

[jakesimfromstatefarm]

no doubt ── s. jy (sneak peek!)

update: this fic's been posted! click here to read <3

↳ summary ── struggling to balance a world tour, endless responsibilities, and...well, the sting of getting dumped by his girlfriend, jake finds peace & comfort confiding in you—one of his closest friends. what begins as lighthearted late-night phone calls while he's away on tour deepens into something more, quickly pulling you both into uncharted emotional territory. as your connection with jake intensifies, so does your inner turmoil—torn between the comfort of your easy relationship with him and the terrifying possibility of falling for someone you're not even sure you can have in the first place. but jake? jake has absolutely no doubt of what he wants—and spoiler alert? it's you.

↳ pairing ── jake x f!reader, [ft. childhoodbestfriend!jungwon, bestfriends!enha]

↳ genre ── idol!jake, friends to lovers!au || fluff, angst, crack

↳ addie's ✉ .ᐟ ── hai everyone, the freaking turmoil & HOLD this fic has on me,,,has me writing til 8AM in the freaking morning because CLEARLY ─ i have unspoken issues . anyways here's a teaser of my recent hyperfixation that i'm sharing with the world. at the rate i'm writing this every night (& morning), it should be out soon (hopefully) :3 also this snippet i decided to include is my attempt at angst...i hope yall enjoy !

also send me an ask/comment if you'd like to be tagged !!! <3

snippet under the cut!!

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。..・。.・゜✭・.・

“Y/N.” 

His voice is quiet, almost drowned out by the muffled hum of music and laughter seeping from the party you should've escaped from a long time ago. You stop in your tracks, swallowing hard before turning around.  

Jake stands a few feet away, his usual easy confidence replaced by something raw, almost broken. He looks disheveled, his hands clenching at his sides as though they're the only thing anchoring him.  

“Can we talk?” he asks, his voice low but unsteady. 

You stomach twists, but you steel yourself, "What do you want, Jake?"  

You shift your weight and instinctively cross your arms, a defensive barrier between you and the boy you spent too long letting into your heart. His eyes meet yours, and for a moment, the vulnerability in them makes your resolve falter. 

He takes a hesitant step towards you before exhaling shakily, running a hand through his hair.  

“I—I messed up tonight. I didn’t mean to...," he trails off, his words fumbling, his eyes searching yours in desperation.  

"...to completely ignore me all night? Make me feel like nothing?" You finish for him, your quiet voice breaking despite your attempt to stay composed.  

"No. God, no. You're not nothing," he says quickly, his voice faltering on the last word. "Y/N, you matter so much to me."  

“Well it definitely didn't feel that way,” your voice is barely audible, but you finally look up at him, the hurt bubbling to the surface. “After everything you said—promised, everything we talked about…” 

"I know, I just—" he hesitates, his voice barely above a whisper. He takes a tentative step closer, his movements slow and careful, like he's afraid you'll shatter if he gets too close. "I was nervous." 

"It’s been so long, and I didn’t know what to say, how to act. I wanted to get it right—to make it perfect—but instead, I just—" he stops, dragging another frustrated hand through his hair. His eyebrows knit together in that familiar way that once made your heart flutter, but now only adds to the ache in your chest. 

You let out a hollow laugh, the sound foreign even to your own ears, “Well, congratulations, Jake. You managed to mess it up anyway.” 

“Please,” he looks devastated, his hands trembling at his sides. “Y/N, please don’t think I don’t care about you. I do. More than you know. I just—I don't know how to do this. I panicked and I didn't mean to hurt you, I swear."  

You look at him, your eyes stinging with unshed tears as you take a shaky breath, “Then why was...why was she all over you tonight? Why didn’t you stop her?” 

He falters, his shoulders slumping under the weight of your question, “It wasn’t what it looked like. I didn’t—I couldn’t—” 

“You couldn’t,” you echo, the words spilling out in a rush now, each one cutting deeper. “I should've known. Let me guess, she wants to get back together, right?"  

Jake's silence is deafening, and it immediately answers your question. He opens this mouth, but nothing comes out. The way he looks at you—eyes wide and filled with regret, lips trembling as if searching for the right words—confirms everything you’re afraid of. 

You squeeze your eyes shut, a shaky breath escaping your lips—the sound caught somewhere between a sigh of realization and a choked sob. No matter how hard you try, the wall holding back your emotions cracks under the weight of it all. The doubts you've tried so hard to bury suddenly resurface, crashing over you suddenly, each one carrying the sting of every insecurity, every fear you’ve ever had about this moment, about him. Your chest feels tight, your heart splintering under the realization that everything you were afraid of might be true. 

"Jake, I can't do this," you whisper, shaking your head. "I can't be the person you lean on while you try to figure out what you want."  

"No, no—Y/N, I do know what I want," he pleads, his voice cracking as he tries to step closer. "And it’s you. Always been you, Y/N. Everything I said before—I meant it."  

His words hang heavy in the air, the faint echo of the party music filtering through the cracks in the door and into the quiet hallway. You look away, refusing to let him see your tears finally spilling over.  

"You promised," you let out softly. "You promised you wouldn't hurt me. You said you'd prove that I could trust you, that I didn't have to be scared. You knew I was worried, Jake. And you hurt me anyways."  

"And I swear I meant every word I said. I still do," Jake says, his voice desperate. He steps even closer, his hand reaching out and brushing yours, but you pull back before he can close the distance. "You have to believe me. Please, Y/N. You're the only one I care about."  

You shake your head again, the tears now freely slipping down your cheeks despite your best efforts, "I don't know if I can believe that anymore, Jake. I wanted to, I really, really did. But tonight..."  

Jake’s face falls, the weight of your pain crashing into him all at once. His lips tremble as he struggles to hold himself together, his eyes glassy with unshed tears. This was the first time seeing you in so long, and this sight of you—broken because of him—cuts deeper than he thought possible. His voice is barely above a whisper, raw and pleading, “Y/N, I’m so sorry. I—God, please. Please give me a chance.” 

You look at him—at the boy who's become your safe space —and all you feel is the ache in your heart.  

"I can't do this right now, Jake," you finally let out a deep breath and take a step back. "I think I just need space."  

The words hang in the air like a death sentence. His breath hitches as if your words physically hit him in face, "Y/N..." 

Your phone suddenly buzzes, a text from Jungwon letting you know he's outside. You glance down at it, then back at Jake. For a moment, you hesitate, your heart screaming at you to stay, to give him the chance he's begging for. But your head knows better. 

"I have to go," you murmur softly, turning away before the tears threaten to spill all over again. You force yourself to keep walking, fighting the overwhelming urge to look back—to let him pull you into his arms, where you wished so desperately you belonged.  

Frozen, Jake watches helplessly as you walk away, his chest tightening with every step you take. Everything feels like it's caving in, regret clawing at him the more he sees you walk further away. He opens his mouth to say something—anything—but the words fail him, silenced by the weight of his own mistakes.  

The hallway falls into a haunting silence, broken only by the faint echo of your retreating steps, a cruel reminder of what he's just let slip away.  

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。..・。.・゜✭・.・

not my usual style of light-hearted crack...but sum of the other parts are still very rom-commy bc im sucker for dat shtuff :3

let me know if you'd like to be tagged !

<3, addie

[nanamincreampie]

That's What Got You Pregnant

Streamer!Suguru Geto x Black pregnant reader

Context: Your streamer husband is still loves staring at your ass even during your pregnancy (inspired by this)

Contains: Domestic fluff

The rhythmic boing of the yoga ball echoed gently through your shared office. The soft latex surface flexed under your weight as you bounced steadily, thighs working overtime while your round belly swayed with each motion. At 32 weeks pregnant, this was your go-to for easing back pain and getting a little movement in without doing too much.

You looked good, and you knew it.

Leggings hugged your thick thighs and wide hips like they were made for your body alone, the stretchy waistband under your bump. The charcoal gray workout sweater you wore was unzipped halfway, letting your baby belly breathe. Your dark skin glowed in the soft ring light you’d set up behind the camera, and your long boho braids, freshly done, swayed along your shoulders and back.

You had your phone set up on a tripod across the room, angled perfectly to capture the full scene: you bouncing on your yoga ball behind your husband, Suguru, who was live on stream mid-Call Of Duty match, shirtless as always and deep in his zone.

“Got ‘em. Bro, don’t ever rush me like that again,” Suguru muttered into his mic, a grin tugging at his lips. “I’m built different.”

He didn’t know you were filming. Not for content, not for the world. Just for yourself. You’d been documenting your pregnancy in quiet little snippets, and tonight you felt beautiful. Plush and glowing. You wanted to remember this feeling, this version of you.

Then it happened.

You didn’t even notice when Suguru glanced away from his screen.

His head turned just slightly enough to catch the motion behind him.

The bounce. The ass. The curve of your hips and thighs jiggling with each soft bounce on the ball. The shine of your braids. The way your sweater hugged the top of your bump while your leggings clung to everything below.

His game could’ve ended right there, and he wouldn’t have noticed.

You caught his gaze on the camera screen and smirked to yourself, still bouncing subtly, smooth, as if you didn’t just catch your husband in 4K thirsting over you on livestream.

“You look good, baby,” Suguru said out loud, a little too casually.

His mic was still on.

The chat fell into silence. Then rolled into chaos.

He blinked.

“…Wait,” Suguru said, finally noticing the phone on the tripod. “You recording this?”

You gave him that smile, soft, sweet, amused, while staying silent, still bouncing, braids swaying, belly gently moving with each rise and fall.

He squinted, clearly realizing he was being documented.

“Damn,” he muttered. “My bad. I was starin’ at your ass.”

You immediately burst out laughing, your laugh loud and full, shoulders bouncing right along with your belly. You nearly rolled off the yoga ball, hand flying to your side as you gasped between giggles.

The chat exploded.

"NAH HE SAID WHAT HE SAID 😭" "AND HE’S RIGHT" "YALL SEE HOW SHE LOOK THO??" "THAT’S WIFE ENERGY" "GETO AINT NEVER COMIN BACK FROM THIS ONE"

Suguru glanced at the screen, then back at you, clearly flustered but trying to play it cool. “What? Like I’m not allowed to admire the woman who got me losin’ sleep over her ass since we were nineteen?”

You wheezed.

“Suguru!” you gasped, tears in your eyes from laughing.

He leaned back in his chair, finally surrendering to the moment, mic still on, headset slightly askew, his entire attention now fully on you. Not the game. Not the chat.

You.

“That’s what got you pregnant,” he said with a shrug, as if he were simply stating facts.

You nearly collapsed laughing all over again, wobbling on the yoga ball as you clutched your bump.

“That is not how it happened,” you choked out.

He raised a brow. “Was it not that same ass, those same leggings, this same bouncin’ that got me kicked off stream three months ago?”

You went speechless. Face hot. Belly shaking. Boho braids swinging as you shook your head at your husband.

Suguru looked dead into the camera now, all smug confidence and no regrets.

“I’d like the record to show,” he said to the chat, “I ain’t even sorry.”

Later that night, when you finally got the video off your tripod and onto your private camera roll, you sat on the couch replaying it while Suguru walked back into the living room with a bowl of ice cream and two spoons.

“You said all that on live?” you teased, licking your lips as you played the part where he muttered "my bad, I was starin' at your ass."

He shrugged, sitting beside you and scooping a bite of your favorite flavor. “They needed to know.”

“Know what?”

“That you're fine as hell.”

He pressed a kiss to your cheek, one hand instinctively resting over your belly, the other offering you the spoon.

“Still,” you grinned, “you’re lucky I am pregnant or I’d be bouncin’ on something else tonight.”

Suguru froze.

Then grinned.

“…Bet.”

[chubby-p1nk]

I read two fics some time ago with Tim dancing along with Cass, and omg, it changed me- Because... JUST THINK ABOUT IT-

Tim being a rich kid, with really strict parents but who are flexible enough so that they don't have prejudices regarding very conventional gender roles. And thanks to this, Tim is put in classical ballet classes long enough to be able to wear pointe shoes.

Tim likes it to a certain extent, as the exercises, physical conditioning and muscle elongation help him to be able to follow the bat and bird duo around Gotham. Over time he stops attending classes either due to his parents' influence to focus on some other activity, or because he preferred that time to coordinate patrol routes and get more photos.

By the time he starts being Robin, he no longer attends ballet classes. The training left a small mark on the way he moves as Robin, but nothing too noticeable. He finds it easy to jump really high and is able to land silently and smoothly. He doesn't get dizzy easily thanks to the pirouettes and fouettes his teacher made him practice daily.

Also, training with Dick is easier than when he trains with Bruce, since with Dick there are really similar exercises thanks to the older boy's training in the circus as an acrobat. The elasticity is not comparable between the two, but Tim has enough so that some of Dick's exercises are not so impossible for him.

Cut out when Cass arrives and Tim notices that she likes ballet, and even more surprisingly, she dances ballet! It is thanks to this that Tim manages to find a common point between the two to be able to start a friendship, with Cass being really excited to know that Tim also knew ballet!

They both connect thanks to ballet, Tim, taking advantage of the fact that they were both quite similar in height and complexion (even in face, which still leaves him wondering sometimes if they weren't secret twins?) shares with her his leotards and shoes, at least the training ones. Because although Cass can stand on pointe with amazing ease, Tim prefers to help her go over the basic training to get on pointe. Because literally, those things break feet, and he doesn't want to see his adopted sister go through that (We're talking about Cass, though.)

By the time they've been through about two months of helping Cass go over the basics, and remembering moves she remembered seeing from when she lived in the basement of that Ballet school, she can get up on pointe, and Tim hands her some cute yellow pointe shoes that he got years ago, when Robin colors still drove him crazy. So when Cass wears them, they're flexible and soft, not hard and uncomfortable like the ballet slippers one recently bought.

And Tim, he has his cream pointe shoes to wear, also used and flexible, comfortable like an old toy you haven't used in a while and despite everything, you still know how to play with it.

They both select certain days to practice and dance different pieces of music, Tim occasionally teaching her the classical pieces she doesn't know, or showing her how to dance as a couple. Although for this he takes off his pointe shoes and goes back to his leather slippers.

They keep up this routine even when Damian arrives, and so far the only one who knows what they're doing is Alfred, basically because he's the one who usually does their laundry and tidies up the room they use to dance. Making sure the floor isn't too slippery and the furniture is pushed up against the walls to make room. Every now and then, they both invite him to watch a specific dance they've practiced, like a snippet from Swan Lake, The Nutcracker, or The Rite of Spring.

As more time passes, Cass takes more liberties in the dance and fuses ballet with something more contemporary, while Tim sticks to classical ballet. They keep dancing, but now each one gives a personal touch to each pirouette, pas couru, and movement. They make a temporary bar with pvp pipes, which despite everything, works wonders for them.

Maybe Bruce is the first one to find them, after a particularly tiring day in which he just wants to be alone for a few moments and decides to go to the rooms less used, he hears a classical melody from one of the rooms that supposedly, should be empty. And when he goes to see where the music was coming from and why, he finds his two children playing a fragment of Carmen (Gipsy friends duet) and is more than surprised by the ability not only of Cass, but of Tim! Bruce had no idea that Tim could dance ballet, did he learn it now from Cass? Or is it something he already knew?

Whatever the case, what surprises him the most is the amazing coordination of the two, they seem to be the reflection of each other. And with regret Bruce admits inwardly that if it weren't for the distinction of the clothes and the hairstyle, he would swear that he was seeing double.

[souliebird]

[[and then I met you || Ch. 33]]

Series: Daredevil || Pairing: Matt Murdock x Fem!Reader || Rating: Explicit

Summary:

A one-night stand years ago gave you a daughter and you are now able to put a name to her father – Matthew Murdock. Everything is about to change again as you navigate trying to integrate your life with that of the handsome and charming blind lawyer’s while Matt realizes he needs to not only protect his new family from Hell's Kitchen, but from the world.

chapter masterlist

Words: 4.4k

ao3 link

|| Trigger Warning: Graphic Descriptions Body Horror & Death Regarding Unnamed Children ||

All your life you have heard that there is a beauty in chaos, and while you do agree with this, you also find there is a beauty in organization. 

You like taking all the chaos and putting it into categories. You like sorting the details and finding the mysteries that need to be unraveled. You think it must be similar to how clever people feel when they solve a riddle or a puzzle, but you aren’t running in circles with philosophical thoughts - you are analyzing what is already available and coming to a conclusion. 

It is still all chaos, because everything is always chaos, but it is organized into a way that makes sense. 

And Matt’s stolen duffel bag, when first unzipped and inspected, was full of chaos. 

You, Foggy, and Karen quickly got to work looking over the different papers and forming different stacks based upon agreed parameters. 

It became clear Matt’s guess that he had found some sort of laboratory was correct. The papers all appeared to be results of different medical tests, though at first glance, the three of you could not decipher for what.

But deciphering wasn’t needed at that moment, so it didn’t matter, and once everything was spread neatly across the dining table, the next step of your beloved process began. 

Foggy gave each pile a designation and then the three of you began labeling each paper in the top corner. 

A1. A2. A3. A4. 

B1. B2. B3. B4. 

All your analyzing would be useless if you couldn’t source your data, and it was quickly clear your little group all shared the same brain cell when it came to this idea.

While you worked at the table, Matt and Jessica sat on the floor by the couches, marking up a map. You caught snippets of the conversation - this bit of evidence was heard in that alley, to get to a certain tunnel system you had to go through such and such warehouse. It was fascinating to know that Matt had memorized nearly every square inch of Hell’s Kitchen - even the parts you didn’t know existed - and it was equally amazing that Jessica knew just as much. 

After hearing them talk, it left you wondering if Frank had the same knowledge, but you would leave that question for another time. He had been assigned to the two thumb drives that had been in the duffel bag. You had furiously taken mental notes as he had grumpily explained to Matt the little devices couldn’t just be plugged into a computer. They could have malware on them or trigger tracking or something equally devious and needed to be inserted into a clean laptop that couldn’t connect to the internet. That way, if the laptop tried to send a signal or became a brick, there would be nothing lost. 

Since neither you nor Matt happened to have a spare laptop laying around, Frank went to go procure one. 

That was about half an hour ago and now you are well into your third Foggy-assigned task - highlighting any identifying information in yellow. There’s nothing easy like names or addresses listed out, but you noticed a pattern for patient labels and have determined there are at least five. 

As you jot down that Patient 031517DVA also appears on page D4 in your notebook, you find you are enjoying yourself. This isn’t exactly what you imagined when Matt talked about inviting everyone over to review what he had found, but you think it is nice. Knowing that Matt isn’t out there running around without any sort of plan soothes your nerves and seeing that he is putting in the time and thought into his next actions makes you trust he knows what he is doing. 

No one wants a shady underground lab in their neighborhood, but you need to make sure they are actually shady first and not some weird fringe group researching an unknown breed of sewer rat.

The effort going into helping Matt with this task makes your fondness of Foggy, Karen, and Frank grow even more - and gives you a fondness for Jessica. Everyone is serious about their task, and extremely thorough, and you want them to see you in the same light. You know this is not a game and you refuse to let your part in the research be the weak link. 

As you go to the next row of numbers to examine, you catch some movement in the corner of your eye. You turn your head and watch with a soft smile as your daughter emerges from Matt’s bedroom, clad in her mouse-onesie pajamas. Her sleep mask is pulled down around her neck and she looks upset, but she’s not crying, so you don’t jump to run to her. You let her make her own decisions as she sleepily looks between you and her father and you can’t help but to mentally crow a bit as she starts shuffling towards you, her little mouse-tail trailing behind her. 

Everyone’s attention is on you as Minnie lifts up her arms to be picked up once she’s within a foot of you. You dutifully scoop her up and put her on your lap, fixing her hood and mouse-ears as you do. 

“Is everything okay, sweetheart? Did something wake you up?”

She nods, then flops herself against your chest, mumbling out, “There’s monsters.” 

You begin to gently rub her back, hoping to soothe her worries as you confirm, “there’s monsters?”

Again, her head bobs up and down before she nuzzles into your neck, trying to hide herself. Across the room, Matt is up and making his way towards you, but it is Foggy who speaks up next. 

“Are they silly monsters or scary monsters?”

You smile at the question as Minnie ponders it - her little lips purse against your neck and you feel her breath against your skin as she silently repeats the words. She decides on ‘scary’ - replying in a timid voice as Matt takes his place behind you, sliding his hands onto your shoulders.

“Do you want me to help you tell them to go away?” you ask, having packed your bottle of Monster Repellent for just this cause. Little fists clutch tightly at your shirt as Mouse shakes her head and you give a soft hum in thought. “Do you want Daddy to go scare them off?”

You are sure Matt would run outside to chase away a stray cat or hungry raccoon if his princess wished for it, but she shakes her head against you, so you guess Matt will be staying inside. 

“How about we make the monsters silly instead of scary?” is Karen’s suggestion, and like the others, it falls flat. 

You consider offering to read some stories, but Matt startles you from your thoughts by sliding his hands down your arms to get to his daughter. He gently urges her to let go of you before transferring her to his arms and bundling her close. She absolutely clings to him, looking so tiny against his broad shoulders.

“I got this,” he says, his voice barely above a whisper before he turns and starts making his way back to the bedroom. As you watch him walk away, he buries his nose into her hood, and he begins to rock with each step. The itty bitty fist you can still see tightens around his t-shirt and your heart yearns to follow your family, but you know this is a Daddy-Daughter moment and you need to stay seated. 

You were worried about Minnie getting scared over sleeping in a new place - there’s so many new and different noises but you trust Matt to help her interpet everything. He’s already done such an amazing job of it in day-to-day life and you know he’ll explain away all her monsters and let her know she is safe. 

Considering the company she is starting to keep she is probably the safest little girl in New York. No monsters would dare to lurk in her shadows less they want to face the wrath of the Devil.

You know that this little group you are becoming a part of would join you in jumping in front of a bullet for your daughter and you are pretty sure even her newest best friend - Max the Dog - would not hesitate to bare his teeth if someone upset her. 

She deserves nothing less and it makes your heart soar that she is so thoroughly adored. 

Now that her research partner is on another important assignment, Jessica gets up off the floor and strolls over to the table, “anything interesting?”

“Maybe if we were scientists instead of lawyers,” Foggy replies warily, dropping his pink highlighter in favor of nursing his beer, “and knew what any of these numbers meant. We’re going to spend all night looking up these test numbers and hoping they are real. I mean, look at this,” he motions to the paper he is currently working on. “What the hell is D22S1045? And why is the result 15?”

Jessica takes one look at the paper before scrunching up her nose and blandly stating, “It’s a DNA marker. Haven’t you ever seen a paternity test?”

Foggy’s face goes slack for a moment before he is huffing, “Not since college when we had to study paternity suits, and they looked nothing like this! They were like dots we had to match, not numbers!” He uses his beer to point to you, “did yours look like this?”

Your cheeks heat up at the question and you duck your head, hating all the attention is on you with such a personal question. “No. No, mine didn’t…we just received a letter with the results. Not the data.”

“So, they are doing DNA and blood tests?” Karen asks, taking over the conversation and directing it back to Jessica. “And comparing them with each other. Could they be looking for relationships between them?” 

“I’m not a fucking doctor,” is the reply she gets, but Jessica picks up the paper to examine it more closely either way. “But none of these match. The numbers have to be the same for a parental match, but that might not be what they are looking for. Just because it looks like a paternity test doesn’t mean it is one. DNA markers are used in a lot of shit.”

“It might not be human,” you add quietly. “Matt said the lab smelled of human blood, but we don’t know that these tests are on humans. There’s no dates on these, so they could be years old.”

Karen whips out her phone and is typing away before you are done talking, “What was that DNA marker, Fog?”

Foggy repeats the string of numbers and letters and you watch Karen’s eyes scan her screen.

“It’s human,” she states after a long, tense moment. The scowl Jessica gives is near legendary.

“Great, so we have a bunch of assholes in abandoned tunnels running tests on people.”

“That sounds both sanitary and humane,” Foggy grumbles before throwing back the rest of his beer. 

“OSHA and FDA approved,” you add sarcastically and that earns you a smile from Karen. She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear before she guides you all back on track.

“We still have no idea what they are looking for, though. This could be cancer research for all we know - we are still at square one.”

“One point five,” Foggy argues, “we confirmed it’s human.”

“We don’t know what the tests are looking for,” Karen repeats, ignoring him, “and I don’t think looking up the significance of each DNA marker is going to do us much good. Can you and Matt go back to the lab and look around?”

As the clear recipient of the question, Jessica huffs then turns away from the table and goes right to the bottle of Macallan Matt keeps on top of his fridge. She pops off the lid, taking a long drink of it before answering. 

“That was the plan, but I’m betting it’s going to be sprayed with bleach after knowing Devil-boy was poking around. It’s not like we will get much, not that there was shit to get beforehand.”

“So, we have no who, no why, and no where,” Foggy points out. “We are doing great.”

The joy you had gotten from trying to organize the chaos of paperwork evaporates and you sink down into your chair a little. Would continuing to highlight and document be useful or was this all for naught? The rational part of your brain told you to keep going, because it was better to have it done and not need it then to need it later and it still be a mess of paperwork.

“We’ve just started, Fog, of course we have nothing,” Karen says, rolling her eyes a bit as she does. “Did you expect them to write their plans in gel pens and leave them lying around?”

“I mean, that would be useful.”

You roll your lip between your teeth, thinking that Karen is right. You don’t have much, and you’ve only just started - of course things look pessimistic. While Karen and Foggy begin to banter back and forth about the use of gel pens in a professional setting and Jessica finishes off Matt’s whisky, you let your mind wander around the facts of the case. 

Someone is out there running medical tests in a gross underground lab, probably trying to hide what they are doing. To do a lot of tests, they probably needed lab equipment, and a few years ago you would have said to follow that trail, but with all the advancements in technology, a machine to run DNA tests on probably only cost a few hundred dollars and was compact enough to move easily. Generators could keep people off the grid and there were enough tunnels under the city that years could be spent exploring them. Everything they would need could be ordered offline, and thus, was untraceable to you.

The only solid clues you had were what Matt had come home with, so you needed to keep digging there and hope that the thumb drives would contain something more useful. 

So, you pick yourself back up, grab your highlighter, and get back to work. 

Soon enough, Foggy and Karen pick their highlighters back up as well, and Jessica takes up a spot on the couch, putting her feet up and getting out her phone to tap at. The mood is much more somber, but you feel the same determination to find answers that is in you coming off of everyone else as well. 

You don’t pay attention to the passage of time, but it is not long after you grab the final stack of papers to comb through that Matt slips out of the bedroom and closes the door behind him. 

He starts towards the dining table only to stop by the couch, tilting his head towards Jessica, “That bottle was a gift from Foggy’s dad.”

“Boo-hoo, cry me a fucking river, Murdock.”

Despite the venom in Jessica’s voice, Matt chuckles and finishes making his way to you. 

His hands once again find your shoulders and he begins rubbing them, digging his thumbs into just the right spot as he begins his Minnie-update.

“Someone with a really nice sound system is having a horror movie marathon. She was actually hearing monsters.”

“My poor baby,” you instantly coo, your heart breaking for your little one. “Did you tell her it was just a movie?”

Matt hums in affirmation, “That doesn’t help with the noise, though. We walked through turning things off and found something to work as white noise. It’s still hard for her to do it with new sounds, especially so tired, but she’s a quick learner.”

“How long did it take you to learn all that stuff,” Foggy asks, interest clear in his eyes. Karen puts her pen down as well so she can get the gossip. 

“I don’t know, years? It didn’t come naturally to me like it does with her - I would train for hours to be able to pinpoint something, but she can do it pretty easily. I mean, she can’t tell me exact distance because she’s four and doesn’t know what that means, but she can point and say if it’s close or far.” You can feel Matt practically puff up with Pride over his baby girl. “She’s learning inorganic versus organic sounds now. She can tell if a loud banging is someone hitting something or if something just fell over. The other day she told me it was the wind making the window shake, because she couldn’t hear any other noises around the window.”

You smile at the story, having a feeling Matt is going to start going on about all the declarations Minnie had made during the storm and you don’t mind at all. 

“So, she’s as good as you?” Karen teases and you know Matt is just beaming.

“Better. She can actually read a sign.”

Foggy barks with laughter while you and Karen have to cover your mouths to not giggle. 

Once it subsides, you tilt your head back so you can look up at your daughter’s oh so loving father, bumping against his abdomen as you do, “is she down?” 

He gives another positive hum, “In a nice deep sleep. Frank’s on his way back up and I wanted her out before he got here.”

You don’t know if that is from Matt wanting to rejoin the group to know what is on the thumb drives or if it is from him not wanting Minnie to get excited over Frank, but you are thankful she’s conked out either way. The thought of her hearing all your discussions about what lurks in the darkness of the city makes your stomach turn. 

She doesn’t need more monsters to imagine. 

You thank Matt while reaching up to rub one of his arms - letting yourself give him a small bit of affection. You ignore the look Karen is giving you in favor of making sure Matt is all caught up.

“I take it you heard everything?”

He sighs deeply through his nose, and you take that as a ‘yes’. He confirms with his words. 

“Human testing with government trained agents isn’t what I was hoping we would find.”

“I was personally hoping for research on the mutant alligators in the sewers,” Foggy says as he gets up to go towards the kitchen, probably for another beer. “You know the ones they flush down the toilets.” 

“That’s a myth, Fog.”

“Look, with everything else that goes on in the world - weird aliens and giant green men - let me believe in my sewer gators, Murdock. They make me happy.”

“With everything that Stark and Roxon dumped in the waters, I wouldn’t be surprised,” Karen muses, resting her chin in her hand, “I mean, Matt got superpowers from something getting in his eyes. If a rat ate something that was contaminated, it could have gotten super senses as well.” 

You raise your brows up at the idea, a smile coming to your face, “a crime fighting rat?”

“A crime fighting rat that is a ninja,” Foggy chimes, a wide grin on his face and it sends you into giggles.

“How would a rat even learn martial arts?” Matt counters, “There’s not a rodent karate school he could spy on.”

“I don’t know Matt, how did you learn ka-ra-te,” Foggy emphasizes the word to make it sound more mystical. “He would learn from a secret ninja rat clan.”

“What the fuck are you guys talking about?” Jessica asks, looking over her shoulder at the dining table, disgust and confusion clear on her face. 

You and Karen erupt into more laughter while Foggy just grins like he won the world cup as he returns to his seat. Matt gives your shoulders a firm squeeze before letting go and pulling away. He disappears into the narrow passage that is his hallway, and you hear the front door open. Heavy boots signal Frank’s reappearance, and when he and Matt come back around the corner, you offer a small smile. 

The Punisher holds up a clunky looking laptop, straight from your middle school years, “Got it.”

“Does that thing even work?” Foggy asks, eyes narrowing in scrutiny. You trust Frank, but the question is valid - if you saw that in a Goodwill, you would doubt it would even turn on. 

“Of course it works,” Frank scoffs as he delivers the device to Karen. She instantly opens it up to get it started. “Old body, new hardware. Got it built just for this type of shit.” 

Foggy’s lips twitch and you wonder if he wants to say something but is holding his tongue. Jessica joins the table as Matt once again returns to standing behind you. His hands find your shoulders like they are drawn to them, and you wonder if he can’t help but want to touch you. It makes you feel special and wanted and your belly stirs with a certain type of warmth. 

Everyone’s focus is on Karen as she works - the laptop boots up and she fiddles with the first thumb drive until it is ready to be inserted. It feels like you all are holding your breath as she finally plugs it in. You expect there to be a password, but apparently there is not, as she just clicks away.

“There’s two files,” she narrates. “One labeled 082616DUK and one labeled 121417BNY.” 

You instantly recognize the first designation and push your notebook towards Karen, trying to not sound eager as you tell her, “The DUK one is in our files. Can we look at that first?” 

Her face lights up at the prospect of a connection and selects the requested file, “There’s five pictures. Hold on, let me bring them u- Oh my God.”

The little color in her face drains as a horrified expression takes over and her hand shoots up to cover her mouth. You and Froggy scramble up out of your seats while Frank and Jessica crowd around Karen to look at the screen. Matt stays where he is, tilting his head just slightly. 

When you see what is in the file, you wish you had stayed under Matt’s hands. 

The neatly severed head of a boy stares back at you with blank milky eyes, sitting on an examine table. His hair has been shaved away and there is an incision line around his skull that makes it clear someone has probably removed his brain. His mouth is open in a silent scream, showing off that he still had his baby teeth and that someone has taken his tongue. 

You want to throw up and you want to turn away, but you can’t. You can’t look away from this poor child who someone has so thoroughly defiled. Who had done this to this boy and why? You wanted to shake them and scream and demand to know what could possibly possess someone to do this to a baby? Because this was someone’s baby - someone’s little boy - and someone had taken him and ruined him. 

You don’t know how she manages it, but Karen brings up the next image and it fills you with just as much disgust and anger. 

It is that of a tiny hand with its fingers forcibly splayed, stuck with pins to keep it that way. The tips are bulbous and round, different to anything you’ve seen on a human before, and between each digit, there was a thin stretch of skin connecting them, much like the webbing of a duck’s foot. Like the head, the hand has been surgically removed from the rest of the body, and it isn’t hard to determine they go to the same person. 

The next image is of the head again but turned to be facing the left and pre-removal of the tongue, as the appendage is pulled and stretched from the mouth with a pair of forceps. The muscle is an odd shade of purple and coated with some sort of liquidy-white residue, but that is not what is unique about it. The boy’s tongue doesn’t just peek out of his mouth - it extends across the table almost three feet, if the tape measurer under it is to be believed. 

You need to turn away after that and to no surprise, Matt is instantly by your side, wrapping you up in his arms and guiding your head to his neck. “He’s just a baby,” you whisper in horror as you cling to him, not understanding how someone could be so cruel. Even if he had died naturally, there was no reason to treat him like that in death. 

“Did they…” Froggy starts, his voice low and quivering and you don’t know if it's from rage or grief, “Did they make him a frog? Did they mix this kid with a fucking frog?”

“No,” Frank replies, not hiding how he is feeling at all. The fury is clear in his voice. “They did it because he was like that.”

“What’s the other file?” Jessica demands and part of you doesn’t want to know. You bury yourself more into Matt and you listen to Karen click away at the track pad. 

Matt’s arms tighten around you and you can’t imagine what he is thinking. No one has said out loud what the images show, and he has not asked - but he must know it isn’t good. He’s gone tense under you, like he’s ready to jump into action and rip someone apart with his hands. 

And you want him to. You want Matt to find whoever did this and make them pay. You want him to punish those who hurt the child in the photos, the people who ran tests on him. 

You want to help Matt find who did this and for him to make sure they can never hurt anyone ever again.

“She’s…she’s got a beak.” Karen says slowly after a few moments, and you can’t bear to look at another autopsy photo. You hide yourself more against Matt, not at all ashamed of your choice.

“She’s Enhanced,” is Jessica’s reply, almost blank with stifled emotion.

“She’s a kid. They are hunting Enhanced kids.” 

“Why?” Foggy questions, sounding wet, like he’s starting to tear up. You don’t blame him in any way. “Why would they do that?”

Under you, the Devil finally speaks, his voice low and eerily calm, “it doesn’t matter why. We are going to find them, and we are going to stop them.” 

---

:) :) :)

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[pmpmyread]

Okay. I can’t hold back anymore, I must share this FANTASTIC commission crafted by the amazing @aliasnnmknt!!

A couple of weeks ago, I reached out to Teri to see if she could help me bring an idea to life. This was the first time I’d ever commissioned an idea including an original character/MC, and watching Teri turn my scattered descriptions and references into the EXACT vision I had for this character was like witnessing magic. And we all know Teri’s depictions of Nanami are always A1 (and if you don’t know, you must check out her page, yesterday lol).

The level of detail she managed to incorporate in this is truly incredible, from the braids and the charms, to the sheet music, to the specific vinyl LPs! The mood captured here, in the facial expressions, in the posture and overall body language is immaculate and so true to what I wanted to convey.

I feel so blessed to have been able to collaborate with such a talented artist and to add such a wonderful illustration to this little idea that has been trotting in my mind for a while. I keep staring at it in awe and I am using it as fuel as I put the finishing touches to this story.

Working on this was such a delight, Teri is so kind, patient and incredibly quick! Thank you @aliasnnmknt, for taking my request and for crafting such a lovely piece! Anyone reading this, run, don’t walk to her blog — she delivers banger after banger after banger!

This concept is based on an upcoming Nanami x Reader fic of mine titled Syncopation. It’s a story that tackles themes that are so meaningful to me, such as combatting stifled creativity, finding purpose in life, and learning to accept love, and it’s all set against a backdrop of modal jazz music as a genre.

I’ll be posting it in the upcoming days, in the meantime, I’ve put a snippet below, if you’d like a sneak peek:

If you made it this far, thanks for reading and I hope that you'll enjoy the full story! Now go follow the wonderful @aliasnnmknt!

[hufflepuffsthunderdome]

Acrylics Pt.2

Schlatt x girly!Reader Summary: A few cute snippets of Schlatt's life with a v. fem, lowkey high maintenance girl Warnings: none :)! Just fluff! Based on this request A/N: Can be a stand alone piece but here's part one

The music is playing softly from the speaker when Schlatt walks into your shared bedroom, done with streaming for the night and ready to just curl up and hold you. The light to the bedroom is off when he opens the door, but there’s a familiar, soft flow of light coming through the cracked door to the ensuite bathroom.

You’re a sight to behold for his tired eyes; back turned to him, sitting on the stool at your vanity, wearing that pink, frilly robe he got you ages ago, and a poor excuse for pj’s underneath. Jambo is curled up in your lap, as your fake nails scratch gently at the cat’s ears while you apply whatever creams and serums you’ve decided to use tonight. You look so at ease as you hum gently to yourself, he will never be able to shake the feeling of awe when he sees you like this. He wants to immortalise you in this moment, for the whole world to see.

He scoops you up gently as he walks over, catching your eye in the reflection of the mirror as he sits down and settles you back into his lap. His lips find your neck in a sweet, tender kiss as he whispers softly against your skin how beautiful you are.

Your soft smile in the reflection makes his heart stutter as you apologise for taking so long, “I won’t be much longer.”

He shakes his head as his arms wrap securely around your waist, sending you back a tired smile as he lays his head against yours, “take your time darlin, I’m perfect here.”

He walks through the crowds determinedly, pace fast and sure as he tries to beat the crowds to get out of the city as quick as possible. He feels your hand in his as he walks, dragging you along behind him so he doesn’t loose you, his pace slower than he would like to make up for your small gate. He lets go of your hand for just the briefest moment when the lights change to green and the crowd rushes across the street; it was impossible to keep holding onto you without sending one or both of you fumbling to the ground, but he trusts that you’ve kept pace behind him.

His attention is drawn back behind him once he makes it across the streets and hears the angry horns of New Yorkers in their cars, and your frantic apologies filling the air. He can’t help but laugh as he turns back to you, in your cute little dress, hobbling along in an attempt at a run as your arms flail at your side to keep you balanced. Your heels, adding another 3 inches or so to your height, do nothing to aid your mobility as you hobble across the road. Beauty is pain, you like to remind him, but right now, as he watches your bag bounce at your side, your necklaces jingling on your neck as you struggle to walk, he thinks he can feel your pain more than you can.

“Nice of you to join me,” he says with a smile as he shoves his hands in his pockets, letting you loop your arm through his to use him as a lamp post to give your feet a break. You ease your heel out of the shoe for a second, standing on his shoe as you let out a sigh as you’re able to stand flat for the first time that night.

He places a hand around your waist to steady you as you do the same for your second foot, letting you have a slight respite from the ache in your heels as he holds you. He pulls out his phone and looks at his maps while you lean against him, massaging your calves.

“Come on,” he says as his hands tighten around your waist, hauling you up and over his shoulder as he squats down to pick up your heels, “it’s not far.”

He ignores your squeals of protests, hand coming up to adjust your dress for you, pulling it securely over your ass as he resumes his fast paced walk through the streets, not even phased by the looks of people around you. There's no way this is the weirdest thing they've seen today.

He hears the giggling as he walks down the stairs, the familiar kitchen of his family home coming into view as he rounds the corner, met with the backs of his siblings sitting at the dining table, talking in hushed whispers.

"Did you see what she was wearing?" his sister says as she covers her mouth to hide her laughs as the rest of the table chimes in. "She was puked on by a my little pony," he hears his other sister say, the hushed laughs making his ears turn red with anger.

"I mean have some self respect," his brother adds with a huff, "I don't know how he lets her walk around like that, if my wife left the house like that i swear..." he trails off, whistling lowly as Jay watches him roll his eyes.

"I don't know what he sees in her," his sister chimes in again, her sentence falling flat when she turns from her seat and sees Schlatt standing there, watching.

He feels the anger start to rise in his chest as he runs his tongue along his teeth, trying to keep his cool as he walks into the kitchen. "Sees what in who?" he asks, trying and failing to keep the bite out of his tone. He knows the answer, but he asks anyway.

He's met with dismissive murmurs, nobody, nothing, don't worry about it, and it just makes him angrier as he turns to meet his siblings eyes already on him, watching him cautiously. "Who were you talking about?" he says firmly as he leans against the counter, arms crossed.

He stares them down, unmoving and unwavering as he waits for someone to say something, his jaw clenching slightly as the silence stretches out. His siblings exchange glances, their earlier confidence faltering under the weight of his stare.

"Jesus, Jay, don’t be so dramatic," his eldest sister finally says, waving a dismissive hand. "We were just talking."

His siblings shuffle uncomfortably in their seats, their eyes darting between each other like they’re waiting for someone else to take the hit. Schlatt doesn’t move from where he’s leaning against the counter, arms crossed, jaw tight.

"Well?" he prompts, voice low, dangerous. "Who were you talking about?"

His sister, the one who started it, clears her throat and lifts her chin like she isn’t the least bit intimidated. "Come on, Schlatt. You know she’s... a lot."

"So you were talking about Y/N?" he challenges, his voice sharp, "talking shit about my girlfriend? That's just chatting huh?"

His brother scoffs, "we’re just saying, man. You could do better."

Schlatt’s fingers tighten against his arms, the only sign of the fury simmering beneath his skin, "better? Better than what? Better than someone I love?"

His sister rolls her eyes, "it’s not that serious. She’s just... trying too hard. She’s always dressed like she’s walking a runway, and for what?"

Schlatt lets out a sharp laugh, shaking his head. "For what? Because she likes it. Because it makes her happy. Who the fuck are you to say anything about her! You barely know her."

"It just feels like she's overcompensating a bit you know," his brother laughs with a shrug, trying to make the tone playful again, "like she mustn't have much going on if she has to parade around like that."

"What the fuck is that meant to mean?"

"It's a bit vapid isn't it?" his other sister adds quietly, a look of concern on her face, "we thought you'd end up with someone with more substance."

"You lot wouldn't know a fucking thing about substance," he spits as he clenches his fists at his sides, "you've made no fucking effort at all to get to know her, to include her in anything. Over what? Some dresses?"

Silence. No more hushed giggles. No more careless whispers. Just the weight of his words settling over the room.

He pushes off the counter, "if you've got a problem fucking come to me instead of running your mouths. She's gonna be around for a long time so you better make a fucking effort."

He walks down the hallway, the tension in his shoulders starting to ease as the distance between him and his siblings grows. By the time he reaches his bedroom, his anger has cooled into something more manageable, though the sting of their words still lingers in the back of his mind.

He finds her sitting on his bed, her legs tucked under her, the soft hum of her music filling the room as she swipes through her phone. The sight of her, effortlessly beautiful even in the most casual moments, hits him like a wave, sitting in a pile of blankets in his childhood bed like she belongs there. She looks up as he enters, eyes lighting up at the sight of him.

"Hey," she says, her voice as warm and genuine as always as she reaches for him.

Schlatt’s lips curl into a small, exhausted smile, his body sagging slightly with relief. He moves toward her, sitting down beside her and pulling her into a hug. She wraps her arms around him immediately, pressing her face into his chest, not aware of the storm that just passed.

“Everything okay?” she asks, tilting her head up to look at him.

He brushes a strand of hair from her face, his fingers lingering on her soft skin. “Yeah,” he mutters, his voice a little rougher than usual, “it's all sorted.”

She nods, sensing the change in his mood but not pushing him to explain. Her fingers trace small circles on his chest as they sit in comfortable silence for a few moments.

"You know," she says softly, looking up at him again, "you don’t have to defend me like that. I’m perfectly fine with who I am."

Schlatt huffs a small laugh, a bitter edge to it, “I don't like them running their mouths, calling you shallow and shit," he shakes his head, more out of frustration with his siblings than anything else.

She smiles, a soft, understanding look in her eyes. “I know. And I don’t need them to understand. It’s your opinion that matters.”

"All I care about is how you make me feel," he says softly as he pulls her closer, "dolled up or not you're a fucking work of art."

[vampsol]

CHEMTRAILS | 전원우

⟢ PAIRING: jeon wonwoo x fem!reader ⟢ WORD COUNT: 11K ⟢ GENRE: angst, smut, sprinkles of fluff ⟢ TAGS: heavy themes of grief/death including a mentioned drunk driving incident (do not tread lightly if these topics are difficult for you to read), minor character death (including a child, but it is all offscreen), coworkers au, pet names (baby, doll, etc), light breast play, fingering, protected sex. ⟢ SYNOPSIS: Wonwoo is the last person you expect to find at a grief support group, but he may just be the peace that you need to weather all of your storms. LINK TO FIC PLAYLIST -ˋˏ✄┈┈ AUTHOR'S NOTE: This is an incredibly personal story for me, as I have suffered parental loss and it is one of the hardest things I've gone through, but in a way, writing it out has helped heal a small part of me, so I am happy to share this with you all. Bless to my friends beta-ing this for me—Allie (@lovetaroandtaemin), Raven (@shadowkoo), Lily (@prkhaven), Sulkie (@innocygnet), and Tiya (@gyubakeries), and everyone else who read snippets of this before it became what it is now. The fic's title inspo is from a song by Lizzy Mcalpine!

GRIEF DOESN’T END, BUT IT CHANGES SHAPE OVER TIME.

The white text over the image of a pastel sunrise initially made you gag when you stepped into the room, the church’s banner haphazardly put up to prepare for today’s session. Now, it’s all your brain can focus on as the surrounding attendees share their stories. The initial greetings stopped thirty minutes ago, with many at the waterworks now to your secondhand chagrin. Others nod and provide supportive commentary, but you don’t have it in you, silence the only usable response. A few people you recognize from the first few weeks surround you; others are brand new, red-faced as they meander through the reasons for their attendance. 

The four walls reek of silent regret and raw sadness, the sniffles and coughs of those trying to hide their pain sticking to the air like heat on a summer day. You’d prefer it to be a hotter season, if only to focus on something else but the ridiculous text looming over you. But the winter chill that accompanies the gloomy atmosphere is another unpleasant reminder of the dangers of wishful thinking.

You could say all the stories and puffy expressions don’t hit a nerve somewhere deep inside of you, but then you’d be a liar. As you’ve learned in the past year, though, you’re getting very good at hiding and denying.

 It’s been forty-five minutes of passive listening on your end, but your attention remains on the chalky slopes of text against the yellow sun disappearing into the mountain formation.

“It’s been six months, and I still don’t know what to do. When I think I’ve gotten over one stage, I’m reminded of something that sets me back.” One attendee you’ve known from the start, Suzy, continues on while staring into the coffee cup in her hands. She’s typically meek in tone, solemn while her hands stay in her thick coat as she recalls the details of her twin sister’s battle with leukemia. But today, there’s a new aura about her, something clipped and biting that is unique to see in this place.

Maybe she’s on the stage of anger this week.

“You know I’ve said healing isn’t linear, Suzy,” Seungcheol, the director of the group, says in a supportive tone.

“I get that, but can I get a break from feeling more than one stage at once? For the love of God.” She blanches immediately and mutters out an apology, making you chuckle to yourself.

You used to think that the phenomenon was a myth, a way for people to rationalize their pain by separating all of it into clear, definable chunks. While you’re now well acquainted with each piece of grief, they all remain a mystery in your eyes. You’re unsure who to ask for the right answers, and you’re not opening your mouth now to humor the group with questions.

The plan has always been the same: attend each session like you’re supposed to, get your slip signed off, and go home. That was the routine for the past two weeks, nothing more to add or subtract. When people addressed you, you weren't unfriendly, but you didn't offer any information. These things considered, you’re adamant about keeping with tradition for the remaining six meetings, including this one.

Yet, the second the door of the church opens, and you see Jeon Wonwoo enter, you know it’ll be impossible to continue staying under the radar.

Wonwoo apologizes profusely as Seungcheol pulls up a chair for the newcomer. Wonwoo’s wearing a scarf that covers a substantial amount of his face, but you’d recognize his wire-frame glasses and that black mop of hair anywhere. He may barely be an acquaintance, but he’s not terrible to look at. “My car was giving me trouble this morning, so—”

“No problem, man,” Seungcheol cuts him off. “Nobody’s late here. You’re always arriving somewhere at the moment you’re meant to, I always say.”

You roll your eyes and tuck your arms tighter into your chest. The older guy always has a plethora of slogans for personal growth up his sleeve. You reckon he probably made the fucking sign with the awful font and stereotypically hopeful photography? It’s anyone’s guess, but you have a good one.

Some hair falls into your face just as Wonwoo sits across from you in the large circle. You think that just might save you from being seen, but recognition crosses his face out of the corner of your eye, and you curse under your breath, knowing you’re fucked.

Jeon Wonwoo, from the legal team at the publishing house you both work for, sees you, the quiet girl from the marketing department. He must have some idea why, given his department’s close relationship with your higher-ups, and that makes your intestines twist in a way akin to food poisoning. You think it may be the perfect time for the world to split open under your feet and take you away, but that’s only a dreamer’s level of luck.

“So, Wonwoo, you’re a newcomer, as we can see. What brings you to the group?”

Wonwoo stutters on an explanation, his cheeks turning a shade of pink. “I think the lady before me was in the middle of her story, but maybe I can share after.”

Seungcheol winks in acknowledgement and goes back to Suzy, continuing where they left off in their discussion. “So, for the stages…”

You feel the heat of Wonwoo’s gaze from across the circle. He’s probably trying to decipher just exactly what led you to this place. Not the church, per se, but the situation at hand. Tired of the burn of his irises on you, you turn your stare on him. His eyes look small under the guise of his glasses, but they enlarge considerably when you make it known you’ve caught him ogling. With your mouth in a thin line but your eyebrows quirked up, you send him a silent dare to continue staring. To your pleasure, he pales and turns away, looking in the same direction as everyone else as Suzy continues on with her rant.

Any secondhand inkling you had to share with the group before the end of the program dies with the turn of Wonwoo’s head, and you prefer it that way. His presence gives you an excuse to not break from routine. Not like you were going to, anyway.

“He was there?” Wooyoung ruffles his hair in secondhand embarrassment, the sound of his nervous expel of breath drowned out by the music in the bar. The local hotspot was a mere five blocks away from your work, and it rarely became overcrowded before you guys had the chance to leave, so coming around now and then with your best friend was still doable, even under your circumstances. It was hard to say no to Wooyoung when he gave you such toothy grins and pleading words. “You barely come out anymore, at least try to spend some time with me for a bit? It’ll be good for you.”

He had to be the only person left you could stomach being around, and the last man on the planet who could handle your latest less than sunny disposition.

Wooyoung immediately goes back to making his shot for the solid blue ball close to the top left-hand pocket when you shoot him a glare that even he can’t joke himself out of. “You think he’ll say anything?” he asks as he moves his pool stick back and forth, testing the waters of the angle he’s chosen to hit the cue ball from.

“I hope not.” You groan and knock your head against your pool stick. Replaying yesterday afternoon in your head, you barely could get through the workday filled with pitch proposals and strategy meetings. You couldn’t help but wonder if Wonwoo was lurking around every corner of the building, waiting to discuss how he saw you and tease you for something not meant for teasing. He didn’t seem like the type to do so, but you expect less and less from the male population with every passing day. “He probably already knows about what happened anyway.”

Wooyoung hits the ball, but it veers a little too far for the shot to be completed. He swears, an audible “fuck me” rolling off of his tongue. You make haste going for the striped orange ball, and with no seconds to spare, you hit it into the center right cup. You land another two before your best friend has a chance again, but it doesn't matter. All that’s left for you to shoot in is the eight ball.

“One day I’ll manage to get close to beating you.”

“The night’s still young,” you respond before chugging down what’s left of your bottle of soju. The alcohol goes down your throat smoothly, but it doesn’t soothe the itch that still sits under your skin. With another few drinks, and you teetering on the line between buzzing and full-blown drunk, you think you’ll be able to forget the feeling exists.

That sting only intensifies when you see a handful of guys from the legal team walk in, Vernon and Jihoon trailing behind Wonwoo’s towering form. Their presence causes you to miss the eight ball entirely, the cue ball slowly rolling towards a pocket until it falls in.

“Goddamnit, man,” you curse. You reach for your drink, but you curse again when the empty bottle touches your lips.

Before Wooyoung can ask, he turns his head to see the men going up to the bartender and gnaws at his lip. “Maybe they won’t notice us?”

“That’s as likely as you getting a girlfriend,” you tease. You pull a couple of dollar bills out of your pocket and set your pool stick down when you see the men edging away from the bar-top. It may be a risk when they’re still so close by, but your dry mouth tells you to take the chance. “I’m gonna get us another round.”

You place your hands firmly on the shining wood of the bar, the gloss of it contrasting with the rough calluses and paper cuts across your hands. A few fingers beckon the bartender over with a new set of soju bottles. The green glass that holds the liquid refracts against the overhead lights. It’s so bright, you don’t notice the figure whose shadow mars their outlines.

“Didn’t think you were the drinking type,” Wonwoo finally pipes up. Where his voice yesterday was quick and bashful, and his typical tone at work is clinical to the letter, the cadence of it now is warm, like a smooth pool of honey.

His arm brushes yours as he places a few bucks of his own on the bar for the bartender to take. The contact raises gooseflesh across the space where his skin met yours for the briefest of moments. It sends a new itch up your spine, one that’s barely familiar and on the cusp of foreign. You lie to yourself with careful precision, swearing in hushed tones inside your brain that it doesn’t ignite a long, burnt-out flame somewhere inside of you, and you almost believe it.

Almost.

“I also didn’t used to go to work-mandated support groups, but here we are.” You aim your bottle in his direction with the slightest of tips, a sarcastic salute that doesn’t make your secret any easier to address out loud. You sip gingerly, the pull of your lips from the bottle long and slow, but the alcohol holds no solution for your bitter tongue or sick stomach.

You know this, and you drink anyway. It’s better than the alternative.

Wonwoo’s the one who takes the bottle from your mouth. A few dribbles of soju trickle down your chin, but before you can snatch it back, he says, “I’m not going to say anything, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

“I wasn’t worried to begin with.”

He nods with a close-lipped smirk, in no way believing your glib. The bartender brings three gin and tonics for Wonwoo’s troupe, and you can’t hold back the giggle that erupts from deep in your throat. “Typical.”

“What? G and Ts are too good for you, miss marketing expert?” Vernon and Jihoon call their coworker with a loud shout of his name when they see their drinks are ready, but Wonwoo throws them an expression that shuts the younger men up.

“Who said I was an expert? That’s Soobin’s role, anyway.” You tut your head in a random direction. You have nothing to prove to Wonwoo, but you take pride in your job being higher than one of meager content creation. He chuckles, and the sound tickles your ears in a way you push down. “I’m a trend analyst.”

“Oh, really? Is that why you don’t speak during the meetings? You’ve already predicted that sharing is a waste of time?”

You sober immediately at his questions. You grip the neck of the soju bottle tighter as you try composing an answer, anger prickling the base of your neck. What can you say that gives nothing away and keeps with the pre-set banter, all while you remain even-keeled? You land on, “It’s not like that,” and make your move to walk away, bored with the conversation now.

Wooyoung looks over at you like you’re crazy, and you know the thoughts immediately swirling in your best friend’s head. You haven’t flirted with a man in probably half a decade, at least, but if the nerd isn’t getting any, the very least you could do is entertain some sort of romantic attention for the two of you.

Wonwoo grabs your arm softly, his fingers setting the same fire the contact from before did, but it holds an entirely new scope and set of stakes. “Humor me. What’s it like, then?” His voice is featherlight, gentle in its prodding. He holds no judgement, his earlier words only teasing but clearly striking a nerve in you he’s trying to amend with his new tone.

You avoid his gaze, finally landing back on the pool table where Wooyoung awaits. The kernel of an idea pops up alongside your smile. “Play me for it.”

“What?” Wonwoo chuckles, perplexed. You point towards the table with your index finger, and Wooyoung immediately turns his head, attempting to hide his spying to no avail.

“You win, I’ll tell you why I’m in that group.” Your smirk grows, the cheshire cat smile that now adorns your face growing with every word. “I win, you tell me what you were doing there yesterday in the first place.”

You put a hand between your incredibly close bodies, a fact you did not realize until you offered some ante for Wonwoo to chew on, and he takes the bait like you expected him to. “Deal.”

He shakes your hand firmly. It’s another set of touches that warms you to the bone in a way liquor never has before. You shuck that information to the side as you walk to the pool table with Wonwoo hot on your heels. He stops to deliver the drinks to his awaiting team, but he makes it to you with a few quick strides.

“Want me to break, or do you need to prove you can play first?” you ask with the same tantalizing smile you wagered him with.

He takes a hefty sip of his tonic and licks his bottom lip to catch the alcohol that threatens to spill over. “By all means.”

If only he knew how stupid it was to let the lady go first this time.

Wonwoo stares down into the pocket the eight-ball just flew into. While he’s mystified how you managed to just destroy his record and prove him wrong in a matter of ten minutes and three plays, you smirk openly. It always used to bug ex-boyfriends and situationships when you were better at a more masculine task or hobby than they were, but you always flicked their comments back with a middle finger and a nonplussed demeanor. It’s a delightful change of pace for someone as attractive and confident as Wonwoo to be mystified by your capabilities, even at the expense of his pride.

“She beats me all the time, man. Don’t sweat it.” Wooyoung tries to walk up and rustle your newly defeated opponent on the shoulder. He thinks better of it when Wonwoo gives him the same glare you threw at the younger guy a short time ago.

Your best friend offers to grab you another drink as you laugh, but you shake your head. “Gotta head home. Carat can’t feed herself.”

Wonwoo gives you a quizzical expression as Wooyoung leaves, and you respond with, “My fish. Very adamant about her feeding schedule.”

He flashes a high-wattage grin, and the feelings he’s stirred in you tonight try to scratch their way back to the surface, but you repress them once again. It means nothing, anyway. You won’t act on it, and the guy is probably ready to hightail it back to his friends by now.

He offers to walk you out, and all your preconceived notions upend themselves into the air. Wooyoung pulls you by the shoulder when you say goodbye and whispers, “If you miss out on that guy now, you’re even more ridiculous than I thought. And I’ve seen you suck your thumb while you sleep, remember that.”

When you make it to the driver’s side door, you remember it’s time to collect your payment. Now or never. “So, gonna tell me why you were in the group yesterday? Or will you chicken out with the best two out of three rounds?”

“Easy, I’ll tell you,” he says, concealing a grin until his next words come out. “But, it’ll be during dinner tomorrow night. My place?”

You gulp down heavy air, again recognizing the clear proximity of your chest to his. You can see the slow rise and fall of his upper body, his heart steady but clearly put on edge. He’s patient but barely, waiting for you to either accept the invitation or decline with bated breath.

“Why?”

You don’t mean for the word to come out the way it does, one-fourth hopeful and the remaining three-fourths speculative. It’s not like you’re unappealing under normal circumstances, but the girl who would’ve jumped at the opportunity for a date with a cute guy is not who’s standing in front of Wonwoo right now. You want to be her, trade your place for hers to make the smile on his face brighten, but you’re unsure how to get her back, and if there’s any point.

“Because I owe you, don’t I?” You shrug your arms, not saying no but not giving him confirmation either. “And you’re not the type to not collect when you’re owed something.”

“What makes you think that?” Some of your fire returns as you cross your arms, body posture exemplifying your intrigue.

“Because you wouldn’t have bet against me knowing you’d win if you were.”

There’s no witty remark or sarcastic comeback that comes to mind. He so easily saw through you, it scares you into saying yes right there. But, even while ruminating for a moment, you search for reasons to deny him of your company, and you find none. If tonight wasn’t so bad, what’s one more without expectations?

“Sure,” you finally say, and he gives you the grin you were looking for that could go toe to toe with any city streetlight. That mesmerizing, gum-revealing grin that makes a part of your knees weak.

You knew he was nice to look at from faraway in the secrecy of your cubicle, but it’s at a new level now, one that’s unquellable.

On the drive home, as you replay his smile in your mind’s eye, you know without a doubt that the buzz in your veins isn’t just because of the soju still lingering in your bloodstream.

It’s not, under any circumstances, a date. 

You parrot the words as you move around your bedroom, the clock on your dresser practically screaming at you to leave while the day is young. Work ended an hour ago, and you’re still stumbling on what to do about your attire.

No way is this a date. I’ve been on them before, I know it when I see it.

The recesses of your mind try to commit every sentence to memory as you put on lipstick, curl your hair, and throw an old dress under a denim jacket. It’s habitual to look nice for a new person, you remind yourself. It’s not like Wonwoo won’t welcome you into his home if you’re wearing a greasy t-shirt and pair of sweatpants, but you digress. You’re simply collecting on your payment, and if he takes it any other way, that’s his problem to deal with.

The ride to his apartment is tense, to say the least. A million thoughts run through your head while you grip the steering wheel tight during every turn and stop through the city to his downtown complex. You try to make light of the building that greets you, thinking about how much legal counsel must make to afford such swanky living spaces, but it doesn’t help. Your hands tremble, no matter how forcefully you clench your fists to stop the shaking.

He’s Wonwoo, a guy who has an interest in seeing you outside of a professional setting, and you’re you, half emotionally composed on your very best day as of late. You have some basis for being nervous, no matter what one would call the meeting arranged between you two today.

He called it dinner, so you’ll start there.

Greeting you at your door in a black V-neck and gray jeans, he looks too clean for someone who must’ve been lounging around before you arrived. “You look nice. Got a hot date or something?” He bites his lip in satisfaction when you huff out a breath of air, blowing off his harmless dig.

“I’m here for the information I won last night. And the plate of food you promised me.”

He beckons you inside with a smile and an arm pointed inside, and you walk through the threshold with all the knots in your stomach, reminding you of their presence with every step.

Wonwoo’s living space appears to be stereotypical for a guy in his mid-twenties. The apartment’s all dark wood and grey wallpaper, from his industrial bar table to the kitchen marble, but he’s made it his in his own way. Some action figures line a bookshelf near the kitchen, and a guitar sits on its stand in the corner of the entertainment center dominating the living room. But you glean little pieces of information about him from the tchotchkes that surround you. The black cat plushie that sits on the sofa, the NASA magazines he must have a subscription for, and the sounds of jazz playing low on the TV all indicate the quiet eccentricities of his personality.

He’s a secretively unique guy on the page and in person, and you admire it. Some part of it scares you, how easily you’ve grown accustomed to him in a few short meetings, but that’s not anything to mull over right now.

“I was just fixing the pasta when you showed up. You can sit anywhere.” He moves his head in either direction of the couch or the table, but you saunter over to his side instead.

The aroma of the tomato wafts across your nose, the sauce definitely homemade rather than store-bought. You peer over into the pot, the margarita-covered penne mixed in with vegetables and meat. “Who knew you could cook?”

Wonwoo chuckles, hearty and deep, as he stirs the food in the pot. “There’s a lot you don’t know about me yet.”

Yet. He says the word with such relaxation, like it’s inevitable you will discover more information about him. Like he’s certain you’re not going anywhere. It has to be a delusion of the future filling him with such confidence, without a doubt.

Shortly after that, the table’s decorated with towering plates of pasta and a lit candle at the center. The mixed scents of vanilla, jasmine, and tomato sauce blend harmoniously somehow.

You share small talk about Wonwoo’s cooking skills and your pool abilities over dinner, bantering throughout with the dry humor you delivered yesterday. Wonwoo takes it all with a smirk, volleying it back at you with charm that makes you forget your dinner exists altogether. You don’t eat all the food on your plate, but you’ve never been more full.

Both of you migrate to the couch with your glasses of wine, leaving the plates on the wood’s high-top and getting comfortably lost in more conversation. Suddenly, you remember exactly why you’re there, and you turn the tides of the conversation to address the purpose of your attendance. “So, the support group.”

Wonwoo laughs into his glass, shaking his head in a gesture that tells you he was just waiting for the inevitable. “What do you wanna know?”

“Why were you there?”

Wonwoo’s smile turns small, still bright but a tad dimmer, and a stone sinks down deep into your stomach. “It was my mother’s birthday that day. She died three years ago in April, but her birthday is always the hardest day for me to get through.”

“It was a sudden sickness, one that we didn’t expect her to get.” He runs his thumb along the ring of his drink, his finger leaving an opaque smudge. He looks back up eventually, the ghost of his small smile haunting his features. “I’m just grateful I had the time with her that I did before it was too late, you know?”

Wonwoo’s words reroute all the knots from your core to your throat, making you unable to speak. You click your own nails against your drink in a pattern, counting the beats in sequence to avoid the tears welling in your eye ducts. One, two, three, four taps. 

Four becomes five until Wonwoo brushes a hand along your knee. “Are you alright? I know that was heavy, but a winner deserves her prize, right?”

You appreciate Wonwoo trying to lighten the mood that you’ve darkened with your silence. The slam of the bottom of your wine glass startles Wonwoo a smidge, and while you didn’t mean to scare him, you know you need to leave before you fall apart.

“This was fun, Won, but I-I have to go.” A tear falls from your face as you speak, another escaping before you can make the waterworks disappear. Wonwoo holds your arm the same way he did a day ago when you were so close to leaving before. This time is different, though.

Wonwoo’s worry for you and whatever’s haunting you replaces his previous somberness. You recognize the contortion of his face like the back of your hand. You’ve seen it in family members and their condolences. The friends you kept and even the ones you lost from being distant. Even coworkers you never spoke to and random strangers who could recognize the shadows of loss.

It disgusts you, and you can’t bear to see it from Wonwoo of all people. You attempt to yank your arm away like your life depends on it, but he doesn’t let you slip away so easily. “Will you talk to me, please?” he asks. “You don’t have to hold back whatever you want to say.”

“I’m not, not at all. And it’s presumptuous of you to assume I am.” You shake your head, voice sputtering on some kind of laugh. “You don’t know me.”

“I think I do.” Again, the space between you and him is virtually nonexistent. Your hearts match in rhythm, despite your sadness and apprehension. The unspoken strings between you snap one by one with every movement of his hand, slowly reaching higher until his hand cups your face. His thumb runs over your jaw bone.

You don’t know whether to pull him closer or run now that’s holding you with a looser grip, and the thought is as sobering as his mouth a breath from yours.

“I have to go.” You clutch his wrist with your hand, but you make no move to turn and walk away. You leave indents in his skin from your nails gripping him, but he doesn’t break his hold either.

Then, in a broken trance, he lets you go and steps back, swallowing hard. “I’ll see you at work, then?”

You nod. “Thank you for dinner.”

“Anytime, really.”

You think about the importance of words, what they carry and how deeply they can mean when a person you care about says them. “Yet” and “anytime” have never been of significant value to you before, passing vocabulary that’s left little for your heart to grasp onto. But he says it without facades, each vowel and consonant holding the undercurrents of his desires. You feel your knees buckle a touch as you ponder it on your way out of his apartment and to your car. Your thoughts dwell on what that kiss would’ve felt like, and the panic that follows when you realize how badly you wanted it.

A week flies by, and then two more, until you realize you’re always passing Wonwoo’s cubicle with a cup of coffee, or he’s pestering you with a sticky note or two regarding legal jargon you’ll never read up on.

Neither of you mention what almost occurred in his living room so long ago, but it feels like only a second between that moment and the present when he’s inhabiting your space at work or blowing up your phone.

You don’t know why he started calling and texting right around the time you were prepared to shut your eyes for sleep, but it was a comfort you didn’t mind cherishing before dreamland took you under its wing. His explanations of corporate law terminology to the plotlines of One Piece became your lullabies.

A regular person can’t cement themselves in your life overnight, but Wonwoo is anything but regular.

As you’re filling out your timesheet for the week, your thoughts circle back to Wonwoo as you notice him in the conference room with the rest of the legal team. Vernon talks animatedly with his hands as Minghao and Jun type down notes. It’s a riveting silent film, but the only actor you’re interested in is pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose incrementally, and it makes you melt in your chair.

You have emails to type, spreadsheets to complete, and here you are acting like a high schooler with an unrequited crush.

Pulled sharply from your daze, Wooyoung bats you on the shoulder with his clipboard. San from HR laughs at your best friend’s assault on you, your acquaintance’s chest rippling as you rub your shoulder and give Wooyoung your signature glare. “What the fuck?”

“You should focus on the November report instead of ogling your new piece of man candy.”

"I don't know what you're talking about," you reply, calm and collected, even though someone has now turned the judgement on you for your prying eyes. Wooyoung had his own priorities as a market strategist; he had no business judging you for taking time off of business tasks to ogle.

You return to your initial view of the conference room, watching the gentleman in the confines of the glass office.

You don’t expect Wonwoo to be staring right at you when you turn your attention back to their meeting. Wooyoung and San talk amongst themselves about your comical behavior in the third person, but you don’t mind them and their idiocy. You’re too focused on the man who’s a dozen feet away.

Wonwoo practically gives you the same glare you delivered to him in the support group the first time he was there, but his eyes are all humor and no bite. He holds his binder up a smidge, signaling somehow for you to look down at the one propped against your laptop. You find a blue sticky note sitting on the front of it, and you know Wonwoo must’ve stuck it there when you went to the bathroom a half hour ago.

7 PM showing of Spider-Man Saturday. You in? X

It’s a measly set of perpendicular lines in Wonwoo’s handwriting, nothing extravagant on the sticky note itself. How can the letter and his proposition turn your heart into mush so easily? And why does it make you immediately nod in Wonwoo’s direction?

What was he doing to you?

You’ve watched the 2003 film many times in your life—you could recite the lines by heart, truth be told—yet seeing Toby McGuire swinging around in a latex suit still brings childlike wonder out in you. You smile into your handful of popcorn at the scene before you, the kicks and punches between Spiderman and the Green Goblin in the middle of Manhattan amplified by the theater’s sound system.

You dressed up a bit more this time for the outing with Wonwoo, despite your self-insistence on keeping it casual. Nothing had happened between you up to this point, only the opportunity for a kiss that never came. Who was to say anything romantic would happen now in the darkness of a theater?

The movie cuts to Spiderman swinging Mary Jane to a hotel high-rise away from the chaos of Times Square, and Wonwoo picks that moment to take the hand not holding more popcorn into his own.

It’s a funny feeling, the moment before something unexpected happens. It’s like your body bristles to a point of high alert before you’re struck with the reality something is occurring, for better or worse. He rubs the back of your hand in slow, delicate circles, and it feels like the start of something good while every cell inside of you screams to run.

The flutter inside of your stomach at his touch dies when you give into the spiraling thoughts, a cruel voice reminding you the butterflies won’t last. It carries the face of a person you’d rather forget. A smile that haunts every hour of your existence, and eyes you wish you could look into one more time outside of your nightmares.

You tug your hand free and speed out of the theater, not bothering to look behind you to see if Wonwoo is following you. You know he is, his calls of your name muffled amid the horrendous laughter ringing in your ears. When you’ve stopped running, you realize it’s raining all around you outside. The alleyway behind the theater only provides so much cover, but Wonwoo doesn’t care. All he wants to do is hold you as you’re hyperventilating, so he does.

“Hey, hey, hey. What happened?”

You hiccup, unsure how to go about saying the words when a phantom hangs over your shoulder and whispers words you have no willpower to fight. What makes him any different from everyone else? Nothing, and you know it.

“I’m right here,” he swears like it’s true, and you see red.

“Until you get sick of it, right?” You can’t look him in the eye as you say it, but it doesn’t make it feel less true expressing it out loud. “This isn’t gonna change. You’ll always wonder what’s wrong. I’ll never give you a valid excuse because I barely fucking know myself and shut you out. You’ll get bored really quick, Wonwoo, so what’s the point?”

“What are you talking about?” His mouth hangs at you accusatory questions, and it only makes you laugh harder. 

It’s easy to pretend your tears are only rainwater splashing down your face.

“There’s no point chasing after me anymore. I’m not worth the hassle, and it’s too much baggage for you to unpack, so don’t waste any more of your time.” You move his hands from your face with weak fingers and watch his arms fall limply at his sides as you turn to head towards the sidewalk and back to your car.

Wonwoo’s laugh is so bitter, you can taste it on your tongue. “You may think that what you��re going through is something nobody can understand, but a part of you knows you’re being ridiculous right now.”

You shake your head and continue down your path, barking back at him with a “Go fuck yourself.”

“You’re not the first person to lose someone, and you won’t be the last!” You stop walking down the alleyway, and you hear the sharp intake of breath on Wonwoo’s lips. He takes another second and set of steps to get closer to you before saying, “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have—”

You turn sharply, hair whipping across the open air. “You wanna know why I’m in the group, Won?” Your question drips with rhetoric like venom, sarcasm bordering on fury. “Because I got tired of all the noise of everything after…after—Chaewon just wouldn’t leave me the fuck alone about work and what was going on with me. And everyone at that point kept poking with their pity until the shit I said and did that day happened.” You flail your arms at your sides, the rain soaking through your sleeves. 

It was unprofessional, a huge moral deficit, as your boss put it. Especially when all Chaewon asked for was a valid reason for an extension on your trend report. “No coworker, especially not a subordinate, should treat another coworker that way. Your personal matters should not impede on your ability to be a team player.”

Your boss used every administrative play in the book while looking over the materials you ruined for the newest magazine issue, and that was before you screamed in your department head’s face. You didn’t mean to hurt Chaewon the way you did, but admittedly, it felt good to do it.

It was nice to let a part of you run free, even if it was a vulgar and unapologetic piece. But if you had known it would cost you every ounce of your pride and some semblance of your privacy, you would’ve thought twice. 

Your entire body is drenched by the time you finish your tirade, as is Wonwoo’s. “So yeah, that’s why they put me in that pity party of a support group. Because God forbid I snapped one fucking time for a valid fucking reason.”

“They just wanted you to get some help. Everyone needs that sometimes,” Wonwoo murmurs. He tries to step closer, each movement apprehensive, like he’s cornering a rabid cat into a carrier.

His movements make you feel like one, a wounded animal in need of immediate attention without regard for its unwillingness to accept it. It turns your eyesight red, and you think you may just be feral at this point. “I don’t need anyone’s help, Wonwoo! Not that group, not Seungcheol, not the damn lackeys in that fucking office, and especially not—”

Wonwoo gives up the pretenses and yanks you into his arms. He plants a hand across your hair and squeezes you in his hold, still tender despite the vice grip he has you in. The tightness of his hug shakes something loose in you, and you barely recognize you’re crying until Wonwoo cradles you closer and shushes you, even as the rain beats down on you both. “I’m here,” he promises.

“I don’t need to be saved, Wonwoo,” you say through fractured, sob-laced hiccups. Your eyes look past his brown ones, into the depths of his soul as you ask—plead even—“I just want to make the pain stop.”

“Let me help,” Wonwoo offers, rubbing the apples of your cheeks with his thumbs. It may be the most ridiculous, careless thing you can do at the moment, but when the urge to kiss him comes, you don’t stop it.

Call it an emotional break or a sudden rush of your suppressed desire shining through, but the second you press your lips to his in that brick alleyway, you don’t regret it. He tastes like salvation, of unbreakable promises. It could either heal or ruin you, but you don’t mind if it’s a little of both.

The raindrops cling to your clothes like a second skin, latching onto every curve. It’s easy to shed with the help of Wonwoo’s hands. By the time you’re an inch away from the doorframe of his bedroom, he’s wearing his briefs, and you’re left in your underwear. His warmth wraps around every part of your body like a campfire, stoking all the cold out of you and bathing you in the heat he provides. The thunder roars on, and lightning splashes the sky in white streaks, but the only light that sustains you is him.

“Is this okay?” He mumbles as he grazes the underside of your bralette. The material is so drenched that he can see the peaks of your nipples through it, but he’s trying to keep his composure and go at a speed you’re comfortable with.

You don’t hesitate, not wanting the moment to be dampened by your worst thoughts. They’re at bay now, and you want to use that time for what it’s worth. “More than okay.” You unclasp your bralette from your back, letting the wet garment plop to the floor. “Touch me, please.”

His index finger drags so slowly across your nipple, the ripple of electricity that tickles your skin follows the same tempo. While you’re willing to go fast, Wonwoo cherishes you with reverence. Even as he takes your nipple between his lips, moving his fingers down your stomach and into your underwear, he remains patient. “So wet,” he groans against your skin when he guides his fingers along your slick folds. It’s like he’s discovering a precious treasure before him, twirling your wet curls in his hair with his free hand as he runs the pads of his opposite fingers through slick heaven.

You tremble in his hands, all the nerves in your body a hot, frenzied mess in his hold. He thumbs your clit in slow circles, making it hard to stand any longer in the in-between space of his living room and bedroom. “Woo, I want more.”

He takes his fingers from your center and lifts you into his arms. Your legs wrap around him instinctively, and he chuckles into your throat. “Needy little thing, aren’t you?”

You giggle before he reattaches his lips to yours. His kisses taste like rainwater and second chances, physical proof that not everything has to be lost. He never lets you go or takes his mouth away on the slow trek to his bed.

Wonwoo sets you down gently, his eyes giving away all of his vulnerability. “You’re beautiful, you know that right?” You blush, wrapping an arm around your face, but he pulls it away and kisses each finger on your hand. “Every inch of you.”

The words go unsaid, but the bite of his lip and dark hood of his eyes tell you his desire goes beyond lust. I want to explore you forever.

Even the parts of you that you’ve deemed too dark, too painful, too unworthy of anyone’s entry. His expression tells you he may just take the risk and split you open fully to see what’s inside. With his eyes peering deeply into your soul, you think all he sees is hope. Like your heart holds the sun that peers out after the worst downpour in the world.

He rolls his briefs down his hips until his length springs free, knocking into the lower segment of his abdomen from how hard he is. “And you called me beautiful,” you say, breathless. Wonwoo’s cock drips pre-cum at the swollen tip, and you have no qualms sitting up and reaching out to encase him in your palm, running his essence across his skin.

He tips his head back and his mouth goes slack, a curse leaving his tongue. “You may kill me.”

You smile and run your lips along his neck, dragging your canines along the skin of his jugular. “If I do, I promise it wasn’t my intention.”

Before he can get too lost in the pleasure of your fingers wrapped around him, he traps your body between his own and the sheets below you. He doesn’t stop kissing you once he finds your lips again, even as he stumbles finding a condom in his bedside drawer and rolls the latex onto himself.

You don’t need to prepare for the eventual drag of his cock between your walls, already dripping from his previous touches, but he envelops you completely when he fills you to the hilt. He fits so snug inside of you; you think he could sit there forever and never leave. “You’re so tight, holy shit,” Wonwoo moans as he begins moving his hips.

You release a garbled moan, the sound practically swallowed by his tongue in your mouth. He takes and teases, but he always gives it back, rolling his lower half into you with a deliberate pace that helps you inch closer to a release. It paints the back of your eyelids in slow strokes. The act of getting there is as beautiful as the release itself when it’s with someone like Wonwoo giving you such perfect bouts of pleasure.

This feeling, like Wonwoo, is addictive and addicting in the same instance. You think you could get used to this, and it’s not just the lust having its way with your mind. Having all of him like this, his days and nights, rain or shine, may just be possible with the way he pours his devotion into your body. You just have to give him the opportunity.

He kisses you with the strength of a thousand stars exploding at once, and that’s the moment you fall apart underneath him. You let yourself bask in the feeling of your orgasm. You clutch onto his shoulders tightly as your walls spasm around him, sucking him in for every drop of pleasure he has to give.

He spills into the condom soon after, his hips stuttering and his kisses stilling as he feels his body succumb to the same pleasure you felt a few moments ago. The look on his face is pure bliss, the laugh on his lips the softest sound to accompany the pitter patters of rain on the window.

He throws the latex away before nestling back into the bedsheets with you. His arms wrap around you like vines as you rest your head on his chest. It's a comfortable silence between you, no words needing to be said to express your feelings for him.

I know you could love me forever if I give you the chance to.

You feel his response in the slow fall of his heart rate and the small snores he emits in the crown of your hair. The softness of his being is all you need to fall asleep too, and you think it may just be worth it to let him in.

The moment you wake, you feel a wave of nausea creep through you. The thoughts that erupted in that rainy alleyway a handful of hours ago come back with a vengeance. They clutch your throat with a begrudging hand until water streams from your eyes, hitting Wonwoo’s pillows like bullets. You try to subdue the sobs that rack your body, terrified of waking the man sleeping next to you, but it proves to be a fruitless fear. He sleeps like a stone through it all, immovable and solid.

With weak limbs and a fuzzy mind, you unbind yourself from Wonwoo’s hold and collect your things when you get out of the bed. Every piece of your heart breaks, the glued pieces of porcelain cracking once again into a heap on the floor as you walk away and out of his apartment.

It could only last for so long, that peace he provided, and you feel foolish for thinking a few hours of pleasure could change the new reality you’ve come to grips with long ago.

What the fuck did I do? I shouldn’t have gone out with him again. I’m so stupid.

Driving home in the rain, you try to turn on the radio to something that will be loud enough to drown out the spiraling thoughts and the sounds of your sobs reverberating through your tiny car’s interior. With a cruel twist of luck, Billy Joel’s “Everybody Has A Dream,” blares through the speakers. The piano chords and Joel’s whistles are ones you could recognize anywhere, and it stops your brain from falling further down the hole you’re accustomed to.

It’s his song, the song you have barely gotten through a note of without bawling.

You stop your car in the center of the road, despite the light being green in front of you. Cars screech behind you and blare their horns, some even roll down their window in the soaked night to curse at you, but you don’t care. The entire world could burn down, and all you would hear is the keys of the piano signaling your send-off.

The rivers on your cheeks become floods, all-encompassing and combating the leftover parts of the storm raging on outside of your vehicle. It makes the veins in your head pulse like a bass drum, but there’s nothing else to do, even if the song’s faded out by now. The DJ’s voice fills the space, but you can barely hear him.

You hate your father; the realization strikes you like a penknife to the heart as you press your forehead into the steering wheel, knocking your knuckles into its center until your own horn screams back at you. You hate him for leaving you alone to pick up the shards he created by going away too soon, sooner than you were prepared for. How could he part from you with such a gaping hole left in your chest and no roadmap for how to fix it? Was it even possible to mend such a wound when its shape was present everywhere you looked?

You continue to sob, no grounding techniques or motivational words coming to mind as your heart restarts just to bleed out all over again. 

Some time after the funeral, a doctor told you grief often changes the chemistry of a person’s brain. It undergoes neuroplastic changes and leads to alterations in emotional regulation and cognition. It made sense, given the way you exploded on Chaewon two months ago in front of everyone in the office. And all of that, the choice to either take a mandatory leave or seek counseling, led to that ridiculous fucking support group. And all the moments you shared with Wonwoo since then.

Guilt bubbles up behind your anger until it overtakes it, the way you’ve been acting almost shameful. You don’t regret him, but you regret this tugging you’ve done with his emotions alongside your own. But what other options have you had at your disposal? You’ve been stumbling around in the dark for so long, the light is not something someone easily accustoms themselves to again.

And Wonwoo is a person who exudes a radiance unlike anyone else you’ve ever met. You can’t believe there’s a chance he can truly seep into the darkness you live with now and soak it up for you. Not without him taking on some of it himself. 

You decide when the tears come at a slower pace that you won’t let him; he’s worth more than that. And it might break what’s left of the fraction of hope you held onto when you met him, but you’re grateful he gave you something at the very least. It’s better than nothing.

“I still think about what it would be like to kill him, even if I know it wouldn’t solve anything.” Hongjoong grumbles, twiddling his pack of nicotine gum between his fingers. “In my dreams, I do. I do it before he has the chance to make it past my driveway. Before I forgot to watch her playing.” Hongjoong breaks into a fit of angry sobs, and it tugs at your heartstrings bitterly.

The police and cops ruled the death of Hongjoong’s five-year-old daughter vehicular manslaughter. The guy who committed the crime had been remorseful and received less time because of his allocution. According to Hongjoong, he forgave the stranger a long time ago, but you don’t think anyone blames him for the anger and resentment that still lingers.

“Do you think your wife or other children gain anything by continuing to harbor this anger?” Seungcheol asks with no judgement, just objective curiosity.

It strikes a nerve in you, so deep it pulls a response out of your lips before you can stop it. “That’s a fucked up question to ask.”

Suzy gasps, hiding the sound behind her coffee cup. Hongjoong looks surprised himself, but Seungcheol is pleased to hear your voice. He’s only ever tried to make small talk with you while he’s filled out your slips after every session, but you’ve never given him any room to work with. Until now. “Why do you say that?”

“Because…” you ponder the answer, the coherent reasoning jumbled amongst your impulsive thoughts. “It’s a bit unfair. Sure, maybe he’s not the same husband and father he used to be, but what does anyone expect? His oldest kid dies, and he’s supposed to shelve that for the sake of others?”

“Nobody’s asking that of him,” Seungcheol responds. “I asked if it serves anyone for him to hold onto negative emotions.”

“Whether it does or doesn’t, big fucking whoop. Grief doesn’t serve anyone with anything purposeful. It’s all bullshit pain we’re supposed to make better somehow in just the right amount of time or else. Otherwise, everyone has to tread around it like it’s a disease. It’s exhausting.”

You barely registered Wonwoo’s presence in the room, but his messy mop of waves concealed in a beanie adds a second layer of pain to your words. You’ve evaded his texts and calls for the past two days. Avoiding work yesterday didn’t help the way you thought it did, Wooyoung texting you profusely with secondhand messages you didn't want to be reminded of.

It was better this way. You repeated the words to yourself like a mantra when the first batch of Wonwoo’s messages appeared on your lock screen. But seeing him now, you know it was a lie.

Heartbreak, like grief, lacks a purpose beyond the demand to be felt.

Wonwoo clears his throat. He tries to pose the question to the entire group, but he stares so deeply into your eyes when he says it, everyone knows it’s only for your ears to cling to. “Have you ever considered that the reason you think it serves no purpose is because you don’t let anyone in to help you make sense of it?”

Your bottom lip quivers despite your urge to compress your feelings, the anger that was simmering in your stomach now at a rolling boil. You kick the chair from under your legs as you leave the circle, cursing the entire time. You hear Seungcheol request a ten-minute recess for the session, and you know without a doubt the walking slogan is following you.

You keep your focus on the brick wall of the bakery that shares a back alley with the church when Seungcheol finally makes it outside. “Don’t say—”

“I’m just out for a smoke. Was needing a break anyway.” Seungcheol flicks his lighter to life and has a cigarette between his lips in the next second. A huge plume of smoke leaves his lips, and the acrid smell of smoke hits your nose, but you don’t turn from it. He reaches into his pack and hands you one once he lights it.

You chuckle sadly as you weigh the cigarette between your fingers. “How did you know I used to smoke?”

“You suck in a breath when you get angry, and your hands shake like you’re going through withdrawal. That used to happen to me when I tried quitting the first time.”

You nod. “I haven’t really done it in a while. Haven’t had the energy to go buy anything besides frozen meals and water.”

The silence between you both is deafening. Seungcheol doesn’t pry, although that’s his very job, to help you face your emotions head-on, and you don’t elaborate on your points from earlier in the group session.

“My wife died five years ago,” he finally says. He flicks the cigarette at his feet, digging the ashes into the surrounding dirt with his foot. “Was a drunk driver on the way home coming back from a restaurant. I was driving.”

You try to respond, but no words come. The lining of your throat kills them all before they can leave you, like butterfly wings that never unfurl. He goes on amidst your silence. “It took a long time to realize it wasn’t my fault, just terrible timing.”

You turn to look at him, but he keeps his attention on the shops and sidewalks surrounding the church, cold air leaving his mouth in grey clouds. “I’m sorry,” you say, the two words with no serrated edges this time, the anger from your voice gone.

“‘S nothing for you to apologize for. You didn’t know, and I don’t talk about it all that much.” He gives you a knowing stare with the shrug of his shoulders, no bitterness in his expression as he explains without words that you’re more alike than you would’ve known. You can’t imagine the guy having a bitter bone in his body, even if he has reason to. “But that’s why I started this. Going on about it may not help all the time, but I can let some of it go when I know I’m not alone, even if that feeling only lasts for a minute.”

“Are you saying that I have to explain why I’m like this with everyone to feel better? That’s your nugget of wisdom?”

Seungcheol's eyes turn solemn, disappointed but not surprised at your rhetorical questions. “What I’m saying is that pain isn’t avoidable. You know that better than anyone by now. And locking yourself away clearly isn’t working.”

You fight back the tears passing through your eyelashes and puff again. “I don’t need your backdoor psychology, Choi. Even if you and everyone in that group has more than some idea of what I’m going through, it’s not the same.”

Seungcheol chuckles without humor as he hands you another cigarette, his fingertips lingering over your palm in a familial way. His touch is warm despite the winter weather, the contact a salve over the cracks that have formed in the past few days, and it makes you feel worse somehow. “Whether you push people away or not, your capacity to hurt isn’t going anywhere. Wasting time you’ll never get back by being alone does nobody any good, especially yourself.”

“I don’t do anything for anyone like this,” you respond, words breaking. Your hands shake as you take two more drags, smoke filling your lungs as the shadows continue looming. “I can’t give any parts of me when I don’t know what’s left to give at this point.”

“Speaking from my experiences with you—which I know are limited—I’d say you’re not giving yourself enough credit.” Seungcheol plucks the cigarette from your hands once you make it to the end. “And I bet your little friend would say the same thing, if not more.”

Like the call of a siren song, Wonwoo comes through the back door of the church, a bit embarrassed to intrude, but relieved to find you before you left. It’s all over the sudden sag of his chest and the downturn of his eyes.

Seungcheol smirks to himself while he puts his pack back in his coat pocket. “Speaking of the devil, I’ll leave you to it.” He pats Wonwoo on the shoulder as he makes it to the door of the church. The closing of the back door punctuates the silence between you.

“Are you finally gonna talk to me?” Wonwoo asks, his voice teetering on desperation and indignation. He doesn’t want to be angry, you can tell, but it all comes out in the crinkle of his eyes and the line of his lips.

You don’t blame him, either. You’re the one who left him as soon as you woke up, no verbal or written explanation left behind to keep him from assuming the worst. “What do you expect me to say, Won? I don’t—”

“Don’t say you don’t know what I want from you. I’ve been clear about that since the first day we saw each other in this fucking church.” You’re taken back by him cursing, the act one you’ve not seen from him often, but he keeps going. “I want to help you. Whether that’s as your friend or something more, I can accept that. But what I can’t accept is you keeping up this act you’ve been putting on.”

“It’s not an act,” you say defensively. “It’s too hard to let anyone in. It may be hard for you to accept, but that’s the truth.”

“You need better practice at lying, sweetheart.” When your face crumbles with defeated confusion, Wonwoo goes on. “If it was so hard, you wouldn’t still have Wooyoung in your life. You wouldn’t have kicked my ass at pool, and you definitely would’ve done a better job at avoiding me. You may not want to admit it now, but you’re using your grief as an excuse to run away from feeling anything else.”

“You don’t know me,” you say, the words an echo that reaches through time with an entirely different meaning.

“I think I do.” His chest is barely an inch from yours, and before you know it, your lips join in a bruising kiss. It’s desperation from the days you spent without each other, almost stitching the time between that night you were in his bed and now together like a crochet tapestry. It’s yearning to be better than how you’ve been, to do better for the man who wants to teach you how to find happiness again.

Most importantly, it’s hope, unadulterated and unembroidered with the promises of what would’ve been. It’s only now, and that’s enough. It would always end this way, you think. Wonwoo holds you so close he may squeeze you into his coat to keep you from running away. A muddled cry escapes you before your lips connect again, your tears wetting the space between your mouths.

When you part, you think you may never let him go again, and this is the penance you’ll pay for the rest of your life for thinking you could ever handle being without him. “Where do we go from here?” you ask with glassy eyes, finding a glimmer of peace in the way Wonwoo holds you close to him with all the gentleness and love in the world.

“We heal.”

ONE MONTH LATER

None of the group members believe it when you offer to go first during the second to last session. You had half a mind to not to, promising Wonwoo you would share on the final meeting day so you wouldn’t have to suffer through another gathering with everyone knowing your story. Wonwoo only held you closer, stilling your trembling body with kisses to the crown of your head and his reassuring words whispered into your hair. “You’re stronger than anyone in that room, and it’s time you prove it.” You love him for that, among the plethora of a million other things, but that’s another conversation for another time and for only the two of you to share.

Suzy, Hongjoong, and the rest of the group follow you with understanding eyes, a response you used to dread. But now, you accept it just to get by. Seungcheol stares with immeasurable pride behind his eyes as you clear your throat.

“My dad passed away a year ago now,” you start, hands shaking but firm against the plastic coffee cup. “It was sudden, so sudden when the call came I didn’t believe it. I called the cop that told me about the accident a liar, like it couldn’t be true. It couldn’t happen to me, and not to him. Not yet, anyway.”

“You always think that you have more time to spend with someone, to tell them all the things you didn’t have the courage to say to them when they were still around. And that’s how I felt about him and our relationship, like I’d have a lot more moments to fix what I needed to for the two of us, and for myself. Maybe I never would’ve been ready, anyway, but—I couldn’t accept that all those chances, all those opportunities, were gone when he was, too. Most of the time, I still don’t. It doesn’t feel real, like it’s this thick fog I’m under that’ll eventually clear.

“And that’s why I’m here with you guys. And maybe talking about it now can help me to get through it the right way.”

You don’t look up from the floor as you continue, but Wonwoo’s hand on your thigh and Seungcheol’s leading questions ground you through it all. The tears flow, and the words leave your lips with all of their broken seams. Each thread of your heart unwinds, the experience equal parts freeing and devastating in the release.

Whoever the creator of the slogan from that third week of the support group is—Seungcheol, a random stranger, or a prophetic person who knows all too well the tragedy of grief itself—you’re growing to believe time can bend every sad emotion into something manageable, especially grief. And yes, you have yet to see what your own grief ultimately turns into, but you know you’ll take comfort in the fact you won’t be alone when that day comes.

@gyubakeries @loserlvrss @innocygnet @ghstzzn @xylatox @bambiihee @prkhaven @lunarlaina @jjunberry @frenchkisstheabyss @okiedokrie-main @chanranghaeys @brownbunnyb @lovetaroandtaemin @livelaughloveseventeen @aaa-sia

𝐍𝐄𝐓𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐊𝐒 ── .✦ @kstrucknet @k-films @kvanity-main @lapydiaries @moadiarynet @pirateeznet @/sweetvenomnet @onedoornet @deoboyznet @violetanet @whipped-kpop-creators

𝑹𝑬𝑨𝑫 𝑴𝒀 𝑶𝑻𝑯𝑬𝑹 𝑾𝑶𝑹𝑲𝑺 𝒐𝒓 𝑱𝑶𝑰𝑵 𝑴𝒀 𝑻𝑨𝑮𝑳𝑰𝑺𝑻𝑺 © 𝖠𝗅𝗅 𝗐𝗈𝗋𝗄𝗌 𝖺𝗋𝖾 𝖼𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗍𝖾𝖽 𝖻𝗒 𝖧𝖤𝖤𝖢𝖧𝖶𝖤; 𝖣𝗈 𝗇𝗈𝗍 𝗋𝖾𝖽𝗂𝗌𝗍𝗋𝗂𝖻𝗎𝗍𝖾 𝗈𝗋 𝗌𝗍𝖾𝖺𝗅 𝖼𝗈𝗇𝗍𝖾𝗇𝗍.

[aventurineswife]

Hello Sweetheart! I have returned once more to lend you an idea, a request if you may—for Mydei. If you’re feeling spicy, you could add Aventurine for some self indulgence on your part. Or a separate character you think would be fitting for the prompt!

I found an audio I thought would be adorable, perhaps our reader reminiscing with their partner or soon-to-be partner. Mutual pinning may work as well… either way! I have a dialog for reference this time around.

Fluffy goodness! Warm laughter, perhaps some sort of confession if they aren’t already established. Up to you! Enjoy 💙🫶

“You’re not what I thought you’d be like”

“Mean and scary?”

“Yeah-“

“Yeah, well. I actually thought, you’d be mean and scary too.”

“Me??”

“Terrifying!”

“You were the one I never knew I needed”

Summary: You and Mydei share a quiet evening after a long day of traveling. While relaxing, you play an old recording where you recall your initial misconceptions about Mydei being "mean and scary," which leads to a playful conversation between the two of you. As the conversation progresses, you confess that Mydei isn’t what you thought he would be, revealing a side of him that is caring and gentle. Both of you reflect on the bond that’s grown between you, with Mydei subtly hinting at his feelings for you, leading to a soft, unspoken confession of mutual affection.

Tags: Mydei x Reader, Fluff, Mutual Pinning, Slow Burn, Romantic Confessions, Character Development, Light Humor.

A/N: thank you for the req, love! 🤭💖

The night air in the cozy inn was quiet, save for the crackling of a small fire that warmed the room. You and Mydei sat across from each other, the light flickering gently on his features as you both relaxed after a long day of traveling. The usual tension that came with his presence had melted away, replaced by a warmth that had become more and more familiar over the past few weeks.

You couldn’t help but smile as you listened to the soft hum of the evening. It was hard to imagine that only a short time ago, you’d barely known this man—this fierce warrior who, by all accounts, should have been intimidating, cold, and ruthless. Instead, you’d come to know Mydei as someone who, while still fiercely loyal to his cause, was far more complex, with layers that revealed themselves only to those close to him.

“I found something earlier today,” you said, your voice soft as you glanced at him. “A... recording. It reminded me of you.”

“Oh?” Mydei raised an eyebrow, his interest piqued. “What’s this about?”

You chuckled, shaking your head as you brought up the audio on your device. It was a simple recording, just a little snippet of your voice from a while back, talking to yourself in a way that now seemed amusing. You played it, the words from a much younger you echoing in the room.

"You're not what I thought you'd be like."

“Mean and scary?” Mydei’s voice rumbled through the room, amusement flickering in his eyes as he teased you.

“Yeah—” you heard your younger self say on the recording. “Yeah, well. I actually thought you’d be mean and scary too.”

“Me??” Mydei’s tone was light, a playful challenge in his voice as he leaned forward, meeting your gaze. “Terrifying!”

You couldn’t help but laugh at the way he delivered the line, that same glint of humor now so familiar to you. The recording was an amusing relic of your past assumptions, but now, sitting across from the man who had defied those assumptions in every way, it was a reminder of how far your relationship had come.

“Terrifying, huh?” you teased, leaning back with a smile. “I guess that’s one way to describe you.”

Mydei leaned back in his chair too, his eyes never leaving yours. There was a certain softness to his gaze now, one that made your heart flutter despite yourself. He hadn’t said anything out loud, but his silence spoke volumes.

You cleared your throat, feeling a mix of warmth and uncertainty. “You know… I never thought I’d end up here, with you. You’re not what I thought you’d be like, either.”

He tilted his head, waiting for you to continue.

“I thought you were all sharp edges and cold determination,” you confessed, your voice softer now, “but… there’s a lot more to you than that, isn’t there?”

Mydei’s eyes softened, a small smile tugging at the corners of his lips. “I think you’ve seen more of me than anyone else,” he said, his voice low and sincere. “That’s why I’m glad you’re here.”

Your heart skipped a beat at his words, the weight of them not lost on you. You had grown so accustomed to the warrior he appeared to be—fearless, unyielding. But in the quiet moments like this, you saw the man beneath that exterior. The one who cared more deeply than he often let on. The one who had fought for his kingdom, for the people he loved, and for the future he dreamed of.

And maybe, just maybe, for someone like you.

Your gaze met his, and for a moment, neither of you said anything. The silence between you was filled with unspoken understanding.

“Hey,” you broke the quiet, your voice soft. “I… I’m glad you’re not what I thought you’d be.”

His smile widened just a little, a touch of warmth in his eyes. “I’m glad you’re not what I thought you’d be either.”

You laughed softly, the sound filling the room, and for once, it didn’t feel like you were the only one taking a leap of faith. Maybe Mydei wasn’t as terrifying as you thought, and maybe, just maybe, you weren’t the only one who had begun to feel something more.

“So,” you said, your voice teasing as you leaned forward a little, “when are you going to admit that you’ve fallen for me?”

Mydei’s expression shifted, a flicker of uncertainty passing through his eyes, but it was gone so quickly that you almost missed it. He leaned in too, his voice low as he spoke.

“I’d never admit that.”

You raised an eyebrow, surprised. “Oh really?”

“No,” he replied, his gaze meeting yours with such intensity that it stole the breath from your lungs. “Because I’m not sure I need to. Not when you already know.”

And just like that, the last of the tension between you both seemed to dissipate, leaving only the warmth of the fire and the shared understanding in the space between you.

The future—whatever it might hold—seemed a little brighter now.

[cy-lindric]

i am SOOOO interested in all of your Massà posts!! the twin princess (and of course gay monastery shenanigans) has really caught my eye!!! do you have any lore you’re willing to share? id be so excited to hear >_<

Hello ! Thanks a lot for your interest !

Massà is the setting for the big graphic novel I've signed about a year ago. I'm working on it side by side with my character design gigs and since it's a 200-or-so pages long beast I'm sorry to say it'll be a while before you guys can get an actual look at the story ! But I've been posting tidbits on my insta here and there.

The world it's set in is a low-ish fantasy alternate of XVth century Provence. The twins are called Sàvi and Sefia, and Sefia is married to a guy from the ruling family of the neighbour realm of Longitania (aka cursed Long France) That's guy number two below. would have loved niche subreddits and making spreadsheets if that was available to him

Since most of the intrigue takes place in the monastery the Longitans and Twin Princes intervene only in a handful of scenes so this is mostly lore for the sake of lore but here are some snippets of them and their delegation from the rough pages !

and a bonus wip panel for an extra display of artistry (pov : you've just called the prince a cockroach in front of all the Longitan ambassadors)

[mirrology]

I wonder how will the reader in the itoshi brothers x male reader view the snow after the fight of his older brothers there

NOYADE ❛ ❁. ━━ (n.) an execution carried out by drowning. / UN.

❛ ⟡. blue lock, itoshi brothers & male reader. platonic. wc: 1.2k

❛ ⟡ ━━ reader sure is going through it!!! , reader isn't into football ,, communication? I barely know her , more alnst world memories ,, reader misses people who he doesn't even remember , some wholesome moments with Rin & Sae at the end ,, reader, Rin and Sae no longer share a room. this surprisingly took a while （；´д｀）ゞ

❝ It's not the room. Not beginning. Not the crowd. Not winning. ❞ 𓂅 not, big thief.

You lay in the cold embrace of the snow, staring at the gray sky in contemplation. Your arms were slack and spread out in a starfish pose, having just finished making a snow angel. You took a deep breath, feeling the frigid air rush into your lungs, and it hurt as if needles were sinking into them. You shifted to your side, and the iciness of the snow touched your cheek, melting instantly upon contact with your skin.

You closed your eyes, undoubtedly exhausted from the events that had transpired only days ago. Sae had come back from his trip to Spain. You had been watching Rin practice Football from the sidelines after his match since you never got into it like your brothers, nor did you have the talent to.

The eldest walked onto the field. His face had changed since his youth. It was a sad sight; he looked tired. Despite his expression, you felt happy to see him. Next thing you knew, things went south. Sae told Rin that he had given up on his dream, and Rin didn't take it lightly. Hurtful things were said, and you were not acknowledged. Not even once.

You watched with wide eyes and a heavy feeling in your chest as the once fruitful relationship between them crumbled before you. It was cold, too cold. Your hands shook, you were frozen in place as cold beads of sweat ran down your face. You felt useless.

Sae had given you a single glance as he left, a look that sent shivers through your body. Your eyes burned with the urge to cry, but you didn't. You couldn't. Shedding tears was difficult and it was hard to think about it. Instead, here you were, drowning in memories of a fleeting past. The image of music sheets and a boy with silver hair surfaced from the depths of your mind, presented in snippets.

There were two others: one girl had black hair, while the other girl had the brightest pink hair you had ever seen. That was all you recalled, and it frustrated you.

The snow surrounding you melted into your winter coat, ruining the snow angel you had created just moments before. An itch in your nose snapped you out of your daydream, causing your face to scrunch up in discomfort.

You let out a sneeze, which made you open your bleary eyes. Reaching up, you wiped under your nose, cringing in disgust as watery boogers stained the sleeve of your coat.

You returned to your original position by flopping down to your back, groaning as you suddenly felt queasy. Footsteps crunched in the fallen snow as a person walked up to you. A shadow covered the lower half of your body and a familiar voice spoke. "What are you doing?" Rin raised an eyebrow at your dazed expression.

He had changed in these past few days. His outgoing personality had become more closed off and harsher, although not much to you. You merely grunted back at him, too tired to reply verbally. You raised your arms at him, opening and clenching your hands again and again to emphasize that you wanted him to pull you up.

Rin deadpanned up but did what you asked anyway. You stumbled a little as you stood upright as a wave of nausea hit you like a truck.

Rin noticed because of your swaying. He sighed out from his nose and crouched down, signaling for you to get on his back. You blinked and quickly wrapped your arms around his neck as he grabbed your legs to carry you. You buried your face into his neck, mumbling an apology. "M'sorry Rin-nii…" your voice wavered, even though you knew he didn't mind carrying you.

"Why are you apologizing? I don't mind." He fondly spoke, a hint of a smile tugging at his lips. He started walking back into the house, his body heat helping you stay warm. When the both of you entered he let you down and you took your shoes off at the front door. Once you were done Rin grabbed your hand and let you to your room.

You took off your coat and fell limply onto your bed, just wanting to take a nap and get rid of the nausea. Your brother sighed when he saw your exhausted state, he walked over and covered you in your bed sheets. He smoothed out the edges and gently tucked you in.

Rin nodded at his handiwork and went to leave, although he was stopped by your hand grasping his. He looked back and was met with your pleading face, "Don't leave Rin-nii… please?" you said, your voice slightly hoarse. The former's face softened.

He mumbled out an "Okay." and urged you to scoot over. He laid down beside you and wrapped his arms around you, just like he would when you both were little. You quickly fell asleep, you always did feel safe in his arms.

When you woke again Rin was gone, perhaps he had gone to his room. Your eyes darted to your phone that was on the nightstand next to your bed. Picking it up, you squinted when the harsh light of the phone shone on your face.

You looked at the time, it read 1:49.

It was late and your throat was dry, so you got up to get some water. You snuck downstairs as quietly as you could, grabbed a cup, and filled it with the refreshing liquid. You gulped it down eagerly and let out a relieved sigh when you finished it.

"What are you doing?" A monotone voice said behind you.

Your eyes widened, knowing exactly who it was. You quickly got yourself together and turned around to Sae, meeting his piercing gaze. Bringing up the cup you held, you pointed to it and simply said "Water."

Your voice was still hoarse even after drinking the water and your expression was slightly dazed. Sae narrowed his eyes and reached over to pluck the cup from your hand, and set it down on the counter. He then grasped your hand to pull you out of the kitchen.

"Get back to bed." He murmured, his grip tightening slightly as he felt how warm you were.

"Kay" you replied as you let him tug you back to your room, getting increasingly sleepier. When you both got to your door, he let go of your hand and turned to look at you. You looked back.

It made you nervous just looking at him like this even though it didn't show on your face, since you sported a blank face. But Sae knew he was your brother after all.

Sae reached over and wiped a bead of sweat that had formed on your forehead. "Sleep well." He spoke softly and walked away, leaving you standing in the hallway. You touched the spot that he wiped and an indescribable feeling overtook you, maybe he was still the brother you knew.

Whatever, you would think of it tomorrow. You walked to your bed and got under the covers, sleep enveloped you as you thought of your brothers.

The snow made you confused and it was now hard to look at because of the memories attached to it, you want to stay away from it. You were always sensitive to the cold anyway.

[joonie-beanie]

Roommates [Diluc/Reader + Kaeya/Reader College AU]

Diluc and the Reader are roommates with an open third bedroom, and when the rental company assigns them a third roommate that happens to be Kaeya--Diluc's childhood ex-best friend--a series of drama ensues. And as the reader puts herself in the middle, attempting to help mend the rift in their relationship, her relationship with the two men progresses in turn. (But who ever said progress was linear?)

Rating: Explicit

Tags: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Roommates/Housemates, Slow Burn, Friends to Lovers, Enemies to Friends, Friends with Benefits, Poly Endgame, f!reader

Words: ~185k (34 chapters - complete)

Note: Obviously, posting 34 chapters/185k words to tumblr would be...a lot. But, I adore this fic, so I'm going to post some of my favorite snippets below to ✨entice✨ you. Read the whole fic on AO3

Chapter 1: Humble Beginnings

You’re just finishing up your break when you feel your phone begin to buzz in your pocket. The only reason you answer is because the caller ID tells you it’s Diluc.

“Hey, I’m at work and my break is ending, what’s—”

“Homicide has never seemed so tempting.”

You pause, staring at your phone with a great amount of concern. Pulling it away from your ear, you check the time.

“Um…my shift will be over in an hour. Can you…wait to commit manslaughter until I get home? Does this have to do with our new roommate?”

Diluc scoffs, and you can hear him pacing around his room.

“Yeah, the bastard is moving his stuff in right now.”

You wince. “Bad first impression?”

“Far from the first,” Diluc responds, making you even more confused. “But the impression is still bad.”

You sigh, ducking farther into the kitchen where your manager won’t be able to see you. The last thing you want is to get caught taking a phone call at work, but dropping the call seems like a bad idea. You’re not sure you’ve ever heard Diluc this upset before.

“Do you…wanna explain what’s going on? Why are you so mad?”

There’s a long, frustrated exhale. Diluc remains quiet for a moment, then—

“A while ago I mentioned that I had a best friend in childhood, but we had a falling out, yes?”

“Yeah. I think his name was…Kaeya, right?”

“Well…,” Diluc moves to his closed bedroom door and opens it a sliver. He can see across the living room and down the short hall at the other end of the apartment. Boxes litter the hallway, and he can hear Kaeya moving things around the previously vacant room. The one directly across from yours.

“He’s our new roommate?” you guess, noting his silence. There’s an affirmative grunt. You feel your heart drop—sympathetic for Diluc.

“I mean…if you can’t stand the guy, we could always talk to the apartment management. Obviously I don’t want you to have to live with someone who will only bring you stress…”

Diluc makes a sound, like he doesn’t know what to say. He doesn’t want to let this whole thing get to him as badly as it is, but…it’s Kaeya. And he’s their new roommate. Diluc has to live with him. And the school year doesn’t end…FOR 8 MONTHS.

“Diluc?” you ask, worried at his lack of response. A moment later you hear the jingle of his keys, and the sound of a door being opened.

“I need a drink,” he says, and if you weren’t worried before, then you certainly are now.

Chapter 3: Budding Relationships

“Do you think,” Kaeya starts a few days later, settling down on the couch beside you. “Diluc would be alright if I stopped by Angel’s Share on Halloween? I hear that they have quite the reputation for their holiday festivities, and I know a few people who are going to be there.”

You silently consider his question, watching as he steals the other half of your blanket, and throws it over his lap. You debate shoving your cold toes beneath his butt, but decide against it.

“As long as you’re a paying customer, I doubt he will care,” you say honestly. “He takes his job seriously, and on a busy night like Halloween, I don’t think he’ll pay you much mind. You know, so long as you don’t cause any trouble.”

Kaeya hums, posing a hand beneath his chin.

“What counts as “trouble”?”

You flash him an unimpressed stare. He smiles innocently.

“Trouble like…flirting with people and making them uncomfortable, starting a fight, or breaking glasses, plates, yourself, or others.”

Kaeya is silent for a moment.

“…I think I can manage that. After all, most people only crave more once I start flirting with them.”

You roll your eyes at his comment, gently kicking against his thigh. Kaeya laughs, grinning at you.

“What? I’m not lying.”

“You are such an egotist,” you huff. You grip onto the blanket, preparing to pull it off of him as punishment, but he stops you from doing so. His hand finds your ankle though the soft fabric of the blanket, and he holds you tightly, stopping you, or the blanket, from going anywhere.

“I like to think I’m simply confident,” he says, holding your gaze. His cerulean eyes are unwavering, and he gives your ankle a squeeze. Your cheeks warm in response to the action, as you realize that this is the first time you and Kaeya have been so close.

It doesn’t feel strange, and you don’t dislike it either, but…you’re certainly caught off guard.

“Would you run if I approached, Y/N?”

He grins, expectant of your response. He’s trying to tease you, you realize, and you refuse to let him get away with it so easily.

“Maybe if I didn’t know you, I’d stay,” you say, tugging your foot from his grasp with a pleased smile. His hand had gone slack at your comment—your words taking a second to fully soak into his brain. A sound of disbelief bubbles from his throat.

“Wait, so you’re saying you’d run because you know me?”

The shit eating grin you attempt to hide behind the blanket is telling enough. He grabs the pillow beside him and tosses it at you. It smacks you between the eyes before tumbling over your head, and the sound of distress you make causes him to laugh.

“You’re such a little brat.”

Chapter 7: Fight and Flight

“You can’t blame me for everything, Diluc. I didn’t kill Crepus. I made bad decisions, I acted in ways that I shouldn’t have, because I was lost, and confused, and trying to deny the reality I lived in, but…I’m not the catalyst to all your problems. Just because we fought doesn’t give you the right to make me a scapegoat for the rest of our li—”

“Is this your attempt at an apology?” Diluc interrupts him, voice carefully measured. His hand drops from Kaeya’s shirt, his gaze mindlessly boring into the space between them as his fist clenches at his side.

“If so, it’s shit.”

He’s nearly shaking—struggling to contain the barrage of emotions that assault him.

“Listen, I’m sorry,” Kaeya says, sincere, but the words only make Diluc’s chest sting.

In the past, Diluc had imagined that when Kaeya finally said those words to him—if he ever did—he’d finally feel peace. He’d attain closure. He would stop feeling hate, and sorrow at any thought of his father.

But the words don’t heal his wound.

Because Kaeya isn’t the cause of his suffering.

He’s known this for a while, now, but the reality of it is a pill that he can’t swallow. After all, if the blame doesn’t lie on Kaeya, then that means their severed ties are Diluc’s fault. If he hadn’t acted so rashly after their fight in the manor—if he had listened to Adeline—had actually allowed himself to properly grieve, to sit back and breathe, and process everything—it’s very likely that they would still be friends.

In the end, it’s Diluc who chose not to return to school. It’s Diluc who deleted Kaeya’s number from his contacts, and forbade the house staff from inviting Kaeya to Crepus’ funeral. It’s Diluc who stands here now, refusing to look at Kaeya because he knows he’s spent years directing his spite at the other, spinning his everlasting grief into anger that is, undoubtedly, directed at the wrong person.

There’s no one to blame for the death of his father. (Whichever god made it downpour that fateful day, perhaps—sending Crepus’ car skidding, and flipping across wet pavement until the car frame crumpled, and pinned his father inside.)

But there is someone to blame for the situation the two of them find themselves in now, and it’s Diluc.

Finally, Diluc forces the pill down his own throat.

Instantly, the anger inside of him is extinguished—replaced with a guilt so heavy that he feels like he may puke.

“—the timing was fucked, we shouldn’t have fought but—,” Kaeya grabs him by his shirt, and Diluc realizes that Kaeya has been talking this whole time. He hasn’t heard a word of it.

“—you can’t keep—,” it’s then that Diluc finally looks up at Kaeya, and immediately, Kaeya’s words die on his tongue. Diluc has never looked so broken—unshed tears resting on his lower lashes, his throat tight, and chest shaking beneath Kaeya’s grasp as he struggles to breathe.

He’s panicking under the weight of his sins—his hard exterior torn away—and Kaeya can see it all.

Chapter 9: Final Hurdle

You’d been so caught up with studying this afternoon that you’d forgotten to buy a proper lunch on campus—instead snacking on granola bar from a vending machine just before your afternoon final. And considering you’d been too concerned with cramming in more studying when you’d arrived home, it’d completely slipped your mind to eat dinner…

 It’s no wonder you feel like shit.

Pulling your door open, you fumble your way into the dark kitchen—too tired to even attempt finding the light switch on the wall. Right now, your only concern is getting some more water and some food, and you’re pretty sure you can manage such a small feat without any light.

…at least, on a normal day you could. Tonight, however, you’re feeling pretty out of it, so when you take one step too close to the sink—your knee knocking into the cupboard beneath the basin—your legs immediately give out beneath you.

Instinctively, you grapple for the counter. One of your hands manages to get a grip, but your strength fails you, and you go falling to your knees. The weight of your body hitting the floor successfully rattles the empty beer bottles Kaeya has lined up near the fridge, and one of them tips over—rolling off the counter.

It hits the ground with a loud clatter, but thankfully doesn’t splinter into a million pieces.

…unlike your sanity.

Tired, and hungry, and frustrated with yourself, you simply lean your head forward, your forehead knocking against the cupboard as you sit there, trying to piece yourself back together. Your head goes blank for a second—your sleep-riddled mind begging you to just get some rest already—and unconsciously, you pick up on the creak of a door opening nearby.

“Y/N?”

It takes you a moment to register the sound of Diluc’s voice, and the thud of his bare feet hurriedly padding across the wooden floor. A hand lands on your shoulder, and when warm fingers skim against your face—cupping your cheek, and turning your head to the side—you finally manage to open your eyes.

The amount of concern painted across Diluc’s face makes your heart crack, and finally, the stress that you’ve been attempting to play off overwhelms you.

Tears blot your eyes.

“What happened?” he asks, his gaze scanning over your crumpled form for a sign of any injuries. “Are you okay?”

“I’m just—,” your voice catches in your throat, fisted hand lifting to wipe at your cheeks as tears topple past your bottom lashes. “—I’m sick of finals. I wanna pass, but it feels like it’s hopeless, and I’m tired.”

Diluc frowns, his thumb swiping across your dampened skin.

“Hey, it’s okay—you’ll be fine.”

“But—”

“You’ve just been pushing yourself too hard,” he tells you, sitting himself on the floor beside you. He shifts his hand to cradle the back of your head, his other arm hugging around your waist, and in one smooth motion, you find yourself cradled against his chest.

Seeking comfort, you immediately wrap your arms around him, hiding your face against his collarbone. Your torso shakes as you try, and fail, to stop yourself from crying.

Chapter 13: Snow-Covered Memories

“I saw his portrait,” you quietly respond, motioning your head towards the frame on the wall. “It was the first time I’ve seen a picture of him, but I connected the dots since the resemblance is uncanny.”

Diluc breathes a laugh at that, stroking his fingers against his chin. 

“Should I grow a goatee?”

“You’d look handsome regardless,” you tell him without thinking, flashing him a smile. A small look of surprise flashes in Diluc’s eyes, but it passes quickly, and he thanks you while moving to set Crepus’ journal back in its appropriate spot on the desk.

“There were some notes about you and Kaeya in there. It’s clear he was fond of you both.”

“He’d probably be a little disappointed knowing what all happened between us after he died,” Diluc responds, sighing to himself. Immediately, you reach over and grab his hand. You give it a firm squeeze, catching his gaze.

“I think he’d be proud that you and Kaeya were able to talk and reconcile. I can’t imagine him being anything but proud of you, Diluc. He…I mean, he’s your father. He loved you, and always will. Unconditionally.”

Diluc is still, for a moment, words escaping him. Then, you feel a tug on your hand, and suddenly your face is against Diluc’s chest—his arms wrapping tightly around you. You can smell the earthy scent of his cologne, and when you adjust the angle of your head so your cheek is flush against his sweater instead of your nose, you swear you can hear the thumping of his heart.

Despite being caught off guard by his sudden show of affection, you immediately accept it—hugging him in return. You’re trying to figure out what silly comment you should say to abate your own nerves when Diluc finally speaks up.

“I love you,” he says.

Your heart leaps violently, and for a moment, you swear the earth stops spinning.

He…

Your fingers grip his sweater a little tighter, and you feel blood rushing to your face.

He’s never said that before. 

Why is he saying it now? What is he thinking? Has something changed? He’s typically not so affectionate, and he sounds so genuine. Does that mean that maybe he—

“I love you too,” you respond, your voice nearly a whisper. The words come out before you even realize that you’re speaking—a little part of your brain forcing them out of you, knowing that if you wait too long to say it back, it will make your words seem insincere. As if you’re only saying them back because he’d said them first. But god, that would be the farthest thing from the truth, because you adore him so wholly. Just being here, hugging him like this, feeling his warmth beneath your fingertips—makes you ache with affection.

Chapter 16: A Bard's Wisdom

“I can feel you staring, princess. Something on your mind?”

Ah, shit. 

You feel blood rush into your face. Right, you’ve been looking at him this whole time…

Taking a deep breath, you attempt to remain cool despite being caught. As much as you want to leave it be, you don’t think you’ll be satisfied if you do. You need Kaeya to clarify.

“Do you remember New Year’s Eve?” you ask, your eyes still following Kaeya as he moves over to snag a bag of chips from atop the fridge—finished PB&J sandwich in his grasp.

“Mhmm, how could I forget?”

Right, you’d had a breakdown…

“Well…I remembered that you offered to be a distraction for me, and—,” you feel a jolt of nervousness, but you push through it, “…I guess I was just wondering…what kind of distraction were you talking about?”

Kaeya doesn’t even hesitate with his answer.

“Whatever kind of distraction you want it to be.”

He’s not even looking at you as he says it—too busy frowning at his chip options. Not finding anything he wants, he huffs and grabs a can of soda from the fridge instead. 

Still standing in the same spot you’ve been since walking in, it takes your mind a second to catch up to what he’s said.

When it finally sinks in, you can’t help but scowl.

“That doesn’t really answer my question.”

“I believe it does,” Kaeya responds coolly. With his lunch finally put together, he moves to sit at the kitchen table. He’s just about to take a bite of his sandwich when you speak up again.

“No, it really doesn’t. A “distraction” could be taken in so many ways. I just want to make sure I’m not misinterpreting what you’re saying—”

“You wouldn’t be able to do that, because there's no chance to misinterpret the meaning when anything is on the table,” he cuts you off, his gaze finally finding yours. He looks calm—like an open book, with nothing to hide—and it catches you off guard, seeing him so serious for once. You suppose you’re grateful he’s not teasing you when you’ve gathered all your courage to ask him but…this side of him is a little off putting. Because if he says that, then that means…

“Anything…?”

Kaeya, who has somehow managed to eat a majority of his sandwich in the few seconds you’ve been quiet (how do guys eat so fast? ) takes his final few bites and swig of soda before answering.

“I offered to be a distraction, and I’m leaving it up to you to decide what kind of distraction you’d want me to be,” he says. Pushing up from his chair, he tosses his plate in the trash, and then steps closer to you. You almost want to run, when his eye catches yours once more. 

“But if you need me to spell it out, then yes—fucking could also count as a distraction.”

Chapter 17: The Distraction

...

Let's just say the E rating starts from this chapter (｡•̀ᴗ-)✧₊˚⊹♡

AO3

[sofa-king-lame]

Saturday Snippet

Tagged by the lovely @sergeantchenford

Have some more 20 Questions Buddie!

--

“How many people have you slept with?” Buck asks. It’s early - close to four in the morning, and they’ve just come back from a rescue that ended up being far more complicated than they had anticipated. They’ve got another five hours left on shift and while everyone has gone for the bunks, Buck has trailed after Eddie up to the loft for something to eat and a coffee.

“Jesus, coming in hot aren’t we?” Eddie snorts, passing Buck a deliciously steaming mug of caffeinated joy before pouring his own. Buck shrugs with one shoulder and wraps his hand around his own mug, letting the steam warm his face still stinging from the frigid wind outside.

“One,” Eddie answers. Buck opens his mouth to argue, snapping it shut before the words can spill out. He trusts Eddie is telling him the truth.

“Christopher’s mother,” Buck murmurs. “That wasn’t a question.”

“I know,” Eddie chuckles. “Her name is Shannon. We divorced two years ago, we share custody of Chris. You?”

“Uh. Definitely more than one,” Buck admits sheepishly. “Twenty? Maybe twenty-five. I - I don’t have an exact number.” Buck waits for the judgement - the raised eyebrow, the shift back, the withdrawal of the trust and respect they’d been building. It doesn’t come.

“You, uh. Must be pretty good at it then,” Eddie teases. Buck’s face feels hot, even though his mug is now on the table in front of him.

--

No pressure tagging @sassay-fox @semperama and @disasterbuck

[wowsosad]

so,,,, anymore snippets to share of remmy and innkeeper reader? :333

For you, nonnie, of course.

Original idea, previous snippet post

꧁꧂

You were lost in the pages, mind full of East coast daydreams, images of Gatsby’s parties and how beautiful Daisy must’ve been for him to yearn for her in such a way, when the telltale creak of the basement door reached your ears. You glanced up from the book, but when no additional sound occurred, you coiled up tighter on the couch, slippers on the floor as your feet had been tucked underneath you a while ago. Operating on habit, your gaze averted from the book to check on the time, and you gasped, your whole body jerking as your eyes met Remmick’s, his imposing frame blocking the grandfather clock.

“Oh, God, Jesus Christ,” you sputtered, The Great Gatsby falling from your hands and to the floor, flopping shut. One of your hands flew up to cover your face, halfway landing over your mouth and eyes. “Gosh,” you overcorrected from the double-blasphemy, and wearily looked up at Remmick through your fingers with a nervous, pained grin, “Spooked me again, sir.”

Remmick stood there for a moment, waiting just a second too long before reacting. His face had been oddly stoic in those brief moments, before splitting into a cheeky grin, a laugh erupting from his mouth.

“Sorry, ma’am,” Remmick’s quick burst of laughter petered off into an easy chuckle, “Really, I am. Ya just looked so snuggled up right there on yer couch and I wondered how long it’d take ya to notice me.”

꧁꧂

You wrapped your robe tighter around yourself, that same shiver from last night dancing along your spine again. You feared an oncoming cold, but ignored it, “Are you hungry? You slept for a long time down there.”

“I could eat,” Remmick affirmed, and you tensed as his voice dipped lower, his eyes continuing to trail over you, until they snapped up to meet your eyes. He grinned, and in the dimmed living room, his teeth looked oddly sharp, “Are you cookin’?”

꧁꧂

“Darlin’, a discount?” he drawled, “Ya don’t hafta do that, I’m happy to pay the prices ya told me.”

“No, I insist,” you pushed, “Wherever you’re headin’, you best head there with better rest and fuller pockets. Really, it ain’t a problem, me not chargin’ you as much.”

Remmick shrugged, but couldn’t betray his surprised happiness, “Yer too kind, darlin’, especially to a stranger like me.”

As he spoke, you’d taken a bite of your toast. You hurriedly chewed and swallowed it, and playfully mocked his impassive shrug, “You don’t have to be a stranger, Mr. Remmick.”

꧁꧂

Right now it’s 5k, and I could see a possible 7 or 8k for this fic. Happy readingggg <3

[sukunasteeth]

Idk why but I think that Sukuna's s/o would be like, some kind of freelance or professional artist who'd use him as her reference/live model since he has a good built and whatnot without him knowing lol idk why but I just thought it was a cute idea and I wanted to share bc you're like my most favourite writer here on Tumblr who mains Sukuna and there aren't a lot of them so basically–ily and I hope you day or night is going well!!

–R

This came into my inbox so long ago T.T Please forgive me for taking a minute to get back to you but I wanted to write a little snippet for this one cause ily. Anon you are so sweet!! I'm so honored to receive this little message. Thank you for sharing your cute idea with me T.T I hope you enjoy this one as much as I enjoyed getting this message <3 Thank you for reading

You knew he would tease you.

You knew the moment he happened to see inside your sketchbook was the moment his ego became truly untamable. It was the moment that any ounce of mystery you had left crumbled into the shape of him.

If he knew that you studied anatomy by watching the way his muscles move under the laundry room lamp while he folds up your clothes at night. If he knew that your sketchbook was basically just a love letter written to the way his hands form around yours. Or the way his back muscles glisten with sweat when he comes home from his morning runs. If he knew that you had studied him so deeply that you could map him out down to the freckles that nobody else knows about, you're sure you would hear about it for the rest of eternity.

Which is why this morning, when you happen to wake up before him and see him fast asleep in the perfect position, you can’t help yourself when you grab your notebook and a pen and crawl back into bed with him. 

He was still curled up around your absent figure, his head tucked against the pillow and lowered just right so that his nose would have been pressed into your hair. Your current lesson in anatomy was his back, which you had an ideal view of. The muscles- perfectly symmetrical on either side, tightening and releasing under golden skin that's been kissed darker by the sun. And in the center: the valley of his spine, each notch a favorite place of yours to kiss. 

Every time you draw Sukuna, you fall in love with a different part of him. You admire him until all that’s left of you is nothing but a racing heartbeat. 

Racing especially when you happen to peek up at his face to confirm he was still asleep and you find his lion-like gaze already settled onto you. 

Uh-oh. 

You’re trying to act natural. Immediately folding the cover back over your sketchbook and turning slowly to try and slip off the bed without him noticing. 

Maybe he’s still half asleep. Maybe he didn't register you-

And he's already grabbing onto your ankle before you can even get an inch towards the edge of the mattress.

You don't know why you're not expecting him to ruthlessly drag you back to him, but you squeal when he tugs your knee out from under you and has you face-planting into the sheets. Sukuna doesn't seem to mind your squirming as there is no pause or hesitation in his movement. He barely even seems half awake when he lazily crawls over you and seats himself onto your hips, effectively stopping you from even thinking of an escape route.

"Why are you already running?" He yawns, his eyes slivered in a combination of suspicion and sleepiness. 

You try your best to appear innocent, clutching your sketchbook for dear life. This was the closest Sukuna had ever come to it while you were sketching him and it instantly had a sweat breaking out on the back of your neck. Despite your determination to remain unsuspecting, your voice catches when you reply to him, "I-I'm not running."

And that's all it took. One stutter, one second of hesitation, and Sukuna's eyes are widening in a flash as his pupils hone in on your expression. He always knew your tells, knew instantly when you were trying to lie to him. He took pride in it actually. It’s the reason you’re already half accepting your fate. 

His energy buzzes with excitement as he recognizes apprehension in your gaze. His smile flickering with anticipation.

"Oh?" He murmurs, closing in on your airspace. You can still smell the scent of manzanita wood in his shampoo from his shower last night. "And why are you nervous?" His voice is a silky hum.

"I'm not nervous." You whisper, trying to shrink backwards into the bed, trying not to provoke the bear.

It was too late. He’s been awake all of one minute and he was already going to play with you. 

"You know," Sukuna clears the sleep out of his throat, "This thing has been getting more attention than me lately.” You hold fast when his fingers wrap around your sketchbook and tug gently, as if to prove a point with how tight your grip was on it. “Why is that, I wonder?"

"Nothing gets more attention than you." You mutter, your dry look only worsening when Sukuna's smile grows all too knowing. “I’m just… trying to finish a commission for work.” 

"Do you usually blush when you’re working on a commission?" 

"Oh god,” You groan, “please drop it I beg of you."

“You first.” He challenges, tugging on the book once again. “I’d like to see what’s so important.”

“Sukuna-” You let out a surprised laugh when he wraps his hand around your wrist and starts to pry your arm away. “Waitwaitwait!”

There was no use in trying to win in a game of tug of war with him. Even though he’s just woken up, he’s impossibly stronger than you are. And while he’s usually carefully aware of that fact when handling you, he had no problem mercilessly grabbing your fighting hands into one of his own and pinning them uselessly above you. 

Your pleading falls onto deaf ears. Sukuna grabs onto the book, but before he can open it you manage to say just the right thing. 

“It’s private!” You squeak.

Sukuna pauses, his surprised eyes meeting yours like you had just called out your safe-word.

You know that you had probably just made him twice as curious as he was before about your notebook, but you weren’t ready to face the embarrassment of him finding out what was inside of it yet. It wasn't the time.

He rolls his eyes and before he releases you, his free hand reaches up and he gently flicks your nose. You flinch and he follows up the sting with a chaste but soothing kiss. 

“Cheater.” He mutters in defeat. With nothing left to toy with, he finally crawls off of you and heads towards the bathroom without another glance at your sketchbook. Before he passes the threshold, he leaves you with a request, but you can tell by the tone of his voice and the taunting smile he gives you that it was more like a new rule.

"No working in our bed after business hours, please."