#just to be sure because the wording+art is. something

[skzophreniic]

⍣ ೋ cw: explicit sexual content, exes to lovers, mutual masturbation , penetrative sex, creampie, crying during sex, pet anxiety, mentions of pregnancy, artist!hyunjin, mdni

notes: in which your situationship ex hyunjin from college asks you to watch his dog for the week--and things spiral from there.

You almost don’t answer.

Your phone buzzes across the table, skittering like a beetle over the wood, and you glance at the screen with the reflex of someone who doesn’t expect surprises anymore.

Hyunjin. The name glows up at you, unfamiliar only in the way it makes your stomach twist—like a song you haven’t heard in years but still remember every lyric to.

It’s been months since you last spoke. Maybe a year since you last saw him. A coffee meetup that turned into wandering aimlessly through the park, talking like nothing had ever gone wrong between you, except it had. That night ended with a long hug and a promise to keep in touch that neither of you kept.

And now he’s calling.

You stare at the screen for another ring. Then another.

Then you answer.

“...Hello?”

There’s a beat of silence, just long enough to make you wonder if he hung up, and then:

“Hey,” he says, breathless like he’d been holding it. “Sorry—sorry to call out of nowhere. I didn’t know who else to ask.”

His voice hasn’t changed. Still soft in a way that wraps around your ribs. Still threaded with that low, careful tension like he’s always thinking five things at once and only saying one.

You shift in your seat, heart suddenly too loud in your chest.

“Okay,” you say slowly, warily. “What’s going on?”

A soft rustle comes through the line—maybe the jingle of keys, maybe his bracelets sliding against his wrist. You picture him pacing his apartment, the same way he used to during finals week, lip caught between his teeth, hair tucked behind one ear.

“I wouldn’t call if it wasn’t important,” he says. “And I get that it’s weird. Us not talking, and then—me dropping this on you.”

You glance toward the window, try not to let your voice shake. “What is this, exactly?”

He hesitates. “I have to leave the city. It’s an art residency. Last-minute. It’s… big.”

Your stomach twists again, but this time it’s sharper. Of course it’s big. Hyunjin was always meant for something more.

You lean back in your chair, eyes tracing the rain sliding down the windowpane like it’s trying to draw an answer for you. A part of you wants to ask where he's going, what the project is, if he’s excited—because of course he is, he always was, always buzzing with vision and color and a kind of hunger you never could name. But that part of you lives behind a glass wall now. You’re not sure you’re allowed to tap on it.

So you don’t ask. You swallow the words like coins dropped into a well—silent, swallowed, never coming back up.

“I’m happy for you,” you say instead, and it’s almost true. “You deserve it.”

Hyunjin exhales, and for a second you wonder if he’s smiling. “Thanks. That means more than you probably think.”

It shouldn't. But you don’t say that either.

“I wouldn’t call if I didn’t really need the help,” he adds, voice dipping a little lower now, like he’s bracing for the ask to land wrong. “It’s Kkami. My sitter canceled last minute, and everyone else is either busy or allergic. You were the only person I thought of who could handle him.”

You laugh softly, mostly out of disbelief. “Handle him? Hyun, your dog hates me.”

“He doesn’t hate you,” Hyunjin says, though there’s something too quick in his defense, too breathless—like maybe he’s trying to convince himself. “He’s just... territorial.”

You huff a dry laugh. “Yeah, I remember. He tried to piss on my jeans.”

“That was one time.”

“Twice.”

“Okay, but in his defense, they smelled like me.”

You pause. The silence that follows is sharp and sudden, the kind that cuts deep and clean. It’s the kind of silence that remembers.

Because those jeans had smelled like him—after that night. The last one. The one where he’d backed you against the wall of your own bedroom with his fingers still wet from your mouth, where he’d said things he probably didn’t mean and kissed you like he hated how much he did.

The night you both decided—without saying it—that it was over. That whatever “thing” had been pulsing between you wasn’t something either of you could hold without bleeding.

And yet. Here you are. Picking at it like a scab that never healed right.

Your throat works around the memory before your voice does. You don’t say anything at first—just sit there, hand wrapped too tightly around your phone, eyes fixed on some vague point on the wall like if you don’t move, it won’t reach you. Like you can’t still feel him, breath hot against your neck, hands fisting in your sheets, mouth tracing every soft part of you like he was trying to memorize the map of a place he had no business returning to.

He clears his throat on the other end, and it sounds like guilt. Or maybe longing. You’ve always had trouble telling the difference when it came to him.

“Look,” Hyunjin says, quieter now. “I wouldn’t be asking if I had another option. Kkami doesn’t do well with new spaces, and I can’t board him. He’s too anxious, and if he’s not with someone he knows, he’ll make himself sick.”

You finally speak, though your voice is thin. “So you want me to stay at yours.”

A beat. Then—“Yeah.”

Just like that. No sugarcoating. No backpedaling. Just Hyunjin, honest and bare in the way he always was once he stopped pretending not to feel everything at once.

You run a hand down your face. “Hyun, we haven’t talked in almost a year.”

“I know.”

“You haven’t even seen me since—”

“I know.”

He’s not angry, not defensive. Just… raw. Like the words are scraping him on the way out. You can hear the scrape.

“I didn’t think I’d ever call you again,” he admits. “I thought that was the deal. But when they offered me this residency, and I realized I had to leave tonight—you’re the only person I could trust. With him. With my home.”

You bite the inside of your cheek, hard enough to taste the coppery edge of restraint.

His home.

It’s stupid, really. How easy it is to fall back into this rhythm. How even now, after all the months, all the distance, he can still lace your name with history. You’d been friends once. Kind of. You’d laughed a lot, touched a lot, fucked even more—on couches, against doors, in the low hush of early morning when everything was tender and wrong. It was always supposed to be temporary. Temporary, but all-consuming.

But the feelings crept in like rot through the walls. And neither of you were brave enough to call it love, so you called it off instead. 

“I don’t know if that’s a good idea,” you say, but even you don’t sound convinced.

“I’ll wash the sheets,” he jokes weakly.

You laugh, soft and involuntary, the sound catching somewhere in your throat. It’s not really about the sheets.

It never was.

And the silence that follows—god, it aches. Not sharp like the aftermath of a fight, but dull and lingering, like a bruise you don’t remember getting. Like a conversation left open on a table, gathering dust.

You clear your throat. “What time’s your flight?”

“Late,” he says. “But I still have to pack a few pieces and drop off the canvases. It’ll be tight.”

“Do you need help?” The words are out before you can catch them. You curse yourself immediately for the softness in your voice.

He hesitates. “No. It’s fine. Just—just the dog. That’s all I need help with.”

Right. The dog.

You glance at your calendar. Clear. Of course it’s clear.

Of course the universe decided to leave space for this.

“Alright,” you murmur. “Just send me the code. I’ll stay at yours. It’s fine.”

“You don’t have to bring anything,” he rushes to say, and it’s like he’s trying to compensate for the ask with over-kindness. “I washed the old blanket. The one you used to crash under on the couch. It’s still there.”

Your fingers tighten around your phone.

He doesn’t mention that the last time you slept under that blanket, you were still tangled in him. Half-dressed. Half-drunk on him. That he pulled it over your hips after, when you were too spent to move, and he kissed your shoulder like he wanted to stay but didn’t know how.

You don’t bring it up either.

Instead, you breathe out slow. “Cool. I’ll head over in an hour or two.”

“Okay.”

Neither of you say I missed you.

Neither of you say This is weird.

Neither of you say Is this going to break us again?

Instead, Hyunjin adds quietly, “I’ll leave a note.”

“For the dog?”

“For you.”

You close your eyes.

“Okay.”

He doesn’t say goodbye. Just… hangs up.

And you let the dial tone ring for a few seconds longer than you should, like maybe he’ll change his mind. Like maybe you will.

But the silence stays.

And when you finally move, dragging out your overnight bag and stuffing it half-heartedly with essentials, you can’t stop thinking about the smell of his apartment. The way the floor creaks by the hallway. The coffee mugs he used to leave near the sink, rimmed with paint. The pictures he never hung. The sketchbook that held a drawing of you in fading graphite—one he never knew you found.

You wonder if it’s still there.

You wonder what else of you is.

The building hasn’t changed.

You hate that you notice. Hate that your fingers still know the keycode before you even read the text. Hate that the elevator creaks on the same floor. That the hallway smells like turmeric and old wood and the trace of him—Hyunjin, in incense and paint and something vaguely sweet.

His apartment door is unlocked, just like he promised. A sticky note is taped to the front, scrawled in the quick, crooked handwriting you used to recognize across lecture halls and grocery lists alike.

“Come in. He’s dramatic, not dangerous. Don’t let him guilt trip you.” —H.

You roll your eyes and open the door.

It looks the same. Lived-in, messy in a way that’s curated. An art book cracked open on the coffee table. Two mugs in the sink. One of his hoodies flung across the back of the couch like he wore it last night. And maybe he did.

You hear the growl before you see him.

Kkami stands in the middle of the living room, ears pinned back, hackles raised, tail stiff like an accusation. He looks you dead in the eye and lets out a snarl so pointed you actually step back.

“Oh, fuck off,” you mutter, tugging your bag higher on your shoulder. “We’ve been over this.”

He growls again. Louder.

You raise your hands. “I come in peace.”

He barks.

You take a careful step inside, nudging the door shut behind you. Kkami follows your every move like you’re an intruder in a palace he was knighted to protect. 

“I’m not stealing your shit,” you tell the dog. “I’m just crashing here. Ask your absentee father.”

Kkami doesn’t find it funny.

You inch toward the kitchen, where Hyunjin’s written schedule sits neatly beside two bowls—one for food, one for water. Both full. Fresh.

You glance at the clock. He’s probably already at the airport. Maybe already boarding. Maybe looking down at the city through a plane window, tapping his fingers against the glass like he always did when he was anxious. You wonder if he thought about calling you again. You wonder if he’s relieved you didn’t call him first.

Kkami lets out a soft, pitiful whine behind you. When you turn, he’s sitting but tense, eyes never leaving you. Suspicious. Wounded. Territorial, like Hyunjin said.

“Jesus, you’re worse than him,” you sigh.

A folded slip of paper catches your eye. It’s tucked under the magnet shaped like a paintbrush on the fridge. Your name is written across the front.

Your throat tightens.

You don’t open it. Not yet.

You drop your bag by the couch and finally take a seat, letting the quiet settle around you. The apartment hums with memory. You used to sit here wrapped in his hoodie, eating leftover tteokbokki at midnight, legs draped across his lap while he rubbed lazy circles into your shin. You used to kiss in this corner. Fuck in this corner. Sleep in the bed down the hall like it meant nothing, even when it meant too much.

Kkami barks once—sharp and offended—then hops up onto the other end of the couch and curls into a tight, annoyed little donut.

“Truce?” you offer.

He sneezes. Well then.

You sigh and reach for your phone. Maybe you can FaceTime Hyunjin later. Let the dog see him. Hear him. Maybe that’ll help.

Or maybe it’ll make everything worse.

You glance over at the folded blanket. The place where you used to lay your head.

And wonder how long it’ll take for this place to feel empty without him in it.

You don’t sleep well that first night.

Kkami stays curled at the farthest edge of the bed like he’s punishing you, his little back turned, ears twitching at every shift you make beneath the sheets. He doesn’t bark, but he lets out these occasional, theatrical sighs—deep, betrayed, bone-deep things—like you’ve committed the ultimate offense by existing where Hyunjin should be.

You get it.

You feel it too.

In the morning, you wake before the sun finishes rising. The air in the apartment is cold, the kind of cold that seeps into your joints, your thoughts, the hollow behind your ribs. You drag Hyunjin’s blanket from the couch and wrap yourself in it, settle on the floor near the window with a mug of instant coffee that tastes like cardboard and nostalgia.

Kkami watches you from the kitchen doorway, still suspicious.

“Do you have a schedule, or are we just winging it?” you ask him.

He sneezes and turns his head. No comment.

The hours pass slow. You walk him—twice. He barks at a bus, growls at a stroller, and refuses to let you tie his leash to the bench while you grab a coffee from the corner place Hyunjin used to love. You wind up going without.

At noon, you wander the apartment, not touching anything but looking at everything. A half-finished canvas still rests on the easel in the corner. It’s abstract—something celestial, maybe. Blue and smoke and gold bleeding together like bruises in motion. You don’t know if it’s new. You don’t ask.

You think about texting him. Just something simple. He misses you already. Or He hasn’t peed on anything today. But the words feel too light. Too personal. You settle for:

12:31 PM — [You]: he ate most of his food. drank a lot of water too. no accidents.

The read receipt comes instantly. His reply is a few minutes later:

12:36 PM — [Hyunjin]: thank you <3

The heart curls in your chest. You close the app.

You make pasta for dinner and Kkami doesn’t touch his kibble until you sit beside him on the floor and pretend to eat a piece. Then he snarfs it all down like he’s proving a point.

That night, he won’t sleep again. He whines. He paces. He jumps down from the bed and runs to the door, then back again. Tail twitching. Eyes darting.

When you try to pet him, he flinches like he’s expecting a trick. You sit on the floor again, cross-legged in Hyunjin’s oversized hoodie (you told yourself you brought it by accident), and say softly, “He’s not here. It’s just me.”

He whines again. Low and pitiful.

“Me too,” you whisper.

You glance toward the kitchen. Toward the fridge. That little slip of paper still waits, untouched beneath the magnet shaped like a paintbrush. Your name in his handwriting. Like a bruise. Like a dare.

You haven’t opened it. Not yet.

You slept on the couch.

Not because the bed wasn’t made—Hyunjin had even tucked in the corners, left a glass of water on the nightstand like he thought about what you’d need—but because you couldn’t bring yourself to crawl into the same sheets you used to wake up tangled in. Not when the scent of him still lived in the pillowcases. Not when the memory of his hands on your bare back still lingered in the seams of the duvet.

So you curled up under the old blanket instead, the one you used to steal during lazy afternoons and Netflix half-watched kisses and accepted the fact that your neck was going to ache in the morning. Kkami refused to join you. He spent most of the night pacing between the door and the hallway, growling at shadows.

The second night is worse.

Kkami is inconsolable. He won’t eat. Won’t lie down. Won’t stop pacing between the front door and the window like he’s waiting for Hyunjin to materialize from thin air. At one point, he noses Hyunjin’s shoes—left by the entryway—and lets out a sound so hollow and pitiful it actually makes your eyes sting.

You try everything. Treats. Music. White noise. The blanket that still smells like Hyunjin’s shampoo. But nothing works. It’s like something inside him is unraveling, the cord pulled too tight and fraying with every hour he doesn’t see the one person he’s built his little world around.

Same, you think bitterly, and feel stupid for it.

You end up sitting on the kitchen floor around midnight, your legs numb, your patience thinner than it’s been in weeks. Kkami’s resting his chin on his paws but still letting out this tiny, high-pitched whine every few seconds, like he’s trying not to cry but can’t help it.

And that sound—god, that sound shatters something in you.

You sigh, rub your face with both hands, and reach for your phone.

12:04 AM — [You]: he won’t sleep. he’s been crying for an hour. won’t eat either.

You don’t expect him to reply. Not at this hour, not while he’s halfway across the country doing Important Artist Things.

But your screen lights up with an incoming FaceTime call within seconds.

Your heart drops into your stomach.

You hesitate. Just for a second.

Then answer.

And for the first time in nearly a year, you see him.

Hyunjin’s face fills the screen—soft-lit and sleepy, hoodie bunched around his neck like he’d just been getting ready for bed. But it’s not just the setting that throws you. It’s him.

The long hair you used to run your fingers through—gone. All of it. In its place: a buzzcut. Clean, close, severe in a way that shouldn’t suit him but somehow does. It makes his features sharper, more present. Like there’s nothing to hide behind anymore.

You blink. You don’t mean to stare, but the shock is immediate, visceral.

“Hi,” he says, quiet.

You swallow. “Hi.”

He sits up straighter. “Is he okay?”

You shift the camera toward Kkami, who immediately perks up. His ears shoot up like radar, and he lets out a small, startled bark before beelining to your lap—bumping his snout into the phone like he’s trying to crawl through it.

Hyunjin laughs. It’s breathless. Disbelieving.

“God, he’s dramatic.”

“He gets it from you,” you mutter.

Kkami presses against your chest like he’s trying to bury himself in your heart, finally calm now, finally still. You stroke a hand down his back and try not to think about the fact that it took Hyunjin’s voice to soothe him.

You glance at the screen again. Hyunjin’s watching you, not Kkami.

There’s a beat where neither of you speak. The only sound is Kkami’s soft breathing and the low hum of the city outside the window.

Then, gently:

“I left you something,” he says.

You swallow. “I know.”

“I wasn’t sure if you’d find it.”

“I did.”

“You gonna open it?”

You glance toward the fridge. The note still waits, tucked under the paintbrush magnet like a secret too fragile to touch.

“Not yet,” you say.

And he doesn’t push. Just nods. “Okay.”

Kkami shifts closer to your thigh and exhales, finally resting his chin on your knee. You pet him with one hand, still holding the phone in the other.

“He’s sleeping now,” you whisper.

“So are you.”

You blink. “What?”

“Your eyes,” he says. “They do that thing. The little flutter when you’re about to crash.”

You’re too tired to argue. Too tired to ask why he remembers that.

“I’ll hang up,” he offers.

You don’t say no.

You just murmur, “Goodnight, Hyun.”

And you hear the softness in his voice as he says it back:

“Goodnight.”

You don’t sleep much better that night.

But Kkami doesn’t cry again.

The next few days fall into a strange kind of rhythm—quiet, off-kilter, but somehow soothing in the way old routines can be, even when they’re made of things that weren’t meant to last.

Kkami still hates you by daylight.

He growls when you walk into the room. Barks when you open the fridge. Refuses to eat unless you pretend not to look. He doesn’t let you pet him unless he’s half-asleep or tricked by a treat, and he definitely doesn’t let you forget that this is his house, his couch, his missing person.

But at night, when Hyunjin calls, it’s like a switch flips.

Kkami leaps into your lap the moment the ringtone echoes through the apartment. He curls there, fast and warm and trembling just slightly, like he’s spent all day building tension he doesn’t know how to unspool without Hyunjin’s voice in the room.

You always answer on the couch, blanket pulled tight around your shoulders, phone propped up against a half-full glass of water. Hyunjin always looks a little tired, a little flushed from wherever he’s just come back from—a gallery tour, a studio session, a walk through some city that doesn’t have your footprints on its sidewalks.

He tells you about the art residency. The gallery director who makes coffee that tastes like battery acid. The studio space—wide and cold and full of light. He tells you about a piece he’s working on: abstract, rough, loud in a way he hasn’t painted in years.

“You’d hate it,” he laughs, voice crackling faintly through the call. “It’s all jagged lines. Chaos. I think it’s about… hunger. Or maybe grief. I don’t know.”

“I never hated your work,” you say.

Hyunjin quiets. Then, low:

“You hated what it did to me.”

Your breath catches.

Because he’s right.

You did.

You hated the way he disappeared into it—into himself—those long stretches of silence when he wouldn’t eat, wouldn’t sleep, wouldn’t touch you unless it was desperate and fleeting, like he was chasing the ghost of something he could never quite hold. You hated the way he used his own pain like paint thinner, diluted himself until all that was left was color on canvas and a shell of the boy you used to fall asleep beside.

But you don’t say that.

You just sit there, curled on his couch in his hoodie you’ve stolen from his drawer, your phone glowing in the soft hush of midnight.

“I hated how much it hurt you,” you say instead. “That’s not the same thing.”

Hyunjin nods slowly, his lips pressed into a line. “No. It’s not.”

Kkami shifts in your lap, stretching a little, his snout nudging your elbow before he sighs and drifts deeper into sleep. You stroke his fur absently, eyes still locked on the screen, on Hyunjin’s face—the new angles of it, the way the buzzcut makes him look older, sharper, like a wound that finally scabbed over.

He watches you for a while. Then murmurs, “I was scared to call you.”

You smile, tired and small. “I figured.”

“I thought you’d say no. That you wouldn’t even answer.”

“I almost didn’t.”

His throat bobs. “Why’d you say yes?”

You don’t answer right away.

Because it’s not just about the dog. Not just about the key he left under the stairs or the food already stocked or the note still waiting on the fridge like a breath you’re not ready to exhale.

You look at him. Really look.

And when you speak, it’s quiet. Honest.

“Because I missed you. Even when I hated missing you.”

The silence after is different this time.

He blinks. His mouth parts like he’s going to say something, but all that comes out is a whisper.

“Fuck.”

You let out a laugh—dry, breathless. “Yeah.”

He shifts on the screen, pulling the blanket tighter around his shoulders. “You still sleep on the couch?”

“Every night.”

“Why?”

“Because the bed remembers more than I’m ready to.”

His eyes flicker. He nods once. Like he understands. Like he hasn’t been sleeping either.

Another pause. Then—

“I dream about you,” he says.

And it’s not a confession. It’s a bruise. Something he’s been pressing on in the dark just to see if it still hurts.

You blink. “Hyun—”

“Not just the sex,” he adds, voice hoarse. “Though… yeah. That too. A lot, actually.”

You glance away, heat creeping up your neck. “You don’t have to say that.”

“I want to,” he says. “I want you to know I still—”

He cuts himself off. Breathes out hard. Shakes his head.

Kkami stirs in your lap, shifting slightly. The air feels too tight suddenly, the silence too loud.

You focus on Kkami. On the slow rise and fall of his small body, the way his paws twitch in sleep like he’s chasing something warm. It grounds you—barely.

Hyunjin exhales on the other end of the line. You can hear it, soft and ragged, the kind of breath that holds everything he didn’t say. Everything he still might.

You don’t speak. Not yet. Because what could you say? I still touch myself to the thought of you? I still wear your hoodie like armor when I can’t sleep? I still think about that night on the floor when we couldn’t stop, even though we knew it was already over?

None of it would come out right.

So instead, you keep your voice even when you ask, “Do you paint me?”

The question slips out before you can stop it. You don't even know why you asked it. Maybe its because you're so sleepy you can't filter you're thoughts. Maybe because he mentioned it once, over soggy cereal over the golden morning light that filtered through the blinds, over the laughter you've never quite had again.

Hyunjin stills.

On the screen, he doesn’t look shocked. He looks… worn. Like someone who’s been carrying the answer around for a while and doesn’t know where to put it.

“I try not to,” he says eventually. Quiet. Careful. “But you always end up there.”

Your breath falters. You nod slowly, like that’s an answer you expected—because it is. Because you knew. Somehow, you always knew.

You shift the phone slightly, angle it so he can see the window behind you. The dark skyline. The reflection of the room, soft and gold and full of ghosts. Your voice is steadier than you feel when you say, “I haven’t opened it.”

“I know,” he replies, just as soft.

“I want to. But…”

“You don’t have to explain.”

“I think I need more time.”

“Take it,” he murmurs. “I left it because I had to, not because I needed anything back.”

You nod. Not that he can see it—not really. But somehow, you think he feels it anyway.

“Okay,” you say. It's the only thing you can manage that doesn’t crack under its own weight.

A pause stretches between you. Soft. Not cold. Just full. Like the breath before a confession. Like the second before a kiss.

Kkami snores lightly, curled deeper into your lap now, his whole body lax with trust. You glance down at him, stroke a thumb between his ears, then look back at the screen.

Hyunjin’s still watching you. Not the dog. Not the view.

Just you.

“You’re wearing my hoodie,” he murmurs, a little smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

You shrug, suddenly shy. “Didn’t pack enough layers.”

“I knew you’d steal something,” he says, teasing, but low—like he's remembering the way you used to steal everything from him. His clothes. His time. His breath.

“You left the drawer cracked open on purpose.”

“Maybe.”

His smile softens into something quieter. More real.

“I used to love seeing you in my stuff,” he adds. “Used to come home and hope you’d be there. Curled up in it. Pretending to wait for me.”

You swallow. It’s harder than it should be. “I wasn’t pretending.”

Hyunjin blinks slowly. Like that hit him somewhere unexpected. Somewhere tender.

And then, quietly, almost afraid to hope: “Are you still?”

You could lie. You could deflect. But instead, you meet his eyes through the screen.

“I haven’t been with anyone else.”

His jaw works. “Neither have I.”

The words land between you like a marker—drawing a line not to separate, but to measure distance. And maybe the distance isn’t as wide as you thought.

Your fingers curl a little tighter in Kkami’s fur.

“I should go to bed,” you say. Your voice is quiet. A little raw.

“Okay,” Hyunjin whispers. “Me too.”

But neither of you move. The seconds tick by. You don’t even blink.

Eventually, he says, “Tomorrow night. Can I call again?”

You let out a soft breath, not quite a laugh. “Hyun… you’ve been calling every night.”

His smile doesn’t fade, but it shifts—tilts into something deeper. Less playful. More certain.

“I know,” he says. “But that was for Kkami.”

You blink. “And tomorrow?”

His gaze doesn’t waver. Not once.

“That’s for you.”

It knocks the wind out of you a little, the way he says it. Not romantic. Not dramatic. Just simple. True. Like he’s only just letting himself say it out loud, but he’s known it all along.

Your throat tightens. “Oh.”

Hyunjin watches you carefully. “Is that okay?”

You nod once. “Yeah. It’s… more than okay.”

Something in his posture loosens then, like he’s been holding a breath he can finally let go of. His shoulders drop. His mouth twitches again, a smile fighting its way to the surface but not quite forming—like he’s still afraid to want too much, to hope too fast.

You don’t know what tomorrow will bring. Not really.

But you know you’ll answer.

And maybe this time you’ll stop pretending it’s for the dog.

“You’re on the bed.”

Hyunjin says it the moment the screen connects. No hello. No lead-up. Just those four words, soft and low and unmistakably aware.

You blink at him from where you’re sitting, back pressed to the headboard, knees pulled up beneath the comforter. His comforter.

You almost lie. Almost say you were just passing through. That the light was better in here. That Kkami stole the couch.

But Hyunjin’s already smiling—slow and knowing, like he’s been waiting for this.

You exhale through your nose. “Kkami’s on the couch.”

“Mm,” he hums, a little amused. “So it’s just you in my bed.”

Your fingers tighten around the phone, feeling a little flustered. “Is that going to be a problem?”

His eyes darken a shade, but the smile stays. “Not even a little.”

You roll onto your side, careful not to let the phone slip. The sheets are warm beneath you, still smelling faintly like cedar and fabric softener and something only he ever carried. His presence is everywhere in this room. On the walls. In the folded clothes. Under your skin.

Hyunjin shifts on his end of the call—he’s propped up on pillows, a fitted black tank clinging to his chest, the cut of it leaving little to the imagination. His toned arms are on full display, lean muscle catching the dim light, subtle and sculpted like something sketched in charcoal. His expression is unreadable, caught somewhere between reverence and restraint.

“I thought about you today,” he says after a beat.

You tuck your face into the pillow, just a little. “Like you usually do?”

“Yeah,” he breathes. “But this time I didn’t fight it.”

Your heart thuds against your ribs, slow and heavy. “What were you thinking?”

His gaze dips, like he’s shy all of a sudden. “That I miss you. That I used to wake up to you in that bed.”

You swallow, voice thinner now. “It’s a little colder without you.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

The silence that follows is different from all the others before it. It’s thick. Electric. It hums with all the things neither of you have said but haven’t stopped feeling. The kind of silence that shifts when the air gets warmer, when the breath starts catching, when the ache finally starts to slip through.

Hyunjin wets his lips. His voice is barely a whisper. “You look good there.”

You bite the inside of your cheek. “I feel... restless.”

He shifts again, almost imperceptibly. “Tell me.”

Your gaze flickers. “Tell you what?”

“What you’re thinking. Right now.”

You hesitate.

But then, softly, deliberately: “I was thinking about your hands.”

Hyunjin’s mouth parts slightly.

“I was thinking about how you used to touch me here,” you say, dragging your fingers over the blanket, slow, just below your collarbone. “And here.” Down, lower now, to the place between your ribs.

His breath stutters through the speaker.

“And I was wondering…” you murmur, voice barely above a hum, “if you miss the way I used to say your name when you touched me like that.”

Hyunjin closes his eyes for a second. When he opens them again, they’re dark, focused, hungry.

“I think about it all the time,” he says. “Every fucking night.”

Your thighs press together under the blanket. You feel your pulse everywhere—behind your knees, in your fingertips, between your legs. It’s not even about the sex. Not yet. It’s about the weight of being wanted by someone who remembers you—who still remembers.

“I haven’t touched anyone else,” you say.

He swallows hard. “Don’t.”

“I don’t want to.”

Hyunjin nods slowly. “Me either.”

Then, quiet: “Can I stay on the call?”

You blink. “What do you mean?”

“I mean,” he says, voice rough now, “if I asked you to touch yourself… would you let me watch?”

Your breath catches. Not from nerves. From need.

You don’t say yes. You just let the phone settle against the pillow beside you, angled toward your face, the way he used to tilt your chin when he wanted a better look at how undone you were.

The sheets shift as your hand moves lower.

Hyunjin watches. And when he speaks, it’s barely a whisper, like he’s already somewhere far beneath the surface with you.

“Fuck. You always looked so pretty like this.”

You inhale shakily, fingers slipping beneath the waistband of your sleep shorts, slow and careful, testing the heat already gathered there.

Hyunjin’s eyes drag down your body. His tongue flicks out to wet his lips. His voice is rough with memory.

“Remember that time on the floor? After your exam? You were so out of it—barely undressed. I just shoved your panties to the side and made you come in, what, two minutes?”

You let out a quiet, choked sound at the back of your throat.

He smiles—crooked, dark. “Yeah. You clenched so hard around my fingers I thought I’d lose them.”

You whimper softly. Your hand moves slow, wet, dragging through the mess of your own need, slick pooling beneath your fingertips like your body remembers him even better than your mind does.

“God, that sound,” Hyunjin breathes. “That little gasp when you’re just starting to touch yourself. Same one you made when I used to run my fingers down your stomach—real slow, just to watch you twitch.”

You press harder against your clit, circles tightening, mouth falling open as your back arches into the memory. He’s not even touching you, and still—your body bends like it’s learned him by muscle memory.

Hyunjin notices. Of course he does.

“Look at you,” he murmurs, voice gone low and ragged, the kind that scrapes the inside of your throat just hearing it. “All spread out in my bed. Fucking yourself open with your hand like you want me to see everything. Like you know I used to make you feel better than anyone else ever could.”

You moan, breath catching, and Hyunjin’s smile sharpens.

“Touch your tits,” he says, not as a command—but a conjuring. Like he already knows you’re aching for it. “Lift your shirt for me.”

You obey without a sound, pushing the hem up slowly, just enough to expose the curve of one breast, the soft point of your nipple hard and aching from the friction of your shirt.

He groans. “You remember how obsessed I was with your tits? Couldn’t stop sucking on them. Couldn’t stop biting.” His jaw clenches. “You used to beg me to be gentle. And then beg me not to stop.”

Your fingers slide down again—slippery, desperate. Your thighs shake under the weight of it. The rhythm is messier now, your hips chasing pressure. Hyunjin watches all of it, his hand dragging down his torso, disappearing beneath his waistband.

“Touching yourself in my bed,” he growls. “Wearing my shirt. Letting me watch while you make yourself come for me.”

He’s panting now, hand working slow, deliberate strokes beneath the screen. His tank top clings to his chest, sweat beading along his collarbones. His buzzed hair is messy, sticking slightly to his forehead, and his mouth—his fucking mouth—is red and parted, like he’s still tasting you.

“You remember the way I used to fuck you from behind?” he says. “Pushed your face into the mattress, held your hips like you’d run from me if I let go?”

You whimper—your fingers falter, then speed up.

“Could barely breathe, baby. You’d just sob into the sheets. You loved it. Took every inch, crying like you couldn’t handle it—and still begged for more.”

Your body goes taut, heels digging into the mattress, orgasm hovering just out of reach.

Hyunjin's voice drops to a growl, breath quick and filthy. “Bet your pussy’s fucking tight right now. Clenching like it forgot what it’s supposed to take—like it’s trying to remember the shape of my cock.”

He groans, low and wrecked. “Don’t worry, baby. I’ll teach it again. I’ll stretch you open so slow you feel it for days. Won’t stop ‘til you’re dripping all over my sheets, crying into the pillow, begging for more.”

You whimper his name—helpless. Shattered.

“You want me to say it?” Hyunjin pants, fist working now, muscles flexing. “Want me to tell you how I’d do it?”

You nod, frantic. Desperate.

His voice turns molten. Thick with lust, arrogance, something cruel and beautiful.

“I’d start slow. Tease you with just the tip. Let you feel the stretch, let you beg for the rest of it. Then I’d give you all of it at once—deep, hard. Just to see you fucking cry.”

You do cry out. The tension in your body snaps tighter, hips lifting off the bed, toes curling. So close.

“I’d fuck you into the mattress,” he growls. “Grip your hips and slam into you so hard you’d lose your voice. You remember how I’d do that? Say, ‘You’re not done yet, baby. You can take it.’ And you always fucking would.”

You’re whimpering now, moaning into your own shoulder to muffle the sound, fingers moving in slippery, filthy rhythm. The orgasm’s close—so close—spooling at the base of your spine, hot and tight and relentless.

“Oh, fuck, there it is,” he gasps, fucking into his fist now, stroking faster. “You’re close. I can see it—hear it. Just like that, baby. Let go for me. Come for the boy who still dreams about the way you taste. Come for the fucking lunatic who’d trade his last painting just to feel your pussy clench around his fingers one more time.”

That breaks you.

You moan his name—soft, ruined, high-pitched—and you come with your hand buried between your thighs, eyes fluttering, back arching. The pleasure pulses through you in waves, soaked and frantic and unstoppable.

“God, you’re still so fucking perfect,” he grits out. “I could’ve painted this. You—like that. That’s my favorite version of you.”

You whimper, still trembling.

He grins. Dark. Gleaming. “Wanna see what you do to me?”

You nod, dizzy.

He shifts the phone—just enough for you to see the slick length of him in his hand. Red at the tip, dripping, veins thick under taut skin. His pace is ruthless now.

“I used to fuck your thighs just to tease you,” he pants. “Not even your pussy. Just that pretty space between them. Used to slide my cock right there and come all over your stomach.”

You let out a breathy sound of disbelief, hips twitching in aftershock. Your cunt flutters around nothing, empty and aching.

“Fucking ruined me,” he snarls. “You ruined me. No one else has even come close. No one sounds like you. No one feels like you.”

And then, through gritted teeth:

“I’m gonna come thinking about your mouth. That filthy little tongue. That sweet fucking smile you gave me while I fucked your throat.”

Your legs tremble again.

“Fuck, baby—fuckfuckfuck—”

He comes with your name on his tongue, head thrown back, muscles tensed, body shuddering through it as his hips stutter beneath the blanket. His jaw slackens, hand squeezing out the last twitch of pleasure.

The silence after is sharp. Breathless.

Your own body still buzzes, skin flushed, sheets damp with sweat and want and memory.

Neither of you speak at first. Just breathing. Just staring.

Eventually, Hyunjin looks up again. His voice is hoarse, trembling at the edges.

“Tell me this isn’t just sex.”

You don’t.

You just stare back.

And then you hang up.

You hang up, and your hand is still trembling. Your whole body is still trembling, wrecked in ways that have nothing to do with the orgasm.

It takes less than a minute for him to call back.

Then again.

And again.

You watch the screen light up with his name—Hyun—and each time, it makes your stomach twist so violently it feels like punishment. Like grief.

You don’t answer.

The fifth time, he stops calling. Thirty seconds later, your phone dings with a text.

[Hyunjin]: i’m sorry. please just tell me if that was too much. [Hyunjin]: i didn’t mean to push you. i didn’t mean to fuck everything up. [Hyunjin]: we don’t have to talk about it. we can pretend it didn’t happen if you want. i’ll follow your lead. just… please say something.

You don’t respond to those either.

You just turn off read receipts and shove the phone under the pillow.

The next few days go by in a strange, slow blur.

You and Kkami settle into a rhythm. He doesn’t bark anymore when you walk past. Doesn’t flinch when you reach for his leash. He even curls up at your feet when you’re on the couch, sometimes nuzzling his nose into your ankle like he’s already decided you belong here.

It should feel comforting.

It doesn’t.

You stop sitting in Hyunjin’s bed. You stop wearing the hoodie. You wash it, fold it, and put it back exactly where you found it, like none of this ever happened.

You send him brief texts. Clipped. Neutral.

[You]: he ate all his dinner. no accidents. slept fine.

[You]: took him for a walk. he peed on someone’s shoe.

[You]: when’s your flight again? 

You don’t tell him how it feels like the walls have closed in.

How you’ve stopped sleeping in his bed again—even if the couch hurts your back. Even if the couch doesn’t smell quite like him. 

How Kkami curls up beside you now without growling, without guilt. You take him for long walks. Let him tug you through the park. Let him bark at pigeons and lick your knuckles and rest his chin on your thigh when you scroll through old texts you don’t send anymore.

You don’t cry. But your chest aches in a way that feels dangerously close.

You were never going to be able to leave without feeling like this.

But now it’s worse. Because you let yourself want again.

And it’s giving you vertigo.

[Hyunjin]: should be back around 5:30. just leave the key in the box. thank you again. for everything.

You stare at the message for a long time.

Not because of what it says.

But because of what it doesn’t.

And what you don’t know is this:

Hyunjin’s lying.

His flight lands at 3:10.

He’s already halfway through the city when you’re zipping up your bag.

He’s already in the elevator by the time you’re taking out the trash.

And he’s standing at the front door—key in hand, chest tight, hands shaking—when you reach for the handle to leave.

You open the door and nearly collide with him.

You freeze.

The air catches.

Time does something strange.

Hyunjin’s just… there.

Sweatshirt slung over his shoulder, suitcase by his side, curls of damp air clinging to the collar of his shirt from the humid sprint through the city. And his eyes—sharp, dark, wide with something between relief and devastation—lock onto yours like he’s forgotten how to blink.

For a second, neither of you speaks.

Then—

“Hyun—?”

Kkami barrels into view like a missile. He lets out a shrill bark of excitement and practically throws himself into Hyunjin’s legs, circling and jumping and whining like he’s just won the fucking lottery.

But Hyunjin doesn’t look down. Doesn’t move. Doesn’t even blink.

He just stares at you.

And says, low, quiet, steady:

“You were really gonna leave.”

You clutch your bag a little tighter. “You said you’d be back at five.”

“I lied.”

You swallow. “I figured that part out.”

His jaw clenches. His hands twitch by his sides, like he doesn’t know whether to reach for you or shove them into his pockets or bury them in your skin just to make sure you’re real.

Kkami lets out another bark, trying to wedge his head between you two like he’s the center of gravity—but Hyunjin doesn’t even glance down. Not once.

All of him is focused on you.

“You weren’t going to say goodbye.”

It’s not a question. It’s an accusation. A plea. A wound.

“I didn’t think you wanted me to.”

“Bullshit.”

That makes you flinch. Just a little. He sees it. His expression softens, but only barely.

Hyunjin steps forward. Not fast—but purposeful. Like if he stops now, you’ll disappear all over again.

“I’m sorry,” he says, voice taut with something sharp. “I’m sorry I came on too strong. I’m sorry I didn’t give you time. I’m sorry I didn’t say what I should’ve said months ago, years ago—fuck, the morning after. But don’t stand here and tell me I didn’t want you.”

You inhale—tight, shallow. Like there’s no room in your lungs for this.

For him.

“Hyun—”

“No,” he cuts in, but it’s not cruel. Just cracked. “You don’t get to walk out and let me find the ghost of you in my bed again. Not after you let me see you like that. Not after I—”

His voice breaks.

He swallows it down.

Kkami sits at his feet now, finally quiet, as if even he knows this part isn’t his.

“I meant it,” Hyunjin says, softer now. “That night. Everything I said. Everything I remembered. It wasn’t just to get you off.”

Your fingers tighten around the strap of your bag.

“You said you missed me,” he goes on. “But then you shut the door in my face. And I was willing to pretend I didn’t care. I was willing to take scraps just to be near you. But if you’re still standing in front of me—if you haven’t walked away yet—then just fucking tell me.”

He looks at you like he’s trying to memorize you all over again.

You look at him. Really look. And you know—he’s not going to let you run.

Not this time.

“Go get the note.”

His voice is soft, but firm. Like a command spoken through a kiss. Like an ache wrapped in velvet.

You blink. “What?”

“The letter,” he repeats. “The one I left you. On the fridge.”

You freeze.

“I know you haven’t opened it.”

You swallow. “I wasn’t ready.”

“I don’t care,” he says, and there’s a flicker of something dark in his voice—something possessive, guttural. “I want you to read it. Now.”

You hesitate.

“Please,” he adds, and that’s what breaks you.

You nod—barely—and turn without a word. Each step toward the kitchen feels thick, underwater.

You open it, and—

It’s not a letter.

Not really.

It’s a patchwork of thoughts, of half-confessions. Scribbled lines, crossed-out phrases, uneven spacing. The ink changes color midway—black, then blue, then black again. Some words are written in cursive. Some in a rush. Some like they cost him something to write.

You glance up. He nods again.

“Read it,” he says. “Out loud.”

You hesitate. Then you read.

“You once laughed in your sleep, and I didn’t sleep at all that night. I just watched you and hoped that whoever you were dreaming about looked like me.”

You swallow hard. Keep going.

The ink shifts color. From deep black to something fainter. Navy. A pen running dry, maybe.

Your voice wavers.

“There’s a sweater you left. It doesn’t smell like you anymore. I hold it anyway.”

Hyunjin’s throat works. He doesn’t interrupt.

“I never painted your face. Couldn’t do it. Couldn’t get your eyes right. But I painted your hands. A hundred times. Because they always knew how to hold me better than I knew how to ask.”

Your chest twists. You can’t speak the words out loud anymore, but you read. You read and read and read until there is nothing left, until the space between you feels alive–electric. 

He steps forward. Just one step. But it’s enough to close the distance.

“I lied,” Hyunjin says, voice low, rough. “The sitter didn’t cancel.”

You blink. “What?”

“I had people,” he continues. “So many people I could’ve called. People I trust. People who would’ve said yes.”

His eyes are burning now—dark, wet, glittering with something fragile and ferocious.

“But I didn’t want them. I wanted you.”

You don’t say anything. Can’t. Your hands are trembling.

“I told myself it was about Kkami. About the timing. About convenience.” He huffs out a broken laugh. “But it wasn’t. It was you. It was always you.”

Your breath falters.

“I missed you,” he says. “So much it made me sick. I thought I could bury it. Paint over it. Work through it. But I couldn’t. I never did. You’ve always been underneath it all—under the hunger, the silence, the mess I made of myself.”

He steps closer. You’re breathing the same air now.

“I loved you then,” he says. “When we were tangled up in bedsheets and half-truths and pretending it didn’t mean anything. I loved you when you wore my hoodie and called me yours with your eyes. I loved you the second I saw you, and I—”

His voice cracks.

“And I love you now.”

You don't remember moving. Don’t remember closing the gap, dropping your bag, reaching for him with hands that should’ve known better.

All you know is this: one second, you're blinking back tears, and the next, you're kissing him like you're drowning.

Hyunjin catches you with both hands—one at your jaw, the other curling around your waist, steadying. The kiss is messy, open-mouthed, frantic. His lips part on a gasp when you press your body to his, and then he's devouring you like something starved.

Your back hits the wall. His teeth scrape your bottom lip. Fingers thread into his hair—short now, prickling at the scalp—and he groans like it’s breaking him.

You drop your bag. You don’t even hear it hit the floor.

You don’t care.

His hands are everywhere. On your waist, your hips, the curve of your spine. He pulls you in so tight you feel the tremor in his arms, the sheer desperation coiled in his chest like a spring pulled too far.

“Fuck,” he whispers, forehead pressed to yours. “I’ve wanted this—I’ve wanted you—”

His voice breaks again, and then he’s back on you, lips trailing across your jaw, down the line of your neck. You tilt your head back, eyes fluttering shut, mouth parting on a moan as he bites softly into your throat—just enough to mark. Just enough to remember.

Your hands scrabble at the hem of his shirt, yanking it up, palms hungry on bare skin. He hisses as your nails drag over his stomach, muscles twitching beneath the heat of your touch.

“Take it off,” you breathe.

He does. In one motion, the tank top is gone—flung to the floor like it offended him. And you stare. You can’t help it.

He’s still art. Still all sharp lines and soft skin and lean, desperate hunger. His chest heaves with every breath, sweat glinting in the hollow of his throat, and you think: I could die like this. I could burn for him and never want to be saved.

Hyunjin kisses you again—harder this time, hungrier. Like he heard it. Like he wants to go up in flames with you.

His hands slide under your thighs, lifting you without warning, and you gasp as your back hits the wall again, legs wrapping instinctively around his waist. The air shifts. Your breath catches. His cock presses against you through his jeans—thick, hot, twitching with every grind of his hips.

“I can’t wait,” he pants against your mouth. “I need to be inside you. Right now.”

“Then do it,” you breathe, dragging your nails down his back. “Hyune—please—”

Hyunjin breathes something that sounds like a curse, or maybe a prayer, and then he’s walking—stumbling, really—half-guided by the desperate way you’re clinging to him, the press of your mouths, the sharp hitch of your breath when he grabs at your ass to hold you higher. You barely register the shift from wall to bedroom until your back hits the mattress, until the world becomes sheets and skin and the low rasp of his voice murmuring your name like it’s sacred.

The mattress gives beneath your weight, springs groaning under the tangle of limbs and heat and history. Hyunjin follows you down like gravity itself — hands sliding, mouth chasing, body already slotting between your thighs as if it never forgot where it belonged.

His shirt is gone. Yours joins it. He kisses you through every inch of skin he unveils, frantic and starved and reverent, like he’s not sure whether to worship you or ruin you.

You arch beneath him when his tongue traces the curve of your breast, the bite of his teeth following fast after — a soft sting that makes your breath catch, your fingers dig into his shoulders. He groans when your nails drag down his back, when your thighs fall open wider.

And then he’s there — rutting against your center, clothed still but so hard it aches through the friction, the weight of him pressing perfect and punishing between your legs.

You can’t think. Can’t breathe. Can only move — hips grinding up to meet every desperate push of his, your cunt soaked and aching with the need to be filled.

Hyunjin’s hand slips down, hooking your thigh over his hip. He grinds into you through the last barrier, jeans rough against your soaked underwear, and it’s filthy the way your body answers—already arching, already clenching around nothing. You chase the friction shamelessly, trying to wring every ounce of pressure you can from the maddening drag of his cock pressed to your core.

He hisses against your throat, breath hot, teeth scraping the fragile skin there. You’re drenched. There’s no mistaking it—the way your panties cling, the way your slick seeps through them and stains his jeans, how he shudders just from the heat of you pulsing against the fabric.

The zipper’s down before you can even register the motion. He pushes his jeans low enough to free himself—hard and heavy and flushed dark with want. Your mouth waters at the sight of it. He tears your panties off with a quiet growl, not cruel, just crazed with the need to feel skin on skin, no more layers, no more time.

When he lines up and pushes in, it’s one long, devastating stroke—his cock thick and perfect and stretching you open like you were made for it.

You gasp—sharp, strangled. Your nails sink into his back.

Hyunjin goes still.

Buried to the hilt inside you, his entire body trembling with restraint, every muscle locked tight like he’s trying to keep himself from coming right then and there.

“Fuck,” he breathes, voice wrecked. “You—oh my god—”

His forehead drops to your shoulder. He’s shaking. You feel it. In his arms, in his breath, in the way his cock pulses deep inside you without moving. The kind of overwhelmed that turns to worship. The kind of ruin that feels like coming home.

You tighten around him instinctively—hungry, pulsing—and he lets out a strangled moan against your skin.

“I swear to god,” he whispers, forehead pressing to yours. “If I move, I’m gonna come like a fucking teenager.”

Your nails dig deeper into his back, anchoring him there, as if you could stop time with the press of your fingertips. His cock twitches inside you, thick and throbbing, and it feels like too much and not enough all at once.

Hyunjin groans—low, raw, like the sound is being dragged out of him by force.

“Fuck, baby,” he pants. “You feel… I forgot—fuck, I forgot how perfect you are.”

You whimper, breath caught in your throat. You’re stretched so full it feels like splitting—blissfully unbearable. Like he’s carved to fit you, or maybe you were carved for him.

He doesn’t move. Can’t. His whole body is locked in place, every muscle drawn taut with the kind of restraint that hurts.

“I’m gonna embarrass myself,” he rasps. “You’re so warm, I—I need a second.”

You nod, gasping. “Okay.”

But your body doesn’t care. It’s greedy. Slick clings to your inner thighs, to the base of his cock. You pulse around him again—tight, hot, involuntary—and he shudders, a curse breaking on his lips.

“You’re doing that on purpose,” he whispers, biting your shoulder.

“I’m not,” you breathe, but your hips roll anyway, a tiny grind up into his stillness.

Hyunjin moans—loud, broken. “Baby, I’m serious. You do that again and I’ll fucking—”

You clench again, on purpose this time.

He snaps.

In one hard thrust, he pulls out halfway and slams back in. You cry out—sharp, wanton—as your body folds around his. The stretch. The impact. The sound of skin on skin.

“Oh my god,” you gasp, your head tipping back, throat exposed.

Hyunjin watches the way your mouth parts, how your breasts bounce with every desperate snap of his hips. He groans then drops his mouth to your chest, sucking a bruise over your heart.

“This mine?” he pants, dragging his cock out slow before plunging back in. “Still mine?”

You can’t speak. Can only nod, breath caught in your throat. He fucks you through the motion, slow and deep now, the grind of his cock so obscene you swear you can feel him everywhere—behind your knees, in your throat, echoing in every part of you that remembers how he used to love you.

“No, baby,” he murmurs, voice fraying, fingers sliding under your knee to push your thigh back, opening you wider. “Say it. Let me hear you say it.”

“It’s—” Your voice breaks on a moan when he thrusts deep again, dragging against that spot that makes your vision go white at the edges. “It’s yours, Hyunjin. Always.”

He groans into your chest like the words punched the air out of him. Then he’s fucking you harder, deeper, like he’s trying to anchor himself in the way you take him. The bed creaks, the headboard thuds against the wall, but you don’tHe moans into your chest like the words physically hit him, his thrusts growing messier, more frantic. His hand finds yours and pins it above your head, fingers lacing together tight, grounding him even as he loses himself in the slick, pulsing heat of you.

You’re soaked, ruined, trembling under every thick slide of his cock. He hits so deep it borders on pain, and yet you arch into it—into him—dragging him closer, clawing at his back like if you could just get closer, it might be enough.

“I missed this pussy,” he growls, the words slurred and broken against your throat. “I fucking dreamed about it. Thought about it every night with my cock in my hand—nothing felt as good, nothing—fuck—”

You keen, high-pitched, overwhelmed. Your body pulses around him again, tight as a vice, and it makes him stutter—a half-thrust cut short by the shudder that runs through him.

He kisses you then—desperate, biting, tongue dragging into your mouth like he wants to consume you from the inside out.

You’re moan is swallowed by his mouth when he hits that spot—deep and relentless—and your whole body jolts. Your back arches, your legs tighten around his waist, dragging him deeper.

“Right there?” he growls. “That the spot, baby?”

You nod, frantic, mouth open but no words coming—just breath, just heat, just the sound of him splitting you open again and again.

Hyunjin grins. It's crooked. Crooked and cocky and dizzy with something feral. Like he’s gone. Like you’ve pulled him under with you.

“Yeah,” he breathes, thrusting deeper, slower now, grinding his hips in a filthy circle that makes your eyes roll back. “I remember. Right there. Got you clenching like you’re about to cry.”

contine this: His voice breaks on a moan, guttural and reverent. “Fuck, that’s so pretty—so fucking pretty, baby—your face when I fuck you like this.”

He’s unraveling, you can feel it—his rhythm fraying, pace faltering, every thrust a prayer half-remembered. He buries himself deep and stays there, hips pressed flush, cock pulsing inside you like a heartbeat. His forehead falls to yours again, and he’s breathing so hard it shakes both your bodies.

“You gonna cry for me?” he whispers, voice all fray and silk. “Wanna see it, wanna feel you fall apart. I’ll take care of it—I’ll hold you through it, I promise.”

You don’t mean to. But it’s been too much—his mouth, his voice, the stretch of him splitting you open in perfect, deliberate ruin. Your eyes blur, your breath hitches, and before you can stop it—

A tear slips down your cheek.

Hyunjin sees it. And something inside him shatters.

“Oh my god,” he chokes, fingers trembling where they hold your thigh. “That’s it, that’s—fuck—”

He fucks you through it, slow and deep, every stroke angled to keep you on the edge. His free hand cradles your face, thumb brushing the wetness from your cheek. And he’s murmuring now, wrecked and ragged and sweet:

“You’re so good for me. So perfect. I don’t deserve you—I don’t—”

You cry out again, back arching as your orgasm hits—wave after wave of unbearable heat crashing through you. You seize around him, walls fluttering, hips stuttering beneath his weight.

Hyunjin groans like it’s killing him. Like the feel of you falling apart around his cock is undoing him thread by thread.

“Can I—fuck, baby, where do you want it?” he gasps, teeth gritted, body coiled so tight you think he might break apart if you say no.

“Inside,” you breathe, wrecked and shameless. “Want it inside—please.”

That last word shreds him.

He thrusts once—deep, sharp—then again, slower this time, drawn-out like he’s trying to memorize the way you feel. His eyes flutter shut. His mouth falls open. And then he’s coming—hard.

A low, desperate sound tears out of him as his cock jerks inside you, spilling warmth in thick, molten pulses. He buries himself as deep as he can go, arms trembling around you, breath stuttering in your ear. His whole body shakes with it, every muscle straining to stay rooted in you as pleasure rips through him like lightning.

He stays like that—deep inside you, trembling, breathless—until the shudders fade to something softer. Something quieter.

The kind of silence that feels like safety.

His forehead rests against yours, damp hair brushing your temple, and you can feel the weight of him everywhere—his chest pressed to yours, his arms wrapped around your waist, the steady thrum of his heart syncing with your own.

Neither of you speaks.

There’s nothing left to say.

Just breath. Just warmth. Just the slow, wet drag of him slipping out of you when his body finally yields, when your bodies finally remember they’re separate things again. You wince a little, overstimulated, but he’s careful—gentle hands guiding your hips as he settles beside you.

The bed is a mess. You’re a mess. But in his arms, none of it matters.

He pulls you close, one hand curling behind your neck, the other splayed low across your spine. You fit against him like you were made to—legs tangled, faces barely apart. His eyes find yours, dark and soft and unreadable. And then—

He kisses you.

Slow. Tender. Unhurried. Like he’s not trying to restart anything—just thank you, silently, for letting him fall apart in your arms.

Your fingers slip into his hair. His thumb draws circles at the base of your spine.

And in that quiet, breathless space—there is no ache, no past, no noise.

The gallery hums with low conversation and champagne glasses clinking. Golden evening light filters through tall windows, casting Hyunjin’s paintings in soft amber and dust. He stands near one of his larger pieces—stark, aching, all deep reds and pale ivory brushstrokes layered like wounds healed over—speaking to a small crowd of critics and curators, hands moving with slow confidence as he explains his process.

It’s been years since he’s spoken like this—without apology. Years since he let the world see him this raw and unguarded. He’s dressed in black from head to toe, long hair tied back loosely, wedding band glinting when he gestures. He looks settled now, anchored. And you know what it took to get him there.

You weren’t supposed to come.

He’d kissed your forehead this morning, hand warm and reverent on your swollen belly, and told you to rest. “You’ll just get exhausted,” he’d said, brushing your hair back, “and I’ll be distracted the whole time wondering if your ankles are swollen or if the baby’s doing backflips again.”

But now you’re here.

Standing just inside the gallery, framed by the door like something sacred. You wore the dress he loves—the one that drapes gently over the curve of your belly, soft and simple, glowing in the dusk light. One hand rests instinctively at your side, the other slipping under the swell of you. There’s a quiet smile on your lips, half proud, half bashful, and your eyes are locked on him.

Hyunjin doesn’t see you at first. He’s mid-sentence, talking about brush technique and layered memory, about how grief isn't linear, how art can be a body trying to heal. His voice is steady. His hands are sure.

Then he glances up.

And freezes.

You watch it happen in real time—the shift. His mouth stutters around a word, vowels cut short, fingers faltering mid-gesture. And then—god. That smile. Unrehearsed, boyish, wide in a way that crinkles his eyes and ruins all pretense. A pure, delighted thing that belongs only to you.

A few people glance over their shoulders, curious. But Hyunjin barely notices.

He catches himself, coughs once, and somehow fumbles through the last few lines of his explanation. His voice is softer now. Almost sheepish. He wraps up quickly, answering a question with a vague nod, thanking the crowd with a half-bow.

And then he’s moving.

Straight through the gallery, long strides purposeful, eyes never leaving yours.

You open your mouth—maybe to apologize, maybe just to greet him—but he’s already cupping your face in his hands before you can speak. His fingers are cool from holding a champagne flute, but his palms are warm. Familiar. His touch gentle despite how frantically he reaches for you.

“You’re unbelievable,” he says, kissing your forehead. “I told you not to come.” A kiss to your nose. “I specifically said—” another to your cheek, “—that I’d worry—” your chin “—that you’d get tired,” he murmurs against your skin, peppering kisses like punctuation. “That your feet would swell. That you’d—fuck, baby, I said stay home.”

You smile, tilting your head just enough to meet his gaze—warm and full of something playful. “I know, but—”

He kisses you.

Soft and certain, his mouth presses to yours before the words can even leave your lips. It’s instinctive, almost impatient, like he couldn’t bear to hear the excuse when you’re standing right here, glowing and breathless and his. His hand curls at the back of your neck, thumb brushing the line of your jaw. You feel him smile into it, lips warm and reverent, like maybe he’s trying to convince himself he’s not dreaming.

You giggle against his mouth.

It bubbles out before you can stop it—light, easy, surprised by your own happiness.

“Hyunjin,” you laugh, gently pushing at his chest. “Let me speak.”

He leans back only a little, just enough to see you again. There’s a smudge of your lip gloss at the corner of his mouth, and you wipe it with your thumb, grinning.

“You’re ridiculous,” you murmur.

Hyunjin pulls back just enough to look at you—really look. His eyes trace every inch of your face like he’s memorizing you all over again. His thumb sweeps over your cheekbone. “You take my breath away,” he murmurs, like a confession. “Every damn time.”

You want to say something—something light, something teasing—but the way he’s looking at you leaves no room for irony. Just warmth. Just wonder.

And love. So much of it, it floods the space between you.

His hand slips down, resting over the swell of your stomach, and he sighs when he feels the smallest kick beneath his palm. “Little traitor,” he whispers to your bump, grinning. “You two planned this, didn’t you?”

You feign innocence. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Mhm.” He leans in and kisses you again—soft, slow, not quite chaste. Like there’s no one else in the room, no critics still lingering, no gallery full of people pretending not to watch the artist come undone in the arms of his muse.

Eventually, he pulls back—just a little. Just enough to rest his forehead against yours.

“Stay?” he asks, almost shy. “I want to show you something. After everyone leaves.”

You nod.

You nod, and his smile deepens—boyish, brilliant, the kind that still makes your knees weak even now. He kisses you one last time, quick and giddy, before reluctantly pulling away with a soft groan, dragging his hand down your arm like he’s tethering himself to you.

“I’ll be quick,” he promises, squeezing your fingers before turning back toward the crowd. “Don’t go into labor while I’m gone.”

You roll your eyes fondly. “No promises.”

He shoots you a look over his shoulder—mock-scandalized, lips twitching with laughter—and then he’s swept back into the flow of guests, nodding politely, shaking hands, answering a few last questions as people begin to drift toward the exit.

You watch from the side, sipping sparkling water from a plastic flute someone handed you, perched on the edge of a velvet bench like you belong in one of his paintings. A few guests glance your way—some with recognition, some with curiosity—but none of them matter.

You only watch him.

And he watches you too—between conversations, between thank-yous and signatures, his gaze keeps sliding back—like a tether, like gravity, like a vow that’s already been made a hundred times in silence.

You smile around the rim of your glass and press a hand to your belly, where the smallest flicker answers back. A quiet reminder of everything the two of you have built in the quiet spaces between the chaos. In the brushstrokes. In the breathing.

The gallery empties slowly, like a tide pulling away from shore. But you stay, bathed in golden light, watching the man you love exist in a room full of people who will never know him like you do. Who will never see the version of him that wakes up sleep-tousled and soft, who talks to your stomach like it already understands him, who paints love into everything he touches because he’s learned how to survive by making beauty out of ache.

[damselneedssaving]

「 DON'T GET THE DOOR 」

OLDER!CLINGY!DAMIAN WAYNE X F!READER

★ SYNOPSIS: After days of being too busy to be intimate with you, Damian's finally got you propped up on the kitchen island, sweet and like putty in his hands, when a sudden knock sounds at the door... and he absolutely refuses to let you go and answer it.

★ TAGS: damian is 18+, suggestive content, nothing too much—just making out, and a bit more, damian is physically incapable of keeping his hands off you, srsly babe wtf did you do to him, dick and jason cameo at the end

★ A/N: just some dami hating everyone but you action 🤭 enjoy trying to get him off you lmao

line divider by @cafekitsune

Damian's gaze is heavy as it runs all over you, soaking you in with an intensity that makes you squirm on the counter, the marble cool against your bare thighs.

His hands are firm on your waist, sitting there like that's where they're meant to be—like they know no place else—as his chest moves to press up against your own, and his body stands situated right between your thighs, hot and present.

"I've missed you, Habibti," he whispers after a beat of just staring, and it comes out breathless, framed a little by disbelief, like he just can't fathom you're actually there.

You can only squirm in response, eyes ready to move to the side in all their bashful glory—when he ushers them back to him, fingers gentle against your chin.

"I've barely seen you these past few days—and now that I can, you choose to hide from me?"

You blink back at him, eyes wide and head shaking from side-to-side to convey what you can't with words, what you can't under the intensity of his gaze.

He hums, and he's so close now, so within kissing distance, that his breath fans over your face, minty and fresh, begging and pleading.

You don't even realise the way your lids grow heavy until it takes only half the time it usually does to shut them, until you're leaning forward and eager to meet him halfway as it registers to you just how much you've missed his touch.

Damian receives you with open arms, lips pressing against your own as he further pushes himself against you, hands now curling around your waist instead of situated at its sides.

All you can breathe is the scent of nature and cologne, drowning in all that is him until your head grows dizzy and your body begins to shake, until you're suffocating in heat and pounding need.

He kisses you like he's running out of time to, like at any minute, he'll be forced to pull away, hungry and desperate and left with an ache near impossible to fill.

He also kisses you like he has all the time in the world to, like he's taking in a piece of art, studying every inch until he has it etched into his mind forever.

It's too much—it's not enough—and you're left a panting mess when he pulls away, the air hot and heavy and seeping so much steam it practically fogs up your vision.

"Dami..."

He hums, lips now on your neck, having moved there as soon as he pulled away as though incapable of truly ever leaving you.

Your fingers move to card through his hair, and he groans right into your skin, just above a vein, sending a vibration straight through your body.

God, the moment is just so perfect, and you've just been so starved for attention, and everything in the world seems to just be going so right, that it feels wrong, like something will happen to ruin it all.

Something like a knock at your door.

At first, you think you're imagining it, because Damian continues to litter your skin with kisses like nothing's happened, his hands even beginning to roam beneath the hem of your shirt, touch light against your skin.

But then you hear it again, louder this time, and you're sure that it's real.

But Damian acts like it isn't.

His hands continue tracing patterns into your skin, lips painting your neck like it's one of his canvases as he worships you with all the devotion of a man begging for his life.

It's only when a third knock, even harder and louder than the former two, sounds from the door that he shows even a hint of acknowledgement, fingers digging into your sides, but not enough to hurt, your Damian would never hurt you.

"Damian!" a voice calls from the other side of the door, deep and insistent, "I know you're in there! Open up!"

"Would you be quiet?" another hisses right after, "People are looking."

You blink, pulling back a little, only for your boyfriend to chase after you.

Another knock at the door.

Damian growls into your skin just as you call softly, "Dami."

"Ignore those two idiots," he scoffs out with all the vitriol of a man wronged, one starved of something he's needed for far too long. "They'll leave eventually."

You nod, readily and easily because you don't particularly care for answering the door either. Not when he's holding you so sweet, and kissing you so right, and loving you like you're the only thing in his sight.

And you practically are with how he devours you, biting and sucking as he tastes you enough to shoot tingles down your spine and flood your veins with heat.

"Maybe he's not home," one of the two voices says, and you're just lucid enough to recognise it as Jason's.

"Oh he's home alright," the other responds, and you're quick to find that it's Dick.

But then all your lucidity washes out your veins because Damian's fingers start to crawl up your skin, and you're parting your lips to warn him with another call of his name.

"Dami—"

"Shh," he hushes you gently, and you know he doesn't mean it, soft and reverent as his hand reaches up to play with the band of your bra, lifting and snapping it back in place to send a jolt down your spine.

Your eyes dart to his, a heat pooling low in your stomach, and he simply meets your gaze with his own hooded one.

Then he moves to capture your lips again, and you're moaning low against his mouth, lips parting just a brief amount to let him in, when another huge bang slams against your door.

You pull back with a frantic, "Coming!"

Damian is already moving to try and capture your lips again, but you shut him down immediately, hands pressed firmly against his chest.

"Damian."

He growls, cursing beneath his breath in Arabic as he lingers a second longer, fingers curling against your skin. But he does ultimately let go, backing away enough to leave you room to hop off the counter, but not enough so that you can't feel the heat of him against you once you do.

And as you make your way towards the door, Damian follows right after, a shadow to his light, a knight to his princess.

A boyfriend to his girlfriend.

You swing open the door to two figures stood on the other side, both who you suspected them to be, wide-eyed and blinking as though they never thought you'd answer.

"Finally," Dick whines, lips jutted in a pout before they tug back up, flashing you one of his signature charming smiles. "Hey [Name]! Think Jason and I could crash—?"

"No."

A rush of wind flies over your face, the door to your apartment slamming shut before your very eyes to leave you dazed and a tad confused for a second.

Then a pair of arms wrap right around your waist, and that same voice that rejected the two brothers at your door is whispering right against your ear, hot and heavy, "Now... where were we?"

[thisiswhattheycallafinecareer]

from Chapter 19 of Educated by Tara Westover (2018):

Failing a quiz did nothing to undermine my new devotion to an old creed, but a lecture on Western art did.

The classroom was bright when I arrived, the morning sun pouring in warmly through a high wall of windows. I chose a seat next to a girl in a high-necked blouse. Her name was Vanessa. "We should stick together," she said. "I think we're the only freshmen in the whole class."

The lecture began when an old man with small eyes and a sharp nose shuttered the windows. He flipped a switch and a slide projector filled the room with white light. The image was of a painting. The professor discussed the composition, the brushstrokes, the history.

Then he moved to the next painting, and the next and the next. Then the projector showed a peculiar image, of a man in a faded hat and overcoat. Behind him loomed a concrete wall. He held a small paper near his face but he wasn't looking at it. He was looking at us. I opened the picture book I'd purchased for the class so I could take a closer look. Something was written under the image in italics but I couldn't understand it. It had one of those black-hole words, right in the middle, devouring the rest.

I'd seen other students ask questions, so I raised my hand. The professor called on me, and I read the sentence aloud. When I came to the word, I paused. "I don't know this word," I said. "What does it mean?"

There was silence.

Not a hush, not a muting of the noise, but utter, almost violent silence. No papers shuffled, no pencils scratched. The professor's lips tightened. "Thanks for that," he said, then returned to his notes.

I scarcely moved for the rest of the lecture. I stared at my shoes, wondering what had happened, and why, whenever I looked up, there was always someone staring at me as if I was a freak. Of course I was a freak, and I knew it, but I didn't understand how they knew it.

When the bell rang, Vanessa shoved her notebook into her pack. Then she paused and said, "You shouldn't make fun of that. It's not a joke." She walked away before I could reply. I stayed in my seat until everyone had gone, pretending the zipper on my coat was stuck so I could avoid looking anyone in the eye.

Then I went straight to the computer lab to look up the word "Holocaust." I don't know how long I sat there reading about it, but at some point I'd read enough. I leaned back and stared at the ceiling. I suppose I was in shock, but whether it was the shock of learning about something horrific, or the shock of learning about my own ignorance, I'm not sure.

I do remember imagining for a moment, not the camps, not the pits or chambers of gas, but my mother's face. A wave of emotion took me, a feeling so intense, so unfamiliar, I wasn't sure what it was. It made me want to shout at her, at my own mother, and that frightened me.

I searched my memories. In some ways the word "Holocaust" wasn't wholly unfamiliar. Perhaps Mother had taught me about it, when we were picking rosehips or tincturing hawthorn. I did seem to have a vague knowledge that Jews had been killed somewhere, long ago. But I'd thought it was a small conflict, like the Boston Massacre, which Dad talked about a lot, in which half a dozen people had been martyred by a tyrannical government. To have misunderstood it on this scale-five versus six million-seemed impossible.

I found Vanessa before the next lecture and apologized for the joke. I didn't explain, because I couldn't explain. I just said I was sorry and that I wouldn't do it again. To keep that promise, I didn't raise my hand for the rest of the semester.

Tara Westover is an American memoirist and scholar of world cultures. The youngest of seven children born in a highly controlling religious household in Idaho to Mormon survivalist parents. Educated is her narrative of overcoming abuse, fighting for her education, and self-actualizing.

Full text for free found here.

Don't let them gaslight you into believing that any controlled religion is less dangerous than it is. It is deadly.

mormons undoubtedly in the top 5 worst things the united states has ever invented which is really saying something

[sillygoose067]

Hii!! Ive never sent a request so I hope im doing this right lol. I was wondering if you could write some hurt/comfort for lewis pullman with a reader who is getting a lot of hate online for her looks and he comforts her? No worries if not! Love ur writing!

Hey! I'm pretty sure there's no wrong way to send requests, but this is great! Sorry about this taking so long, I just had a hard time putting my thoughts into writing for this one— I love hurt/comfort, but it's slightly more of a lengthy process since I try to put more real-life based experiences into these fics (key word: TRY).

I hope this is something along the lines of what you were looking for!

———————————————————————————-

This Is How You Fall In Love

Lewis Pullman x Reader

You sat on the edge of the bed, frozen. Eyes vacant. Your phone buzzed relentlessly beside you, the screen lighting up every few seconds like it was mocking you.

The photos from your beach trip—sunlight warming your skin, Lewis’s arm draped around your waist, you in a bikini you’d worn bravely for the first time—had turned into a battlefield. A flood of hateful comments poured in.

“She’s lucky Lewis even looks at her.” “Stretch marks? No thanks” “Why does he settle for someone so ordinary?” “She’s just using him for clout.”

You swallowed hard. Each word sank deeper, cutting in places you’d worked so hard to heal.

The bathroom door creaked open behind you.

“Babe,” Lewis called casually, towel around his neck, water still dripping from his hair. “You won’t believe how soft this shampoo makes my—”

He trailed off.

You didn’t respond. Didn’t flinch. Just kept staring at a distant corner of the room, trying not to cry.

“...Babe?”

Concern threaded through his voice. He stepped closer, taking in your silence, the blank stare, and the phone beside you buzzing like a warning light.

He picked it up, glanced at the screen, then unlocked it.

The comments stared back at him.

“Those thighs are working overtime.” “She has the body of a school lunch lady.” “How did he end up with that?” “Stretch marks aren’t sexy. Sorry.” “There’s brave, and then there’s delusional…”

Lewis didn’t speak at first. His jaw tightened. His shoulders stiffened.

When he finally did, his voice was quiet—but it carried weight.

“They said this to you?”

You didn’t answer right away. Just lowered your head.

“They’re right,” you whispered. “I thought I was finally okay with how I looked… but maybe I was just deluding myself.”

Lewis gently set the phone aside and sat beside you, his expression stormy but softening as he reached for you.

“Sweetheart.”

You blinked. A tear slipped free before you could stop it.

He pulled you into his arms like he could shield you from all of it.

“I’m so sorry,” he murmured, cradling your head. “I’m so fucking sorry.”

You buried your face in his chest, breath hitching as the emotions cracked open. “I thought I looked okay.”

He held you tighter.

“You looked beautiful. You are beautiful,” he said, with quiet certainty. “You wore that because you felt good. Because you felt free. That’s not something to be ashamed of—that’s something to be proud of.”

Your voice was raw. “You made me feel good in my body. And now I feel stupid for ever thinking I could be.”

Lewis’s hands trembled slightly as they stroked your arms. “Don’t let them take that from you.”

You gave a weak, broken nod.

He leaned in, pressing his forehead to yours. “You think those stretch marks are ugly? I think they’re beautiful. They tell your story. I kiss every one like it’s a secret I’m lucky to know.”

He slid a hand along your hip, his touch reverent.

“Your hip dips? I could trace them forever. They’re you. Not flaws—features. Art. The thick thighs I hold when you’re cold, the softness I rest against when I need comfort—everything about you is something I love.”

Your eyes brimmed with new tears, voice cracking. “I never thought anyone could love those parts.”

“I do,” he said. “All of you. Without exception.”

After a long, quiet moment, he kissed your forehead.

“Go splash some water on your face,” he said gently. “Take a second. Just breathe. I’ve got you.”

You hesitated, then nodded and rose from the bed, walking slowly into the bathroom.

Lewis sat still for a beat, staring at your phone as the screen lit up again and again.

And something in him snapped.

He picked it up, opened Instagram, and tapped the Live button.

The screen blinked to life.

Lewis stared straight into the camera—hair still damp, eyes sharp, jaw clenched with controlled fury.

“Hey,” he said, voice low and steady. “Lewis Pullman here.”

He let the silence hold for a second, letting his presence settle before he continued.

“I know a lot of you follow this account because you want glimpses of me. I get it. I’m an actor. That’s part of the job. But if you’re here just to tear her down—my girlfriend—because of how she looks, or because you think she’s not ‘good enough’ for me? Then do us both a favor and unfollow right now.”

His gaze hardened.

“She is not a side character in my story. She’s not a prop for your fantasies. She’s a real person. And you have no idea what it takes to be that open, to show herself the way she did.”

He leaned closer.

“If you think you get to rip into her because you don't like seeing someone real and unfiltered, if you think her stretch marks, her curves, her body make her less deserving of love—then go. Unfollow her, if that’s what you think love looks like.”

He shook his head.

“I don’t want fans who tear down the person I love. If you can’t respect her, you don’t respect me. And I don’t need your attention.”

His voice dropped, quieter but intense.

“I’ve seen her when she’s glowing. I’ve seen her when she’s broken. And she is still the most breathtaking person I’ve ever known.”

He exhaled slowly.

“She’s in the next room right now, trying to put herself back together because of some of the things you’ve said. And even after all that, she still has more grace in her pinky finger than any of you do behind your anonymous usernames.”

He stared at the screen a moment longer.

“She doesn’t owe you beauty. She doesn’t owe you perfection. And she sure as hell doesn’t owe you her pain.”

You stood still in the doorway. Barely breathing. Warmth bloomed quietly in your chest—deep and full and aching in a good way.

This was Lewis, as he was, standing between you and the world’s cruelty like it was second nature.

You pressed a trembling hand over your mouth.

This was love, if you'd ever witnessed it—in its rawest form.

He finally exhaled and glanced down at the screen. “That’s all. She doesn’t owe you anything.” A pause. Then, quieter: “She’s in the next room right now trying to put herself back together after what some of you said. But she’ll be okay. But I hope that you guys really reflect on yourselves.”

He tapped the screen to end the live.

Silence fell.

You stepped into the room, and he turned—eyes widening slightly when he saw you standing there. “Oh,” he breathed. “You—how long were you…”

“Long enough,” you said softly.

“I just—I had to say something. I couldn’t let them—”

“I know,” you said.

And you meant it. You felt it. Deep in your chest, where shame had been living a moment ago—something new had taken its place. Something steadier. Warmer.

You crossed the room and climbed into his lap. He embraced you instantly, pressing kisses to your temple.

“Thank you,” you murmured.

He looked at you with so much love it almost hurt. Almost. Because he would never let anything—anyone—hurt you.

[dduane]

…So once again it’s the time of year when I return to this piece of digital art in its most recent version, tweak it a little in the attempt to get closer to what I see in my head, and repost it for Pride. (ETA, 1 June 2025: this year's version of the image is rerendered to reflect the ongoing business of getting the varying skin colors of the Five properly nailed down.)

At the moment I’m looking at These Two Idiots (because honestly, in some ways they are...) and considering, once again with the usual bemusement, how long I’ve been working with them. Of all the characters I’ve worked with in print, the only ones I’ve known longer would be the crew of NCC-1701—and (as of autumn 2024) for the first time in paid writing, a couple of gentlemen named Holmes and Watson.

I first “met” the two characters above in late 1970 in the form of two fellow college students on whom they’d be loosely based: a couple of gents—not gay, as it happens—who were friends to me when I badly needed some. They were a tall dark-haired guy and a short blond one with a mustache that came and went… so that, not even knowing the word “trope” at the time, I'd fallen sideways into at least one.

Less than a year after I met them, I changed schools and educational tracks, and we all drifted apart. But something about those two stuck with me. The nature and depth of their friendship was unusual. So was one way it manifested itself: in ruthless snark that had no meanness or cruelty about it whatsoever—just (sometimes slightly rueful and eye-rolling) affection.

In the late sixties I’d pivoted from the Star Trek fanfic I'd been writing practially since the series premiered, to start in on writing some very derivative epic-fantasy fic strongly influenced by Tolkien. Rather to my surprise, though, as I started nursing school in 1971, the nature of that fiction started to change, and began rearranging itself around two characters who had a friendship like that of my college friends. With them at its core, a rather different and subversive kind of medieval-flavored fantasy world started knitting itself together from various scraps of themes and imagery lying around in the back of my brain.

Even so early in the construction phases of this world, something the characters quickly made plain to me in the writing was that their relationships with one another were not what mainstream 1970s culture would consider conventional. They were unquestionably what we'd now think of as queer… but that was a background issue,* and not at all the most important thing in their lives. They had far more important business to deal with—as became clear as their personalities and priorities started filling themselves out in the foreground.

One of them turned out to be the deliberate, analytical, methodical son of a provincial nobleman, all too aware of the expectations of those around him: that he was eventually likely to wind up running that province himself. Yet at the same time he also became aware that he had other more serious problems—chief among them the discovery that he possessed a nascent power that would kill him young if he failed to master it. And in the last thousand years, no one of his gender ever had.

The other presented himself more and more clearly as a difficult case: someone who wanted very much to be good at the family business, but wasn’t… and knew it. Kind of a screw-up, full of romanticized and unrealistic takes on the world and his relationship with it: repeatedly doing the wrong things for what he was sure were the right reasons. Yet no matter how often he screwed up, he was also the kind of person who keeps picking himself up and trying again, because he’s been told over and over that that’s what people like him have to do: otherwise they’re no use to anybody.

Imagine my shock when I realized that these two men—initially canonically enemies in their adolescence, then best friends as they grew, and eventually much more—were the (incomplete) answer to the question I’d once asked my Mom at the end of the bedtime reading of some fairy tale or other: “Why can’t a prince rescue another prince?”§ Because one of them got himself more than once into situations where he really needed one kind or another of rescuing. The other one obliged him, while once or twice getting rescued (in different modes) himself. Those interlocking patterns started to solidify out of concept and into character detail and plot, while their world grew and proliferated into its own detail around them.

Then, without warning, in 1978 both world and characters decided they were ready to get real. I was abruptly dragged gasping and flailing under the surface of a novel that would begin the tale of what those two characters had yet to become. The period it took to produce that first draft was possibly the most interesting six weeks of my life… and that includes the six weeks during which I first scrubbed in on brain surgery. Day and night, for days at a time, I barely even existed except as something for a novel to come out of. When it was done with me, it just as abruptly dumped me back into my life and wandered away, leaving me staring around, blinking and wondering if anybody’d got the number of that truck. Nothing like it has ever happened to me since, which may be just as well. I’m none too sure that these days I could handle the strain.

The book—which sold within a couple of weeks of its manuscript landing on its first publisher’s desk—kicked off my career as novelist and screenwriter, and in its way proved that the world was at least slightly ready for epic fantasy in which the basic culture was pansexual, polyamorous, and inclusive in ways that hadn’t been attempted before.

So I owe them a debt, those two gentlemen up there: the tall dark curly-haired guy with the amateur strategist’s mind, the blacksmith’s shoulders, and the peculiar sword, his background thought always nibbling away at the question of how to heal the world’s wounds: and the short fair gent who if he could would stay at home, live quietly in town, and work in the local library… except for when saving the world (or his found family) requires him to subsume his work-in-progress kingship and his being into that of his ancestral demigod. Due to the success of the book in which they made their debut, these two became, in their way, the fairy† godfathers of the Young Wizards—and additionally enabled all that Star Trek fanfic I’d started writing a decade before to proceed to its logical conclusion.

More to the point, though, a lot of people in the 1980s and ‘90s who’d never seen queer representation in a fantasy novel, found it first (or at last) while following Herewiss and Freelorn down their shared road. It’s been my pleasure to hold that space for new readers, and to keep adding to it… because—if you ask me—it’s needed more now than ever.

So, to the readership of the Middle Kingdoms works (now pushing half a century old) and everybody else who’s celebrating the season: happy Pride!

ETA: Just noting here for those who might be interested that, as usual, the LGBTQ Pride Bundle at Ebooks Direct is discounted more deeply than usual for Pride Month. With the usual warning to UK readers: friends, our apologies, but due to Brexit we can no longer sell ebooks to you directly. However, most of these works are currently available to UK readers through Amazon.com.

*Not least because everybody else in their world is (at least potentially) some shade of queer, including God.

§ For certain values of "prince". See here for more detail.

† (snicker)

[applejuicinator]

The LADS men and your jealousy

Word count: 4.2K

A/N: This is a whole bunch of word vomit that I have compiled in about five hours, so I haven’t properly looked through it. Just needed to post something, make sure I keep writing so I don’t get all lazy.

TW: Slight NSWF themes – very subtle. Rafayel being engrossed in his work, he neglects you a little bit, but he makes up for it, he loves you to the ends of the earth.

****************************************************

Green isn’t your best colour

Whilst jealousy isn’t something completely unknown to you, the situation in front of you seemed to stir an unbridled fury deep within your gut.

🐡 Rafayel 🐡

To say that you and Rafayel never fought would be a big fat lie.

You argued about who spent the most time getting ready in the morning, it was definitely him and his perfectly ‘messy’ locks by the way, or who spent more money on who… which was also probably him. The man drove a Mercedes Benz Gran turismo, he wasn’t letting you spend a single damn penny no matter how much you protested. You had to admit, it did make your heart flutter and legs quiver when he whipped out his gold card like it was something mundane. The top few buttons of his shirt unbuttoned, lazy smirk and arm resting over the back of his seat.

‘My wife is my life” He would say whilst staring into your eyes like you had hung the stars in the sky, until you eventually gave in and he’d kiss the tip of your nose as if to seal the deal.

All this to say, you argued, but not about things that deeply lingered or at the expense of the sanctity of your relationship. You both made sure that problems were aired the moment they began to grow, nip them in the bud cleanly and swiftly.

But this damn upcoming exhibition had grown into something monstrous, the roots clawing at your ankles with long spindly tendrils, grounding you in the most exasperated uncertainty you had ever experienced. And you fought wanderers for a living.

The show was all he thought about.

Rafayel being all-consumed by his art wasn’t anything new or surprising, sometimes when he was truly inspired, normally by you, he’d spend hours relentlessly hunched over a canvas watching the weight of his brush strokes until they were ‘perfect.’ But that was when it was personal, the art was for his pleasure, seeing beauty translated into colours and soft hues. Multiple portraits, every single one in a different medium, context or style, depicted you. Some were just of your eyes and the depth of your adoration for him, some of you posing or modelling, some of you in the mundanity of life.

You drove his paintbrush, he said as much when night tipped the scales and you both laid in a tangled mess, bedsheets cocooning you from the harshness that reality brought with it. He whispered love and adoration into the crown of your head, kissing your temples with keen devotion.

He normally never gave much thought to gallery shows if it didn’t involve you, because you were his muse. Who wanted to portray art without feeling.

When he was forced to put on shows to appease rich donors and clients he actively went out of his way to cause as much shit as he could within reason. It’s the reason why Thomas was going prematurely bald.

However, there was another reason why this exhibition felt different, arguably the reason that was weighing heavily on your mind the most.

Rafayel was an ardent fan of one of the other artists collaborating. She was a beautiful, older woman who moved like calm ripples on normally still water. She was the embodiment of depth, grace, and elegance. Her works centred on fluidity and liquid, made only with water colours. Rafayel even had a piece of her art in his studio, the only one permitted which he hadn’t painted, it was an incredible compliment to her skill.

When you had first laid eyes upon her, walking through the communal art space for the exhibition, you experienced a cold flush. It’s like when you make a mistake, and a chilly realisation flushes through your veins to the tips of your fingers. Something felt wrong.

Jealously wasn’t something new to either of you, mostly it was just empty banter though, you know the type - ‘cutie he was trying for your number,’ or ‘Rafayel she wasn’t after just an autograph you know.’

Rafayel had lots of women who he was friends or acquaintances with, after all he did have a life before you, filled to the brim of the unknown. But it never bothered you before, in fact it was actually lovely to see that your husband was a genuinely accepting and open person who people were drawn to. But this artist itched at your skin, unease crawling up your spine whenever she was near.

She was so kind and warm, which made you feel ten times worse.

The exhibition wasn’t forever; you could endure you told yourself.

But as month three rolled round, the preparation was nowhere near over and your patience was beginning to crumble like bitter ash.

You knocked softly on the door to Rafayel’s private studio, ears straining to hear a response or if there was any movement inside. You couldn’t hear his light teasing tone or the soft padding of feet running to the door, so you assumed he was at the exhibition space again.

You could count on one hand the number of times your husband had been home before 9pm for the whole month. He was fast to respond to your texts and phone calls, his jovial voice telling you all about what he was doing and how he was discussing more subliminal art theory with Rachel.

You appreciated art, you knew how beautiful it was and what messages a piece was trying to convey. But you didn’t understand it in the same way that an artist might. A fact that you weren’t wary of before now.

The TV hummed in the background, a show about the upcoming exhibition sounding like nothing but static in your ears. The house that usually smelled like a weird mixture of your scented candles and paint, laughter and low-fi playing as you both chattered away, was instead empty.

You glanced down at your phone, finger hovering above his name, you could call him and ask him to come home. You could sit him down, tell him how you feel, how this was starting to take a toll on you, how you felt a cold snap whenever Rachel ruffled his hair.

An urge to see him in person stopped you, it wasn’t often you bothered him at night because that’s when his productivity was best, but the anxiety was eating away at you tonight.

Thoughts flitted through your mind like a fast-paced movie reel, gathering your keys, you packed a few snacks and the meal that had gone cold before hopping into your car and making the short journey to the gallery. It wasn’t long before you were calling his name into the empty space, still bare, the floor covered in positioning tape to map out the art pieces and theming.

The art space was hidden upstairs away from prying eyes, people went meandering off into restricted zones too often at these events, so the artists had a dedicated space for relaxing and touch ups for their work.

You called again as your jogged up the steps, the bag holding his pick-me ups jostling against your legs. At the end of the day, above all of this jealousy and bitterness, you were more concerned for Rafayel’s health. He was overworking himself, despite how happy he sounded, the puffiness and dark circles to his eyes only seemed to get worse with each passing day.

“Rafayel! You there?” You called out again, heading towards the door where you could faintly hear muffled music.

“In here baby!” Your heart melted at just the sound of his voice; you missed him dearly. When was the last time the two of you just laid on the couch watching a shitty movie, his beautiful light tenor critiquing every ridiculous discrepancy or loophole, you loved it, watching him get so animated. No one made you laugh like him.

The feelings of love and hope shattered when you entered the art room, holding the bag high, smile on your face as you were about announce how amazing you were for bringing him food like a personal chef. Instead, your smile immediately dropped, bag of food loosely hanging by your side.

He didn’t even turn around to greet you, back to you as you watched Rachel rest her head on his shoulder. They were looking at the gargantuan painting pinned to the back wall, the canvas taking up the whole height and width of the space.

It was a masterpiece.

It depicted a luscious underwater scene, vibrant colours and corals encompassing old derelict architecture, creatures of all kinds flourishing in the absence of humans. The intricacies were breathtaking even to your untrained eye, multiple mediums and techniques rendering the painting almost 3D, the textured surface appearing like moving water.

Something so harmonious, so genius, should have struck at your heart, made you feel emotion and intrigue about the painting. However, all you could feel is the guttural sadness as Rachel lifted her head from your husbands toned shoulder. She was only getting a better feel for the art, trying to see it from a different angle, but it was intimate. The contact was crossing an invisible boundary, one that was obvious to you. But obviously wasn’t to Rafayel. And. Rachel.

Fuck, Rafayel and Rachel. Their names even sounded cute together. What sort of shit is that.

Thomas was in the adjoining office, you heard him talking loudly, so they hadn’t been all alone. Your fingernails dug deep into the skin of your palm, the pain bringing back a sliver of reality.

Rafayel looked over his shoulder finally, nodding to himself in pride. He looked so happy, eyes crinkling when he looked at you, gaze meeting yours.

But you just couldn’t do it. You should be so proud of him, look at the masterpiece he had created, his time and dedication spawning something so ethereal it looked as though you could reach in and feel the cold depths of the ocean.

Feelings swarmed your thoughts, no doubt translating to your face, because Rafayel was soon stood in front of you, a worried scrunch to his cute brows. His hands, still covered in dried paint, a mish mash of blues and whites, cupped your cheeks. His thumbs smoothed over your skin comfortingly; it made bile rise at the back of your throat.

“Baby?” He asked again, and you could see Rachel turn to look too, Rafayel’s worried tone catching her attention.

No no no. You didn’t want her, exquisite, charming Rachel to see you like this, a bitter wife. You began questioning how you looked, still in comfy sweats and hair tousled from lounging in bed. Hanging your head low, as if that would make you disappear from her view, you pushed the bag of food to his chest. He looked down at it flabbergasted, hands suddenly scrambling at the handle, so it didn’t fall.

“Here’s dinner, five hours late and cold, thanks for telling me”

In retrospect, without adoration clouding your judgment, it wasn’t really okay that Rafayel was allowing another woman to lay her head on his shoulder, no matter how close they were, without discussing it with you first. You supposed you’d never had a conversation about lines and boundaries in your relationship, this situation was new to you.

Rafayel looked between you and the bag bewildered, his mind trying to process what was happening, what had he missed. Rising panic swelled in his chest as he watched you turn on your heel and slam the door behind you, your footsteps fading quickly as though you were rushing.

“Is everything okay?” Rachel asked as a tender hand came to rest on his shoulder, but he didn’t hear or even notice it.

He looked inside the bag, his favourite bottles of pop and cute candies bundled together, and a container filled with some sort of veggie filled stew. You had brought him a care package, something so loving would usually make him feel so blessed, but your pained expression was stuck in his mind on loop.

He glanced at the clock on the wall, the hand way past 11pm.

“Oh fuck fuck fuck”

He pictured you sat at home, food in front of you, fingers tapping at the table and eyes shifting to the wall clock.

He pulled his phone out, messages with your name popping up, time stamps showing how long you’d been waiting.

17:05

‘Sweetheart I’m making stew! It’s cold and you’re going to make yourself sick by not eating anything proper’

18:17

‘You are coming home tonight??????’

19:42

‘I’m assuming you’ll still be at the gallery. I’ll package this up for you to eat later’

19:55

‘Love you lots and lots!!!!! Xx’

“I’ve… I need to go” He murmured, feet hitting the floor loudly as he chased after you, jumping down the last two steps.

You slammed the car door shut, not caring if it rattled the expensive vintage frame, his aftershave thick and heavy was embedded in the leather seats. If you closed your eyes, you could picture him next to you, surrounded by his warmth.

Sitting there, in the dark, staring at nothing in particular, you began to cry.

It wasn’t silent or pretty; it was a guttural moan and fat salty tears streamed down your reddening face. Your hands came to wipe at tears, but it was like trying to mop up a burst dam, fruitless.

Why did this hurt so much? You know your husband probably didn’t even realise Rachel had her head on his shoulder, in the past you’d managed to stack plastic cups on top of his head as he stared at the same sculpture for thirty minutes straight. The memory made a small chuckle interrupt your sobs, allowing you to breathe and compose yourself. He looked so goofy when he caught on, the cups collapsing around him as he chased you round the kitchen counter, laughter bouncing off the walls.

It was a culmination of things.

The late nights, forgotten dinners, your art inability, your husband's slight obliviousness… Drop dead gorgeous, amiable Rachel.

In his defence you hadn’t told him ANY of this, too scared of ruining the exhibition which he was excited about for once. And you know how he was when he was completely enraptured in a project.

Resting against the back of the seat, you exhaled a long-withered sigh.

He looked so confused, his brain whirring away like an old shitty laptop, if you imagined hard enough you could even hear the fans blowing off steam. He didn’t follow you out, the door to the building devoid of any Rafayel figure bursting through it.

The thought that he stayed behind even despite you obviously being angry at him drove a pin further into your heart. Your fingers grasped the wheel tight, pulling out of the car park with the expertise of a Linkon One Racer, the trees and city illuminations blurring together into a sporadic light show.

A sigh of relief escaped your lips when you finally crossed the threshold of your home, haphazardly throwing your stuff onto the coffee table, you collapsed face first into the velvety pillows of the couch. A subtle throb singed your temples, no doubt a dull headache looming.

You let your body sag deeper into the cushions, contemplating what you were going to do and how to properly have a conversation with your husband without it descending into something more devastating like escaping to the beach house for a few days. The last serious argument had ended in Rafayel sulking for a week straight, essentially barricading himself, in the rarely used holiday get away. But that was years ago, when things were still fresh and the relationship was full of love, but equal amounts of trepidation.

You shot up straight, knees unsteady, as the front door clattered open. Sounds of shoes being flung off and harsh breathing permeating the silence, your husband appeared from round the corner seconds later, his chest heaving with exertion and beads of sweat dotting his brows.

He looked panicked.

“Sweetheart” Rafayel hunched over slightly to regain his breath.

He was usually so suave and composed that seeing him like this, sweaty with hair plastered to his forehead and the collar of his normally crisp shirt stuck up, was weirdly therapeutic. You didn’t say anything, watching and waiting.

“I’m sorry, I just...” Deep inhale. “Lost track of time, my phone was on silent” He trailed off softly, as though he realised how lame his excuses sounded. You glared at him, letting the cold silence stifle the air.

“Yeah, I can tell you and Rachel were in your own little world” It came out harsher than intended, her name foul on your tongue, though regret pricked at your conscience at being so mean spirited about her.

“What? Well, she was helping me with the composition” You hummed absentmindedly. It was a strange way of helping somebody. If you didn’t know Rafayel better than you knew yourself, it would be hard to not jump to conclusions. You thumbed at the fabric of a throw pillow, the velvet fabric giving your antsy fingers something to do.

The room was awash with the white glow of the moon, the floor to ceiling windows opening up to the wide expanse of the sky and the calm inky sea. You couldn’t tell where the sea ended and where the sky began, if not for the distorted moon reflection on the water, it would just look like an endless abyss. Ready to swallow you up whole.

“You’ve ran all this way after me Rafayel” he flinched at the mention of his name, like a punch to the gut. It wasn’t baby or sweetheart or darling, the distance between you stretched on. “You know you’ve fucked up on some level”

“I know, it's not an excuse, it's just I turned round, and hours had gone by” he sat down next to you, knocking your knees together, he craved that contact no matter how small.

“It’s not just the time thing ugh” You pinched the bridge of your nose, that dull ache from earlier intensifying with each passing second. “Look it wasn’t okay Rafayel, no matter how entranced you are, I expect the decency of a reply to my texts. You’re usually so good with it”

You got up to grab some water from the kitchen, ignoring the forlorn look as you moved away from him.

“I bet you didn’t even notice Rachel had her head leant on your shoulder” you spoke clearly, slamming the glass a bit too harshly against the marble countertops. His mouth open and closed like a goldfish, expression befuddled. He was thinking back, trying to pinpoint what the fuck you were talking about.

“What? When did she have her head on my shoulder?!” He sat up straighter, suddenly the sweat very uncomfortable and itchy as it cooled on his skin. A big question on your mind was whether Rachel was just extremely friendly and touchy feely, or whether there was something a bit more personal to her lingering touches. You had seen her interact with other artists in a same manner so you’re guessing the former, but it didn’t sting any less. Even though the intentions behind it were pure, you couldn’t help the bubbling anxiety in the pit of your tummy, especially when Rafayel was NOT a touchy feel person. It felt like he was allowing something that was reserved for you, and you only. If she was a close friend, someone that Rafayel trusted, the situation would be different because there wasn’t an element of the unknown. But she was effectively a stranger who you had spoken to a handful of times.

“When I first walked in. Her head was leant on your shoulder.” You can replay the scene in your head even now “That was a boundary Rafayel. It makes me question how many times has she done that? How many times has she touched you?” Each word was dripping with insecurity and jealousy, a possessive bite that might as well scream ‘MINE.’

“Just… what am I supposed to do or think? Am I being selfish? But leaving me alone, days on end, I feel so alone.”

At the root of everything, you just missed him.

You didn’t even realise you were crying until you felt little droplets landing on your hands, still tightly clasped around your drink. And once one tear fell, an avalanche of tears followed soon after, accompanied by the trembling lip and frown that usually happened when you were trying to keep your emotions in check.

Rafayel was by your side in seconds, strong hands pulling you into a tight embrace with your head nestled securely against his collarbone. The beautiful scent of his floral aftershave washed over you, like the worlds most soothing blanket.

You couldn’t see his face, but there was a watery timbre as he spoke.

“I’m really sorry, I’m sorry, I didn’t realise… how can I make it up to you? I’m sorry” He rambled on, words tumbling out faster and faster, nuzzling his face into the crown of your head, he just needed to be as close to you as physically possible. You pulled back just enough to look up into his eyes, face blotched with tears, beautiful eyes clouded with terror. Taking his face in your gentle hands, he leant into the touch like a starved animal.

Anger evaporated in seconds, the fear in his tense body made you pause the argument, instead only to wanting to comfort your husband. You were a sucker for his pearlescent tears.

“Sh sh darling” You wiped his tears away, tracing his nose and cheekbones with delicate fingers. He was beautiful, inside and out. This man would never ever intentionally hurt you.

“I know, you would never do anything like that. I know what you’re like, off in your own world” You laughed, which earned a timid smile in return. The swirling tornado of jealousy dwindled, in its wake a sense of calm, with the backing of the ocean waves crashing against rock, it lulled you into peace. Time slowly ticked on, but neither spoke, just contemplative silence.

“I think we need to talk about what happened, what we expect from one another, boundaries” You listed each point off. Perhaps if you had voiced concerns earlier, this build up of anxiety could have been avoided, communication was such an important factor of any relationship. Not to say that Rafayel was completely blameless, because he definitely wasn’t. “But why don’t we save that for tomorrow?” You were tired, it was late, and whilst the issue still subtly lingered, you needed a clear head.

Rafayel sniffled, his grip on you tightening, not yet ready to let you move. You raised an eyebrow, as he cleared his throat.

“I just want to… properly apologise. Without blubbering” He murmered quietly. “This exhibition is no excuse to how I’ve been acting, all the late nights and not even messaging you properly.” When he’d seen your messages about dinner, happy and caring, he felt like the biggest fucking asshole to exist. And he was an asshole, he knew that, and Thomas called him that on the daily. But not to you, his reason for breathing, the holder of his heart.

“Rachel is someone I look up to, but nothing more than that, I won’t let anything like that happen again.” If he was honest with himself, imagining you with someone else’s head resting in the crook of your neck… he could feel the pangs of hurt at just the hypothetical. But he truly did not even realise she was talking to him, never mind in his personal space.

“I accept your apology, and on my part. I won’t let things build up till I pop. Your poor Ferrari door…” you did slam it pretty hard… Rafayel didn’t seem to be listening though, mind wandering. Another problem for tomorrow.

You laid your head against his chest again, seeking out his warmth and the beat of his heart. A comfortable silence settled over the house; the cold nipped at your bare feet.

“I won’t do the exhibition” he spoke into the quiet, it felt like he was talking more to himself than you. He kissed your forehead, you know full well he’d quit on Thomas and burn the painting in the gallery if you asked him to, his pure devotion to you was unquestioned even with this little blip. But not only did you not want that, it wasn’t fair of you to ask him to pull out of something he had worked so hard for.

“My love, the other half of my soul” his eyes gleamed with adoration. “I want you to do this exhibition, show the world how fucking incredible you are. Not that they don’t know that already” You kissed his damp cheek. “We’re in this together. Forever”

“And beyond” He added, the statement ringing true and final. He’d wait for you in every timeline, every universe, every reincarnation.

“Just make sure you talk to me, let me know what’s going on, so I feel less alone” His hands rested on your hips, his head nodding like an enthusiastic puppy. “Also. I like Rachel, but please no more romantic head holding thank you”

He spluttered as you laughed, rocking into his body, the two of you spinning around, weightless on euphoria. He pushed you back, your knees folding against the arm of the couch as your back hit soft cushions. You looked up at him with fluttering lashes, his toned arms resting on either side of your head, caged in his protective bubble. A triumphant little smile graced his lips as you giggled, happiness radiating from you like a beacon, fuelled by relief.

“I know this goes without saying” he kissed your forehead, lips soft as your heart flip flopped in your chest, the intensity of his gaze pinned you in place.

“I love you” Kisses peppered your face soft and delicate; you were the most exquisite work of art he had the privilege of gazing upon. You gasped as he trailed from your cheek to your jaw, slowly moving down the sensitive flesh of your neck, teeth grazing against your collarbone. Fast fingers moved further down, skirting under your loose shirt featherlight. He caressed your body as though you were the most precious canvas, gliding over soft curves and bare skin, goosebumps following his delicate fingertips. He thrived on the little shudders and pants, heat and excitement building as he became more desperate, more fervent.

You gripped his hair, nails scratching at his scalp, pulling his head up to face you. His cheeks were flushed pink, eyes unfocused.

“I love you too, more than you can ever know” he grinned, surging up to capture your lips, still smiling into the kiss.

🐡

I don’t think I did Rafayel justice in this fic, sometimes my writing carries me away from the character. Not to mention I don’t like how this one is written, it feels disjointed, like it doesn’t flow. But I need to practise practise practise!!!!! Practise makes perfect.

I’m thinking of posting the professional motorbike racer Caleb fic next whilst I work on the other jealousy shorts.

[deepdreamnights]

The Comparison of GenAI to NFTs isn't Apples and Oranges, it's Apples and Three Card Monty.

I'm not really sure how much of the (quite fun and justified) anti-NFT hubub actually killed NFTs. They were always a scam designed to find bigger suckers to buy into the Etherium blockchain so others could turn their mathematical funnymoney into real dosh. It was eventually going to fail, but you don't build a scam to last, just to get you out the door with the bag.

Jimmy Fallon, on the other hand, did some damage.

It's estimated that there were, through the whole NFT 'craze', that there were 800,000 total buyers. Ever. The value of the NFT market being something like 683.9 mil.

For a comparison, Midjourney's active subscriber numbers are around 15 million. Nearly 200x the total number of NFT buyers pays an average of $30/mo to MJ, equaling about $450 mil. Midjourney alone brings in 2/3rds of the total NFT market value every month. Not as a speculative investment, but as an exchange of currency for services.

Such as the ability to make the individual parts to sew into something like this.

Stable diffusion claims to have 10 million users, and that requires a lot of investment in time and tinkering as open source software.

And arguing something out of existing is not the same as it failing because there's no market.

There's a context to the overall conversation, and focusing on whether or not the headline thesis has all the right caveats borders on pedantry.

And since we've mentioned Stable Diffusion...

Chemical and biological weapons may be war crimes, but that doesn't stop people from using them. And they're a good comparison here, because even if you had maximum political will not use to them, anyone with the knowhow can make them, and that info is widely available.

In fact, it's so easy you have to tell people not to make war gas accidentally in their toilets for TikTok views.

Just like Stable Diffusion is out there with all its how-tos, in the hands of ten million tech capable persons. The real thing that keeps chemical and biological weapons from being more frequently used is most people with the knowhow don't really want to kill or maim a bunch of people.

How many people want to make pictures with words on their computer? Well, at least 25 million given just MJ and SD's userbases.

As to point B, the thing they're doing is:

A) Harassing people and going on witch hunts.

B) Assisting Adobe and Disney's attempts at regulatory capture.

Adobe has already proposed to congress that the solution to AI 'impersonating artists' is to allow artists to copyright art styles (most likely through a handy-dandy registration program managed by Adobe, I'm sure).

If styles can be copywritten, then art becomes legally untenable to produce. If your project gets promising enough, it'll be a race between the entertainment monopolies to see who can find something stylistically similar enough in their archives to take it from you in court. You being right won't matter to a goon squad of Disney's IP lawyers.

And Disney has their own private image-gen AI by now. They're a big backer of the Copyright Alliance, and they're strongly pushing for AI training to be classified as not being fair use, because they own the rights to everything ever produced by all of this:

And that's one hell of a dataset.

If training is copyright infringement, the small artist has been convinced they'll win by not having their 'work stolen'. But what's really happening is Disney, Adobe, and the other members of the copyright alliance want everything decided by copyright because they hold the copyrights.

Generative AI is far more useful for small artists as a force multiplier than it is for major corporations as a cost-cutter. They want that power in their hands, but not able to be used against them.

Hope this helps.

You can't argue against a technology. No one has ever, ever, in the history of humanity, argued a technology out of existence. The closest we've come are nukes and human genetic engineering. Nukes exist and multiple countries have massive arsenals of them, but we've agreed not to use them because it would mean humanity's utter destruction. Human genetic engineering cuts right to the heart of a bunch of ethical questions about health, equality, identity, and so on, and also up until very recently genetic engineering has been a long and extremely expensive process. We'll see how long human genetic engineering remains taboo now that it's getting cheaper and easier. But these are absolute outliers. In the vast, vast majority of cases, I mean literally in virtually every single case, when people fight a new technology—for any reason—they loose.

There is no tenable "anti-AI art" position, just like there was never a tenable anti-loom position, or anti-railroad position, or anti-horseless carriage position. These things were doomed to fail absolutely from day one, as soon as the technology existed, and anti-AI art is doomed to fail just as utterly and completely. There is just no path here, if this is what you've hitched your wagon to I really do not know what to tell you.

[sodapopkiss6]

🌸LAD LIs x cancer survivor reader HCs🌸

Today is national cancer survivor day AND marks the beginning of cancer survivor month!🥳🎉 I tried my best to include all LIs for this HC list. Feel free to share your thoughts or correct me if I'm wrong!🙏💕

(Please keep in mind that this is based on my own experiences and not everyone has the exact same)

🩷🌸✨️✨️✨️✨️✨️✨️✨️✨️✨️✨️✨️✨️✨️🌸🩷

Sylus

Would be great at massaging you when your chronic pain flares up. His hands are huge, and he's super strong. I just know a massage from him would make you feel like putty. Add in some pain relief medication, and you're in heaven. He'd be mindful of not being too rough. He knows your skin bruises easily and is more sensitive. He'd check in with you to make sure you're okay.

Zayne

Would help with all your medical stuff. Sometimes, it's a lot, managing work and all your doctor visits. He would help schedule your visits and remind you. And if you want to, he'd accompany you for them. He takes note of what the doctors recommend and gives input. However, he always lets you guide the talk. He's there for support, not to speak for you.

Caleb

Would make sure you stay healthy. He does a lot of research, spends hours trying to learn and understand. He knows your body is weak from treatment, so he helps you strengthen up. He makes meal plans to make sure you get all the proper nutrients. He reminds you to drink lots of water and makes special nutritional juices that taste horrible. But you reluctantly drink them anyway cause they're good for your health.

Rafayel

Would help lift you up when you feel down. Sometimes talking is hard, you feel so many emotions, your memories are so vivid it's as if you're back there. Back in that room, lying like a lifeless doll, the beeping, the cries of others, the loud vents, the bright lights keeping you awake. When he sees you looking lost, he gently guides you back, offering a canvas. The two of you paint, he doesn't intrupt you when you break down, tears blending into your piece. Talking can be hard. Pouring your emotions into art is easier. It can be messy, but once together, tells a story. When he asks you about your finished work, you talk. Explaining your piece, your feelings, your thoughts. Little by little, you're back, present, home. You're alive, you made it, and your lover is holding you, a gentle reminder that he's there for you, you're not alone anymore. The next canvas you paint isn't as messy. You make it with a smile. The two of you talking while painting.

Xavier

Keeps you entertained. He knows that all the treatment you had can mess with your mind. You feel bored, numb, you try to feel something. Some days are just like that. It's as if you shut down completely, you're not yourself. He always tries to help, he suggests fun activities and outings. He learns to read your body language. He takes you out to try some tasty food, and your lips twitch into a small smile? That means you're happy. One of your favorite shared activities is playing video games together. He finds different ones to play, keeping you engaged and intrigued.

Sylus

Would hold you tightly while you cry. It's late at night, and your mind can't help but drift to the past. Everything bubbles up, and he silently listens to you. He holds back from speaking, he wants to reassure you, he wants to correct you when you speak badly of yourself. He wants to tell you how much you brighten his world, how important you are. That you're not a monster, broken, defective, just because you are different. He understands very well, not being normal, not fitting in. The looks from others. He patiently waits until you are done before speaking. Expressing every single thought in his mind. His words comforting and understanding. In a world that favors "perfection," the two of you favor "imperfection."

Zayne

Would understand. As a doctor, he's seen different cases, seen different areas of hospitals. He's spoken with colleagues who specialize in oncology. It's easy to be around him. You don't need to overly explain yourself. He just gets it. It's nice not having to put your guard up, to pretend.

All LIs

You hate getting scans done, especially MRIs. They're so loud, annoying, and it's uncomfortable staying still for so long. He tries to ease your nerves before going in. He hugs you, whispering sweet encouragements. Once you're in, he sits out and waits for you. When you're back, he pulls you into another hug. He tells you how proud he is, that you did well, and it's all over. He asks you how you feel and helps you walk back to the car. The two of you go to have a treat. He does everything he can to make you smile and forget the noisy machine.

When you don't feel like getting up, he lays next to you. He analyzes the situation and the best approach. Sometimes, it's code spa day, out day, in doors day, quiet day, active day, and so on. Over time, you've gotten better at expressing your needs. You try your best to meet him in the middle.

Some days are hard, and some are easy. Life can be difficult. You don't always have control, a choice. He never judges you. He never thinks less of you. He loves you for who you are, loves every part of you. He makes sure to make it clear and known, vocally and through actions. Every day with you is a blessing. The fact that you're alive, that you survived, is a blessing. You are a blessing, a beautiful flower that survived all seasons. A flower that bloomed beautifully despite the harsh environment. A flower that never gave up and aimed up to the light. Blooming against all odds. A flower loved and admired by many.

🩷🌸✨️✨️✨️✨️✨️✨️✨️✨️✨️✨️✨️✨️✨️🌸🩷

I'm planning on writing some more for the month. They'll most likely be Sylus focused tho. 😋

Thank you for reading!💕

[hellfirebarnes]

Slow-Burns - Part 3

PART 1 PART 2

I split this up in several, shorter parts because I know the feeling when you want to read a fic but don't have the time or energy to get through a 10k+ words one. Also if you hate my writing you can just read part 1 and then leave it. Win-win I guess?

Anyway, this is set after Thunderbolts so if you haven't seen it - spoilers I guess? It absolutely does not follow canon, but yeah better to be safe than sorry.

Summary: Bucky has fallen. Hopelessly. And the only thing more hopeless is his team trying to help him get to the end of this slow-burn.

Bucky x fem!SHIELD!reader

1.7K words

Fluff, ''normal'' violence and descriptions of injuries. For sure out of character stuff, but I am who I am. Your appearence is barely desribed what I can remember, I think your hair and a couple types what clothes you're wearing?

You're referred to as ''Agent'' and ''Sunshine'' in a desperate attempt from me to not use Y/N.

Let me know if there's anything else I should warn about.

Otherwise, enjoy :)

Bucky scanned the briefing file. Intel breach. Corporate sabotage. Medium risk, low collateral. High-tech infiltration. One scientist needed extraction. Half the mission screamed you - cyber-forensic work, silent infiltration, backdoor escape route.

He frowned. “She’s not coming?”

Yelena leaned back in her chair, sipping bad coffee from a novelty mug that read ‘Crime, But Make It Cute.’

“She’s not coming.”

Bucky’s heart skipped. “Why?”

“She has the day off,” Ava answered, scrolling through her own tablet.

“But we need someone who can spoof an encrypted relay system on the move,” he said, voice flat but tight. “That’s her.”

“Relax, grandpa,” John muttered. “We’ve got it covered. Ava rewrote a protocol last night, and Bob is flying overwatch.”

Bucky looked back down at the tablet, annoyed. Not at the team. Not at the mission. At the fact that it felt wrong without you. And he hated how that felt.

“She asked for the day off two weeks ago,” Yelena added, tapping through something on her screen. “She deserves it.”

Alexei, who had been uncharacteristically quiet, suddenly grinned like he’d been waiting for someone to ask.

“Is big day,” he said, voice full of pride. “I set her up with very nice man. Name is Luka. Banker. Hair like lion. Very symmetrical face.”

Bucky looked up, slowly. “…You what?”

“Date!” Alexei beamed. “They go to brunch. Then art museum. Maybe share pretzel. Classic courtship!”

The silence that followed was deafening. Bucky didn’t move.

“Wait,” John said, looking up from his file. “She’s on a date?”

“Yes!” Alexei slammed a celebratory hand on the table. “I make things happen!”

Yelena blinked. “With Luka? From your bowling team?”

“He does not just bowl! He reads books. Big hands. Gentle eyes.”

Ava smirked. “You sound like you’re in love with him yourself.”

“He is very huggable!”

Bucky barely heard any of it. He was still stuck on date.

Something cold settled under his ribs. He hadn’t known you were seeing someone. He hadn’t even thought to ask. You’d always been here, orbiting close. And now, without warning, you were… elsewhere. With someone. Laughing, maybe. Wearing something soft and light. Smiling the way you always did when you were teasing him - except it wasn’t him.

Alexei’s words filtered back in. “—and if it goes well, they go to second location. Maybe fondue. Is very romantic.”

Bucky pushed back from the table. “I’ll be on the jet,” he muttered.

Yelena watched him go, eyes narrowing. When the door slid shut behind him, she turned to the others. “Okay,” she said. “That man is not okay.”

Bob tilted his head. “Is this the part where he acknowledges his feelings and makes a healthy emotional decision?”

John scoffed. “More like he’ll sit alone in the cargo bay and think about how her laugh sounds.”

Alexei frowned. “But she deserves strong man with good face symmetry. Why is Barnes sad?”

Ava deadpanned, “Because he’s been in denial for months.”

Two hours later Bucky sat strapped in, arms crossed, staring out the window like it had offended him personally. Every passing city below looked like a blur of decisions he hadn’t made. He thought about the last time you had touched his shoulder. How you’d laughed at one of Bob’s ridiculous stories. How you always leaned in just slightly when you talked to him, like what he said mattered more than anyone else’s words.

And now you were giving that attention to someone else. Some Luka.

He didn’t even know what the guy looked like, but his brain was helpfully painting the worst: tall, perfect teeth, probably called you beautiful without tripping over the word like Bucky always did in his head.

He wasn’t mad at you. Not even close. But he was angry with himself.

He’d wasted time. So much time, thinking if he just stayed close, you’d know. That he wouldn’t need to say anything. That maybe feelings could transfer telepathically through awkward silences and missed glances.

You were out there living. And he was up here… sulking.

He hadn’t wanted to make a move. He’d told himself he wasn’t ready. And now it might be too late.

Meanwhile, at a café in Brooklyn, you stirred your coffee absently as Luka droned on about crypto trends and some vacation he’d taken in the Alps with his “boys.” His shirt was tailored, his teeth were indeed perfect, and he had zero opinions on whether or not one should put glitter in combat boots.

You smiled politely. But your mind wandered.

To the Tower.

To the mission briefing you could have been part of.

To a certain grumpy super soldier with eyes like storm clouds and the emotional range of a wounded wolf.

God, you missed him already.

The Tower was quieter than usual that night. Post-mission debriefs were filed. John had gone out. Yelena and Ava were holed up somewhere with wine and a true crime doc. Alexei was in the sauna, probably giving unsolicited dating advice to someone over speakerphone.

And you? You were back.

Bucky noticed the moment you walked in. Not because you announced it - you never did - but because the air shifted.

He was in the common room, nursing a drink and reading the same paragraph of a book for the fourth time when he heard the elevator ding and your familiar footsteps cross the floor.

Then your voice. “Hey.”

He looked up.

You were dressed casually - simple, comfortable, but still carried yourself like you had a secret no one else was allowed to know. Except this time, you looked… tired. Not physically. Just disappointed in a way that sat deep in the shoulders.

Bucky sat up a little straighter. “You’re back.”

You sank onto the opposite end of the couch, kicking your shoes off with a sigh. “Yeah. Just got in.”

He hesitated. Then, carefully: “How was the date?”

You groaned and dropped your head back dramatically. “So bad. So impressively bad.”

Bucky’s heart did something traitorous - thrilled a little too much at the words. He worked hard not to show it.

“He was… polite. I’ll give him that. But every time I tried to steer the conversation toward something fun or personal, he’d redirect it back to himself. Or his investments. Or this stupid vacation he took with a group of guys who all wore matching swim trunks and called themselves the Wolfpack.”

Bucky blinked. “The what?”

“Right?” You said, eyes wide. “It felt like a sitcom where the punchline never came.”

A beat passed. He couldn’t help it—he smiled. Just a little.

You caught it. Your expression softened. “What?”

“Nothing. Just… sounds like hell.”

“It was. But the pretzel was good.”

You shared a quiet moment. Bucky’s chest felt warm and strange. He didn’t speak much, but he listened, and for once, he didn’t feel like he was drowning in his own silence. Maybe it was the soft tone in your voice. Maybe it was the way you’d looked at him when you walked in, like you’d missed him too.

He almost leaned in, just a little, like he was going to say something real for once.

And then Bob practically exploded into the room, arms wide, face beaming like a golden retriever who’d just spotted his favorite human.

Bucky immediately sat back, shoulders going tense.

You blinked, then smiled, bright and open. “Hey, Bob.”

Bob crossed the room in three giant steps and flopped onto the couch between you with a whoomp, knocking Bucky’s knee in the process. “You’re back! I missed you! Did you see the picture of Waffles I texted you?”

“I did,” you said, laughing. “The little hat was a nice touch.”

“He wore it willingly!” Bob looked at you with stars in his eyes. “Did you have a fun day off?”

You paused. “It had its moments.”

Bob turned to Bucky, clueless and radiant. “Didn’t we miss her, Buck? I kept saying we needed her on the mission. She would’ve handled that alarm system in two minutes.”

Bucky blinked slowly. “Yeah. We missed her.”

Your eyes flicked to Bucky, and something quiet passed between you again. But Bob, entirely unaware, continued cheerfully.

“I was thinking maybe we could all go get pancakes tomorrow. Celebrate a mission well done and your return. I know a place. They have whipped cream. And seasonal syrups. And they let you mix them. Which is chaos, but good chaos.”

You laughed again, and Bucky felt the familiar ache settle back into his chest. Because Bob wasn’t competition. He was just kind. Bright and open and honest in a way Bucky hadn’t been in years. Maybe ever. And you looked so comfortable around him. So light.

Bucky couldn’t even be mad. Not at Bob. Not at you. Just at himself, for still sitting there, wanting something and saying nothing.

He stood up quietly, draining the rest of his drink.

“Where you going?” You asked, noticing.

“Gonna turn in,” he said, avoiding your eyes. “Long day.”

“Goodnight,” you said softly.

He paused. Then looked at you - really looked at you. And for just a second, he let something show.

“Glad you’re back.”

And then he walked away.

Behind him, you watched him go. And for the first time since the date, you weren’t thinking about Luka at all.

Valentina slid a sleek folder across her desk. Inside was a badge, a keycard, a stack of onboarding documents, and a post-it with “Val we need a hot tub in the tower—seriously” scribbled in Yelena’s handwriting.

“I want you full-time, Agent. No more coming and going. A room and an official seat at the table. The team already treats you like you’re one of them. Might as well make it real.”

You bit the inside of your cheek. Your heart said yes immediately. But your brain, ever cautious, flipped through the mental index of what-ifs and escape routes.

“You sure you want to say no?” Val asked, arms folded, one brow arched.

You blinked. “Did I say no?”

“You hesitated.”

“I blinked.”

“Same thing in spy-speak.”

Then you thought about last night’s mission.

How Yelena had linked arms with you when you walked back into the jet, chattering about snack options. How Alexei had announced proudly that he’d protected “the two best sharpshooters in the world.” How Bob had quietly tucked your coat over your shoulders when you’d dozed off.

And how Bucky had looked at you before you parted ways. Like maybe he didn’t want to see you go.

You smiled softly.

“I’m in.”

[skywritestudios]

Hey guys it's Joy! I'm alive, I've been pretty silent on my socials and skipped last month's devlog because I did nothing in April outside of managing teams and communicating in servers. Thanks to my good ol' friend burnout. 

General Recap Luckily, May was night and day comparatively. I had an exceptionally productive month.

I shipped out more merch, and generally just kept up with development. I was able to get over my burnout in the first week of May and find a pretty decent work life balance again. My job is thankfully very stress free and easy, as well as part time, so I have plenty of time off to work on dev stuff. Just as long as I schedule it out properly.

Nothing especially noteworthy happened outside of specific dev cycles, so let's just get into that. 

Criminally Yours

Let's start with Criminally Yours this time! Specifically the development of "Criminally Yours Part 2" aka "Criminally Mine" set to release August 1st 2025.

Criminally Yours Part 2 is nearly complete totalling at 53k words at the time of writing this, I have 3 ½ scenes left, I'm halfway through scene 15/18 and I estimate the final word count to be anywhere from 60-65k. Totalling for 6/6.5 hours of gameplay. 

It's quite large. I originally only anticipated for it to be 40k at most, to be double the length of Part 1 which is 23k for reference. 

It'll probably be 3 times the original length almost, but hey, what can you do? Friends of mine have joked that it's basically Part 2 and 3 at that length, and I can't disagree with that. With an extra love interest alone I knew it was going to be sizeable, but not like this.

However, I am extremely proud of it so far. I honestly expected it to be better than Part 1 just from the outline, but it has only gotten better and better as time has gone on and I think it's going to make a lot of fans happy. 

Our VA's have started recording their lines, our artists have plenty of sketched CG's and finalizing of sprites left, programming is in the works, and everything is moving very smoothly! (Not to jinx anything) 

I have our wonderful community of "Criminals" (Criminally Yours fanbase) for that! It's been so motivating for me to share my progress, and hear theories, and receiving messages telling me how much they loved the first part and how much more excited they are for the 2nd!

I just want to say, y'all are not even a little ready for what's in store, it truly is the emotional rollercoaster I planned for it to be and more. Buckle up, we've got 2 more months. (I'm sure they will fly by). When I've finished drafting I'll be posting an announcement on the "Criminally Yours" Tumblr which you can follow here.

Speaking of Tumblr! I'd like to plug the Skywrite Studios tumblr page, there is not a tumblr for Meant to Bee Studios. To be honest, Skywrite is my replacement for Meant to Bee, but since M2B has a large following, it'll be awhile before I can stick to only Skywrite.

Anyway follow Skywrite Studios Tumblr here. 

Fanart for Criminally Yours opening scene by iveu    

The Prince's Keeper

Okay, I know it's been like 3 months of TPK is coming, it's coming guys I swear. But it really is. It's literally a finished game, the only thing missing is 2 finished CG's. We've had some setbacks in regards to our CG artist this time around. Luckily, we have remedied this and will have a release as soon as those CG's are finalized. I hope you still look forward to playing once it's out. Its something truly special and deserves attention. Unfortunately it fell into a bit of a dev hell. 

CG concept for The Prince's Keeper- art by anonymous

My Sweet Fairy!

So unlike TPK. We've had a lot of luck with our artists and have made substantial progress, however, remember that burn out I'd mentioned earlier, well I was responsible for the last half of the script and completely dropped the ball. I had legit no motivation to work on the project or really anything at all. Even still, May I could have worked on it in time to get it done for Blossom Jam, however I have been hyper focused and stressed about Rectifier: In Bloom and Criminally Yours releases as they are commercial projects. Not free jam ones. 

So I made a tough decision, we decided to roll development over to next year and to release for Blossom Jam 2026. It hurts me a little to have to, but it was just not the right time, and I don't want to spread myself too thin as it can harm the quality of all projects involved and harm myself which is something I've learned not to do if I can help it. 

Next year will be here before we know it, and this way no team member who volunteered will be forced to crunch.

As my cofounder and best friend, Grey said. I'm not getting rid of the balls being juggled, just setting them to the side for when I can juggle them. (We love our silly analogies) but they're right. I'll happily pick up where we left off with fresh eyes and renewed spirit and produce the best project we can.

I hope you'll look forward to MSF! When it does eventually release, it's a super sweet romantic comedy with so much style and love put into it.

CG concept for My Sweet Fairy! Art by Zac/Jamkats

Starfallen: Strength

Strength's development like My Sweet Fairy! Is going very well, we have all sprites finished and finalized, and our OST. However, for the same reasons as before I had to roll this project over to next year as well, for next years Otome Jam.

I was very excited to release at least chapter 1/7 for the jam, but I think it's for the best to hold off so I can properly commission my artist for the project. I also would love to do an additional chapter for next year's release so 2/7. 

Image: Verona from Starfallen: Strength- art by Pinachos 

Rectifier: In Bloom Update

And last, but certainly not least, especially in my heart. We have the Rectifier: In Bloom update, as some of you may recall. Rectifier: In Bloom was my project for Otome Jam 2024, and what a time it was. Despite everything, I am still very proud of what I accomplished with a team of 4. 

However, it's clear from the current build (which you can find in the March devlog btw- only for Windows users though), what's clear from that build is that it's fundamentally flawed. Not only was the game made in RPG Maker MV meaning it lacks all the standard quality of life features and functionalities of a standard Renpy VN. It also was programmed by me, and lol it's not great. The routes are pretty good, however we had very little time for playtesting, and by little time I mean practically none. Art is stunning, though I wished I could've had more, soundtrack is very hodgepodge, some being original tracks with others being royalty free.

And don't get me started on the GUI or lack thereof and the abhorrent game page for Itch.

The whole thing felt like it was being held together by tape and child's glue. 

This time around, I wanted to polish the entire experience and add what was missing before.

So this time, we have a brand new game, completely reprogrammed into Renpy with all the QOL features that come with it, as well as a few more. A stunning GUI, more CG art, a fully edited script, as well as brand new extra scenes for each of the 7 routes! Extra tracks, and so much more! 

We are set to release the update here on itch June 30th 2025 in time for Otome Jam 2025. 

I want to say that despite all the flaws the original build came with, so many players were so supportive and saw something to love in the project despite its hang ups. This time around, I hope there is less focus on what holds the game back, and instead focus on all the little things that came together to make it so wonderful.

I've said it before, but Rectifier is my favorite project I've ever done. It has my whole heart and has so much content more to come, In Bloom was a way to sell people on the greater universe while still getting a complete experience. I think we accomplished that last year, but I want to cement it for those who liked it, and bring on new fans. 

Next year, I want to work on the main game, and In Bloom's success will help fund it.

The game will be commercial with 1 free route for the demo- Greer's, and 6 that will have to be paid for. The price will be $5.99 USD. However, you can donate $5 now to my Kofi now as a way to "preorder" the game. You'll get a key as soon as the game releases if you donate.

Thanks to all those that have donated so generously and bought one of our stunning keychains! (Mainly the Percy ones, but HEY lol) I am eternally grateful, I advise that even if you played the game last year you consider doing so again when it releases, I promise it'll be worth your time.

CG concept for Rectifier: In Bloom Greer's Route art by Gisselle

Thank you so much for reading and, even more so, for following and supporting my work! If you want to keep up with what we do, following Skywrite Studios on Itch.io) , Bluesky, and even me on Twitch are the best ways to do so!

We've got a lot more exciting things happening coming in the next 3 months, so please stay tuned! This time next month, Rectifier: In Bloom we available to purchase and play!

[multiversalburnoutclub]

𝐃𝐀𝐘𝐂𝐀𝐑𝐄 𝐒𝐄𝐂𝐔𝐑𝐈𝐓𝐘 𝐃𝐄𝐓𝐀𝐈𝐋

Warnings: cute….maybe fluffy….

You met Tony Stark during the Battle of New York.

He was in the air. You were on the ground. And you had twelve toddlers huddled in a corner behind you while the world cracked open outside the daycare’s glass walls.

You had no powers. No suit. Just a fire extinguisher in one hand and a look in your eyes that said try me.

He saw you from above. A flash of movement. A woman shielding children with her whole body like she could hold back an alien army with nothing but stubbornness and maternal rage.

And she almost did.

You’d shoved a Chitauri off its feet with a broken chair leg and planted yourself in the middle of the room like a damn soldier. Screaming instructions. Holding trembling hands. Not even blinking when the glass shattered behind you.

When the battle was over and the sky finally cleared, he flew back. He didn’t even wait for SHIELD to wrap things up. He just had to see you again.

So he showed up the next day.

Suit bruised. Lip split. Holding a ridiculous bouquet of roses and a box of high-end chocolates like he was about to beg for his life.

“Hi,” he said, awkward and sincere. “You kicked an alien’s ass with a plastic chair and I think I might be in love with you.”

You blinked. Covered in finger paint. Cradling a sleepy three-year-old on your hip.

“…Are you okay?”

He laughed. God, you were serious.

“I’m fine,” he said. “But I think I’d be a lot better if you let me take you to dinner.”

You looked down at your glitter-stained jeans. “Like this?”

“You could show up in a dinosaur costume and I’d still say yes.”

You said yes.

And everything changed.

He fell fast. Too fast. But he didn’t try to stop it.

You were sweet. Kind to a fault. Smiled like the world hadn’t just tried to end. And he’d never met someone who looked at him like that before. Like he wasn’t Iron Man. Like he was just Tony.

You texted him photos of the kids’ macaroni art. He sent you custom-made security systems disguised as teddy bears. You worried when he didn’t sleep. He sent Happy to bring you lunch when you forgot to eat.

He called it casual. But he was already gone for you.

He checked the building’s defenses every week. Had FRIDAY run scans every night. Installed a panic button in your phone and set it to alert him directly.

You caught him once, fussing over the locks on the daycare doors at three in the morning.

“Tony,” you said, hair pulled back, half-asleep. “You okay?”

He looked up, sheepish. “Just making sure you’re safe.”

“I am.”

“I need to know it.”

He didn’t care if you never called him your boyfriend. He didn’t care if you weren’t ready to say the word love yet.

He just needed to know you were okay. That the kids were okay. That no one would ever touch your world again without going through him first.

Because somewhere between the battle and the bouquet, he realized something.

You weren’t just someone he wanted.

You were home.

[yourmomsawh0r3]

Dandelion

pairing: pedro pascal x pop star best friend

trope: friends to lovers

word count: 1,566

song: dandelion by ariana grande

Pedro had mastered the art of playing it cool.

Press junkets. Film premieres. Award shows. All a breeze. He could handle intense directors, press rumors, even the chaos of a Star Wars Comic-Con crowd. He knew tonight would be hard. Not because of the flashing lights or the thousands of screaming fans echoing through the stadium. Not because he hated crowds or being in the spotlight.

But he could not, for the life of him, handle you.

You weren’t just his best friend. You were the one person who could disarm him with a single glance. The woman he’d been in love with for years, secretly, hopelessly, completely.

And now here he stood backstage at your sold-out concert, dressed in all black, trying to blend into the shadows, knowing you were about to perform your brand new song the one you told no one about. Not even him.

Then he saw you step out onto the stage.

Pedro’s breath caught in his throat.

The black corset. The thigh-high boots. The soft curls falling over your bare shoulders. You were a vision. Confident, untouchable. Every inch of you was a tease like something he’s never seen before had taken over your body and was staring right at him.

The beat hit. You gripped the mic with one hand, dragging it sensually toward your lips. And then you sang:

“Mean what I say, say what I mean

Not one to play, I am as you see

I give my word…”

Pedro’s heart stopped.

“These other boys, they’re one in the same

I’m tryna say, I want you to stay…”

You were looking right at him.

Your voice was seductive but soft laced with truth. With confession. You moved like every lyric came from deep in your bones, like this wasn’t just a performance but a revelation.

“I got (got)

What you need

I’m thinking you should plant this seed

I get this sounds unserious

But, baby boy, this is serious…”

Pedro shifted uncomfortably. His jaw clenched.

Because he was bricked up. Bad.

And not just because you looked like sin wrapped in velvet.

Because he knew without a doubt that this song was about him.

“And, yes, I promise

If I’m being honest

You can get anything you’d like

Can’t you see I bloom at night?

Boy, just don’t blow this

Got me like ‘what’s your wish list?’

You can get anything you’d like

I’ll be your dandelion, mmm…”

His mouth went dry.

Your body moved like temptation. The sway of your hips, the flick of your wrist, the way your fingers dragged up your thigh it was hypnotic. And your eyes never left his.

“You like how I pray

The secret’s in me

‘Cause, boy, come what may

I’m here on my knees…”

Pedro groaned. Actually groaned.

He had to adjust himself behind the curtain. Your lyrics, your voice every damn movement was driving him insane.

And it wasn’t just sexual. It was emotional. Personal. Like you had cracked your heart open in front of the entire world but only he could see the real message.

“These other flowers don’t grow the same

So just leave it here with me

Let’s get dirty, dirty…”

His knees nearly buckled. Jesus Christ.

“Boy, just don’t blow this

Got me like ‘what’s your wish list?’

You can get anything you’d like

I’ll be your dandelion, mmm…”

When the last “mmm” hit, Pedro was already moving.

You didn’t even have time to step offstage before you felt a hand on your wrist, pulling you gently but firmly behind the curtain.

Pedro.

His pupils were blown wide, lips parted, breath ragged. He looked at you like he’d just seen heaven and hell in the same five minutes.

“You wrote that about me,” he said hoarsely.

You tilted your head, a small smile forming. “Took you long enough.”

He ran a hand through his curls. “You… you meant every word?”

You stepped closer, voice soft but sure. “Mean what I say. Say what I mean.”

He groaned, grabbed your waist, and kissed you like he’d been starved for years. His hand tangled in your hair, yours slid beneath his shirt, desperate to touch, to claim.

When he finally pulled back, he rested his forehead to yours. “You’re evil for doing that on stage.”

“You liked it.”

“I’m in love with you.”

You smiled. “Good. Then plant the seed.”

Pedro blinked. “What?”

You smirked. “Your words. Or mine, technically.”

He kissed you again. And again.

And from that night on, he could no longer play it cool. Not when the world knew that dandelion was about him and he’d never let you float away again.

The roar of the crowd still echoed in your ears, adrenaline still coursing through your veins when Pedro pulled you into your dressing room and shut the door behind him with a quiet click.

He didn’t say a word.

He didn’t need to.

Because the second the lock turned, his hands were on you urgent, hungry, reverent. His lips crashed into yours with a force that nearly knocked the air from your lungs, and you melted into him like you’d been waiting your entire life for this moment.

He spun you, your back pressed to the vanity, the cool edge digging into the backs of your thighs as he stepped between them.

“You don’t get to do that,” Pedro murmured against your jaw, peppering kisses down your neck, “look like that, sing like that, and stare at me like you own me.”

You smirked, breath hitching. “I do own you.”

His grip on your hips tightened. “Yeah. You do.”

Your lips found his again, and this time it was slow deep. Messy. Tongues dancing. Teeth grazing. He kissed you like he was starving, like you were the only thing keeping him alive.

And then he pulled back, just far enough to look you in the eye.

“You meant that song.”

“All of it,” you whispered. “Every word. Every line.”

His hands slid down, fingers brushing the hem of your corset dress. “You want me to show you what it did to me?”

You nodded.

But he needed to say it. So he leaned in, voice hot against your skin.

“I’ve wanted you for years, cariño. You don’t know what it did to me hearing you say it. Seeing you own it like that on stage like you weren’t afraid of anything.”

“I was,” you admitted softly. “I was afraid you didn’t feel the same.”

Pedro’s mouth crashed into yours again, rougher this time his answer written in the bruising press of his lips, the way his hand slid up your thigh, the reverence in his touch.

He kissed down your neck, over your collarbone, down to the top of your chest. He dragged his nose along your skin like he was memorizing your scent. Then he dropped to his knees in front of you.

You gasped as he pulled you toward the edge of the vanity.

“Pedro—”

He looked up, his eyes dark and reverent. “I told you. I’ve got everything I need. Right here.”

And then he kissed the inside of your thigh.

Your head fell back with a moan.

The lights above the mirror flickered softly, casting golden halos around both of you. His hands gripped your thighs as he leaned in, worshipful, slow, savoring every second because he wasn’t just here to take.

He was here to devour.

Your hands scrambled for purchase behind you, knocking over makeup brushes and compacts, but neither of you cared. The only sounds in the room were your gasps, the whisper of his name, and the deep, quiet hum of a man finally tasting what he’d dreamed about for years.

And when you finally came undone beneath his mouth, shuddering, trembling, clinging to him like he was the only thing anchoring you to earth he kissed your thigh, then your stomach, then stood slowly, reverently as if he was afraid to break the spell between you. But the look in his eyes was something different now. Wild. Tender. Completely undone.

Your lipstick was smudged. His curls were a mess from your hands. Neither of you cared.

He cupped your face gently, thumbs brushing your cheeks. “You know I love you, right?”

You blinked, your chest heaving. “Yeah?”

He smiled softly, forehead pressed to yours. “Yeah. Always have.”

You grabbed his shirt, pulled him close again. “Then don’t wait anymore.”

He kissed you slow this time. Deep and warm, his hand sliding over your back as you clung to him like a lifeline. The world outside the door didn’t exist. Just you and Pedro. Your bodies pressed together, the air thick with heat, love, and everything that had gone unspoken for far too long.

Eventually, he whispered, “Let me take you home.”

You nodded. “You’re already home.”

He kissed you again, then helped you off the vanity, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear, his fingertips brushing your flushed cheeks. And as you both stumbled out of the dressing room into the quiet of backstage, hand in hand, there was only one thing Pedro was certain of

He would never hear “Dandelion” the same way again.

Because it wasn’t just a song.

It was a confession. A promise. A beginning.

And this?

This was just the start.

[lachesismoonmist]

I've Been Watching You - Chp 8

So it's THAT kind of phone call

Rating: Mature. Minors dni

Pairing: Jeon Jungkook / Reader

Words: Total: 73k

Status: Complete. 8 out of 26

Story Summary: There's a hot new guy in the gym. You can't keep your eyes off him, and it seems he can't keep his off you either. What starts out as Friends-with-Benefits turns into something a lot more complicated as your past comes back to haunt you and you find out your best friend's long-kept secret.

Originally posted on AO3

MY MASTERLIST

Chapter 8: So it's THAT kind of phonecall

Chapter Summary: Jungkook is in Paris for a photoshoot. He promises to call, and he does, but is so busy he has no time to talk. Then on Day 4 of his trip, he gets some free time. Time for a VERY important phone call. Author's Note: Ok, hands up those who saw this coming a mile away the minute JK said he had to go to another country [raises hand]. Sorry to be so predictable, but I had to separate JK and the MC as they were starting to become annoyingly sweet. Haha. Plus, this was a good chance to introduce yet another type of smut. So, SMUT ALERT! This chapter is here purely for smut. You have been warned.

---------------------------

True to his word, Jungkook called me the minute he disembarked from his flight. I’d just stepped out of surgery, so we managed to speak for a few minutes as he waited for his luggage. Then he got whisked off by the magazine people.

The next few days went by in a whirlwind, as a few special cases came into the clinic. Also, Nuri got discharged so that he could be at home, as requested by the family. We all knew it just a matter of time now. Each day, I just collapsed at home after work and crashed pretty early.

Jungkook managed to videocall me on the first and second nights, just to say ‘goodnight’ and blow me a kiss. His schedule was more packed than anticipated, so he hadn’t really had any downtime, even in the evenings.

Things finally eased up on the fourth day. I went to the clinic to deal with some administrative work, then was meeting Jimin for tea at a new café in a newly opened art gallery in town. We stuffed ourselves with scones, finger sandwiches and canapes. Then Jimin had to rush off to work.

As I was leaving the gallery after tea, my phone buzzed.

[Hot Gym JK] Hey Sweetness. I finally have a break in my schedule. Call you tonight? 10pm your time?

[Sexy Vet] Sure! I’ll be home. Most likely gaming.

[Hot Gym JK] Talk to you later, baby.

I didn’t end up gaming. It was nice having some quiet time, so I curled up in bed with a novel I’d been trying to read for months. I lost track of time, until I felt my phone buzz. It was Jungkook, video calling me.

“Hey Sweetness”. I could see he was sitting on a bed, leaning against the headboard. His phone propped on some kind of stand because both his hands were free. His hair was wet, like he’d just stepped out of the shower. To my disappointment, he wasn’t shirtless.

“Hey Big Boy. How’s Paris treating you?”

“To be honest, we’ve been so busy working I haven’t really had time to do anything else. Not my first trip to Paris though, so I’d rather just chill in my room. Like now.” He sounded relieved.

“Well, I’ve not been to Paris yet, so it’s all still very romantic and mysterious to me.”

“It’s a pretty enough place, but I think the movies and books hype it up too much. Of course, it also depends on who you’re travelling with.”

“The last time I travelled for fun was… six years ago” I said, trying hard to remember my last holiday.

“Seriously? Six years of no travelling?” he exclaimed. “That sounds sad.”

“Well, I did fly to my Alternative Therapies conference.” I said defensively.

“That doesn’t count. Anywhere you don’t need a passport for doesn’t count.” He said with a serious face for all of two seconds, then we both burst out laughing. “Miss me?” he said cheekily.

“I don’t know, should I?” I answered coyly, batting my eyelids at him. “How’s the bruise?” I asked, touching myself on the chest.

“Still a little sore, but not that ugly yellow color anymore. Wanna see?” Before I could say anything, he pulled up his tee shirt. I saw the bruise, which had started turning a little purplish, but I saw a lot more than the bruise.

“Stop showing me your abs!”

“Why?” he asked, turning from side to side to give me a good view.

“Because I want to lick them” I said, salaciously licking my lips exaggeratedly.

He paused for a second, a little stunned but then a sly smile crept in. He pulled his tee shirt off the rest of the way. “Oh yeah?” He ran his fingers across his abs. “What else do you want to lick?”

So this was going to be THAT kind of phone call. “Hang on,” I said, looking for my phone stand. I set it up on my nightstand so that the whole bed could be seen. I lay back down on my front, propped my chin on my hands, looking into the screen.

“I want to lick that big, beautiful cock of yours”, eyeing him hungrily. “I want to take you in my mouth, going deeper and deeper until I’ve swallowed you up”.

He groaned “Want to see my big, beautiful cock?” he asked, hands moving toward the waistband of his sweats.

“Yes” I said, looking at him with wide eyes.

He hooked his fingers into this waistband, then pulled his sweats off in one swift move. His hard, swollen cock sprang free and bounced against his lower abdomen. He took himself in his hand, pumping slowly as his eyes blazed.

“I showed you mine. Now show me yours. Take off your nightie.” He said a low voice.

I sat up slowly, making a show of pushing my nighty up my thighs, over my hips, past the swell of my breasts, then over my head. I was bare underneath.

“Are you trying to kill me, woman? You sleep in nothing but your nightie?”

“Comfort first, Big Boy. So,….” I said as I trailed my fingers across the swell of my breasts “what would you do to me if you were here?”

“I’d take your beautiful breasts and squeeze them. Go on, squeeze your breasts.”

I moved my hands up my body, taking a breast in each hand and squeezing.

“Then I’d play with and pinch your gorgeous pink nipples”.

Without prompting, I rolled my nipples between my fingers as I gasped, throwing my head back.

“Yes, just like that baby,” Jungkook said breathily as he pumped his cock harder and a little faster. “Now, move your hand down your body slowly. Spread your legs for me. Let me see that pretty pussy.”

I ran my hands down my sides, my right hand moving down towards my core. I opened my legs wide, shifting so that Jungkook could see. I bit my lower lip as I feathered my fingers over my outer lips. My left hand joined in, and I used both hands to part my folds.

“Look at that. Already wet. So pink and pretty. Do I make you wet, baby?”

“Yessss…. I need more Jungkook.”

“Circle your clit with your fingers, that’s it. Make sure your fingers are nice and wet.”

I moaned as I my fingers massaged my clit, which felt very swollen now.

“Push in two fingers. Imagine it was my fingers entering you.” I slid two fingers into my warmth, whimpering slightly at the sensation.

“Now pump your fingers in and out, like I would. Like how I’m pumping my cock right now.”

I watched with hooded eyes as he pleasured himself. My hips starting rolling as I slid my fingers in and out.

“Think you can take more, baby? I think you can, ‘coz you can take my big, fat cock. Add a finger.”

I did as told, adding a finger. When I didn’t feel the stretch, I added one more.

“Fuck,” Jungkook groaned “that’s it, baby. Stretch yourself, like you were getting ready for my cock.”

My other hand moved up to my left breast, pinched and rolled the nipple, which sent shockwaves through my body.

“That’s it, that’s it, good girl,” Jungkook crooned. “Fuck yourself with your fingers. Make yourself cum. I want to see you squirt for me.”

I closed my eyes and added my thumb to press on my clit as my fingers continued to move in and out of me, my harsh breaths echoing in the room. I pinched my nipple harder, hard enough for it to hurt as I moved the hand on my pussy faster and faster.

My thumb pressed hard on my clit, making circular motions, and I felt my walls started to pulse. My legs started to stiffen, my toes pointing forward like a dancer's.

“J..jung… kook…. Gonna cum. I’m almost there.”

“Cum for me baby, let me see you. Cum on your fingers like you’d cum on my cock” he ground out, breathing hard.

“Koook!” I shouted as my orgasm hit. I felt a rush of warm liquid on my hand as my whole body shuddered.

“Fuck, Y/N, fuck fuck fuck….” He gasped and he came, his semen spilling onto his abdomen. He stilled his movements, then released his softening cock.

I took my fingers out of my pussy and held them up to the phone. “Look at that, what a mess you’ve made of my fingers.” I put my fingers in my mouth, licking the fingers one by one. “Hmmm… tasty.”

“You’re a bad, bad girl. You know I’m dying to taste you now, so you’re showing me what I’m missing huh?”

“I miss you,” I said sleepily. “Come back here so you can fuck me properly.”

“Oh, I wish I could, baby.” He sighed. “Just three more days.” Suddenly he looked up, as a ringing sounded the in the background. “They’re calling me for dinner, baby. Have to go.”

“M’kay. I’ll go wash up then crash.”

“Ok Sweetness. I need to wash up too, can’t go out with cum on my stomach” he said, making me giggle. “Go to sleep baby. Goodnight.”

“Goodnight Big Boy”. I padded over the bathroom to clean up, then climbed back into bed and fell into a deep sleep.

Previous (Chp7)

Tags: @bhonbhon, @azurefangirl

[johnwickb1tsch]

you guys are geniuses @sweetwolfcupcake @reallongwire !!😂😂

what if you haven't had your annual screening in a while, you're way overdue. maybe its post pandemic or your insurance changed and you've just put it off and put it off because seriously who LIKES going to this appt?

you look through the list on the directory quickly and maybe you even misread his name, you think it says Dr. Julia Mercer and you're like ok this is fine get it over with click click. 😅

you go to your appointment and like you aren't already uncomfortable enough in the stupid paper gown and the sheet over your lap. He walks in and you are just dumbfounded. Flummoxed on the most visceral level possible. Like oh my god. Mortified. There is no way to act normal. You are a mess. You're not boy crazy but jfc this man ticks alllll your boxes.

Of course, you are suspicious too. Why would a man go into this field if he wasn't a creep? But maybe he actually just cares about women and could tell when he was in residency that it was an area of medicine that's grossly underserved. It could happen...

Of course, he's used to this reaction from new patients. He's all business while also being cordial and charming--there's an art to making small talk while giving a breast exam... He almost manages to put you at ease. Of course your native defense to uncomfortable situations is humor, and you manage to dig the hole deeper for yourself somehow while making him laugh.

Little do you know, he's struggling too. He is never a creep to his patients but there is something about you and he can't stop himself from thinking you are too cute for words. Bonus: he's already seen your hoohaa, very nice, 💯💯, appreciates the pre-appointment attention to detail... 🤣🤣 But of course, you're his patient. He can't ask you out. It's all moot...and it grinds him up a little inside.

When it comes time to leave his review you can't stop yourself from being funny at first. This man is a menace. Way too handsome to be a lady doctor. Didn't even need the lube. V. awkward. Nice smile. Warm hands. You delete it, of course, but...

Somehow, because you're a fucking idiot, you accidentally send that version unwittingly.

Julian, on the other hand, is dying with laughter when he reads this. Who is this girl? He looks you up and sees you're some kind of writer, like in the original movie. Maybe you write funny essays like David Sedaris, maybe some plays or tv writing. Maybe you have credits on a show he really likes. He can't stop thinking about you, and this is such an ethics violation.

Then...you run into him at the farmer's market a few months later. And he is not letting you slip away. You are trying to pick out a ripe melon. PLEASE let me put in a boob squeezing joke here. 😂😂 "Try this one." "How do you know?" "I've handled a lot of melons..." 🤣 Ok. I'm sorry. But then he has to say something that lets you know how badly you fucked up and YOU SENT THE CRASS REVIEW. You turn beet red. SO fucking embarrassed. Ready to drop your fruit and run. But he stops you.

"I'm not sure I can be your doctor anymore."

"That is five hundred percent understandable. I will be committing seppuku immediately."

"I can't be your doctor because I want to ask you to dinner tonight."

You die. That's it. The end.

😂😂😂

Rom com continues. There is definitely more of that cat and mouse vibe. He's used to women just fucking tripping over themselves trying to marry him because he's a handsome doctor, but you keep him at arms length because you're uncomfortable with how much you actually want him. You think you're mentally ill. You're not a teenager anymore. You should not feel this way as a grown ass woman. It's ridiculous.

But here you are. So fucked for and by this man. 😂😂😂 Turns out he really does know his way around the lady parts. Not fair. He IS a menace!

You invent a problem that doesn't exist so you can run away.

He tracks you down in Paris and when you see him in that fucking black cashmere turtleneck you die again.

The end. 😂

Ok ok not the end. I'm thinking...he runs you down. A big sappy declaration on the Pont des Arts (the bridge with all the love locks 😭 yeah i know). Snow falling. Kiss dammit!

Montage of doing lovey dovey things in Paris.

You live happily ever after.

Now it's the end.

but what if...

Dr. Julian Mercer was your gyno?

[causticflower]

can someone check on this man

[lbhslefttiddie]

the qiong ding peak disciples 100% have petty beef with lbh for stealing their favourite didi lmao

they're not gonna Actually beat him up (without Reason) but they're very emphatic about how thoroughly they WILL if lbh messes with sy. it's like a shovel talk that never ends

sy isn't actually completely oblivious to whats going on but he doesn't get why they're like this and he thinks theyre being fucking stupid (and he trusts them to not actually bully binghe) so he's elected to ignore their antics entirely