#keep the spark alive through texting

[swingosphere]

Men love a good text, especially the ones that hit him in the chest, the gut… or the boxers. Here are 10 texts that’ll have your man smiling all day (and probably hurrying home). #RelationshipGoals #TextGameStrong #LoveNotes #SwingosphereVibes

[lazy-ahh]

Hi, Lazy-ahh! Can I ask for main Mark x AMAB reader? In another universe, reader lost his Mark. He somehow travels to main Mark’s universe. Out of desperation, reader murders the other version of himself to take his place and have a second chance with his boyfriend. But it’s only a matter of time before Mark finds out.

REPLACEABLE

pairing mark grayson x (alternate dimension) AMAB reader

in another dimension, you lost mark. now, you'll destroy anything—even yourself—to get him back. but when mark starts noticing the blood under your nails, you realize: some ghosts can't be buried. and some loves aren't yours to keep.

taglist @hhoneylemon , @queermaeda , @yujensstuff , @thebatsgreatestfailure , @roryroro

you miss him.

it’s a hollow, gnawing thing, chewing through your ribs like a starving animal, leaving behind nothing but an ache so deep you swear it’s carved into your bones. you miss the way he laughed, loud and unguarded, the way his nose scrunched when he teased you, the way his fingers tangled in yours like he never wanted to let go—like you were something precious, something worth holding onto.

but your mark is gone.

you don’t remember much about how it happened, the memory too traumatic to remember yet too painful to forget—just screaming, the metallic tang of blood in the air, the way his body hit the ground too hard, too still, the sickening crack of impact that still echoes in your nightmares. you remember clutching his face, your fingers smearing red across his cheeks, begging him to wake up, to breathe, but his eyes stayed empty, staring past you into nothing.

you weren’t fast enough. you weren’t strong enough.

and then, somehow, you weren’t in your world anymore.

you weren’t even given the chance to grieve yet, to mourn, to scream into the void until your voice gave out. one second, you were kneeling in the wreckage of your life, and the next, you were standing on a sidewalk under a sun that felt too bright, too cruel.

this universe is almost the same. the same streets, the same sky, the same stupid posters of omni-man and the guardians of the globe plastered on bus stops, their smug faces grinning down at you like some sick joke. but then you see him—mark, your mark, alive and whole and laughing, his voice ringing through the air like a punch to the chest. your breath stutters, your chest cracks open, and suddenly you’re drowning all over again.

he’s right there.

you watch him for days, a ghost haunting the edges of his life. he goes to class, he texts his friends, he flies off to fight bad guys like nothing’s wrong, like the world hasn’t ended. it seems like he had just recently gotten his superpowers, his movements still a little unsteady mid-air, nothing like the effortless grace of your mark. your mark had gained his while he was trying to save you during a villain attack, his body slamming into yours as he shielded you from debris, his eyes wide with panic and determination as his powers finally sparked to life. you’d been walking toward a comic store to buy the latest issue of seance dog, his hand warm in yours, his voice teasing as he argued about which volume was better—as cliché and romantic as the scenario was, it was yours. but this mark wasn’t your mark. he didn’t have the memories you two shared, the inside jokes, the quiet nights pressed together under the glow of his laptop screen. he just lived his life happily and heroically, like he didn’t die in your arms. like you didn’t lose everything.

and then you see him. no—not him. you.

the other version of you in this dimension. it seemed like you didn’t get superpowers, didn’t go through the intense training that carved your body into something sharper, something meant to survive. you were... normal. soft in a way you hadn’t been in years. this version of you didn’t get to go on dates where you and mark just flew through the vast, endless night sky, the air cold and biting as you clung to him, the world below reduced to scattered lights while above you, the cosmos sprawled out in all its glory—endless stars, streaks of auroras painting the dark in rippling greens and purples, depending on where the two of you decided to go that night. you didn’t get to fight side by side, didn’t get to know the rush of battle, the way mark’s laughter would cut through the chaos as the two of you pulled off some stupid, reckless stunt, the way he’d press his forehead to yours after, breathless and bleeding, whispering, we make a good team.

but this you—this soft, powerless, ordinary you—was the one who still got to hold mark’s hand. who still got to kiss him goodnight. who still got to exist in a world where he was alive.

it’s not fair.

you don’t plan it. at least, you don’t think you do. but when you see them together—mark’s arm slung around his shoulders, his smile so bright it hurts, like looking directly into the sun—something inside you snaps. something dark and cruel and selfish, something that’s been festering deep inside you, rotting you from the core, finally consumes you whole.

he was walking home alone. it’s easy. he was normal. you were not.

you remember not even letting him scream. every time the memory comes crashing back, it’s like watching a scene play out from somewhere outside your body—like you’re floating in the back of your own mind, numb and detached, as the darkness in your veins pulls your strings, as your hands move without your permission. you let it happen. you let yourself drown.

you had gracefully landed behind them, silent as a shadow. your reflection in the dim streetlights would’ve been horrifying if they’d turned around fast enough to see it—your eyes sunken, bruised with exhaustion, your lips chapped from biting back screams, your hair a mess from nights spent clawing at your own scalp just to feel something. you looked like a ghost. like something already dead.

you remember the way they turned around, playful and fond, expecting it to be mark, only for their expression to twist into surprise. then—wonder? awe? you remember feeling perplexed, watching as this other version of you lit up, rambling in passionate excitement about how cool it was to see another version of himself. you had explained, briefly, that you were a superhero in your dimension, that you fought alongside mark, and their face had glowed with admiration, with playful jealousy, with this aching, innocent want—god, i wish i could do that. i wish i could be out there with him.

then, you remember telling them, voice hollow, that your mark died. because you were too weak. too slow. too human to save him.

and their expression—it falls. their smile shatters like glass, their eyes widening in something like grief, like understanding, because they love mark too, and the thought of losing him—

you watch the exact moment realization creeps in. their breath hitches. their fingers twitch, like they want to reach for you, or maybe run. their lips part—wait—

but you’re already moving.

"but... don’t worry," you whisper, and your voice doesn’t even sound like yours anymore. "you’ll be able to fight alongside him too. it’s just... it wouldn’t be you." your hand brushes their cheek, almost tender. "but then again, we are the same person anyway, right...?"

their face twists in horror.

you don’t let them scream.

(≧∇≦)ﾉ☆

mark notices something's off.

not at first. at first, you're perfect—maybe too perfect. you know all his favorite foods (the way he likes his burgers slightly pink in the middle, how he picks the mushrooms out of his pasta but will eat them if they're chopped small enough). you remember every stupid inside joke, every embarrassing childhood story his mom told you that one thanksgiving. your hands find all the right places—the spot behind his ear that makes him shiver, the way his shoulders tense after patrol that requires just the right amount of pressure to melt away. you curl into him on the couch like a dying star collapsing inward, pressing your face into the warm hollow of his neck, breathing him in like he's oxygen and you've been drowning for months.

maybe he is. maybe he's the only thing keeping you from dissolving completely.

"you've been clingy lately," he murmurs one night, fingers tracing idle circles along the knobs of your spine. you've lost weight. his voice is fond but there's something else there now—a question. "not that i'm complaining."

you tighten your arms around him like he might vanish if you loosen your grip. "just missed you."

he laughs, soft and warm, but it doesn't reach his eyes the way it used to. "i was gone for, like, two hours."

you press closer instead of answering, your fingers twisting in the fabric of his shirt.

silence stretches. then his hand stills on your back. "...y/n?"

"mhm?"

"look at me."

you don't want to. but you do.

his brows are furrowed, thumb brushing under your eye where the shadows have grown darker, more permanent. "you look like shit." it's supposed to be a joke but his voice cracks. "when was the last time you slept? actually slept?"

you try to smile. it feels like tearing open a wound. "'m fine."

"bullshit." his hands frame your face, calloused and warm and so painfully familiar it makes your chest ache. "you're shaking. you've been—i don't know, jumpy? like you're expecting something to—" he cuts himself off, swallows hard. "talk to me. please."

the concern in his voice is worse than anger would've been. you want to laugh. you want to scream. you want to tell him everything—how you wake up choking on his name, how every time he leaves the room you're half-convinced he won't come back, how sometimes you still smell blood when there's none there.

instead, you press your forehead to his and whisper, "bad dreams."

it's not entirely a lie.

mark exhales, long and slow, his breath warm against your lips. "okay," he murmurs, like he doesn't believe you but won't push. not yet. "okay. but you gotta eat something, alright? and sleep. actual sleep. i'll be right here." his arms tighten around you. "not going anywhere."

you close your eyes.

(you don't tell him that's what your mark said too.)

(≧∇≦)ﾉ☆

it's the little things that give you away.

the way you flinch when a car backfires two blocks away—too loud, too sudden, too much like that day. how you forget cecil's name during dinner when mark mentions him, even though the other you had known him since freshman year. the way you sometimes stare at mark across the room like he's a miracle, like he's already gone, your fingers twitching with the need to touch him just to prove he's real.

and then there are the nightmares.

you wake up screaming more often than not, sheets tangled around your thrashing limbs, your throat raw like you've been swallowing glass. the images never fade—blood on your hands, mark's vacant eyes, the way his body had felt so heavy when you cradled him. you scrub your skin raw in the shower until it's pink and stinging, but the phantom stains remain. you see them in the dark, in the flicker of streetlights through the blinds, in the rust-colored water swirling down the drain.

mark always wakes when you do.

his arms are around you before you can choke out another sob, pulling you against his chest where you can feel his heartbeat—steady, alive, here. "hey," he murmurs into your hair, voice thick with sleep but achingly tender, "it's okay. i've got you." his lips press against your damp temple, your forehead, the corner of your eye where tears still cling. "breathe, baby. just breathe."

you want to sob harder at the pet name. the other you had loved it too.

your fingers clutch at his shirt like a lifeline, nails digging into the fabric as you try to anchor yourself in the present. mark doesn't complain, just holds you tighter, one hand rubbing slow circles between your shoulder blades. "was it the same dream?" he asks softly.

you nod against his collarbone, unable to speak past the guilt lodged in your throat.

"wanna talk about it?"

you shake your head.

he doesn't push. just shifts until he can tuck you under his chin, your ear pressed over his pulse point. "listen to that," he whispers. "i'm right here. not going anywhere." his fingers card through your sweat-damp hair, gentle and sure. "you're stuck with me, y'know?"

a wet laugh escapes you, half-hysterical. if only he knew.

when you finally drift off again, it's to the rhythm of his breathing and the warmth of his hand still tangled in yours—like he's afraid you'll disappear if he lets go.

(you wish you could tell him he's holding a ghost.)

(≧∇≦)ﾉ☆

he finds out on a thursday.

you don't know how. maybe he followed you when you slipped out before dawn to scrub blood from under your nails in a gas station bathroom. maybe he found the shallow grave you dug behind the abandoned church, the dirt still loose after three weeks of rain. maybe the other you's friends noticed their texts going unanswered, their calls ignored, the way you'd flinch whenever someone said their name.

but when you push open the bedroom door—still smiling, still pretending, still holding the takeout bag from mark's favorite burger place—he's standing in the middle of the room. the blinds are closed. the lights are too bright. his face is pale as milkglass.

"where's y/n?" he asks. his voice is too quiet, too careful, like he's holding back a hurricane.

your stomach drops through the floor. the bag slips from your fingers, greasy fries scattering across the hardwood. "i'm right here."

"no." his hands are shaking now, clenched at his sides like he wants to hit something. or you. "the real y/n. where are they?"

you open your mouth. nothing comes out but a thin, wounded sound.

mark's eyes drag over you—the too-sharp angles of your face that don't quite match the photos on the fridge, the way your fingers twitch toward your pockets where bloodstained gloves are hidden, the defensive hunch of your shoulders like you're waiting for the world to end. again. his breath hitches. "oh my god." his voice cracks down the middle. "you—you're not them. what did you do?"

the grief in his voice is a knife between your ribs. you can feel yourself splitting open at the seams.

"i had to," you whisper. your voice sounds shattered, like you've been screaming for years. "i couldn't—i couldn't lose you again."

"again?" his face twists like he's tasting something rotten. "what the fuck are you talking about?"

"you died." the words pour out of you like pus from an infected wound, thick and putrid with guilt. "in my world, you died in my arms—your blood soaking through my clothes, your eyes going blank while i begged you to stay—and i—" your voice fractures, "i wasn't fast enough, i wasn't strong enough, and then i was here and you were alive but you weren't mine and i just—" your knees hit the floor with a sickening crack, but you don't feel the pain. "i just wanted you back."

mark stumbles back like you've physically struck him, his shoulders hitting the wall with a dull thud. his hands fly up to clutch at his hair, fingers twisting in the dark strands until his knuckles bleach white. "so you killed him?" his voice is barely recognizable—raw and shattered. "you killed yourself just to—to what? replace him? wear his face like some fucked-up mask?!"

"i didn't want to be alone!" you scream so hard your throat tears, the taste of copper flooding your mouth. "you don't understand—you're alive here, breathing and whole and—" your voice breaks into a whimper, "and i couldn't—i couldn't keep waking up to a world where you don't exist—"

mark's crying. really crying—the kind of sobs that wrack his entire body, tears streaming down his face in hot, silent rivers. you've never seen him cry before, not even when he broke his arm during a fight, not even when his dad disappointed him for the hundredth time. his breath comes in ragged, wet gasps as he slides down the wall, his legs giving out beneath him.

"you're a monster," he chokes out, the words barely audible but cutting deeper than any blade. his red-rimmed eyes meet yours, and the look in them—horror, grief, betrayal—makes your stomach twist violently.

you collapse forward, your forehead pressing against the cold floor as your body convulses with silent sobs. the weight of what you've done crushes you into nothingness, until you're not sure you even exist anymore. the last thing you hear before darkness swallows you whole is mark's broken whisper:

"i loved him."

(≧∇≦)ﾉ☆

he doesn't turn you in.

you don't know why. maybe he pities you—sees the hollows under your eyes, the way your hands never stop shaking, and thinks you've suffered enough. maybe he's too horrified to think straight, his mind still reeling from the blood under the floorboards, the missing person posters plastered across town. or maybe, in some terrible, twisted way, he understands. because he's lost people too—nearly lost himself a dozen times over—and that kind of grief does things to a person. makes them desperate. makes them dangerous. especially if that person was the love of your life. your soulmate. your heart. your everything.

but he doesn't look at you the same.

he doesn't touch you—no more casual brushes of fingers, no more sleepy cuddles on the couch, no more pressing kisses to your scars like they're something precious. doesn't smile at your stupid jokes, doesn't light up when you walk into the room. doesn't say your name like it means something, just avoids it entirely, like the syllables burn his tongue.

you broke him.

(and you wonder, with a sick sort of clarity, if this is how your mark felt when you died in your world. if he'd screamed himself raw, if he'd begged some higher power for a second chance, if he'd have done something just as monstrous to get you back. the thought makes you nauseous. you understand now. you wish you didn't.)

you leave before he can.

you don't belong here. you never did.

the last thing you see is mark's face—angry, grieving, alive—his mouth forming words you'll never hear, his hands reaching out like some part of him still wants to catch you. then the portal swallows you whole, and there's nothing but static and the phantom feeling of his fingers slipping through yours.

(you hope, wherever you end up, that there's a version of him who still loves you. but you know, deep down, you don't deserve it.)

3.1k words and I CAN'T DO THIS ANYMOREEEE WHY DO I KEEP DOING THIS TO MYSELFFFFFF AHHHHHHH thank you so much to the lovely anon who requested this! <33 hopefully you didn't cry as hard as i did when you read this...

[phantomwithbreakfast]

~ Danny Phantom ~

“What does it feel like? To be terrified of yourself—of what you are becoming? The future looms not like an open road but a trap, a dark inevitability. You’re not waiting for it, not watching for it. You’re running. Trying to ignore the whispers in your head, lying to yourself that it’s fine, that it’ll always be fine.”

When the sun goes under the line called a horizon, the night sky comes to life. A silvery moon’s light bathing the eerie glow of an aura, catching the shadow out of the black.

The darkness surrounded him, with little sparks of hope. Stars that couldn’t catch him, neither he could catch.

His veins flowing with cold fire, tingling skin feeling intangible. A mind that’s filled with hollow, yet spiraling in chaos. Split into divergent, until down and dusk.

Why are you doing this to me? You leave me standing here, can’t you see. I was lost in your eyes, this was never meant to arise. You were my hero, always to be. But now you’ve vanished, you’re no longer with me.

We tried to carry on, but it wasn’t right. Forever burned in memory, like a song in the night.

Why does this hurt, hurt so much. It was never meant to be, as such. You gave me strength to stand alone, but now I cry when I’m on my own. Drowning inside, lost in a sea, why are you doing this to me? It makes me weak, a strange kind of ache, you’ll never understand the pain I take.

The memories keep running on, of how it used to be, before you were gone. The hero you were is no longer here, you flew away, so light, like a feather near. Don’t do this to me, please come back.

I still wonder why it had to be this way, so much potential, yet it all went astray. You went a different path, never to be seen, this wasn’t meant to happen, it was too obscene.

It lingers like a song, etched in my mind, it should have brought us joy, a love so kind. Like a song, will you ever return?

When will you be here again? I miss you more with every grain. Forever chained within my heart, I bring you to life through every art. In my memory, you’ll always remain, and beside you, I’ll forever stand.

“I want to cry, I want to scream, but I can’t. I mustn’t.”

The storm raged on, tearing through the night. Shadows of fear and regret clung to her like chains.

“Take my hand,” Danny said, his voice calm, cutting through the chaos.

“Why? So you can watch me crumble? So I can drag you down with me?”

His eyes softened, but his hand never wavered. “If you crumble, I’ll catch you, I’ll follow. Just trust me.”

“You… don’t understand.”

“I don’t need to understand,” he said softly. “I’ll carry you, no matter what happens, I’ll never let you fall.”

Slowly and with a trembling hand, she reached for him. Their fingers met, and his grip was strong, cold but alive—everything she thought she’d lost.

The chaos began to still, and she felt the faint echo of something she thought was gone.

Hope.

Those were random texts I wrote through the years of my own existence.

———————

You can read my Phan Fics on FanFiction.net. PhantomWithBreakfast

———————

Note to myself again…

About the drawings, I was just playing (practicing) with lighting, shading, etc…

Expressions, mouths... Yeah, still working on that. I was too lazy to shade the hair, lol.

Still hate drawing hands.

And the funny thing is, just because I’m drawing every day, I’ll always find new ways to try to improve my art (duh). Because I’m never happy when I’ve ‘finished’ one.

[chimcess]

Unparalleled || jjk

Pairing: Jungkook x Reader Other tags: Idol!Jungkook, Photographer!Reader Word Count: 6.6k+ Genre:  One-shot, established relationship, PWP, long distance relationship AU, smut Synopsis: You had only met him once, a fleeting moment in the grand scheme of things, and the fact that he was on the other side of the hotel door felt surreal. Or, after being in a long-distance relationship for over a year, you and Jungkook are finally meeting up. Warnings: This is literally just porn, there’s a plot but it’s just filth, soft-dom JK, he calls reader “baby,” oral (m&f), d*ck piercing, tatted jk, jk wears glasses (the entire time), dirty talk, desperate sex, couch sex, they barely made it inside tbh, protected sex (wrap it up babes), multiple positions, light begging, light body worship, light praise, some teasing, reader cums on his face, multiple orgasms, nipple play, nipple sucking, some nipple biting, hair pulling, aftercare cuddling, sweet ending, let me know if I missed anything... A/N: I’m still getting used to writing smut, so I’m sorry if this is a bit awkward in some spots. Found this in my drafts, so I fixed it up a little bit and decided to post it. Thanks for reading.

Staring down at my fidgeting hands, I felt like the taxi was closing in on me, every tick of the clock amplifying the sense of claustrophobia. Twenty minutes felt like an eternity, dragging by as if time itself were taunting me. I stole another glance at my phone, re-reading Jungkook's last message like it was some sort of magic spell. 

Kookie: 324

It was surreal to think he was right here in California, just a short drive away, no oceans or time zones separating us. My leg bounced nervously beneath the table, the excitement swirling in my stomach like butterflies in a frenzy. Each moment felt charged with anticipation, a thrilling energy that made my heart race. I quickly typed out a response, adding a heart emoji before sending my location. Jungkook always said sharing my location made him feel closer to me, bridging the gap between our worlds, even with his whirlwind schedule that rarely left room for anything else. Being one of the biggest pop stars had a way of pulling a guy in a million directions.

I couldn’t help but smile as I recalled our first meeting. It was right after the lockdown ended, during his band’s visit to California for a concert and the Grammys. I still vividly remembered standing by the snack table, nervously clutching a half-empty cup of soda, when our eyes met for the first time. There was an electric spark in that moment, something I hadn’t realized I’d been missing. His grin was infectious, his playful nature shining through, and my heart had skipped a beat at the sound of his laughter. It echoed in my mind like a melody I wanted to play on repeat.

A few months later, we had entered a long-distance relationship, navigating the challenges of his demanding career while trying to keep our connection alive. Late-night video calls, flirty texts, and the occasional surprise visit were our lifelines, but nothing could compare to the rush of being together in the same room. And now, the thought of finally seeing him in person again sent a rush of warmth through me, a blend of hope and nervous energy that was hard to contain.

As I waited, I replayed our conversations in my mind—each one a thread weaving our lives together despite the distance. We shared dreams, fears, and whispered secrets, laying the groundwork for something beautiful and profound. The thought of being in his presence again, of feeling his warmth and the comfort of his touch, made my heart race with excitement.

I glanced at the clock again, biting my lip in anticipation. Each minute stretched into hours, the seconds crawling by. Would he still feel the same? Would our chemistry translate into real life as effortlessly as it did through screens and messages? Doubts flitted through my mind, but I shook them off, focusing on the joy of the moment. Jungkook was just a heartbeat away, and soon, I would be in his arms. The very idea sent a shiver down my spine.

My phone buzzed, startling me out of my thoughts. I scrambled to open the notification, my heart racing. If Jungkook messaged, I had to respond quickly. Our conversations were a race against time, a way to squeeze moments of connection into his packed schedule. Phone calls were our only reliable lifeline, but the language barrier complicated things. We were both trying, though Jungkook's English was much better than my Korean.

Kookie: 나는 신나요

Giggling, I typed back a response.

Y/N: 나도

Kookie: Good job, 자기~

Nothing made Jungkook happier than seeing me try to improve my Korean. He always insisted it was adorable, his smile brightening every time I stumbled through a phrase. Yoongi was usually the more honest one, quick to point out my mispronunciations, but Jungkook wore that supportive boyfriend badge with pride, even if it meant telling me little white lies.

As the taxi pulled up to the hotel, my heart raced with a mix of excitement and anxiety. I thanked the driver, tipping generously as I stepped out into the warm night air. The moment I did, the fragrant scent of blooming jasmine wafted around me, mingling with the distant sound of waves crashing against the shore. I had only packed a small bag for our two-night stay, not knowing how much time we’d actually have together. Remembering that, I hurried up the steps, my footsteps echoing against the marble tiles.

The Sunset Hotel was unlike anything I’d imagined. I had envisioned a quiet, almost sleepy place, but instead, it was alive with activity. I couldn’t believe it was two in the morning; the lobby was bustling, a vibrant mix of laughter, clinking glasses, and the faint notes of live music drifting from the bar area. The energy crackled in the air like electricity, and I felt an exhilarating rush. Yet, amidst the lively atmosphere, a wave of inadequacy washed over me. Just a few moments ago, in the taxi, I had almost forgotten about Jungkook’s status as one of the biggest pop stars in the world, but now, beneath the sparkling chandelier that cast shimmering patterns across the polished floor, it was impossible to ignore.

As I walked through the brightly lit lobby, I caught glimpses of elegantly dressed guests, their conversations animated, their laughter ringing out like musical notes. I felt like a fish out of water, dressed in a casual sundress while they flaunted designer attire. Who would have thought my years in the service industry—working late nights and juggling demanding customers—would lead me here, about to meet someone who could afford such luxury? The thought both thrilled and terrified me.

At the front desk, the staff shot me quick, assessing looks. Their eyes were sharp, as if measuring my worth in this lavish setting. One of the hosts greeted me with a forced smile that felt far too wide for comfort. “Welcome to the Sunset Hotel! How can I assist you tonight?” Their voice dripped with that practiced hospitality, but I could sense a subtle skepticism beneath the surface.

“Um, I’m here to check in,” I replied, my voice steady despite the fluttering in my chest. I fished my phone out of my bag, ready to show them the reservation I’d made, but the host raised an eyebrow, glancing down at the computer screen as if evaluating my very presence.

“Name?” they asked, still wearing that unnaturally bright smile.

“Y/N,” I replied, and I held my breath as they typed it in. A brief moment of silence stretched between us, the bustling lobby fading into a distant murmur as I waited for their response. 

“Ah, yes! We have you right here,” they said finally, their tone shifting to one of mild surprise. “You’re the other half of 324, correct?” They looked at me again, and I could feel the weight of their judgment, as if I were a puzzle they were trying to fit into a larger picture.

“Right,” I said, attempting to keep my tone light. “Should just be for the weekend.” 

The host’s smile remained, but the glint in their eye suggested they were piecing together the details, perhaps even recognizing my connection to Jungkook. As they handed me the key card, I felt a rush of anxiety. What if they didn’t think I belonged here? What if Jungkook didn’t feel the same way about me once we were together?

I took the key, my fingers brushing against the cool surface, and turned to head toward the elevator. I was acutely aware of the looks I was receiving, a mix of curiosity and skepticism from both staff and guests alike. The air was thick with expectations, and I could almost hear the whispers in my mind, doubting whether I was truly worthy of this moment. But I pushed those thoughts aside. This was about Jungkook and me, our connection. And soon, I would be in his presence, feeling the warmth of his smile and the excitement of our reunion. 

Taking a deep breath, I stepped into the elevator, the doors closing behind me like a protective barrier from the outside world. As the car ascended, I clutched my bag, heart racing with every passing floor. This was it. In just a few moments, I would be face-to-face with the boy who had ignited something within me, and no amount of uncertainty could overshadow that truth.

I shifted from foot to foot in the cramped elevator, the anticipation eating away at me like a swarm of butterflies taking flight in my stomach. Each second felt like an eternity, stretching my nerves thinner and thinner. I took out my phone, biting back a smile as I contemplated the moment. It was so surreal that I was just a few moments away from seeing Jungkook again after what felt like an eternity apart.

In a burst of excitement, I snapped a quick picture of the elevator doors opening, the sleek metallic finish reflecting the soft glow of the lobby lights. I sent it to Jungkook with a playful caption: *“Almost there!”* Watching the little blue ticks appear, I felt a rush of warmth, knowing he’d see it almost instantly.

Once inside the elevator, I pressed the button for the third floor with a mix of hope and trepidation. It only made sense that the 300s would be located on the third floor, right? Still, the absence of any signs directing me left me feeling a bit disoriented. The elevator hummed softly, its gentle movement barely easing the whirlwind of thoughts racing through my mind.

The walls felt a bit too close, almost as if they were closing in on me, but I took a deep breath, willing myself to relax. I replayed the memories of our conversations, the laughter we shared, and the longing I felt every time we parted. The excitement pulsing through me was intoxicating, a vivid contrast to the anxious tension coiling in my chest.

Suddenly, my phone buzzed in my hand, jolting me out of my reverie. I glanced down, my heart skipping a beat as I saw Jungkook's name flashing on the screen. 

Kookie: I’m going to kiss you so much.

I couldn’t help but smile. I hoped kissing would be just the beginning of what would happen tonight. After a year of building up tension, I didn’t want to wait anymore. I wanted him.

Y/N: 또?

Kookie: I can’t think of it in English.

Rolling my eyes, I groaned. That was his way of avoiding a question. I knew he understood, but it amused me more than anything. Slowly, my nerves eased, and I felt more confident about seeing him, even if we were hiding away in a hotel I could never afford, lying on expensive sheets while the world outside spun with sharp eyes and curious gazes.

As the elevator dinged softly, signaling my arrival at the third floor, I felt a surge of adrenaline. The doors slid open smoothly, revealing a dimly lit hallway lined with plush carpeting and framed art pieces that whispered of elegance. Taking a deep breath, I stepped out, the plush carpet muffling my footsteps as I moved forward. The anticipation hung in the air like a charged atmosphere before a storm, and I could almost feel Jungkook’s presence drawing me closer.

I glanced at the room numbers, scanning for his. As I walked, I imagined what it would be like to finally be face-to-face with him. Would he look the same? Would that boyish grin still light up his face when he saw me? The thought sent my heart racing as I turned a corner, catching sight of the numbers I had been searching for. 

Room 324. My breath caught in my throat, and for a fleeting moment, I hesitated, overwhelmed by a wave of nerves. What if things were different now? What if he had changed? But I quickly shook off the doubts; this was Jungkook, the boy I had laughed and shared secrets with, the one who had kept my heart fluttering even from a distance.

With a firm resolve, I approached the door, my heart pounding in rhythm with my steps. I held my breath, the moment stretching out like a taut string ready to snap. Would he answer? Would he be excited to see me? I could hardly contain the anticipation, my heart racing as I waited for that door to swing open. The air crackled with anticipation, buzzing with the weight of what was about to happen. 

I raised my hand to knock, but before my knuckles could even touch the wood, the door swung open. And there he was—Jungkook.

He was everything I remembered: pitch-black hair tousled in a way that was both effortless and enticing, metal glinting in the light, thin, silver rimmed glasses, and a thin white t-shirt clinging to his muscular frame. It felt surreal, like stepping into a vivid dream, but this was no illusion. This was real, and it took my breath away.

"You," I whispered, the word slipping out like a gasp. 

His dark eyes widened in surprise, delight flickering across his features. My heart raced as I watched him take me in, his expression shifting from uncertainty to something deeper, more intimate. Had he been waiting for this moment as much as I had? Was he just as happy as I felt?

All my doubts faded when that eyebrow, heavy with steel, raised in appreciation instead of scorn. He stepped into the hallway, and my heart pounded wildly, the space between us charged with an unspoken promise.

"You," he echoed, his voice low and husky as he took my hand in his, guiding me back into his room. 

He kicked the door shut behind him. The air thickened as he moved closer, inches separating us, electric and intoxicating. I inhaled the scent of him—soap and laundry detergent—sending shivers down my spine. A soft whimper escaped my lips, desire pooling in my stomach like a spark waiting to ignite.

With an air of confidence, he advanced, and I leaned back, the weight of his presence drawing me in like gravity. I stopped when my back hit the couch, the world outside fading away as we paused, our breaths mingling in the charged silence. My fingers, betraying me, reached up to trace the row of piercings in his eyebrow, trailing down the line of his jaw to his lips. They were soft and rosy, a striking contrast to the rough stubble that scratched my palm.

In that moment, he darted his tongue out, the pointed tip brushing against my fingers, and I moaned softly, the sound echoing in the intimate space between us, igniting the fire that had been simmering beneath the surface.

And then he was on me.

He seized my hand, guiding it into the tousled mess of hair I had longed to touch. It was softer than I had imagined, and I lost myself in it. His mouth descended on mine, a fiery torrent of passion and urgency. My body responded instinctively, arching into him as our breaths mingled, his desire palpable against my stomach, the taste of longing lingering on his lips.

His palm traced a path down my arm, firm and possessive, sliding over my shoulder and back again. He tugged at the buttons of my cardigan, peeling the fabric away to reveal the inked skin beneath. I shivered at the roughness of his touch, a thrilling contrast to the softness of his kiss.

Breaking away, I pressed my mouth against the line of his jaw, trailing wet kisses toward the piercings in his ear, letting my tongue tease them as my breath washed hot against his skin.

“Do you know how long I’ve wanted to kiss you?” He whispered against my lips.

I panted, my fingers tangling tightly in his hair.

His hands tightened around my arms, pulling us together, the weight of our bodies colliding in a desperate embrace. “Every single day,” he swore, his voice rough yet melodic. He began a slow, deliberate exploration of my neck, the heat of his tongue tracing my pulse and making me shudder. “Every night that you called me, whispering sweet nothings in that voice. It drove me insane. I just wanted to hop on a plane and have you in my lap.”

“God, I wish you would have,” I gasped, feeling the bite of his teeth just below my collarbone, a thrilling blend of pain and pleasure that made me clench around nothing. “Why didn’t you?”

“You make me nervous,” he murmured, teasing aside the cup of my bra.

He took my nipple into his mouth, his tongue flicking against the bud with reverence. I whined in pleasure, arching into him. Emboldened, he bit down.

“Self-conscious, huh?” I teased, winded and shaking from pleasure, even as my nails dug into his back, urging him closer. “I have a hard time believing that right now.”

He pulled back, capturing my face in his strong hands, kissing me fiercely as a low growl escaped him. “Believe it.”

We kissed with a fierce intensity that made me feel like I was on fire, the heat radiating off him, his glasses pressing against my face. He shifted to remove them, but I caught his wrists, holding him in place.

“Don’t,” I growled. “I like them.”

A primal sound erupted from his chest, desperate and raw. He lifted me effortlessly, settling me against the back of the couch, our bodies grinding together, my thighs aligning perfectly with the hard heat of his jeans. Each thrust sent a new wave of pleasure surging through me, my head falling back as I teetered on the brink of ecstasy, feeling weightless and electric, consumed by a desire that felt like it could set us both ablaze.

But he caught me. Just as I was about to tumble backward into dizzying, white-hot pleasure, his arms wrapped around me, firm and unyielding, pulling me against the solid expanse of his chest. My breath came in quick, frantic gasps, my heart racing like a wild animal as I clung to him, my legs instinctively wrapping around his waist, drawing him closer.

“Careful, pretty girl,” he breathed into my ear, a soft murmur that sent shivers racing down my spine. I grasped at his back, fingers digging into the taut muscles, anchoring myself to him, afraid of being swept away in the tide of desire threatening to pull me under.

My hands roamed from his back, gliding over his shoulders and down his arms as he stroked his fingertips along my thighs, mapping a path from my knees to my hips and back again. His skin was warm, electric under my touch, and I traced the intricate black curls of ink adorning his pale flesh—an abstract tapestry resolving into a lion on one arm and a lamb on the other.

“You’re beautiful,” I gasped, the words spilling out before I could stop them, but he silenced me with another heated kiss. 

My fingers fumbled at the hem of his t-shirt, desperate to see what those curls of ink transformed into beneath the fabric. He shifted me closer, his grip on me unwavering, even as his hands momentarily released me to lift his arms above his head. Seizing the opportunity, I tugged at his shirt, peeling it away to reveal the canvas of his torso, the intricate lines of ink telling stories I longed to hear.

I barely had time to take in the intricate Sanskrit lines etched along his side and the lone kanji character hovering over his heart before he was lifting my shirt, pulling it over my head. For a heartbeat, I was enveloped in darkness, blinded by the fabric. My hands scrambled behind me, fumbling to unclasp my bra, and he kissed a heated trail along the bare skin of my shoulder as the straps slipped down my arms.

“I love this,” he murmured against my skin, his lips trailing softly across my collarbone, down my ribs, and back to my breast, igniting every nerve in my body. “And I love it all the more because of this.”

His tongue brushed over the small butterfly tattoo on my ribcage.

His fingers roamed lower, and when he pulled away, I let out a whimper of protest, longing for his touch. The light-headed sensation returned, reminding me just how long it had been since a man had touched me—since I’d felt filled.

I braced myself with one hand against the edge of the couch while the other tangled in his tousled hair, relishing its softness as it slipped through my fingers. His mouth found my stomach, his tongue dipping into my navel, tracing a tantalizing line toward my most sensitive spot. I gasped, an overwhelming hunger igniting deep within me. I had been yearning for this, for him, and the desperate need flooded my senses.

With deft fingers, he teased apart the button of my fly and drew down the zipper, revealing delicate black lace beneath. He licked and sucked his way to my hip, his hand lingering on my abdomen, thumb skirting under the edge of my underwear before descending lower, finally finding bare, glistening skin. When his fingers grazed my clit, pleasure surged through me, and I nearly cried out at its raw intensity.

“Fuck, baby, you’re dripping,” he cursed, his voice rough with desire as he buried his face against the joint of my hip and thigh.

“For you,” I groaned, my body arching instinctively. “I’ve been wet for months just thinking about you.”

A low growl escaped him, and in a blur of motion, he tore the hem of my jeans down, ripping them from my body until I was left in nothing but my panties. He pushed my naked thighs up and over his shoulders, positioning his head exactly where I craved him to be.

I struggled to contain my frantic breaths, fast and shallow, echoing my absolute need to feel his hands, his mouth, to be consumed by him entirely. He inhaled deeply, reverently, his nose brushing against the lace where my body met my thigh. The sensation sent shockwaves through me, rendering me breathless.

He wrapped one hand around my leg while the other snaked behind me, gripping my ass firmly, anchoring me as he pulled the soaked fabric aside, exposing my bare skin to his hungry gaze. His thumb descended onto my clit, and I gasped, waves of need crashing over me as pleasure radiated from his touch. I cried out, the sound escaping me like a prayer, my body arching toward him, desperate for more.

And then he kissed me, his mouth capturing my clit with an intensity that sent me spiraling.

The moans clawing their way from my chest were unrecognizable, a desperate symphony of need as I became a writhing mass of pure, unadulterated hunger. Unlatching himself, his thumb worked expertly at my clit, sending jolts of pleasure coursing through me. His tongue darted out, teasing the edges of my entrance before plunging inside, and I felt the pressure building, the storm that had been gathering finally reaching its peak until I exploded, my thighs clenching around his face as my body ignited into a searing inferno.

I teetered on the edge of ecstasy, and then I actually fell over, the world spiraling away.

When I regained awareness, I was sprawled across the back of the couch, my neck twisted awkwardly, the top of my head grazing the seat cushion. My arms draped limply above me while my thighs remained anchored to his shoulders. He gazed down at me, a mixture of curiosity and satisfaction etched across his face, his mouth glistening—a testament to our fervor.

With a wicked smirk, he wiped his mouth with his forearm, leaving me in my awkward state as he peeled my panties down my body, rendering me completely exposed and unable to rise. His finger glided along my opening, my body still thrumming with aftershocks from one of the most intense orgasms I’d ever experienced. When he dipped gently inside, I gasped.

“Is this what you want, Y/N? My hands inside you?” 

I found myself ensnared in a whirlwind of emotions; I craved this intimacy with him more than anything, yet it felt like just a fragment of the whole picture. The sensation of his fingers deep within me was intoxicating, but beneath that, there lingered a yearning for more—more than just his hands. I ached for him—his body hovering over mine, the heat radiating from him as I traced the ink etched across his skin, my tongue teasing the silver piercings that adorned him.

“Yes. No. God, I want you,” I gasped, my voice a mixture of longing and desperation.

He raised a pierced eyebrow, still kneeling before me, his fingers buried deep inside me. “Want your cock.”

“You want this dick?” he asked, his tone both teasing and serious.

“Yes,” I panted, the word slipping out as both a plea and a command.

“Where?” 

I knew exactly where I wanted him; the desire burned brightly within me. “Everywhere. My hand. My mouth. My pussy. Just… everywhere.” 

A low growl escaped him, reverberating through my body, raw and hungry. But just as quickly, his fingers slipped away, leaving me aching and empty. He gripped my hips, securing me against him and the back of the couch, rising to slide my slick core against the hard line of his body. The urgency of his arousal pressed against me, igniting a fire within. 

He leaned down, gathering me into his arms, kissing me with such fervor that I felt dizzy, his hardness grinding against me—a promise of what was to come.

I pushed him away gently, his expression shifting to one of confusion, but all I needed was a moment to slide off the couch and drop to my knees. He groaned as I ran my nose along the thick outline of him through his jeans, feeling him twitch in response to my teasing. With trembling hands, I tugged his pants and boxers down, revealing him—long, thick, and glistening with anticipation.

The chrome piercing at the tip caught the light, gleaming enticingly. 

Looking up, I found him hovering above me, his body bared save for those damn glasses. His intense gaze locked onto mine, a silent plea reflected in his brown eyes. “Y/N,” I breathed, letting my warm breath wash over the tip of him. He groaned, his fingers tangling in my hair, urging me forward.

“God, I want to feel your mouth on me,” he implored, igniting a wild hunger within me. 

I opened my mouth, eager and wet, my lips closing around the head of him, my tongue tracing the underside, the cool metal against warm flesh sending shivers down my spine. 

“Y/N.”

I pulled away before I could take him too deep, trailing my mouth down his length, savoring every moment as I buried my nose into the soft hair at the base of him. He was practically whimpering, and I couldn’t resist the urge to pump him twice with my hand, the slickness gliding over him before I took him into my mouth, relaxing my throat to envelop him. Yet even with all my efforts, I couldn’t fit him completely, and I rubbed my thighs together, craving the moment he would finally fill me.

I moved my mouth up and down his length, achingly slow, feeling the tension coiling within him, his hips twitching, restrained. He wanted to thrust, to take control, but I held him back, guiding his movements while keeping him still. I could sense his legs trembling, teetering on the edge, so I pulled off, leaving him panting, his length throbbing, a testament to our shared desire.

Kissing the sharp bone of his hip, I pulled his pants the rest of the way down as he kicked off his shoes, the fabric sliding away like a whisper in the night. Just as I was about to toss the jeans aside, he stopped me, his voice low and husky. “Back pocket.”

Curiosity piqued, I glanced up at him through narrowed eyes and retrieved the little foil package from his back pocket. I noticed at least two more tucked away, and I couldn’t help but wonder if he had remarkable recovery time or if he was planning a very long weekend with me. Both notions sent a thrilling rush coursing through me

I held the condom up between two of my fingers. Jungkook snatched the package from me, tearing it open with a deft motion, rolling it over his cock from tip to base. He pressed his sheathed length against my hip, our bodies brushing together with a desperation that left me breathless.

“Turn,” he commanded, gently pushing at my shoulder. I obeyed, and his hands shoved me down, bending me from the waist, positioning my elbows on the back of the couch. When he was satisfied with my submission, he settled his hands firmly on my shoulder blades, a searing presence that felt as though it might melt through my skin, branding me with his touch.

His hands glided down my sides, over my ribs and hips, finally settling on my ass, rubbing it appreciatively. The edges of his fingers grazed my lips, parting them, and I jerked backward, feeling the heat of his cock resting against my back.

“Wider, baby,” he cooed, his fingers sliding over my trembling thighs. I closed my eyes, overwhelmed by the rush of sensation, and obeyed, spreading my legs for him. His knees bent between mine, the tip of his cock gliding tantalizingly from my clit to my entrance, brushing against me but not penetrating.

“Please, Jungkook,” I panted, desperation clawing at my throat as I felt myself teetering on the edge of begging.

Even he found himself pleading. “Please let me inside you,” he whispered, his length teasingly tracing my wet flesh, dipping slightly to part my lips but not filling the aching void within me.

“Yes,” I groaned, finally feeling the head of his cock pressing against my entrance, slipping into me inch by glorious inch. Nothing had ever felt this intense. “Fuck, yes,” I moaned, his grip hot and possessive at my hip while the other hand cradled the back of my neck, steadying me.

It was maddening not being able to move, even though all I wanted was to rock back and pull him deeper. 

My body stretched as he pushed forward, achingly slow until he was fully seated within me, his hips flush against my backside. I gasped as he filled me completely. The sensation was electrifying, and I felt him rock back slightly before surging forward again, the combination of his length and the hot tip of metal against my walls making my eyes roll.

“Please,” I urged, my mantra of ‘yes’ and ‘fuck me’ spiraling from my lips as he finally began to thrust with abandon, our bodies locked in a passionate dance. 

He tightened his grip on my hip, the other hand sliding to the middle of my back, pushing down. I could feel his movements becoming erratic, less steady—so close to coming inside me.

But I didn’t want it to end like this. Not after all this time. 

“No, stop,” I breathed, the words barely escaping my lips before he froze, a pained sound erupting from him like a wounded animal.

“Please, Jesus, Y/N, you can’t—”

I glanced over my shoulder at him, squeezing him tightly inside me. The resulting moan from his throat sent a jolt of electricity through my body. The rejection and frustration etched across his face twisted my heart. “After all this time missing you,” I whispered, locking eyes with him, “I need to see you. I need to see you come.”

In an instant, he withdrew, turning my body roughly until I felt the couch pressing against me once more. Supporting my back with one hand, he parted my thighs with fierce urgency, stepping into them and plunging back inside me. I screamed, the sound echoing through the empty corners of the room.

His face was close to mine as he began to move again, quick, short thrusts finding a new rhythm. Our sweaty brows collided, the metal hoops of his piercings scratching my skin, but I couldn’t bring myself to care. His name spilled from my lips as we captured each other in another fiery kiss, a moment so intense I thought I could lose myself entirely in the swirl of our bodies, his ink swirling around us like dark tendrils of smoke.

His patience began to fray as he kissed me harder, his body pressing into mine with more urgency. I felt the fiery bloom of pleasure building again, hot and electric, and I craved him hard and fast—a deep connection stripped of all restraint.

He must have sensed my need, too, as he quickened his pace. “Hold on, baby,” he instructed, and I complied, wrapping my arms and legs around him tightly. I let him brace himself against the back of the couch as he drove into me, his pubic bone hitting my clit with each thrust, the metal piercing hitting deep within me making me mewl.

“I’m coming, Y/N. Fuck,” he moans, the raw desperation in his voice igniting something primal within me. 

His face contorts in a beautiful, twisted expression of pleasure, each thrust deeper, harder, as if he’s trying to etch this moment into my very soul. The intensity of his words washes over me like a tidal wave, pulling me into a realm of oblivion. My body pulses in rhythm with his, a white-hot light flashing behind my closed eyes, merging with the vision of him—so fully present in my arms, lost in the sheer ecstasy we’ve created together.

As the world around us faded, time seemed to suspend, leaving only the two of us in a cocoon of warmth and intimacy. I could feel the weight of our shared moments pressing against us, every sensation amplified in the silence that enveloped the room. Slowly, we began to come back to ourselves, his body still pressed against mine, a gentle reminder of the electrifying connection we had just shared. The feeling of him lingering inside me sent shivers down my spine, and our breaths intertwined in a rhythm that was both calming and exhilarating.

We exchanged soft kisses, each one delicate and filled with unspoken promises, contrasting the raw passion that had ignited between us moments before. It was a tender kind of intimacy, one that held the power to ground us in a whirlwind of emotions. 

After a moment, he pulled away, slipping out of me with a reluctance that made my heart ache just a little. The sudden emptiness was palpable, a gentle reminder of the closeness we had just experienced. Jungkook reached for the condom, his movements careful and deliberate, disposing of it in the wastebasket beside the couch. When he turned back to me, the soft glow of the room caught the contours of his face, illuminating him in a way that made him look almost ethereal.

“You’re really here,” he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper, as if speaking too loudly might shatter the magic of the moment.

“I’m here,” I replied, unable to suppress the grin that broke across my face. He was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen, and this moment felt surreal.

Jungkook walked back over to the couch, his gaze roaming over my features as if he were trying to memorize every detail. “You look even better than I remembered,” he said, his smile soft and genuine, lighting up his eyes.

“And you look exhausted,” I teased, noticing the faint shadows under his eyes that spoke of sleepless nights and busy days.

He laughed, the sound brightening the room and melting away any remnants of anxiety I had carried with me. “It’s been a crazy week, but seeing you makes it all worth it.”

A smile broke across my face, the tension of the past months finally beginning to dissolve. For the first time since I had arrived, I took in my surroundings. The room felt both elegant and cozy, drenched in soft light, with tasteful decor that radiated warmth. A large bed dominated the space, its crisp white sheets looking impossibly inviting, and I found myself wishing we could make our way over there. It seemed far more comfortable than the couch.

“How was your flight?” Jungkook asked, bending down to plant a gentle kiss on my forehead, sending warmth flooding through me.

“Long,” I admitted. “But I couldn’t sleep. I was too excited.” The truth was, anticipation had been buzzing in my veins like electricity ever since I’d set foot on the plane.

He settled next to me on the couch, his hand finding mine, our fingers intertwining in a way that felt instinctive. “I’ve missed you so much,” he said, his thumb tracing small patterns on my skin, making my heart flutter in response.

“I’ve missed you too,” I replied, squeezing his hand tightly. “It feels like forever.”

We fell into a comfortable silence for a moment, the city lights twinkling outside like a constellation trapped within a glass jar. The reality of being here with him began to sink in, settling deep in my bones. No more video calls with choppy connections or hurried texts exchanged amid the chaos of our lives—just us, flesh and blood, finally in the same place.

Breaking the quiet, Jungkook’s tone turned serious, slicing through the warmth that enveloped us. “How are you holding up? I know it’s been tough.”

I took a deep breath, weighing my response. “It’s been hard,” I admitted, the truth heavy on my tongue. “But knowing we’d have this, even just a couple of days, kept me going.” 

He nodded, understanding etched on his face. “It’s the same for me. The craziness of the tour and the constant traveling—it’s all worth it knowing I get to see you.”

His words wrapped around me like a warm blanket on a cold night, soothing my weary soul. We talked for hours, drifting through a sea of conversation that felt both substantial and light, catching up on everything and nothing. His stories from the tour spilled out with infectious excitement, his eyes alight like fireflies in the dark. I shared my own experiences, and with every word, the distance between us began to melt away until it felt like the space of a single breath.

Eventually, exhaustion crept in like a gentle shadow, heavy yet comforting. Jungkook stood up and held out his hand, a playful glimmer in his eyes. “Come on,” he said, a teasing lilt in his voice. “Let’s move to the bed. It’s way more comfortable.”

I took his hand, allowing him to guide me across the room. The large bed loomed before us, inviting and cozy, the crisp white sheets beckoning like a sanctuary. As we settled into the plush comfort, I felt a wave of contentment wash over me, a feeling that we were finally exactly where we were meant to be. We lay side by side, fingers intertwined like threads in a tapestry, the world outside fading into a dull hum, the city’s chaos a distant memory.

© chimcess, 2024. Do not copy or repost without permission.

[gwens-love]

Not Haunted anymore

<-Part 2 ~ Part 4->

Summary: Driven by love and desperation, you risk everything to bring Agatha back. But some things are not so easily won, and the line between life and death is fragile.

Warnings: emotional themes, loss and grief (kinda but not really)

Word count: 3.2k

~ghost!Agatha Harkness x fem!reader~

~Rio Vidal x fem!reader~

Please don’t copy/steal or translate this work thanks.

~<~>~<~>~<~>~<~>~<~>~<~>~<~>~<~>~<~>~<~>~

The seasons blurred as you waited, relentless in your hope. Green leaves turned gold and fell, the air crisped with the upcoming winter’s chill, but you stayed rooted in your goal. You wouldn’t let go… not like Rio had.

Today, the autumn sun brushed against your face as you sat outside with a familiar book, its pages worn from the weight of your gaze. You’d read it countless times, but it didn’t matter. This was for Agatha, and you couldn’t allow yourself to give up, not when the ache in your chest grew stronger each day.

Rio’s visits had become rare, just twice a week or so, and even then, her presence was hollow. She barely taught you anymore, simply standing beside you with empty eyes, as if all the fire… the life she might have had… had flickered out. Without her guidance, you had to teach yourself. You fumbled, grinding herbs too forcefully, botching incantations with poor pronunciation. But each mistake only spurred you to keep trying.

~<~>~<~>~<~>~

Time slipped through your fingers until spring arrived, and with it, a slow, creeping despair. You’d tried every spell, every book, every herb. You’d even sought out real witches, though they’d leave at the mere mention of Agatha’s name. Nothing worked. Each failure sank into the silence of the house, thick and suffocating, leaving you unable to think clearly.

Frustrated, you searched for your headphones, anything to drown out the quiet that had taken root here. And then… a knock at the door.

Your heart leaped. You dashed downstairs, hope clawing its way into your chest. When you swung open the door.

Rio stood there, framed by the soft glow of twilight. You stepped back, swallowing the knot of words lodged in your throat, and gestured for her to come inside.

Rio steps inside, a spark in her eyes that you haven’t seen in what feels like an eternity. She looks almost… alive again. It’s startling, seeing that glimmer, that hint of joy tugging at the corners of her mouth.

“What’s got you so happy?” you ask, confusion knitting your brows.

Rio turns to you, her grin widening, a rare, genuine warmth filling the air between you both. “I found something,” she says, her voice barely containing her excitement. “After all this time, I think I found a solution.”

Your heart races, hope swelling in your chest even as doubt pulls at you. “A solution? You mean…?”

She nods, reaching out to take your hand. “Yes. A way to bring Agatha back. I found something powerful… something no one’s tried before.”

A flicker of caution surfaces in your mind, but the desperation you’ve held onto for so long outweighs it. “What do we have to do?”

Rio’s fingers tighten around yours as she leads you to sit beside her. Her eyes shimmer with a strange, almost feverish excitement as she slips a worn, heavy book from her satchel, bound in dark green leather. The cover is cracked from years of wear, the pages yellowed and fragile.

“I found this,” she murmurs, flipping through the brittle pages. “It’s a rare text, almost lost. The rituals in here…they’re powerful, more than anything we’ve tried before.”

You stare at the book, trying to process her words. “Where did you even find something like this?”

Her face shifts, a flicker of something dark passing through her gaze. “It wasn’t easy. Let’s just say I made some… arrangements. But it’ll be worth it. I know this will work.” Her hand shakes slightly as she finds the page, turning it toward you. The cramped text and curling symbols are written in an ancient language, nearly unreadable. In the center is an intricate illustration of symbols, all intertwining to form a complex pattern.

You feel a pang of unease. “Why hasn’t anyone done this before if it’s so powerful?”

Rio hesitates, her voice softening. “Because it demands a lot. Complete focus, and an unwavering intent. If either of us falters…we might not bring her back at all.”

A chill runs through you as you take in her words. The silence stretches between you, thick with unspoken doubts and fears. But beneath it all, there’s a longing that eclipses everything else. You can’t give up, not after coming this far.

“What do we need to do?” you ask, forcing your voice to stay steady.

Rio’s lips curve into a smile, one tinged with determination. “The ritual has to be performed under the midnight moon. We’ll need specific herbs, a lock of Agatha’s hair, and our most precious memory of her. Each of us has to bring something deeply tied to her… something that binds us.”

She starts gathering the necessary items, and together you arrange everything carefully: candles placed in a circle, bundles of sage and rosemary, and a small, carefully wrapped lock of Agatha’s hair. Rio’s hands are steady as she lights each candle, murmuring under her breath words you can’t quite catch.

Finally, she looks up, her eyes meeting yours in the dim candlelight. “Are you ready?”

The weight of her question settles over you, and you swallow, feeling the gravity of what you’re about to attempt. “Ready as I’ll ever be.”

The two of you take your places across from each other, kneeling on either side of the circle. The scent of herbs fills the air, mingling with the warmth of candlelight that flickers, casting shadows against the walls. Rio instructs you to close your eyes, to focus on Agatha—her laughter, her voice, the warmth of her embrace. Memories rush through your mind: afternoons spent learning from her, her steady guidance, the spark of her wisdom.

“Now,” Rio says softly, her voice barely above a whisper. “Hold onto that memory, and don’t let go. We need to anchor her spirit.”

You nod, clinging to the image in your mind, willing it to hold strong. Rio’s voice begins to chant, low and melodic, as if each word is stitched with power. The air grows thick, humming with energy, and you feel it settling over you, heavy and electric.

The candle flames flicker and bend, stretching toward the center of the circle as if pulled by an unseen force. Shadows swirl around you, shapes dancing at the edge of your vision. You keep your focus, letting Rio’s voice guide you deeper, pulling you through memories of Agatha until it feels as if she’s right there, just out of reach.

Then, the atmosphere shifts, a chill sweeping over you, sending a shiver down your spine. You feel a presence, delicate and familiar, almost tangible. Your heart pounds, each beat echoing in your ears as you dare to open your eyes. Rio’s chanting has stopped, her eyes wide, locked on a faint, misty form beginning to coalesce within the circle.

There she is, Agatha, her form fragile and translucent, like moonlight made solid. Her eyes meet yours, filled with something between longing and sorrow. For a moment, everything else falls away. She’s here. You’ve done it.

“Agatha…” you breathe, reaching out instinctively.

But her gaze shifts, and a faint smile graces her lips. Her voice, barely more than a whisper, reaches you. “I’m… here, but not for long.”

Rio stiffens beside you, her face a mixture of triumph and desperation. “No, we can’t lose you again. There has to be more, something else we can do.”

Agatha’s gaze softens as she looks between you and Rio, the faintest hint of pride in her eyes. “You’ve come so far… but some things are not meant to be tampered with.” She steps back, fading slightly, her voice lingering. “Hold onto what we had. Let that be enough.”

And with that, her form shimmers and dissolves into the candlelight, leaving you and Rio in the quiet, empty space once more. The silence is deafening, your heart aching with a finality you hadn’t prepared for.

Rio reaches for your hand, her fingers squeezing yours. “Maybe… maybe this was enough,” she murmurs, her voice tinged with the pain of letting go. The two of you sit there, fingers intertwined, letting the last traces of Agatha’s presence linger in the air, knowing that she’ll always be a part of you etched in memory, bound in love.

As Agatha’s form begins to fade, a surge of panic grips you. This isn’t enough. You refuse to accept the soft, fleeting memory as all you’ll ever have of her. Agatha deserves more, she deserves life, a real, tangible presence beside you once more.

“Wait!” you shout, reaching into the circle, your hand trembling with determination. Rio’s eyes snap to you, filled with confusion and alarm.

“Y/N… what are you doing?” she whispers, her hand tightening on yours, trying to pull you back. But you shake her off, stepping into the center of the circle as your own magic swells around you, a warmth that’s different from Rio’s shadows and quiet whispers. Your power surges forward, bold and unyielding, like spring itself, a magic tied to life, rebirth, and creation.

“I’m not letting her go again,” you say, your voice steady and fierce. “Not when I… I can bring her back. Really back. She won’t be just a memory, just a spirit tethered to the shadows. She’ll be alive.”

Rio’s eyes widen, understanding dawning as she takes in the intensity radiating from you. “No, Y/N, the spell, Agatha warned us. You can’t use magic to bring someone fully back… It’s unstable. She’d be caught between worlds, between life and death.”

But you don’t listen. Your mind races through everything you’ve learned, everything Rio taught you, and you taught yourself, as you push deeper into your power, calling on the energy that runs in your veins. It pulses through you, responding to your desperation and longing.

You focus on Agatha, feeling her presence, fragile and wavering in the circle. Your fingers extend toward her, reaching into the space where her form hovers like mist. Her gaze catches yours, and for a moment, you see fear and a trace of sadness there.

“Agatha,” you murmur, feeling the magic coil and tighten within you, a warm, consuming force. “I’m not letting you go. You deserve to be here, to live again, to touch the earth, to feel the sunlight. I’ll make it happen. I swear it.”

The warmth of magic..? spreads, spilling out of you and filling the circle. You feel it pull, tugging at the edges of reality, bending the boundaries between life and death. Agatha’s form flickers, the mist growing thicker, denser. Slowly, her outline sharpens, her features taking on a warmth and solidity that wasn’t there before.

You push harder, feeling the strain of it, the raw power searing through your veins, demanding everything you have. Agatha’s form steadies, her gaze wide with a mixture of hope and terror as she realizes what you’re doing. She reaches toward you, her hand solid, her fingers brushing yours for the first time in what feels like eternity. The warmth of her touch ignites something within you, giving you strength to go even further.

But something is wrong. A strange, dark edge creeps into the magic, twisting it, contorting it as you push past the natural order. You can feel the boundary between life and death fraying, splintering under the force of your power. Your breath catches, but you refuse to stop, willing Agatha into full life even as you feel the cost beginning to weigh on you.

Finally, with a gasp, Agatha stands before you solid, alive, and breathing. Her chest rises and falls as she takes in her surroundings, her eyes full of wonder and disbelief as she looks at her hands, her body. She’s here. She’s real.

But the strain hits you like a tidal wave, and you stumble, your body weakening as the energy drains from you. Rio is beside you in an instant, catching you, her face pale with fear. “Y/N… What have you done?”

You barely hear her, your gaze locked on Agatha, who’s staring back at you, her eyes filled with a fierce, overwhelming gratitude. She steps closer, reaching for you, her hands warm and real, and the sensation fills you with joy and relief.

But there’s a heaviness in the air, a sense that something is shifting, that the world itself is groaning under the weight of your defiance. You can feel it in the marrow of your bones, like a tether pulled too tight, ready to snap.

Agatha pulls you close, her arms wrapping around you, and you sink into her embrace, feeling the pulse of her heart against your cheek. But as you hold her, you sense the tremor within her, the fragility in the life you’ve given her. She’s here, but she’s bound to you in a way that feels… unnatural, tethered by a force that defies the very fabric of the world.

And deep down, you realize that she is alive, yes, but at a cost. The magic inside her isn’t stable; it’s restless, hungry, feeding off the very essence that holds you together.

Rio’s voice is barely a whisper. “Y/N… what happens now?”

You meet Agatha’s gaze, knowing that the life you’ve given her is bound to your own, and that the two of you are now entangled in a way that defies the natural order. You know that, in time, this magic may demand a price, a sacrifice you’re not yet ready to name. But for now, Agatha’s here, alive and breathing, and that’s all that matters.

“We take it one day at a time,” you murmur, feeling the weight of what you’ve done settle over you. For now, it’s enough.

Agatha’s solid, warm arms are still wrapped around you, her heart beating under your cheek as you cling to her. But then your knees buckle, the ground tilting beneath you as a sudden, overwhelming wave of dizziness crashes through your mind. You try to hold on, but your strength drains away, leaving you weak and barely able to stand.

“Y/N!” Rio’s voice is frantic as she catches you, lowering you gently to the floor. She kneels beside you, her face pale and stricken, shock etched into her features.

“You’re a witch…?” Agatha whispers, her hand trembling as she brushes a strand of hair from your face. “How… I had no idea. You never told me.” Her voice is filled with wonder and disbelief, her eyes wide as if seeing you for the first time.

You try to speak, to explain, but the words slip away as exhaustion claims you, your body numb and drained from the sheer power you poured into the spell. A murmur ripples through the room as Rio hovers beside you, concern written in every line of her face.

“She didn’t just use magic,” Rio murmurs, almost to herself. “She wielded the magic of life, like nothing I’ve ever seen before. That’s not just any spell. That’s…”

“A witch of life,” Agatha finishes, her voice soft with awe, as if saying the words aloud makes them true. “I thought they were a myth.”

“Apparently not,” Rio mutters, but her hand clutches yours tightly, grounding you as the room continues to spin.

You blink up at them, struggling to focus, as the last of your strength ebbs away. The world fades around you, but you catch Agatha’s expression, a mixture of astonishment and fierce pride. “You did this,” she says softly. “You brought me back. Y/N… how?”

But before you can answer, your vision blurs, the edges of your sight darkening as unconsciousness pulls you under. The last thing you feel is Agatha’s hand clasped in yours and Rio’s whispered promise: “Rest now, Y/N. We’ll figure this out… together.”

~<~>~<~>~<~>~

The darkness closes over you, leaving their shocked faces lingering in your mind, a moment that feels both surreal and unforgettable, knowing you’ve revealed a part of yourself that you didn’t even fully understand.

The first thing you notice when you wake up is the weight of blankets and the soft warmth of sunlight spilling through the window. You blink, adjusting to the light, and try to sit up, but a sharp, aching fatigue pulls you back down. Your body feels heavy, as though you’ve been asleep for days.

As you take in the quiet of the room, you hear muffled voices outside the door. A moment later, it opens, and Agatha and Rio slip inside. Agatha’s face lights up with relief, and Rio’s expression shifts from worry to quiet awe.

“Y/N!” Agatha crosses the room, her hands reaching for yours, her touch grounding you as she squeezes your fingers. “Thank goodness, you’re finally awake.”

You blink at her, struggling to make sense of everything. “How long was I… asleep?”

Rio answers, her tone gentle. “A week. We weren’t sure when you’d wake up.” She takes a deep breath, searching your face before adding, “You used a lot of magic, more than we even thought possible.”

Magic. The memory hits you like a wave, pulling you back to that moment when Agatha’s spirit had shifted to flesh and bone. The spell, the power coursing through you, the almost unbearable force of it all. Your pulse quickens as the realization sinks in. “Wait… I’m not a witch. I don’t even know how to cast spells. That shouldn’t be possible.”

Rio and Agatha exchange glances, as if waiting for the right way to explain. Agatha sits down beside you, her fingers still tangled with yours. “Y/N… you are a witch. Or maybe, you became one,” she murmurs, studying your face. “You’re a life witch, it’s close to a green witch, but you can interfere with not only the life of plants, but with animals and apparently humans too.”

You shake your head, trying to wrap your mind around it. “But… I’ve never been able to do anything like that. I wasn’t born a witch.”

“That’s the strange part,” Rio says softly, her expression intense. “The magic, it just… appeared in you when you needed it. Like it was meant to be there all along, waiting for the right moment.” She runs a hand through her hair, disbelief flickering in her eyes. “Y/N, I’ve never seen anything like it. You summoned the magic of life, the rarest, most ancient form of magic there is. Only a few witches in all of history have had that ability.”

A strange, chilling wonder fills you, making you shiver. You stare down at your hands, the memory of that unstoppable power still fresh, almost like a dream. “But I… I don’t know how to control it. I don’t even understand it.”

Agatha’s fingers tighten around yours, grounding you again. “It doesn’t matter if you don’t know everything right now. What matters is that you brought me back. You saved me, Y/N.” She smiles, warmth and gratitude shining in her eyes. “You did the impossible.”

Rio nods, her face softening as she looks at you. “You’ve tapped into something few ever do. It’s overwhelming, I know. But we’ll figure it out together.”

You meet their eyes, still grappling with the reality of it all. The power, the spell, the unexplainable magic that had surged through you. The witch you’d become, without even realizing it. A new part of you, mysterious and powerful, waiting to be understood.

For now, though, you’re not alone. Agatha and Rio are here, guiding you, grounding you. Whatever this magic is, wherever it leads, you’re ready. Together, you’ll uncover its secrets, and maybe, finally, understand the path fate has set before you.

~<~>~<~>~<~>~<~>~<~>~<~>~<~>~<~>~<~>~<~>~

<3

Taglist: @midnight-lestrange

[lurkerdemon]

“Damian? Dami?”

Danny poked his head in through the door of the one of many living rooms in the manor. The lights above were off, but a few other fixtures had been positioned to cut jagged beams across the floor. The overall result left the back wall in a curtain of angular shadow. Only one shaded lamp broke it up, the small illuminated circumference revealing part of the desk it sat on and the chair behind it.

A chair in which Damian swiveled around to face him, visage dramatically lit from beneath.

“Daniel.”

“Danny.” The response was automatic, absentminded, and quiet as he stepped fully into the room. This certainly wasn’t what he was expecting.

“I saw the note. About borrowing one of my models? Sooooo, think I can get it back now?”

“Of course Danny.” His model spaceship was slid in front of the dim glow on the desktop. “I’m grateful to you for letting me borrow it. It is very well made indeed.”

“Cool. Coooolllll. Then don’t mind me while I just-” He tentatively approached one step closer.

“So well made in fact that I thought I would make a proposition.”

Danny’s eyebrows shot up into his hairline, but Damian pressed on before he could manage a response.

“I recently came into possession of certain… items, that I believe would be of great interest to you.”

A box was slid into view of the lamplight this time. Danny audibly gasped when his mind processed the brand and model number in prominent display.

“How did you get the newest satellite model already!? They’ve been sold out everywhere!”

“I have my ways Danny. And it could be yours if you so choose.”

It took great effort for Danny to tear his eyes away from the box and back to Damian, half-alive brain working just enough to still be suspicious.

“...Alright then. What kind of deal are you looking for? Free sneak out of the manor? Help with pranking someone? Messing with B’s stuff-”

“I think you know exactly what I want Danny.”

The response was a weary sigh. “Dami, we talked about this. I know you take good care of your pets but-”

“You keep Cujo as a pet, and he’s capable of far more damage than a blob-ghost.”

“Yes, but I also trust Cujo to know how to go home through a portal on his own. I don’t wanna risk one sticking around where it shouldn’t.”

Damian turned his chin-up further in defiance, gaze steady as another box slid into view.

“I know you have your reasons Danny. But are you certain there’s nothing I can do to convince you?”

Danny sucked in a breath. “How? Where?”

“Unimportant. What is important is whether you think this ordeal is really worth the trouble over concern for a creature that would be looked after with the utmost attention in the first place.”

He bit the inside of his lip, holding back the urge to float over and stare at the impossibly rare model kits. This was fine. He didn’t need to have them. They definitely weren’t on his wishlist for months before they had even been listed for purchase online.

“Dami. Please.”

Danny stared at Damian. Damian stared at Danny. The two held eye contact for several seconds before Damian finally looked away with a pout. Danny tried to give a placating smile in return as he approached the other boy and ruffled his hair.

“Come on baby bat. We can go take over the TV and watch something.”

Damian sniffed. “Fine. I guess it’s just a shame that I’ll have to return this.”

There was a burst of white light as Damian turned the tablet in his hands to show the order page it displayed to Danny. He felt his eyes bulge, mouth clicking open and shut several times as he tried to form a coherent thought.

……

Bruce wouldn’t notice just one blob-ghost would he?

=======

@breannasfluff boop.

I tried.

Also lost track of the initial prompt list that sparked this.

And probably shouldn't have chosen to write this so close to when I go to bed.

AND probably should have double checked how to properly format text around dialogue.

[milkbobatyun]

once again

pairing: various x reader

genre: angstober, events

summary: it was your date night, surely he didn't forget again, did he?

word count: 456

a/n: to mark the beginning of angstober, i present this piece (˶◜ᵕ◝˶) tysm to @yeonjunsfox for giving me the list of prompts !!

the cold wind nipped at your skin, goosebumps prickled your skin. rain pattered against the patio roof of the restaurant. rubbing your hands against your arms, you miserably try to bring some warmth to yourself. you had wanted to dress up nicely for your anniversary dinner, but the weather had other plans. the excitement of spending time with your lover had been diminished by the absence of said lover, the freezing wind your only companion. your foot tapped in rhythm with the rain against the concrete, the petriocor scent of rain mixing with the fragrance of food from the restaurant. as the seconds stretched on, you blew warm air into your hands, taking the opportunity to check your phone. the screen lit up with a picture the two of you took on your first date, the picture sparking a sense of melancholic cheer in your heart. it was 15 minutes past your planned booking time, yet no messages appeared. you tried to keep a cheerful hope alive in your heart. maybe he had run into traffic. maybe he was held back by some unexpected business matter. but with each passing minute, your hope cowered, drifting further away. what more should you have expected from him? it was the third time in a month he had either cancelled last minute or not shown up at all, only sending you a curt, distant apology over text instead.  blinking back the tears that gathered along your eyeline, you checked your phone for the 5th time in 15 minutes, hoping against hope that he was on his way, ignoring the sinking feeling in your chest. 20 minutes passed. 1 hour. once again, he did not come.  the waiter inside shot you a look of pity through the glass doors. the cold emptiness slowly seeped through your veins, the hope draining from your body. every time he ‘missed’ your date, your heart felt like it was steadily being crushed, cracks forming along the edge. the cracks had been forming over time, the gaps spreading inch by inch with every broken promise, every hasty apology. you had hit your breaking point. with a crisp and loud smash, you heard your heart shatter, the crystalline pieces slipping through your fingers, too scattered and lost to be repairable.  you were tired. tired of waiting for him. tired of forgiving him. you wondered, was it perhaps your fault, for mistaking the cracks as something worth holding onto. maybe you were in the wrong, for waiting, for hoping he would turn around and realise his mistakes.  maybe some people fall in love with the wrong people sometimes.

— reo, SCARAMOUCHE, aventurine, jingyuan, zhongli, neuvillette, levi ackerman, diluc, AYATO, dan heng, tsukishima, KENMA, sunday, MICHAEL KAISER, kageyama, OIKAWA, rin, sae, isagi, BEOMGYU, heesung, jay, jungwon, GOJO, geto, nanami, SYLUS + your favs

taglist (open): @yeonjunsfox

∧,,,∧ ( ̳• · • ̳)  © curated with love by milkbobatyun 2024 / づ ♡

[p0orbaby]

i would love something from the “Spark Enough and Something Catches” universe 🥹 was so happy for R allowing herself to be more vulnerable, would love to know how those two cuties are doing further down the line!

-

You never thought you’d end up here—dating a world-famous footballer with legs for days and a laugh that makes your chest feel weird, but here you are, sitting at your kitchen table, staring at a bouquet of flowers she sent you. Just because she can. Of course, they’re perfectly arranged, like something out of a magazine that you’d flip through absentmindedly in a dentist’s office, all pastels and thoughtful greenery. You wouldn’t even be surprised if the florist’s apprentice cried while tying the ribbon, overwhelmed by the sheer beauty of their creation.

The card attached? “Hope these brighten your day, even if you don’t like football. xo, A.”

You’ve been staring at it for about 15 minutes, wondering if this is what people in normal, functional relationships do. Get flowers. Smile. Maybe cry a little, but the good kind. You’d text a thank you, but you’ve already said thanks for the dinner last night, the ride home, and her cooking, which honestly made you feel inadequate. You are now 90% sure you’ve been overthanking her for everything and it’s becoming suspicious. God, the flowers. What are you supposed to do with these? You don’t even own a proper vase.

She’s always surprising you, though. It’s her thing. Like when she made pancakes at 3 a.m. because you mentioned offhand you were craving something sweet, and there she was in your kitchen, half-asleep but determined, whisking batter like her life depended on it. You tried to help, but she gave you that look—half-amused, half-“don’t you dare”—so you just sat and watched. How does someone like her, so capable and graceful on the field, manage to make something as simple as cooking pancakes seem like a scene from a romantic comedy?

And then there’s you, a certified mess, who can barely manage to keep the houseplants alive. You once killed a succulent, a plant specifically designed to withstand neglect, and you still don’t know how it happened. But she didn’t care about that. She just laughed when you told her, like she found it charming. Like that was somehow endearing instead of a flashing neon sign that you have no business being trusted with anything living.

The first time she came over to your place, she brought dinner—because, of course, she did—and you remember her standing in your tiny kitchen, eyeing the pile of dishes in the sink. You were mortified, but she just rolled up her sleeves and started washing them. “I can’t concentrate with these staring at me,” she said, and that was that. It took you five whole minutes to figure out how to process that. What kind of person does that? And why does she keep looking at you like you’re the most interesting thing in the room, when you’re 99% sure you’re the human equivalent of a cat that’s just fallen off the sofa?

You get the feeling she knows what she’s doing, though. She’s patient. Calculated. Like on the field, but now the game’s you, and she’s just waiting for you to realize you’re already cornered. She’s not wrong. You’re screwed.

So, you text her, finally, trying to play it cool. “Thanks for the flowers, very thoughtful. You didn’t have to.”

Her reply is almost immediate. “I know I didn’t have to. I wanted to”

You stare at the message. Of course she did.

[lila-lou]

✨The smarter choice - 8/8✨

Summary: The pull was undeniable—every glance, every touch, a spark. Dean was everything you shouldn’t want, yet resistance was futile.

Pairing: Sam x Reader, Dean x Reader

Warnings: 18+ only! Smut, Language, Angst, Fluff

Word Count: 9482

A/N: English isn’t my first language, please be lenient. 💙

The door creaked open, and there you were, standing in the doorway in tiny shorts that left little to the imagination and a snug little top that clung to your figure. True to form, you weren’t wearing a bra, and the sight of you standing there, looking so effortlessly gorgeous, sent a bolt of heat through Dean’s already frayed nerves.

You crossed your arms over your chest, an unintentional motion that only emphasized the curves beneath your snug top. Dean’s resolve to keep his eyes on your face faltered, and for a brief moment, his gaze dropped before snapping back up. But the damage was done. His cheeks flushed faintly, and the confident words he’d rehearsed in the Impala dissolved like smoke.

His mouth opened, then closed, his usual charm and swagger completely failing him. For a man who faced monsters without flinching, standing in front of you, looking as effortlessly stunning as you did, left him utterly speechless.

You raised an eyebrow, a hint of amusement flickering in your eyes despite the uncertainty still lingering there. “Dean?”, you prompted, your voice tinged with curiosity and a touch of impatience. “You planning on saying something, or are you just going to stare all night?”.

Dean blinked, snapping out of his daze, though his tongue felt tied in knots. “Uh—yeah, I…”. He rubbed the back of his neck, letting out a shaky breath. “I had this whole speech planned. You know, something smooth. But now…”.

“Now?”, you pressed, your tone softening just slightly.

Dean sighed, his green eyes locking onto yours, and for once, there was no smirk, no teasing grin. Just raw honesty. “Now I’m standing here like an idiot because everything I wanted to say feels like it’s not enough”.

"You’re balls grew too heavy, huh?”, you grumbled, your voice sharp with hurt as you crossed your arms even tighter over your chest. “I mean, you ghosted me for what? A week? After leaving right after you fucked me, not responding to my text? Even if it’s just something casual, Dean, a little heads up wouldn’t have killed you”.

Dean flinched at your words, his green eyes darting away briefly as guilt washed over his face. He shifted his weight, looking like he’d rather be facing down a pack of vampires than having this conversation. “I didn’t mean to—”, he started, but his voice faltered when he saw the look on your face.

You raised an eyebrow, waiting for him to try to explain himself. He sighed heavily, awkwardly gesturing with his broken arm with a slight wince. “I had a case”, he mumbled, his voice strained. “Things… got messy”.

“Oh, really?”, you shot back, your tone dripping with sarcasm as you gestured at his arm. “And I guess the case also broke your ability to send a single text, huh? Something like, ‘Hey, I’m alive, but busy?’ Would that have been so hard?”.

Dean winced again, this time not just from the pain in his arm. He opened his mouth, then closed it, clearly struggling to find the right words. “I screwed up”, he admitted finally, his voice low and rough. “I thought I was doing the right thing, giving you space”.

“Space?”, you repeated, incredulous. “Dean, I didn’t ask for space. I asked for some goddamn respect. You don’t just vanish on someone you’re… whatever this is with”.

“I know”, he said, his voice softening as he took a tentative step closer to you. “You’re right. I screwed up. And I’m sorry”.

You let out a bitter laugh, shaking your head as you looked away from him. “You can’t just waltz in here, say sorry, and expect everything to be okay”.

Dean sighed, his shoulders slumping slightly as he looked at you, clearly at a loss for words. His hand moved instinctively, gently sliding around your waist. His touch was tentative, almost hesitant, but the size of his hand against you made you feel smaller, softer, despite the fire still burning in your chest.

“C´mon, sweetheart”, he mumbled, his voice low and coaxing as his thumb brushed against your side. “Don’t be like this”.

You glared up at him, your lips parting to snap back, but the vulnerability in his green eyes gave you pause. He wasn’t just trying to smooth things over—he was trying to save something he thought he’d already lost.

Dean pulled you a little closer, his grip still gentle, as if giving you the chance to pull away if you wanted to. His face was inches from yours now, and the warmth of him, the familiar scent of leather and aftershave, was intoxicating. “I missed you”, he whispered, his voice barely audible, but the sincerity in it hit you like a punch to the chest.

Your breath hitched, your resolve wavering as his words lingered in the air. You wanted to hold onto your anger, to make him understand how much he’d hurt you, but the way he looked at you—with a mix of guilt, longing, and something deeper—made it so damn hard.

“Dean…”, you started, your voice trembling, but he cut you off, his hand moving to cup your cheek.

“I mean it”, he said, his tone firm but soft. His thumb brushed against your skin, his green eyes locking onto yours. “I screwed up. I know I did. But don’t think for a second that I didn’t miss you. Every damn day”.

Your chest tightened, your anger melting under the weight of his confession. You searched his face, looking for any hint of dishonesty, but all you saw was raw, unfiltered emotion. It made your heart ache, even as a small part of you tried to resist.

“Then why didn’t you just say something?”, you whispered, your voice breaking slightly.

Dean closed his eyes for a moment, his forehead leaning closer to yours, as if the weight of his own thoughts was too much to bear. He took a shaky breath, his hand still cradling your cheek, his thumb brushing lightly against your skin. “I’m just an idiot”, he whispered, his voice low and rough. “An idiot that can’t get you out of his head".

The rawness in his words struck something deep inside you, unraveling the anger you’d held onto like a shield. You could see the conflict in his green eyes when they finally opened again—the struggle between wanting to tell you everything and the fear that it wouldn’t be enough.

You sighed deeply, the weight of his words settling over you like a heavy blanket. The vulnerability in his voice, the way his green eyes searched yours for any sign of forgiveness—it all made your chest ache. But you couldn’t keep standing there, tangled in emotions without an outlet.

You took a small step back, gently pulling away from his touch. His hand lingered in the air for a moment before dropping to his side, his expression shifting to something unreadable. Without saying a word, you turned and pulled the door open wide, glancing at him over your shoulder.

“You’re paying for pizza”, you grumbled, your tone half-annoyed, half-teasing.

Dean blinked, his brows furrowing in confusion before a small, relieved smile crept onto his lips. He let out a soft chuckle, scratching the back of his neck as he stepped inside. “Yeah, alright”, he said, his voice lighter than it had been all night. “Fair enough”.

You closed the door behind him, shaking your head as you tried to ignore the flutter in your chest. It wasn’t forgiveness—not entirely—but it was something. A start. And right now, that was enough.

Dean glanced around your apartment, his hands in his pockets as he tried to act casual, though the tension in his shoulders betrayed him. “You want the usual?”, he asked, shooting you a sideways look.

“Extra cheese”, you replied, heading toward the kitchen to grab a couple of beers. You didn’t look back at him, but you could feel his gaze on you, warm and steady.

When you returned with the beers, Dean had already grabbed his phone, dialing the number for your favorite pizza place. As he placed the order, you sat down on the couch, pulling your legs up and wrapping your arms around your knees. You weren’t sure what the rest of the night would bring, but for now, you’d take this small, fragile peace.

The pizza barely had time to cool down before the inevitable happened.

What started as a playful exchange—a teasing comment here, a sly look there—quickly spiraled into something far more intense. Dean’s hands, calloused but oh-so-gentle, found their way to your waist as you passed him a beer. A smirk tugged at his lips, his green eyes darkening as he leaned closer, brushing a stray strand of hair from your face. That was all it took.

Moments later, you found yourself pressed against the wall, Dean’s lips devouring yours with a hunger that sent a thrill racing down your spine. His hands roamed your body, exploring every inch as if memorizing the way you felt beneath him. Your fingers tangled in his hair, pulling him closer as a soft moan escaped your lips, spurring him on.

The next thing you knew, he had you on the couch, your back arching as he kissed his way down your neck, his name tumbling from your lips. Every touch, every kiss, every rough and whispered "Fuck, I missed you", set your skin on fire.

When he flipped you onto your stomach, his body pressing into yours as he trailed kisses along your shoulder, you felt yourself trembling beneath him. "You drive me crazy," he muttered against your skin, his voice thick with need. And as his hands gripped your hips, pulling you back against him, you gasped his name again, breathless.

But Dean wasn’t done. The living room was just the beginning.

By the time you made it to the bedroom, your body was spent, yet every touch reignited that burning desire. He had you on top of him, his hands guiding your movements, his low groans of pleasure mixing with your breathless cries. "That’s it, sweetheart", he rasped, his voice strained but full of praise. "Just like that".

Every position, every moment, was a dance of passion and desperation, neither of you able to get enough. By the time you were lying in front of him on your knees, his hands on your waist as he pulled you back into him with each thrust, your legs were trembling, and your voice was hoarse from crying out his name.

"Dean", you moaned, your head falling back as you gave yourself completely to him, every nerve alight and every ounce of tension replaced by pure, unfiltered pleasure. He groaned in response, his grip tightening as his pace quickened, chasing both of you toward the edge.

When you finally collapsed onto the bed, your chest heaving and your body trembling in the aftermath, Dean fell beside you, his own breathing ragged. His hand reached for yours, lacing your fingers together as the quiet settled around you.

"Still mad at me?", he murmured, his lips brushing against your temple.

You laughed softly, too spent to argue. "Ask me tomorrow".

Dean smirked at your breathless response, his green eyes glinting with mischief as he leaned closer, his lips brushing your ear. “Well”, he murmured, his voice low and gravelly, “that means I didn’t do my job good enough”.

Before you could process his words, Dean was already shifting, trailing kisses down your stomach as he moved lower. His strong hands gently nudged your thighs apart, spreading them wide despite your soft whine of protest.

“Dean”, you whimpered, your voice tinged with exhaustion and the dull ache of overstimulation. “I’m so—”.

“Shh”, he cut you off, his hands gripping your thighs firmly but tenderly. “I’ll be gentle. Promise”. His voice was a soothing rasp, but the hungry look in his eyes betrayed his restraint. “Just let me take care of you, sweetheart”.

His lips pressed soft kisses along the sensitive skin of your inner thighs, making you shiver despite the soreness radiating through your body. He didn’t rush, didn’t push you too far, instead letting his tongue and lips work their magic with slow, deliberate care. The heat of his mouth, combined with the pressure of his hands keeping you steady, made your head spin.

“Dean…”, you gasped, your fingers tangling in the sheets as he pressed a kiss right where you were most sensitive. The tenderness in his movements made you ache in a different way—not just physically but emotionally, as if he were pouring everything he couldn’t say into every touch.

“You’re so damn perfect”, he muttered against your skin, his voice reverent as he buried his face between your thighs. His tongue moved languidly, teasing you with soft, featherlight strokes before he pressed a little harder, making you whimper as the tension built again, slow and steady.

Despite your soreness, your body responded to him almost instantly, your hips twitching involuntarily as his mouth worked wonders. He hummed softly, the vibration sending a jolt of pleasure through you. “Let me hear you, sweetheart”, he murmured, his words muffled against you.

You couldn’t stop the moans slipping from your lips, your hands gripping the sheets tighter as he coaxed you closer and closer to the edge, his pace never faltering. Every stroke of his tongue, every gentle squeeze of his hands, was designed to drive you wild, to show you just how much he cared without needing words.

When your body finally gave in, your climax crashing over you like a tidal wave, Dean didn’t stop. He stayed with you, his lips and tongue working you through every last tremor, his hands holding you steady as you fell apart beneath him.

As your breathing slowed and the haze of pleasure began to clear, Dean pulled back just enough to look up at you, his lips glistening and his green eyes full of satisfaction. “Better?”, he asked, his smirk softening into a tender smile.

You could only nod, too spent to speak, but the look in your eyes said it all. Dean leaned up, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead before collapsing beside you on the bed.

Dean pulled you close, his arm wrapping securely around you while you instinctively shifted, careful not to press against his broken arm. He winced slightly as he adjusted, but his grip on you didn’t falter. His chin rested lightly on the top of your head, and his chest rose and fell in a steady rhythm, a stark contrast to the storm of emotions he’d been holding back all week.

You nestled against him, your fingers brushing lightly over the uninjured side of his chest, the quiet between you soothing. But as you tilted your head up to look at him, your eyes flicked to his bruised and bandaged arm. Concern clouded your expression, and you whispered softly, “You should go to the hospital with that, Dean”.

He let out a low chuckle, shaking his head as he tightened his grip on you slightly. “I’ll be fine”, he muttered, his voice warm but dismissive. “Just need a little time, that’s all”.

You frowned, your hand resting gently on his chest. “Dean, a broken arm isn’t something you just shake off”.

He tilted his head down to meet your gaze, his green eyes filled with affection and a hint of amusement. “You worried about me, sweetheart?”, he teased, though his voice carried more tenderness than usual.

You rolled your eyes, giving him a pointed look as your fingers traced lightly over his uninjured chest. “Of course I’m worried about you”, you said, your tone a mix of exasperation and genuine concern. “Do you have any idea how stubborn you are?”.

Dean smirked, his green eyes gleaming with amusement. “I’ve heard rumors”, he quipped, though the slight wince that followed gave away the pain he was trying to downplay.

You huffed, shaking your head as you pushed yourself up slightly, your gaze flicking back to his bandaged arm. “This isn’t funny, Dean. You need to take care of yourself. What happens if it gets worse?”.

Dean reached up with his good hand, brushing his thumb lightly across your cheek as his smirk softened into something more affectionate. “Then I’ll have you to yell at me some more”, he said, his voice low and teasing. “Pretty good deal, if you ask me”.

You narrowed your eyes at him, though you couldn’t stop the small smile tugging at your lips. “You’re impossible”.

“And yet, here you are”, Dean shot back, his grin widening as he tugged you back down against his chest. “Guess I’m doing something right”.

You sighed, resting your head against him again, though the worry in your chest didn’t ease. “Fine”, you muttered, your voice muffled against his skin. “But if I have to drag your ass to the hospital myself, I will”.

Dean chuckled, the sound rumbling beneath your ear. “Noted”, he murmured, his fingers tracing lazy circles on your back. “But for now, can we just stay like this? Just for a little while?”.

You smiled softly, letting yourself relax into his warmth despite the lingering worry. “Alright”, you whispered. “Just for a little while”.

And as you lay there, wrapped in his arms, you felt the weight of the world slip away, if only for a moment.

For the next two weeks, Dean stayed every night, a constant presence that both surprised and comforted you. He didn’t vanish in the morning anymore, didn’t leave you guessing or questioning what you were to him. Instead, he was there when you woke up, holding you close, his warmth and touch a quiet reassurance of something unspoken between you.

This morning was no different—except it was Dean who woke first.

It was just after eight, though you were still deeply asleep after he’d worn you out completely until four in the morning. Dean, however, was wide awake, his green eyes watching you with a mixture of affection and desire. He couldn’t help himself as he leaned in, his lips finding the soft skin of your neck, pressing open-mouthed, lingering kisses along the curve. His tongue flicked out gently, tasting your skin, his stubble adding a delicious roughness that had you stirring beneath him.

He didn’t stop there. His kisses trailed lower, down to your shoulder, his hands already moving to cup your bare breasts. His palms were warm and firm, his thumbs brushing over your nipples with just enough pressure to draw a soft, sleepy moan from your lips.

You stirred, your breath hitching as you slowly woke to the heat of his mouth and the teasing movements of his hands. “Dean…”, you murmured, your voice still thick with sleep, your body instinctively arching toward his touch.

“Morning, sweetheart”, he rumbled against your skin, his voice low and gravelly, sending a shiver through you. His lips continued their journey, trailing lower as his hands kneaded gently, coaxing you further out of your sleepy haze.

You let out a breathy laugh, your fingers tangling in his hair as you shifted beneath him. “Didn’t we just…?”, you whispered, your words trailing off into a soft gasp as his mouth found a particularly sensitive spot on your collarbone.

Dean chuckled, his breath warm against your skin. “Guess I didn’t wear you out enough”, he teased, his hands sliding lower, over the curve of your waist and hips. “But don’t worry—I plan on fixing that”.

Before you could respond, he shifted, his body pressing closer to yours as his lips captured yours in a heated kiss. His touch was unrelenting, his movements deliberate, and any lingering traces of sleep quickly dissolved under the intensity of his attention.

“Dean”, you breathed again, your voice trembling with a mix of anticipation and surrender as his hand slid between your thighs, already coaxing you back to the edge of bliss.

“Yeah, sweetheart”, he murmured against your lips, his green eyes dark with desire as he grinned down at you. “I’m not done with you yet”.

After the shower, you sat cross-legged on your bed, a towel wrapped around you as you texted your best friend. She’d been your confidant through everything, from the day you met Dean to the rollercoaster of emotions that followed. You blushed softly as you typed, recounting the past two weeks—the way Dean had been staying, holding you, and how different it felt compared to anything you’d experienced before.

A soft smirk crossed your lips as you sent the message, but you quickly dropped your phone when Dean emerged from the bathroom. His towel hung low on his hips, the droplets of water trailing down his chest making your blush deepen.

“Who you texting that’s got you all flustered like that?”, Dean asked, his voice low and teasing as he ran a hand through his damp hair. His green eyes sparkled with curiosity, and his smirk hinted at just how much he enjoyed catching you off guard.

Your cheeks burned, and you quickly flipped your phone face-down on the bed. “No one”, you mumbled, your voice a little too quick, betraying your attempt to sound casual. Before he could press further, you stood and stepped closer, pressing a kiss to his lips to distract him. “I’m making coffee”, you whispered against his mouth before slipping out of his grasp and heading toward the door.

Dean stayed back, shaking his head slightly as he watched you go, a grin playing on his lips. He moved to grab his clothes, pulling on his boxers and jeans. As he reached for his shirt, though, the soft ping of your phone caught his attention.

He hesitated, glancing at the door to make sure you weren’t about to walk back in. Curiosity got the better of him, and he picked up your phone, the screen lighting up to show the notification.

A text from your best friend: “Yeah, the dumb ones always fucking you raw“.

Dean stared at your phone, the words on the screen glaring back at him like a slap to the face. The phrase “the dumb ones always fucking you raw” played over and over in his mind, and for a moment, he just stood there, his jaw tightening as he processed it.

Dumb.

Was that really how you saw him? The word felt heavier than it should, loaded with every insecurity he’d buried deep down for weeks now. Sure, you’d said it before…Sam being the smarter one, and yeah, he wasn’t exactly a walking encyclopedia like his brother, but dumb? That stung. Badly.

Dean set the phone back on the bed with an almost deliberate care, his mind spinning. He wasn’t a genius, sure. But he wasn’t stupid either. He could piece together cases, track supernatural threats, keep himself and Sam alive through sheer grit and experience. Hell, he’d practically raised his brother while hunting monsters. But this? This made him feel like all of that didn’t matter.

He ran a hand down his face, muttering under his breath as he tried to shake off the feeling. “It’s just a joke”, he said to himself, though the words felt hollow. But no matter how much he tried to brush it off, the weight of the word lingered.

When you came back into the room with two steaming mugs of coffee, your smile faltered slightly as you saw the tightness in his jaw and the way his shoulders were squared, like he was bracing himself for something.

“You okay?”, you asked, setting the mugs down on the nightstand and moving closer to him.

Dean glanced at you, his green eyes dark and unreadable, before forcing a faint smirk onto his lips. “Yeah, peachy”, he said, though his tone didn’t carry its usual charm.

You frowned, stepping closer to him and placing a hand on his arm. “What’s wrong?”, you pressed, your voice soft. "Something happend?".

Dean watched you for a long second, his green eyes searching your face as if trying to decide whether to say something or let it go. Finally, he shook his head, forcing a faint smirk that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Nah”, he mumbled, his voice gruff. “Everything’s fine”.

Before you could press him further, he leaned down and kissed the top of your head, his lips lingering there for just a moment too long. Then he straightened up, grabbing his shirt from the back of the chair and tugging it over his head. He reached for one of the mugs of coffee you’d set down, wrapping his hands around it like it was the only thing keeping him grounded.

You frowned, watching him carefully. Something was off—you could feel it in the tension radiating from him—but Dean had always been good at deflecting, at hiding what was really going on beneath the surface. You wanted to push, but you also didn’t want to risk making things worse.

“I’ll see you tonight?”, you asked softly, searching his face for any sign of what was bothering him.

Dean nodded, his smirk softening just slightly. “Yeah”, he said, his voice quieter now. “I’ll be around”.

You hesitated, but eventually nodded, pressing a quick kiss to his cheek before grabbing your bag and heading out the door for work. The sound of the door closing echoed through the quiet apartment, leaving Dean alone with his thoughts.

He sat there for a moment, staring into the black surface of the coffee in his mug. The words from your phone flashed in his mind again, and the knot in his chest tightened. Letting out a sharp breath, he set the mug down on the counter and grabbed his jacket.

Dean didn’t waste any time as he left your apartment, heading straight for the Impala. Sliding into the driver’s seat, he gripped the steering wheel tightly, the leather creaking under his fingers. He didn’t know exactly what he was feeling—hurt, anger, frustration.

With a quick glance in the rearview mirror, he started the engine and pulled out onto the road, heading back to the bunker. The drive was quiet, the rumble of Baby’s engine the only sound as Dean tried to push the thoughts out of his head.

But they wouldn’t go away. Not this time. Not when it felt like all those old insecurities he’d buried over the last few weeks were bubbling back to the surface.

By the time he reached the bunker, his jaw was tight and his hands ached from gripping the wheel. He parked Baby in the garage and sat there for a moment, his heart pounding as he tried to figure out what the hell he was supposed to do next.

He didn’t have an answer. But he knew he couldn’t face you until he did.

As the evening settled in, you found yourself in the kitchen, carefully stirring the pot of pasta sauce you’d decided to make. Cooking wasn’t usually your thing, but tonight, you wanted to do something special—something Dean might appreciate. The idea of him walking through your door, teasing you about your newfound domestic streak before digging into a meal you’d actually made, brought a small smile to your face.

But as the minutes ticked by, your smile faded. The clock on the wall showed that Dean was already running late. He’d never been the punctual type, but he was consistent—always showing up within a certain window. You tried not to let the unease creeping into your chest take hold. Maybe he was just stuck on something or running errands.

Finally, you grabbed your phone and sent a quick text: “Hey, when are you coming over? Food’s ready”.

You set the phone down on the counter, your heart sinking as the seconds stretched into minutes with no reply. You busied yourself with the finishing touches on the meal, checking your phone every few moments until, finally, it pinged with a response.

Dean’s message was short and to the point: “Can’t make it tonight. Got an important case in Texas”.

Your stomach sank as you stared at the screen, reading and rereading the message. It was so unlike him, so abrupt. He hadn’t even mentioned he was leaving town, let alone for a case.

You typed back, trying to keep your tone light despite the growing weight in your chest: “Texas? Since when? Thought you’d give me a heads-up”.

A few minutes passed before his reply came in: “Sorry. Came up last minute. I’ll call you when I can”.

The disappointment hit you hard, though you told yourself it shouldn’t. You weren’t his girlfriend, not officially. Dean wasn’t the kind of guy who made promises or stuck to plans. But after the last two weeks, after how he’d been showing up for you—staying the night, holding you close—it felt like you’d turned a corner. Like maybe this was something more.

You set your phone down and sighed, staring at the meal you’d prepared with care. The table was set, candles lit, everything perfect. But now, the apartment felt achingly empty.

“It’s fine”, you muttered to yourself, forcing a smile that didn’t reach your eyes. “It’s not like you had expectations”.

Still, the sting of his absence lingered, and for the first time in weeks, you felt the unsettling ache of being alone.

The evening dragged on as you sat in your quiet kitchen, the food on the table growing cold. You picked at your plate, but every bite felt heavy, tasteless. The glow of the candles, which had once seemed warm and inviting, now felt hollow and out of place.

Your phone sat beside you, screen dark and unyielding. Dean hadn’t texted again, and the last message—“I’ll call you when I can”—played in your mind like a cruel echo. You tried to tell yourself it wasn’t a big deal. He’d been clear from the beginning that this thing between you was casual, undefined. But the way he’d held you, kissed you, whispered how much he missed you—it felt like so much more. And now? Now it felt like he’d pulled back again, retreating into the walls he’d always kept so tightly around himself.

After an hour of sitting in silence, you blew out the candles and cleared the table, shoving the untouched leftovers into the fridge. The apartment felt stifling, so you grabbed your jacket and went for a walk, hoping the cool night air would clear your head. But even as you wandered the quiet streets, your thoughts kept circling back to Dean.

Why had he been so short, so abrupt? Something didn’t sit right, but you didn’t know if it was your insecurities talking or if there really was something he wasn’t telling you.

By the time you got home, the ache in your chest had dulled into a numb kind of sadness. You showered, got into bed, and stared at the ceiling for what felt like hours, replaying every moment of the past two weeks in your mind.

Meanwhile, Dean sat in the bunker’s library, nursing a glass of whiskey as he stared at his phone. The screen was dark, but your name sat at the top of his messages, the text you’d sent still unanswered. He ran a hand through his hair, his frustration mounting as the silence stretched on.

“Texas”, he muttered to himself, the lie tasting bitter even now. He wasn’t in Texas. There was no case. But what was he supposed to do? Tell you the truth? That he’d read the text from your friend, let his insecurities spiral, and now didn’t know how to face you without feeling like an idiot?

He took another sip of whiskey, the burn doing little to chase away the hollow feeling in his chest. He wanted to see you, wanted to tell you that he missed you more than he could put into words, but the fear of not being enough—of screwing this up—kept him rooted to the spot.

Sam walked into the room, glancing at Dean with a raised eyebrow. “Still drinking?”, he asked, his tone light but curious. “Thought you’d be halfway to her place by now”.

Dean shot him a look, his green eyes sharp. “Not in the mood, Sammy”.

Sam didn’t press, but the knowing glance he gave Dean said enough. “Whatever you’re running from, you’re only making it worse… Again”, he said before walking off, leaving Dean alone with his thoughts.

Dean sighed, setting the glass down and rubbing a hand over his face. He hated this—hated the distance he was putting between you, hated the way his own doubts were winning. But for now, he couldn’t seem to find a way out of his own head.

And so the night passed, both of you lying in your separate beds, each feeling the absence of the other in a way that was impossible to ignore.

The fifth night of silence was the breaking point.

You sat on your couch, staring at your phone, the cursor blinking at the edge of the text you’d typed and erased a dozen times. The past few days had been unbearable—Dean’s responses had been short, almost dismissive, and he hadn’t shown up once. Whatever spark had been keeping the two of you connected now felt like a dying ember, and you couldn’t take the uncertainty anymore.

You took a deep breath, your fingers trembling as you typed the words you’d been too afraid to admit, even to yourself, until now.

I think I fell in love with you.

You stared at the message, your heart pounding in your chest as you hovered over the send button.

What was the worst that could happen? He didn’t feel the same? He was already pulling away, so what did you really have to lose?

Before you could second-guess yourself, you hit send, the message disappearing into the ether. The instant it was gone, panic set in. You stared at your phone, the silence in the room amplifying your racing thoughts.

Seconds passed. Then a minute. Then five. No reply.

The knot in your stomach tightened, and you set your phone down, trying to convince yourself you’d done the right thing. At least now, you knew you’d said what you needed to. The ball was in his court.

Dean’s phone buzzed on the workbench in the bunker’s garage, where he’d been elbow-deep in tinkering with the Impala’s engine. He wiped his hands on a rag, grabbing the phone with a sigh. Another text, probably from Sam reminding him about some supply run, or maybe Jodie—

The message stopped him cold.

I think I fell in love with you.

Dean stared at the words, his heart slamming against his ribs as if the engine in front of him had roared to life. His hand tightened around the phone, and for a moment, he just stood there, the world narrowing to that single line of text.

You’d fallen for him. Him. Dean Winchester.

His first instinct was disbelief—how could you, of all people, feel that way about him?

Dean stared at the message, his mind racing in a million different directions, each one darker than the last. For a moment, the sheer disbelief was almost comforting—how could someone like you, with your spark, your kindness, fall for someone like him? But as the seconds ticked by, a gnawing doubt crept in, whispering insidious thoughts he couldn’t shake.

What if this wasn’t real?

His second guess was like a punch to the gut. What if you were messing with him? Hell, what if this was just a game, something to laugh about later with your friend? He could practically hear it now: “Guess what I told Dean Winchester? Yeah, that dumb guy”.

The thought twisted in his chest, sharp and painful, leaving him paralyzed. It was stupid, he knew that. You weren’t cruel. You weren’t that kind of person. But the voice in his head didn’t care about logic—it was the same voice that told him he wasn’t enough, that he never would be.

Dean leaned against the Impala, the cool metal grounding him as he clenched his phone in his hand. The words on the screen felt heavier now, suffocating. He wanted to believe you meant it, wanted it more than he’d let himself admit. But trusting that—trusting anyone—had never come easy to him.

He typed out a response, his thumbs hovering over the keyboard before deleting it. Then he tried again, this time settling on something simple, something that wouldn’t give too much away.

"Why?".

It wasn’t smooth. It wasn’t clever. But it was the only thing he could manage without letting his doubts spill out completely. He hit send, his heart pounding as the message disappeared, and he tossed the phone onto the bench like it had burned him.

Now all he could do was wait.

You stared at Dean’s reply on your phone: “Why?”.

Your brow furrowed, a mix of confusion and anxiety tightening your chest. Why? What was that supposed to mean? Why did you feel this way? Why were you telling him? Why… what?

Fingers trembling, you typed back quickly, the raw emotion behind your words bleeding through: “Why? What do you mean why?”.

You hit send, staring at the screen as your heart raced, every second feeling like an eternity.

Meanwhile, Dean sat on the bench in the garage, your message lighting up his screen. He stared at it, his jaw tightening as the doubts that had consumed him for days came roaring back to life. It wasn’t just the distance he’d put between the two of you—it was the text. That damn text from your friend: “Yeah, the dumb ones always fucking you raw”.

The words had seared themselves into his brain, gnawing at every insecurity he’d ever had. He could almost hear the implied laughter behind it, like he was some sort of joke. Like all he was good for was the physical—like he wasn’t worth anything more.

Dean leaned forward, rubbing his hand over his face as he tried to push the thoughts away. He didn’t want to believe you saw him that way. Hell, he knew you weren’t the type to mock someone behind their back. But the fear lingered. Maybe it wasn’t about you being cruel—maybe it was just the truth. Maybe he really was the dumb one in your eyes, good enough for a roll in the sheets but not enough to be the kind of man you’d fall for.

The buzzing of his phone jolted him from his thoughts. He picked it up reluctantly, your message staring back at him: “Why? What do you mean why?”.

Dean clenched his jaw, his fingers tightening around the phone. He could imagine you, sitting there, confused and probably hurt, wondering why the hell he couldn’t just give you a straight answer. He hated this. Hated himself for dragging it out instead of facing it head-on.

Dean hesitated, his fingers hovering over the keyboard as a thousand thoughts warred in his mind. He wanted to be honest, but the weight of his insecurities pressed down on him, making it nearly impossible to put what he felt into words.

Finally, he started typing, his thumbs moving slowly, each word feeling like a gamble:

“I mean, why would you fall for someone like me?”.

He stared at the message for a long moment before hitting send, the knot in his stomach tightening even further. Dean knew he sounded pathetic, but the words felt real—raw and unfiltered. It was the best he could manage, even if it left him exposed.

Back at your apartment, your phone buzzed, and your breath hitched as you read his response. Your brow furrowed in confusion and disbelief. Why would you fall for him? What kind of question was that? Did he really not see how much he meant to you?

You typed back almost immediately, your heart pounding as the words spilled out:

“Dean, are you seriously asking that?”.

Dean leaned back against the Impala, his broken arm resting gingerly in his lap as his phone buzzed with your response. He stared at it for a moment, then sighed heavily, his thumbs moving across the keyboard with the weight of every doubt and insecurity that had been eating at him for days.

“Sure do”, he typed back, the words bitter even in text. “Since when are you falling for the dumb ones? Thought I´m only good for a nice fuck”.

He hit send before he could overthink it, his heart sinking as he stared at the screen. He hated himself for saying it, but the words reflected every fear he couldn’t shake.

Back at your apartment, you read his reply, and the meaning behind it hit you like a bolt of lightning. It clicked. The text from your friend—the one Dean must’ve seen. Your heart sank, your fingers trembling as you thought about how that stupid comment might have twisted everything.

You quickly opened the chat with your friend, scrolling back to the message that started it all. You’d replied to her then, hadn’t you? Something about how wrong she was, about how Dean wasn’t dumb, not even close. You found your response, your words glaring back at you:

“Dean’s not dumb. Sure, he’s not into books like I am, but he’s life smart. He’s caring, passionate, funny, and real. He makes me laugh when I need it, makes me feel safe, makes me feel… loved. Even without saying it. He makes me happy. And I think I´m in love with him”.

The memory of typing those words made your chest ache, and now, you realized just how much they still rang true. You’d seen the best of Dean Winchester, the man who could brighten your darkest days and make you feel like you were the only person in the world who mattered. He wasn’t dumb—he was everything.

Without wasting another second, you grabbed your keys and slipped on your shoes, your mind racing as you headed to your car.

The drive to the bunker felt like an eternity, every second weighed down by the things you needed to say, the things you hoped Dean would finally hear.

When you pulled into the familiar driveway, you barely registered the rumble of your engine shutting off. You hurried to the door, your heart pounding in your chest as you knocked with more urgency than you intended.

A few moments later, the door swung open, and it wasn’t Dean who stood there—it was Sam. His expression shifted from mild curiosity to surprise when he saw you, his brows raising slightly. “Y/N”, he said, stepping aside to let you in. “Wasn’t expecting you”.

“Is Dean here?”, you asked, your voice breathless but determined.

Sam studied you for a moment, his sharp eyes catching the tension in your posture, the flush in your cheeks. He nodded, tilting his head toward the garage. “Yeah, he’s working on Baby. Again”.

You murmured a quick thanks, brushing past him as you made your way through the bunker, your footsteps echoing against the walls. The sound of tools clinking and the low hum of music reached you as you approached the garage, your heart racing faster with every step.

When you reached the doorway, you saw him. Dean was bent over the Impala, his focus on whatever part of her he was tinkering with. His bandaged arm rested at his side, a clear sign he wasn’t pushing it too hard, though the tension in his shoulders was impossible to miss.

“Dean”, you said softly, your voice cutting through the quiet like a knife.

He froze, his hand tightening on the wrench before he slowly straightened up and turned to face you. His green eyes locked onto yours, and for a moment, neither of you said anything. The weight of everything unspoken between you hung heavy in the air.

“You shouldn’t be here”, he said finally, his voice rough and guarded. “I thought I made that clear”.

You took a deep breath, stepping closer, your voice soft but steady. “So that’s what you’ve been doing?”, you asked quietly, meeting his green eyes. “Being all distant and cold to… what? End things?”.

Dean’s jaw clenched, and he set the wrench down with more force than necessary. “There’s nothing to end”, he grumbled, his voice low and defensive, but the flicker of hurt in his eyes betrayed him. “Not if there wasn’t anything there to begin with”.

The words hit you like a punch to the gut, but you refused to back down. “Don’t do that”, you said, your tone firmer now. “Don’t stand there and act like none of this mattered. Like I didn’t matter”.

Dean let out a bitter laugh, running a hand through his hair as he turned away, his back to you. “You don’t get it”, he muttered, shaking his head. “You think you know me, but you don’t”.

“Then tell me”, you pressed, stepping closer to him. “Tell me what I don’t know, Dean”.

He turned back to you abruptly, his green eyes blazing with frustration and something deeper—something raw. “You think you fell for me, huh?”, he snapped, his voice laced with bitterness. “What happens when the shiny, exciting part of this wears off? When you wake up one day and realize I’m not the guy you want?”.

You stared at him, taken aback by the vulnerability bleeding through his words. “Dean…”.

“No, let me finish”, he interrupted, his voice rough. “You think I don’t know how this ends? I’m the dumb one, remember? I’m good for a good time, maybe a distraction, but that’s it. That’s all I’ve ever been to anyone”.

You hesitated, your chest tightening at the pain behind Dean’s words. His self-doubt was laid bare, raw and vulnerable, and you couldn’t let him believe that about himself—not when you’d seen the truth. You stepped closer, your voice soft but steady as you spoke.

“Dean”, you said, your hands reaching out to gently touch his arms, “I won’t lie. I had my reservations at first. I mean, you came across like… like someone who’d promise a good time and then leave before sunrise”.

He flinched slightly, the truth of your words cutting deeper than you intended. But before he could pull away, you tightened your grip, grounding him.

“But you’re not just that”, you continued, your voice firmer now. “You’re so much more. You care so deeply about the people around you—even when you try to hide it. You’re the guy who fights for people, who carries more weight on his shoulders than anyone should have to. You make me feel safe. You make me laugh when I need it the most. And you… you make me feel seen, Dean. Like I’m not just someone passing through your life”.

Dean kept looking away, his jaw tightening and loosening as if he was trying to process what you were saying but didn’t quite believe it. The tension in his shoulders was palpable, and you could see the war in his mind playing out in the way his hands flexed at his sides.

You sighed softly, stepping closer, your voice quieter but firm. “And you’re absolutely not dumb, Dean”, you said, the words carrying a weight you hoped he’d feel. “Yeah, you’re a fucking dork sometimes. You say ridiculous stuff, make more jokes than anything, but that doesn’t make you dumb”.

He flinched again, his eyes still not meeting yours. You hesitated for a moment, then reached up, your hand brushing against his scruffy jaw. It took effort, especially given how much taller he was, but you gently guided his face to look at you, searching his eyes for some sign that he was listening.

“Look at you”, you murmured, your thumb grazing his cheek, the rough texture grounding you. “You’re the guy who figures out how to save people when no one else can. You can walk into a room and know exactly what’s wrong, who’s hiding what, and how to fix it. You think that’s not smart?”.

Dean’s green eyes flicked to yours, uncertain and guarded, but you could tell he was listening now. You smiled softly, your heart aching as you continued. “I don’t care if you don’t know useless stuff like advanced math or politics or whatever other crap people think makes someone smart. That stuff doesn’t matter to me”.

You stepped even closer, your other hand resting lightly on his chest. “What matters to me is that you know how to keep people safe. That you know how to make me laugh when I feel like the world’s falling apart. That you care more than you let anyone see, even when it’s eating you alive. That’s where you’re smart, Dean. And that’s what makes you… you”.

Dean’s gaze softened, the hard lines of his face easing as your words reached him. His hands, which had been hanging tensely at his sides, slowly moved, one brushing against your waist as though he needed to anchor himself. You stepped even closer, your voice dropping to a whisper, your heart pounding as you laid everything bare.

“You’re passionate”, you murmured, your fingers gently brushing his cheek. “About everything you love. Baby, the job, the people you care about—you throw yourself into all of it, even when it costs you”.

Dean swallowed hard, his green eyes locked onto yours, his chest rising and falling in uneven breaths as you continued.

“And that’s why I fell for you”, you admitted, the words trembling slightly as they left your lips. “You’re not like everyone else, Dean. You’re not just some guy who passes through someone’s life. You make people feel safe, feel seen. You make me feel seen”.

His hand tightened slightly on your waist, his jaw working as though he wanted to say something but couldn’t find the words.

You smiled faintly, your cheeks flushing as you added, “And yeah, sure, you’ve given me the most and best orgasms I’ve ever had in my life”. That earned a faint, shaky laugh from him, his lips twitching upward despite the storm in his eyes.

“But that’s not why I fell for you”, you said, your tone softening again. “It’s the quiet moments, Dean. The way you handle me when it’s just us. The way you hold me like I’m the only thing keeping you grounded. The way you look at me like I matter”.

His breath hitched, and he looked away for a moment, his fingers flexing on your waist before his green eyes flicked back to yours. “You do matter”, he said, his voice low and rough, thick with emotion he could barely contain. “More than I can even—”.

He cut himself off, his free hand coming up to cup your face, his thumb brushing against your cheek as he looked at you like you were the only thing in the world. “You deserve better than me”, he whispered, but his voice wavered, and you could see the fear and doubt warring with the undeniable truth of his feelings.

“Let me decide that”, you whispered back, leaning into his touch. “You’ve already shown me everything I need to know”.

Dean stared at you for a long moment, his emotions laid bare in a way you’d never seen before. Then, without another word, he leaned down, his lips capturing yours in a kiss that was slow, deep, and filled with all the things he couldn’t bring himself to say. It wasn’t about passion or heat—it was about connection, about finally letting himself believe he was worthy of what you were offering.

And in that moment, you knew he was.

Dean’s hands slid to your hips, his grip firm but gentle as he lifted you effortlessly onto the workbench. You let out a small gasp, your hands instinctively grabbing his shoulders as he stepped between your legs.

The move wasn’t rushed or hungry—it was deliberate, practical. You tilted your head, confusion flashing in your eyes, and he smirked faintly, brushing a strand of hair from your face.

“Relax”, he murmured, his green eyes warm as they met yours. “I’m not trying to jump you right now”.

Your brow furrowed, a blush creeping up your neck. “Then… what are you doing?”.

Dean let out a soft chuckle, shaking his head as he rubbed the back of his neck with his good hand. “You’re so damn small, sweetheart”, he muttered, his voice filled with a mix of exasperation and affection. “My back’s been killing me for weeks ‘cause I’m always leaning down to talk to you, kiss you, or just—”. He paused, giving you a meaningful look, “—exist in your general vicinity”.

You blinked, and then a laugh bubbled up, soft and genuine. “Seriously?”.

“Dead serious”, he said with a playful scoff. “You’re tiny. Adorable, but tiny. You should come with a warning label: May cause chronic back pain”.

Your laughter softened into a smile, and you reached up, your fingers tracing the edges of his stubbled jaw. “You could’ve just said something, you know”.

Dean smirked, his hands settling on your thighs, the warmth of his touch grounding you. “Yeah, well”, he said, leaning in slightly so his forehead brushed yours, “figured it was worth the pain. Still is”.

Your heart swelled at his words, and you tilted your head, pressing a soft kiss to his lips. “You’re impossible, you know that?”.

Dean’s hands tightened on your thighs as he pulled you closer, the movement effortless yet deliberate. The warmth of his body pressed against yours, and before you could say another word, his lips were on yours. This kiss was different—not rushed or rough, but deep and unhurried, his passion tempered by a surprising tenderness.

His stubble brushed against your skin, grounding you as your fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt, pulling him closer. His lips moved against yours, pouring everything he couldn’t say out loud into the kiss. It wasn’t just a kiss—it was a confession, an apology, a promise.

Dean’s hands slid from your thighs to your waist, his thumbs brushing over your sides in slow, soothing circles as if he couldn’t get enough of feeling you beneath his hands. You melted into him, the soft pressure of his lips and the way he tilted his head to deepen the kiss making your heart race.

When he finally pulled back, his forehead rested against yours, his green eyes meeting yours with a mixture of vulnerability and determination. “I’m impossible, huh?”, he murmured, his voice low and warm, his breath mingling with yours.

You smiled, your hands sliding up to rest against his chest. “Completely”, you teased softly, though your tone was laced with affection. “But I guess I can live with it”.

Dean chuckled, his grip on you tightening just slightly. “You’d better”, he said, brushing his nose against yours. “’Cause I don’t think I’m letting you go anytime soon”.

-The End-

———————————

A/N: Please let me know what you think.🥰 

-

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[coqhee]

ASTRONOMY 𓂃 심재윤

✷ when the long distance relationship just wasn't meant to last.

day 12 of melodies to memories ― ldr s.jy︲f reader︲angst, hurt ldr, breakup︲420

you always knew you'd end up with sim jaeyun.

even when you were younger and childhood friends, there was a mutual understanding that you weren't just childhood friends, but childhood lovers you could put it.

your parents were always fond of the two of you, and would gush how perfect you were meant to be.

from the time he asked you to go to the 8th grade summer dance with him to the time he asked you to be his prom date.

you were always fated.

at least up until then.

when you were deciding your colleges you assured each other, that no matter where you went, you'd always be there for each other, to call, text, and would see each other any chance you got.

college came with promises to keep things the same despite the inevitable distance. you assured each other that no matter where you went, no matter how busy life got, you’d always find time to call, to text, to visit.

but promises are easier made than kept.

but the once tight knot between the two of you was starting to unravel bit by bit, doubt by doubt.

everything would fix itself when you saw each other next right?

that's how it should've been.

you both knew there was a rift growing, the two of you were just so consumed with your ever moving past lives, to the point the both of you didn't even realize how much had changed.

the distance wasn’t just physical—it was emotional, too. jake had changed in ways you hadn’t anticipated. his new hobbies, his different way of speaking, the look in his eyes when he smiled at you… they weren’t the same. and, to be fair, you were different too.

you couldn't help but feel that it was your fault since you'd moved away. from far away, that seemed like the easiest answer.

and so you moved back to try and rekindle what was there.

yet even with the distance being so close, it felt like you were just two worlds apart.

it really seemed impossible how the two of you could brave all of your childhood and teen years out, yet feel like strangers less than a year later.

the both of you had tried to keep whatever stars and sparks between you alive, but it was just no use.

you'd just staring lovingly into your boyfriend sim jaeyun's eyes, it was staring through a strangers gaze.

you just can't force the stars to align, when they've already died

─── ♡

a/n: happy day 12 of melodies to memories!! lowk dont have much to say today but we're halfway there!! all likes, comments, reblogs appreciated <3

melodies to memories tl (closed): @pshwrldd @hhmnya @wonsdoll @lovuegi

@ coqhee 2024. all rights reserved.

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Love Game 1

No tag lists. Do not send asks or DMs about updates. Review my pinned post for guidelines, masterlist, etc.

Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as noncon/dubcon, and possible untagged elements. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: Your fiance suggests incorporating roleplay in the bedroom to keep the spark alive, but playing pretend turns out to be all too real.

Characters: Andy Barber, Lloyd Hansen

Note: I did this because I could.

As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. I will do my best to answer all I can. I’m trying to get better at keeping up so thanks everyone for staying with me.

Your feedback will help in this and future works (and WiPs, I haven’t forgotten those!) Please do not just put ‘more’. I will block you.

I love you all immensely. Take care. 💖

'You ready?' 

A tingle accompanies the text. Your stomach tosses and turns at the thought. You think you're ready. As ready as you can be. It's all so new to you. 

You hover your finger over the automated reply suggested by the OS. You tap on 'yes', too shaky to type it yourself. You're not scared, just nervous. 

When Andy first brought up the idea, you laughed. It was so absurd. Silly really. 

You remember how the look he gave you was like hands on your throat. The hurt with an edge of agitation strangled away your laughter. You apologised and asked him if you heard him right. Then he explained and it made sense. Kind of. 

'If we're going to get married, we need to keep the flame alive,' your fiance said as you stirred the contents of a pan with a spatula. 'Trust me, I know. A dead bedroom can kill everything else.' 

You frown at the memory. You hate when he mentions his first wife. He's engaged to you now. You're not her. Besides, things are pretty good. That's why you laughed. There was nothing bland to spice up. At least, you hadn't thought so. 

'You know the plan?' He texts. Always thorough, if not persistent. 

'I think' you type as you squeeze your phone tighter then think better of the reply. You backspace. Remember the plan. 'Yes, sir.' 

You blow out between your lip and put the phone on the counter. You look in the mirror and pick up the bottle of moisturizer, smearing it over your face. Half the day you've spent prepping yourself. Everything has to be perfect. Andy is always certain of that. 

You snap the cap shut and peruse the rest of the basket. He thought of everything. New soaps, wax, perfume, and all sorts of goodies. You didn't need it all but he insisted. 

Everything about Andy Barber is pristine and tidy. His house not least of his carefully curated existence. So it is that you often feel as if you don't quite fit it, even when he tells you the opposite. 

Your phone vibes and you look down at the screen as the notification flashes, 'good girl.' 

Your lashes bat and you giggle thinly. You've never done anything like this. You struggle to get a precise grip on the tweezers and have to still your hand with the other. This is wild! 

You rub your thighs together and strike hotter the flame of your anticipation. As much as the whole thing has you uncertain, it has you alight. You steady yourself and lean into the mirror, just a few stray hairs. It shouldn't matter, it'll be dark, right? 

Your phone goes again. You pull back and glance down. You trade the tweezers for the cell and press your lips together. 

'Did you find your surprise?' 

You look up and search your expression. Surprise? You lower your brow and peer around the bathroom. There's more? 

'Bedroom' his next message comes bluntly. 

You chew your lip and leave the mirror behind. You go down to the main bedroom and ease through the door. The room still smells of his cologne. The whole place is drenched in him, meanwhile most people wouldn't guess at a glance that you lived there too. 

You see it on the bed. White silk and lace. The lingerie is sheer enough that you may as well forego it. You near and touch the scalloped hem. You know it must be expensive, funny how so little fabric can be worth so much. 

You step back and take a picture. You send it to Andy and wait, your thumb between your teeth. He replies. 

'Put it on.' 

His blunt orders add to the thrum coursing through you already. It seems he's already in character. You need to get yourself together and do your part. 

'Yes, sir.' 

You set the phone on the corner of the mattress and trade your bathroom for the lingerie. The thong, while high-waisted has you on full display. Not ass, no crotch, just lace straps that trim your thighs and bottom. The top is an open teddy with cups that do nothing to censor your pert nipples. Just wearing it sends a thrill through you. 

You take the phone and return to the bathroom. You use the full-length mirror to frame your reflection with the lens. You snap a few pics and sift through for the best one. You hesitate before you tap the little arrow. You're a mess of paranoia and lust; you shouldn't send photos like this and yet you can't help yourself. 

You wait for his reply. Wait and wait and wait. You have to stop yourself from staring at the phone, knowing that your hyperfocus will only slow time. You cross to the counter and place the phone near the edge. 

Your attention is drawn to the sheer fabric acrosd your chest. You can't suppress the moan that leaks from you. You can feel how excited you already are but your eagerness might just get in the way of the whole thing. 

You sigh and the buzz draws you back from your anxiety. You read the message, almost disappointed. 

'Midnight.' 

That's it. That's all he has to say. Was the pic not good enough? Is this part of the roleplay? You don't know. 

As ever, Andy has you guessing at what he really wants. Hopefully this time, you get it right. 

💕

10:47pm. You’re wired. You’re trying to settle down. You have freshly laundered bedding and a glass of wine; all the perfect ingredients to lull you to sleep. That’s all you need to do. Fall asleep. 

Yet knowing what’s coming won’t let your mind stop. Ugh, your heart is racing again. You need to finish the wine. You push yourself up and have another gulp. You lay in the glow of your phone, a Get Ready With Me playing on low volume. Usually this all works. 

Not tonight. You’re too buzzy. Too frazzled. Too eager! 

You empty the glass and lay back down. You were generous, filling the wide body of the glass to the halfway point. At least two regular glasses worth.  

Your head meets the pillow and you start to feel it. The acidic burn spreads through your veins and you sink into the soft sheets. You turn your head to watch the small screen of your phone, vision slowly hazing as the contoured woman applies her lip liner expertly. 

Your eyelids cling and start to itch. Your heady is swishy, your tummy too, and your limbs weaken. It’s working. You try not to think too much about it, not wanting to counteract the alcohol with your self-awareness. 

You roll onto your side and drift into a half-conscious daze. Your brain swirls and your blood burns hot. Your breathing slows and piques only when your rouse, glancing at your phone as a new video plays. The time stamps into your vision; 11:25. 

You curl your shoulders inward, more tired than anxious now, and slip back into your tipsy stupour. The screen is just a glow on the other side of your eyelids and the audio a scratch in your ears. It fades beneath the even ebb and flow of your quiet snores. 

As the light fades out and the sound dwindles to nothing but the still of night, you wake again. Your eyes open to the darkness. You’re alone. Confused. 

You feel around on the bed for your phone. It must have timed out or the battery died. You don’t find it. Instead, your wrist is trapped in a strong grip and dragged away from the duvet. You gasp and remember what’s going on. It’s starting. He’s there. 

“Ah, ah,” comes the grizzled tut as your other arm is seized and your hands are brought together above your head. 

Andy’s shadowy figure straddles you, pinning you to the mattress as you squirm. You let out a squeak and he hushes you. You still and arch your back, trying to push your chest up. 

“Please, who are you?” You whine, doing your best to play into the scenario. “Please, my husband will be home soon--” 

He shushes you again, holding your wrists together as he leans back to reach behind him. You can hardly see through the dark and your foggy tipsiness. The curtains have been drawn, obscuring the room to fuzzy lines and pulsing shadows. 

He hooks something around your arm; a leather cuff, then secures your other wrist. He keeps your arms up and reaches behind the mattress. He attaches the wring between the cuffs to some unseen hook. Where did that come from? 

You writhe as he stares down at you. You squint back at him, trying to see through the dim. Something feels off. He’s so quiet and forceful. It must be part of the roleplay but it just doesn’t feel like him. He feels like a stranger. 

He backs off of you, peeling back the duvet to drop it on the floor. He prowls along the foot of the bed and you kick your feet, whimpering as you strain against the cuffs. You keep forgetting it’s a game. You have to play your part too. 

“Please, don’t hurt me,” you beg. 

There’s no answer. Andy continues to pace, back and forth, back and forth. He's really transformed. Where he would usually have his hands on his hips, he has them folded behind him, shoulders squared, his steps lighter. 

He stops and lets out a willowy rasp. He unzips his jacket, slipping off the sleeves slowly, deliberately. You lift your head as you try to see him clearer. Did he change? He must have dressed up too. 

Then he pulls his shirt over his head and huffs out again, a growl catching in his throat. He drops the shirt with his jacket and the duvet. Andy never leaves a garment outside the closet or hamper but this isn’t Andy, remember? This is an intruder! And you’re the helpless housewife. 

You nearly moan at the thought. Something about it is so hot even if it makes you a bit squidgy too. You tug again on your wrists as you hear his zipper slice through the din. 

“Please--” you beg. 

He kicks the footboard and the loud bang silences you. You can’t help the pathetic noise that trickles from your tongue and you swallow. He’s doing good. It feels so real. 

He continues to undress. Your heartbeat picks up as you wait for him to really start. He bends to pick something up then climbs over the footboard onto the bed. For a moment, you wince. His silhouette is slimmer. Or seems so. The difference is so minuscule it might be your wine-laced brain playing tricks. 

He catches your kicking feet and pushes your legs wide. He trails his hands up them, a piece of fabric tickling beneath his left palm, and firmly hooks them around him as he moves between them. He stops at your pelvis, his rigid length hovering over you. He stretches the black cloth across your eyes, blotting out what little sight you have. He knots the band behind your head and you gasp. 

He traces along your cheeks and your jawline, as if he can see you through the dark, as if he’s learning you by touch. His fingertips dance down your throat and across your shoulders. You feel fragile as he toys with the strap of the lingerie and feels along the flimsy cups, circling his thumbs around your nipples as they pebble beneath the sheer silk. 

He gropes you and growls. The noise is guttural and raw. It flutters into your core and has you twitching. He pushes his knees against your cunt, moving so the friction flurries in your clit. You babble and raise your chest, hungry for his touch. 

He flicks your nipples and his hands crawl onward, down your torso, doting on the soft flesh of your stomach, and framing your hips as he draws back on his knees. He snarls and bends over you, bowing as he grips you tightly. His nails dig into your skin and you whine as you feel his hot breath against your folds. 

He nuzzles along the edges of the panties, growling as he does, squeezing your harder, then at once, buries his nose in your cunt. He wiggles his head and drags the tip of his nose up over your clit and swipes his tongue up to further set you aflame. You moan and curve your back, planting your heels as you urge him on. 

He delves into you, lapping and licking, suckling and swirling. His arm reaches up and he kneads your chest, blindly pulling the lingerie under one tis. He pinches as you cry out and he rolls your clit between his teeth. You puff out shallow breaths, swept up in the sensations. 

This is so different. Unlike he’s ever been before. He’s almost feral in how he touches you, how he feels you, how it seems he wants to consume you. There’s something else different, something strange you can’t place.  

Did he shave? You can’t tell, It must be the wine. His cheeks feel bare against your thighs and yet you swear you feel that scratchy tickle against your cunt. You don’t think about it; it’s all too much to focus. 

You squeal as you cum, spasming into his face as he drinks up your orgasm. You’re heaving and hollow as he doesn’t let up. He laps at you until you’re begging him to stop. Until you’re quaking, nearly sobbing in overwrought pleasure. Until you have a second, a third, and a fourth. 

Your slickness smears over his face and across your thighs. As he parts, his breath is humid, and you can smell the sweet scent of your release. You shiver as he raises himself up and the bed jostles. He snarls and slaps your thighs, squeezing until you whimper. 

He shifts and slides a hand under your leg. He flips you onto your stomach so your arms twist and your face is buried in the pillow. You pant into the linen as he smacks your ass with both hands and growls as he fondles you. You murmur as his touch sends tendrils down your legs and up your back. 

He grips your hips once more and raises your ass. Oh my god. It’s only a few times you’ve done it like this, often Andy prefers you on your back. He says he likes to see you.  

He pulls you back against him, his length resting between your cheeks as he bends over you. He inhales the scent of your hair and snarls against your crown. He reaches down to feel between your legs, spreading your swollen cunt as he angles his hips. 

His tip slips down and he uses his fingertips to guide it to your entrance. You’re so wet he slips right in. He sounds just as surprised as he gasps. He sinks into your limit and you whine. He retracts his arm, hooking it around your neck, and thrusts. 

You squeal as he buries himself even deeper. He does it again; harder. It hurts. You croak and press your chin down into his arm. You feel a ripple of fear. His chest feels... bare. Andy has that trim of fur that you like to play with. Maybe he got rid of it? For the roleplay? 

He snaps his hips again, staying deep before slowly rearing back. He pauses, then bucks again. The impact of his pelvis on your ass is painful and he’s hitting your cervix. 

“Ow, Andy--” 

“Quiet,” he grits in a deep sneer and brings his other hand up to smother your mouth. 

He leans his weight on you, your neck and shoulders aching from the angle of your spine. He dips into you again, again, again. Each pause between grows shorter as he tilts into a full rut. The entire bed shakes with his motion. 

You squeeze your eyes shut and curl your fingers into your palms, the cuffs slowing your circulation. You huff into his hand as he continues his rampant fucking, skin slapping, bones aching. Harder, deeper, faster, until you’re delirious. 

“What’s your husband going to think when he comes home to his wife being fucked like a slut?” He rasps and nibbles your ear, “huh? How’s he gonna compare to this, baby? Your husband can’t fuck like me can he?”  

He taunts and you cringe. You don’t like it anymore. It’s not fun. You don’t want him to be this man. To be this rough and rude. You want him to be Andy. You try to say his name again but only taste the salt of his palm. 

“Keep your mouth shut, slut,” he sinks into his limit and stays there, his voice echoing in your head. His tone is just... off. “I’m not done with you yet.” 

[quins-heart16]

Imagine: A Turn of Events

It was a lazy Sunday afternoon when I scrolled mindlessly through my phone. The cozy vibe of my sprawling apartment —the soft hum of the TV in the background and the faint aroma of fresh flowers from my garden—felt like a safe haven. That was until I saw the headline.

Lando Norris sparks dating rumors with stunning model spotted in Monaco.

My heart dropped. Picture after picture flashed before your eyes: him laughing, his arm draped around her shoulder. It felt like a punch to the gut.

I thought about the late-night drives, the whispered confessions, the way he’d make me laugh until my stomach hurt. Was it all just a game to him?

Unable to contain my emotions, I texted him:

“So, you’ve been keeping secrets?”

Minutes passed. Then hours. No reply. The silence was deafening.

Later that evening, just as the sun was dipping below the horizon, my phone buzzed. A call from Lando. I refuse to pick up .

The call persists and i reluctantly pick up pissed off

“Hey,” he started, his voice hesitant. “I saw your text. Can we talk? In person?”

I wanted to say no, to hang up and shut him out, but something in his tone stopped Me. I agreed to meet at my place.

He arrived not long after, looking disheveled and nervous. “Y/N,” he began, stepping onto my porch, “the pictures… they’re not what they seem.”

I folded your arms. “Then what are they, Lando? Because they look pretty clear to me.”

He ran a hand through his messy curls. “She’s a family friend. I was doing her a favor for an event. I should’ve told you—it looks bad, I know. But you’re the one I care about. You’re the one I want.”

His words hung in the air, and for a moment, I didn’t know if you could trust him. But then he stepped closer, his voice softening. “I know I’ve been a coward with my feelings, but losing you scares me more than anything. I’m done with the games, Y/N . I want to be with you—only you.”

Tears stung my eyes as I searched his face for any sign of insincerity. But all you saw was the Lando you’d come to know—the one who made you feel alive.

“Then prove it,” you whispered.

Without hesitation, he pulled me into a tight embrace, pressing a kiss to your forehead. “I will,” he murmured. “Every single day.”

The hurt didn’t vanish instantly, but as he held me close, I felt the pieces slowly starting to mend. For the first time in a long while, hope bloomed in my chest like the flowers in my garden.

[fanbasetwo]

Ꮺ . , SOHEE WITH HIS BIRTHDAY GIRL !!

NOTE FROM SENA , (this is a fic in a headcanon manner) def not my birthday today but here we go , MASTERLIST!!

i. THE BEGINNING OF A VIRTUAL LOVE STORY

You and Sohee met online through a mutual hobby group, bonding over late-night chats, silly memes, and a shared love for obscure indie bands.

You never thought anything serious would come of it, but before long, you were texting each other good morning and good night, sharing every little detail of your lives.

Sohee was shy but sweet, often confessing how much he wanted to meet you in person. “I wish I could hug you right now,” he’d text, accompanied by a photo of himself looking adorably soft in his oversized hoodie.

ii. ONLINE MOMENTS THAT BECAME SPECIAL

You both developed routines that kept the spark alive. Weekly video calls became sacred, even if Sohee sometimes got flustered and hid his face behind his hands when you complimented him.

During your virtual movie nights, he’d patiently sync up his screen with yours, ensuring you both hit play at the exact same time. “Don’t skip ahead!” he’d laugh if you got too excited.

On your rough days, he’d send you playlists he curated just for you. “This one’s for when you’re sad,” he explained once, sending a link with the note: ‘Track 5 reminds me of you.’

He once surprised you by sending a hand-written letter to your house. Inside was a Polaroid of him holding a sign that said, “You’re my favorite person.”

iii. THE CHALLENGES OF LONG-DISTANCE

Dating as teens made it tough to meet, especially with his busy trainee schedule and your own commitments. You’d often joke about flying to see him, but he’d nervously laugh, saying, “Maybe one day.”

Even when things got hard, you both stayed committed. “Five years isn’t that long,” he’d say during the harder nights. “I promise it’ll all be worth it.”

iv. YOUR BIRTHDAY BLUES

Now both 22 and independent, you’d been dating for five years without ever meeting in person. You often whined about wanting to see him, but Sohee always brushed it off, saying, “Not yet.”

On your birthday, you came home from work feeling miserable. Nobody at work remembered, and your boyfriend hadn’t texted all day, which was odd for him. You figured he must’ve been busy, but it still stung.

Opening the door to your house, you expected silence. Instead, you were greeted by cheers from your two best friends and your parents.

v. THE SURPRISE OF A LIFETIME

Your eyes landed on the cake first—small but beautifully decorated with your favorite colors. Then you noticed the figure standing beside it. Tall, with soft features and a shy smile you recognized instantly.

It was Sohee.

Your legs wobbled as your heart caught in your throat. “No way,” you whispered before running toward him. The moment his arms wrapped around you, you broke down, sobbing into his chest.

“You’re real,” you kept repeating, clutching him tightly. He laughed softly, resting his chin on your head. “Of course I’m real. Happy birthday, my love.”

vi. KEEPING IT PG-15

Your parents and friends looked on with fond smiles, so you had to keep the reunion as wholesome as possible. Still, Sohee’s hand lingered on your back, and you couldn’t stop staring at him in awe.

“You’re prettier in person,” you blurted out, earning a shy laugh as he scratched the back of his neck. “You’re not so bad yourself.”

Your friends teased you endlessly, taking photos of the two of you while your parents served cake.

vii. PARENTAL APPROVAL

After your friends left, Sohee spent time talking to your parents. He was polite and respectful, answering their questions about his career and your relationship.

By the end of the conversation, your mom smiled warmly. “He’s a keeper,” she whispered to you, making your heart flutter.

viii. THE QUIET AFTER THE CHAOS

That night, Sohee ended up in your room, sitting on the edge of your bed as you playfully punched his chest. “Why didn’t you tell me you were coming? I was so mad!”

He caught your hand mid-punch, holding it gently. “I didn’t want to ruin the surprise,” he said, looking at you with those soft, expressive eyes you’d only ever seen through a screen.

“Well, consider me surprised,” you mumbled, leaning against his shoulder.

ix. THE PERFECT END TO YOUR BDAY

You spent hours talking, laughing, and catching up in a way that felt completely new but also familiar.

Before he left to stay at a nearby hotel, he kissed your forehead, promising to make the next few days together unforgettable.

“Happy birthday,” he whispered one last time before stepping out, leaving you with a heart so full you thought it might burst.

x. FINALLY TOGETHER

That birthday marked the start of a new chapter in your relationship. No more screen barriers, no more longing from afar—just you and Sohee, finally together, making up for lost time.

join my taglist by sending an ask or commenting here <3

© fanbasetwo | tumblr

[sabotage-on-mercury]

I've never been one for New Year's recaps, looking back at the year's achievements (which achievements asks the imposter syndrom) and highlights, mostly because it forces me to look back at the year's low points as well. I prefer to sort everything away, nice and tidy, in the back of my mind, put on a smile and pray through gritted teeth that next year will be better - not out of conviction, but because it simply has to be. 

A few days ago, I stumbled across some lines from a fic I wrote a few months ago, and it stirred something in me. At the time I wrote it, I didn't believe a single word of it.

“Well, stay curious. And brave. You're not stuck where you are forever. It might take you a month or another seventeen years, but you will find something that keeps your soul alive. And it will be worth every minute searching for it.”

Sure, I was clinging on to life with a grim conviction that one day it wouldn't be so painful just to be alive. But that life could actually be good? Hard to imagine. 

For many years I never dared to look back, but today I feel brave enough to do so. 

And I see one of the darkest periods of my life. I see all the tears and panic attacks and hopelessness and anger. I see the days when I was sure I wouldn't make it to today. I see the wounds and scars that this time has left on me that will probably take some time to heal completely, if ever.

But there is something else that I see even more clearly. Little moments that shine as bright and warm as stars in the night sky.

I see the conversations with the most amazing people over tags, DMs, texts, phone calls, video calls that have brightened my days - and then the absolute joy of meeting my friends in person, being invited into their lives, going on trips, spending a wonderful time together, and the prospect of so many more visits to come.

I see moments of being brave, silly and irresponsible - and being highly encouraged to do so - and how that has given me my spark back.

And yes, I also see Good Omens, the comfort it continues to provide in spite of everything. And, of course, the amazing fandom, with its wonderful creators and creations that bring so much beauty to the world. 

I see the hours I spend writing, the joy (and agony) of bringing a vision to life, and the pride of actually finishing something - and then having people take the time to read my stuff and actually like it (still feels unreal). I see myself getting excited about new ideas that may never see the light of day, but that I still love telling to people who are equally excited about them. 

I see the people who have come to me for support or encouragement, who have made me feel helpful, who have made me feel like a relevant part of their writing process and their lives, which still fills me with awe.

I see the journey of finding love, for people, for experiences, for things, and loving them deeply. 

I'm standing here and I can say with certainty: I feel loved. And I'm so grateful for the ways, big and small, that people show it to me again and again.

I see all these people holding my hand and waiting patiently with me until sun rose again and beyond. And I feel at peace. 

And I can look back and embrace it all. 

So is everything all right now? 

No. I still have bad days, I'm still bitter about the challenges behind me, and I see the challenges ahead, and I know I have a long way to go, to create a life I want.

But I'm here. 

I feel alive.

I'm so, so happy to be alive. 

I'm beaming with excitement for the beautiful moments to come, however few or small they may be.

And it's worth every minute, every year I've spent looking for something to make me feel that way. 

So to all of you: Thank you.

You matter, to me, to the world, to someone in your life. 

Happy New Year!

[sunflowersandsapphires]

Shadows of Fluttering Leaves

When Skies Are Gray, Chapter 7

Series Masterlist             Next Chapter

pairing: Frank Castle x fem!reader 

summary: Frank’s life has reached a crossroads: he can either continue to seclude himself and pursue a dark, lonely future, or he can open himself up to connecting with someone again and maybe achieve happiness. Being the grump that he is, Frank has already committed to the lonely path, but his curious new neighbor might just turn that around. 

warnings: depressed reader, grief, victim blaming, implied history of sexual assault/harassment, bad parenting, not super healthy coping mechanisms

a/n: I am so sorry I've updated everything sporadically this year, y'all. I've been working really hard to stockpile updates so I'll be able to post at least biweekly for the rest of the year (if everything goes to plan!) As always, please comment/reblog to leave feedback. And a giant thank you to @gracethyomen for helping me plan this arc and make their fight more cruel. She is the queen of angst, go follow her.

w/c: 4.8k

You didn’t recall much from the past three days, but that was because there wasn’t anything to recall. After your conversation–if it could even be called that–with Frank, it was as if your soul had unstitched itself from your body. You went through your days as an emotionless husk. Your creative spark extinguished, your joy unreachable.

The walls in your building were thin enough that you could hear him moving around. Going to work and returning home to Max as if you'd never existed. Perfectly fine without you. Every heavy footfall that penetrated the rotting drywall brought a fresh sheen of tears to your eyes. 

The burly marine had become such a welcomed part of your life, losing him was like losing a limb. His absence felt like a bad dream. If you focused hard enough, you could still feel his calloused hands, smell the cheap soap and spicy clove aftershave he used. But a simple exhale would wash the scent away, and you were alone again–tired, anguished, and unloved.

You drifted through the day, unsure what to do with yourself. You couldn’t bring yourself to go into work, or even communicate with Leo and Stacy for more than a brief text to prove you were still alive.

While this evening hadn’t been much different, the sight of your mom’s name flashing across the top of your phone screen as it buzzed had caused enough of an adrenaline rush to force you to chat with someone. Your throat felt sore after talking for the first time in nearly 72 hours, your vocal chords still recovering from their sudden overuse. Shuddering as you willed the memory of the call to fade, you felt the tell tale prick in the corners of your eyes.

Staring down at the damp concrete, you blinked frantically in an attempt to keep the endless tears at bay. The tilt of your head caused raindrops to drip off of your hood, rolling down your forehead. Around you, the slam of water against pavement and steel drowned out the thud of your determined footsteps. Blowing out a breath you slipped an unfeeling mask onto your face as you continued your walk to the bakery.

It wasn’t more than a few blocks from your apartment to the Rainy Day, but the beams of street lights would draw attention to your glassy eyes, and you didn’t need to highlight your fragility for any creeps that might be lurking at this hour. You'd had more than enough unwanted male attention for the week. Once you were safely behind the locked doors, you could look as broken down as you needed to.

Though you were exhausted, your confusion-and-betrayal-addled brain was still unable to rest and your hands itched to do something. Wallowing in your bed wouldn’t quell the uneasiness that speaking with your mom had ignited mere hours ago. But cooking might. At least, you hoped that was the case.

A crackle of lightning illuminated the bakery as you approached; the strike of light refracting through the windows made the place look rather sinister, draping it in oddly shaped shadows. Slipping the keys from your pocket, you tried not to cringe at the cold rain as it splattered against your exposed hand. Thunder rolled overhead as you waggled the key in the lock, finally getting the damn thing to budge enough for the door to shove open.

Stepping inside, you bolted the door behind you, using your phone flashlight to maneuver through the stacked tables and chairs as you moved to the kitchen. Before getting to work, you stripped out of your semi-drenched top and slipped into a clean t-shirt adorned with the logo of the cafe. Flicking on the overhead lights, you threw a hand up to shield your sensitive eyes as they strobed briefly before steadying into their normal bright rays. Taking a place by your preferred station, you took a moment to reflect on the tasks you had cut out for you.

Though Leo was more than capable of replicating your work if you detailed the recipes, they were happy to let you be the creative lead in your shared kitchen. As they’d mentioned multiple times over text the past few days, your absence from the space meant less variation in pastries for the bakery, and more for Leo to do. If you weren’t so emotionally depleted, you would have felt more guilty about abandoning them so suddenly.

Apparently, the emotional turmoil that talking to your mother always stirred was good for something. It had gotten you here, at least. Coating your station in a thin layer of flour, you ran through the motions of a basic croissant recipe.

You weren't quite feeling up to experimenting yet, but croissants you could do.

Soon enough, the smell of salted butter and yeast engulfed the room and your fatigued mind began to wander. Despite your best efforts to forget the comment, your mother's voice echoed in your ears.

“Really, sweetheart, what did you expect?”

The condescension in her tone clung to you like the barbs of an untrimmed rose. Your brain feebly tried to reassure you that she had no idea what she was talking about. To remind you that she didn't even know his name, that you'd told her—at most—three sentences about the whole situation.

But the majority of your brain was still reeling from the abrupt collapse of your relationship with Frank. And it was far too weak to not spiral at the implication of your mom's question.

Because, while she wasn't fully aware of who Frank was and what he meant to you, she was intimately informed of your history with men–hence her thoughtless words this evening.

Your dating history was...pitiful, to say the least. You tended to draw attention from the wrong men. Bosses, teachers, even your own relatives.

It had been your reality for as long as you could remember. As a child, whenever you'd come to your mother with another sob story about attention that you hadn't meant to attract, the blame was always placed squarely on your shoulders. Your outfits were too provocative, your actions too enticing. It didn't matter that they were the ones misunderstanding your kindness as an open invitation. It was still your fault.

Expecting her to sympathize with you when you told her you'd been grabbed by a stranger as you left the construction site was foolish. But it still hurt to know that she didn't.

What hurt more was the little voice in the back of your head that agreed with her. Knowing damn well that you'd chosen that outfit to fetch the gaze of a specific man. That the low cut neckline was meant to be provocative. That it was your fault that you'd been humiliated. That your own desperation had led to the continued phantom sensation of a large hand gripping your arm against your will. 

“If you dangle bait long enough, something will bite.” She reminded you. It wasn't the ocean's fault that you'd been hoping for a specific fish.

“But I didn't want them.” You'd lamented to her. You were tired of being a plaything, a quick fuck. You wanted something more, something real. And it had turned to ash in your delicate grasp before you could so much as appreciate it.

She wasn't sympathetic. Chastising you for forgetting your place, for getting attached, for seeking love in places it didn't exist.

“Love is harder to come by when you're, well...you know.”

You slammed the ball of elastic dough onto the bench, kneading it aggressively as tears poured down your face. Your stomach twisted as it heaved with sobs, the sentiment from your mother sounding eerily similar to the curt observation that Frank had hurled at you.

You ain't my wife.

He was right. You weren't his wife. His wife was beautiful, and caring, and patient. She'd loved him, had children with him, made a home for him.

Think I'm your little boyfriend or somethin'?

Biting your lip to stifle a sob, the feeling of foolishness crested in your chest again. It was humiliating to be called out like that,  especially when your naive little heart had been convinced he felt the same way.

I never wanted that.

Those words still hit you like a sock to the gut. He never wanted a relationship. He never wanted you.  Your stupid feelings were clearly unrequited, but how were you supposed to know that?

Was your childhood so deprived of love that simple acts of kindness had your heart doing backflips? Were his pet names and compliments just his gentlemanly nature because he was afraid to offend you?

This was a mistake.

His sweet remarks, calling you beautiful, the constant teasing—the relationship you once had with Frank began to play in your head; the muted colors of the picture doing nothing to make your chest ache less when his face sprang to mind. Your brain continued its depressing montage: Frank smiling at you, his gruff voice lifting around the word “sunshine”, his genuine interest in your work, his daily visits to the cafe, the way he leaned into every touch you offered him. All meaningless. Just another regret.

Exhaling forcefully, you flapped your hands in an attempt to stop their trembling. If the fragile dough ripped between your fingers, it would ignite a full meltdown. Clenching the muscles in your hands, you relaxed them as you forced every thought from your head, focusing on the pliant mass beneath your rolling pin as you mashed it into a lopsided rectangle. Carefully lifting the edges of the shape, you tossed it onto the sheet pan you'd prepared as tenderly as you could.  Using your fingertips to stretch it into a more appealing shape, you nodded in satisfaction, shoving the tray onto a cart and picking up your rolling pin again.

Each extension of your forearms, pressing the wooden cylinder into the raw pastry, condensing and lengthening the blob with small, stiff movements. Your elbows creaked with every stretch of the elastic dough, the swing of your arms feeling almost foreign despite being a common practice in the kitchen. A 72-hour break was too long, apparently. Any other day, you'd dance through this recipe effortlessly; Today though, every step felt choppy and hesitant, as if your brain expected you to fail again and again.

You hadn't felt this hopeless in a kitchen since the last few weeks of your atrocious entrepreneurial experience years ago. Yet another example of you being too trusting, too optimistic.

Your mouth flooded with the metallic tang of blood as your teeth dug into the flesh of your cheek, halting the choking despair that threatened to drag you down to the linoleum floor. You wanted to give in; your brain was still a ball of exhausted mush incapable of handling your day-to-day tasks.

Sloppily prepping a few more trays for their initial rise, you shoved the croissant dough onto the proofing cart and out of sight. The smell of yeast usually made you happy, but the biting edge of the scent was turning your stomach. It was becoming increasingly clear that you'd thrown yourself into your work without the stability to handle the sensory input of the bakery. Your head was pulsing because of the fluorescent lights, the whir of the electric mixer rattling your ear drums. Once the sticks of butter you'd added to the stainless steel bowl of the machine were smooth, you shoved the lever to shut it off—letting out a breath you hadn't realized you were holding.

Slapping heaping scoops of the creamed butter into a half-sheet pan, you set the pan in the fridge to solidify and shuffled blearily into the break room, collapsing onto the worn leather couch.

“You are such an asshole.”

Gritting your teeth as the words ripped you from an uneasy sleep, you peeled one eye open reluctantly. Two shadowy figures swayed in your field of vision, neither looking particularly happy with you.

The taller figure marched towards you. ”Three days? THREE DAYS? No calls, only a single fucking text,“ The annoyed voice grew closer, making you curl in on yourself.

”'M sorry.“ You mumbled, tears springing to your eyes.

”You better have a better apology than that. They were worried sick.“ A blurry image of Stacy manifested against the doorway to the breakroom, her arms crossed. Standing in front of your shoulders, hands firmly attached to their hips, was Leo.

”We were worried sick,“ Leo corrected, throwing Stacy a look.

Not denying the allegation, Stacy's cheeks dusted pink.

Crouching in front of you, Leo gave you a once over. Their furious expression quickly morphing into one of concern. “Did you sleep here?”

“Didn't mean to, the kitchen was just,” You gave a limp shrug, avoiding their piercing gaze. “Too much.”

“How long have you been here?” Stacy asked, striding over to drape her legs across the arm of the couch.

“Since midnight-ish.” You muttered, shame pitching your voice lower.

“Babes,“ Leo sighed, running a palm over your exposed arm as you tried to shrink into the couch cushions. ”What happened? Was it your mom?“

You should your head, tears pooling in your eyes. “Pete.”

“Pete?” Stacy raised an eyebrow, looking at Leo with wide eyes.

“What did he do, hun?” Leo plopped into a cross-legged position, leaning against the couch with an expectant look.

“Did you break up?” Stacy's voice was uncharacteristically soft, but the words were still teasing.

You burst into tears.

“Stace!” Leo scolded, climbing onto the couch and hefting your torso up so that you could lay in their lap as you bawled.

“What? It seemed impossible!!” Stacy said, mortified. She absorbed Leo's vacated spot, hands hovering apprehensively in front of you. “Shit. Please don't cry.”

“It's a bit late for that.” Leo huffed, cradling your cheek with one hand. “What did that bastard do to you?”

Gulping in air, you cowered against Leo's thigh. Your friends sat quietly, patiently awaiting your story. With a stuttering inhale, you wiped the newest round of tears from your face and pushed yourself into a seated position—gratefully leaning into the arm Leo threw around your shoulders. Looking up at them wide-eyed, you waited for their encouraging nod before speaking.

“Um..” Your voice was hoarse, words shaky. “So three days ago, I tried to bring him lunch...”

As if your consciousness was sparing you from the depressing events, the words tumbled from your lips instinctively, thoughtlessly. The story pouring directly from your torn heart, accompanied by a few stray tears.

Throughout your ramble, your friends remained silent–sandwiching your body between them. Leo's sturdy frame was a comforting weight to your left. Stacy had migrated to your other side, tentatively resting a manicured hand on your shoulder. They were both eerily still as you caught them up on the implosion of your relationship with your neighbor.

Eventually, you sighed, your body sagging with exhaustion. Briefly lifting your hands, you gestured to the small, bare break room you'd passed out in. “And then you found me in here, and that's it I guess.”

Your mouth snapped shut, your eyes flinging the final few droplets of saline off of your lashes as you blinked at your lap. There was a beat of silence. Two. Three.

Then all hell broke loose.

“Is he fucking serious?“ Stacy bit out, retracting her hand to cross her arms. Her brows were raised, jaw clenched as she looked at Leo.

”He told you that you were a mistake?“ Leo squawked, clearly fuming.

“I mean, that's not—” You began to reason, words dissolving on your tongue as Leo grabbed your hand with a glare.

“Absolutely not. Do not start that bullshit.”

Frowning, you averted your eyes. ”I'm not doing anything.“

“Princess, we love you, but don't pretend you're not blaming yourself.“ Stacy scoffed, standing from the couch and tugging at the roots of her hair.

“And defending him while you're at it.” Leo gently prodded your side with a knuckle, giving you an all-too-knowing glance. At your resulting pout, they sighed. “I know that hearing your mom blame you again and again is hard to unlearn, but she's wrong. So is Pete and all the other men who have done this to you. You deserve better.”

“Seconded.” Stacy nodded firmly, pointing a finger at you. “The next time I see him, I swear on my grandmother—”

The petite brunette was pacing, fists clenched in her fury. Leo looked equally angry, though they were much less obvious about it. Smirking at Stacy's empty threat, they finished it for her. ”We'll beat him senseless with a baseball bat.“

Giggling, you leaned into the hug Leo offered, exhaling into their shoulder. ”I appreciate you both, but I'd rather just move past it.“

”Deal.“ Leo kissed the top of your head, holding out a hand to help you stand from the couch.

”Speak for yourself, I am not willing to let this slide.“ Stacy called with a huff, stalking out to the counter to begin prepping for the morning rush.

”Should I be worried?“ You bit your bottom lip, eyes following her out of the break room.

”Nah, you know her. It'll pass, this is just how she shows her love.“ Leo reassured you, striding into the kitchen at the ambling pace you set. ”We would do anything for you, you know.“

Smiling bashfully, you nodded. “I appreciate it, Leo. Thank you.”

Though you were still dead on your feet and reeling from the emotional whiplash you'd been put through, an odd form of peace had engulfed you. Talking things out had taken a massive weight off of your shoulders.

You felt heat prick your cheeks as you sheepishly recalled the way you'd isolated yourself after leaving the construction site. At the time, it had felt like the natural path forward. But it clearly hadn't done you any good.

Your coworkers were eternally patient as you fumbled your way through your daily tasks, your brain still a glob of jelly after being berated by both Frank and your mother.

Gritting your teeth in frustration, you collapsed onto a bar stool. Kneading your forehead with one hand, you inhaled deeply.

Peeking around the corner of the walk-in, Leo frowned. “All of them?”

Nodding miserably, you forced a response around the lump in your throat. ”Every. Single. One.“

”Aw, babes.“ Leo pouted, coming to inspect the trays you'd thrown around your station as your defeat grew.

”They're all flat. How did it slip my mind that the rain would throw off the humidity in the main room? That's, like, proofing 101.“ You moaned, prodding one of the dense croissants with a finger. ”Christ, I feel like I've lost my mind. It should not be this hard to do something simple.“

Patting your back reassuringly, your best friend ignored your protests, lining your ovens with the ruined croissants and setting a timer. “Do you remember the first time Ez and I broke up?”

Ezra, Leo's on-again-off-again partner, had broken things off for the first time right before you both took your final preparation exam for your first pastry class in school. Leo had nearly flunked the course after they used salt instead of sugar in every dish.

Stifling a chuckle, you fiddled with the strands of your apron. “I seriously think Allard was reconsidering his decision to teach. His face!“ You and Leo snorted in tandem, picturing the old french man's grimace.

”Oh he definitely had regrets. My point is, the brain works in mysterious ways when you're grieving.“ Leo stated matter-of-factly.

”Grieving?“ You asked. “Frank didn't die–”

“I know that, smartass. But you still lost something, did you not?”

Pondering for a moment, you conceded. “I suppose.”

“So, your brain is handling this just like any other loss. Grief processing is its current main priority, remembering how to make picture-perfect croissants is not even in the backlog.”

“It should be, given that we operate a bakery.” You grumped, watching the pitiful slabs of dough puff slightly in the oven.

Smacking you gently over the back of your head, Leo's expression turned endearingly stern. “You, my dear, need to be kinder to yourself. Something huge and incredibly hurtful just happened to you. Give yourself a moment to breathe.”

Their soft command gave you pause. They weren't wrong. You'd jumped from escaping, to wallowing, to working without so much as a millisecond to relax. Had this bullshit happened to anyone else, you would've been much more understanding. But being kind to yourself was never your strong suit.

Mulling over the possibility of granting your brain a smidge of grace, you watched the flat pastries expand ever so slightly as they began to brown under the yellow oven lights. Realization finally striking you, you turned to Leo with a quizzical expression.

“You put them in the oven.” You stated simply, mind not quite forming a question to remedy your confusion.

Chuckling, Leo nodded. “I did.” They leaned against your station with a smile.

“Kitchen adaptations, hun. What did we used to do with pastry dough that didn't rise properly?”

Understanding dawning on you, your lips parted. “Croissant sandwiches.”

Squeezing your shoulder, Leo hummed in confirmation, striding back to their station to finish shaping bread loaves. You continued to watch the thin crescents puff, reminding yourself that the mistake was fixable. Sure, they wouldn't be the gorgeous, fluffy pastries you'd envisioned—but they could still be made into something delicious. For today, that was enough.

Feeling less hopeless, you wiped your hands on your apron and strolled over to the lines of proofing bread, moving them to the proofing cart easily. ”What are we stocking today?” You asked, hoping they'd notice the hidden meaning of the question.

“Let's stick to simple comfort foods. The weather is nasty, we probably won't be too busy. After we finish the staples, we could make some baguettes and a soup or two? Maybe some kitchen sink cookies and brownies too. Those won't take much effort.“ Leo tapped their chin thoughtfully, looking to you with a soft expression. ”Sound good?“

Smiling, you nodded–glad that Leo was willing to take charge for the day. Sliding your arms around your best friend's waist, you squeezed them tightly before bustling off to prepare some yeast.

Over the next few weeks, your mood improved significantly. Out of concern for you, and more than likely out of concern for the bakery, Stacy and Leo had spent a handful of nights at your place–helping you wind down after work, and motivating you to get up the next morning. Their presence and constant glares towards your and Frank's shared wall made it easier to move forward without him. You could feel your consciousness wading through the stages of grief, rapidly approaching acceptance.

For now, though, you were still moping–much to your friends’ dismay.

”C'mon, Princess! Live a little!! You haven’t gone out with us in forEVER“ Stacy whined, pinching your arm as she took a seat on the counter you were cleaning.

Scowling at her, you switched your rag out for a broom, determined to keep tidying around the obstruction she presented. ”I already told you. I don't feel like going out tonight, Stace.“

Sweeping stray coffee beans from under the machines, you fought back an eye roll at her snort. ”Oh, I'm sorry, did you have plans besides crying on your couch while watching rom coms?“

”Christ, Stacy, I told you to invite her, not insult her!“ Leo scolded as they exited the kitchen.

”Someone needs to say it!“ Stacy threw her hands in the air, looking at you pointedly. ”Being sad has its time and place, but the only way to truly get over a man is by going out and getting wasted, you both know I'm right!“ She huffed in frustration as both you and Leo opened your mouths to protest.

Scratching the back of their neck sheepishly, Leo raised a brow at you. “She actually might have a point.”

Pumping her fists victoriously, Stacy leapt from the counter. “See? It'll be good for you!”

Glancing between her and Leo, you sighed. Pouting in distaste, you knew you had been outvoted. If you refused to go, they’d drag you out anyway. “Fine.”

Your friends cheered, high-fiving their success. Stacy danced over to you. “It's gonna be great, princess. You'll see!”

“Oh, I’m sure.” You snarked, dipping the formerly abandoned rag in a bin of bleach solution and resuming your afternoon disinfecting duties in the front of the cafe while your coworkers plotted the outing.

“What are you going to wear, hun?” Leo called over their shoulder to you, after complaining to Stacy about their lack of cute clothes.

“Considering I am only going to please the two of you? I'm not quite sure.” You snorted, tone still sharp with irritation.

“Well, since you're clearly in such a great mood,” Leo giggled, wrapping an arm around your shoulders. “Maybe we could get ready together?”

“We totally should! While blasting EDM really loudly in your living room!” Stacy grinned, feigning innocence despite her clear intentions to make Frank's life a living hell.

“Ok now you are definitely not invited.” You frowned, imagining how much he'd curse at you if you became a horrid neighbor on top of all your other faults.

“It's cute that you think you have a choice!” Stacy laughed evilly, rubbing her hands together in a movie-villain-esque motion.

Groaning miserably, you stiffened as Stacy padded over and held a hand out for the rag.

Making a grabby hand gesture, her other palm landed on her hip. “Hand the towel over, princess. You and Leo can head to your place to get you all fixed up and I'll finish cleaning.”

“I'm not sure whether I should be offended that you're implying I don't look stunning like this,” You circled a hand around your unwashed face. “Or worried that you're offering to lock up. You hate closing.”

“Exactly. That’s how much I want you to have a good night out, dude!” Stacy gave you a stern look, flicking her eyes between the damp rag and your stubborn expression.

Sighing heavily, you tossed the rag to her and slipped out of your apron. “If this place isn't gleaming tomorrow–”

“Yah, yah.” Stacy waved you off, putting earbuds in as she walked to the other end of the room.

“The disrespect.” You muttered, turning to Leo who was clearly amused at the fact that you'd been outwitted by the other girl.

“C'mon, sweets. We'll need to stop somewhere for drinks unless we want to go into debt to get drunk tonight.” Grabbing your hand, the two of you left Stacy and the bakery behind as you braved the heat outside.

Slogging up the stairs, arms laden with a paper bag filled with the cheapest alcohol the three of you could stomach, you adjusted your center of gravity to avoid toppling down the stairs. It felt like you were swimming upstream, given the weight in your hold and the immense humidity of the stairwell. Finally reaching the landing, you scrunched your nose as a bead of sweat dripped from it.

“Took you long enough,” Leo remarked, smirking at you from your front door, having made it up the stairs long ago. 

“Not all of us have a lithe athletic build and the heart rate of an Olympian.” You huffed, shuffling toward them with a small smile. Despite your initial apprehension, excitement had started to build in your chest at the thought of the night ahead of you. As you were about to express that much to Leo, the click of a doorknob stopped you in your tracks. 

Stepping out of his apartment, adorably happy pitbull in tow, was none other than your neighbor, Frank Castle. 

Frozen in place, it was a miracle you didn’t drop the bag in your shock. You’d assumed he’d avoid you just as you’d avoided him. Apparently you weren’t that lucky. 

Looking a bit surprised himself, Frank hesitated for a minute before plastering a scowl on his face and tugging at the leash in his grasp. “C’mon Max.” 

Watching Frank stalk past you without so much as a glance in your direction, your mouth dropped open with indignation. Poor Max was dragged to the stairs behind him, despite the dog’s efforts to greet you on the way down the hall. 

Gritting your teeth, you marched to your own door and unlocked it. Carefully depositing the bottles on the ground, you grabbed a handle of cherry vodka, cracking it open and taking a swig as you stomped into your apartment. 

“I suppose that’s one way to handle whatever just happened.” Leo murmured, studying you with a concerned frown. “Wanna talk about it?” 

“Nope!” You grinned, pulling another gulp of liquor from the bottle. “Care to help me pick an outfit? I’m hoping to drink for free tonight.” 

Striding into your room with Leo on your heels, your gut burned as the lump of despair you’d been clinging to for a week burned red hot with rage. Your friends were right. You deserved better. 

If Frank Castle didn’t want you, then you sure as hell didn’t want him.

Taglist: @cheshirecat484 @xxdrixx @smhnxdiii @mattmurdocksstarlight @danzer8705 @mjsvinyl @softieekayy @sweetpov @dreamtofus @zomtart @mjsvinyl @senjoritanana @marytheweefrenchie @siampie @gracethyomen @pone21 @ignore-mp3 @screechingphantommaker @fireeyes-on-teller-dixon-grimes @paradox-brody-chase @msjb2002

[cod-dump]

Welcome Home (teen!ghost au)

———

Simon knew something was up. John was talking on the phone a lot with Mrs. Laswell and he kept looking at the spare bedroom. It was two little things, really, but it sparked a memory. Something he did before he sat down Simon about opening their home to another boy, Kyle.

Simon couldn’t be certain that’s what was happening. He was too nervous to ask, wasn’t sure what assuming such a thing would do. So he kept quiet, just watching his father closely. He didn’t say anything to Kyle. He didn’t notice, didn’t care, so why say something? There wasn’t anything determining it… that they could be getting a new sibling. At least a temporary one.

“What’s with the face?”

Simon blinked, refocusing on his homework before he looked up at Kyle who was sitting across from him.

“What?”

“You’re thinking hard… is it the algebra?”

Simon huffs, “Numbers and letters don’t belong together.”

“How dare you try to keep them apart.”

Simon snorts, Kyle setting his pen aside to stretch. Nik was lurking outside, Simon could see him leaning on his SUV through the window. He’s also been on the phone a lot…

“You’re making that face again…”

Simon shakes his head, putting his pen down and getting out of his chair, “Too many numbers. I need a break.”

Kyle stared at him concerned, Simon choosing to ignore him as he left the kitchen. He chose to step outside, taking a breath of the cool evening air before he sat down on the steps of the porch. The season was changing, everything cooling down and the leaves changing color. Simon loved this time of year.

“Homework getting your ass?”

“I haven’t admitted defeat yet.”

Nik chuckles before he walks over and sits next to him, groaning as he does. Simon wanted to ask, wanted to know if what he thought was happening was in fact happening. Nik would know, he knew all kinds of things, but he liked messing around and may not even tell Simon anything remotely useful. So he didn’t ask and just relaxed outside for a bit before he went back inside to finish his homework. A few days would pass without Simon thinking much on his father and Nik’s behavior.

Then him and Kyle would be sat down in the kitchen to talk.

“Boys, you remember Farah, right?”

Simon’s heart picked up hearing her name.

“Remember- Dad, she visited us for Christmas last year!”

John smiles, “How could I forget.”

“Haven’t really heard from her since February, though… Is she okay?”

Simon loved Farah. She was a couple years older than him and was basically his sister by this point. She had lived in the neighborhood since Simon was taken in by John but she ended up moving shortly after Kyle was adopted. She was his best friend before he met Ale and the Los Vaqueros. They somewhat kept in touch but the texts came by fewer and fewer to the point they were basically just them reminding each other that they’re alive.

“She’s been… having issues at home…”

Simon clenched his fists, swallowing. She was never very open about her home life and her family always appeared picture perfect. He chalked up any thoughts that he had about something going on to just him overthinking…

“How would you two feel about her staying with us for awhile?”

They both of course were more than fine with her staying. Simon immediately offered to help clean up the spare bedroom, he wanted everything to be welcoming for Farah.

“Just move the stuff in there to the garage, alright? We’ll deal with it later.”

Simon wasn’t sure what was going on and he was content with probably never getting the full story of what was going on while Farah stayed with them. Simon grabbed Kyle and took him with him to help set up the spare bedroom. He knew that getting it ready quicker didn’t mean Fran was going to get here sooner, but he was excited.

-

Kyle was teasing him for practically sitting at the door waiting for Nik and John to come back with Farah. Simon just glared at him while he texted Johnny. He had told him basically everything about what was happening and it turns out Kyle was doing the same. He was pretty much a part of this even though he has been at his gran’s house for the past week.

“We should have a group chat.”

Simon turned and looked at Kyle who was also on his phone, “What?”

“A group chat with Johnny… though I don’t want to see you two role play or whatever-“

Kyle was pelted in the face by one of the couch pillows. Simon was immediately smacked in the face with the same pillow before Kyle lunged at him. They were quick to end up on the floor considering they had already wrecked one couch (the silence that surrounded their father was something they would like to not experience again). So they were on the floor, Kyle trying to overpower and pin Simon while Simon was trying to pry him off of him. Normally there was someone to referee but—

The sound of a car door shutting gave Simon a boost of strength which allowed him to shove Kyle off of him. Kyle was sprawled on the floor as Simon ran to the door and peeked out the window next to it. The moment he saw Farah he swung the door open and ran out. The girl had a solid ten seconds to notice Simon after he shouted her name before he all but tackled her into a fierce hug. She instinctively hugged him back, squeezing his shoulders with an equal amount of desperation. it’s been so long since they had last seen each other and they were both afraid the other would disappear the moment they parted.

“Si, stop suffocating the girl and help get her things!” There was amusement in his dad’s voice, an undeniable fondness.

Simon gave an extra squeeze before he set Farah down, noticing the drying tear tracks as he steps away from her. He noted it before he ran to the back of the SUV to grab a box. His eagerness made Nik laugh and remind him to be careful. Kyle came out to greet Farah, them sharing a less emotional hug and something more casual and definitely awkward. Farah had always been Ghost’s friend that Kyle somewhat knew, he hoped that didn’t stir anything up while she was staying with them.

-

They had piled everything into the spare, now Farah’s, bedroom. Simon had so much to say, so much to ask, but he could tell Farah was drained. There was this look in her eye, something Simon had once when he was first picked up by Mrs. Laswell taken in by John. It went away with time, so he hopes Farah would come around to being her old self again.

“I need to wash some clothes… and make my bed… Fuck, I need a nap,” Farah took the shirt she fished out of a box and threw it at the growing pile near the closet.

“I can do your laundry while you nap.”

Farah sighed, “You don’t have to, Si. Your dad is already doing so much by picking me up and letting me stay here.”

“Hey, he’s doing it because he wants to. And I want to do your laundry so you can take a nap. You need it.”

Farah gave him a glare with no heat behind it, “You saying I look bad?”

“You look tired.”

Farah huffs and leans against Simon, slumping her full weight against him, “I am… can you do the laundry later?”

“Why not now?”

“I… I don’t want to be alone…”

Oh. Simon frowned, the urge to do something to comfort Farah making his hands twitch. He wasn’t sure what she’s been through and he wasn’t going to ask. So he decided to sit with Farah as she napped, her hand gripping his shirt as she fell asleep.