#taylor swift home screen

[virgo-princess2014]

How I’m trying to be during No ‘Phone’ Summer ‘25 like it’s the 2000’s:

Owning my music: there is nothing more satisfying than having my own damn uninterrupted music without them fuck ass spotify ads ♡. It’s my cd’s, my ipod and me against the world fr.

Replacing iphone camera with digital camera: I’ve been doing this since 2020 but I haven’t taken pictures in months, and I’m trying to get back to it. I love intentionally taking pictures to revisit those memories later.

Removing social media (except Tumblr…maybe)/only accessing it through a desktop: I’m still struggling with this tbh, but I want to relive the 2000s in the way that I used to be eager to get home to hop on facebook and play FarmVille ‘til 3am. I miss when the internet was a place to go to, not escape.

Writing letters: I recently learned that I could just fold my letters jane austen style and mail them just like that! That way I don’t have to feel lazy about buying envelopes all the time and delaying my letters, lol

Decluttering my phone: I used to have a flip phone, and although it is fun and almost perfect, apps like Uber and Maps, and Online banking apps are crucial for my daily routine. So, until a smart flip phone comes along in the US without me having to order it from another country, I’ll stick to trying to…dumb-ify my iphone. Maybe a minimalist layout? This is what I’m currently working with:

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

Social media has made me feel like absolute shit, so this is my 5th attempt at disappearing from Instagram and the eyes of people who couldn’t give less of a shit about me. I’m two weeks in, only logging in and out to check on what my family’s up to, and I feel sooooo good already.

I’m hoping this also inspires someone who’s in my position too.

✦ . ⁺ Happy no phone summer! ๋࣭ 𖤐 ‧₊💿˚ ⋅

*all pictures (except my home screen capture) are from pinterest; credits to their respective creators*

[aphroditeinthesea]

look how pretty i just made my home screen

[galindani]

You Are In Love TV lyric video is not only Big Sur themed but also we can see P.E.R letters on the sand which is REP backwards. Fun fact: they come around 0:38 time stamp - August 3rd is Karlie’s birthday. Reputation is about Karlie Kloss.

[customwallpaper]

How much do you rate?

Taylor Swift cruel summer 🎀

Wallpaper art

[loverscrossmp3]

kill yourselves

[maemustdie]

So like I just finished editing my Home Screen and it is such a cluster fuck of different hyperfixations. But like I just need to show it to someone😭🤚

Also you should like add me on Snapchat if you feel so inclined to🩶 I post A LOT of my art progression and just anything I find rlly pretty :D

And like every time I pos, I include what I’m listening to atm and a cat photo for your troubles 🪱

Also this is my favourite Kate Bush song/album💜

[rocknroll2024]

[robbysreaders]

pairing: jack abbot x f!reader warnings: age gap (unspecified, but reader is late 20s/he's late 40s) word count: 500ish notes: a spiritual successor to my casual but not casual drabble (here it is if you are curious but you don't need to read it enjoy this one.) be kind to me, i am not a writer but dr. jack abbot is a menace who i cannot stop thinking about so you all must suffer with me.

Your phone buzzes against the sticky surface of the bar table, lit up with Jack Abbot and a photo you secretly took of him eating fries and scowling at the menu.

You grin, already a little too tipsy, and slide your finger across the screen.

“Hey, old man,” you say, standing up to find somewhere a little quieter.

You’re met with that low, dry voice you already know so well: “Please tell me that’s your third drink, not your sixth.”

You look around at the table — your best friends, all glittery and flushed and loud. “...Define sixth.”

You hear him chuckle on the other end. “Having fun?”

“Mhm. They made me take a lemon drop shot. And then a photo booth happened. Probably banned from karaoke now.”

Jack’s quiet for a beat. You know that pause — he’s doing a mental check. Are you safe? Are you happy? Are you going to try and walk home in heels again?

“I’ll get an Uber to yours in a bit,” you add. “Once I wrestle my dignity out from under the table.”

“Nah,” he says. “Tell me when you're wrapping up. I’ll come get you.”

You blink. “Wait—what? No, you worked all day. I’ll be fine—”

“I want to.”

“Jack—”

“I’d rather pick you up and make sure you don’t forget your purse like last time.”

You can hear the smile in his voice. That stubborn, I’m-doing-this-my-way kind of tenderness he never admits out loud.

You hang up. Blush. Immediately tell your friends.

Cue the chaos.

Twenty minutes later, Jack pulls up in his beat-up pickup truck and steps out, wearing a hoodie, jeans, and an expression that says I was not emotionally prepared for this level of perfume and sequins.

Your friends? Obsessed instantly.

He opens the passenger door for you like a goddamn gentleman, then circles back to help your friend Jess climb into the back, muttering, “Watch your step — last time someone faceplanted outta here was Robby after four bourbons.”

He gets everyone in, seatbelts checked, directions logged into his GPS.

You glance over at him — one hand on the wheel and one on your thigh, calm in a sea of giggles and Taylor Swift echoing from someone’s phone.

“You didn’t have to do this,” you whisper.

He just looks over, squeezes your knee, and says, “I wanted to.”

One by one, he drops each friend at their door. Waits until they’re inside. Waves when they call out “Thanks, Dr. McSteamy!” and “Tell him he’s gotta clone himself!”

Finally, it’s just you.

Tipsy. Warm. Full of something that has nothing to do with alcohol.

You glance over at him again. “They love you.”

“They’re very loud about it.”

You laugh. “They said I have to keep you.”

He smirks. “That right?”

You nod. “You making it hard to argue.”

He pulls into your driveway, cuts the engine, and looks over at you with that soft kind of affection he’s still not used to showing.

“Good,” he says. “Because I’m not going anywhere.”

[taylornation]

Tonight, we celebrated the iHeart Awards' Artist of the Year, her Tour of the Century, TS The Eras Tour, and all of the friendship bracelets, heart hands, glittery 13s, and beloved memories the past two years have given us. 🥹

You put her on a winning streak! The Chairman took home all six of her fan voted awards, and that’s thanks to YOU!   🤍 Best Lyrics - Fortnight (feat. Post Malone) 🤍 Best Music Video - Fortnight (feat. Post Malone) 🤍 Favorite Tour Style 🤍 Favorite Tour Tradition  - Surprise Songs 🤍 Favorite On Screen - Taylor Swift | The Eras Tour (Taylor's Version) 🤍 Favorite Surprise Guest - Travis Kelce

This happens once every few lifetimes…

[bright-molina]

fearless

tyler owens x reader synopsis: tyler comes home to find you not pleased whatsoever with his latest tornado wrangling trip warnings: none! although it is not edited, that's a later problem a/n: I NEED HIM IN A WAY THAT IS CONCERNING TO FEMINISM (this is my way of asking everyone to pretty please send me requests i literally cannot get him off of my mind its fine) song rec: fearless by taylor swift, it belongs to him actually

Tyler knows something is wrong when you stay standing on the porch, not moving a single muscle. You just stare at him silently, arms crossed tightly in front of you, as he gets out of his truck. He doesn’t move either, so used to the way you always sprint to him in a whirlwind the second his feet touch the ground.

Finally, he opens his arms and flashes you a smile and there’s a look on his face so soft it’s practically a silent plea for you to come to him. “Hi, baby.”

You don’t move. Not then, not when he drops his arms and pouts, and not even when he walks towards you instead declaring how much he missed you. You simply keep staring at him as he closes the distance, finally stepping onto the bottom step of the weather beaten porch.

You’re nearly his height like this and it’s incredibly easy for Tyler to uncross your arms, take your hands, and pull them around his neck. He in turn wraps his own around your waist and pulls you in close, breathing you in for just a moment.

“I missed you.” He repeats, burying his head in the crook of your neck. Your hands tangle themselves in his hair on instinct and he sighs, a little bit in relief and a little bit content with the feeling.

“You’re an idiot, Tyler Owens,” you tell him after a moment as you press a kiss to his shoulder and pull him in a little tighter.

Tyler knows you missed him too when you say it. You kiss him again, on his cheek this time, as he starts pulling away and tells you, “I know.”

You don’t look away from him. Your eyes scan his face as your hands slip from around him to hold it in your hands, gently tipping his head side to side to take him in completely. There’s an already healing cut on his cheek and you trace your fingers over it softly. The memory of the video playing on the screen of your laptop is clear and your breath hitches a little bit in the same way it did then.

And Tyler sees it all. He doesn’t quite know what he agreed to being an idiot about but he’s sure you're right. He can see the fear lingering in your eyes, can feel the gentle way you touch him, silently testing to see if he’s really there. His hand comes up to lay on top of yours for a second before he takes it and kisses the back of it, green blue eyes never leaving yours as he does so.

You hear the soft patter of the rain start again before you can scold him some more and one glance behind him confirms the sight you knew you’d find. It’s falling gently, barely making a noise as it hits the ground outside the comfort of your covered porch. Tyler notices it too, letting his head tip backwards a bit to get a good look at the heavy storm clouds passing over.

When he turns back to you he has a wicked grin on his face and your eyes go wide. You forget every single fear, every worry, every bit of leftover irritation and anger. It all falls away and you try to hide the bubble of excitement that flutters deep inside you as you make a halfhearted effort to plant your feet in place.

“Tyler, no,” You shake your head as you feel his hands slip into yours. He takes a step back and one small tug has you falling forward and onto the step he’d just been standing on. “I’m trying to be mad at you, you can’t drag me out here!”

“Yes I can,” He takes another step and pulls you with him, both of you now standing in the rain already starting to fall a little faster. He drops your hands and takes a couple steps back, hoping you’d follow him further into it. “I just did.”

“This is my best dress, it's gonna get soaked if the rain picks up.”

“Well then I guess you’ll just have to let me take it off you when we go inside, won’t we?” Tyler’s smile softens and he holds out one of his hands again. “C’mon sweetheart, dance with me.”

He jumps forward suddenly, right into a puddle already forming, and the water splashes all over you. Your laugh rings out clear all around him and he thinks nothing in the world could be better than this moment right here with you.

You take his hand and he immediately spins you once and you swear you’ve never felt more content than in that moment. Head tipped back to look at the sky, rain already quickly soaking you to the bone, Tyler holding on to you tightly. There’s a deep rumble that echoes through the world around you as thunder sounds off in the distance. It doesn’t scare you in the slightest.

The rain keeps falling, keeps picking up the longer you and Tyler stay underneath it. You keep dancing, alone and together, keep kicking the water from the puddles at each other and keep laughing together like nothing was ever wrong.

Eventually the rain starts slowing down again and the song playing in Tyler’s head seems to end. He takes your hand one more time, twirling you underneath his arm again before spinning you into him and catching you with ease. One of his arms falls around your waist and dips you back while the other keeps holding your hand in his own.

A moment passes where he looks for any kind of uncertainty in your eyes. Any sign that something might really be wrong. He looks for hesitation in you but he doesn’t find any. The longer he keeps looking at you with that look, so concerned and caring and full of so much love, the dizzier you get. He’s so close and he could kiss you at any second and it’s all you’ve been craving since the moment he left and the butterflies in your stomach are getting harder to control and he was gone but he’s here now and he’s safe.

And you sigh a little bit. You don’t move. “I watched your live stream when you were out there.”

Tyler understands everything in that moment. He understands why you were upset with him and knows why you didn’t jump into his arms and why you’re looking at him the way you are now, still a little bit scared through the relief.

That’s when he kisses you. He kisses you long and slow and deep enough to make you let out one of those little noises he loves pulling from you so much. It grounds you, he knows by the way you grip onto his shirt a little tighter. You pull back first and stare at him again. He drops your hand and instead puts his own on the small of your back, tugging you even closer. Close enough that the two of you start leaving your mark on the rain, the shadows of it starting to morph to fit around you.

“You promised me you’d stay safe.”

“And I was,” Tyler brushes loose strands of your hair, now wet and sticking to you, back behind your ear and tries to offer you a reassuring look. “For the most part. I tried the hardest I could.”

You shake your head immediately and resist the urge to step back from him. “That’s not good enough, Ty.”

“We just,” He hears the words you don’t say loud and clear. I need you. Here. With me. He’s at a loss for a second, realizing that maybe it was always like this when he was gone. Maybe you always worried and just didn’t always show it. “We weren’t expecting it to get bigger, that’s all that happened.”

“Tyler,” You shake him a little bit, bringing him out of his own thoughts with another kiss. The need to feel him as much as he always said he needed to feel you while he was gone became overwhelming. “I saw your truck flip over. You got hurt and it could’ve been a lot worse than it was”

“Some loose debris knocked us out of place, I’m okay, sweetheart,” Tyler tries offering you a smile to prove his point but it doesn’t work. So instead he loosens his hold on you, twirling you in the rain one more time before placing his hat right on top of your head as he pulls you in again. He laughs at the look you’re wearing, unamused as the raindrops trail down your face as you look up at him.

The sound of his laugh echoing around you louder than the rain and thunder, pulls a smile from you again. “You make it really hard to stay angry at you, did you know that?”

“It’s cause you love me so much.”

“I don’t know why I do,” You can feel the fabric of the dress you’d put on, Tyler’s favorite that you had very much chosen on purpose, sticking to you now. One look at the clouds above you tells you the rain has no intention of stopping any time soon. “Can we go inside now or did you want to stay out here all day long?”

“You know I’d stay anywhere with you, sweetheart.”

“Of course you would,” The smile stays on your face as you roll your eyes at him, finally unraveling yourself from his hold on you. “Well I’m going inside, your choice whether you wanna follow or keep playing in the rain.”

“Wait,” Tyler stops you before you can turn around completely. He reaches for your hand and pulls you back abruptly, kissing you again before you can get another word about. It’s heavier this time as his lips move against yours. Filled with a need so intense he thinks it’ll consume him and burn the rain right off his body. He keeps kissing you until he can’t breathe anymore and when he pulls away his head drops to rest his forehead against yours, eyes wide open and staring directly at you so you hear his words. “I also promised I’d always come home to you, didn’t I?”

Your words sound as breathless as you feel. “You did.”

One more kiss, a way to plant the words he’s saying to you firmly into place. “I haven’t broken that promise yet and I have no intention of ever doing so.”

Just like that you believe him. Every single fear left over in your body from the last few days slips away. There’s nothing left there but you and Tyler and the knowledge you have that he’s always gonna be right there at your side. He’s wild and fearless and too smart for his own good. He dances with you in the middle of storms and makes you worry sometimes when he drives right into them but you watch every trip he takes without fail and every single time he comes home to you.

And you really don’t know how it could get any better than this.

tagging: @nerdalicios

[lnfours]

peace | l.n

summary: being in love with an audience is exhausting and worrisome, especially when you feel like they deserve better.

warnings: mentions of relationship anxiety and online hate, fluff (!!!!), and obviously inspired by 'peace' by taylor swift.

message from jordan: hi hi hi!!! so sorry for being inactive, but i wrote this in a rush when creativity was striking me and ik it's pretty short, but i wanted to get something out for you guys 😞 trust me, there's more stuff sitting in the drafts. but in the meantime, i hope you like this one! sending you all my love! <3

masterlist | listen

"hey, handsome,"

your voice carried through the room shortly after the sound of the door to your shared apartment closing. he tilted his head back, neck resting on the back of the couch as he watched you hang your coat and keys on the hook at the door. the same hook you always used to hang your things before kicking your shoes off.

he smiled softly, locking the phone in his hand as he fixed his attention to you, trying to drown out what he had read on his screen moments prior. he wished he had never read it, wished he had just put the phone down and forgotten all about it, because now it was all he was going to think about. it had taken over his mind.

you approached the couch, his hand reaching out to your hip to guide you into his lap. the same routine you two had fallen into during winter break. the routine was the same every day after you'd both come home. you'd talk about your days, cook dinner, put on a movie and then climb into bed once it was late enough.

a routine that filled your souls with love and comfort. a sense of normalcy in his otherwise chaotic life. not that he was necessarily unhappy

"how was your day?"

you hummed, reaching out to fix the stray curls on his head. it was clear that he had worn a beanie during his travels today, "it was boring in all honesty. susan wouldn't shut up at all today."

he chuckled softly, "she still can't take a hint?"

"guess not," you sighed dramatically, causing him to laugh again, "how about you? how was training?"

"it was okay," he shrugged. you squinted your eyes slightly, searching his water colored ones for the subtle signs. you knew him like the back of your hand, so the slight change from his normal behavior was enough to raise flags in your head.

you cocked your head to the side, "what's up? you okay?"

he nodded, but you knew better than that, "just tired, training kicked my ass today."

he knew nothing got passed you, he didn't even know why he bothered trying to hide the fact that he was upset. he could tell by the silent look on your face that you hadn't bought his deception.

he let out a soft sigh before asking the question that plagued his mind since he read the words on his screen, "are you happy?"

your eyebrows furrowed, "of course i'm happy, lan. what makes you think differently?"

his eyes found sudden interest in any area that wasn't looking you in the eyes. you gently reached out, raising his chin to make his eyes look into yours. it broke your heart to know he had doubts, not only about himself, but that you were unhappy with him.

"'s just stupid," he shook his head, "'m sorry,"

you shook your head, "nothing's stupid if it upsets you this much, there's nothing to be sorry for. talk to me,"

he took a deep breath, "just read what people have been saying, 's all," his words trailed off as you brushed the curls back from his forehead, "i don't normally read what people say, but they brought up the fact that you basically abandoned your old life to be with me and... i don't know, it makes me feel guilty."

"lando, listen to me," you said his name softly, making it known you were serious as he looked back up at you, "sure, i 'abandoned' my old life because i fell in love with you. yes, i packed up everything i had to move here, yes i had to get a new job, but you know what? i'd do it all over again. for you, i'd do it over and over and over again."

"but i just feel like i'm not giving you what you deserve," he said softly, "like i'm never going to be able to give you peace."

"i do deserve you," you smiled softly, "every bit and ounce of the chaos, it's all worth it because of you. i just wish you could see yourself the way i do."

he leaned into your touch, his lips pressing a soft kiss to the inside of your palm, "i know, 'm trying,"

"it's okay, we'll get there eventually," you softly smiled, "we're in this together, yeah?"

he nodded, pulling you closer, as if it was even possible, "i love you."

you smiled, leaning towards his lips, "i love you most."

[universefcb]

A BIRTHDAY WITH LANDO, LANDO NORRIS.

→ Summary: It's your birthday and he has a surprise plan for you.

→ Warning: Mention of Reader. Fluff. Romance.

→ Author's note: This picture of him is so...🫦

And sorry if there are mistakes, English is not my language.I hope this is what you asked for!

Waking up on your birthday used to be a common occurrence. A notification or two on social media, a call from your mother, maybe a quick message from a distant friend. But that day started differently. Even before the first rays of sunlight had penetrated the bedroom curtains, your phone vibrated with an unusual notification: a calendar reminder created by someone else.

Today: The most important birthday in the universe. Get ready for the best day of your life. Love, Lando.

She smiled to herself, still half asleep. She didn't even have time to reply to the message because, in the next second, the doorbell rang.

Dragging herself to the door with one of his hoodies slung over her shoulders, she slowly opened it. On the other side, Lando was smiling, hair messy, a kraft paper bag in one hand and a cup of coffee in the other.

“Happy birthday, my favorite person,” he said, as if it were the most natural thing in the world to show up here before seven in the morning. “Coffee from your favorite coffee shop and chocolate croissants. I’m outdoing myself, huh?”

She let out a low laugh and pulled him inside by the hand.

“Did you hack my calendar?”

“I broke in. I really hacked. And this is just the beginning.”

They spent the morning together, taking lazy bites of breakfast and making out softly on the couch. He insisted that she couldn’t make plans for the rest of the day—“You just have to trust me,” he’d say with a mischievous smile. And she did.

Around 10am, Lando handed her a small backpack and told her to wear something comfortable.

“Not a spoiler?” she asked, curious.

“Not one. But I guarantee there’s sunshine, blue skies and something you’ll remember forever.”

The car took them out of town. Along the way, he put on her favorite playlist, sang off-key on purpose, and made up absurd versions of the lyrics just to make her laugh.

Finally, the vehicle stopped in front of a large field full of sunflowers, with a picnic table set up in the center. A wicker basket, two light-colored wooden chairs, and a small radio playing Taylor Swift's Lover in the background. She put her hand to her mouth in excitement.

"Like you...?"

“I listen when you talk, you know?” he replied, leaning his forehead against hers. “You once said that you always dreamed of a picnic in a field of sunflowers, but never had the chance.”

With tears in her eyes, she threw herself into his arms. Lando held on tightly, as if he knew that gesture was worth more than any words.

They spent hours there, laughing, eating strawberries and cheese, telling stories and taking pictures with an analog camera he had hidden. Every detail seemed carefully planned: the smell of the flowers, the taste of the food, even the position of the sun when he suggested they take a break to lie down on the grass.

“Do you want to know my real gift?” he asked, his eyes fixed on the sky. “Because what you’ve seen so far has just been the warm-up.”

She raised an eyebrow in amusement.

“Is there more?”

“Yes. But you need to trust me again.”

The way back was quicker. He led her blindfolded to the top floor of his own apartment. When he removed the blindfold, she found herself in a transformed room: soft lights, dozens of photos of them hanging with little clothespins, white rose petals scattered on the floor, and a dining table set for two.

But what caught his attention was the small screen at the back of the room. Lando had set up a mini movie theater at home.

“And now... the special session: Our best moments.”

It was a compilation of videos he had filmed himself over the months—some she hadn’t even known he had recorded. Little moments, smiles exchanged in silence, her dancing in her pajamas in the kitchen, the two of them laughing until they fell into bed.

When the video ended, Lando was silent for a while, just holding her hand.

“I thought a lot about what to give you as a gift. And nothing seemed good enough... until I realized that the best thing I can give you is my time, my attention, and every version of me. Because if you want me to, I want to be here for all your birthdays. Every single one.”

She didn't respond with words—she didn't need to. The kiss that followed said everything she felt: gratitude, love, and the certainty that this was the best birthday of her life.

Taglist: @paucubarsisimp @nngkay @meganesanchez @htpssgavi @merinottt @luvvpedri @moonvr @joaosnovia @httpsdana @ilovebarcaaaa @p4uul0vr @pedricando @barcapix @owala6789

[strwbyoons]

LITTLE THINGS

STARRING ... BEST FRIEND'S BROTHER!M. YOONGI X READER

WORD COUNT ... 4.7K

SUMMARY ... it was the little things.

NOTES/WARNINGS ... happy min suga day everyone!!! a double update today, wowww. slight(? five years) age gap. based in the 2000s. growing up with yoongi and reader. underaged drinking. slightly suggestive towards the end. let me know if i missed anything.

playlist : crush (david archuleta). you belong with me (taylor swift). do i wanna know (arctic monkeys). just a little bit (maria mena). somewhere only we know (keane). teenage dirtbag (wheatus). the only exception (paramore). cigarette daydreams (cage the elephant). hate that you know me (bleachers). kiss me slowly (parachutes).

the first time you swore marriage to yoongi, you were five and he was ten. you, his sister, and him were all at the playground, and you and his sister had decided to just spend the day trip in the sandpit.

your loving declaration was made shortly after yoongi hit one of the other boys there in the face with his skateboard after he made you cry by saying that you had cooties.

the first time yoongi swore marriage to you, you were eight and he was thirteen. you and his sister were sitting cross-legged on the floor of her bedroom, cutting pictures out of an old magazine, when the topic of boys being gross came up.

"they are," you insisted, wrinkling your nose as you snipped a model’s head clean off his body. "all of them."

"not all boys are gross," yoongi said from where he was lying on his stomach by the door, flipping through a comic book. he didn’t even look up, just turned the page like this was a casual debate he was only half-invested in.

"yeah, they are," you shot back.

"you’re marrying me," he said simply, like that settled it.

"i am not." you stuck your tongue out at him.

"guess i’ll just have to marry you instead, then," he said, propping himself up on his elbows and smirking.

"ew," his sister said.

"yeah, ew," you agreed.

yoongi just laughed, flipping another page with a half lazy smirk.

you were thirteen when you stopped idolizing yoongi and started seeing him for what he was—your best friend's older brother.

maybe it happened gradually, in the way he stopped lingering in doorways or teasing you when you and his sister whispered in her room. maybe it happened all at once, the day he turned eighteen and left like it was the easiest thing in the world. either way, by the time you realized, it was already too late.

he was gone. not gone gone, but whisked away into adulthood like it had been waiting for him just beyond the front porch. he stopped coming home as much, stopped letting his sister drag him into your sleepover games or chase him down the hall when he stole a hair tie off her wrist.

"he's so annoying," his sister huffed one day, flopping onto her bed after yet another unanswered text. "it's like he thinks he's too cool for us now."

you just hummed, staring at your phone screen, at a group picture taken last summer—the three of you, arms slung over each other's shoulders, sun in your eyes and sand stuck to your knees.

maybe he did think he was too cool for you now. maybe he was right.

he would come home every summer, but those summers were never actually spent at home. you'd catch two-minute glimpses of him before he’d run off to some party or to skate with the other boys.

sometimes, you’d see him in the kitchen, rifling through the fridge for something to eat before disappearing out the back door. other times, it was in the driveway, slamming the car door shut while some guy leaned on the hood, waiting for him to hurry up.

"yoongi," his mom would call after him. "you just got here!"

"i know, i know," he’d say, already halfway down the front steps.

he never looked back, not even when his sister rolled her eyes and mimicked his voice under her breath, making you laugh.

but sometimes, if you stayed up late enough, you’d hear him come back. the rattle of the doorknob, the creak of the stairs. the sound of his skateboard dropping to the floor just outside his room.

once, when you were sixteen, you caught him on the front porch lighting a cigarette.

"that’s bad for you," you said, stepping outside.

he glanced over his shoulder, barely reacting. "so’s fast food, and i don’t see you giving up mcdonald’s."

"that’s different."

"not really." he took a slow drag, blowing the smoke into the warm night air. then he looked at you properly for the first time all summer, eyes flicking down like he was seeing something new. "you got taller."

"yeah," you said, crossing your arms. "it happens."

he huffed a little laugh, pressing the cigarette to his lips again. "guess it does."

the first time yoongi sees you drunk, you’re seventeen.

his sister’s sleazebag of a boyfriend had invited the two of you to some rager in his backyard, and—against your better judgment—you both went. one drink turned into three, cheap booze and cruisers passed around like candy, and before you knew it, everything was a little too funny, a little too bright, and walking in a straight line became a distant memory.

yoongi had to be called to pick you up.

"she’s fine," his sister slurred into the phone, waving you off when you giggled at absolutely nothing. "we’re both fine. just hurry up."

he showed up fifteen minutes later, standing in the middle of the chaos with a look of absolute disinterest, like he’d rather be anywhere else. some guy slapped his shoulder on the way out, muttering something about taking a shot, and yoongi ignored him completely.

"we’re not even that drunk," his sister insisted when he found you both slumped together on the back steps.

"yeah?" yoongi scoffed, hooking his hands under your arms and hauling you up first. "you can barely keep your eyes open."

"neither can you," you mumbled against his shoulder, words slurring together as he steadied you.

"that’s because it’s two in the morning," he said, half-dragging, half-guiding you toward his car. "come on, let’s go before i have to deal with any more of these idiots."

you blinked up at him once you were in the passenger seat, head lolling against the window. "you’re kind of mean."

he rolled his eyes, reaching over to buckle you in. "and you’re kind of wasted."

you frowned. "i was having fun."

"i’m sure you were." he shut the door with a sigh, rounding the car to help his sister next.

you don’t remember much else. not the drive home, not the way you leaned your head against the seat and mumbled something about how he smelled like mint and cigarette smoke.

but you do remember this—yoongi didn’t laugh at you that night. didn’t tease or call you a lightweight like you thought he would.

he just drove you home, silent, a muscle ticking in his jaw.

the first time yoongi brings home a girlfriend, you’re eighteen.

it’s the middle of july, hot enough that even the a/c struggles, and you and his sister are sprawled across the couch, flipping through a stack of magazines you found buried in her closet. it’s a slow, lazy afternoon—until the front door swings open, and yoongi walks in with her.

she’s blonde. tan. wearing a rhinestone-studded tank top that says JUICY in bubble letters across the front. her white miniskirt is just barely hanging on, and her lip gloss shines like it was applied with a paint roller.

his sister freezes first, fingers tightening on the magazine in her lap. you feel it a second later, the way the air in the room shifts.

"who’s this?" his mom asks from the kitchen.

"this is sena," yoongi says, arm slung low around the girl’s waist.

"hi!" she chirps, all smiles. "it’s so nice to finally meet you guys!"

his sister leans in, voice low. "she looks like she’d be on girls gone wild."

you press your lips together, flipping a page. "swear i’ve seen her in hustler."

yoongi hears. of course he hears. his head snaps toward the both of you, eyes narrowing in warning. his mom’s hard look follows right after, the same one she gives when the two of you are this close to getting grounded.

but the girlfriend just giggles, leaning into yoongi’s arm like she didn’t just hear you indirectly call her a porn star.

"yoongles, they’re so funny!" she coos, poking his cheek with a manicured nail.

his sister chokes. you slap a hand over your mouth. yoongi just closes his eyes for a long, long second, re-evaluating every decision that’s led him here.

his mom sighs. "well, sena," she says, ever the gracious host, "do you want something to drink?"

sena beams. "oh my god, totally. do you guys have diet pepsi?"

yoongi’s sister makes a strangled sound and bolts up the stairs before she completely loses it. you barely manage to keep it together long enough to watch sena drag yoongi toward the kitchen, still giggling, still calling him that.

as soon as they’re out of earshot, you grab your phone and text his sister, only two words:

yoongles. help.

there were many girlfriends after that. a new one almost every two months.

some were blonde, some were brunette, some had the same rhinestone-studded tank tops and miniskirts, and some wore ripped jeans and band tees like they were too cool for the rest of the world. none of them lasted.

yoongi was home a lot more now, at twenty-three, taking a break from college. no one really knew if it was temporary or if he was done for good, but he never said much about it. just shrugged whenever his mom asked and said something about needing time to figure things out.

whatever figuring out he was doing, though, it didn’t stop him from sliding right back into old habits. back to the skater boy that left his dirty socks in the living room and took too long in the bathroom.

"he’s so annoying," his sister groaned one morning, kicking at a pair of his sneakers abandoned by the front door.

"you’ve said that every year since you could talk," you muttered, flipping through the tv channels.

"yeah, and he gets more annoying every year."

you hummed, pausing on mtv cribs.

yoongi was still asleep upstairs, last night’s girlfriend long gone, leaving behind a stray bobby pin on the coffee table and the faintest trace of vanilla perfume in the air.

it was always like this now. he’d crash at home for a few months, fill the house with girls and late-night cigarette smoke, and then disappear again just when you started getting used to him being around.

but for now, he was here. twenty-three, aimless, and completely unaware that yoongles had officially become a household joke behind his back.

your first boyfriend comes into your life at nineteen.

he’s nice. polite. a little vanilla, but sweet in the way that boys who don’t know how to be anything else are. he opens doors for you, remembers your coffee order, and always texts you good morning and good night.

"you’re so going to marry him," yoongi’s sister teases one night, sprawled across her bed with a bag of chips between you.

"right?" you giggle, flipping through a magazine. cosmo, this time. ten ways to know he’s the one.

"he’s so boring," yoongi mutters from the doorway, leaning against the frame with his arms crossed.

you and his sister share a look before bursting into laughter.

"he’s nice," you correct, tilting your head at him. "you wouldn’t know what that looks like."

yoongi rolls his eyes. "you’re gonna be miserable in a year."

"you’re just mad i actually found someone who wants to date me."

he scoffs, but doesn’t argue. just watches as his sister steals another chip from the bag and nudges you with her elbow.

"remember when you were five and promised to marry him?" she grins, jerking her thumb toward yoongi.

you wrinkle your nose. "i was a kid."

"still happened," yoongi says, so annoyingly smug about it.

"doesn’t count," you shoot back.

his sister nods, backing you up. "yeah, childhood delusions don’t count."

"whatever," yoongi mumbles, pushing off the doorframe. "don’t come crying to me when you realize i was right."

he disappears down the hall, and you roll your eyes, turning back to your magazine.

"he’s so weird," you say.

his sister snickers. "he’s so jealous."

"he's so gross," you say, wrinkling your nose as you pop a chip into your mouth.

"right?" his sister snickers, shoving another handful into hers. "like, who even says that?"

you shake your head, flipping another page in your cosmo, but your mind is still half-stuck on it—on the way yoongi had leaned against the doorway, arms crossed like he was so sure you’d regret dating someone who was, for once, actually nice to you.

like he knew something you didn’t. like he thought it was funny.

it wasn’t. it was weird. he was weird.

and yet, later that night, when your boyfriend texts you something sweet, something corny and cute, you hesitate before answering.

because suddenly, yoongi’s voice is stuck in your head.

"you’re gonna be miserable in a year."

weird. so weird.

your first heartbreak comes later that year, getting dumped after refusing to put out.

it’s not dramatic. no screaming, no public fight. just a quiet, awkward conversation in the front seat of his car, parked outside your house.

"i just think we’re in different places," he says, hands tight around the steering wheel, like he’s bracing for impact.

"yeah," you say, voice flat. "guess so."

and that’s it. he drops you off and drives away, and you stand in the driveway for a full minute before going inside like nothing happened.

his sister is the first to find out.

"that asshole," she huffs, throwing a handful of popcorn at the tv like that somehow avenges you. "i always knew he was too polite. like, fake polite. like one of those guys who probably tells people he’s a feminist but still reads playboy mags."

you groan, flopping onto her bed. "he does not have playboy mags."

"bet he does."

you let out a weak laugh, staring at the ceiling. you’re not going to cry. not over him. it’s just—it sucks.

the next person to find out is, unfortunately, yoongi.

he’s home when it happens, freshly twenty-four and still lounging around like he has nowhere better to be. you don’t tell him, obviously. his sister does, loud and unfiltered, while you sit at the kitchen table with a bowl of cereal and pretend not to care.

"she got dumped," she announces, stealing a spoonful from your bowl.

yoongi, who’s digging through the fridge, snorts. "called it."

"fuck off," you mutter, shoving cereal in your mouth so you don’t have to say anything else.

but yoongi just leans against the counter, watching you with that same smug expression, like he’s been waiting for this.

"should’ve married me when you had the chance," he says.

you glare. his sister wheezes.

"oh my god, you’re so gross," you groan, pushing your chair back. "i’m leaving."

"good," yoongi calls after you. "don’t come crying to me!"

you flip him off over your shoulder. his laughter follows you all the way up the stairs.

you do, in fact, go crying to him.

a full year later, the night his sister leaves for college with a hug, a promise to call you every day, and an assignment to take care of yoongi for her.

you were the wrong person to choose for said assignment.

because first of all, who takes care of yoongi? no one. the man is self-sufficient to a fault, fueled by nicotine and whatever questionable food he picks up at the convenience store at ungodly hours. and second, you have your own life to deal with. your own problems.

like the fact that, hours after his sister’s car disappears down the street, you’re inexplicably, overwhelmingly sad.

the house is too quiet.

the realization hits you all at once—your best friend is gone, off in some dorm room, making new friends, starting a new life, and even though she swore you’d always be her person, it doesn’t change the fact that she’s not here anymore.

so you do what any emotionally stable, well-adjusted adult would do.

you cry about it.

and—because you’re terrible at making good decisions—you cry about it in yoongi’s room.

"you’re so dramatic," yoongi mutters, handing you a tissue as you curl up on the floor beside his bed.

"am not," you sniff, blowing your nose miserably. "you just don’t get it."

"i get it," he says. "i just don’t think it’s worth ugly crying over."

"fuck you."

he smirks, sitting back against the headboard, lazily flipping through a notebook. "not even gonna buy me dinner first?"

you throw the tissue box at him.

he dodges, barely, but there’s amusement in his eyes when he glances down at you again, tapping his pen against his knee.

"she’ll be fine, you know," he says, voice quieter now. "you will too."

you don’t say anything, just sniffle again, swiping at your damp cheeks.

a beat passes. "you can stay, if you want."

you blink. yoongi never offers things like that.

he doesn’t meet your eyes, already scribbling something down in his notebook. "just don’t—" he cuts himself off, sighs. "don’t cry on my floor all night, okay?"

you huff, curling deeper into yourself. "no promises."

he rolls his eyes, but he doesn’t tell you to leave.

somehow, you end up in his bed.

you don’t really know how it happens—maybe you got tired of the floor, maybe yoongi got tired of hearing you sniffle—but at some point, you end up curled against his side, face smushed into his hoodie, still crying like some pathetic, abandoned child.

"jesus," he mutters, hand hovering awkwardly over your back. "you’re actually so annoying."

"you offered," you croak, voice muffled against his chest.

"yeah, well, i take it back." but he doesn’t move you. doesn’t shove you off or complain when your fingers clutch at the fabric of his hoodie because you need something to hold onto.

instead, he sighs—long, put-upon—and lets his hand drop against your back, an awkward, barely-there pat.

it’s dumb. the whole thing is dumb. you’re an adult now, and your best friend is literally a phone call away, and yet here you are, crying like a baby in yoongi’s bed.

but he doesn’t kick you out. doesn’t make fun of you like he normally would. just lies there, letting you fall apart on his hoodie, his hand never moving from your back.

"yoongi?" your voice is small, choked.

he shifts, chin resting against the top of your head. "what?"

"thanks."

he exhales sharply, and for a second, you swear you feel him smile.

"whatever," he mutters, voice softer than it should be. "go to sleep."

and—because it’s yoongi, because he’s warm, because his hoodie smells like laundry detergent and cigarette smoke and home—you do.

when you’re not sleeping in your best friend’s bed, you’re sleeping in yoongi’s.

it’s not on purpose. at least, that’s what you tell yourself.

the first time, you’d been too exhausted to go back to your own room. you’d fallen asleep curled up against his side, and when you woke up in the morning, he was already up, sitting at his desk, acting like you hadn’t just drooled on his hoodie all night.

the second time, it was his fault.

"you’re just gonna cry in my room again anyway," he’d said when he saw you hovering by his door, hoodie sleeves pulled over your hands like some kind of orphaned child. "just get in bed and shut up about it."

so you had.

and then it just...kept happening.

some nights, you still slept in your best friend’s bed out of habit, curling up under the same floral-patterned blanket you’d both been using since you were kids. but most nights, you ended up in yoongi’s instead.

"this is getting weird," he’d grumbled one night when you crawled under the covers beside him, poking at his ribs until he moved over.

"then kick me out."

he sighed. "too much work."

and that was that.

there were rules, though. unspoken ones.

you didn’t talk about it. not in the morning, not when his mom raised an eyebrow at the way you emerged from his room stretching, not even when your best friend teased you over the phone.

("ew, you’re sleeping in yoongi’s bed?" she’d laughed. "have some self-respect.")

you didn’t cuddle. you weren’t like that. yoongi kept to his side, you kept to yours, and that was that.

and, most importantly—it didn’t mean anything.

because if it did, then you’d have to admit that something had shifted. that somewhere along the way, the teasing, the eye-rolls, the years of bickering had stopped feeling so familiar, so easy, and had started feeling like something else entirely.

and you weren’t ready for that. not yet.

the first time you realize something’s changed, it’s at a party.

it’s one of those loud, hazy, sticky summer nights, the kind where the air is thick with humidity and the scent of cheap beer and cigarette smoke clings to your clothes before you’ve even stepped inside.

you don’t know why you came. maybe because your best friend begged you to actually go out for once, or maybe because you knew he would be here.

yoongi isn’t hard to find. he’s never hard to find.

he’s leaning against the kitchen counter, lazily sipping from a red cup, one arm draped over the back of some girl’s chair. she’s pretty—they always are—laughing at something he just said, leaning into him like she wants to be the next one.

you tell yourself you don’t care. that you’ve seen this before, that it means nothing, that you have absolutely no reason to feel the way you do right now.

but then he looks up.

his eyes find yours across the room, and something in his expression shifts—just barely, just enough for you to notice.

and just like that, you’re somewhere else.

somewhere months ago, slipping under his blankets, stealing his warmth on cold nights. somewhere in the early mornings, waking up to the sound of his deep, slow breathing before slipping out of his bed unnoticed.

somewhere you shouldn’t be.

but you’re here now, in a room full of people, and he’s still looking at you.

you swallow, breaking eye contact first, pushing past bodies and slipping outside.

you don’t run, exactly, but it feels like you do.

the air is cooler out here, quieter, and you take a slow breath, pressing your hands to your flushed cheeks.

and then—"running away?"

yoongi’s voice. behind you.

you turn, and he’s standing in the doorway, one hand shoved in his pocket, the other still holding his drink.

"no," you say too quickly. "just needed air."

"bullshit." he steps closer, the warm glow from the porch light casting soft shadows across his face.

you roll your eyes. "why do you care?"

"i don’t," he says, but he doesn’t walk away. doesn’t leave you alone like he should.

he just watches you, like he’s trying to figure something out.

and then—"you look good."

your breath catches.

it’s stupid, it’s so stupid, because he’s probably said that a hundred times to a hundred different girls, but this time it’s you.

and it feels different.

"you’re drunk," you mutter, arms crossed.

"not really."

you don’t know what to say to that.

so you say nothing, looking away, looking anywhere but at him.

but then—his fingers graze your wrist.

just barely. just enough.

and suddenly, it’s very clear that something between you isn’t the same anymore.

the first time you kiss yoongi, it’s his birthday.

he’s turning twenty-seven. his hair is still bleached, the pale blonde grown out a bit at the roots, and he looks different now—older, sharper—but somehow still the same yoongi you’ve always known.

there’s no party. no drunken celebration or crowded apartment full of strangers. just a quiet night at home, the way his mom prefers it. the way he prefers it. dinner, cake, a movie. the whole family—plus you, of course.

his mom had gone to bed hours ago. his sister was passed out on the couch, curled up in the same blanket she’d been buried under for most of the movie.

and you’d just wanted a drink of water. but when you turn around, glass still in hand, he’s there. leaning against the counter, watching you with that lazy, unreadable expression.

"where’s my present?" he asks.

you blink. "you already opened my present."

it’s true. you’d given him a new set of headphones, something he’d offhandedly mentioned needing months ago, and he’d actually smiled when he unwrapped them. a real one.

but now he just hums, stepping closer. "not that one."

"what—"

and then he cuts you off with a kiss.

it’s soft, at first. hesitant, testing. but when you don’t pull away—when your breath catches, when your fingers tighten around the glass still in your hand—he presses in deeper, tilting his head, lips parting against yours like he’s been waiting for this.

you don’t know who moves first. don’t know if you drop the glass or if he takes it from you, if you step closer or if he pulls you in.

all you know is that it’s him. yoongi.

his hands on your waist, the faint scent of birthday cake and cigarette smoke clinging to his hoodie, the way he exhales so softly against your lips before pulling away just enough to look at you.

yoongi lifts you like it’s nothing.

hands firm at your waist, he hoists you up onto the counter, slotting himself between your legs before you can even catch your breath. the cold marble is a shock against your bare thighs, but the warmth of his hands is hotter, grounding, spreading heat everywhere.

you’re wearing an oversized band tee—his band tee. he notices. his fingers slip beneath the hem, just barely, thumbs brushing slow circles over your skin.

"you’re such a thief," he mutters, mouth ghosting over yours, not kissing you yet, just lingering.

"you gave it to me," you breathe, blinking up at him.

he huffs a soft laugh, lips twitching. "you stole it."

"and yet, you never asked for it back."

he hums, tilting his head. "maybe i liked seeing you in it."

you don’t have a chance to process that, because then he’s kissing you again. deeper. slower. hungrier. you don’t even realize your hands are in his hair until you feel the strands slipping through your fingers.

yoongi groans, low, deep, and the sound goes straight through you.

his hands tighten on your thighs, pressing you closer, and you feel it, the way his fingers tremble, just a little, like he’s holding back.

you don’t say anything. just pull him in, legs wrapping around his waist, fingers tugging him even closer.

"yoongi," you murmur against his lips after a moment, breathless, dazed, hands still tangled in his hair.

"mm?" he hums, mouth trailing, kissing along your jaw, slow, lazy, like he has all the time in the world. and maybe he does. maybe you do.

except—

"your sister is in the living room," you remind him, voice barely above a whisper, fingers tightening against his hoodie.

he stills, and there’s a beat of silence. then he groans, low and frustrated, forehead dropping against your shoulder.

"you have the worst timing," he mutters, his hands gripping your thighs, debating whether or not to just pretend you didn’t say anything.

you laugh, breathy, threading your fingers through his hair. "we’re in your mom’s kitchen," you point out. "next to the fridge. literally anyone could walk in."

he huffs, pulling back just enough to look at you—really look at you. your lips are swollen, your shirt is crooked, still drowning you. and suddenly, he wants. wants to stay here, wants to ignore reality, wants to kiss you until the sun comes up.

but you’re right.

(you’re always right, and it’s so fucking annoying.)

he sighs, dragging a hand through his hair. "fine," he grumbles. "you win."

you grin. "i always do."

he rolls his eyes but doesn’t deny it, stepping back, hands slipping from your thighs way too slowly, like he doesn’t really want to let go. "come on," he mutters, offering a hand. "before you ruin my life even more."

you take it, hop down, straighten your shirt, and try not to laugh at the way he adjusts his way too obvious boner when he thinks you’re not looking.

"hey, yoongi?" you say as he leads you out of the kitchen.

"what?"

you smirk. "happy birthday."

his eyes flick to you, and something shifts again, something deep, something you don’t have a name for yet. then, his mouth quirks into something almost fond, and he squeezes your hand before finally letting go.

"thanks, brat."

taglist : @rpwprpwprpwprw @haru-jiminn @glossdebut @mimi1097 @angellekookie

[aangelinakii]

SECRET LOVER LOVER.

— an inquiry for mr drake.

summary : tim's family pay you a visit to find out what's got their brother so laidback at home, without knowing you're what's got him so smitten.

note : a very rare part two to this post !! i loved the idea for this second part so much i couldn't resist,, i wanted to stay with the taylor swift theme but couldn't find a song i felt fit this so i ditched it,,,, anyways here it is i hope you enjoy, it's a little cracky / jokey but i jope it's good anyway thanks for the request <33

when a knock came at your office door that afternoon, you hadn't expected it to open to reveal two men you'd never seen. at that, you hadn't expected their strange alikeness to your boss.

from the stark raven hair dusting their eyebrows to the light piercing eyes, although both of them were quite a lot larger in their build than his, of which you'd gotten to know quite well after the last few months.

if you didn't know any better, you might think you're about to get beat up in your own office.

"how may i help you?" you had asked them, peering up from your papers, pushing your voice in an effort to not sound too suspicious, or even afraid.

one was taller, almost built like a human juggernaut, with large muscles although it was evident he tried to hide them beneath a huge hoodie over his frame; the soot-black was broken at a section where flecks of white had seemed to grow in.

the other was more lean, more confident about his physique, allowing a polo shirt to define it; his skin was tan, glistening in what sunlight spilled in through the window behind you. he was the one to speak first, stepping past the threshold. "we have a question about tim— mr drake? he said anything we have to ask him we can come to you."

judging by the way the taller one lingered by the door, you were getting more and more sure that the mafia had come knocking on wayne enterprise doors.

"um, sure, what's your query?" you asked, sitting up straighter and plucking a pen from its holder to scribble something down on the edge of a paper to show tim later.

despite the smile the polo shirt one had pushed upon his lips, the heavy uncertainty in your chest had remained, gaining weight as he stepped up to your desk and perched himself down at the single chair on the other side of it. "just so you don't think you're about to be attacked, i think it'd be best if we introduced ourselves; i'm dick, and back there is jason, we grew up with tim." he glanced back at the one by the door. "we're his brothers."

"that explains it," you attempted to chuckle, the weight on your shoulders slowly evaporating.

"not by blood or anything," the tall cross-armed one huffed. "i think i'd rather die than have tim be my actual brother by blood."

your gaze silently travelled to him, and dick craned his head around to stare at him.

in return, jason shrugged his shoulders up to his ears, and his arms seemed to tighten their loop over his chest. "don't worry about it..."

when dick finally turned back to you, he owned a curious glint in his eye, that shone as a cloud passed the sun behind you, and another crossed over it in an instant. "you haven't noticed tim acting different lately, have you?"

he was leaning forward slightly, a soft crease in between his brows, eyes narrowed a little bit.

not that you could think of...

"well, not to speak ill of my boss or your brother, but he's been quite stressed with this start-up that keeps asking for funding," you explained. you knew quite well the extent of his stress, for you'd been the person to help him relieve it each night when every other computer screen was black, the only sounds throughout the building that you both shared.

but these two guys didn't need to know that.

a beat passed, you looking between the two of them. "why? is everything okay at home?"

this time when dick glanced back at jason, it wasn't out of judgement — it was a shared expression of knowing.

"we think he's met someone," jason was the first to speak now, glancing behind him and stepping further into the room, closing the door.

met someone?

well, assuming that someone was you, you had to decide how to respond.

should you explain that you've actually been seeing him, even though you'd agreed not to tell anybody in the office? these two weren't colleagues, maybe they didn't count. after a second longer's thought, you decided it would be better to keep things secret until you properly discussed it with tim.

if he wanted his brothers knowing, he would have told them, wouldn't he?

shaking your head softly, you gave a shrug. "i'm sorry, i haven't noticed anybody coming in or out of his office." not when you're the one doing it.

but just because you couldn't tell them what was going on with tim, didn't mean you couldn't find out.

"how has he been acting anyway?" you continued, earning the two boys to look back up at you from their silent brainstorming. "you know, just so i can keep an eye out on any weird behaviour."

dick's bottom lip jutted out and he took a few beats to recall. "i don't know, he's just been a lot happier lately. if someone — jason — tries to get a rise out of him, he'll just brush it off, act totally different to normal."

"yeah, he's getting boring now," jason piped up, which earned a smile from you.

"and he's been buying new cologne," dick added. "which we noticed, because he used to wear lynx but now he's wearing expensive stuff, i can tell."

expensive stuff, huh? you could certainly tell. sounds like a big jump from lynx just to impress a subordinate.

you were about to open your mouth to respond when the door creaked open once again, causing jason beside it to flinch.

this time, the person entering was a familiar face; that of tim drake himself, the man of the conversation.

"have you got those— oh."

he fell still, looking between his two brothers, one seated, one standing; both just as in shock-horror as the other.

"didn't i tell you to leave?" tim scowled, his knuckles paling on the doorknob as he gripped it.

mouth agape, you glanced around at the men. "didn't you say anything they wanted to know, bring them to me?"

tim's expression faltered for a moment, his jaw setting in place as he continued to stare down his brothers, gaze lingering on one for a few beats before turning to the other. "i did say that. before i told them to leave the building because they were beginning to piss me off."

now, dick was quick to stand. "and we'll leave right now!" he exclaimed. "just trying to get to the bottom of your smite."

he flashed tim a cheeky smile and began to move past him out the room, clapping a hand on his shoulder on the way. jason, on the other hand, sent you a pointed look before following.

as soon as jason's backside was out the door, tim was closing it on him with a sigh.

"never knew how to keep their noses out of people's business," he grumbled, stepping towards the chair dick had been sitting in and slumping down into it.

unable to contain a soft, sappy smile, you stood from your desk and stepped around it, perching along the edge of the wood, knees brushing against tim's thigh. a hand came up to run itself through his gelled hair, and you leaned carefully forward to press a small peck to the forehead exposed by the action.

"your cologne smells amazing," you sighed against his hair, just barely catching a whiff of it as you moved against him. "much nicer than lynx."

what had been him leaning into your touch, sighing quietly beneath his breath grew rigid and still.

"what did they tell you?" tim's voice came cold, but in a way it was difficult to hold in a laugh.

when you didn't respond, tim pulled away quickly and jumped to his feet, racing to the door. although he closed it behind him, you could hear a combination of boyish laughter and little brother whines that practically painted the picture for you, loud and clear — and you could imagine tim would have to run a board meeting to make sure none of what was heard was spoken of again.

[astraljedi]

I can't find a pulse My heart won't start anymore (Frank Castle Imagine)

Request: Did you watch DDBA season finale? I need a scene where reader arrives in the car with Karen after Matt and Frank jump from the apartment. Maybe since Matt calls shotgun, reader sits in the back with Frank and the last time they saw each other they hooked up

Pairing: Frank Castle x Female Reader

Warnings: Mention of blood, open wounds, cursing, smutty flashback scenes, this does not have a happy ending (sorry)

Word Count: 4.3K

Song: You're Losing Me by Taylor Swift

a/n: I started writing this and suddenly my direction for it change completely, oops. This is loosely based on DDBA Episode 9, but I ended up changing the ending (because this is fanfiction and I can).

- I gave you all my best me's, my endless empathy And all I did was bleed as I tried to be the bravest soldier Fighting in only your army Frontlines, don't you ignore me

Courtesy of the city-wide blackout, darkness swallows up my quiet apartment. I fumble through my storage closet, the weak flashlight from my phone barely illuminating anything as I try to find the battery-powered candles I know I stashed somewhere.

“Fuck this,” I groan, dropping to the cold floor with a thud, my back hitting the hallway wall. Just as I start contemplating whether I could survive the night in complete darkness, my phone vibrates. “Karen” flashes across the screen.

 I bring the phone up to my ear. “Hi, gorgeous,” I answer.

“Are you home? I’m on my way to pick you up,” Karen says quickly. I hear her curse, followed by a sharp blast of her car horn. I wince and pull the phone away from my ear.

“Yea—”

“It’s urgent. I’m four minutes away,” she cuts in. “It’s Matt. He needs us.”

The second she says his name, I’m on my feet. I grab my things and dash out of the apartment, I place the call on speaker and use my flashlight to guide myself down the flight of stairs

“Two minutes,” Karen says through the call, keeping me posted. 

“I’m outside,” Out of breath I step onto the chaotic street. Helicopters roar over the city, car horns blare from every direction. I hear people screaming, smashing car windows and I beg for Karen to pull up soon before the chaos reaches me.

Karen pulls up fast and hard, tires screeching seconds later and I sprint to the passenger side, barely managing to close the door before she slams her foot on the gas. 

“Where is he?” I ask, panic clear in my voice.

“His apartment.”

“What? I thought he was in the hospital.” I glance at her, my gut twisting. The blackout’s only made the streets worse, but we’re not far.

“I’ll explain later.” Karen’s eyes are fixed on the road, but I can tell she’s hiding something. She’s fighting her hardest to keep her lips sealed, her brows furrowing together. 

I narrow my eyes. “Don’t look at me like that,” she adds.

“Just spit it out, Karen.” I demand. 

“It’s also Frank,” she sighs, not able to keep it in for long. 

My stomach drops. I stare at her, not saying a word. 

Frank.

I haven’t seen him since the night we were tangled in my bed sheets. Our never ending cycle fueling the tiny spark that was left. 

I thought I’d finally tamed the spark, but Frank Castle doesn’t let you put out the flames. He is the fire. The oxygen. The thing that keeps it alive, even when he doesn't even try. 

He will alway try to push me away but the flame always remains. 

Frank is the man who picks up the broken pieces of my heart. He builds it up, structures the pieces perfectly for him to smash it back to pieces like a sandcastle he worked so hard on building. He always leaves, and I’m always the one left behind, stupidly clutching to his empty words and promises. 

“What?” I whisper, leaning my head against the headrest, my chest already pounding. Just hearing his name sets everything inside me on fire.

Karen parts her lips like she wants to say more, but an explosion goes off—loud and nearby. I grab her free hand, our minds in sync.

Please let them be okay, I beg—whether to God or the universe, I don’t know.

We turn the corner and spot Matt and Frank in the street. Karen and I both sigh, out of relief at the sight of them. I exhale shakily as Karen and I step out of the car. I crunch down on shattered glass, our eyes rising to Matt’s apartment in flames.

“Get in,” Karen orders, her voice calm but I know the adrenaline is rushing through her body. Just like mine. 

“Shotgun,” Matt mutters, wincing as he holds his side.

I walk up to Matt, letting him lean on me. I don’t acknowledge Frank at first, my eyes stay fixed on the floor while walking to the car. I guide Matt into the passenger seat, the blood from his injuries smudging my fingers. When I turn around, Frank’s already holding the back door open, waiting for me. 

He doesn’t say anything, his lips tightly shut. I glance up at him and I regret instantly. His dark unreadable eyes tracking every move.

I slide in without a word, pressing myself against the opposite side of the car. He gets in after me, knees spread, taking up space like he always does. His knee brushes mine, and I pretend not to notice—even when Karen hits a pothole and the jolt makes our skin connect again. That same electricity sparks and settles beneath my skin.

The silence is loud. The chaos of the city seeps in through the windows—sirens, shouting, the distant rumble of helicopters. 

I keep my gaze on the window, but I can feel his eyes still on me. I sit stiffly, forcing slow breaths through my nose, trying to calm the tremble in my hands. I place them gently on my thighs, hoping that they stop before I make a fool out of myself. 

But my heart resists to calm down, each beat slamming relentlessly against my chest like it's about to jump out.  

Frank’s safehouse is a mess—guns on the table, loose bullets in trays, knives stacked beside open boxes, and God knows how many other weapons scattered everywhere. The scent of him hits me the moment I step in—smoke and leather. A scent I’ve spent time scrubbing off me and my apartment. 

Matt and Karen sit on the other side of the room, sitting on some foldable chairs while she focuses on cleaning the wound on Matt’s chest gently.

Across from them, Frank rips a suture kit open with his teeth and pulls the neck of his shirt to study the open wound.

“Let me help,” I say quietly, my voice softer than before—calmer, somehow. Maybe because I’m too exhausted to keep up with our game. 

Or maybe because looking at him bloody and bruised—pulls all the fight out of me.

He doesn’t hesitate, he leans back on the chair and hands me the already-threaded needle. At this point in our relationship—if we can even call it that—he trusts me enough to stitch him up. 

This is something I’ve done for years now, always looking after him. Countless late nights of him limping into my apartment bleeding. Only for me to panic and lecture him while guiding him to the couch. 

“That’s it,” he says, watching me patch the torn-up skin on his hip. My eyes are wide, focused, like I’m trying to memorize how to breathe through it. “You’re a natural, sweetheart.”

His praise settles something wild in my chest. I try to breathe steady, but my hands are trembling.

When I finish the last stitch, I finally let out the breath I didn’t even know I was holding. His hand moves to my face, fingers warm against my skin as he cups my cheek. His thumb brushes over my jaw, softly.

“Next time, you’re gonna be a pro,” he murmurs, then leans in and presses a kiss—gentle, lingering—on the corner of my mouth.

I chuckle, shaking my head like I’m not spiraling on the inside. “Don’t make it a habit.”

A sharp groan from Frank snaps me back. I press the cloth against his injury—harder than I need to but I don’t apologize. 

Frank Castle can feel pain after all.

My eyes stay glued to the wound, watching the thread slip through the torn skin. 

But I don’t look at him, I remind myself that this is still the man who left before dawn. No explanation with no goodbye. Too cowardly to call it off for once and for all for both our sakes.

From across the room, I hear Karen’s voice, low and comforting as she murmurs to Matt. The sound of the needle moving through Frank’s skin mixes with the buzz of a police radio filling the silence.

Then Matt’s voice cuts in. “You called Frank, huh?”

Karen hesitates. “I heard Poindexter escaped. Called Frank and hopped on a plane.”

“What about her?” Matt adds.

My hand stills for a second, eyes flicking toward them. They don’t notice, but Frank shifts beside me. He’s listening, too.

Karen mumbles something I can’t make out—but Frank hears it, his body stiffening from her answer.

I tie the final knot with more force than necessary and pull the last stitch tight. Frank winces, his hand shooting out to grab my arm on reflex. I hold the cloth to his skin one last time and then set the needle and thread down on the table. It’s his mess to clean up. 

“Thank you, sweetheart,” Frank says, voice low and rough.

Karen looks over. “Everything okay over there?”

Frank sighs. “Never been better.” He gets up, brushing past me—his knuckles graze my thigh longing for something he won’t let himself indulge in.

I bite the inside of my cheek hard, chewing my words down.

He moves to the small kitchen, grabs a pill bottle and crunches a few of them in his mouth. “Who wants a cup of coffee?”

“Got any oat milk?” Matt stands up, already half-dressed in his suit.

Frank chuckles and hands us a cup of black coffee—no milk, no sugar. Bitter and hot. 

I take a sip and move to stand next to Karen. 

“So… he went after Matt Murdock. Not Daredevil,” she says finally. “That’s bold. Even for Fisk.”

Matt hesitates. “Listen to me. Turns out it was a hit…” He swallows hard. “On Foggy.”

“Holy shit,” Karen and I say at the same time.

“Vanessa Fisk hired Poindexter to take him out.”

Karen’s already fighting tears. “Why?”

“I think there’s something in the motion he was about to file,” Matt explains, jaw clenched. “He was moving to dismiss the case,and Vanessa made sure he never got to it. I think maybe I missed something back then.”

I drain the rest of my coffee and set the empty cup on a cluttered spot on the counter. “Aren’t the files in storage?”

“That’s right,” Matt says. “Can you guys be my eyes?”

“Always,” Karen answers without hesitation.

They start gathering their things, barely saying another word. I do the same—sling my bag over my shoulder, but my feet won’t move.

I look at Frank at his little workstation, gathering his gear and loading bullets quietly. 

“You coming, Frank?” Karen asks.

“Got shit to do,” he mutters, not looking up.

Matt tries to warn him—Fisk is coming, and it’s only a matter of time. But Frank doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t respond. Just keeps loading his gun.

Eventually, they give up. Karen grabs what’s left and heads for the door and Matt follows her. 

But I stay, feet glued to the ground.

“Don’t do it, Frank,” I say. My voice is raspier than I expect.

He doesn’t look at me. “It’s not up for debate.”

The lump in my throat that I’ve been choking down all night finally rises.

“Just like how you left me that night?” I snap. “You fuck me, then disappear without a word—like I was just a little plaything for you to use and throw away.”

His dark and emotionless eyes finally lift to mine, studying me while the words weighed heavy on his tongue. 

“Sweetheart,” he says, “I’m not the guy you created in your pretty little head.”

My lips part, in disbelief. His words tear through me—and suddenly I’m the one who needs stitching.

His words echo in my head and I laugh bitterly in disbelief while I walk towards the door. I throw it open and slam it behind me, the metal frame rattling loud and harsh.

I don’t even hear it.

“…Stay safe,” Frank mutters behind the door, shaking his head.

He had to do it, he had to break me. 

My fist clench on my side and I see Matt and Karen standing at the end of the hallway. But neither of them dare say a word. Karen won’t meet my eyes, and Matt’s trying his hardest not to say something I’m not ready to hear.

And I try not to think about how Matt could probably hear my heart shatter the moment Frank said those words. I walk past them without looking back. Because if I look at them—if I let Karen’s pitying eyes find mine—I’ll break.

The storage unit is dark, only the light from the moon through the window and our flashlights hellp us look over the unit. I should be focused on combing through the files, looking for Foggy’s motion that has to be somewhere in these dusty boxes. But my mind keeps wandering—lingering somewhere else. To someone else.

His fingers slip downwards, getting coated by my juices instantly. “My poor thing, no one knows how to please you like I do.” “Frank,” I whimper, as his fingers circle my clit.

“You okay?”

Matt’s voice is low, careful—just barely louder than the rustling of paper and thuds of boxes being shifted around. Karen keeps her eyes fixed on a file, but I can tell she’s listening now too, her ears perk up. “Your heart is drumming hard again.” 

I blink, and glance up at Matt. His head’s tilted slightly, something he does when he’s focusing on the sounds around him.

“Again?” I give up on the file in my hand and shove it back into the box. Some old tax thing. Not what we need.

“It spiked when you were fighting,” he says softly. “And also now.”

Karen looks over from her corner and raises an eyebrow. “God, that is really not fair,” she mutters under her breath.

I try to act normal, like he didn’t just read me to filth—but my hands betray me. A box slips through my grasp and slams on the floor.

“Sorry,” I mumble.

“You heard his too?” Karen asks, pointing her flashlight to another box.

“Oh yeah,” Matt says calmly. I swallow hard and crouch down to gather the scattered files off the floor.

“I’m sure it was the adrenaline,” I offer, trying to sound collected. But my voice comes out higher and a little too defensive.

Matt backs down and doesn’t argue back.  He just goes back to his box. 

“Hey, this is it.” Karen strains a bit as she pulls out a heavy box from one of the shelves. “A year and a half ago.” The box thuds when she sets it down.

“Here, let me help,” I offer, grabbing the flashlight from her and holding it steady so she can see.

“Yes! Okay, here’s the motion Foggy filed,” she says, pulling out a thick manila file.

“Good work, Karen Page,” Matt praises, stepping closer.

Karen flips it open. “Foggy was going to argue that…” She trails off, eyes skimming the page. “Whoa.”

She keeps reading. “Due to the unique nature of the Red Hook Port Location, no crime was committed in New York state or even the United States of America. Therefore, the court has no jurisdiction to prosecute.”

“What?” Matt’s brows pinch. 

“There’s a photocopy,” I say, reaching over to pull out the paper that’s halfway slipping from underneath. “Red Hook Charter, 1855. Holy crap. It’s a free port.”

“Exempt from the jurisdiction of the city,” Matt mutters. “and the country for that matter.”

“What would that have to do with the Fisks?” Karen asks, looking at Matt.

Matt exhales, slow and heavy. “Vanessa has used the port to store art for years now. I mean, if it’s a free port, she’s doing it without customs, without taxation, without fear of seizure.”

“She could launder money legally,” Karen says, stunned.

“Wow. That sneaky motherfucker,” I mutter under my breath.

Matt nods, voice low. “This is about the Fisks building their own city-state.”

Karen starts closing the files carefully. I reach for my bag, tossing it over my shoulder as I grab my flashlight.

“Let’s go see what they’re hiding,” Matt says, already halfway to the door.

When Karen drops me off, the street is calmer than last night from the havoc that broke out from the blackout. My neighbors and the local store owners are out sweeping debris, the air thick with tension from the mayor’s call for martial law.

I unlock my apartment, and the pale pink glow of sunrise pours through the windows like none of last night even happened. Like we didn’t just unravel the reason Foggy was targeted twelve hours ago. 

I peel off my jacket, kick off my shoes, and head straight for the kitchen. I’m too tired to think, too wired to crash. I just need something in my stomach before my head crashes on my pillow for the rest of the day. Sleep feels like the only escape I’ve got, the only way to try and push Frank’s voice out of my head.

I reach up to grab a cereal box and a bowl, the perfect lazy breakfast. I open the fridge and grab the milk carton, but the second I shut the door, a voice startles me.

“Got some coffee, sweetheart?”

I spin around so fast the room tilts and the carton slips from my hand, crashing to the floor. The cold liquid flooding the tiles around my feet. 

Frank is on the floor, bloody and horribly beaten.

He’s slumped against the wall, one hand pressed over his ribs, clearly in pain—but still somehow smirking through the mess of his split lip and bruised face like nothing.

“Frank,” I breathe, the mess forgotten as I drop to my knees beside him. My hands hover, desperate to help but terrified of hurting him more. “Why are you on the floor?”

“I didn’t want to ruin your couch,” he mutters.

A strangled laugh escapes me. “Now I have to get rid of this rug.”

“I’m sorry, sweetheart.”

“It’s okay. I got it for cheap at a thrift shop.” I shrug, I need a new rug anyways. 

“No.” He shakes his head, wincing as he tries to sit up straighter. I start to stand, to look for the first aid kit, but he catches my wrist before I can move away.

“You’re not a plaything,” he says. “You’re more to me than what I can express.”

I freeze, but I don’t pull away from his grasp. “Can we not do this right now?” I swallow back a sob, looking away from him. 

“I didn’t mean it. You know me.”

“Do I?” I say, raising my voice. “Because sometimes, for a second, I think maybe this is it. Maybe he’s finally giving me his all. And then you’re gone before I even realize what’s happening.”

His jaw tightens, but he doesn’t say anything.

“Come on,” I say, wrapping his arm over my shoulder, bracing myself under his weight. “Let’s get you up.”

He stumbles, groaning with every movement, but I manage to carry him to the bathroom. I push the door open with my shoulder and ease him down onto the wooden stool by the tub. My hands are trembling as I twist the faucet, waiting for the water to heat up—warm enough to soothe his muscles.

The silence in the room hangs heavy between us, but his eyes stay on me, tracking every step I take.

I kneel in front of him and grab the scissors. There’s no way I’m asking him to lift his arms, not with the state he’s in. I cut through his shirt carefully, revealing a mess of bruises and cuts that make my stomach twist.

“Jesus, Frank,” I murmur.

I reach for the first aid kit, my hands moving on quickly. I start with the dried blood on his chest, cleaning each wound slowly. He winces under my touch, but I try my best to be gentle and not cause him any more pain. 

When I finish, I rise and step between his legs. I lift his chin, tilting his face toward the light. My fingers graze his swollen lip, his scraped cheekbones. His hands settle on my hips, holding on as I clean him up. 

Once I’m done, I help him to his feet, bracing him again as I unbuckle his belt. My eyes flick up to his. “This okay?” I ask, and he nods.

I undress him carefully, and help him into the tub. He sinks into the water with a grunt, letting it pull the weight from his bones. His eyes fall closed as his back hits the cold wall, and I sit at the edge of the tub, dipping the sponge into the warm water before running it slowly over his shoulders.

The water clouds pink with leftover blood, and my hand moves to his chest—his heartbeat steady beneath my touch. The same place I used to lay my head. The same place that used to make me feel safe, but I don't know if that place is meant for me anymore. 

I let my fingers linger, the sponge discarded to the side and forgotten. My hands move slower, softer, over the places I used to kiss him and never get tired of.

And just for a moment, I let myself feel it all. The weight of everything I’ve been carrying. The ache that never really goes away. The sharp sting of anger and heartbreak. And the love I try so hard for him to accept, to let me in all the way. 

Tears slip down my cheeks. I try to hide it, keep my sniffles quiet, but he notices. 

His eyes open, and his hand comes up to wipe my tears away. I lean into his touch, even though part of me wants to push it away.

“Talk to me,” he says.

“I didn’t think we would find ourselves like this again,” I admit.

“I thought you wouldn’t let me in,” he replies, his voice rough.

“That’s never been the problem. That’s why we keep ending up here, stuck in this cycle.” I pull away from his touch, but he grabs my hand before I can go far, squeezing it tightly. “I’m just tired of this, Frank.”

He doesn’t interrupt. He just listens.

“I don’t care about flowers or fancy dinners or anniversary gifts. That’s not what I want. I want mornings and nights with you. I want the little things—the moments when I’m trying to pick a fight with you because I’m being a brat and stubborn, and you diffuse the bomb with a kiss or a joke or by just… being the version you only let me see.”

His mouth tugs up in the corner, a soft and familiar smile. 

“You love flowers,” he says, and it makes me laugh through the tears. “Don’t try to act like you don’t,” he adds with a low chuckle, wincing as it pulls on his ribs.

“I do,” I admit, then pause. “But I love—” The words catch in my throat, and I look away again. “I need to know you won’t leave. That you won’t shut me out. I need you to fight for me the way I keep fighting for you.”

I don’t wait for his reply. I stand up from the tub, my fingers slipping from his hand. I grab a towel and help him stand slowly, carefully, easing him out of the tub. I hand him the towel and step out of the bathroom, needing a little space—just a few seconds to breathe before the weight of everything drags me under again.

In my room, I pull the bedsheets down and place a change of clothes at the end of the bed. One of his old t-shirts, the soft one that somehow still smells like him, and the sweatpants I stole from him and refuse to give back.

When he walks in, towel slung low on his hips, my storm-filled eyes meet his. His gaze locked on me as he grabs the sweatpants and carefully slides them on. I step closer, press my hands gently to his chest, and push him to sit on the edge of the bed. I grab the t-shirt and help him pull it over his head, mindful of the fresh stitches on his shoulder.

Do something, babe. Say something. Lose something, babe, risk something. Choose something, babe, I got nothing 

“Get some rest,” I murmur, helping him ease down into the mattress.

“Baby—” His hand catches my wrist before I can walk away. His grip is loose, but it stops me in my tracks. “I can try. But you have to be patient with me.”

I swallow hard, blinking up at the ceiling before I meet his eyes again. “I’ve been patient all this time, Frank,” I say quietly. “For years I’ve been the one picking up after us. Looking after you when you’re hurt—even when you hurt me first. I need you to do more than try”

“There’s things I have to work out and fix first,” he mutters.

“This is what I’m saying,” I breathe. “You always have something first. There’s always something before me.” I force the lump in my throat down, even though it burns.

He hesitates, but he lets my hand go.

“I’m never going to be your first choice, Frank. This was meant to fail and break from the beginning.”

My voice betrays me while I try to fight back the tears. I hate it—how it makes me sound like I’m begging. When I’m already done with trying and fighting for something that keeps bruising me.

Still, I pull the blanket over his chest, and I lean down and press a kiss to his forehead, maybe for the last time.

Then I turn and walk toward the door. “Good night, Frank.”

I can't find a pulseMy heart won't start anymore

[kxsagi]

How about bllk boys who have a huge crush on childhood bestfriend!reader but when they are walking around, they see reader kissing with a girl?

Basically fem!reader is a lesbian who has a gf and is oblivious to the boys liking her?

If you'd like doing this ask, it'd be from the boys pov, with angst. You can choose anyone to do this with!

“𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐰𝐞𝐫𝐞𝐧’𝐭 𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐞 𝐭𝐨 𝐥𝐨𝐬𝐞”

a/n: THIS HURT TO WRITE

title is an august by taylor swift reference, that song is kinda sad, but so good 😔

ft. isagi yoichi, mikage reo, itoshi rin, karasu tabito, nagi seishiro, itoshi sae, shidou ryusei, kaiser michael

isagi yoichi

he was the golden retriever childhood friend. you two shared popsicles, bike rides, and dreams under the stars. isagi always thought that someday, you'd be his first kiss. 

he's walking home from training one day, sweaty and exhausted, but he perks up when he sees you on the corner, laughing. instantly, he's ready to jog over and scare you from behind like always. 

until he sees her. her hands cupping your face so gently. your lips moving toward hers like a scene in slow motion. 

he freezes mid-step. mouth slightly open. he blinks once, twice, but you're still kissing her. 

“... oh.” 

his heart doesn’t just sink, it sinks and shatters. he's never felt jealous in a way that hurt like this. not angry. not bitter. just... aching. 

“so that’s why she never saw me like that,” he thinks. “i was looking at her like a movie, and she was living a whole life i wasn’t cast in.” 

he still walks you home that night. still jokes with you like normal. but something in him changes – quietly. permanently. 

mikage reo

you were his soft spot since the sandbox days, when you called him “richie rich” and stole his juice box. 

reo grew up thinking he could have anything, and deep down, he thought that included you. 

so when he spots you across the shopping district one evening, he runs over with that heart-thumping excitement, waving like an idiot– 

until he sees your girlfriend pull you in by the waist and kiss your cheek. your nose scrunches up, you laugh, and then you kiss her back. 

it knocks the air out of him. 

he just stands there, halfway across the street, frozen with a shopping bag in one hand and his dumb little heart in the other. 

“i’m... not even in the running, am i?” 

he doesn’t even feel sad at first. he just feels stupid. like he missed a whole chapter in your life. 

the next time you text him, he answers like nothing happened. but behind the screen, he’s wondering if he was ever even close. 

itoshi rin

rin never told you how he felt. he always figured it was better to wait until he was better. until he was someone worth confessing to. 

because he’s always loved you silently. through quiet glances. through dumb little excuses to hang out. through a million almosts he never dared to reach for. 

so when he sees you after practice, leaning against a wall, holding hands with a girl so confidently, and then you kiss her like it’s the easiest thing in the world– 

rin just turns around. doesn’t even look twice. doesn’t even let himself blink, because if he does, he might cry. 

he walks back to the field. kicks a ball until his knuckles bleed from clenching. 

“of course. of course she doesn’t like guys. of course i never stood a chance. what the hell was i waiting for?” 

he ghosts you for two days. then shows up like nothing happened. because he’d rather be your friend than nothing at all, even if every word from you hurts now. 

karasu tabito

he used to flirt with you for fun, just to get a rise out of you. but somewhere along the line, the teasing turned into something real. 

he liked how you rolled your eyes at him. how you called him annoying and still never stopped hanging around. 

he always thought maybe you liked him back, you just didn’t know it yet. 

so when he catches you at a park, snuggled up next to a girl on the swings, your fingers intertwined and lips locked under the sunset– 

he feels like someone punched him in the gut. 

“shit.” he mumbles. “so that’s her type.” 

he laughs. like it’s funny. like it’s not burning his chest from the inside out. 

he leaves before you can spot him. goes to a café. orders the sweetest drink on the menu because it’s the only thing that might mask the taste of rejection. 

when you text him later, he sends back a dumb meme like nothing happened. 

because what’s a little heartbreak between best friends, right? 

nagi seishiro

nagi never made a move. never felt like he needed to. you were always there, always close. why ruin it? 

he didn’t think he was in love with you. until he sees you at an arcade one night – laughing, glowing, eyes locked with some girl who kisses you when you win a game. 

his stomach drops. his controller slips from his hands. 

“oh... huh.” 

and that’s it. that’s the moment he realizes it. he loved you. like, actually loved you. and you were never his. 

he drags himself out of the arcade, doesn’t even finish his game. goes home and lies on his bed, staring at the ceiling. 

“guess i slept on that too long,” he mutters. “should’ve made a move when i had the chance.” 

he never tells you what he saw. but you notice how quiet he is after that. how he texts a little slower. laughs a little softer. 

and you never realize why. 

itoshi sae

sae wasn’t good with emotions. he left you behind when he went to spain, thinking you'd just… be there when he came back. like always. 

but when he did come back – more distant, more polished, more unreadable – you welcomed him like nothing changed. 

except something had changed. he sees it one random afternoon, walking through the station when he spots you in a crowd. 

you don’t see him. you're with a girl. your hands are in her pockets, your head on her shoulder, and you kiss her like you're in your own little world. 

and sae… stops. just stops. 

time moves, the world spins, but he doesn’t. 

“so that’s why… that’s why she never looked at me that way.” 

he turns around before you see him. later, you’ll text him, asking if he wants to hang out. he’ll say he’s busy. 

he tells himself it’s fine. you’re happy. that should be enough. 

but he still can’t shake the weight in his chest. like he lost a game he never even got to play. 

shidou ryusei

shidou always played the wild card. loud, aggressive, inappropriate – you were the one who kept him grounded. 

he’d always say gross stuff around you, sure, but he never actually meant it. not with you. because what he felt for you wasn’t like what he felt for anyone else. 

but he didn’t know how to say “i love you” without scaring you off. 

so when he catches you outside a ramen shop, mid-kiss with a girl who’s got her arms wrapped around your waist, he actually... goes silent. 

doesn’t throw a fit. doesn’t make a scene. 

he just watches. something unfamiliar churning in his stomach. envy, maybe. or regret. 

“... damn,” he mutters. “guess i never stood a chance, huh?” 

later that night, he jokes with you like always, roughhousing and teasing, but something in his voice is off. 

he doesn’t flirt anymore. not with you. 

you ask why. he just shrugs and says, “eh, figured you were taken.” 

you laugh and say “wait, how’d you know?” 

he doesn’t answer. just walks away before you can see his face. 

kaiser michael

you were the only one who treated him like a person, not a superstar. from the time you were kids, you called him “annoying” instead of “amazing,” and he liked that. 

he always thought of you as his. not officially, not out loud, but in his mind, you’d end up together. obviously. how could you not? 

so when he sees you after a match, by the gate, arms linked with some girl who plants a kiss right on your lips– 

kaiser forgets how to breathe. 

the smirk on his face falters. his ego deflates so fast it hurts. 

“... no fucking way.” 

he laughs to himself. bitterly. “you had a girlfriend this whole time? what a joke. and here i was–” 

he stops himself before he finishes that thought. before he admits just how deep he’d let his delusion run. 

when you wave at him and run over, asking how the game went, he gives you the cockiest smile he can muster. 

“easy win,” he lies. 

but that night, he doesn’t sleep. just stares at the ceiling, wondering how the hell he lost you before he even got to try. 

© 𝐤𝐱𝐬𝐚𝐠𝐢