#the way he can feel something is wrong and been wrong for a while

[sinkuna]

୨୧ — The divorce papers had been signed that afternoon, three years of marriage reduced to legal documents and a splitting of assets… That’s how Nanami found himself at the local bar, liquid amber burning down his throat, tie loosened, the weight of his wedding ring suddenly unbearable… 

Then you walked in.

Twenty-one, maybe twenty-two. College girl written in the innocent tilt of your yellow sundress, the way it clings to your waist, your breasts, the hem flirtatiously brushing against your thighs.

You look so sweet, he thought. A drink like the ones the men were buying you would surely corrupt your pretty mouth, but you sipped with an ease that spoke of experience, even when you cringe at the taste, making the guys around you laugh. 

It made him think about his wife -his ex wife now- the last time they made love, when she bit her lips to hold back a moan, as if afraid someone might hear. He wondered what noises you would make if you were on top of him, his fingers digging into your hips as he thrust up into your tight pussy. 

Would you call out his name? Moan like a whore? Would you beg him to go harder? Deeper? Or would you be shy, too embarrassed to ask for what you really wanted, forcing him to take what he wants, making you take it?

He shook his head and knocked back the rest of his whiskey, trying to clear his mind. You were far too young, far too innocent... Nanami looked away... He had no right to feel this way about a female he didn't know, a girl that had her whole life ahead of her.

You ordered something sweet and fruity while he nursed his drink, watching the way you tucked your hair behind your ear. And then, your eyes met his.

He doesn't remember buying you drinks. Doesn't remember the conversation that led to your hand on his thigh, your breath wine-sweet against his ear as you whispered, "I know somewhere quiet."

But he remembers his Lexus. God, he'll never forget the damn Lexus. 

"Fuck-" The word tears from his throat as you sink down onto him, your tight cunt splitty open around his cock like you were made for this moment. The leather seats creak beneath you both, divorce papers scattered on the floor like confetti celebrating his rebirth.

You were so goddamn young, so wet, so eager- everything his ex wife hadn't been in years, and my god... You're so fucking tight it hurts, and he's so fucking thick you can barely breathe around the stretch. Your sundress is hiked up around your waist, his hands fisted in the fabric and your hair- his wedding ring catching strands as he holds you against his body.

"You- mph - you're going to ruin me," His hips jerk up involuntarily, "aren't you?" driving deeper, and you cry out like he's hitting some spot inside of you that only a man like him can reach. He's massive- way more massive than you initially thought, thick enough that your eyes water, that your cunt burns trying to stretch around him. The head of his cock forcing your walls apart, claiming every inch as you slowly take him to the base. 

Nanami can feel you trying to adjust to his size, the head of his cock kissing your cervix with each bounce as you babble incoherently- "S'too-m'fuckfuckfuck-sh'too big!!" tears leaking from your eyes, "don' ev-even know -hah - your n-name!"

His name is Nanami, but that doesn't matter... He felt how your pussy clenched at your words. You were getting off on the wrongness of the situation, just like he was. The depravity of it- this older man using your young body, his wedding ring cool against your skin. 

You don't know him, don't care who he is, and that makes this all the more exciting.

His lips crash against yours, swallowing every little noise you make as he ruts up into your heat, the windows fogging up, the car shaking with the force of his thrusts.

"S'doesn't matter," is all he says, his voice low, husky while his one hand guides your hips in a rhythm that makes his vision blur.

The condom stretches tight around him, already straining from how hard he is, how deep he's buried inside your young cunt. He can feel your orgasm building in the tremor of your thighs, the way your breath comes in desperate little gasps.

When you come, you scream. Actually scream, head thrown back like a religious experience, and your pussy clamps down so hard he sees stars. The sensation drags out his own climax, his hips lifting clean off the seat as he empties himself into the latex barrier. 

The condom swells inside you, and you whimper at the added pressure, grinding down like you want to milk every last drop from him. Your cunt spasms around the intrusion, wringing another orgasm from your oversensitive nerves.

Afterward, you collapse against his chest, both of you breathing like survivors... His wedding ring still tangled in your hair... 

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

It happens again a week later. Then again. And again.

Always his car. Always that same desperate hunger, like he’s trying to fuck the loneliness out of himself. You learn to take him easier, your body adapting to his size, but he never gets used to how perfectly you fit around him.

"Missed this," he groans against your neck as he bends you over in the backseat, your sundress -a different one, pink this time- bunched around your waist, pink lace panties ripped and tossed in the front seat, "Thought about you all week."

His cock twitches inside you, and the way his hands grip your waist possessively, you believe him.

You feel his breath hitch when you start to move against him, grinding your hips back against his, feeling him so deep you could choke on it, the head of his cock pressing so hard- nestled against the opening of your womb. You swear if you looked down you’d see a perfect outline of it stretching out your stomach.

With a cock-drunk smile you can't help but imagine him coming inside you, painting the deepest part of you with his seed. "Mmn, missed this, too, Nanami-san~" you gasp sweetly, the confession falling from your lips before you could stop yourself.

He wants to say more, his tongue heavy with words unspoken- "missed you", "you're beautiful", "god, I can't get enough of you"… He always wants to say more.

But he doesn't.

Instead, he fucks you like he owns you, like your young cunt exists solely for his pleasure.

He never gives you his number, never takes you anywhere but his car, and when he pulls out, the condom is always filled to the brim with his cum- stretched obscenely with your arousal coating the outside.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

Three weeks later after he's fucked you stupid in his car, he asks you, "Come home with me tonight." The words are quiet, almost uncertain.

You look up at him from where you’re starting to doze off against his chest, "Your place?"

"My place." His fingers trace patterns on your bare shoulder, "Stay the night."

His apartment is exactly what you’d expected- minimalist, expensive, cold. But his bed is warm, and he fucks you properly there, taking his time to explore your body, to discover the things that made those pretty lashes flutter, those gorgeous lips moan his name., "K-Kento~♡!"

He’s so gentle, so slow, making you come so many times that by the time you finally pass out, the sheets were soaked, his cock still buried deep inside with a condom so full of cum, it nearly split at the seams.

That night Nanami watches you sleep, the way your hair fans out around your face, the little snores escaping your parted lips. He brushes a lock of hair from your cheek, a sudden ache in his chest as he sighs, "What am I doing?" This was wrong, "I'm too old for you," he mumbles, pressing his forehead against yours while gathering you in his arms, "This can't be a long-term thing…"

His voice trails off, the warmth of your body against his pulling him under.

"This can't be a long-term thing," he repeats the words in his dreams, and it sounds like a lie.

In the morning, he makes coffee and breakfast… Actual pancakes, not the instant kind from your dorm.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

It becomes routine. Your toothbrush joins his, the spare pajamas in his drawer are yours, and his apartment begins to smell like flowers and the perfume you wear. He drops you off at lectures, picks you up after. Pays for textbooks without blinking. Watches you study at his kitchen table while he cooks dinner, domestic in a way that terrifies him.

Nanami even learns your coffee order at Starbucks- extra vanilla syrup, always, because you're still young and believe sweetness won't hurt you. When the barista flirts with you, his jaw tightens, the way his hand tightens around his own cup. You thought at first that it was just anger, irritation at the line, but-

"Jealous?" You ask as the two of you exit the store, sipping your drinks.

"Why would I be jealous?" He responds coolly, even though his heart is hammering. He keeps trying to tell himself that this isn't an exclusive thing, even if he does call you his pretty girl while you bounce on his cock. It isn't exclusive… even though he bought a new bed to accommodate both of you. A king sized bed, the most comfortable one in the store, because his favorite thing is watching you fall apart beneath him, above him, against him… falling asleep with your scent in his lungs, waking up to your sleepy smile…

You're free to date whoever you want… but the thought makes his stomach churn…

"Beeeecause~ the cute barista was totally hitting on me," You grin, "He even gave me his number on the napkin."

"Oh?" His tone is disinterested, but his jaw ticks, and there's something dark in his eyes when he looks at you.

"Yeah, see," You show him the napkin, and sure enough, the guy had wrote his name and phone number, and-

Nanami stops.

The napkin even has a little note scribbled at the bottom, a flirtatious one saying, Call Me Anytime Cutie ;).

And that's when Nanami snaps.

He drags you back to his car, his grip bruising, and when you look up at him with those big eyes, lashes fluttering innocently… the idea that someone else might touch you like this, might hear the noises you make when you're close, might get to see the look on your face when you come undone, and god, the way you say his name…

Fuck.

He doesn't want to share.

He's become possessive.

And that afternoon he proves it. Has you bent over the hood of his car in the parking garage, splitting you open with his cock while he growls about who you belong to. Your pussy gripping him like a vice, your juices running down the car and dripping onto the cement below as he fucks you harder than he ever has- condom threatening to split around his cock with every thrust.

"Y-Yes!!!~♡," you sob, because it's true. Because somewhere between the first time he made you come and now, you became his completely.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

One morning Nanami comes home after his run, a rare day off, and finds you sitting at his table in the kitchen, dressed only in his button-up, the one he wore to work the day before. Yout hair is still sleep mussed, your favorite mug of his in your hand, and its like his breath leaves him, his heart hammering against his ribs, because for the first time in a long time… Nanami Kento is happy.

He loves you…

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck… This wasn’t supposed to happen. You weren’t supposed to be here like this- wife like and wearing his shirt. Greeting him each night he comes home late… 

Shit…

Nanami Kento was completely and utterly in love with you.

The realization hits him like a truck, and his mouth at that moment goes dry.

As you turn to him, eyes still sleepy, he also realizes he wants to memorize this moment, to preserve it forever- the early morning sun casting a beautiful glow on your skin, the soft curve of your bare shoulder. 

"Mornin', Kento," you smile at him, and he can’t take it anymore. He can’t hide this from you any longer. 

"Come here," 

"Mm? What's up?"

"Just-" He can’t speak, not properly, so he grabs your wrist in the most gentle way he can manage and tugs you from your seat, pressing you flush against his body, his hand finding your cheek, thumb tracing your lower lip.

"K-Kento, what are y-"

"I love you."

Your eyes widen, lips parting, and for a second he’s terrified. Worried that this will change everything, and then- 

"I-I love you, too. I just-" You look away for a moment, the sweetest blush spreading across your face- your smile the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen, "I just didn’t know how you would- I didn’t want to scare you away…" 

God, you could never scare him away. Never. And a part of him hated himself for ever making you feel that way. That the only reason you didn't tell him is because you thought it would drive him away. 

"I love you," he breathes again, his hand moving to cradle the back of your head, his forehead pressing against yours, "So much. You could never scare me away, darling."

The kiss that followed was everything he's ever wanted. Soft, sweet and loving- everything a first kiss should be, and when the two of you part, he whispers your name against your lips, as if trying to reassure himself that this was real.

That night he takes you in his arms, carrying you up to the king size bed so that he can show you just how much he loves you. To show you just how serious he is about you. 

"No condom tonight," he whispers in your ear, his arms wrapped around you, your legs wrapped around his waist as he pulls back to look at your face. 

"Mn," You nod, "Sounds fun~, but you know I’m-"

"I know… You're not on the pill," he interrupts, the corners of his mouth quirking up, "but we'll just have to deal with the consequences, won't we?"

The consequences… 

He’s never sounded so happy about anything. 

"I want to feel you," he breathes, rolling his hips, slowly, deeply, tenderly as he nudges against your entrance, "want to fill you up properly… Make you really mine," he kisses your cheek, "Make a family."

"Ahhn~♡," the moan that is drawn from your lips as his cock sinks into was music to his ears. No latex, no barrier between your bodies, just thick, bare cock spreading you open. It was indescribable- the way he filled you up, the heat of his length, every vein and ridge rubbing deliciously along the sensitive walls of your pussy. 

"God, you're perfect," he groans, and when his cock kisses your womb, his hips twitch involuntarily. The thought of his seed flooding your deepest parts was far too alluring- painting your walls white, coating the entrance of your womb, the image of your belly round and heavy with his child making his cock throb inside of you.

"Please~♡" gasping as he fills you completely- not just with his cock, but with the promise of something more permanent. 

He cums inside you that night, and every night after, marking you as his in the most intimate way possible. 

This started with divorce papers and whiskey, but it had become something else entirely. Something that tastes like forever and feels like coming home.

[kenntoria]

it’s the way he watches you.

quietly, from where he’s half-sprawled on the couch, arms tucked behind his head, messy hair sticking up like he’s been dragging his hands through it. his blindfold is off, blue eyes shining in the dim light of the apartment. he’s been watching you for the past ten minutes.

you’re curled in a chair by the window, staring out, eyes not really seeing. your mouth is in a small, thoughtful frown and your hands are limp in your lap. you’re not crying. not talking. just… quiet.

too quiet.

gojo’s been thinking for a while now about what to do. if he should say something. if he should leave you be. it’s not like he’s good at this sort of thing. he’s the strongest, but feelings? emotions? gentle things? that’s a whole other kind of battlefield.

he gets up without saying a word. pads to the kitchen. opens and closes cabinets, a little clumsily, like he’s not used to moving around without swagger.

you don’t look.

so he makes hot chocolate.

with the fancy marshmallows you like. the ones shaped like stars. he burns his finger a little trying to fix it just right, and hisses under his breath, and mutters, “get it together, satoru,” like he’s on a mission from god.

he brings it over to you with both hands and kneels beside your chair.

you blink, surprised, when you notice him there.

“for the prettiest girl i know,” he says, trying for lightness, offering the mug like it’s a peace treaty. “warning: it may or may not be made with love and minor kitchen injuries.”

you take it. you don’t say anything at first. you hold the warm mug and look at it like you don’t know what to do with something kind.

and when you finally speak, your voice is too soft.

“…you noticed.”

“’course i noticed,” he says, and now he’s not joking. “you’ve got the world’s most expressive face. and also i love you. that helps.”

your breath catches.

and then, all at once, the tears come. hot, unexpected, falling down your cheeks faster than you can stop them.

gojo panics.

“hey—hey, no, baby, don’t cry—what’s wrong? is it too hot? did i do something? did i say something dumb again? is this about the marshmallows? i knew i should’ve used the heart ones—”

you shake your head, and now you’re really crying, tears slipping down your cheeks, nose scrunched, hands curled into the sleeves of his hoodie.

“satoru,” you croak out, half a laugh buried in a sob. “i’m crying because you love me.”

he stops. blinks at you. the world stills.

you sniffle. “you were being so stupid. and sweet. and you always know when something’s wrong and you try so hard to fix it, even if you don’t know how. and you just—i’m crying because you love me.”

his breath leaves him in a slow exhale, and something soft and stupid blooms behind his ribs.

“…of course i love you,” he says, voice gone quiet in the aftermath. “you’re my favorite person. of course i do.”you nod, like you already knew, like it still made you cry anyway.

he cups your cheeks gently, wipes at your tears with his thumbs, kisses your forehead, your cheeks, your nose. your eyelids. your chin. every bit of you he can reach, like he’s trying to kiss all the sad away.

“you don’t have to cry,” he whispers, grinning a little even as his eyes go glassy. “unless you want to. but if you do, i’m gonna keep kissing you every time. it’s the law.”

you laugh again—soft and wet and warm—and pull him down into your arms.

he buries his face in your neck, and you breathe in the smell of him, cotton and sugar and something stupidly comforting.

the tv keeps playing in the background. neither of you look at it.it’s a quiet kind of comfort. full of warmth and kisses and love you don’t have to earn.

he stays close, holding you like he never wants to let go.

and outside the window, the city moves on. but in this little corner of it, there is only warmth. you, and him, and the cocoa. and all the love in the world.

[softsunnyy]

let's take some time

Jack asks you to take a break when the relationship starts to go in the wrong direction. And you suffer, but at least you believe you're both experiencing the same thing… until you see videos of a party at a bar and start to believe it was always one-sided.

4,3k words.

angst, angst, angst, but happy ending. Reader is kinda the problem here tbh, but at the end of the day they're just two fools who don't know how to handle their feelings.

as always, poorly written.

when the words left his mouth, you exhaled, as if he'd punched you in the stomach, though it didn't really take you by surprise. Jack and you had been having problems for the past couple of weeks, with arguments that left the air tense and made you cry in your moments alone. The relationship seemed to be slipping through your fingers, and you didn't know how to get it back. How to get him back.

and you let the days go by, trying to maintain a positive attitude and not look for trouble, but everything seemed completely useless in the face of chaos, since any comment could turn against you, and your boyfriend had made that very clear. Jack was becoming more and more distant, distracted, and a pain in your chest tried to warn you of this, tried to make you feel uncomfortable or insecure, but you wanted to ignore it and believe in the love you have for him, and that's how you find yourself facing this situation.

“i think we should take a break. I don't think this is doing us any good,” he tells you, looking down, too hurt to meet your eyes, missing the way you blink rapidly, trying to push away the tears that are starting to form, while your throat aches and your hands clench into fists on your thighs, making your knuckles turn white.

you opened your mouth a couple of times, trying to start a sentence, but no sound came out, your mind clouded. The silence stretched for a couple of seconds, until he finally looked at you. His red, irritated eyes making you think for a moment that this might be hurting him too, and then you dared, you asked him the only question you could think of.

“are you sure of this?” “do you want this?” you wanted to ask him too, but you couldn't; you didn't know what to say, what to do. You didn't know if the right thing to do was to fight for his love or let him go. You're not even sure he feels the same way you do, even though you're looking into his eyes, like you've done a thousand times.

and he hesitates, he stops for a moment, and then in a very quiet, raspy voice he says, “yeah… i think it’s for the best.” And then the decision was made, because you would never do anything to make him uncomfortable, and if he wanted to take some time, you would give it to him, even if it hurt you deeply.

so he removes most of his things from your apartment—like some hoodies, his underwear, his shampoo, his toothbrush, and much of his essence—while you look at him with complete sadness, feeling like he’s also taking a part of your soul.

and he talks to you, tells you he’ll bring your things from his house, that you won’t have to worry about going there, but you don’t pay much attention, because you feel your body cramping, a constant, stabbing pain in your chest, and an emptiness in your stomach that makes you want to throw up your entire lunch.

when he leaves, you can't even cry, not right away, not even when he said goodbye at the door, giving you one last kiss as if it were a final goodbye, as if there were no way back. Instead, you can only stare at the wall, sitting on your couch, your head completely lost, your body too heavy.

it's like something has been ripped from inside you, as if something is missing and your heart wants to escape from your chest to find it. But physically, you remain there, sitting on that couch you chose together, unable to blink, unable to eat.

and when the days begin to pass, it's slow, everything moves too slowly. The house feels cold, the sky is always gray, the food is less appetizing, and your routine becomes more and more tedious. Your friends try to make you laugh, convince you to go out, to try to have fun, but you get bored quickly, you just wanna go back to your room and lie on your bed in the fetal position, crying yourself to sleep while you think about how he must be feeling.

you try to think it's mutual, that maybe he feels bad too and will soon regret this, but hours, days pass and you don't get a single text from him, a single call from his brothers, a single comment from his friends. And when you see them on the street, they give you a sad smile, as if you had broken up, as if there's no other option, and you can't return the gesture, so you just look at the ground and keep walking.

you wanna avoid him, forget everything related to him, but his face is all over the city, and you see him, on the way to college, on the way to work, on commercials, news, even food boxes, as if life were playing a trick on you, forcing you to see his huge smile all the time, while he enjoys doing what he loves, probably not caring about you as much as you do about him.

and you wanna leave, you wanna visit your family, go away for a month if necessary, but you wanna disappear from the city. So you wait, you do your best to finish your classes, to wait until you can request time off from work, and then you take them with you as far away as you can, trying not to cry, not to pick up your phone, not to watch television.

and the first two days worked; you're laughing, watching the stupid things the people you love do just to see you smile; and life feels fresher, your shoulders don't hurt as much, the puffiness under your eyes is going down... until that saturday night comes, when everyone has gone to sleep and you decide to turn on your phone. Your finger slides across the screen, traveling between apps, answering messages, until you open instagram and see that one of your friends posted a close friends story. And something inside you told you not to look at it, to close everything and go to sleep, but you dared anyway. Then you saw a video. It was a party, at a bar you recognized perfectly. And there's music playing in the background, so you don't hear much, but you recognize Trevor, laughing too loudly while elbowing someone. The camera pans a little, and then you see him.

Jack.

wearing a white shirt, with the top three buttons undone, sweat pouring from his skin, and a huge grin on his face. You can tell from his eyes that he's drunk, and from the way they laugh, you know he's really having fun.

you don't know when you stopped breathing, but you realized it by the sharp pain in your chest. Your hand shook, and the image was frozen, still in the calm, happy expression of the one who's supposedly still your boyfriend. And now you wanna throw up, you want to stop watching, but your eyes see the time, and you realize the video was uploaded a couple of minutes ago.

he's partying. That's what you thought, over and over again.

and you couldn't stop yourself. You watched every video, every photo, every update from the friends you had in common, seeing the whole group partying, posting captions like "he's backk," "mission take the dog out: done," while you felt the annoyance taking over.

you spent weeks crying, not knowing how to move forward, clinging to the things he left behind in your home, like a false promise that he'd come back, that this wasn't over. You spent nights remembering that last kiss, thinking about the thousands of things you wish you'd done differently. God, you even had to leave home, taking your family and going to the furthest place your savings would allow to get him out of your head.

and he's celebrating.

your throat closes, and you try to forget him, to go to sleep as if nothing had happened, but nightmares attack you, and you spend the night tossing and turning on your mattress, with different images of Jack forgetting you, changing you, leaving forever while you rot in that rented house.

now, what you don't know is Jack's perspective, because you don't talk, because you're trying to keep the no-contact agreement, so you miss out on the hell he's been living. He's been like a zombie for weeks, and arguing with everyone, friends, brothers, even his parents. Crying every night as he thinks about the things he would have done differently; remembering the stupid things he said to you in every argument, and replaying the images of how your light faded because of him, like he's a poison destined to kill you from the inside out. 

rejecting invitations, messages, calls. Getting up only to go play hockey, then going back home and sinking deeper into his misery, while he stares at the hoodie he never returned to you, hoping you won't notice, or that you won't say anything about it. It was his favorite, because it used to be your favorite. And it still smells of you, of your perfume that he bought you so many times before it ran out. Of your perfume that he bought again almost by instinct, and that now rests on his sink. Perfume he used to spray on the pillow, so he could sleep imagining you were still there.

nights convincing himself he made the best decision, because he couldn't bear to see you so sad because of him, while he breaks a little more with each passing day, feeling like all the fun and light in his life disappeared along with you, as if you owned his soul.

and his friends worry. Can you blame them? Jack used to be a party animal; fun, always there when you wanted to have fun, the best guest at any party, and that didn't stop when you started dating, but it has stopped now that you're not together, and they can firmly say they've never seen him so... lost. So out of his mind.

and they don't know what to do. They don't tell him about the times they've seen you, the things they've heard, they just try to get him to come out, but nothing works, until one day they all arrive together, opening the door to his house, turning on every light, settling in like they´re allowed. And Trevor and Alex drag him out of his bed, pulling at his feet as he tries to kick them, his voice hoarse from crying, but feeling so weak that fighting was useless.

together, they choose clothes, a cologne (your perfume, by accident), and force him to brush his teeth before leaving, leaving him with no other choice.

unfortunately, they take him to that bar, where you two went thousands of times to see bands play, to relax, to forget everything. And now each of those memories has come flooding back, making him feel dizzy, making his stomach turn, and unconsciously trying to walk back to the exit, only to be stopped by his friends. So he ends up drinking again and again, forgetting each drink, feeling lighter and dizzier.

he laughs at stupid things, and Trevor´s the best to keep him laughing. He sees phones near him, recording, taking photos, but he feels like he's floating, completely lost, sweaty, and forgetting for a moment everything that's happened in the last few weeks, as if it never happened.

and the hours pass, he keeps drinking, keeps having fun, and gets closer and closer to everything going dark. Then that song comes on, the one that made you laugh, the one you mocked so many times, claiming that '80s artists would be embarrassed, but you still danced with excitement, as if youth were eternal, as if euphoria were the only thing running through your veins, making him feel full of energy, even if it was the last song, at 2, 3, 5 in the morning. And then he begins to discreetly distance himself from his group, taking advantage of the alcohol to make them lose sight of him until he leaves the bar, holding onto the wall with difficulty, until he gets a little farther away from the music, taking out his phone and quickly dialing the number he couldn't forget even if he were almost passed out from drunkenness.

your phone vibrated, once, twice, three times, until you poked your head out from under the covers, your nose stuffed, your eyes swollen, and your throat destroyed, picking up your phone in irritation and answering it without first looking at who was calling.

“hello?” you asked, your voice raspy and making you wince. In the background, you could hear a bit of music, voices, and you frowned, confused, about to look at who was calling you.

“that song is playing.” You recognized his voice immediately, though the words came out too relaxed, almost incomprehensible. You sat up in your bed immediately, suddenly on alert.

“Jack?” you asked, though you didn't need confirmation. Still, he hummed, affirming it.

“that song is playing, the one that says…” and he began to sing, very poorly, slurring his words, getting the lyrics wrong too often. You were perplexed, not knowing how to interrupt him. “You hate that song,” he said when he finished.

“Jack, why are you calling me?” you asked, feeling the ache in your heart. One of your hands played with your blankets, trying to maintain your composure, even though hearing his voice broke you even more.

“i needed to tell you… because you’re not here,” he said, as if it were the most normal thing in the universe. As if he wasn’t calling his girlfriend, with whom he took some time, at 5 in the morning.

“yeah, well, i think we both know why,” you replied, harsher than you intended. And for a moment he remembers, remembers everything, so he falls silent, trying to think of a response. Suddenly more sober than he'd been all night.

“shit, i'm sorry, i don't know what i was thinking,” he said, completely remorseful, closing his eyes as he ran a hand over his face in frustration.

“it´s fine, now, since you remembered, go on having fun now that you're a free man.” And you hung up, knowing your voice had cracked on the last words; letting him go, when it was what you feared most. You began to sob, unable to stop yourself, throwing your phone to the other end of the bed, curling into a ball as your body shook violently, as if you'd ripped off the band-aid, and with it, something in your heart.

Jack, for his part, remained silent for a few seconds, the phone still pressed to his ear, but not hearing anything. And he tried to think, even in his state. He tried to reason, to guess what you were referring to, and then he remembered the photos, the videos. He thought about how everything must have looked, how you must have felt, and he wanted to throw up, feeling guilty, dirty, even though he hadn't done anything to anyone, but knowing that his actions had caused you some kind of harm.

and that night, he tried to go to your house, to look for you, to apologize in person, but you didn't open the door, so he ended up falling asleep outside your door, until one of your neighbors woke him up in the morning; a kind woman who always looked at you two with nostalgia, but now looked at him with pity. She told him you had gone on a trip, and told him when you would be back.

so he waited, day and night, trying to look presentable, but failing every night when he looked you up on social media again, or when he opened his gallery again and found all the photos, the videos.

he found himself replaying that nearly two-minute video of you over and over again; of you putting bows in his hair while you shared one of your precious bits of gossip, not realizing he was recording you until you looked down, blushing, laughing, and accusing him of having evidence against you, as if you were committing the biggest crime.

and he would unconsciously smile, seeing your big smile, your displays of affection, your little things that make you so special, and then he would fall back into that spiral of anguish, of guilt, knowing he had ruined everything by asking for that time; letting you go, as if he were giving up on the relationship.

when he felt like this, so sad, so lost, he always turned to you, to your arms, to your love, because you´re his light, his sun, the person who brought him back down to earth and reminded him that it's okay to make mistakes, to doubt, to want to do things differently, but that he shouldn't let himself be consumed by the "what ifs"; using his doubts as motivation to make positive changes, to stop falling and start climbing, even if it was at a slow pace. You had always been there to hold him, to take his hand and show him that he wasn't alone. But this time... this time you couldn't help him, because you both let go of each other's hands. And Jack doesn't know what to do.

for your part, your vacation was ruined, with nightmares every day, but trying to put on an act in front of your family; using all your energy to look fine in front of them, and being completely destroyed when everyone went to sleep. So exhausted that afterward it was almost impossible to move, every muscle feeling tense, hurting like shit.

and you're afraid to go back, to face reality, but the date is getting closer and you know it's time, so you pack your things, sighing heavily and returning to your apartment, which you know will be cold, lifeless, with his hoodies folded on your bed, as if waiting for you, without his scent, without his warmth.

the surprise comes when you arrive and a figure is waiting for you in front of your door, hands in the pockets of his jacket, looking down, and wearing a cap over his hair, which is longer than the last time. He seems to sense your footsteps, so he raises his head and meets your eyes, which are wide open.

“Jack…” you whispered, in disbelief, walking slower and slower, as if he might vanish when you finish approaching. And he waited for you, not coming closer, afraid that you might run away from him after all. “What are you doing here?” he could hear how tired you were in your voice, even though your eyes still had a bit of their usual sparkle.

“i think we need to figure some things out,” he replied, seeing you frown, confused. Still, you let him in. And he moves with uncertainty as if it were his first time there.

“sit, i just wanna grab a bottle of water,” you instructed, leaving your suitcase by the entrance and starting to walk toward the kitchen. “Do you want anything?” you asked, trying to sound normal, even though your heart was pounding, about to burst out of your chest.

“no, thanks,” he replied, distracted, looking around, noticing that you hadn’t taken down the pictures of the two of you, and paying special attention to one of his favorite photos; one from when you were 15 and you went to see one of his games for the first time. He still remembers how all his friends spent weeks teasing him about how nervous he was, but it was all worth it when you kissed his cheek, congratulating him on his goal. God, his brain had stopped working at that moment.

when you returned to the living room with your water bottle in hand, you found him looking at the photos, and something inside you ached too much, so you decided to speak as you went to sit down, far enough away from him to contain your urge to jump up and hug him.

“what do you wanna talk about?” your voice pulled him from his thoughts, and, slightly blushing, he went to sit down, all too aware of the distance between your bodies.

“i made a mistake,” he said bluntly, impatiently, watching your eyebrows rise, and missing the way your heart skipped a beat, as if he had just said the magic words.

“what do you mean?” you asked, in a low, weak tone, as you opened your bottle so you could take a sip; your throat suddenly dry.

“i thought i was doing the right thing by letting you go,” he cleared his throat, but still didn’t stop looking into your eyes. “But losing you has been really hard, and i hate it.”

“it didn’t seem like it,” you commented, with some venom in your voice, remembering that party where you saw him alive, in his element. “I saw you laughing, celebrating, and our friends saying they were ‘bringing you back,’ as if our relationship had completely turned you off.”

“it wasn’t like that,” he interrupted, frowning, almost offended. “They were, but because i was..." he paused for a moment, trying to find the words "i stopped talking to them, i cried every day, i missed you too much. And they came that night, all together, picked me up, and took me with them.”

“to that bar.”

“to that bar,” he affirmed. “They had no idea, and i wasn't gonna ruin their night, so i decided my best option was to drink and drink until i could let loose and enjoy myself for at least a couple of hours,” he explained, but he still saw some doubt in your eyes. “I know that when you met me, i liked to have fun, maybe too much, but i didn't go to that bar looking for trouble, or an adventure, or whatever you think happened,” he said, trying to keep his voice soft, so as not to turn this into an argument. “God, i even called you. I got away from them and called you when that song came on.”

“it's a terrible song,” you commented, still weak, and after being silent for a few seconds, processing his words, taking another sip of water. And you saw him smile a little, relaxing his shoulders.

“it is, but i needed you to hear it,” he sighed. “For a moment i forgot everything that had happened, and i thought it would be the same as always, that you would answer me, that you would laugh…” he tried to get a little closer, regretting it when he saw you tense up. “But that didn’t happen, and when i listened to you, when i understood that you were hurt and believing something that wasn’t that way… i came here.”

“you what?” you choked on the water, looking at him with a frown, but surprised. “It was around 5 in the morning, Jack, something could have happened to you.”

“i know, but i stayed here, and in the morning mrs. Winnicott told me you had gone with your family, and that you would be back today,” he explained.

“so you just came to my apartment to try to win me back,” you said, though there was no venom behind your words and he just shrugged.

“did it work?” he asked, hopeful.

you were silent for a couple of seconds, considering everything. You stopped looking at him, and instead looked at your hands. He waited patiently, feeling his heart pounding like never before, completely terrified at the thought of losing you.

“there are things we need to work on, Jack, you know that, right?” you asked, looking at him again, seeing him nod. “We can't go back to the way we were, because i don't think i can stand more days of just arguing with you. Not again,” you continued, and he listened, really listened. “I want my boyfriend back, but i need you to promise me that we're gonna try, really try.”

“we'll make it work, i promise,” he replied without hesitation, reaching out to take your hand. This time you didn't stop him.

and feeling his warmth broke you, so you threw yourself into his arms, holding him as tightly as you'd ever had before, listening to him begin to sob, his face buried in your neck, his hands clinging to you, as if you could disappear at any moment.

there are still so many things left to say, so many boundaries to set, but for now you just enjoy the feel of his body against yours, like that 16-year-old Jack, who curled up on you when he felt he was failing, or that 17-year-old Jack who threw himself at you when he knew his dream was about to come true and he could take you with him.

you missed him, you missed him so much that you don't wanna let go, you can't, and you hold onto him with the same intensity, your tears running down your cheeks, but with a smile so huge it lit up his world once again.

it wasn't perfect. And you're young, you're gonna make mistakes, you're gonna cross boundaries, you're gonna get to know each other a little better. But right now, there's only one thing you're both clear about: you don't want to separate again. Not when you've both already found your home in each other's arms.

you're the end game; you just have to learn to live with whatever that means and comes with.

but you'd do anything, just for him.

[rockwoodchevy]

Pneumonia

Jackson!Joel x F!Reader

summary: you're feeling icky today but Joel has patrol. unfortunately, it's more serious than either of you thought.

word count: 3.1k

warnings: illness, fainting

a/n: hi everyone! it's been a hot minute since I posted anything so here is a little thing I worked on between work. let me know what you all think! enjoy!

__________________________________________________

“Joel, please don’t go out today.” You ask, sniffling to yourself. 

You know that you’ve been feeling a bit under the weather recently, chest feeling heavy and thick with something that you cannot quite put your finger on. The world seems dizzying almost, weighed down by something you can’t quite place your finger on. The thought of being alone right now makes you anxious, especially when you don’t know exactly what is wrong.

”You know that I have to. Town’s getting bigger by the month and we need people out on patrol.”

”Just this once? I’m just… feeling down in the dumps right now.”

Joel turned to look at you sitting in the bed. He noticed that you looked a bit pale recently and could hear the slight sniffles you were releasing, but he talked it up to you having a small cold. He would be back in about 12 hours so he wasn’t too worried.

”I have’ta go, honey. I won’t be gone long. Plus, Ellie will be here to keep you company. I’ll ask her to stick around for a while.”

”Please, Joel? I really don’t… I just think something is wrong with me.”

”I probably just have a bug, I know something has been going around lately in town. Just try and sleep it off, maybe Maria has something for you to take. I’m sorry but I gotta go.”  

Joel places a quick kiss to your forehead, eyebrows furrowing when he realizes that you are a bit warm. He decides to shrug it off as the small illness some people in town are fighting right now, straightening back up. 

“I’ll be back later tonight. Just… rest, alright?” 

You’re too fatigued to continue arguing with him. You nod your head, resigning from the conversation. He dips his head at you one time, grabbing his bag and heading out the door.

”Love ya, hon!” He yells from downstairs. 

You’re too tired to yell anything back, laying back in your spot and throwing the blanket off of your body. You feel like you’ve already sweat through the sheets and your stomach rolls and turns. Bless him for putting the garbage can in here, you think to yourself as you lean over the side of the bed, feeling like the breakfast you forced down this morning was coming back up for an encore. To your dismay, nothing comes up and your stomach continues to feel the same way it did a few moments ago. Throwing yourself on your back in your spot again with an arm tossed over your eyes, you drift off to sleep praying to whoever is out there that Joel’s patrol shift flies by.

____________________________________

You think you’re dreaming still, but you can hear a voice calling out your name. Blinking a bit, your vision clears and you see Ellie sitting on Joel’s side of the bed, a concerned look on her face.

”Damn, and I thought that Joel slept like the dead.” She said, quietly.

”Sorry, El,” you croaked out to her, sitting up. “Just not feeling too hot today.”

“That’s what Joel told me. Asked me to come and watch you for a bit.”

Once you were completely sat up, Ellie reached her out to your forehead, placing the back of her hand against it.

”He said you were warm but I didn’t think you were this warm.”

”I’m alright. Joel thinks I have that stupid bug going around right now.” You say, looking down at your hands in your lap. You hear Ellie say your name and you look back up at her.

”I don’t know about that, I’ve seen the people who have the bug and they aren’t close to as bad as you look.”

”Gee, thanks El.” You roll your eyes, turning to move out of the bed.

You stand even though it makes you feel slightly dizzy. Stretching out your body, you turn back to Ellie who is tracking your every movement.

”I hope you didn’t have to cancel any plans just to come and babysit me today.” 

“Nah,” Ellie stands from her spot. “Was just gonna go and see the movie they were playing today. Guess it's a new one that someone found while on patrol or something.”

Now you felt bad that Ellie had to change her plans just to come and take care of you. Shaking your head, you move for the dresser.

”No way, Jose. I’m taking you to watch that movie.” The sentence barely finishes coming out of your mouth before a cough attack happens. 

“I don’t think that is a good idea, dude, you look like walking death.”

You turn towards her, a look of determination on your face. “Absolutely not, we are going to see that movie if it kills me.”

Ellie rolls her eyes but gives in. She knows that if you are able to fight Joel hard enough for him to give in, then she has no shot against you. She nods, throwing her hands up.

”Alright, alright. I’ll meet you downstairs.”

________________________________

The winter air outside feels like Heaven against your skin, which you know is still sweaty regardless of how cold it is outside. Ellie and yourself are walking side by side as you approach the town center where the movie will be playing tonight. She looks at you warily, worried about your well-being.

”You sure about this? We can always just stay at your place, play a game or make fun of Joel or something.”

You laugh slightly but that turns into a full blown coughing attack. “Yeah, I’m sure. I feel fine, actually.” 

That was a big ol’ lie. 

Ellie nods as you both enter the hall. She searches for someone, you aren’t sure who, but her eyes brighten a bit once she sees them. 

“I’ll be right over there if you need me!” She points as she runs off in the opposite direction. You nod to no one, moving to the back of the room to stay out of the way of everybody.

The movie, apparently something called ‘Angels in the Outfield’, plays for a little while before you see someone walking over to you in your peripheral vision. Turning your head, you see Tommy heading your direction. You smile at him slightly, but his mouth is downturned as he approaches you.

”Whatr’ya doing here, huh?” He says, his arms crossed over her chest. “Joel said you weren’t feelin’ too hot.”

”I’m fine,” You say back, though you can tell he knows that you’re lying. “Just a little bug. He had poor Ellie cancel her plans just to watch me while he was gone but I couldn’t let her do that so I brought her here to see the movie.”

”You sure about that? You look like death.” He moves a hand towards your forehead but you move before he can touch your skin.

”Why does everyone keep saying that? I’m alright! Peachy actually. It’s just a little warm in here is all.” You respond, rolling your aching shoulders back. 

Tommy gives you an odd look. You scrunch your eyebrows at him. “What?” You question.

”Warm? In here?” 

“Yeah,” a look on your face like he said something ridiculous. “I’m sweatin’ like a whore in church.”

He says your name, resting a hand on your shoulder. You raise an eyebrow at him.

”The heatin’ in here broke 4 days ago. It’s, like, 65 degrees in here.”

Your stomach flips again like it did earlier today. How could that be? You’ve been sweating for a while now, you figured maybe the people in here were still cold from the outside air since they all had their coats and jackets on still. You’re confused suddenly, almost a panicked feeling running through your body. You look at Tommy, placing a hand on the arm that is still attached to your shoulder. 

“Tommy, I don’t feel so good.” You tell him, the room spinning slightly.

He looks extremely worried now, placing his arm around your shoulder. He begins to lead you towards someone else in the hall.

”We should get you to the infirmary. Let’s go get Maria, huh?”

His voice sounds a bit far away and your vision tunnels before it blacks out. You don’t feel your knees give out as your body collapses to the floor, your head barely missing the ground as Tommy goes down with you. Tommy yells out for help from anyone, also yelling for both Maria and Ellie as he keeps your head up, lightly tapping your cheeks to see if you’ll come to. A few moments pass before both Maria and Ellie are around your body, some other citizens now on the ground trying to help in any way they can. 

_____________________________________

By the time you come to, you’re laying on a tiny cot in a small room that smells like antiseptic. You take a deep breath, moving to rub your eyes. You hear your name and move your head to see both Maria and Ellie, Ellie now standing over you, your hand in hers and Maria still in her seat. 

“I’m so sorry, I should have made us stay at your house! That was such a bad idea, oh Christ, Joel is gonna be SO mad at me-“ Ellie practically rants. You shush her, moving to sit up in the bed.

”Ellie, it’s alright. It was my idea anyways, so I’m the one that he’ll be upset with, not you.” You squeeze her hand. She smiles slightly at you. “What happened, anyway? I was talking to Tommy and now I’m waking up here.”

”You fainted. Tommy said he was bringing you here and then all of a sudden, you were on the ground. Doctor said you have some sort of lung thing that starts with a P but it doesn’t sound like it.”

”Pneumonia?” Both you and Maria say at the same time, though yours sounded more like a question and her more like an answer. You look over at her.

”It’s pneumonia. Doctor said they have some antibiotics you can take for a little while. You scared the shit out of us, you know?” Maria said.

”I’m sorry. I thought I just had that bug going around.” You groaned at your aching body. “Where’s Tommy?” 

Ellie and Maria looked at each other. 

“He’s riding out to get Joel. We tried to tell him that his shift would be over in a few hours but he said Joel would have a conniption fit if he found out after he got back. He left about half an hour ago so it may be a little bit until they get back.” Maria told you, standing and grabbing a bottle of water off the floor to give to you. You took it gladly, drinking almost half of it in one go. ”Doctor said you’re good to go once you feel like it. You wanna stay for a bit or head back to your place?” 

You shook your head. “I wanna go home. Be in my own bed. Plus I’m sure that will be the first place Joel will go so…”

Ellie and Maria both nod and help you up from the bed. They help to keep you steady as you all walk back to the house. Once you arrive, you sit on the couch in the living room, Ellie on the other side of you. She refused to let go of your hand the whole way home and still won’t now. Maria stands by the front window, searching for both Tommy and Joel. All three of you have casual conversation, save for your couple of coughing fits. About an hour later, as Maria is finishing up a story, she stops mid-sentence. You and Ellie both look at her weirdly before she starts again.

”Joel runs pretty fast for an old man.”

Your stomach flips one more time as you anticipate Joel’s arrival any minute. You can feel your heart rate spike, heat in your veins. Ellie’s thumb brushed back and forth on your hand for a second, catching your eye. She opened her mouth to say something, but the front door slammed open. All three of you looked towards it at once, Joel barreling in with Tommy not far behind him. Joel’s eyes fell in you, looking distressed and uneasy. 

“Baby…” A breath fell from his lips. 

You stood from your spot on the couch to approach him, but he was much faster. He swiftly made his way over to you, engulfing you in what you think may be the tightest hug in all of human history. Squished to his chest, cheek pressed up against his shoulder. His arms were wrapped around you as taut as they could. You could feel the quick rise and fall of his chest, his rapid heartbeat. 

“Let's leave them be.” You could hear Tommy say from the doorway. You could hear both Ellie and Maria move throughout the room to the exit, the door closing behind them. 

You both stood there for a minute, Joel holding you to him and you enjoying the comfort of his arms. You missed him, even for the less than twelve hours that he was gone. You missed him every second he wasn’t by your side, which unfortunately was more often than you would both like due to his patrol and you helping out with the cattle some days. Regardless, you both made what you could out of the time you both got together. It was incredible to see Joel’s growth since you both settled down in Jackson, how he began to open himself up more. He seemed less stressed all the time, his shoulders not carrying the weight that they used to. But you know that now that all three of you are settled, he feels like he needs to pull his weight in making sure the town stays safe. But you know him well, and you know that he probably feels beyond guilty right now knowing what happened to you after he left for patrol even though you practically begged for him to stay with you. 

“Joel-” You whispered into his shoulder.

“Don’t. Just… let me hold you a second longer.” He responded, voice tight in his chest. 

You obliged him, just standing in his grip. After a few more moments, his hold on you loosened and he pulled back a bit. His hands gripped your upper arms, holding you out in front of him. His eyes scanned over your body, searching for something you weren’t sure of. 

“I’m alright.” You mutter to him.

His eyes snap back up to yours, searching them like he’s looking for something specific. 

“What the fuck happened?” He asks, running one of his hands down to yours, bringing it to his lips and pressing short kisses to your knuckles. 

“I can’t believe you told Ellie to cancel her plans just to watch me.” You changed the subject, slightly upset with him.

“That isn’t what I asked, honey.” He responded, his lips still brushing against the skin on your hands. 

“I don’t care, why would y-”

You were cut off by his gruff voice saying your name in a tone, that tone where you know he isn’t playing. You sigh, moving away from him to sit down again. You take a breath to start explaining to him, but get cut off by a rough coughing fit. Joel immediately sat down next to you, a hand patting your back. After a quick moment, the coughing stops.

“I took Ellie to see the movie because I felt bad that her plans got cancelled because of me. Tommy saw me, which I don’t appreciate you just yapping to people that I’m not feeling well by the way, and pretty much wrung my ass because I was out. I told him that I was hot in the hall and he said something about the heating breaking and apparently it was super cold in there so he wanted to take me to the infirmary but I got dizzy and confused and all of a sudden, I was waking up at the infirmary. Doctor said something about me having pneumonia.”

Joel remained silent for a moment before you finally looked up at him. You almost couldn’t believe it, but his lower lash line was stinging with tears.

“...I left you alone while you had pneumonia?”

“Joel, I’m fine really. It isn’t that big of a deal really-”

“Yes, it is!” He exclaimed. “You practically begged me to stay home with you this morning and I just left!” He stood from his spot, a hand on his forehead.

“Doesn’t matter if you stayed home or not. If my body was going to give up on itself, it would have done it regardless of you being here or not.” You stand shakily. Joel immediately had his hands on you, making sure you were steady.

“But I still coulda been there. Christ, honey, do you know how far my heart dropped into my ass when I saw Tommy riding towards me like that? He wouldn’ta come all the way out there for any reason except you so I knew something happened to ya. Scared me shitless, know that?” 

“I’m sorry.” You apologize. “I really thought I was alright. Just… I don’t know, this morning I thought I just had anxiety about you leaving but I guess my head just knew something was wrong.”

“You ain’t got a reason to apologize. I’m the one that should be sorry for not listening to ya this morning. You never ask me to stay home like that so I shoulda knew there was something wrong.” He wrapped an arm around your shoulder, pulling you in towards him. He dropped a kiss to your forehead, causing you to smile. 

“Can’t we both just be sorry and call it a day? I missed you and my body feels like jello.”

You can hear him huff out a laugh, placing a second kiss to your forehead.

“Course we can. Not letting you go for a while. I already told Tommy he’ll have to find someone to take my next few patrol shifts because I am not lettin’ you out of my sight until I feel like you’re 100% recovered.” He moves your body back from him by your shoulders, his thumbs tracing small circles there as well. 

“Think we have ingredients for you to make me soup?” You ask him, trying to clear your throat. 

“Even if we don’t, I’ll raid this whole town to find some. Do anything for you.” He replies. 

And you just smile at him, because you know he’s not joking.

[jeonette]

knockout love — jjk

“I promise I’ll make it out alive, princess.”

pairing : jungkook x reader

genre : boxer!best friend, best friends to lovers au, literally felt like I was in a kdrama while writing this.

• also highkey recommend you guys to put on ‘so far away’ by agustd during the final fight scene and loop it until the end hehe… trust me xx

The apartment smelled faintly of coffee and dust, papers scattered like fallen leaves across the table. Bills. Tuition reminders. Rent notices. You rubbed your temple, staring at the numbers like they’d magically shrink if you glared hard enough.

The door clicked open behind you.

“Princess,” a familiar voice called — low, warm, teasing. “Still fighting with those bills? Or are they winning again?”

You glanced over your shoulder. Jeon Jungkook stood in the doorway, hair messy from training, hoodie half-zipped, gym bag slung carelessly over one shoulder. His knuckles were still wrapped in tape, fresh bruises blooming beneath the skin.

“Depends. Are you gonna spot me a billion dollars so I can wipe them all away?” you muttered, tossing your pen down with a sigh.

He grinned and stepped inside, kicking off his shoes. “A billion huh? You aiming low tonight.”

You rolled your eyes but couldn’t help the soft smile tugging at your lips. “What are you doing here so late? Shouldn’t you be home icing those hands of yours?”

He dropped onto the couch with a dramatic sigh, sprawling like he owned the place — like he always did. “Maybe I like being here better.”

That made your stomach twist in that stupid familiar way. You shoved the feeling down.

But then he looked at you — really looked — and the playful spark in his eyes dimmed.

“Y/N… I need to tell you something,” he said, sitting up, resting his elbows on his knees. His voice dropped low. Serious. “And you have to promise to let me finish. No interrupting.”

The shift in his tone made your heart skip. “Jungkook… what is it?”

“Promise me first.”

Your fingers curled around the edge of the table. Something cold settled in your chest. “Fine. I promise.”

He inhaled slowly. “I’ve been offered a fight.”

You blinked. Relief flickered for half a second. “That’s it? Kook, you fight all the time—”

“Not like this.” His gaze locked with yours, no teasing now. “It’s underground. The kind they don’t talk about. No rounds. No rules. No time limit. No referee. You fight until one guy can’t stand. Or until he doesn’t get up at all.”

Your blood ran cold. The pen slipped from your fingers, clattering onto the bills.

“What…?” you breathed.

“The payout is fifty million.” His voice was soft. Almost careful. “That’s enough to wipe everything. Your tuition. Your rent. You wouldn’t have to worry anymore. You could finish school. Get out of this crappy apartment. Start over.”

Your heart pounded painfully hard against your ribs. “And what about you? What happens to you if this goes wrong? If you lose—”

“I won’t.” His jaw tensed. “I can win this. You know I can.”

“You could die, Jungkook.” The words cracked from your throat before you could stop them. “Or end up broken. For what — me? You’re gonna risk your life because I can’t pay my bills?”

His brows drew together. Hurt flickered in his eyes. “It’s not because you can’t. It’s because you shouldn’t have to. You work two jobs, go to class all day, come home to this stress every night… alone.” His voice dropped to a rough whisper. “I can’t stand watching you wear yourself down like this. I can fix it.”

You blinked hard, heat stinging behind your eyes. “I don’t care about money, you idiot. I care about you.”

A tear slipped free. Before you could wipe it away, his hand was there — warm, gentle — cupping your cheek like you’d break if he touched too hard.

“Hey…” His thumb brushed the tear, gaze softening. “Don’t cry. Not for me.”

“Then don’t go,” you whispered. “Promise me you won’t do this.”

His lips curved, a small, sad smile. The kind he only ever showed you.

“I promise.” His forehead touched yours, breath warm on your skin. “I won’t do it. Not if it makes you hurt like this.”

You shut your eyes, breathing shaky, letting yourself believe him.

For a moment, the weight in your chest eased. Like the world was right again. Safe.

But deep down, something still twisted. Something unsettled. Like the calm before a storm.

—

It had been two weeks since Jungkook promised you he’d drop the underground fight.

And yet… something felt off.

“Late again, boxer boy?” you called as he stumbled through your apartment door, hoodie soaked with sweat, hair sticking to his forehead. “What’d you do — wrestle a bear on the way home?”

Jungkook grinned, tossing his bag onto the floor. “Please. The bear would’ve tapped out in the first round.”

You crossed your arms. “Seriously though… why so late? The gym closes at ten.”

He bent down to unlace his shoes, voice light. “Coach kept me back for extra work. Said I needed to tighten my form.”

“Uh-huh.” You squinted, walking over and grabbing his wrist gently. His knuckles were raw — scraped fresh, bleeding slightly.

“Looks like you tightened your face into someone’s fist.” You held his hand up. “Who did this?”

“Calm down, princess.” He smirked. “Just sparring. You know I can take a punch.”

“Yeah, but can your face?” you muttered, inspecting the bruise forming under his jaw. “If you get any uglier, I’m gonna have to find a new best friend.”

“Ouch.” He pressed a hand dramatically to his chest. “Betrayed by the only girl I trust.”

You snorted. “Like I’d trade you. Who else would carry my groceries and open every jar I own?”

He grinned. “Exactly. I’m irreplaceable.”

You fell quiet, eyes scanning his face — the sweat, the busted lip, the bruises that hadn’t been there this morning.

“Kook… You sure you’re not… training for something else?” you asked softly.

His smile flickered — just for a split second. But you caught it.

“Why would I lie to you?” he said easily, ruffling your hair like always. “I told you. I dropped that fight.”

“Mhm. You better have,” you muttered, swatting his hand away. “I swear, if I find out you’re doing something stupid—”

“You’ll what?” he grinned, inching closer. “Yell at me? Cry again? Guilt trip me with those sad pretty eyes?”

You glared, cheeks heating. “I’ll throw this entire shoe rack at your head.”

“Oooh. Scary.” He leaned down, eyes twinkling. “You’re cute when you’re threatening murder, princess.”

“Stop calling me that,” you grumbled, heart thudding.

“Why?” He smirked. “It suits you. My little princess.”

You shoved him lightly, trying not to smile. “Go shower. You smell like a wrestling mat.”

He laughed, grabbing his bag. “Anything for you, your highness.”

But as he disappeared into the bathroom, the knot in your chest tightened.

Because no matter how good his smile was… something in his eyes was hiding something.

And you weren’t stupid.

Something was coming.

—

“Don’t forget,” you called from the couch, flipping a page in your textbook, “you promised to be back by eight.”

Jungkook grinned, crouched by the door tying his laces. “Eight sharp. Swear on my life.”

“You better,” you muttered, glancing at him. “If you show up past eight I’m locking the door and you can sleep outside.”

He laughed under his breath but didn’t stand right away. Instead, he sat back on his heels, staring at the floor for a second too long.

You frowned. “Kook?”

He looked up fast — forcing that familiar crooked grin. “Nothing. Just tired.”

You eyed him suspiciously as he grabbed his bag, slinging it over his shoulder like usual… but his hand lingered on the doorknob.

He didn’t open it.

“Why are you just standing there like a weirdo?” you teased lightly, trying to ease the strange knot forming in your chest.

He turned to you, soft eyes flickering — the way they always did when he didn’t want to say something.

“You sure you’ll be okay here alone tonight?” he asked quietly.

You blinked. “What’s with you? You leave for practice all the time. Since when do you care if I’m fine for two hours?”

He chuckled — but it was hollow, forced. “Just asking, princess. You get lonely without me, don’t you?”

“In your dreams,” you muttered, cheeks warming. “Besides, you said you’d be back by eight. So no time for lonely.”

“Right…” His fingers curled slightly on the door handle. Still not opening it.

“Jungkook.” You sat up straight, narrowing your eyes. “Why are you acting so weird?”

He glanced at you — and for a flicker of a moment, you saw it. The doubt. The fear.

Then it was gone — buried under that usual teasing smirk.

“Guess I just don’t wanna leave my favourite girl yet.” He crossed the room, crouching beside the couch, resting his chin on your knee — like he used to when he wanted you to forgive him for something dumb.

“Stop looking at me like that, you idiot,” you grumbled, but your heart squeezed painfully tight. “You’ll miss practice if you keep wasting time here.”

“Maybe I don’t care.” His voice was soft.

You looked down at him. He stared up, gaze warm but strange — like he was memorising you.

“Jungkook…” you whispered.

He stood slowly. Ruffled your hair like always.

“Eight o’clock,” he said gently. “I’ll be back before you miss me.”

“You better,” you muttered. “Or I’m stealing your favourite hoodie and burning your stupid boxing gloves.”

He laughed, soft and quiet.

And finally — finally — he turned and left.

The door clicked shut.

The apartment was too quiet after that.

You tried reading. Couldn’t focus. Tried scrolling on your phone. Nothing stuck. Even Netflix couldn’t hold your attention — every few minutes your eyes flicked to the clock on the wall.

7:45pm.

7:58pm.

You smiled to yourself. “He’ll walk in any second now.”

But eight came and went.

8:15.

8:30.

You texted him: Still alive, boxer boy?

No reply.

You frowned, chewing your lip. Maybe coach kept him again.

9:00.

Still nothing.

A cold knot twisted in your stomach.

9:30.

You called.

No answer.

Okay… maybe he’s showering. Maybe he forgot his phone. Maybe—

9:45.

Panic now. Full-blown.

You called again. Voicemail.

“Jungkook, where the hell are you? You said eight. Call me back.”

You gripped your phone so tightly your knuckles ached. Something was wrong. You felt it — the way your skin prickled, your heartbeat kicked up, like some terrible storm was creeping close.

You bit your lip. One last call.

Jimin.

The phone rang. And rang.

Then, finally — “Hello?”

“Jimin.” Your voice cracked. “Where’s Jungkook? He’s not home. He’s not answering. You know where he is, right?”

Silence.

You swallowed. “Jimin, please. Tell me.”

A shaky breath on the other end.

“…Y/N.” He hesitated. “I thought… I thought he told you. The big fight’s tonight. The underground one. Warehouse 17. Outskirts. Nine p.m.”

The world stilled.

“No…” you whispered, vision blurring. “No, he promised. He said he wasn’t doing it…”

“I thought you knew. I thought he told you—”

The phone nearly slipped from your hand.

Jungkook. You liar. You promised.

You shot up, grabbing your coat, bag — hands shaking, breath short.

“Jimin—” your voice broke. “I’m coming. Stay there. Don’t let him start—”

“He’s already in the ring, Y/N.”

You didn’t wait. The door slammed behind you as you ran — heart hammering, throat tight — sprinting down the hall into the night.

—

The cold night air bit through your thin jacket as you stumbled toward the warehouse entrance. Your eyes were red and puffy from crying, cheeks stained with tears you hadn’t been strong enough to hold back.

“Y/N.” A steady voice caught your attention.

You looked up to see Jimin waiting patiently by the entrance, arms crossed, his usual calm presence anchoring the chaos inside you. To you, he was more than a friend — a brother who’d always been there when things got tough.

“Hey,” he said softly, stepping closer. “You okay?”

You shook your head, voice barely above a whisper. “No. I’m not. He shouldn’t be here.”

Jimin sighed but didn’t argue. Instead, he gently rested a hand on your shoulder. “I know. But he’s here. And I know he needs you.”

You let out a shaky breath and tried to pull yourself together, leaning on him as he guided you inside.

The warehouse was thick with tension — the smell of sweat, metal, and adrenaline hung heavy. The crowd roared in the distance, but your eyes locked on the center of the chaos.

There he was.

Jungkook, standing in the ring with his coach, his fists wrapped and bruised, eyes sharp but flickering with exhaustion.

Without hesitation, you pushed past the crowd and climbed up to the edge of the ring.

“Kook!” you shouted, voice breaking but fierce.

He looked up, startled, then relief and guilt washed over his face.

“What are you doing here?” he whispered, but you didn’t care.

“You promised,” you scolded softly, stepping closer so only he could hear. “You promised you wouldn’t do this.”

He swallowed hard, eyes darkening. “I had to. For you.”

Your heart clenched.

“You idiot,” you breathed.

Before you could say more, Jungkook reached up, fingers tracing your cheek with surprising tenderness. “I’m sorry. But I’m here now. And I’m not leaving until I win.”

You swallowed the lump in your throat, eyes locked on his.

Then, with a playful smirk, he whispered, “Now, come on — if you want me to win, you better cheer louder than anyone out there.”

You laughed through your tears, heart pounding.

“I’m not letting you off the hook, princess.”

He winked.

And for that moment, surrounded by the roaring crowd and the flashing lights, the world narrowed down to just the two of you — fierce, tangled, and full of everything you’d never dared to say out loud.

—

The backstage corridor was quiet except for the faint hum of the crowd beyond the walls. Flickering lights cast a soft glow, making everything feel fragile and suspended in time. You stood close to Jungkook, your fingers still trembling slightly from the rush of emotions by the ring.

He leaned casually against the wall, but you could see the tension in his jaw and the way his eyes darted away every time they met yours. For a moment, neither of you spoke.

“So,” you said softly, breaking the silence, “you picked a hell of a night to get all mysterious on me.”

He cracked a small smile, one eyebrow quirking up. “You know me — I like to keep you guessing, princess.”

You rolled your eyes but your lips twitched. “That nickname again?”

“Can’t help it,” he teased, stepping closer, voice low. “You’re the only one who gets it.”

Your heart hammered in your chest, but you fought the urge to lean in. Instead, you kept your voice steady. “Why now, Jungkook? After all this time… why wait until right before you jump into something this dangerous to tell me?”

He looked down for a beat, fingers fiddling with the hem of his shirt, then back up, eyes soft but full of something like vulnerability. “Maybe I was scared. Scared I’d lose my nerve, or that telling you would change the easy way we have—”

“—The way we don’t have to say things out loud?” you finished for him, stepping closer. “Yeah, I get it.”

He nodded, swallowing hard. “But sitting here, with you standing right in front of me, knowing this might be the last time for a while… I couldn’t keep it in.”

Your breath caught. “And what exactly couldn’t you keep in?”

He took a shaky breath, voice barely above a whisper as he stepped closer, eyes locked on yours with an intensity that made your heart seize.

“Y/N… I’ve been carrying this inside me for so long… pretending it was just friendship, pretending I was fine with that.” His voice cracked, vulnerability breaking through the usual calm. “But every time I saw you, every time I heard your laugh, felt your hand brush mine… it wasn’t enough. It never was.”

He swallowed hard, pain flickering behind his eyes. “I’ve been scared—scared to admit it, scared of what it would mean if I said it out loud. But I can’t hide it anymore.”

A pause. His breath hitched.

“I like you. More than a friend. More than I ever dared to hope. I’ve been falling for you — every single day — and it terrifies me how much I want you to feel the same.”

The silence hung thick, your breath catching in your throat.

Your hands trembled as you reached up, cupping his face. Tears spilled down your cheeks, but a shaky smile broke through your fear.

“You idiot,” you whispered, voice cracking. “You really are… but I’ve waited for you to say that for so long.”

You laughed softly through your tears, the tension in your chest melting just a little.

“I thought you’d never say it. I thought you were scared too.”

He brushed a stray tear from your cheek, his own eyes glistening now. “I was. Still am. But I needed you to know — before I walked into that fight.”

You leaned in, your forehead resting against his, breath mingling.

“You promise you’ll come back?” you said, voice barely above a whisper.

“Of course,” he said, playful light returning. “Hey, if I make it out alive, let me take you out on a proper date.”

You smiled through your tears, poking his chest lightly. “You better win. Or I’m crashing that fight myself.”

He laughed, pulling you into a gentle hug. “Deal. And princess?”

“Yeah?”

“I’m not just fighting for the money anymore.”

Your heart squeezed tight as he pulled back, eyes shining with quiet determination.

“For you.”

—

The warehouse vibrated with noise — stomping feet, wild cheers, curses echoing off the iron walls. Smoke curled through the air, and the lights above the cage flickered harsh and cold.

You stood frozen near the edge of the ring, knuckles white around the metal bars, your heart hammering so loud it drowned out the crowd.

Jimin was right behind you, quiet but firm, his hand on your arm. “Stay still,” he murmured. “Watch him. He can handle this.”

But your eyes never left Jungkook.

He stood in the cage — alone — his fists clenched, his chest rising and falling slow, steady.

Across from him was a mountain of a man, bigger, heavier, brutal looking, grinning like he’d already won.

Jungkook licked his cracked lip, shaking out his arms, gaze steady, jaw tight.

I have to win. For her.

The bell clanged.

The crowd exploded.

They circled each other — slow at first, tension stretching tight as a wire. Jungkook feinted left, testing, dodging the first wild swing.

He’s fast… but that guy’s heavy. One wrong step…

A swing missed. Another grazed his arm. Jungkook ducked, countered — sharp jab to the ribs — the man grunted but grinned wider.

The crowd roared.

Suddenly — too fast — the fighter lunged, driving his shoulder into Jungkook’s chest.

The air cracked.

Jungkook staggered back, ribs screaming, the cage rattling behind him. But before he could recover—

BAM.

A brutal hook crashed into his jaw.

His head snapped sideways, sweat flying. His vision exploded in white.

BAM. Another punch — this time to the gut — folding him like paper.

“Jungkook!” you screamed, panic raw in your throat.

He stumbled, legs buckling — and then fell.

Face down. Hard.

The crowd gasped… then cheered wildly.

“STAY DOWN!” they chanted.

“STAY DOWN!”

Your body lunged forward, but Jimin caught you, wrapping both arms around your waist, holding you tight. “No — no, Y/N — wait. He’s not done. He’s not out. Watch.”

Your hands trembled violently. Your vision blurred. “Jimin — he’s not moving—”

“He’s got this,” Jimin said fiercely. “Just watch him.”

On the mat, Jungkook groaned, chest heaving, head spinning. Blood in his mouth. Lights flickering. His body screamed at him to stay down.

But then…

Through the haze — he saw you.

Your face — beautiful, tear-streaked, full of fear — pressed to the cage, crying his name.

His heart clenched so tight it burned.

No. Not in front of her. Not like this.

He pushed against the mat. Trembling. Slow.

Up to his knees. Then one foot. Then the other.

The crowd roared again — shock, excitement, disbelief.

His vision swam, blurry and broken — until he focused.

On you.

And only you.

A shadow moved beside him. The fighter.

The man chuckled darkly, leaning in close, sneering in his ear.

“That little princess yours?” the man mocked lowly. “Sweet. Maybe I’ll take her out when you’re done here. Maybe I’ll show her what a real man—”

Something in Jungkook snapped.

He turned — slow, dangerous — eyes dark as midnight.

And he smiled.

A low, wicked smile.

The fighter barely had time to flinch.

Jungkook exploded forward.

Fist to his jaw — CRACK.

Knee to the gut — THUD.

Left hook — blood sprayed.

The man stumbled, stunned — but Jungkook was already on him.

For her.

Another punch — vicious, wild, merciless.

For every tear she cried.

A jab to the face — teeth breaking.

For every night she struggled alone.

A savage blow to the temple — the man dropped to one knee.

And then — the last punch — an earth-shattering uppercut that lifted the man clean off the ground before he crashed down, flat, unmoving.

The crowd froze — silent.

Then a thunderous, deafening roar.

But Jungkook didn’t hear it.

He stood over the broken man, chest heaving, eyes blazing — staring straight at you.

At his girl.

The reason he rose. The reason he fought.

And the reason he would never lose.

“AND THE WINNER… BLUE CORNER!!”

The announcer’s voice boomed through the speakers, barely heard over the eruption of the crowd — a thunderous wave of cheers that shook the metal beams of the warehouse.

Jungkook stood in the center of the ring — chest rising and falling in deep, ragged pulls, sweat and blood dripping from his jaw, fists still clenched by his sides.

But his eyes — God, his eyes — were on you.

Locked. Unmoving. Like the crowd, the lights, the screaming world around him didn’t even exist.

The referee grabbed his wrist and yanked it up high.

“BLUE WINS!!!”

The crowd roared even louder. Stomping feet. Fists pounding the rails. Cameras flashing in frantic bursts.

You gasped, a messy sound of relief and joy breaking from your throat as your knees gave out — but Jimin caught you, holding you steady.

“He did it,” Jimin breathed beside you, grinning wide. “He really did it.”

You shook him off, stumbling toward the ring. “Jimin — boost me — I have to—”

He laughed softly and gave you a lift up onto the apron, pushing you gently under the ropes. “Go get him, princess.”

You scrambled inside — breathless, wild — heart hammering against your ribs.

And then… you froze.

The noise faded into a dull hum.

The air thickened — slow, heavy — like every second was stretching into eternity.

There he was.

Jungkook.

Standing tall under the harsh lights, battered, bruised — beautiful. His chest rose slow, steady. His hair damp, clinging to his forehead. Blood on his lip. But his gaze — soft and burning — was only for you.

Neither of you moved.

Just staring.

Drinking each other in.

Like a scene pulled straight from a movie — pure, slow, fragile.

A corner of his bruised mouth lifted.

“See, princess?” His voice was rough, broken, but teasing. “Told you I’d make it out alive.”

Your breath hitched.

Tears filled your eyes — falling warm and fast — and before another word could escape him, you ran.

Straight into his arms.

He caught you instantly, strong and trembling, pulling you tight against his chest as your arms flew around his neck.

You clung to him like life itself, sobbing into his shoulder — messy, gasping, relieved sobs. Your whole body shook.

“You stupid—stupid—idiot!” you cried into his neck. “Why did you do this to me?! You scared the hell out of me— I thought— I thought I’d lose you—”

His arms tightened around you, hard and warm. He dropped his head into your hair, breathing in like he needed you to stay upright.

“Shhh… I’m here,” he murmured. “I’m here, baby. I’m right here.”

And slowly, knees weak, the two of you sank — collapsed — onto the mat, tangled together in the middle of the ring, the roar of the crowd swelling all around.

Your faces stayed close — breathing, shaking — forehead to forehead.

Jungkook cupped your cheek gently, brushing away your tears with the softest touch.

“I love you,” he breathed, voice trembling, eyes wet. “I love you, Y/N. I fought for you. I lived for you.”

Your chest broke open with a shaky, laughing sob. “You absolute idiot… you could’ve told me that before nearly dying, you know…”

He smiled, soft and ruined. “Would’ve been less dramatic.”

And before you could say more, he kissed you — hard, slow, desperate — like this was the only moment in the world that mattered.

The crowd exploded into wild cheers.

Cameras flashed.

Jimin whistled from the side, grinning wide as he cupped his hands around his mouth:

“YEAH! ABOUT TIME! LET’S HEAR IT FOR THEM!!”

The warehouse shook with the sound — whistles, shouts, stomping feet — but none of it touched you.

Only him.

Jungkook pulled back, panting softly, thumb tracing your jaw, eyes drinking you in like he was afraid to blink.

“Hey…” he whispered, teasing, raw. “Told you I’d win. For you.”

You laughed through your tears, leaning in, pressing your nose to his.

“I hate you,” you murmured, breathless. “But I love you more.”

His smile was crooked, beautiful, full of every unspoken promise.

The world spun — lights, sound, chaos — but here, in the center of the storm, it was just you.

Just him.

And finally… everything was exactly where it belonged.

—

“…and that was the first time your dad ever kissed me. Right there. In the middle of the ring, bruised, bloody, and grinning like the world was ours,” you finished softly, eyes warm with the weight of old memories.

Your sixteen-year-old daughter sat cross-legged beside you on the couch, hands clutching a cushion to her chest, wide-eyed and grinning.

“No way,” she gasped. “You’re telling me Dad actually confessed in the middle of a fight? Like in some K-drama?!”

You laughed gently. “Exactly like a K-drama. Lights. Cameras. The whole crowd cheering. He waited until the most dangerous, ridiculous moment to tell me he loved me. Typical Jungkook.”

She groaned dramatically. “Ugh… so extra. I can’t believe you fell for that.”

“I couldn’t help it,” you teased, ruffling her hair. “He was impossible not to love.”

She giggled but hugged the cushion tighter, suddenly shy. “…He’s gonna do the same to Jae when he gets here, isn’t he?”

“Oh definitely.”

As if on cue — the sound of keys at the front door.

“I’m home, princesses!” Jungkook’s familiar, deep voice called as the door opened. He stepped inside, pulling off his work jacket, shaking his slightly messy hair. “Did I miss the storytelling session?”

“Just finished telling her about the ring kiss,” you smiled, tilting your head. “You drama king.”

Jungkook smirked, walking over to drop a kiss on your cheek. “Best confession ever, no regrets.”

“Gross,” your daughter muttered, face burning. “Please don’t start kissing again—”

The doorbell rang.

Jungkook’s brows lifted. “Is that him?”

Your daughter leapt to her feet. “Don’t—! Don’t be weird, Dad—please—”

Jungkook grinned wide and opened the door.

Standing awkwardly on the porch was Jae — hair neatly combed, holding a small bouquet of baby’s breath flowers.

“Uh… h-hi, Mr. Jeon. I’m Jae. N-Nice to meet you, sir,” he stammered, bowing politely.

Jungkook eyed him slowly, arms crossing. “Hmm. So you’re the one taking my daughter out tonight.”

Jae swallowed hard. “Y-Yes, sir.”

Your daughter tugged Jae’s arm with a groan. “Dad… stop. You’re scaring him—”

Jungkook leaned forward, eyes narrowing teasingly.

“You know the rules, right? Home by nine. No funny business. And if you make her cry—” he flashed a slow, dangerous grin— “I still remember how to throw a punch.”

Jae paled. “Yes sir! No funny business! Nine o’clock, sir!”

You bit your lip, smiling behind your hand as your daughter smacked Jungkook’s arm. “You’re embarrassing me to death—”

Jungkook chuckled, ruffling her hair. “Can’t help it, baby. First dates are serious.”

He looked over at the trembling kid in front of him, lightly chuckling before patting his shoulder.

“I’m just playing, kid. You guys have a good time tonight yeah? Take care of her.”

He chuckles, fist bumping the boy, now with a more relaxed look on his face.

“Have a good night princess, I love you, text me if you need anything.”

You watch your husband kiss your daughter on the head softly, your heart melting at the sight.

They headed out the door, Jae nervously glancing back until they were gone, the soft click of the door behind them.

Silence settled.

Warm. Familiar.

Jungkook sighed, sliding an arm around your waist, pulling you close to him as you leaned into his chest.

“First date already…” he murmured, pressing his lips into your hair. “Feels like yesterday I was dragging you into underground fights and confessing in the stupidest way possible.”

You chuckled, turning to look up at him. “Still the best confession I ever heard.”

“Still the best fight I ever won,” he whispered, eyes soft.

His thumb brushed gently along your jaw — and he leaned in, pressing a slow, quiet kiss to your lips.

“Worth every bruise,” he breathed against you.

“Worth every scar,” you whispered back, smiling.

And just like in the ring all those years ago…

Neither of you ever planned to stop fighting.

For this life.

For this love.

For each other.

a/n : okay highkey- why am I proud of myself for this…. also is it obvious I LOVEEEEE making jimin the matchmaker/the one that’s always their #1 supporter 😐 Anyways I hope you loved this one lovelies mwah mwah xx lmk what you think! 🥹

[dog-bimbo]

shiu n his sweet bimbo girlfriend part five 18+ only minors dni part 1 part 2 part 3 part 4 a/n based on this ask. thank you nonnie, i wanted a reason to continue this series.

you're in shiu's favourite dress, all ready and excited. he's had a bad day, he needs this. he needs to bury his face in your tits.

but there's one problem.

the new waitress at the bar is cute. not in a way that matters, just in a way that passes time. just a fleeting thought that'll never come back.

like ever.

not many people flirt with him anymore. maybe it's because he's older now, or maybe because he's intimidating.

but when they do, he always lets it play out. he didn’t chase it unless he was looking for a good fuck.

and also, you're here. so he has put a halt to everything.

his brain's scrambled at this point. he isn't even thinking before he speaks.

"you want the whiskey neat?" she asks, leaned over the table, flashing him a rather questionable grin.

he barely glances at her, then lets his gaze linger a little too long.

"yeah, neat’s good," he says, voice lower than necessary. "you’re good at reading people?"

"depends. am i right so far?" she giggles.

"yeah." he laughs, that's what lightened him up, truly.

not you, not that pretty dress, not your adamant resolve to get that stress out of his system.

you stiffen beside him, just a bit.

she's probably outspoken—

"and you—" she turns to you, takes your order politely and quickly, no gimmicks.

he leans back in the chair, completely oblivious to the fact that he's been kind of cheeky with the waitress. he forgets it though, he doesn't think well when he's this tired.

you don’t speak nor do you pout.

you just sit there with your pretty lips pressed together and your jaw tight. you don't want to be difficult, especially when you're boyfriend's this exhausted.

and then you do it—you let out that sigh. the one that says everything without saying anything.

he groans, runs a hand over his face. "oh, for fuck’s sake—"

you blink. wide eyed and confused, "wha—"

"don’t do this, baby. don’t make a thing out of nothing."

your voice is small, you're still confused. “i’m not—”

"you are," he snaps at you. "you think i didn’t see that face? i flirt back with someone clearly doing it for tips—"

you open your mouth again and he cuts you off, he's harsher now.

"you’re so fucking dumb sometimes, you know that?"

you flinch. it’s not the same. usually, when he calls you dumb, it's endearing. he's just being a tease.

because you know no one respects you as much as him.

but right now... he scoffs. he fucking scoffs. he goes twice as bitter too.

"you really think i’m the type to fuck around over a compliment? you think that low of me? or is this just some needy bullshit again?"

your stomach twists, it actually feels bad. you just sit there, the pretty dress you're wearing just for him suddenly feeling all wrong.

and when he finally lets you get a word in—"i didn’t mean it like that, shiu..."

he leans back, scoffs."you never do, baby. that’s the fucking problem."

and for the first time ever, you both drink in absolute silence. you're not rambling about something stupid that happened while you were on the clock and he's not even looking in your direction.

he mindlessly smokes. the next time the waitress came in with a new gimmick, he didn't give it a single thought.

you don’t talk on the way home. your silence is not the kind he can brush off with a hand on your thigh and a smirk.

you’re holding it in, barely.

and then, when he parks, it happens.

a tiny sob slips out, and suddenly it’s all coming up. big, fat tears rolling down your cheeks, you can't stay strong anymore.

“i’m sorry.”

your voice is broken, your hand covers your face like you’re ashamed to be crying at all.

“i didn’t mean to—i didn’t mean to ruin the night. i just…” you trail off, sniffing, wiping at your face in frustration.

he turns to you, jaw clenched, eyes dark—not angry. just… guilty.

"hey."

you shake your head, try to hide it, but he reaches over anyway, thumb brushing under your eye.he exhales slow, "don’t cry, sweetheart."

you flinch a little when he calls you that, it's a whiplash. "i was an asshole back there, i was just tired... not an excuse, i know."

"look at me."

you do.he just lifts you into his lap like it’s instinct.

you’re still crying, hands gripping his suit jacket now, hiccuping and shaky.

his arms circle you. “hey,” he says, voice low, gruff with guilt. “no more of that. c’mere.”

he presses your head into his neck, wraps a hand around the back of it. rubs slow circles over your spine.

you mumble something—he can’t even make it out.he kisses the top of your head, rests his chin there.

“you didn’t ruin anything,” he says, quieter now. “i did. and i'm so sorry..." he's never been this expressive before. he's actually sorry. you can feel him shaking a bit, he's nervous. he's holding onto you like you might leave him. for a while, that's how the both of you are. quiet. not tense. just... reflective.

your face is still pressed into his neck when he mutters, almost to himself, “can’t believe i made you cry in this dress..”

you sniff, “…what?”

he tilts his head a little, he’s trying to get a better look at your face.

*you know how fucking good you looked tonight? i'm a fucking jackass doll.”

you mumble, “stop it…” you let out a breathy giggle, oh you're so soft for him.

he smiles. you try to hide your face again but he doesn’t let you. he just tilts your chin up, “there’s that dumb little giggle i like.”

you whine, “it’s not dumb.”

“sure it is,” he murmurs, brushing a tear off your cheek. “but i love it. and i love you."

and somehow, just like that, you're back to your old self. a bit tired, a bit dizzy—not with need, but in a tired way. and when he kisses your forehead again, you feel even softer.

"you gotta say it back, baby." he pouts, just a bit. this time, he's needy. "i'll think about it."

you giggle yet again, it's like music to his ears.

and the next minute—he's got his seat pulled back, his hands wrapped around you, his cock pressed against your entrance.

"you still thinkin'?" he smirks, grinding just a bit against your entrance.

"quit teasing!" you whine and then, "fuck—" it's too sudden, it's too... it's too fucking good. he pistons his cock, his entire length stuffed in.

you think he's gonna quicken his thrust but...

he's maintaining this toe-curling, eye-rolling pace of his—it's deliberately slow.

intimate. his breaths are shallow, yours too. you grip your hands on his back, tight, not rough.

he latches his lips onto yours now, his hot mouth drives you wild. he tastes so bittersweet, you can swirl your tongue around his forever...

and when you reach your climax, you moan inside his mouth before pulling away, strings of saliva that's connecting your lips with his slowly snapping away.

you start showering him with breathy "i love you"'s and he's going crazy. but he doesn't give into the temptation of increasing his speed.

wrong time, wrong everything.

and when comes inside you, he's on fucking cloud nine. your confessions serenade his ears as he unloads his pent-up stress right inside you.

you can feel him softening up now, you can feel his shoulders dropping down, his chest rising and falling, his eyes droopy.

"i don't fucking deserve you."

the words are slightly slurred, rough and coarse, but it's laced with all the love he has for you.

[thatbuddie]

Hi!! 26 for the kingdon kiss roulette (A kiss while one or both parties are crying) 🫶

“Sweetheart, are you— Are you crying?”

“No,” she says, her voice strangled, a tear slowly running down her cheek.

She’s definitely crying.

“Baby…” His face is close to hers, so close that she has to cross her eyes a little to look into his eyes, making him look blurry. Although that could just be that she’s not wearing her glasses at the moment. Or the tears quickly gathering in her eyes. “Oh my god, baby.”

“Stop,” she pleads, raising one of her arms and being careful not to hit him when she throws it across her face, shielding her eyes from him as more tears start to leak from the corners. “This is so embarrassing, I’m sorry.”

“Hey, c’mon, it’s not embarrassing.” He gently wraps his fingers around her wrist and tugs at her arm, trying to get her to lower it. She resists stubbornly. “It’s not, I swear.”

“Frank,” she says, moving her arm just an inch higher so she can stare at him incredulously, “of course it’s embarrassing. You’re still inside me.”

He blinks down at her for a second before his eyes lower to gaze at the place where they’re still joined. 

“I am indeed still inside you, yeah.” Now it’s his voice that’s strangled but she doubts it’s because he’s about to break down crying like her. That’s a shame reserved exclusively for her.

“God, I’m such a cliché,” she complains, and he -very reluctantly, it appears- moves his eyes away from between her legs to look her in the eyes again. 

His face softens as he readjusts his body over hers. She notes how he carefully balances his weight on his forearms, both resting on the pillow at each side of her head, as to not crush her. With the arm not thrown over her face, she pulls his torso closer to hers, finding comfort in the way she’s squeezed between his body and the mattress. She wraps one of her legs around one of his, the ball of her foot resting against his calf. He bends his other knee to make the position easier to maintain. 

Through all this, she also notices how they’re both moving carefully, mindfully keeping their pelvis as still as they can. ensuring he stays inside her. 

“It’s a natural reaction,” he says, his voice lowering and adopting the tone she has come to recognize as hers. It’s the one he uses when he’s trying to soothe her worries, sometimes after a case gone wrong, sometimes after her and Becca have had a spat. It’s soft and almost melodic, like his words have a musical rhythm to them that is meant to tame her, to hypnotize her. “The release of oxytocin during sex can be as overwhelming as it is pleasurable, and crying has been proven to be a great way to regulate heightened emotions.”

Sniffing slightly, she blinks up at him.

After a second of silence, she says, “Thank you, Dr. Langdon.”

He presses his lips together, very obviously trying not to laugh, but he soon loses the battle and lets out a deep chuckle.

“Sorry, sorry.” He shakes his head, kissing the tip of her nose. “My bedside manner is obviously a work in progress.”

“So you do think I’m sick for crying after sex.”

His eyes widen in worry until he must read the teasing in her face. He sighs in relief, chuckling again as she joins in the laughter. It’s a strange sensation, laughing and crying at the same time, one she has never experienced before. 

This is a night for firsts, it seems like. 

“I know it might be just simple biology,” she concedes, moving her arm away from her face and wrapping it around his neck. Her other hand works on trying to tidy his hair a bit, pushing the strands of hair plastered to his temples away from his face. “I guess it just doesn’t feel that way. It feels like something…holier.”

The faint shine of the moon coming in from the window, with its curtains open wide, casts Frank’s head in a silver ring of light. He’s so beautiful, exactly what Mel would have prayed for if praying was something she had ever had faith in. 

“You know I’m not a religious person, and that I don’t believe in the sanctity of sex or the purity of virginity or that procreation should be the aim of all intercourse or that—” She takes a deep breath, slowing her words down, knowing he will wait patiently for her to get them all out. “That’s not why I hadn’t, you know, it’s not why I hadn’t had sex yet.”

He nods, and her eyes fill with even more tears. He uses one of his thumbs to catch the drops that escape from the outer corner of her left eye. 

“But I think I was still waiting for something. I didn’t know what, but I was still… Waiting.”

Even in penumbra, she can see the way his blue eyes start gleaming. 

“I think I know now that I was waiting for you.”

He closes his eyes, and the first tear travels down the elegant slope of his nose then. She thinks about wiping it away, but instead she follows its path down his philtrum, watching it as it suspends from his bottom lip for a heartbeat before falling. She swears she can feel the moment it lands on her own lips. She swears she can taste the difference between her tears and his. 

“Fuck, Mel. I was waiting for you too, baby.” This is, of course, an impossibility, as his two children are perfect proof of. But she knows exactly what he means, and she believes him. “I’ve been waiting for so long.”

The kiss they share is wet and desperate. Their tears mix on their faces, their tongues tangle inside their mouths. They are breathing the same air, passing it back and forth like it’s the last bit of oxygen that exists in the world and they both need it to survive. 

She has never been kissed like this in her life. Like he is searching for eternity in the contours of her mouth. Like he is showing his devotion at the altar of her lips.

This is a night for firsts, it seems like. 

[elliesbabygirl]

CHAPTER THREE: PARANOIA.

SERIES SYNOPSIS: Midterms were crushing you-and so was she. Maybe she was the right person at the wrong time, or the wrong person at the right time. Either way, none of it mattered when she was next to you.

WARNINGS: 18+, alcohol + drug use, cheating, swearing, mentions of tattoos + body mods (piercings & tattoos), arguments, blood, partying, pining, sexual tension, eventual smut. slow burn with fluff and angst.

The story is told in a messed-up timeline with memory fragments, a gauge on the reader trying to pick at where it all went wrong with Ellie.

SUBMARINE; MASTERLIST.

The movie had been Ellie’s pick—some indie film with washed-out colors and long silences, the kind where everything was a metaphor for something no one says out loud.

She had pressed play with that excited glint in her eye, telling you “You’re gonna love this one, trust me.”

You did trust her.

You always did.

You were curled into her side on the couch, blanket over both of your legs, her arm around you—but it felt more like muscle memory than intention.

Ellie hadn’t said much since the movie started, and you had spent the last thirty minutes trying to find the right moment, to ask the question that had been chewing a hole in your chest for the past two weeks.

It felt stupid, and maybe a little desperate.

But it had been three months, almost four.

You weren’t asking for fireworks or some perfect title.

You just wanted to know when—if ever—you were going to be Ellie’s girlfriend.

You turned to her, slow and cautious. “Hey, els—can I ask you—?”

Her phone buzzed.

Ellie flinched, and then immediately sat up, untangling from the blanket like she’d been waiting for an excuse.

“Shit—sorry, one sec. I gotta take this.”

You blinked. “Now?”

“It’ll just be a minute.” She smiled, but it didn’t reach her eyes. “Sorry— I promise.”

Before you could say anything else, she stood, grabbing her phone and slipping onto the small balcony of her apartment.

The glass door slid shut with a soft click.

And you sat there, mid-sentence, hands curled into the blanket.

It wasn’t late, just past nine.

Whoever was calling didn’t feel like a work emergency, or like a casual check-in from Jesse or Dina.

You watched her through the glass—Ellie turning her back to the living room, phone pressed to her ear, her posture easing as she smiled.

Not just polite, and not just casual.

A real smile.

Your throat tightened.

She used to take those calls next to you—on the couch, your legs draped over hers, her voice lazy and open.

She used to show you her sketchbook without being asked, flipping through pages with pen-stained fingers and watching your reaction like it mattered more than the work itself.

Now?

She barely mentioned her new pieces.

Said she was “busy,” or that Joel had been piling on too much at the shop.

Said she’d show you when it was done.

Always later.

Lately, everything was later.

Even you.

You didn’t want to jump to conclusions.

You didn’t want to be that person.

But Juni’s voice echoed in your head like a warning you didn't want to hear.

“She’s trying to get with Ellie”

You had brushed it off.

Said Ellie was just being nice.

That she didn’t notice Cat’s looks, her lingering attention, and her casually layered compliments whenever Ellie talked about her art.

But now—watching Ellie smile like that while hiding on the balcony, after dodging your question like it didn’t even matter—something ugly and cold began to settle in your chest.

The indie film kept playing, untouched.

Onscreen, two characters were quietly falling apart in a sun-drenched room.

The movie had almost ended by the time Ellie came back inside.

You heard the balcony door slide open before you looked, her feet light against the floor as she stepped in, rubbing the back of her neck.

She had that same easy smile on her face—careful, practiced—but her eyes didn’t quite meet yours.

“Sorry,” Ellie said, sliding her phone into her back pocket. “That was Joel. He’s at the shop trying to close up and forgot how to run the register, again.”

You gave her a short nod, not looking up from the screen.

The film had moved into its last ten minutes—one of those long, drawn-out sequences with soft music and no dialogue.

You couldn’t recap a single thing.

Ellie dropped back onto the couch, noticeably farther from you now.

Not across the room, not dramatic—just a little space between you that hadn’t been there before.

She leaned back into the cushions with a soft sigh, stretching her arms behind her head.

“So,” she said, trying to make her voice sound light. “What’d I miss?”

You let out a soft shrug. “Some sad montage. Someone cried, and probably some metaphors.”

Ellie laughed under her breath. “Damn, knew I’d regret it.”

You still didn’t look at her.

Shimmer had hopped up beside you during the lull, curling into your side.

You ran your fingers through the cat’s fur slowly, eyes fixed on the screen, your body stretched out along the couch—just far enough to avoid leaning into Ellie’s side again.

Then, after a moment;

“Hey… what were you gonna ask earlier? Before Joel called?”

You blinked, your stomach sinking.

Ellie turned her head towards you, but you could feel she wasn’t really pushing—just curious, distracted.

Like she knew there’d been something, but didn’t think it mattered much now.

You hesitated for a moment, then shook your head, voice low. “Nothing, wasn't that important.”

Ellie hummed like she accepted that, even though she didn’t ask again.

You turned back to the screen, letting the soft, melancholic soundtrack fill the silence.

One of the characters on screen was standing alone in an empty room, staring at a window like they were waiting for someone who was never going to come back.

+

It felt like a relief, finally having Ellie back beside you.

You’d missed her—missed this.

The slow, easy way she draped her arm over the back of the couch while you leaned into her side, the way she laughed too hard at Jesse’s dumb impressions, how her fingers brushed against yours on instinct when she passed you the joint.

After weeks of “Sorry, shop’s slammed,” and “Joel’s got me on inventory again,” the stretch of time between now and the last time you saw her like this had been long enough to start to feel like a gap.

But she was here now.

You were with Dina and Jesse again, curled up in their cramped apartment, the familiar scent of weed filling the space while Jesse's lo-fi playlist played low through his speaker.

You’d ordered too much food for delivery, and as always, Jesse had suggested movie night but no one had touched the remote in over an hour

You were mid-laugh at one of Dina’s stories when she turned to Ellie with a grin, waving a pretzel for emphasis.

“By the way, that tattoo you gave Cat? So sick. That shading on the horns? You’re disgusting.”

You blinked. Smile fading just slightly.

Ellie, who had just taken a sip from her drink, swallowed and nodded casually. “Oh—yeah. She sat like a champ actually, it was pretty hot.”

('Hot'?..What the fuck?)

Your brows pulled together a little, your voice quiet. “Wait… you tattooed Cat?”

Ellie glanced at you. “Oh, yeah. Last week, I think? I was gonna show you the sketch, I just—haven’t gone through the book in a bit. I’ve got all my ideas in there.”

Your mouth was suddenly dry.

Dina kept talking, completely unaware. “It’s, like, this full blackwork goat—just line and shading, clean as hell. Honestly, I kind of want something in that style now.”

You nodded along, slow, the edges of the couch pressing harder into your back than they had been a moment ago.

(So that's why she hadn't opened the sketchbook around you in weeks.)

The one she always used to share.

The one she’d promised—”you’ll see it when it’s done.”

Jesse glanced between you and Ellie once, subtle but sharp-eyed.

You didn’t notice.

You were too busy suddenly trying to remember what night it had been.

What you were doing.

What you were told by Ellie.

He cleared his throat and stood up, stretching with an exaggerated groan. “Yo, food’s downstairs, right? Hey, mind helping me grab it?”

You blinked. “Oh—uh, yeah. Sure.”

You followed him into the hallway, pulling the door shut behind you as he hit the stairwell, his voice low but gentle as he slowed to your pace.

“You okay?”

You kept your eyes on the steps. “Yeah. Yeah, I’m fine.”

Jesse gave a dry chuckle. “That was a very convincing 'yeah'.”

You didn’t answer right away.

Just wrapped your arms around yourself a little tighter.

He looked at you again, more serious now. “You didn’t know about Cat’s tattoo appointment with Ellie, huh?”

You shook your head. “Not a clue.”

Jesse sighed. “I mean, it’s probably nothing, but… you two feel a little off lately. Ellie’s been a little weird, right?”

You looked up, something bitter curling at the edge of your mouth. “She’s just been busy.”

He raised his eyebrows but didn’t say anything.

You kept walking.

And in the silence that followed, you realized; it wasn’t just Ellie who’d gone quiet.

It was you, too—quietly waiting, quietly hoping.

And quietly wondering when you’d start to feel like hers again.

+

The shop bell chimed softly overhead as you stepped inside—hands in your pockets, the familiar scent of antiseptic and warm wood wrapping around you like second nature.

You hadn’t texted first.

Ellie always told you not to bother. “Just come by. Doesn’t matter when.”

It was supposed to be a good surprise.

The front of the shop was quiet, blinds half-closed against the afternoon glare, music low and pulsing in the background.

No one behind the desk.

No sound of machines buzzing.

Then, through the divider curtain—half pulled, half-forgotten—you saw them.

Ellie was standing between Cat’s legs, the two of them tucked into the corner of her station like they had the right to be there.

Her hand was under Cat’s shirt, fingers curled lightly against her skin in a way that was so familiar it made your stomach twist.

That was your place.

And that was your Ellie.

They were kissing—slow, like the world had paused around them, like it was a habit.

You stopped in the doorway, stunned into silence.

The bell still echoed faintly overhead.

“I should probably go check who that is,” Ellie muttered against Cat’s mouth, her voice low, breathless—soft in that way you knew too well.

The one she used only when she was comfortable.

Relaxed.

Intimate.

Cat hummed lazily, her hands on Ellie’s hips. “Just another walk-in?”

Ellie chuckled faintly and pulled back just enough to rest her forehead against Cat’s. “I’ll be right back, promise.”

She turned towards the front.

Still smiling.

Still flushed.

Still carrying that post-kiss softness in her expression.

Then her eyes landed on you.

And everything stopped.

Her breath hitched like someone had punched it out of her.

And her face dropped—smile collapsing, posture stiffening, hands falling like they didn’t know where to go.

You didn’t move.

Didn’t speak.

Didn’t blink.

Ellie opened her mouth.

Nothing came out at first.

Then, choked, raw—barely above a whisper;

“Baby—”

Her voice cracked halfway through it.

You stared at her like she wasn’t real.

Like none of it was.

Ellie stepped forward fast—too fast, panic rising in her chest as if momentum alone could undo what you saw.

Her voice stumbled out in pieces, half-excuses tripping over each other.

“Wait—wait, it’s not what it looks like, I—she just—Cat was just—” Her hands hovered mid-air, like she didn’t know whether to reach for you or bury her face in them.

You didn’t say anything.

Didn’t need to.

The silence said enough.

The way your eyes didn’t fill with rage—just with something far worse.

The way you didn’t cry or yell or ask why.

You just looked at her like something in you had quietly died.

“No, please, just—listen, okay?” Ellie begged, voice cracking now as she moved around the counter like she might catch you before you slipped away.

“It didn’t mean anything. I wasn’t—fuck, I wasn’t thinking, alright?”

You took a slow step backwards, your eyes still locked on her, rimmed with something distant.

Shaking your head—once, small, final.

A gesture not of disbelief, but of recognition.

You believed her.

And that’s what hurt the most.

She was exactly who you were afraid she’d be.

“Don’t,” you whispered, barely loud enough to cut through her frantic breathing. “Just… don’t.”

Another step back, and your hand found the door without looking.

Ellie’s voice broke completely. “Please.”

You didn’t stop.

You just turned and walked through the door, the bell above it chiming one last time.

+

(Now, you were here. Why the fuck did you let Ellie in?)

She stood just inside the door like she didn’t know whether to run or collapse, chest rising and falling fast, jaw clenched so tight it looked like it hurt.

You stayed planted where you were—back near the kitchen, arms crossed, as if the counter could keep you upright.

Your heart had been pounding since you saw her at the shop.

Since you saw them.

“I didn’t mean for you to find out like that,” Ellie started, voice shaking. “I didn’t even know—I wasn’t thinking, alright?”

“You never are,” you shot back, sharp and immediate. “That’s the problem.”

Ellie winced like you’d hit her. “You don’t get it. You never fucking get it.”

(What the fuck was she talking about?)

“I saw you, Ellie,” you snarled, stepping forward. “Saw your hand under her shirt like it belonged there, like it used to belong to me.”

“It didn’t mean anything,” Ellie said too fast, too defensively.

“Oh, fuck you,” you snapped, voice rising, raw. “Don’t insult me with that.”

Her fists clenched, her face flushing deep with something between shame and rage. “You don’t know what it’s like to be with someone like you.”

You stopped cold. “Someone like me?”

Ellie’s hands shot up, hair falling into her face as she paced in a sharp circle.

“You hover, okay? You cling. You’re always there. Always wanting to talk, always wanting to fucking understand everything. I can’t breathe without feeling like I owe you something—like I’m supposed to be your goddamn redemption arc.”

Your mouth dropped open. “I just loved you, Ellie.”

“No,” she shouted. “You smothered me. You’re like a fucking parasite. Always needing more—more answers, more commitment, more goddamn validation! And I tried, I really fucking tried, but every time you asked for more, I felt like I was disappearing.”

You staggered back like she’d struck you.

You actually put a hand to your chest, trying to calm the ache blooming there.

“I never asked you to disappear,” you whispered, eyes glassy.

“I asked you to show up.”

Ellie faltered, breath hitching.

“I waited,” you continued, voice shaking now.

“I waited for you to call me your girlfriend. I waited for you to feel safe. I waited through every phone call you took outside. Every time you brushed me off. Every sketchbook you closed in my face. I waited because I believed you. Because when you looked me in the eyes that night at yours and said I was perfect, I thought you meant it.”

“I did,” Ellie whispered, voice cracking.

“But you still chose her.”

“I didn’t choose anyone!” she exploded. “I chose to fucking breathe! And yeah, maybe I kissed her, maybe I let it happen, but it was because for once I didn’t feel like I was failing someone just by fucking being me!”

You stared at her, your entire body trembling. “So that’s what I was to you? A job? A project? Something to fail?”

Ellie turned away, hands shaking. “I didn’t mean it like that.”

“Doesn’t matter,” you said quietly. “You meant it enough to say it.”

Silence crashed between you—thick, suffocating.

Ellie turned back to you, eyes desperate now, rimmed with tears. “Please,” she whispered, voice broken. “I don’t know how to fix this. Just tell me what to say.”

You shook your head, tears finally spilling. “There’s nothing left to say.”

Ellie stood there like she didn’t hear you—or like she couldn’t afford to believe it.

Her shoulders were trembling now, fists clenched at her sides, and her voice nothing but shredded nerves when she spoke again.

“I can fix this,” she insisted, stepping towards you. “Please—just give me a chance. I know I fucked up, I know I said shit I didn’t mean, but I can fix this.”

You didn’t move.

She ran a hand down her face, already spiraling deeper than before.

“The candy, the flowers—I know that shit was dumb, I know it doesn’t make up for anything, but I didn’t know what else to do. You weren’t answering me, and I panicked, I—fuck—I didn’t want to lose you.”

“You did lose me,” you said, voice low and raw. “The moment you called me a fucking parasite, Ellie.”

Ellie’s face crumpled, like she’d heard the words for the first time.

“I didn’t mean that. I was scared. I was cornered. You were right there and I didn’t know how to explain myself, and it just came out. I didn’t mean it, I swear to god.”

“You don’t get to walk back everything because you’re scared now,” you said, tears sliding down your face.

“You said it. You looked me in the eye and said I smothered you. Like loving you was something ugly that I did.”

Ellie’s breath hitched, her voice splintering. “It’s not. You loving me was the only good thing I had. You—you were the good thing. I just didn’t know how to hold it without ruining it.”

You let out a soft, bitter laugh. “So you went and proved yourself right.”

Ellie was crying now, silently, her chest rising and falling like she couldn’t catch her breath.

“I didn’t want to prove anything. I just—I wanted space, I wanted clarity, I wanted you and I wanted room to breathe and I didn’t know how to ask for both. And I fucked it all up. But I swear to you, I will do whatever it takes to make it right.”

You shook your head. “Even if you could fix this, you can’t erase it. I saw the look on your face when you kissed her. I saw what it looked like when you didn’t have to try.”

Ellie’s knees almost buckled. She covered her mouth, eyes wide, broken open. “Please,” she whispered.

“Don’t give up on me, don't let this be the end.”

You looked at her—really looked at her.

This person you once thought would carry your heart like it was sacred.

The same person who, now, was begging for another shot while standing in the wreckage she made herself.

Author's note: heyyy...how y'all doing. What did we think?? I know the timeline can feel a bit confusing but I am creating a timeline graph for each scene or event that happens in the fic. I will show it to you guys around chapter 4, where it'll come into play, TRUSTT. I'm literally updating submarine LIVE from a party, LIKE ON MY PHONE. And a little drunk.

TAGLIST:

@mayfldss @sewithinsouls @iadorefineshyt @safficoon @panic4sage @modernvenuss @re1daway @bluminescent-moon @valeisaslut

LMK IF YOU WANNA BE ON THE TAGKLIST.

[satoruslovey]

.𖥔 ݁ ˖๋ ࣭ ⭑ clan head g.satoru x f.reader ―୨୧⋆ ˚

pt 1. , pt 2.

It's been a few weeks since your last real encounter with satoru,

Few weeks since the day you tucked that pink flower into your hair while he watched from a distance,frozen behind you, the last time you had let him see a piece of you.

Since then everything has just been quiet, not cold, but just --careful.

He's still there,

Every morning your tea is ready before you awaken,the garden is swept of wet leaves before you and your son step out, your child giggles more all of a sudden, now that his father is around more than he used to be, to your surprise must you say? You see genuine care and love in Satoru's eyes for your baby, he's clumsy with affection, learning how to be gentle in a place where he was once absent.

And as for you? You feel the weight of his presence in every room,like something unfinished, like something is left unspoken, something which is daunting upon you.

The kitchen smells of steam and ginger, your son is napping,

You're chopping up vegetables, sleeves rolled up, your hair in a loose bun, there's sunlight pouring in from the shoji screen behind you. It halos your shoulders, makes your profile glow. There's a faint sheen of sweat near your collarbone from the steam.

You hear footsteps walking into the kitchen ,he walks in quietly as if he's scared to break the peace you've built for yourself, without him.

He sees you, he really does, with something twisting and aching in his gut he thinks, you look beautiful, even when you're angry, so strong, still radiant.

He watches the line of your neck, the slope of your back, the way your fingers move with precision, like they remember everything even when your heart tries not to.

He wonders though, if he was ever worthy of being loved by someone like you.

He moves closer with a bowl of rice, a quiet offering ,

"you didn't eat lunch" he murmurs.

"don't do this" you reply softly , "you don't have to act like you care",you put down the knife.

He watches you as his heart drops.

"You weren’t there,” you say, voice low but steady. “I cooked alone. Slept alone. Gave birth alone. And now you want to feed me and pretend it’s always been this way?”

He opens his mouth to say something but , then he closes it.

You finally turn, your eyes dark and unwavering.

“Tell me something, Satoru,” you say. “If she hadn’t left… would you have come back?”

He’s staring at you ,at your face flushed from the stove, the tendrils of hair clinging to your cheek. You’ve never looked more divine, and it breaks him, because he realizes this is the woman he should have chosen , the one he ignored while chasing something shallow.

“Say it,” you whisper.

“No,” he breathes. “I wouldn’t have.”

You nod.

Not because you accept it. But because you already knew.

“I was wrong.”

His voice is low. Unsteady.

“Not just about her. About everything.

About what mattered. About who was always there.”You gave me a home. A family. And I treated you like a placeholder.

Like something I didn’t have to choose, because you were already there.

"you didn't deserve it"

“I thought love was supposed to feel easy. Loud. Exciting.

But it was always you, quietly showing up. Quietly loving me and I was too blind, too proud to see it.”

“I was wrong in every way that counted.

And if I were you, I wouldn’t forgive me either.”

“But that version of me,who chose wrong,he died the day you looked at me and didn’t smile.”

"he died the day you looked at me and didn’t even flinch"-

just… stopped looking at all.”

And then,slower, lower, like it costs him something,

“I didn’t just lose your smile that day.

I lost the only future that ever would’ve made sense.”

He steps closer ,

Closer than you expected, just a few inches between you.

His hand lifts slightly ,almost as if to tuck your hair behind your ear again. Almost.

Your breath catches, you can smell his scent ,one you have ingrained in your senses,

something in you wants his warmth,wants to let him close, something maybe you haven't let yourself fully feel, because it scares you.

But your skin still remembers his.

And your chest aches with the memory of nights when this closeness was all you ever wanted. You want to close the space between, almost.

But you don’t move.Neither does he.

“I miss you,” he says softly. “Not the idea of you. Not the guilt. You. The way you laugh when no one’s looking. The way you hum when you're pouring tea. The way you used to… look at me like I was your world.”

“You weren’t,” you whisper. “But you could’ve been.”

“You were never really mine,” you add, each word a blade, “So don’t look at me like I’m your world now, Satoru. You were never mine even if I thought you were,And I was never yours.”

He’s silent for a moment, and you almost hope that’s it. That he’ll shut up and go.

But instead, you're met with a look in his eyes,not guilt, not arrogance,but yearning.

It's in the tilt of his head ,The slight part in his lips like he wants to say something but is afraid to ruin it. The way his fingers twitch at his sides like he’s holding back from reaching for you.

He looks at you like a kicked dog.

No,like a man who just realized he had sunlight in his hands and let it slip through because he was too arrogant to believe he needed warmth in the first place.

His voice breaks the silence again,now quieter and heavy.

“I know I wasn’t yours. Not the way I should’ve been.”

“But I don’t want to be your world.”

That makes you blink, startled.

“I want to be a part of it,” he says, “Even if it’s just a corner you let me earn back. Even if it takes my whole life.”

Unbeknownst to him, something more fragile slips in under his words,

“Because you’re my world. And I think… you always were. I just didn’t see it until I was blind without you.”

You freeze.

There’s a beat of silence.

And in that space ,something breaks.

No… something bends.

Just slightly.

It would be easier if he were still cruel, easier if he begged ,or cried, or shouted,but this ..is worse , because this is him being honest, because the Gojo Satoru now standing in front of you is not the same person who had hurt you.

He’s someone who’s trying. And you hate that it makes your heart squeeze.

You don’t speak.

You don't walk away either,

Your breath catches.

It would be easier if he were still cruel. Easier if he begged, or cried, or shouted , but this… this is worse. Because it’s quiet. Because it’s honest. Because the Satoru Gojo standing in front of you now isn’t the one who hurt you.

He’s someone who’s trying. And you hate that it makes your heart squeeze.

You don’t speak.

But you don’t walk away either.

The silence lingers , heavy, intimate.

His shoulders are tense like he's bracing for rejection, but there's something in his eyes , open, pleading, a quiet ache like he's never been more afraid of being unloved.

You hate it.

You hate how honest he looks now.

You hate how your chest tightens at the sight.

And still, your voice comes out soft,barely more than a whisper.

“You look tired, Satoru.”

He blinks. For a second, he doesn’t know if you’re addressing him or just thinking out loud.

You glance at him. Finally. It’s fleeting, but your gaze holds a kind of softness that wasn’t there before ,a flicker of the girl who once picked a flower from the mud and gave it to him just because he looked sad.

“You haven’t been eating properly, have you?”

Satoru swallows thickly. “Not really,” he says, truthfully.

You nod slowly, fingers brushing the edge of the counter, as if debating with yourself. You’re not ready to forgive. Not ready to fall back. But-

“There’s food , We should eat.”

His heart stumbles in his chest,

We.

he's not sure if he's hearing things or you really said it,

He doesn’t say anything ,doesn’t dare break the spell. But he walks to the table like a man who's just been handed a second heartbeat.

You don't wait for him to respond,you grab two bowls.laddle food.

You set one bowl across the table,

And when he takes the seat opposite you , not beside you, not too close ,you let him.

You don’t look up.

You don’t smile.

But you let him eat beside you.

And that… that is enough for tonight, enough to make him believe that there's still a road back to you.

A/N : took me a while ! and I didn't expect it to become this long, I'd love to know you guys' thoughts on this 🏃🏻‍♀️

Tags: @straows

@voidfulcrumdilemma

@ppejmurde

@twinkling-moonlillie

[theamberparadise]

Hello, This is my first time making a request on your block.

Can you do a NSFW and dating headcannon for Jeff the killer and ticci Toby x Jessica Rabbit like s/o ( separately ) , please

HI HONEY IM SO SORRY THIS WAS SO LATE TUMBLR DELETED MY 2K WORD DRAFT AND NOW I HAVE TO DO IT ALL OVER AGAIN IM SO SORRY

TICCI TOBY AND JEFF THE KILLER X JESSICA RABBIT READER

SYPNOSIS; How would Jeff and Toby react to reader who looks like Jessica Rabbit?

TWs; toxic relationship, blood

A/N; hi hon!! welcome to my blog!! im so sorry this was sooo late tumblr hates me sm, i hope you like this as much as i liked writing it!

ps! i assumed reader is also a killer.

"Seriously, what do you see in him?" "He makes me laugh."

TICCI TOBY

The first time he saw you, Toby was beyond bewildered. Were you real or were you another figment of his twisted imagination?

Nonetheless, his eyes were on you now. And he needs your eyes on him.

His first instinct? Flaunting his muscles at you whenever and wherever he can. Getting a glass of water? His shirt is suddenly off. Fixing yourself in front of the living room mirror? He mutters it’s hot then slowly rips off his jacket. Seeing him during training? He flexes his muscles a bit more.

He thinks this is a widely accepted way of getting girls when really it’s so awkward when he does it.

Second instinct? Getting as close to you as he possibly can just to sniff your scent. Even if you’re just leaning gracefully against a counter, he might walk in, head high, shoulders back while he leans right beside you. Not across, not near, beside. Like there aren't any more spots for him to lean on.

“Toby, hon,” you cleared your throat. “You’re getting a little close.” “Am I?” he cocks his head to the side. “My bad, I’ll move aside.” 

He moves literally three inches away.

His third and final attempt? Leaving you gifts! Although it does leave you confuzzled.

One moment your Versace heels are there, and the next second, you hear your door close and now it’s gone. The next day, you wake up to see your Versace heels back again, with a pair of sword heels from Paciotti– in your size.

More of his gifts would include a sketchy brand of lotion from a drugstore, a cracked eyeshadow palette, and a seemingly used lipstick.

You appreciate his efforts but you couldn’t help but feel perplexed.

Once he notices you haven’t been saying “thank you” to him like you should be, he trudges to your door post-mission holding a bundle of snapped flowers that looked like they were pulled from a couple’s anniversary date (it was) with his breathing awry and ragged.

He keeps his eyes steady on yours. And as soon as you asked what was wrong, he shoves the bouquet in your face, like he didn’t cause you to have an allergic attack.

“Fuh–flowers. For y-you.” You gently press the cloud of petals down. “Okay, Toby– Okay, honey.”

He would still press his gaze onto you like you owed him something (which you did) and after about five minutes, he speaks once again. “Why ha-haven’t you wearing m-my gifts?”

You stay silent, backing away as your heel meets the floor again, your face looking to your side.

You feel his thumb and index gently hold your face in the right direction– where he is, and leans even closer than ever.

“I wa-want you. Do you want m-me t-too?”

Ever since you said yes to him, his ego had been fueled to the MAX.

If somebody even slightly mentions you, he’s on them and joining the conversation he had nothing to do with. “Oh, h-her? Yeah, I pu-pulled her. Not li-like you g-guys can do anything ab-about i-it,” that statement earns Toby a nasty black eye, of which he thankfully didn’t feel, but caused his face to swell for a week. He crawls back to you seeking validation even though it was him who started the mess.

He does anything and everything for you if it means he won’t lose a part of his pride like he did last time with Clockwork. Complaining about the heat melting your makeup off? He’s installing a new air conditioner. Notice a rip in your oh-so-glittery dress? He’s suddenly suitable as a surgeon. Need to detangle your hair? He’s treating it like a frail animal.

It’s the same when you’re on missions together. A rowdy victim scuffs your shoe? “That little sh-shit,” he’s off hacking the poor guy to hell.

He blushes shamelessly when you call him "my boy" or "my good little champ" while pinching his cheeks, makes him feel like one of those guys back in his middle school that would steal his crushes.

And although all of this seems sweet, it doesn’t mean it won’t have toxic tendencies.

His jealousy problems can overwhelm the relationship. He immediately jumps to conclusions every time he sees you hanging out with someone who’s not him. “Why were y-you looking at h-him? You’re not th-thinking of talking t-to him, are you?” “Did you go for a smoke with them j-just now? You’re fucking him, aren’t you?”

It hurts, yes, but try to actually pursue another guy and he’ll come crying floods with his knees on the floor, gripping on your dress like it’s his life line.

"Toby, baby, no pulling, please." You try to snag the fabric gently from him. "No, no, no, no, don't leave me-- p-please no, I'm s'sorry," he chokes out, "Never again, hon, please,"

NSFW 

The reason why he takes care of your hair so gently and attentively is because he likes to pull on it whenever he’s fucking you from behind or receiving a blowjob from you. Seeing you wince in pain while you’re so used to being taken care of by him is like cocaine.

He memorizes all the spots you like to reveal in your outfits just by him staring at you for hours on end. He uses this to his advantage and cheekily leaves bites on there.

Purposefully buys you makeup that isn't kiss proof just to see your lipstick stain his lips and his cock. Sometimes, he takes pictures of them and sends them to whoever was bullying him recently.

Have a meeting with the major proxies and need to orgasm in the middle of it? No worries, he’s under your dress sucking your clit like there’s no tomorrow.

Loves it when you wear heels during sex. He cums in his pants by the thought of you stepping on his dick with them.

Once he gets home after a particularly frustrating day of missions, he drops down to his knees and starts humping your leg with his bare cock while massaging your hands and arms through your silky gloves.

He circles his thumb on the seams of your long dress while you give him the best titjobs of his life.

Lives for the idea of you having a wardrobe malfunction in front of him and the other proxies. Lowkey a cuck.

Bites every cellulite line he finds, every stretch mark he finds, kisses every scar you might have and thanks you for even letting him.

Moans a little louder than he’s supposed to when you suck on his adam’s apple.

He finds cumming in your hair so enchanting, seeing milky white beads of his honey absorb into your smooth hair has him groaning.

JEFF THE KILLER

“Holy shit,” were the first words that escaped his mouth when he first saw you. 

I mean, how could he not? Look at you, all shiny and pretty, it’s like you were made by an angel from heaven. He’s seen his fair share of hot supermodels and sexy porn stars, but none of them even come close to a creature as beautiful as you.

His approach for you is… not great.

Catcalling, whistling, and pervy pick-up lines were his first thoughts. “ *wolf whistle* Nice tits, dollface!” “ *imitates animal clicking* Here, kitty, kitty.” “Over here, sweetcheeks!”

He does this especially when he knows others are watching. It’s his twisted way of calling first dibs.

Jeff loves how you play hard-to-get with other guys in a smooth, jazzy way. Even more when you do it to him.

When he feels as if you were ignoring him (which you were) he likes to leave twisted drawings of you taped on your door. Nothing too crazy, just you in your usual outfit of glamour and heels, but this time your boobs are way bigger than they are and your butt is wider than they should be. You figure that it’s how he looks at you.

You crumpled his drawings and threw them away? That’s fine, he’ll just go a little bit further and bring you a severed finger in a ziploc bag with a ring still on it. Surprisingly, the ring is actually a real diamond worth fifty thousand dollars. And it fit perfectly, too!

You thank him a day later and he thinks he’s the sexiest man in the world.

He then takes it even more up the road– weirdly just touching your hair with his grimy hands until you turn around and gently ask him to stop. Taking extreme observation of your face like it’s an art piece. Even stealing your perfume and spraying it on him even though he has never come close to even hugging you.

After Jeff feels like it’s time to go in for the catch, he breaks inside your room while you’re sleeping and hovers over you, caging you with his body. You’re still sleeping, face freshly moisturized and pretty. He lets his ragged, heavy cold breath blowing onto your face to wake you up, and once you do he grins even wider than humanly possible.

“Y’know, you coulda been sleepin’ in my bed.”

Once you said yes, he was on top of the world. He got cockier than he should really be.

He makes uncomfortably loud grunting and throat clearing noises to make everybody look at him and you, with his arm wrapped tightly around your waist, beaming wildly like he just caught a bear.

He purposefully makes out with you in public view, not caring about your lipgloss absolutely coating his face

For his bit of toxicity, he isolates you whenever too many people serve as competition.

This stems from his insecurity of not protecting what he should be protecting, so to keep your eyes only on him, he either locks you up in his room or a wide plain full of nothingness.

He ventures and finds you pretty daggers to keep on a garter on your thighs especially if you have a dress with a huge slit, both for show and for protection, even though he’s there beside you practically 24/7.

Goes crazy for you in red. Going out in an all-red outfit for a date? He’s insisting you stay at home.

He lets you use his blood from his mouth slit as lipstick.

Speak to him in that sultry voice of yours and he’s in love forever.

"Jeffrey, baby. Get me my eyelash curler, will you?" "Oh, shit," he groans, throwing his head back. "You sound like sin, sweets."

NSFW

Remember him dragging you back to the house because you wore red? Well, you’re now on the floor, getting plowed into next week.

Also goes crazy for you keeping your heels on during sex, especially when you can’t take it anymore and you’re pushing him off with them, just for him to push your legs up to your ears and fuck you deeper.

He likes it when you keep your dress on while you ride him. It makes the whole thing feel risky– forbidden.

Jeffrey likes you to get messy. One time, you come back from a rough mission looking like utter shit. Hair tangled like matted fur, dress ripped at the seams, stockings ruined, makeup smeared to hell… It took him everything from within to not pounce on you right then and there. Instead, he drags you by the arm, skin bruising under your glove to his bed and makes you look even worse the following morning.

He loves it when you have a full face of makeup and a pretty outfit before you have sex. It’s like a trophy to him– mascara stains on his pillows, your poor dress ripped to shreds on the floor.

Remember your sultry voice? Use it on him when you order him around and his heart will stop. He might cum in his pants without you touching an inch of his pale skin.

He likes making you stumble out of the door, limping out with his cum still inside and your panties in his pocket, leaving you to pray that your dress doesn’t fly up in the wind.

Do you like your bra being stolen from you? I hope so. Because he’s not going to return it after making you strike up a conversation with everyone while your tits threaten to pop out.

He purposefully messes with your clothing, cutting the seams just right so when you put it on it rips at the most ridiculous places. A huge rip from your clavicle to just under your tits. The seam at the slit of your dress lets go when you take a little step.

Loves watching your usually tired and sexy eyes shoot open when he hits that sweet spot.

[steponupbabe]

Track 05: The first kiss.

Pairing: 2000s!Kwon jiyong x Fem!reader.

Warnings: some confusion, jiyong being a lil stupid, y/n stressing over jiyong being stupid, awkward first kiss.

Summary: it had been a week since jiyong confessed to you, but you can’t seem to understand why he hasn’t popped that question yet.

───────── ༺♡༻ ────────

It had been a week since jiyong had given you the CD. a week since you had listened to Track 05, a week since he confessed he had feelings for you, a week since your heart felt like it would beat out of your chest. you both never addressed what you were— because jiyong was already acting like your boyfriend. it was in the way he treated you.

Yes, jiyong always treated you like more than what you two really were, but it was different now. holding hands became more common, picking you up and dropping you off after school, waiting for the other at their lockers, buying you small little things and acting like it was no big deal because “he just thought of you.” or he “knew you’d like it.” staying up late on the phone like nothing else in the world mattered.

He even started to kiss your cheeks and forehead— more than what he used to anyway. but you couldn’t understand why he hasn’t asked you that question. you kept waiting and waiting but it never came.

So you decided to do what you do best, take matters into your own hands. you had slipped a pink post it into his locker, you kept it short and simple,

( meet me at the playground after school, 5:00 o’clock. x y/n.)

↢ ❦ ↣

You sat on the swings, Hair tied in a messy braid, Your summer dress flowing just slightly do to the summer breeze, White converse grazing the floor as you slowly pushed the swing back and forth, And your stomach fluttering as you waited for jiyong to arrive. You don’t even know what you were going to say.

“Jiyong why haven’t you asked me to be your girlfriend yet? Did you change your mind? Did i do something?”

No, thats too much. Too desperate. You were trying to have a conversation, Not bombard him.

“Yo you wanna be my boyfriend or what?”

Yo? What are you thinking? Maybe this was a bad idea. Maybe you should just wait for him to say something—

“Hey, what’s the matter? You look like your brain just hit a 404 error.” You were snapped out of your thoughts as Jiyong sat on the swing right next to you. “Oh uhm, nothing just school.” He lifted a brow in confusion, smiling softly. “Oh…kay.” He said not fully believing you. It was silent for a while. Not the comfortable silence, No, The silence that made you want to jump off a cliff. Why did you even ask him to meet you here if you had no idea what you were going to say? Maybe it’s not as easy as you thought it would be.

Jiyong decides to break the god awful silence, he could tell there was something wrong, He always knew. He knew you better than he knew Himself, what were you hiding?

“Y/n? can you just tell me what’s wrong? there obviously is, or you wouldn’t be staring at the ground like it’s the most interesting thing invented since the cellphone.” You sighed as he spoke, You didn’t even know how to start the conversation, But you also couldn’t stay quite any longer either. “It’s just..” you sighed as you try to gather your words together. “You haven’t asked me to be your girlfriend yet, ji. You gave me that CD a week ago, i don’t know i just.. i thought you would’ve asked me by now. Did i do something wrong? am i giving mixed singnals or something? i just—“

Your rambling was cut off by Jiyongs laughter, Was he Giggling? Why was he giggling? “Y/n, I didn’t know i had to ask, I thought you already were my girlfriend.” He says while smiling at your confused state, placing his hand on yours, trying to calm you down. Your brain scrambled at his words, you furrowed your brows in confusion. “W- what? you thought we were already dating?” you ask, genuinely confused. He smiles again, softer this time.

“Well yeah, i thought the moment you came to me and told me about it we were. I’m sorry for confusing you but i didn’t know i had to ask. Also i doubt all the things i’ve been doing this past week have been very friendly.” He adds, laughing softly as you look down at the ground blushing. “In my defense, You always act like that ji. how am i supposed to tell the difference.” you say playfully, looking at him.

He scratches the back of his neck, ears turning slightly pink at your words. “Yeah, i guess you’re right. I’m sorry. i really am, i didn’t mean to confuse you, But! I’ll do it right this time.” He says getting up from his spot from the swing to kneel in front of you “Y/n l/n, would you be my girlfriend?” You giggle at The boy in front of you, stepping off the swing to pull him up from his spot on the ground. “Yes, you idiot. I’ll happily be your girlfriend.” You laugh as Jiyong stands in front of you.

Jiyong stepped closer to you now, Eyes darting from your eyes to your lips. Your breath hitched as you feel his breath hit your cheek. your eyes fell to his lips, your heart beating what feels like a million miles per second. His hands find their way to your waist.

“Can.., can i kiss you?” You let out a breath you didn’t know you were holding, Smiling and nodding your head. “Yes, please.” He closes the not very small space between you two without another word, Lips colliding with his. your hands found their way to his chest as you kissed him back, soft and slow.

It wasn’t perfect. He kissed a little crooked. You bumped teeth once. You laughed into his mouth. But it was real. And warm. And him. When he finally pulled back, his smile was lopsided and shy and ridiculously proud. He placed his forehead on yours and sighed.

you both stood there for a second before you pulled away slightly to look at him, breaking the silence. “You know i don’t think we did that right,” you said as he looked at you a little confused. “Huh? I thought it was fine.” you giggled “No, i think we should do it one more time. just to be safe” he smiles at your words. “Huh, you’re right.” he says leaning in, pressing his lips to yours.



───────── ༺♡༻ ────────

A/n: yayyyyy part two!!! hope u guys enjoyed y/n and jiyongs first kiss as a couple heheh 🤭🩷

taglist: @stormin9 @lowkeyylaura @moontabi @thanosspills

[donvampiro]

idk if you're comfortable with it, but i'm falling back into self harm again. can you write sanji comforting a female (i prefer romantic, but it can also be platonic dw) reader with self harm.? it's such a rough time and him comforting me might help me. thank you so much and sorry again. if this makes you uncomfortable feel free to ignore this!

hello Anon, please don’t be sorry, your pain is valid, so is your search for comfort. thanks for your request, i hope these little headcanons will help you to feel a bit better. take care <3

MASTERLIST - Welcome

***

'Everything'

Vinsmoke Sanji x fem!reader

TW : self-harm mention

he has been taught to love and appreciate women. all women. but you… you’re different.

it’s not even about being a woman. you’re Sanji’s everything. you’re the elegant light of the moon in the darkness of night, a beacon in the storm, a guide in the labyrinth, a pearly jewel that no treasure can equal, a delicate rose that has accepted to smell a bit like tobacco.

being your boyfriend is like a blessing for him. that’s why, when he finds out, it breaks his heart in a million pieces, and a part of him blames himself for not having been able to pick up on the signals, for not having been able to know — to act — sooner. nevertheless, now that he’s aware, Sanji’s ready to support you in any way you need. he’ll never let you endure any suffering alone again. never.

he’s very attentive to your moods and what’s happening around you that might trigger you, while being careful not to overwhelm you, because he knows that he can be clingy sometimes. it’s just — he sees, he feels when things aren’t going well. so, whenever you'd feel an urge, Sanji would know it somehow, and would do everything he could to help you. no matter what, you are his priority.

he would make sure to keep your hands occupied, in whatever way possible. holding them tenderly in his would be heaven, whether you were walking around the deck or simply staying comfortably together, enjoying the safety of each other’s presence, away from prying eyes.

if you give him permission — he’s very serious about consent — then rest assured Sanji wouldn’t let you leave his arms. he would try to chase away the thoughts that are torturing you with all the hugs, caresses, kisses, and sweet words whispered in your ears to calm you, reassure you, and remind you how precious and beautiful you are, how much he loves you and is there for you. he will always be there for you.

spends the whole moment with you. he’s not leaving until you feel better, caressing your scars and kissing them with a sweetness that he hopes will put your mind at ease.

if he arrives too late, Sanji will make it a point of honor to take care of you himself, to bandage your wounds, all with the precision and delicacy of the fine cook that he is. his gaze is soft but veiled by all the sadness in the world: if only he could do more. but, on this subject, he’ll never really tell you about his own feelings — you are the only one who matters to him. still, maybe his sadness would give you the courage to start quitting.

he’d sweetly smile up at you. why don’t you take your mind off things and cook something nice with him? — your favorite dish, of course, or anything that might make you feel better. Sanji’s passion for cooking is only matched by his passion for you, so if he can use his skills to make you feel better, he definitely will.

he will never force you to talk about what’s wrong. it’s part of your privacy. however, if you decide to open up about it one day, Sanji will be there to listen to you, with the greatest attention, and without ever judging you.

[narnian-neverlander]

The Haunting [Jason Todd x GN!Reader]

Preview: “You really never stopped searching… Never gave up…” It’s quiet, almost reverent - like he still can’t believe it, even though the proof is right there in front of him. And you can feel the sting of tears behind your eyes before you know it; no modulator to make him sound like a different man, a monster. No sobs racking his entire body, turning his voice hoarse and frantic. Just Jason. Exhausted and broken, but still Jason. Your Jason. Who sounds like he can’t fathom the idea of you caring enough, loving him enough, to dedicate your life to bringing him home.

Genre: hurt/comfort, angst with happy ending

Word Count: 7,9k

Warnings: mentions of canon typical violence & torture, erratic & unstable behavior and panic attack (Jason), mention of unintentional injuries and self harm (Reader)

A/N: One AK edit to this song back when the game came out and I’ve been obssessed since. Arkham Knight Jason, my broken, beautiful baby. Can y’all believe it’s been 10 years since this version of Jason became my favorite and I’m still not shutting up about him? Happy game release anniversary everybody where the fuck did the last decade go

If you use any of my works for AI I will hunt you down for sport 😬

You know something’s wrong the moment you unlock your apartment door and step inside. Nothing’s out of place, there are no lights on and you can’t hear anything either, but the chill crawling up your spine is enough of a warning that while you might not be consciously aware of any threats, your unconscious mind is most definitely screaming at you. So you drop your bag to the floor as gingerly and quietly as possible and immediately go for the gun taped under the couch table. Weapon held out in front of you, you creep around your dark apartment, mindful to make as little noise as possible. It’s a small place to begin with and there’s only so many spaces someone could truly hide if they wanted to - as it turns out though, the intruder isn’t trying to hide in the slightest: a dark figure, hunched over next to your bed, inspecting something on your bedside table.

“Just for the record, I wait tables at a greasy diner. Whatever big score you might be hoping for here, you’ll be sorely disappointed.” you quip as you cock the gun and aim. The figure turns around slowly, not cautiously, more so unbothered, standing to his full height and as the streetlights from outside filter through your blinds and glint off his armor you start to realize that you might be in way more trouble than you originally thought. He’s an absolute unit of a man, at least six foot with a broad frame to match, armored head to toe and two guns strapped to his thighs. Whoever he is, you’re definitely not looking at your run of the mill, Gothamite burglar and you feel your palms start to sweat as dread spikes. “Okay so I’m pretty sure I didn’t piss off anyone in power enough to warrant you,” you start, desperately trying to keep a cool demeanor and your voice from cracking, “so I think you might have the wrong apartment, buddy.”

He chuckles, the sound low and warped through the modulator in his helmet, as he crosses his arms over his chest and cocks his head to the side, glowing blue eyes fixed on you. “No, I’m exactly where I need to be, sweetheart.” You open your mouth to argue again, but he interrupts you with your full name, birthday, even your phone number.

Well, fuck.

“‘Kay, so you know an awful lot about me, but I know nothing about you or what you’re doing here. Kinda rude, don’t ya think?” You’re inching backwards as slowly as you can while you say it; you’re fairly certain there’s no way in hell you’ll be able to outrun him, but you’d rather take your chances running from him than having to fight him head on. “You realize I know where you live; how much good is running right now really gonna do you?” So much for that plan. You halt your steps, but keep your gun trained on him, forcing a wry smile. “Ah, you noticed. Good. Figured I’d assess how good you actually are before I take you down.” He spreads his arms out wide as an invitation. “Take your best shot. But just so we’re both on the same page, I’m not here to hurt you.” And you have no clue where you take the courage from, maybe just downright stupidity, but you actually have the guts to roll your eyes at that. “Well pardon me, your getup and the whole breaking and entering thing doesn’t exactly scream friendly neighborhood Nightwing.”

“Oh trust me, I’m nothing of the sort.” he states, taking a few heavy steps in your direction and you barely fight the urge to bolt. “But my fight’s not with you. I’m simply here to deliver a warning.” Furrowed brows are enough of an indication for him to keep going. “Get outta of Gotham before Halloween. Matter of fact, book it to the other side of the country and don’t come back.” The absolute shock actually makes you lower your gun just a fraction, staring at him in complete bewilderment. “I… what?”

Shrugging, he turns back towards your open window. “You’ve had your warning, take it or leave it. But when the storm hits, you’re not gonna be my responsibility.” And with that he moves to leave.

The fact that you grew up on Gotham’s streets and lived to tell the tale would not occur to anyone watching this unfold, since your sense of self preservation seems to have taken the day off.

Because you reach for him.

Grab a hold of his wrist and refuse to let go, your mouth working overtime before your brain can catch up. “Now hold on a second, you can’t just—“

He has you disarmed in two seconds flat, your body colliding with the wall next to the bed with a thud and a groan spilling from your lips; your weapon clatters to the ground as he pins your wrist next to your head, his other arm coming up across your throat and pressing down. A few long agonizing seconds of a standstill tick by; wide, scared eyes staring at the unflinching facade of his mask.

And then something shifts.

He lowers his arm letting you breathe again and while he doesn’t let go completely, his iron grip on your wrist lessens and he straightens up, putting some more distance between you both. Almost as if he hadn’t meant to hurt you. Almost like you’d simply startled him and he’d acted on instinct.

You take some trembling breaths to try and collect yourself before you speak again. “Alright, let’s say for a moment that I believe your Good Samaritan act. Why me? Out of all the people in Gotham, why do I get a warning? What makes me so special?” He doesn’t answer right away, like he’s considering if he should at all, but then, “Consider it a courtesy call for old time’s sake.”

You repeat that last part under breath, brain already kicking into overdrive to figure out what on earth he’s talking about. And it’s easy enough to miss, easy enough to write it off as trivial and innocent, the way his fingers shift and his thumb repeatedly brushes over the gold bracelet on your wrist almost fondly. No, you can’t possibly disregard that, not with they way your heart familiarly stutters like it always had when he’d done that. You glance over at the pictures on your nightstand - what you’d found him looking at when you first entered the apartment.

No.

No, no, no, no, no, no.

It can’t be.

After all the time you’d spent searching, all the sleepless nights, all the tears - he can’t just be standing in front you right now.

“Take off the mask…” it’s nothing more than a whisper, but in the quiet of the room it’s still too loud. Too poignant.

He doesn’t move, doesn’t react in any way you’d be able to see, so you repeat yourself, louder this time. No longer asking, but demanding.

“What difference would it make? You won’t know the man underneath anymore.”

“Bullshit,” you hiss, somewhere between utter disbelief and hysteria. “I never forgot about you.”

He scoffs as he lets you go and grabs the picture frame off your bedside table instead, mockingly waving it in front your face. “Clearly. You didn’t forget, but you gave up on me just like the rest of them.”

Tears burn in your eyes while the lump forming in your throat threatens to choke you. “That’s not true, I didn’t—“

“Don’t you dare lie to me!!” he shouts, chucking the frame he’s still holding across the room in a fit of rage and you flinch back from him right as it shatters into dozens of pieces against a wall. “How long did it take you, huh? To write me off as nothing more than a memory? Cherished in theory, because sure that’s easy, but actually trying to find me was just too much work in the long run, wasn’t it!? I just wasn’t worth the effort!”

You don’t answer, simply stare at him with big, hurt eyes, tears now flowing freely down your cheeks and he pretends he doesn’t care. He’s right after all and he knows it and there’s nothing you could possibly say that would—

“The abandoned wing under Arkham. That’s where that monster had you.”

And he just about feels his brain short circuit and his heart stop. He couldn’t have heard you right.

“What?”

He doesn’t even realize he said it out loud, not until you push past him and he just lets you, frozen to the spot, as you throw open the doors to your closet, pushing the clothes aside and pulling on the string that hangs from the ceiling, the single, dim lightbulb slowly flickering to life and giving him a full view of the back wall.

And it’s all right there. Connected with actual, literal red string stretched between case files and pictures.

The explosion at the warehouse where he’d been taken. Dozens of Joker’s old hideouts, all investigated and discarded. And upon closer inspection as he steps forward, photographs of his ‘room’ under Arkham, right beside lab reports proving that the blood found down there was his. There are blurry, staticky pics of a security cam, showing a man with dark hair in the classic orange jumpsuit prisoners received, encountering Deathstroke the night Joker had taken over the asylum. He rips a piece of paper off the wall, dated not more than a month ago, that clearly places the mercenary in Venezuela, heading some form of military operation - and underlined several times, encircled in bright red, the fact that he’s working for someone calling themselves the Arkham Knight.

“I never gave up on you.” he hears you reiterate somewhere behind him, voice shaky and choked up. “I was just… always one step behind.”

The version of you that Crane’s toxin had created wasn’t real; the version of you that had used him and his relationship to Bruce as a stepping stone into higher education and a better life for yourself, while leaving him behind, because he was beneath you now. But the version of you he’d created in his own mind while imprisoned wasn’t real either. The you that had always had the brightest, sharpest mind he’d ever seen, the you that must’ve figured it out even if Batman couldn’t. The you that would walk through those damn doors instead of the clown and come save him, surely. Eventually.

No, the real you he’d found working at the diner that was to be ground zero for Gotham’s downfall; dreams of becoming an architect clearly abandoned. He should’ve stayed away after seeing you there, you were a distraction, a dangerous one, and yet he’d kept going back, always in a corner booth, in the section of one of your coworkers, always with his hood up, making sure you wouldn’t recognize him. And he’d learned plenty about the person you’d become in his absence. Had learned that you still wear the bracelet he stole for you years ago cause he’d caught you longingly looking at it every time you’d passed that shop. Had learned that you still celebrate his birthday, taking his favorite muffins out of the display case at work, telling your coworker that you couldn’t go drinking tonight cause you had a birthday to attend - meanwhile he hadn’t even realized what day it was. He’d learned that the real you had gone little to no contact with Bruce and the rest of the family, if the aggravation and shouting matches whenever one of them showed up at the diner to check on you were anything to go by. The real you rarely went out anymore, always straight home after work, a few exceptions to the rule only to get drunk and hook up with guys that looked like him - at least that’s what Barbara had hurled at you when one of your arguments had gotten too heated, too personal. He’d seen the immediate regret on her face and the hurt on yours, but the damage had been done.

He’d felt a sick sense of satisfaction at the time; knowing that you were willingly letting his memory torture you. That you failed him and now you were stuck with his ghost forever haunting you. Yeah, that had felt good, like poetic justice.

But now?

Now he feels shame rising in the back of his throat like bile, burning and threatening to choke him.

This isn’t how it’s supposed to be.

After all the time he’d spent convincing himself that you left him, that you just didn’t care enough… you’d given up on living your life trying to save his?

“Jason…” you start, quiet and gentle as not to spook him and he slightly turns his head over his shoulder in your general direction, indicating that he’s listening. “Whatever it is you’re planning to do, you don’t have to—“

“Don’t call me that.” he growls, but there’s no bite to it; his previous anger has dissipated and now, even with the modulator, he just sounds exhausted. Defeated.

“But it’s your name…” you insist and he barks out a laugh, bitter and broken, accompanied by a burst of static from his helmet.

“Jason Todd died in that hole under Arkham, along with Robin. There’s only the Arkham Knight, now.”

A sob forces itself out of your throat wether you like it or not and even though you know it’s a horrible idea, you reach for him again, only to have him recoil from you. Your heart’s been held together by nothing but sheer force of will and spite the past years, but seeing him like this, hearing him talk about himself like he did in fact die even though he’s right there and having to see him back away from your touch like a wounded, cornered animal is too much. Pulling yourself together as much as humanly possible, for his sake more than anything else, you try again.

“Jason, please. Just… stay, alright? Stay here with me and I promise we can fix this.”

“I can fix it!!” he roars, whirling around to face you again and you inadvertently take a step back. “I know now what to do and it doesn’t. Involve. You. Get out of the the city. Or don’t. Either way, I don’t care what happens to you.”

You manage to shake off some of the grief and fear weighing you down, wipe a sleeve over your eyes and stand up a little straighter to stare him down, defiance burning in your eyes. “If that were true, you wouldn’t be here. And I’m not going anywhere without you.” He gazes back at you, unreadable and unflinching, before moving back over to the window. “Suit yourself.”

And then he’s gone. No trace left behind, no way of finding him - and it all feels so much like back then, you feel your knees give out beneath you. Your back makes contact with the wall, sliding down until you’re sat on the carpeted floor of your bedroom, knees pulled up to your chest and letting yourself sob and scream at the top of your lungs as your heart finally shatters in your chest.

You don’t get much sleep that night. Or the night after that. Or any night until Halloween finally rolls around some weeks later and Scarecrow unleashes hell upon the city. True to your word, you didn’t leave, but you’re not stupid enough to completely ignore a warning, either. You’d reinforced all entry points to your apartment as best as you could and had stocked up on supplies - none of which would do you any good if the fear gas managed to creep in somewhere. Granted, there’d been no reports of any major attacks in your general area, but you’d rather be safe than sorry. You’d only ever heard stories about the things Jonathan Crane’s toxin made people see and do and you have absolutely no interest in experiencing it first hand. So now there’s a flashlight tucked between your teeth, because of course the power in your building had gone out hours ago, focused on shoving towels and old shirts into any cracks you can find and simply consider yourself lucky that with all the riots and looters running amok, this is your only possible problem.

And then there’s a crash from your bedroom, clearly the sound of a window shattering, followed by a heavy thud of something - or someone - hitting the floor. Adrenaline kicks in and you immediately grab the gun from the back of your pants and sneak towards the noise. Whoever it is isn’t bothering to even try and be quiet or conceal their presence; you can hear shuffling, the crunch of glass under the person’s weight and—

Are… are those sobs?

With quiet steps, you creep around the last corner to peak into your bedroom and sure enough, there’s a person on the floor, back against the foot of your bed and crying loud enough for you to clearly hear. You’ve still got your gun raised when the neon sign on the store across the street flickers back to life, bathing your room in red and blue for only a moment, before it dies again like it has been doing all night, but it’s enough - enough for you to recognize the armor and at first you’re certain Crane’s toxin got to you after all.

One. Two. Three deep breaths is how long it takes for your feet to finally unstick from the floor and slowly, carefully, carry you forward, terrified that he’ll vanish into thin air again or turn into something worse if you get too close. A quiet call of his name, maybe too quiet, because he doesn’t react, simply continues to weep, head in his hands, only interrupted by his own incoherent mumbling. You try again, a little louder this time, but are met with the same result. You don’t want to risk touching him, not after what happened last time, but you have to do something.

“Breathe… I-I can’t… Can’t breathe…” he stutters out and next thing you know he yanks off his helmet to carelessly toss it aside and it comes to a rolling stop at the tip of your boot; cracked, broken static flickering up at you against a glowing, faceless red. “Didn’t… d-didn’t know where else to go…” It makes your head snap back up because that? Yeah, maybe you can work with that.

“Okay… you didn’t know where to go but here. Do you… do you know where here is? Do you know where you are? Jason?”

He doesn’t answer right away and you start to feel sweat beading at the back of your neck in anxiety and concern, because while you want to help, of course you do, you truly have no idea what you’re doing. If maybe you’re just making things worse. And against the backdrop of screams and gun shots and manic laughter that now filters in from the streets freely through your broken window his answer is so quiet, you almost miss it. “Your apartment…” You nod in encouragement, even though he’s not even looking at you; head hung low, hands fisted in his hair. “Yeah, that’s right. Do you know how you got here? Where you were, what you were doing before?”

He dissolves into quiet mumbling again, yet you can clearly make out the word ‘Failed…’ over and over again. When carefully questioned, he admits to having failed what he set out to do tonight: to kill the Bat. To kill Bruce. “He did this to me and I couldn’t even— I couldn’t—“ You watch him beat his fists against his skull in frustration and anger and only barely resist the urge to grab a hold of them and stop him from hurting himself, lest you accidentally, unintentionally cause more harm. Thankfully it doesn’t last, gloved fingers instead threading through his hair again, anxiously tugging at the dark strands and you recognize it as a nervous habit he’s always had. Despite the circumstances, it’s what makes you breathe a little easier, lessens the fears and feeling of helplessness, because this is still Jason. Your Jason, who you’ve calmed down and talked out of fits of rage and self deprecating rants a hundred times over - you can do this.

“You’re right, you did fail.” you start and watch him go completely still at your words, almost as if in shock and you’d hate for him to get the wrong idea of where you’re going with this, so you quickly continue speaking. “Failed to be what that monster tried to turn you into and god I hope his pasty faced ashes are rotating in his fucking grave. And I know it’s not fair, shit, it’s not fair that he ruined you just to spite the Bat, but in the end you didn’t let him make you his weapon, his final laugh. You gave him one last middle finger even though the asshole’s already dead and fuck if that isn’t the most Jason Todd thing to do, I dunno what is.” You chuckle quietly, sniffing as you wipe a sleeve over your eyes. “Proves to me that the boy I grew up with is still in there. A little different, a little bruised, a little bit broken, sure - but he’s still here and he’s certainly not beyond repair.”

Another sob racks his whole body and while you can’t pinpoint it as a good or bad sign, you decide to push this angle, distract from the events of tonight and focus on something else instead, so you go to grab something off your nightstand and carefully kneel down in front of him as close as you dare, broken glass shards everywhere be damned. “I don’t wanna talk about them, though, I don’t care about either of the two, I care about you. Could you take a look at this and tell me what you remember about it?”

The picture you slide over to him has seen better days for sure, wrinkles and slight tears at the edges, made worse when he’d smashed the frame it had been in not too long ago. And despite your doubts, despite the way he flinches when you slowly slide the paper over to him like it’s gonna eat him alive, he picks it up with shaky fingers.

Jason half expects the picture to be an exact copy of the last one that had been shoved in his face: Batman with his new Robin. Instead, he finds himself staring back him, younger, without all the scars, a spark in his eyes and an easy grin on his lips. The sight alone is enough to make the scar on his face burn like it had that first day and if not for the other person in the photograph, he probably would’ve torn it to pieces right here and now. All bright eyes and happy smile, you radiate joy - as someone should on their birthday. And you’d made the best of it, as good as two Gotham street rats could make a birthday: you’d stolen some six packs and cupcakes from a corner store, had gotten drunk on a rooftop somewhere. He remembers how he’d barely stopped you from toppling off the edge while making fun of Bruce Wayne and proclaiming that your name would be on the biggest building in this city one day. How kissing you for the first time had felt. He remembers it all, surprisingly clearly, too, but that’s all it is: a memory. The people in that picture no longer exist, after all. He had taken all the pain and the blackness the Joker instilled in him and had reforged himself, into something different. Something horrible. And unwittingly, he’d dragged you down into the abyss right along side him. You’ve become a broken shell, a shadow, of the quick-witted, ambitious person you used to be - and it’s all his fault. All your energy and time and resources, you’d wasted them on him in the last few years instead of building a better life for yourself, like you should’ve. Growing up on Gotham’s streets, never knowing where your next meal or shelter was gonna come from, being threatened, beaten and left on a street corner to bleed out - none of that had ever managed to break you. Out of all the hardships in your life, he’d been the one to to finally break you, make you lose yourself. You would’ve been better off if you’d never met him.

“Jason?”

It’s soft and careful and concerned and it makes him wanna throw up because he doesn’t deserve this. He doesn’t deserve you treating him kindly after what he put you through.

“I just… I just wanna help. Please let me help you.”

‘Jason, I can help you!’

‘There’s no helping me!’

He flinches at the memory, at the desperation and grief he’d seen even through the mask and curls into himself even further. He doesn’t wanna see the same look on your face. Doesn’t wanna see it morph into disappointment when you realize that there is no helping the boy you still have your heart set on saving - that Bruce had wanted to save - because he’s long dead.

“Jason, I… I know I failed you and you have every right to be angry, but please just… just gimme a chance.”

What a joke. He’s the only failure here. He’d worked towards one thing and one thing only for the past years and when it had come down to it, he couldn’t do it. Couldn’t bring himself to kill the Bat. And that’s not even the worst of it, because he’d failed you, too. Had stolen years of your life without even knowing, with no way of ever giving them back to you. The best thing, the only thing, he could do for you now is to leave you be. To get out of your life for good and never look back. To finally set you free from the curse his existence had put on you. And maybe, just maybe, he could still do something for Bruce, too.

He staggers to his feet, reaching for his helmet with shaky hands while he does, refusing to lift his head to look at you until it’s securely back in place, the crack vanishing from its’ surface with a few practiced pushes of a button on the side. “I should go. I never should’ve come here in the first place.” It makes you push up from the floor so fast, you feel a glass shard slice your palm open in your hurry, yet it doesn’t truly register. Not when the cold dread that runs down your spine at his words stings so much worse. “Wait, wait, no, absolutely not. You’re not in any state to be going out there on your own, don’t—“

“Scarecrow isn’t done.” he interrupts, “This is all my fault, I’ve gotta— If I don’t do something, he’s going to— I have to go.” His voice is steady, calm, sure of himself and it gives you pause. His entire demeanor seems to have changed, compared to when you first found him. More present, put together. It lessens the horror of having to think about him just vanishing again, if only the slightest bit. You’re chewing on the inside of your cheek anxiously, looking him up and down, trying to assess wether or not you can let him leave in good conscience. His helmet gives off a slight glow, red and ominous, and not for the first time you find yourself wishing you could see his face. To be able to read him easier - to be able to ensure yourself that this is real. Swallowing thickly around all the protests and fears rising in your throat, you cross your arms over your chest and dig your nails into your arms so hard it stings as you shrug. “It’s not like I’m going to keep you here against your will, Jason. If you want to leave, you’re free to.”

Right. Right, you couldn’t, even if you tried - not that you ever would. You’re not… him and Jason’s not a prisoner here, he has to remind himself. He came here of his own accord because… because some part of him, however small, still knows he’s safe here. Because he’s with you. It’s not something he’s had or felt in a long time and it makes leaving so much harder, because he knows he won’t be coming back. He already has one leg up on your windowsill, halfway out onto the fire escape when you call out to him again.

“Could you… can you please come back? When it’s over? You don’t have to stay, just so I’ll know you’re alright?” Your eyes keep flicking over to your closet, its’ doors wide open and your investigations on full display.

He takes a long, yearning glance at the picture he’s still holding onto.

He should. He owes you some form of peace of mind, if nothing else. But he’s not sure he’d be able to bring himself to leave you again if he does. So he’ll stay away, for your sake. Maybe, if he’s lucky, you’ll end up hating him for it. You should.

“Yeah, yeah, I… I’ll come back.”

And even with the helmets’ modulator, even with the time you’ve spent apart, even accounting for the fact that he’s definitely not quite the same person you grew up with, you know he’s lying.

For the sake of your sanity, you internally convince yourself he’s not.

But he’s not back by the time you can hear the sirens of the GCPD echo through the streets, rolling out to retake their city. He’s not back by the time the power in your building flickers back to life, just in time for you to watch Wayne Manor go up in flames on the news. And he’s not back by the time the sun slowly starts to creep up over the city’s skyline, blocked out by clouds and smoke and drenching everything in a dull, gray light. Fitting, after the night Gotham’s had, you suppose. After the night you’ve had. You busy yourself with haphazardly patching up the wound on your hand and then getting your apartment back to its’ original state; granted, maybe a tad too early considering the city’s still in a state of chaos, but you need something to keep you occupied, to keep your mind from wandering. You don’t want to think about having to keep up that god forsaken evidence board in your closet. About more weeks and months and years of searching. About lying awake night after night, not knowing wether he’s dead or alive - or worse. You’re oh so tired of the vicious cycle you’ve trapped yourself in, yet you’re not sure you have the strength to break it.

The sound of glass crunching underfoot coming from your bedroom rips you out of your thoughts and had you been thinking a bit more clearly, you would’ve grabbed your gun off the couch table before going to investigate. But your mind’s a jumbled, frantic mess and so you rush over immediately, loud and entirely unprepared should it be anyone else but who you’re hoping, praying, for.

No armor this time, but sneakers, jeans and a red hoodie. You recognize his frame anyways: the way his shoulders seem permanently hunched over, the way he still hides his face from view, this time under the brim of a baseball cap, peeking out from under the hood of his sweater. He’s standing in the mess of broken glass from last night, gaze fixed on your open closet. Your breathing’s shallow and quick as you approach slowly, terrified that he’ll bolt again if you startle him, meanwhile your heart hammers against your ribs painfully, like it’s trying to claw its’ way out of your chest to get to him. You stop by his side, keeping a mindful distance between you, and even though you want to see him more than anything else, you refrain from from trying to get a look at his face. He’s been doing nothing but hide since that first night he came to see you again weeks ago and you’re not about to force him out; you’d only be pushing him further away. Instead, you keep your gaze locked forward, distracting yourself with following the red string with your eyes, like you don’t know the pattern it creates by heart at this point.

“You really never stopped searching… Never gave up…”

It’s quiet, almost reverent - like he still can’t believe it, even though the proof is right there in front of him. And you can feel the sting of tears behind your eyes before you know it; no modulator to make him sound like a different man, a monster. No sobs racking his entire body, turning his voice hoarse and frantic. Just Jason. Exhausted and broken, but still Jason. Your Jason. Who sounds like he can’t fathom the idea of you caring enough, loving him enough, to dedicate your life to bringing him home. It’s that last thought that makes the tears fall and that forces a bitter, self deprecating scoff out of your throat.

“For all the good it did you…” you rasp, running a hand through your hair as you take a few steps forward to rest your forehead against the back wall of your closet. “I tried, but I was… always just one step behind. Never quite smart enough, never quite fast enough; no matter what I did it was just never enough!” Your voice rises in pitch and volume despite your best efforts to keep calm, a fist colliding with the wall hard enough to send some papers fluttering to the ground.

Even in the dim, sparse, natural light bleeding into the room through the blinds, Jason can see the dried blood on the wall now, the scratches in the wood clearly created by fingernails. He can almost see you now, standing right where you are now, literally clawing at the walls in desperation and defeat, nails a broken and bloody mess, like you’d find the answers right behind those old wooden boards if you just managed to dig deep enough. He feels his fingers twitch, like they’re itching to reach out and take yours, to make sure you can’t hurt yourself again. Especially not for his sake. The impulse is there, but he doesn’t follow through, instead opting to run a finger along the picture he took earlier that night, now safely tucked away in his hoodie pocket. Fuck, he shouldn’t even be here. He’d promised himself to let you have your life back, and yet here he stands, selfish bastard that he is. He could pretend he’s only here to let you know he’s alright; that he can look after himself, he’s no longer your responsibility, he never should’ve been in the first place, and that you can move on with your life with a clear conscience - but that would be a lie. Cause when the sun had come up, shedding first light on the carnage and chaos and despair he’d created, all he’d wanted to do was hide. Hide from what he’d done, from what he’d become and his first thought had been to go to you. Because with you he’s safe, even from himself and the demons constantly clawing at the edges of his mind and he can’t… he doesn’t want to lose that, not again.

“I know I wasn’t there when you would’ve needed me most and I’ll never forgive myself for that, but I’m still so, so sorry Jason. I know saying that isn’t gonna help fix anything, but I… I dunno. Still felt I had to say it.”

You receive no answer, not that you expect one, because what is he supposed to say? ‘It’s fine’? It’s not, you know it isn’t and no amount of apologizing is gonna make it alright. You half expect him to just leave, maybe he’ll already be gone when you turn back around. He’d come back to show you he’s still alive, that’s all you’d asked for - he doesn’t owe you anything else, after all.

“You’re here now.”

He doesn’t elaborate, doesn’t say it - can’t or won’t, you’re not sure - but you understand anyways. Understand the unspoken words hanging between you.

I need you now.

You turn and approach him and slowly, carefully, as not to spook him and also to give you some more time to think about what to say. The second he hears you step closer, he pulls the brim of his hat down further and angles his face away from you and it sends a painful sting right to your heart. Coming to a halt about a foot in front of him, you gently and quietly ask if you can see his face. When he doesn’t react, you continue with how much you’ve missed him, that you’d like nothing more than to finally see him again, but that he doesn’t have to if he doesn’t want to; it’s his choice and you won’t force him. You hesitate and ultimately decide against telling him that you know. That you’ve seen the tapes the clown had kept sending; watched them over and over until you’d thrown up, until you’d grown almost numb to the senseless torture and suffering. You’d had to; if you’d missed even the tiniest clue, the slimmest chance of finding him, just because you couldn’t stomach the blood and screams, you wouldn’t have been able to look him in the eye again once you’d found him. But all the horrible wounds that will undoubtedly have left nasty, ugly scars by now? You couldn’t care less, but he clearly believes you would.

The quiet between you isn’t awkward or oppressive, instead calm and welcome, and you’re being so patient and reassuring, he eventually caves. Pushes the hood back and takes off the cap with a sigh, carelessly dropping it to the ground, before anxiously running a hand through his black hair as he finally brings his eyes to yours. A whole range of emotions flashes across your face, all there and gone before he can identify any of them, but he most definitely didn’t expect for you to settle on simple relief and affection, a soft smile and eyes glossy with tears. “There you are, beautiful. Finally back home with me, finally mine again.”

‘He’s mine. Mine, mine, mine. To do with as I wish.’

He doesn’t mean to, but it’s pure instinct, the way he flinches away from you, from your words, because he expects another shotgun shell to the chest to follow. When he manages to will himself to look at you again, he almost bolts right out your broken window, because you look so lost. So hurt. And of course it’s his fault again.

“I-I’m sorry, Jay, I didn’t know— I didn’t mean to—“

“‘S not your fault…” he croaks, throat tight and mouth dry.

Meanwhile you feel like bashing your fists against a wall in frustration over and over and over again, until your knuckles are sore and bleeding like you’ve done so many times while searching for him, because maybe then you’ll be able to understand a fraction of the pain and suffering he’s had to endure. He’s right here; you finally have him back and yet you still have no clue what to do, how to help.

Pathetic.

Useless.

He’d be better off without you.

The same voices that have been taunting you for years rear their ugly heads again, but one look at the man in front of you is enough to ultimately find the strength to tell them to go shut the fuck up. This isn’t about you.

“Will you be okay if I touch you right now…?” you ask, deciding to throw caution to the wind.

He immediately shakes his head. “I… I dunno…”

So you rephrase your question. “Can I touch you?”

This time it takes him longer to answer, hesitation and uncertainty radiating off of him in waves, yet you can heave a sigh of relief when he slowly nods. Carefully, gently you reach up to cup his cheek and try as you might you can’t seem to get your fingers to stop shaking. The touch is feather light, barely even there and while he doesn’t back away, every muscle in his body goes tense and he screws his eyes shut, instinctively prepared for more pain and it forces you to harshly swallow around the lump that forms in your throat at the sight before you speak again.

“It’s just me, Jay. The same annoying, clingy little shit that latched on to you when we were kids that you haven’t been able to get rid off since. I’m not gonna hurt you and I’ll be damned if I ever let anyone lay a hand on you again.” Your voice is firm, steady, the shaking in your hands has ceased and while he hasn’t opened his eyes, he seems to have calmed down and it encourages you to be bolder; to bring your other hand to his face as well, gently thumbing over the ‘J’ branded into his skin. “You’re safe here. You’re home.”

Home.

Someplace warm. Someplace safe.

Someplace where he’s needed. Someplace where he’s loved.

It’s like something shifts, breaks; his entire body goes slack, all but lurching forward into your hold and you almost stumble backward from the sheer unexpected weight of him, but you manage to catch yourself, catch him, quickly adjusting your hold on him, one hand drawing soothing patterns into the small of his back, the other buried in his hair at the nape of his neck as his own arms wind around you and squeeze tight enough to hurt and steal the breath from your lungs, like you’ll disappear if he doesn’t cling to you like a lifeline, his face buried in the crook of your neck. You simply hold him tight, listening to his breaths go from shallow and trembling to deep and calm, feeling hot, wet tears soaking the fabric of your shirt over your collar bone.

“I can stay…?” he rasps, your heart cracking at his tone, quiet and uncertain, poised for rejection. “Of course, as long as you need - or want.”

He swallows thickly. “I’m gonna be nothing but work.” You choke out a sound somewhere between a snort and a chuckle, turning your face to nuzzle into his hair. “What, like you’ve ever been anything else? Please, I’m perfectly capable of handling you, my love.” Gently teasing, like you used to, yet you feel him tense up again at the nickname. “I’m… I’m not the same person you knew, the man you loved…” A deep inhale as you pull back to look at him again, one hand to his chest to feel for his steady, if slightly elevated, heartbeat, the other back to his scarred cheek and you feel your heart soar in happiness when you see him lean into your touch, eyes closed, because for once he doesn’t have to watch his back constantly, not with you right here. “I know that. All I’m asking for is the chance to get to know you again.” Long lashes flutter against his cheeks as he blinks his baby blues open, glossed over with unshed tears, accompanied by a barely there huff of a laugh, nothing more than an exhale through his nose. “I don’t even know who I am anymore…”

“We can figure it out together.” Voice firm and filled with resolve while you pull back to put some distance between you two; you could feel him start to tremble under your touch and you’re unsure if you’re grounding or overwhelming him. You simply don’t know what he needs right now, or at all, but you’d learn again. Until then, you’d leave the choice wether or not to reach out, to accept touch and support, up to him. With that in mind, you offer a hand to him, earning a confused gaze flicking between your eyes and your outstretched hand. “Ya know what? It’s been… a night. How about we talk about everything else over breakfast? You hungry?”

It’s such a normal, downright domestic question, and it feels so utterly surreal Jason almost laughs. He takes a few more very long seconds to mull it over, not that he’s in any state to make any truly rational, well thought out decisions currently. Not when you’re right here, smiling at him like you used to, eyes soft, but pleading. Then he drops the duffel bag with the Knights’ gear to the floor with a sigh and kicks it into your closet, reaching for your hand right after and you immediately weave your fingers through his happily. It’s stupid, downright ridiculous, he thinks, that despite his own fingers being scarred and permanently crooked and bent in odd ways from being broken one too many times, they still fit into yours perfectly.

“I don’t think you’re gonna find any place up and running to deliver breakfast right now; not even Gotham recovers that quick.” he states. The light and conversational tone is foreign and awkward to him, he feels like an imposter, a monster only playing house, but the smug smile that is so very you he’s rewarded with quiets the harsh voices in his mind to an annoying, but ignorable whisper. “I was gonna make us something, smartass.”

“I didn’t survive this long just for your cooking to be what does me in, you know.”

You blink at him owlishly, once, twice, three times.

He just cracked wise. Like he always had with you. And yeah, the smile on his face is barely even there, just the slightest upturn of the corners of his mouth, not to mention it doesn’t reach his eyes, but he’s trying. For you. It feels like the first glimpse at the real man behind all the pain and rage and arrogance he put up as a front to parade around with and it’s such a relief, a laugh bubbles out of your throat before you can stop it, which immediately puts you back on guard, your body winding like a spring in anticipation and worry - you’re certain he’s heard enough laughter to last him a lifetime. If he’s bothered by it though, he doesn’t show it, only squeezes your hand a little tighter in reassurance, for himself or you, you’ll never know.

Unbeknownst to you, it’s the first laugh in years that he in fact doesn’t mind. The urge to cower, to bolt, to hide is there at first yes, but it ebbs away, because your laugh is different. Soothing, not haunting. He still knows it, remembers it, and it was never accompanied by anything but joy - it wouldn’t be any different now. After all, he’s safe with you. He’s home.

“I’ll have you know that I got better at cooking, you asshole. I uh… I asked Alfred to teach me some things. Wasn’t particularly gifted, but I can whip up some mean scrambled eggs and a decent banana bread by now.” You feel your heart skip an actual beat when his smile grows just the tiniest bit at your defiant teasing. “Right. I’ll believe it when I see it.”

“Well, come on then.” you state with an eye roll, your own smile firmly in place as you slowly, gently tug him from the room, him following oh so willingly, the Arkham Knight along with your hunt for Robins’ ghost left forgotten in the back of your closet.

[tortillamastersblog]

Where Light Bends Wrong - Part 16 | Wednesday Addams

Pairing: Wednesday Addams x reader

Warnings: none

Summary: You’ve kept your secret buried and your power quiet, until Wednesday Addams came to Nevermore and turned your whole world upside down.

Previous Part | Next Part | Masterlist

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“Fire will rain.”

“Huh?” I look up right as Wednesday slides into the seat next to me. 

“Fire will rain,” she repeats, “It was burned into the front lawn of the school last night.” I glance around to make sure no one is listening to us as they settle in and get ready for class.

“I know, but–”

“It must have something to do with Crackstone and the monster,” she cuts me off, pulling out her notebook and pen, which, of course, is a fancy black fountain pen.

“Mhmm…” Since our talk yesterday we’ve decided to do everything to solve this mystery together. Crackstone killed one of my own, and even though it’s been decades, I can’t let it go. It’s also the reason why I’m no longer all too bitter about what Wednesday did. Yes, I still don’t trust her fully and I’m still annoyed by it, but it’s no longer important. Not when people are literally getting killed. “So, do you know how it’s connected to Crackstone?”

Wednesday huffs in frustration and tightens her grip on her pen.  “No, not yet.”

Since Eugene was attacked, there haven’t been any new leads which is making me nervous. Something is coming, I can feel it, and I don’t like it. 

“I did however come across some very eye-opening information,” she says quietly, glancing at me.

I raise an eyebrow despite the way I want to squirm under her dark eyes.  “Do tell.”

She makes sure no one is listening before leaning closer and saying, “Weems is a shapeshifter.”

My jaw drops. “What?”

Instead of repeating herself, Wednesday adds, “It was she who appeared to us as Rowan. She’s helping cover up his murder.”

Completely bewildered, I lean back in my chair and tug on her sleeve to get her to look at me properly. She goes willingly and doesn’t pull her arm back when I keep holding onto her sleeve. “What about his parents?”

Wednesday’s eyes dart to my hand before looking back up. “They’re in on it. His telekinesis has gone to his head lately and he tried to kill me twice, so they’re not going to come out with the truth.”

I want to say something else, but then Thornhill walks in and begins her lesson. I see a flicker of surprise in her eyes when they land on Wednesday and me, sitting next to each other. It makes me realize I’m still holding onto her, so I quickly let go and sit up straighter.

Wednesday’s eyes burn into the side of my head for a moment, but then she turns back in her seat and picks up her pen again.

Thornhill starts rambling about some moon plants, but I’m only half-listening.

Weems is a shapeshifter… That explains why fake Rowan’s emotions felt so familiar when we bumped into each other after the real Rowan was killed.

Why she’s trying to cover it up isn’t a surprise since she’s always been obsessed with the school’s image. I just don’t understand why she wasn’t honest with me of all people. I thought we had a better relationship than that.

“What are you doing this afternoon?”

I snap out of my thoughts and glance to the side, finding Wednesday already looking at me with an unreadable expression.

“Not sure yet. I was going to do some homework and maybe go for a run to clear my head. Why?”

“I was planning on going to visit Eugene,” she says quietly, while Thornhill keeps teaching. And even though she doesn’t say anything else, the way she says it makes it clear she’s asking if I want to come with her.

I frown slightly. Eugene being in the hospital is a reminder of how she ditched us for the Rave’N, but after a moment, I nod and mumble that I’ll go with her.

I pause outside Eugene’s hospital room when I hear Wednesday’s quiet voice, having just stepped out to grab something to drink from the vending machine.

“I haven’t always been against birthdays. Each one reminds me I’m a year closer to death’s cold embrace,” she says, and when I peek into the room I see her sitting on the small chair I pulled up next to his bed. “I mean, what’s not to like about that?”

A soft smile tugs at my lips, but I stay back, granting her this moment with him. I know eavesdropping is wrong, but I’d be able to hear her anywhere in this hospital, so I just stay at the door.

Eugene is still in a coma, but the doctors have said he’s healing nicely and that there’s a possibility he can hear us talking to him even though he’s not conscious.

“Besides, my parents always made sure my birthdays were memorable,” she goes on, reminding me that I still need to get her a present.

Enid cornered me after class this morning and told me it was Wednesday’s birthday, but I haven’t congratulated her yet because, like I said, I don’t have a present yet and because Enid told me not to say anything until tonight because she planned a surprise party for the raven haired girl to which I’ve also been invited, of course.

“But now parties and presents and games, it…It all feels so trivial,” she says quietly, which makes my heart ache.

I might have forgiven her for what she did at the Rave’N, but there’s still some weird tension between us and I don’t know how much I can trust her. Hearing her open up like that makes me soften though since it’s a reminder that, once again, underneath all her sarcasm and wit, there’s a young woman who feels just like everyone else. 

I don’t want to invade her privacy any more than I already have, so I step into the room again, clearing my throat softly so she knows I’m back.

She doesn’t turn but her shoulders stiffen for a second before relaxing again as I step up next to her, looking at Eugene on his hospital bed. He’s still being ventilated by a machine, but his visible cuts and bruises have healed nicely, making it look like he’s simply sleeping.

Wednesday’s heartbeat flutters and I glance down at her to see her clasping her hands in her lap. Grief and guilt radiates off her, completely unfiltered for a change, so I reach out and tentatively place a hand on her shoulder. 

“It’s not your fault,” I say, making her look up. 

She sighs but doesn’t shrug off my hand as she looks back at Eugene.  

“You can’t possibly think that. If I’d been there–”

“You could have gotten hurt, too. Or worse…” I cut in, making her eyes snap back to me. There’s a vulnerable glint to them, and she blinks a couple of times, almost as if blinking back tears which makes my throat close slightly.

“What happened, happened, Wednesday.” I say, my voice dropping slightly. “We can’t change the past, but we can look forward and try our best to stop something like this from happening again.”

Wednesday unclasps her hands in her lap, her fingers twitching almost as if she’s about to raise her hand, but then someone clears their throat behind us, making both of us whirl around.

My hand drops off her shoulder and she gets off her chair, standing in front of me.

“Doctor Kinbott.” She acknowledges the therapist, who steps into the room with a bouquet of yellow-ish roses.

“I haven’t seen you since our session with our family, which was…certainly one I won’t forget,” the blonde woman says, a glint of curiosity in her eyes as her eyes dart between me and Wednesday. When they finally settle on me she says, “You must be Y/N.”

My eyes narrow because we’ve never spoken before, which makes her smile disarmingly and add, “Weems has told me all about you.”

“Hmm.” I send her a tight lipped smile and step closer to Wednesday, not liking the vibe she’s giving off. Yes, she’s acting kind, but there’s something about her that irks me.

“Well…” She clears chuckles awkwardly at my silence and turns her attention back to Wednesday. “How are things with your parents?”

“My mother and I spent some quality time together…Got our hands dirty,” Wednesday says which almost makes me chuckle, especially when Kinbot asks if they were gardening and Wednesday dryly corrects her,  “Gravedigging, actually.”

Kinbott’s eyebrows fly up, but she doesn’t comment on it as Wednesday goes on to tell her how she managed to keep her father out of prison before asking, “What brings you here?”

“Eugene’s mom’s-” Kinbott says, gesturing at the unconscious boy with a thin-lipped smile–” I’m working with them. Trauma like this leaves emotional scars on the whole family.”

She crosses the room and puts the flowers she brought into a vase on Eugene’s bedside table.

God, those flowers. They’re so…bleak. 

“They had to head home for a while so I promised I’d check in on him,” she goes on before turning back to us. 

Wednesday subtly shifts back a little since Kinbott is now closer than before. She brushes against my front and I go to move back to give her some space, but the chair is right behind me and she obviously doesn’t seem to mind the proximity.

The mood in the room has shifted, from somber before, to somewhat tense now, and Wednesday must feel it too because she glances up at me over her shoulder for a second before saying, “We’ll leave you to it.”

Kinbott eyes us with a weird glint in her eyes for a moment. Then she dips her chin and wishes us a good day as Wednesday and I leave the hospital room.

It’s not until we’re outside again, breathing in the crisp autumn air that she turns to me with a thoughtful frown pulling on her lips. “Was that strange?”

“A bit, yeah,” I admit, glancing around the town square.“But Kinbott’s a therapist, so what’d you expect? All therapists are a little weird.” 

I know therapy can be very beneficial for some people, but the experiences I’ve made so far –Therapy was mandatory when I was still in the system– have not been so pleasant. Not because the therapists were bad or anything, I just never clicked with any of them which made it impossible for me to open up and reap the benefits of therapy.

A soft snort makes my eyes widen and snap back to Wednesday. She’s got her arms crossed, but there’s an actual smile playing on her lips. “Had some bad experiences with therapists, have we?” she states rather than asks which stuns me for a second.

She’s actually joking. Or, well, kind of joking.

“I–Yeah.”

She sighs and looks away, her smile vanishing without a trace. “Tell me about it.”

Oh. 

So, she was kind of joking, but there’s some truth to what she’s saying.

Damn, if I knew things would get so emotional –first the moment before Kinbott interrupted us, and now this– I don’t know if I would have agreed to come with her.

She’s hurt me. Badly. And yet ever since it happened I keep finding myself in situations like this where we inadvertently open up to each other in some way or another.

I clear my throat when I realize I’m just staring at her and push away the fluttering feeling that spreads in the pit of my stomach. “So…Xavier? You said he might be the monster.”

Wednesday uncrosses her arms to clasp her hands in front of her. “Yes, but I don’t have any proof yet.”

I huff. It’s frustrating that we can’t seem to get closer to solving this thing. “What about Weems?”

“What about her?” 

“Could she be the monster?” I ask. “I mean, you said she was a shapeshifter.”

“She is, but I don’t think she’s the monster. She can turn into other people, not animals, or whatever that monster is. She also has alibis for all the attacks,”  she explains which makes me bite the inside of my cheek.

She’s right. Weems is not the monster. Even just thinking that was me grasping at straws because there’s no other lead and the fact that Weems has kept her ability hidden from me made me wonder what else she was hiding.

What else is she hiding?

She knows all of my secrets. She knows what I am, and I thought I could trust her, but can I really? 

There’s a cold breeze that makes Wednesday shudder and I check my watch to see that it’s getting pretty late.

“We should go,” I say. 

Wednesday nods, but says, “Wait, I want some coffee before we go.”

I raise an eyebrow since I know I wouldn’t be able to fall asleep if I had any myself, but I don’t object. I just gesture for her to lead the way and follow her across the town square and into the Weathervane.

Iris isn’t there, I realize as soon as we walk in, but Tyler is, which makes me clench my jaw. He seems to share my disdain because when his eyes harden when they land on me. I feel that familiar, suppressed rage radiating off him, but try my best to ignore it, focusing instead on Wednesday’s muted calm instead.

“Hi there. Haven’t seen you in a while.” He smiles sweetly at the raven haired girl, completely ignoring me.

“I’ve been busy. A quad over ice, please. To go,” she states, and I’d be lying if I said it didn’t fill me with some satisfaction how Tyler’s face drops a little at how short she’s being.

“Okay…” He eyes me reluctantly and adds, “Anything for you?”

I shake my head and move to the side of the counter while he gets to work. 

Wednesday chews on her bottom lip, deep in thought, and I watch her for a second, taking in her angular face and the way her freckles dote her nose and cheekbones before touching her elbow gently to get her to look at me.

“What are you thinking?” I ask quietly, shifting closer when I see Tyler glancing at us from behind the coffee machine.

“How we’re going to move forward,” she says. “I’ve been thinking of ways to contact Goody and I think I’m going to hold a séance when we get back.”

I quirk up an eyebrow. “A séance?”

“Yes. To talk to Goody.” She looks out of the café’s windows and watches an elderly man stroll past.

“Have you done something like that before?” I ask which makes her nod. “And? Did it work?”

Her dark eyes find mine again, and for a second I’m scared she might be annoyed at all my questions, but then she just nods again and says, “Yes. I have a feeling trying to contact Goody will be in vain though. She seems to evade me every time I need her most, but it’s the only lead I have at the moment.”

“Hmm.” I don’t know what else to say because I’m not sure I really believe séances work, but then again, who am I to doubt her when we literally attend a school with werewolves and other outcasts. A séance working isn’t really as far fetched as one might think, but I can’t help but be sceptical anyway.

“Here you go.”

Tyler’s voice makes both of us turn. Wednesday takes the to-go cup he’s holding out and goes to pay him, but he shoots her a saccharine smile and says, “Don’t worry. It’s on the house.”

Wednesday eyes him with barely veiled suspicion, before thanking him quietly and turning to leave without another word.

I follow her and even though I’ve grown to dislike Tyler recently, I push my pride aside in favor of being polite and say, “Bye, Tyler.”

He doesn’t say anything back, and just watches me leave with a bitter frown.

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Bit of a filler again, but I haven't uploaded in a few days, and I wanted to give you guys something before the next part which will be quite action packed...

Also, thanks for all your comments under the last part. Love you all <33

Tag list: @sunshinez4 @protozoario @automaticpatroltragedy @mamas-evil-hag @theallseer97 @hellenheaven @iwshemj2 @jizzuo308 @trashcannotbealive @gloriousvariant @brocoliisscared @1863rdorv-reader @fck-this-name @iamprodigious

[nobylerdoubt]

Let's Analyze - Mileven's Gender Roles

Quick Note: A while ago I had you vote on what the next Let's Analyze post will be. The vote decided the next post would be about Season 2 Mileven. Given that I am now hosting a weekly Stranger Things rewatch party, I'll be re-watching the whole of Season 2 soon, and I would rather wait until I can watch the season as a whole to make a Season 2 analysis, rather then going through to watch the clips individually.

So I somewhat recently finally watched @teambyler's 3 hour byler legal defense video. Many of you already know this, but it's VERY good.

One point made in the defense of Mileven in this video is that Mike and El's relationship is unique in storytelling because they actually have reversed gender roles.

El takes on the masculine role as the one who has strength and power, and Mike takes on the feminine role of emotional support and caretaking (think about season 1 - Mike literally housed, clothed and fed her). Mike talks about this in the van scene.

In our VHS Club Discord Chat, @zarzar769 and @noneedtoargue1994 talked about how we can use these reversed gender roles to understand the flaws of their relationship better.

So I don't know if it's a universal thing or if its because I'm a woman, or a liberal, or whatever combination of circumstances - but I have a tendency to understand the perspective of a woman in heterosexual relationship conflicts, over that of the man.

And I feel like this seems to be a common experience when it comes to Mike and El's relationship. A lot of people call Mike an asshole, asking how could be so obtuse, so mean.

We understand where El comes from a lot more.

When we flip in genders and consider it in a new way, we can see their relationship a bit more evenly, and better understand how they are mutually bad for each other.

In this post we're gonna focus on the fights and conflicts in Season 4:

Rink-o-Mania

Mike: Holy shit, El... What did you do? What did you do?!

Now in this scene it is easier for us to see El's side of this, and judge Mike for yelling at her. We've seen what Angela has done to El, at school, on the rink, and moments before hitting her with the roller skate. We understand El's perspective here, and Mike can seem kind of obtuse for not understanding why she did what she did.

But look at this scene with a flipped gender perspective: Mike has just watched her boyfriend hit a girl (someone who we perceive to have less strength and power then El) hard enough to cause her to bleed. For a man, who has more strength and power than the person they've hurt, no amount of hurt the other person has caused them would justify this kind of violence. From this perspective, is it easier to understand why Mike would be horrified and accusatory?

I'm not saying what El did was right or wrong, regardless of what gender she is. These situations hold a lot of nuance.

"From Mike"

I've recently gone more in depth with this argument in this post.

In this scene, again, we're meant to empathize with El. She's been bullied and Mike wouldn't understand. She withholds the information that she's being bullied because while Mike is here she just wants to pretend everything is okay.

But from the flipped gender perspective we can contextualize why she's hiding this from Mike a little bit more. El is the man, he is strong, and has people in his life who expect and rely on him to remain strong - including, and perhaps especially, his girlfriend. Therefore, he can't let this weakness affect him, and he especially can't let his girlfriend see that this weakness effects him.

Does this seem like something you've heard before?

On the flip side you have Mike, the girlfriend, who wishes El would have told her about the bullying, because she understands - she could have helped him.

In this argument you also get El denying Mike's experience with bullying, saying that he doesn't understand. On a semi-unrelated note Mike and El actually have a conversation similar to this in season 1 episode 3:

But looking at this conversation with a flipped gender perspective, what we see is El not letting his girlfriend in - not letting her know his true feelings and struggles, because she can't understand. Why wouldn't she?

To phrase it how I phrased it in our discord chat - you'd be telling this girl that she should has an emotionally unavailable boyfriend. But it's Mike, the boy, who isn't noticing El, the girl's emotions, so instead we blame him for not noticing her feelings. he's not allowed to be frustrated because he should have known.

I'm not saying what El or Mike did was right or wrong, regardless of what gender she is. These situations hold a lot of nuance.

Conclusion

Both El and Mike are responsible for the deterioration of their relationship.

El holds the power in the relationship - both literal and figurative. He is stronger and more powerful than Mike, but she also is the sole reason they're in a relationship at all. She's the reason when they break up, and the is the driving force when they get back together. She feels a need to be strong, to be Mike's superhero, and that comes with the emotional burden of feeling like a monster and feeling as though she can't express her feelings with Mike.

Mike is not in the power position and he wants to be; he doesn't necessarily more strong or more powerful the El or any partner, but he wants to be needed. He wants to feel like he has a say in their relationship rather than everything being out of his hands. The one aspect of their relationship where Mike has ever felt needed is being in the care position - when El needed him for protection, for shelter, for food, for emotional support, and now she doesn't. Which makes him frustrated - frustrated that she won't let him help her, and frustrated that he feels he can't do anything for her. Which leads him to, at times, ignore her needs out of frustration - kind of like, 'well you don't need me anyway, so why should I try?'

No matter who's "side" you're on, this relationship isn't healthy for either of them.

Tag List: @a70smatthew @maddyxroses

[tobiosbbyghorl]

ALMOST. MAYBE. NEVER | psh | p3

It had been three and a half months.

And he hadn’t missed a Saturday.

Not even once.

Sunghoon showed up with a patience you didn’t know he was capable of.

He never rushed you. Never forced you to talk about before.

He didn’t push. He just stayed—on your doorstep, in your space, slowly, steadily slipping back into your life not as a shadow of the past, but as someone new.

And you were healing.

You were learning to smile at his texts again. To laugh over takeout.

You even caught yourself staring at him in quiet moments—the way his mouth moved when he read, the soft hum he did while washing dishes.

Once, he reached for your hand at a street crossing—and you didn’t pull away. You let your fingers fold into his like they belonged there.

It was fragile. But it was real.

You were beginning to believe again.

Then you saw her.

It was a Thursday.

Not even his day, you joked sometimes—Saturdays were his.

You were picking up flowers for your co-worker’s birthday. It had rained that morning, and the sidewalks were still damp. You were humming, actually, holding lavender stalks wrapped in kraft paper when you saw him across the street.

Sunghoon.

And… someone else.

She was beautiful in that forgettable, effortless way.

Hair long and curled. Gold hoops. A flowy blouse that said: “I don’t even try.”

She laughed at something he said and touched his arm.

His arm.

The same arm you held in movies. The same one that used to curl around you during thunderstorms.

He smiled. The smile.

The same one you hadn’t seen all week.

Something cracked inside your ribs, sharp and nauseating.

Your breath hitched before you could stop it.

And you remembered—

Three years ago.

You loved him first.

And watched him walk away anyway.

This was different.

He said this was different.

So why did it feel exactly the same?

You left the flowers on the cashier’s counter.

Didn’t pay. Didn’t explain.

Your legs moved before your heart could catch up.

That night, you sat on the floor of your room, still wearing your shoes. The bouquet Sunghoon gave you last Saturday was wilted on your windowsill. You stared at it, hollow.

How stupid could you be?

Believing in second chances. In consistency. In promises not even spoken aloud.

You had let him in again.

And now, you couldn’t breathe past the fear.

You didn’t cry.

Not until your chest tightened so hard it felt like your lungs were folding.

Because this wasn’t just about now.

It was about before.

The sleepless nights. The half-goodbyes. The ache of waiting for someone who never really came.

And this time, if you lost him again—

You weren’t sure you’d recover.

[Sunghoon<3 ]: Can you be home by 7? I want to bring you something :)

You didn’t answer.

You couldn’t.

He came anyway.

Of course he did.

With a smile and a paper bag, wearing that hopeful look he always wore when he had something to give.

But the second he saw your face—

His expression faltered.

“Y/N?”

You said nothing.

“What’s wrong?”

Your voice was tired. Raw. Quiet. “I saw you.”

He blinked. “What?”

“This afternoon. With her.”

Realization flickered over his face. “Oh—Soojin.”

You let out a dry laugh. “I don’t care what her name is.”

“No—wait.” He stepped forward, hands raised. “She’s my cousin. From Jeju. I—God—Y/N, I asked her to help me with something for you—”

He abruptly stopped himself.

But it was too late. You’d already turned away.

He gently reached out, fingers ghosting your wrist.

“Please. Let me show you.”

You didn’t move.

So he slowly placed the box down on your table and backed away.

You hesitated. Then picked it up with trembling fingers.

Inside was a delicate silver bracelet—sunflower charm dangling at the center.

Below it was a folded Polaroid of you both, sitting on the gallery steps from your second Saturday together. You were mid-laugh. His face was turned toward you—not smiling at the camera, but at you.

He spoke, voice thick. “I had her design it because… I didn’t want to mess it up. It was supposed to be a surprise. For today.”

You stared at the bracelet.

Then at him.

His eyes were red now. Tired.

“I’m not that guy anymore,” he said. “I know what it looked like. But I need you to believe me when I say—I don’t make space for almosts anymore. I only make space for you.”

Silence stretched between you, heavy with all the versions of your heartbreak.

And then—

You sobbed.

You broke.

The tears came in a quiet rush, and your knees buckled onto the couch.

Sunghoon rushed to you without hesitation.

You didn’t push him away.

You let him hold you—tight, warm, apologetic, real.

Later, your head on his chest, you whispered, “I thought I was losing you again.”

“I’ll never let that happen,” he said, brushing your hair back. “Not again. Never again.”

You looked up, eyes swollen. “I’m still scared.”

He kissed your forehead. “Then I’ll stay until you aren’t.”

He didn’t ruin the surprise.

He saved it.

Because this time, it came with truth.

With love.

And with proof that even the ones who once broke your heart—can learn how to hold it right.

This time, it was different.

This time, he stayed.

This time—it was real.

The sun peeked through the blinds in golden lines, striping across the floor like brushstrokes.

It was quiet.

Not the fragile kind of quiet you had grown used to with Sunghoon—the kind filled with uncertainty and words unsaid.

This quiet was warm.

Safe.

Real.

Your cheek rested against his chest, your fingers curled lightly in the fabric of his shirt. He hadn’t changed out of it last night, hadn’t planned to stay. But when you fell apart in his arms, he simply held you tighter—and didn’t let go.

You didn’t ask him to stay.

He just did.

Not because it was easy. But because you needed him—and he knew that.

Now, his arms were still wrapped around you. His breathing was slow. Steady. Deep.

You shifted just slightly, blinking the sleep from your eyes. His shirt smelled like soap and something undeniably him. That faint citrusy-clean scent you used to bury your face into.

And for a brief second, you wondered how long you’d missed this.

Not the touch.

But the presence.

The knowing that when you woke up, he’d still be here.

He stirred gently as you moved.

“Mm,” he mumbled groggily, voice still thick with sleep. “You okay?”

You looked up, voice soft. “Yeah.”

His eyes barely opened, but he tilted his head to look down at you. “Nightmares?”

You shook your head. “No. Just… processing.”

He hummed again. One of his hands slipped up to cradle the back of your head, fingers weaving gently through your hair. “You scared me last night.”

You paused. “I scared myself.”

He opened his eyes fully then, the brown of them dark and sincere in the morning light.

“I meant it,” he said. “Every word. There’s no one else. There won’t be.”

You searched his expression. “It’s hard to believe sometimes.”

“I know.” He pressed a kiss to your forehead. “So I’ll keep showing you until it isn’t.”

You smiled faintly, and he smiled back. Not his charming one—the real one. The one that reached his eyes and lingered in the air like a promise.

“Is this the part,” you murmured, “where you go make coffee in your sleep shirt and pretend you’re domestic?”

He chuckled. “I’ll pretend anything you want if you keep smiling at me like that.”

You rolled your eyes playfully. “Gross.”

He leaned in and whispered, “You love it.”

You didn’t deny it.

He eventually got up—stumbling a little from stiff limbs and a couch that definitely wasn’t big enough for both of you. He tugged on your oversized cardigan and padded into your kitchen barefoot, hair a mess, eyes squinting against the light.

And for a long moment, you just sat on the couch and watched him move.

It was a picture you used to daydream about when he was gone.

Now it was real.

The bracelet sat on your wrist, cool against your skin.

You touched it with your thumb and whispered, “Stay.”

He turned around, holding two mugs, brows raised.

“I wasn’t going anywhere.”

Later, you sat on the floor, sipping coffee and eating leftover cookies from the night before. Your knees brushed under the table, and this time, he didn’t pull away. He leaned his head against yours, and you leaned back.

No questions.

No doubt.

Just warmth.

And the kind of love that finally stayed in the morning.

This was it.

Not a beginning.

Not a return.

But a becoming.

You looked at him, and you didn’t feel fear anymore.

You felt home.

The day passed with soft touches and warm glances.

You didn’t go out.

Didn’t need to.

It was the kind of day that felt stitched together by hands and silence and comfort. The kind of slow peace you hadn’t let yourself dream of since the first time you lost him.

Now, the city was quiet outside the window.

The glow from the lamp cast a soft amber halo across the room. You were lying side by side on your bed, limbs tangled under the blankets. Music hummed quietly from the corner speaker—low enough to feel rather than hear.

And for a while, neither of you spoke.

Until he broke the stillness.

“Can I ask you something?” Sunghoon’s voice was quiet. Careful.

You turned your head toward him, blinking in the warm light. “Yeah?”

He stared up at the ceiling like it had answers he didn’t. “What was the part that hurt the most? Back then.”

You hesitated. Not because you didn’t know.

But because you did.

You let the words come slowly. “It wasn’t seeing you with someone else. It wasn’t even the leaving.”

He looked at you then.

“It was that you didn’t try.”

Your voice cracked.

“I kept giving you pieces of me. Little things—like my time, my patience, my trust. And every time I waited for you to meet me halfway, you just… stood there. Let me fill in all the space alone.”

He was quiet.

So you continued, “You could’ve just said, ‘I’m not ready.’ You could’ve told me the truth. But you let me believe I wasn’t enough. And that messed with me in ways I didn’t even realize until I started trying to love someone else.”

His eyes filled with something heavy.

“I didn’t know how to give you anything,” he said finally. “I didn’t even know who I was. I told myself it was safer to keep you close but not too close, because I thought if I never made it real, I couldn’t mess it up.”

You let out a bitter laugh. “That’s the thing, Sunghoon. You did make it real. Just not for you. For me.”

He turned to face you fully now, eyes shining. “I know. And I think that’s what I hate most about who I was. I kept you like a secret and loved you like a habit.”

Silence.

Then, softly, “I was so scared.”

You looked at him gently, still tired, still tender. “Of what?”

He didn’t blink. “That I’d never be enough for the way you looked at me.”

Your breath caught.

You reached for his hand under the covers and laced your fingers with his.

“I wasn’t asking you to be perfect,” you whispered. “I was asking you to show up.”

He nodded slowly.

“I’m here now,” he said. “And I won’t run again. Even if it gets hard. Especially when it gets hard.”

You squeezed his hand.

“I’m still scared too,” you admitted.

He didn’t flinch.

“Then we’ll be scared together,” he said. “But we’ll talk. We’ll stay. We’ll choose each other—every day.”

He leaned in, forehead pressed against yours.

And there, in the softest space between the hurt and the healing, he whispered, “I love you.”

You didn’t say it back.

Not yet.

But you looked him in the eyes and let him see it.

Because you didn’t need to say it for it to be real.

Not this time.

Some nights heal what years tried to erase.

This was one of them.

No more almosts.

No more maybe.

Just this. Just you. Just him.

Here.

Now.

Together.

tobiosbbyghorl 2025

final part next hehe