#wanting to write the last line but also never wanting it to end. like these are my friend groups wdym i have to say goodbye to them

[rynwrites4fun]

Across The Hall (9) | Michael Robinavitch x Neighbor/Teacher ! Reader

Michael Robinavitch x F ! Neighbor/Teacher ! Reader

Summary: You and Michael now live parallel lives—close in distance but distant as strangers. After a school field trip to the zoo, you get injured and are rushed to the Pittsburg Trauma Medical Center, straight to Michaels ER.

Word: 4971

Warnings: Age Gap (Mid 20s/Early 50s), Head Injury (Factured Skull), Bleeding from the ear, and Vomiting

Authors Note: Hello! Thank you for all the love on the last part. Lol I love seeing your guys comments and reactions. They crack me upppp. Couple more parts and this fic with come to a end🥲. Depending on season 2 maybe I'll write a spin off/Continuation of some sort 🤨??? or maybe I'll leave a good thing be. Idk this is all up in the air and just ideas. If I did continue it won't be until next year YIKES. Long way from now. But if you guys want it i'll prob do it lol very much a people pleaser 😭 also determined to finsihed eyes on me lol okay anyway. enjoy!!! - ryn

3 Months Later

Since that day—that morning where it ended—you and Michael had kept your distance. It wasn’t easy. Living across the hall meant you still saw each other constantly. You crossed paths in the elevator, passed in the lobby, caught glimpses through cracked doors. But it was different now. Cautious. Careful. The warmth was gone.

It was like reverting back to how things were in the beginning—only worse. Not acquaintances. Less than that. Strangers.

There were no more lingering glances, no more easy conversations or shared errands. No more moments where he helped you without being asked, like he just knew. Now it was all stiff nods and the occasional muttered “hey” or “hi,” as if everything between never happened or existed.

Your lives—once a single, tangled line—had split. Still running close, still crossing the same thresholds, but no longer connected. Now they moved in parallel. Close enough to feel, never close enough to touch.

You missed him. Not just being around him—but him. The version only you knew. The one who stayed late, who looked out for you, who let his guard down when it was just the two of you.

Now, it was like he barely looked your way. Just quick hellos, if that. And even those felt heavy.

Still, every time you saw him, you wondered if he missed you too.

And maybe—just maybe—you knew he missed you too.

But neither of you said a word.

Michael had been the first person to remind you what it felt like to be truly cared for. Losing that connection hurt deeply. But even without him, you were learning how to stand on your own. You are in a better place

After years stuck in a toxic, neglectful relationship with Aiden, you finally chose yourself. No more waiting to be seen or heard. You were rebuilding, piece by piece—stronger, quieter, more certain.

It was something Michael said the last time you saw him that stayed with you. His voice was calm but firm: “You need to figure yourself out. Really figure it out. What you want, what you feel… why you push people away when they treat you the way you deserve. Because if you don’t, you’re just going to keep hurting the people who care about you.”

Those words gave you the push you needed to walk away.

After breaking up with Aiden, the silence was deafening at first. No shouting, no blame, no empty promises—just quiet. And for once, that quiet felt like space you could breathe in, not suffocate.

You weren’t completely free yet. There were days when memories clawed at you, when loneliness crept in like a shadow. But with each morning you woke up without him, you felt a little stronger. A little more whole.

And Michael? Seeing him after everything—it wasn’t easy. There was a tension, a distance between you that hadn’t been there before. You still felt guilty for how things ended with him. But beneath it all, you knew one thing: his words had helped you find yourself again. Even if your connection had changed, that truth remained.

—

This morning, you had left your apartments at the same time, walking side by side in silence. No words. No eye contact. Just the sound of your footsteps echoing down the hallway—too close, too quiet.

He let you step into the elevator first, then slipped into his usual corner—like always. The space between you felt heavier than it should’ve in such a small box.

And every time you rode the elevator with him now, your mind drifted back to that morning. The one where everything shifted. The one where he had looked at you like he couldn’t wait another second. Where his hands trembled on your skin and nothing else existed. That morning where—for a moment—you both stopped pretending.

Now, you only pretended. Pretended not to miss it. Pretended not to look at him out of the corner of your eye. Pretended he wasn’t right there, close enough to touch, but choosing not to.

Then, suddenly—you don’t know why—you turned your head and glanced at him over your shoulder.

“Good morning,” you said, your voice barely above a whisper, a small, uncertain smile on your lips.

Michael stood there, sunglasses on, coffee in hand, AirPods in. He didn’t respond. Didn’t nod. Normally, he’d say hello—or at least acknowledge you—but today wasn’t one of those days.

Maybe he hadn’t heard you.

But he had.

Because the truth was, he missed you. Every time he saw you, felt your presence so close yet unreachable, it tore at something inside him.

But talking—to break the silence—meant opening a door he wasn’t sure he could close. It meant risking everything he’d been trying to hold together.

The silence in that elevator was suffocating.

The doors slid open.

You stepped out first, heart pounding, words caught in your throat. By the time the two of you made it through the lobby and out to the street, you found yourself saying, “Have a good day.”

Still, he ignored you.

Without a word, he turned and walked in the opposite direction.

—--

It had been a good day.

There was a field trip to the Philadelphia Zoo, and the fifth graders had been buzzing with excitement since they got off the bus. They darted from exhibit to exhibit in loose clusters, calling out animal facts they half-remembered from class, pointing at the gorillas, giggling at the flamingos, and dramatically gagging when they passed smelly enclosures. 

You smiled through the chaos, constantly scanning the crowd, reminding them to walk—not run—while answering a steady stream of “Can we go there next?” and “Do we have to stay with our buddy?”

By the time the group began gathering near the exit to prepare for departure, the kids were hot, tired, and still somehow full of energy—trading animal facts, snacks, and complaints about the long walk back to the bus.

You turned to check on one of your students—and your foot caught on a backpack left sprawled across the pavement.

You didn’t even have time to brace yourself.

You went down hard.

Your head hit the ground with a sickening crack.

Everything went black for a moment.

You passed out for a few minutes before slowly waking up. When your eyes opened, your other 5th grade teachers and your students gathered around you, worried. 

A sharp pain pulsed through your head. When you touched the side of your face, your fingers came away wet—your ear was bleeding.

You tried to sit up, but your body felt heavy and unsteady. Panic flickered in your chest.

“Are you okay, Miss?” a student asked, voice trembling.

You forced a small, shaky smile. “I’ll be okay,” you whispered, though you weren’t sure.

One of the teachers noticed the blood coming from your ear when you touched it. They knew something was wrong—you needed to get to the hospital.

You tried to protest, insisting you were fine, but the other teachers wouldn’t hear it. Their concern was firm—they knew you needed medical attention. They called an ambulance, and took care of your kids as you headed to the hospital.

“Okay, we’re headed to PTMC,” the driver said to his partner in the back with you.

Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Center. No. You didn’t want to go there. Michael worked there.

“What? N-no, can’t you take me to Allegheny?” you asked, your voice shaking as you glanced up at the paramedic trying to stem the bleeding from your ear.

“Miss, PTMC is closer. Allegheny is too far,” the paramedic replied, his tone calm but unyielding.

Suddenly, a wave of nausea hit you hard. Before you could stop it, you threw up—your body reacting to the pain and shock.

The paramedics quickly handed you a bag, their expressions gentle but focused. Your head throbbed fiercely, and the thought of seeing Michael at PTMC made the room feel even more overwhelming.

You swallowed hard, gripping the stretcher tightly as the ambulance doors shut and the vehicle started moving. Outside, the world blurred past the windows, but inside, your mind spun with pain, fear, and an ache far deeper than the injury itself.

—-

It was busy in the ER today—loud, chaotic, the usual blur of motion and noise. Monitors beeped steadily in the background, gurneys rolled down hallways, voices called out orders and vitals in clipped tones. The scent of antiseptic clung to the air, mixing with the sharper tang of adrenaline and urgency.

Michael worked hard and efficiently, his hands steady and his voice calm as he checked charts, issued instructions, and answered questions. Every task was precise and practiced. But despite his focused exterior, his heart wasn’t fully in it today. Beneath the surface, his mind drifted elsewhere.

For some reason, you were heavy on his mind—ever since he saw you that morning in the elevator. Though he went about his work with his usual efficiency, every time he glanced up or caught a quiet moment, his thoughts slipped back to you. That brief encounter stirred something beneath his calm exterior, making it harder than usual to focus.

Even as he moved through the chaos of the ER, you lingered in the corners of his mind—a quiet weight he couldn’t shake. Each task felt automatic, mechanical, like he was running on autopilot 

At the nurses’ station, Dana glanced toward Michael as he passed by, pausing briefly. His eyes scanned the triage monitor for a moment before he continued on his rounds.

“What’s his vibe today?” Dana asked, peering over the top of her glasses as she flipped through a stack of charts.

Jack didn’t look up from the computer. “Full-on rain cloud.”

Dana let out a quiet laugh. “That bad?”

Jack finally glanced up. “Yeah. Barely talking. Just doing his rounds like a ghost.”

Dana frowned slightly. She hadn’t had a real catch-up with Robby in a while.

“I don’t think I’ve heard him say anything beyond patient loads and charts in weeks,” she murmured.

Jack leaned back in his chair. “Yeah. He’s been keeping things tight. You can tell he’s holding something in… and it’s not just stress.”

Dana sighed, looking up from the computer. “It’s been—what? Three months since they stopped talking?”

“Yeah,” Jack said, watching Michael enter an exam room. “He’s doing okay. Better than a few months ago, for sure. But I think today’s one of those days where he’s really missing her.”

Jack added quietly, “It’s hard to tell with him sometimes. He’s always been good at hiding what’s really going on.”

Dana didn’t respond right away, distracted by the faint sound of sirens growing louder in the distance.

“Looks like a bus just pulled up,” she said, glancing toward the ambulance bay.

Jack turned, following her line of sight. Through the glass doors, he spotted the rig backing in, its lights still flashing. The paramedics moved quickly, unloading a gurney from the back, getting ready to wheel someone inside.

“I got it,” he said, already moving toward the doors.

“Alright, what do we got?” 

Jack reached the stretcher as the paramedic began briefing him. 

“Mid-20s female, teacher on a zoo field trip. She tripped over a backpack and hit her head on the pavement. She lost consciousness briefly after the fall. There’s blood coming from her ear. She vomited on the way here and reported dizziness and nausea and is currently somewhat disoriented.”

“Exam Room 13’s open!” Dana called out as she overheard part of the paramedics’ briefing.

The gurney rolled past the nurses’ station in a blur of motion—wheels rattling, footsteps fast. Dana glanced up from her charts and files to get a quick look at the incoming patient… and froze.

Her eyes widened, recognition flickering across her face as she stood up straighter, instinctively stepping out onto the floor. Her heart skipped. Her eyes narrowed, trying to make sure she wasn’t seeing things.

It was you.

You looked pale, out of it—a plastic bag clutched in your hand, vomit on your shirt, and a smear of dried blood trailing from your ear. But it was unmistakably you.

The same woman she’d seen, playing around with Michael in aisle 9 of the grocery store fighting over cookies. 

Jack was already directing the paramedics to Exam Room 13, calling for trauma supplies as he moved alongside the gurney.

Dana stood abruptly, eyes darting around the ER. Looking for Michael.

Shit. Where’s Robby? Which wing did he go? She thought.

“Jack!” she called, rushing after him. She fell into step beside him as they wheeled you. 

“What?” he asked, not slowing.

“It’s her!” she hissed, voice low but urgent.

“Who?”

“The friend-neighbor-almost-something-—her,” Dana said, eyes wide. “Robby’s girl.”

Dana watched as Jack’s head whipped to face her. His expression shifts—from confusion to clarity, then to something dangerously close to dread.

Jack stopped short, turning just in time to see the gurney disappear into Exam Room 13. His expression changed instantly.

He looks at Dana again “That was her? Are you sure?” 

“Yes!”

“Shit,” he muttered under his breath.

“What do we do?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

Jack didn’t hesitate. “We need to tell him.”

Dana’s brows knit. “Are you sure? After everything… you know how torn up he was…well still is” she trailed off, uncertain. “I mean, do you really think that’s a good idea?”

“Yes,” Jack said firmly. “He still cares about her, still feels things for her. You know he does.”

Dana hesitated, lips pressed into a line.

“He’s not over her, Dana. Not even close. No matter how messy the fallout was, he’d want to know. And if he finds out she was here and we kept it from him…”

“He’d never forgive us,” Dana finished, already nodding.

Jack’s jaw was tight. “Exactly.”

“Look I’ll take care of her, find him as soon as you can and tell him. Okay?” 

“Alright” they quickly went off in different directions. 

—

The harsh fluorescent lights overhead felt like too much—too bright, too sharp—cutting through the fog in your skull. Your stomach churned again, sour and unsettled. You’d already thrown up in the ambulance, the evidence smeared across your shirt, and the nausea still clung to you, heavy and unrelenting. It was like your body couldn’t decide if it was in pain or panic.

The nurse—Princess, according to her badge—helped you onto the exam table from the gurney, guiding you gently as you sat down.

“Let’s get you settled,” she said calmly.

You nodded, though the movement made your head throb and your stomach turn.

Princess moved with calm precision, wrapping a cuff around your arm to check your blood pressure and attaching monitors to track your vitals. She was already prepping the IV, her hands steady, practiced.

“Pressure’s a little low,” she murmured, mostly to herself, then offered you a small, reassuring smile.

You closed your eyes as the needle slid into your arm, trying to focus on her calm voice instead of the pounding in your head.

She grabbed a damp cloth and gently began wiping the vomit from your shirt, doing the best she could to clean you up while keeping you comfortable.

“You’re doing okay,” she said softly. “Just stay with me.”

Princess noticed the shift in your expression—the way your face paled. Without a word, she grabbed a plastic basin and placed it gently in your lap.

“Just in case,” she said softly.

A moment later, the door opened and a man stepped in, wearing navy scrubs and a calm, focused expression.

“I’m Dr. Jack Abbot,” he said as he approached. “I’ll be taking care of you today.”

Jack

The name stood out. Michael’s friend—he’d mentioned him a couple of times. Quick stories, casual references. You never met him, but the name stuck.

Now here he was, standing in front of you. And suddenly, it all felt just a little more real.

To Jack, you were more than just another patient. You were her—the neighbor, the teacher, the one Michael couldn’t stop thinking about. The one who shattered him.

He was torn. Part of him wanted to resent you. Another part couldn’t help but feel sorry—for both you and Michael. It hurt watching Michael suffer in silence, burying his feelings under layers of composure. But there was sadness for you too—because Jack knew you were still clinging to something broken. A relationship that should’ve ended long ago.

But none of that mattered now. He needed to take care of you—not only because it was his job, but for Michael. 

You and Jack locked eyes. Neither of you spoke, but something passed between you—an unspoken recognition. You both knew each other through Michael, even if you’d never met before. And in that silence, there was a quiet acknowledgment of everything that wasn’t being said.

“Let’s get you checked out,” he said gently.

“Can you tell me what happened?” He pulled on a pair of gloves and waited patiently as you gathered your thoughts.

“I tripped over a student’s backpack. I fell… hit my head on the side,” you said, your voice a little shaky.

Princess, at the computer nearby, typed quickly, capturing every detail.

“You passed out? For how long?”

“I don’t know. No more than 5 minutes?”

“And you feel nauseous?” Jack takes notice of the dried blood from your ear. 

“Yes” He brought his hands up, feeling your head, and then he felt it. A squishy part on the side of your head. 

Shit. 

Jack’s eyes narrowed as he gently pressed around the swollen area, careful not to cause more pain. His mind raced—without a CT scan, he knew the injury was serious. How severe, though, remained uncertain.

“Okay, stay still for me,” he said, his voice calm but firm. “We need to get a CT scan to find out exactly what we’re dealing with.” He says to the Princess, but also to you.

You nodded, swallowing hard, the dizziness and nausea pressing harder with every breath.

Princess looked up from her computer. “I’m alerting neurology and radiology now.”

Jack forced a steady breath, trying to stay composed though inside, worry tightened its grip.

Your stomach lurched, and you vomited into the plastic basin Princess had handed you earlier. Jack stepped back slightly, giving you room but keeping his eyes locked on you, watching for any sign of worsening condition.

Princess moved quickly to help, she handed you a clean towel and quietly assured you as you wiped your face.

Princess stepped over, grabbing a pair of gloves and a warm saline wipe.

You flinched as she dabbed gently at the dried blood near your ear, trying not to let it sting. 

“Sorry,” Princess murmured, careful and quiet.

Jack watched closely but because the signs were impossible to ignore. The dried blood near your ear, the squishy spot on the scalp, the nausea and dizziness—they all pointed to something serious. Possibly a skull fracture.

Until the scan came back, there wasn’t much he could confirm. But in his gut, he already knew this wasn’t minor.

He reached for a chart from the counter, flipping it open and beginning to write. His pen scratched quickly across the paper, but he kept looking up every few seconds—checking your breathing, your pallor, the way you struggled to keep your eyes open.

Princess adjusted the bed slightly, propping it up so you could sit comfortably. She hands you a new plastic basin. She takes the used wipes and throws it in the trash along with her gloves and goes to wash her hands. 

You glanced at him, searching. “Did… did Michael send you?”

Princess moved to gather the extra materials they hadn’t used, placing them neatly on the supply rack. Her movements were quiet, efficient, but her attention never strayed far. She listens closely. 

Jack shook his head. “No. Robby doesn’t know you’re here… at least not yet.”

At that, Princess froze for just a moment. She didn’t know the full story, but it was clear you and Michael were connected. Her eyes flicked to Jack, widening slightly. A silent exchange passed between them—brief, but unmistakable.

Jack sighed inwardly. He knew exactly what she was thinking—the bet she and several other staff had made a few weeks ago at the bar about Michael having a girlfriend. Now was not the time.

His eyes locked onto hers, sharp, silently warning: Don’t even think about it. He shook his head slightly.

You hadn’t noticed the exchange. Your eyes closed, feeling dizzy, your head throbbing. The words slipped out before you could stop them. “That’s the last thing I want.”

Princess gave an innocent, almost playful raise of her eyebrows, but beneath it was something calculating. She grabbed a chart out of Jack's hands and scurried out of the room, leaving a faint echo of footsteps behind her.

Jack remained still, watching her retreat. His jaw tightened, mouth pressed into a hard line. In the ER, whispers traveled faster than code blue alarms—money and rumors would be swirling in less than a few minutes. 

Jack exhaled slowly, closing his eyes for a brief second. He’ll deal with it later he tells himslef.

Jack leaned back against the counter, arms crossed. For a moment, he didn’t say anything. Just studied you—pale, clearly worn down.

You swallowed hard, the dizziness still buzzing faintly at the edges of your mind.

“I don’t want to make things harder for him.”

“He’ll know,” Jack said quietly, his voice flat with certainty. “He’ll come rushing in here once he finds out—I guarantee it.”

“He likes you—a lot, cares for you deeply” he said, matter-of-fact, like it was the plainest truth in the world. “I’ve seen him talk about people before—patients, colleagues, even exes. But never like this.”

Your eyes flicked open. Jack wasn’t looking at you anymore.

You didn’t interrupt. His words caught you off guard—soft but heavy.

“With you… it’s different,” Jack said. “He’s not the guy who makes big declarations. But his actions? Loud as hell.”

He stepped closer, eyes searching yours—not confrontational, just honest.

“That day—after everything fell apart—he barely said a word.”

Jack’s voice dropped. “He didn’t say much. But I’ve known him long enough to read between the lines. Michael’s the silent type. Shove it down, suffer alone. That’s always been his way. He doesn’t fall easily. And he sure as hell doesn’t bounce back quickly.”

And didn’t you know it—you ruined what you two had. You looked down at your hands.

“I didn’t mean to hurt him,” you said.

Jack finally met your eyes. There wasn’t anger—just a tired kind of clarity. “Maybe not. But it still happened.”

There was no heat in his voice. No judgment. Just the truth.

“He’ll handle it. He always does.”

He backed toward the door.

“My instinct is to tell you to continue stay away from him... keep the distance. To protect him.”

A beat.

“But even with all that… there’s a part of me that still hopes it works out between you two.”

He held your gaze.

“If there’s even a small chance you feel the same—don’t waste it.”

Then, firm again, “But don’t show up in his orbit unless you’re sure.”

“I’ll be back to get you for the CT scan. If you need anything, press the call button.”

And with that, he was gone.

—

Dana had spent the last several minutes searching—looking for Michael. The constant rush of the ER had kept her moving nonstop, priorities shifting by the second as new cases rolled in. Between the noise, the pages, and the demands of back-to-back emergencies, she hadn’t had a spare moment—until now. Finally able to look, she peeked into each exam room as she passed, also scanning for Michael.

Finally, she spotted him. 

Standing in the doorway, she called out, “Dr. Robby?”

Michael was looking up from the chart he was filling out while Victoria Javadi, the med student currently shadowing him, checked the patient under his supervision.

“Can… I talk to you outside?”

Michael glanced at her, then back at Javadi.

“Hold it down here. I’ll be right back,” he said, giving her a nod before stepping out into the ER floor with Dana.

“What’s up?” he asked, arms crossing over his chest.

Dana swallowed. “Robby, she’s here. Exam Room 13.”

“Who’s here?” His brow furrowed, clearly not understanding.

“She’s here,” Dana said again, slower this time, her eyes locking onto him.

Then it hit him.

His stomach dropped.

You’re here.

“W–what?” he said, hard and sharp, disbelief cutting through his voice.

“The bus pulled in a while ago-"

“How long ago?!” His voice rose, sharp.

“Half an hour—she hit her head. Took a fall during the field trip—”

Michael’s heart skipped, then kicked into overdrive. He didn’t wait for the rest.

He turned on his heel and bolted, weaving through the ER, past gurneys, staff, and startled patients.

He barely registered people calling his name.

Didn’t care about the chart he’d left behind, the patient waiting for him at 7 with Victoria, or the conversation he’d been having seconds ago.

All he could hear was Dana’s voice echoing in his head.

She hit her head.

His hands were already trembling. Thoughts circled like vultures—loud, fast, frantic. He didn’t know how bad it was. Was it minor? Maybe. But probably not—Not if the ambulance brought her in.

And then another thought struck—hard and bitter.

He’d ignored you this morning.

You’d smiled at him. Said, “Good morning.” Told him to have a good day.

And he hadn’t said anything back.

He’d brushed past you like you didn’t matter. And now—now this.

His chest felt tight. His feet moved faster.

Room 13. Room 13. Room 13.

Nothing else mattered. Not now.

Because you were here.

And you were hurt.

 He rounded the corner too fast, nearly slipped—caught himself—nearly crashing into Jack as he stepped out of Exam Room 13.

“WOAH!” Jack exclaimed, throwing an arm out to steady them both.

“Robby—”

“I gotta get to her—I” Michael said breathlessly, trying to push past him.

Jack grabbed his shoulders, holding him in place. “Stop, she’s gone.”

Robby froze. His heart plummeted, eyes going wide as the blood drained from his face. He couldn’t breathe—he just stood there, stunned, like the ground had been ripped out from under him.

Jack’s eyes widened as he realized. “Oh—shit—no! Gone as in, not in the room! I took her to her CT scan!”

Michael’s breath shuddered out of him. He stumbled back a step, dragging a hand down his face.

“FUCK, Abbot!” he snapped, voice hoarse. “Next time, maybe lead with that!!!”

Jack winced, “Yeah. Okay. Fair. Sorry!” He says quickly.

Michael looked like he was about to break. Without hesitation, Jack grabbed his elbow and pulled him inside your exam room, closing the door behind them.

Jack softened. “You want to sit for a second?”

Michael shook his head, jaw tight. “No. Just… give me a minute.”

His chest rising and falling like he’d just run a mile. He turned away from Jack and leaned heavily against the wall, one hand braced flat against it while the other gripped his thigh. For a long moment, he stayed like that—bent slightly at the waist, eyes squeezed shut—trying to catch his breath and slow his racing heart.

Then, with a trembling hand, he reached under his scrub top and T-shirt and pulled out the gold Star of David necklace he always wore—small, worn, and mostly hidden. He rubbed it between his fingers, clutching it tight in his calloused palm like a lifeline.

With his eyes still closed, he drew in a shaky breath, as if trying to summon strength from somewhere deep inside—something steady, unyielding.

Jack said nothing. He didn’t need to. He just watched, quiet and still, letting Michael have the space to come back to himself.

Michael straightened slowly, collecting himself.

“She’s okay?” Michael finally forced out, his voice barely above a whisper.

Jack exhaled through his nose, rubbing the back of his neck. “She’s conscious. Talking. But I’m pretty sure she has a skull fracture—I just don’t know how severe yet. We’re gonna have ro wait on the CT to tell us more.”

Michael’s face went pale. His jaw clenched, but he said nothing.

Jack softened his tone. “Listen, Robby… I know this sucks. It’s scary, but you’re not alone here. We’re doing everything we can, as fast as we can. She’s tough, and she’s got the best care possible.”

He paused, then added, “It’s us. This team, this hospital—we make it work. You know that. You’ve been part of holding it together more times than I can count.”

Michael’s jaw twitched, but his eyes flicked up—just for a second—as Jack continued.

“She’s in good hands. Our hands.”

“Okay,” he breathed. “Okay.” But there was no real conviction in his voice. 

Jack glanced at Michael, his expression firm but not unkind.

“There’s nothing you can do right now, Robby,” he said quietly. “I know that’s the last thing you want to hear, but it’s the truth.”

Michael’s eyes stayed fixed on the floor, jaw still tight, hands flexing at his sides.

Jack’s voice softened. “And as much as I hate to say it… you’ve got to pull it together and do your job. For now. Until she comes back from CT. We’ll know more soon.”

Michael closed his eyes for a beat, breathing through the heaviness in his chest. Then he nodded—barely.

“I know,” he said. “I know.”

Jack glanced around. “It’s busy today. You know how it is—we’ve got to stay on top of everything, keep things moving.”

Michael knew Jack was right. As much as it tore at him, there was nothing more he could do right now.

So he did the only thing he could—he took a deep breath, straightened his spine, and began to shift the panic into focus. Into control.

He would see you when you came back from CT. Until then, he’d do his job. Just like he always had.

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UNTOUCH-UP

Tattoo Artist!Lee Minho x Reader | Exes. Ink. Unfinished business. And nowhere left to run.

🔞synopsis: Tattoo Artist AU. You go in for a touch-up. He’s the one holding the machine. Your ex. The one who fucked you like he loved you—and left like he didn’t. Now he’s working on your skin again. And you’re both trying not to fall back in. Too late. You never stopped wanting him. He never stopped being yours. This time, he’s not letting go.

💌a/n: bro. BRO. i am ✨deceased✨ this fic nearly ate me alive. i was so lazy writing it my brain was just like . . . O.O static noise the ENTIRE time. BUT I DID IT. I DID IT. SHE’S DONE. Minho's demon dick: delivered. Tattoo angst: served. You: ruined. also not me having a day™️ — my cat knocked over a potted flower like she pays rent in this house?? broke the damn pot. soil everywhere. ON. THE. CARPET. and guess who was sitting in the mess like a chaotic forest gremlin? her. the criminal. not even sorry. anyway enjoy the filth I bled for <3 p.s. reblog for minho's sake. he worked very hard. p.p.s. if you read this and didn’t moan once, you're lying. p.p.p.s. minho said “mine” and I folded like a lawn chair in a hurricane.

⚠️ warnings: 18+ ONLY | MINORS DNI | Exes to lovers with years of tension | Fingering (f. receiving), oral sex (f. receiving), face riding | Protected sex because Minho is a King | Overstimulation, squirting, rough sex | Hair pulling, light choking, possessive behavior | Filthy talk™ and degrading praise | Clit play so intense you might ascend | Reader is gone. dumb. dripping | Minho lives upstairs. You live upstairs now too. It’s canon.

📌 Please read with caution. Scream into a pillow. Mop your floor. Apologize to your downstairs neighbors.

📍credits: dividers by @cafekitsune

🎧 » WANT — Taemin « 0:58 ─〇───── 3:29 ⇄ ◃◃ ⅠⅠ ▹▹ ↻

BACKSTORY

You met Lee Minho back when he was still building himself. Not the man with a waitlist. Not the name clients whispered like prayer. Just a perfectionist with ink-stained fingers, a cigarette habit, and a sketchbook full of obsessions.

He only took blackwork clients. His designs were architectural. Cold. Brutally beautiful. Like cityscapes carved into skin. Like cathedrals swallowed by shadow. You used to tease him—“Do you ever draw anything soft?”

He never answered.

But he kissed you like his mouth was a vow.

You were chaos to his control. Bright to his brutalism. A fire escape on legs, always halfway out the window—but you stayed for him.

The first tattoo he gave you was on your ribcage. Fine lines. Intricate, dark, permanent. He said, “I’ve never done this for someone I care about before.”

You said, “Don’t make it perfect. Just make it ours.”

He made it perfect anyway.

But love wasn’t enough—not when his world narrowed to ink and reputation, and yours was spinning with needs he couldn’t name, let alone meet. He stopped coming home. You stopped trying to explain. The last fight was quiet. The kind of silence that ends things.

You left. He let you. Neither of you ever reached out again.

Seoul, South Korea. Wednesday, 4:03 PM

The bell over the door jingles.

It’s the same goddamn sound. That soft metallic chime, like a warning.

You step into NO SAINT INK and inhale the familiar scent—disinfectant, ink, citrus cleaner, and something darker beneath it. Nostalgia, maybe. Or just Minho’s ghost.

“Hi! Welcome to—”

Jisung’s voice cuts off the moment he looks up. Eyes widen. Blink. Blink. Jaw slightly drops. He’s behind the counter in a ripped vintage tee, one glove on, holding a paper cup of iced Americano like it’s mid-scene in a music video.

“...Holy shit.”

“Nice to see you too,” you deadpan, stepping up to the reception desk like it’s a confession booth.

From the back, Felix emerges, sliding in with a practiced spin on the rolling stool. His crop top says “NO SAINT, JUST HOT” and he’s chewing pink bubblegum like it’s personal.

He squints. “Wait. Waitwaitwait—no way.” He turns to Jisung. “That’s her, right?”

Jisung nods slowly, eyes still on you like you might disappear if he blinks. “Mm-hm. That’s her. The ribcage girl.”

You sigh, reaching for the clipboard. “Still the same greeting process, I see.”

Felix leans in over the counter, lashes weaponized. “So. What brings you back to the scene of the crime, gorgeous?”

“Tattoo,” you say simply, checking the box marked cover-up on the intake form.

Felix raises a brow. “Cover-up? On what?”

You give him a flat look. Then slowly, deliberately, tap your rib.

Jisung immediately chokes on his iced coffee. “Oh my god. You’re covering Minho’s piece?” he hisses.

“Don’t say it like that,” you mutter.

Felix gasps dramatically, grabbing your form. “Does he know? Does he know you’re here?”

“No.”

“Does he know you're gonna cover the sacred rib tattoo of doomed romance™?”

“Still no.”

Jisung is now whispering to himself in horror. “He’s gonna combust. He’s gonna short-circuit like a printer from 2003.”

Felix pats your hand. “You’re braver than the Marines.”

You slide the completed form back to them. “You gonna let me through, or you want me to relive the breakup right here?”

“Booth Three,” Jisung says instantly. “He’s in there right now. I’ll text him that a client is coming in.”

Felix grins like the devil. “We won’t say who. Surprise trauma!”

You exhale slowly as you make your way to Booth Three and pushing the door open.

Minho is inside, doesn't even look up. Of course he doesn't. He is seated at his workstation, black hoodie sleeves pushed up, long fingers flying over his iPad. The screen glows with precision: a mandala lattice interwoven with brutalist architecture, all angles and absence. It’s violently elegant. Just like him.

He’s got one AirPod in. The other rests on the desk, silent. His tattoo gun is prepped and sterilized beside it. Black gloves folded, still untouched.

You stay silent for a beat.

He’s changed, but not really. Hair darker now. Under-eye shadows deeper. Forearms inked in blackwork he used to say wasn’t “for him.” You recognize his neck tattoo—you designed that motif. He said he’d never use it. Guess he changed his mind.

You speak, voice even, soft.

“Hope you still remember how to do ribs.”

He freezes. Literally freezes mid-stroke, like someone hit pause on a film reel.

His eyes flick up.

And when they meet yours—his stylus drops.

“...No fucking way.”

You smile, tight-lipped. “Hi.”

Minho blinks. Once. Twice. Then leans back slowly in his chair, as if needing distance just to believe you're real. He doesn’t say anything at first. His eyes drag down you like a scan—lips, collarbones, arms. His gaze stops right where it used to rest: the dip beneath your ribs. “What the fuck are you doing here.” You shrug, like this isn’t a slow-burn emotional arson scene. “Cover-up.”

He exhales like he got sucker punched.

You don’t say it. You don’t have to. He knows which one. For a moment, neither of you move. The only sound is the quiet buzz of the fluorescent light, and your pulse hammering against silence.

Minho finally breaks it, voice lower now. Raspier. Rough around the edges.

“Sit.”

You walk forward. The vinyl of the chair squeaks as you lower yourself onto it.

Minho adjusts his stool with one foot, pulling closer—close enough that your knees nearly touch. He reaches for a fresh pair of gloves and pulls them on with a muted snap.

“You still flinch?” he asks, without looking up.

“Only when it matters.”

A breath leaves him like a short laugh, disbelieving and hollow. He nods at your ribs.

“Show me.”

You tug your top up slowly. The air is cool against your skin. But his gaze is colder.

The tattoo’s still there—his lines, his shape, the intimate architecture of a design he once called a cathedral just for you. You watch his eyes trace it like he’s reading a language he forgot he wrote.

He exhales through his nose, once. Then leans in. Not touching. But close.

“Still healed well,” he mutters. “Even after everything.”

He lets out a short sound—not quite a laugh. Not quite not.

Then turns to grab his iPad.

You watch him swipe past old sketches. Lines. Shapes. A few human figures, but mostly… structures. Always structures. Stained glass, brutal staircases, the shadows between pillars. And suddenly—one design with your face sketched into the edge of a crumbling spire flashes past.

You blink.

He quickly flips to a blank layer.

“What are you thinking?” he asks, stylus in hand.

You hesitate. Then: “Something clean. Cold. Geometric. No softness.”

He looks at you. Just looks. Then tilts his head. “So the opposite of what you used to want.”

You lift a brow. “People change.”

“Do they?” He doesn’t say it like a question.

Silence. Only the soft tick of the stylus moving. Drawing. Erasing. Redrawing.

You glance over.

The lines are sharp. Intricate. Interlocking shapes—architectural, yes, but still haunting. There’s depth beneath the harshness, shadows where light should be. He’s already building something brutal.

“You always sketch this fast for clients?” you ask.

He doesn’t look up. “Only the ones who know how to bleed for it.”

Your breath stutters. He notices.

After another beat, he holds the iPad out to you, jaw tense. “You want this? Final answer.”

You study it. And it’s beautiful. Devastatingly so. The kind of piece that erases history—not by covering it, but by burying it in monument.

“Yeah,” you murmur. “It’s perfect.”

He huffs softly. “It’s not.”

“Minho—”

“It’s not what I wanted to put here.”

The sentence hits like a quiet car crash. No screech, just impact. You say nothing. He turns away to print the stencil. You watch the lines appear on paper, black and cruel.

“This gonna take long?” you ask lightly, trying to breathe again.

“Yeah,” he says, voice low. “It’s big.”

“Good. I’ve got time.”

He turns. Looks at you—really looks. The gloves are still on. The stencil in hand. “You sure you can lie here for hours with me that close?”

“You sure you can touch me for that long and not fall apart?”

For one suspended moment, the room goes still.

Then Minho steps forward. “Let’s find out.”

He sets the stencil aside. Pulls out the prep tray. It’s methodical—his ritual. You remember it. He moves with that same detached precision: antiseptic wipe, alcohol spray, barrier film over his tray, black nitrile gloves pulled snug with that quiet snap that used to make your stomach twist.

The scent of alcohol hits first. Then the click of the spray bottle. Then his voice—low, close. “I’m cleaning the area.”

He waits. You nod.

And then his hand—gloved, cold—presses gently at your side, just under your ribs. The contact makes your breath hitch. He feels it. “Still ticklish,” he murmurs, but there’s no amusement in it. Just memory.

His fingers move across the old tattoo and you close your eyes as he presses the stencil on.

“Hold still,” he says softly. Too softly.

You feel the pressure of his palm, the warm slide of his knuckles against your waist, the careful tension as he positions the design.

Then he pulls back. Steps away. And you exhale.

“Mirror’s there,” he says, voice neutral.

You sit up, top still raised, and step to the full-length mirror near the booth’s edge.

The stencil is stark black. Clean. Brutal. It spans from just under your chest down to your hipbone—an interlocking spiral staircase, collapsing inward on itself, surrounded by broken geometry and cathedral archways. Inside the spiral, there’s a single vacant silhouette—like a missing piece in the shape of a person.

“It’s…” you begin. But you can’t find the word.

“Empty?” he offers.

“Yeah.”

Minho shrugs slightly, adjusting the height of the chair. “You wanted cold. Unsweet. Brutal.”

You nod. “I did.”

He doesn’t move until you return to the chair and settle in again. He leans down, pulls the stool closer—so close his knee brushes yours. “Ready?”

“No.”

A pause. Then: “Good. That’s honest.”

The machine buzzes to life. He dips the needle into the ink—pitch black—and presses the foot pedal. Then the first contact hits. The sting. The bite. The sound.

Your breath stutters. His hand is firm on your waist, grounding. “Still breathe like that,” he murmurs.

“Still touch like that.”

The buzz of the machine fills the booth like static between stations.

Minho works in silence. You breathe in silence. Time stretches. His gloved hand stays steady on your waist—anchoring, professional, unyielding. But every time his fingers shift to wipe the ink, every time his forearm brushes your side, you feel something buried rattle. Like bones under floorboards.

You focus on the ceiling tiles. Count them. Try not to flinch when he drags the line near your ribcage. He’s precise. Too precise. You feel every goddamn millimeter.

And still—he says nothing. It’s been maybe an hour. Then—quietly, like a thread being tugged:

“You finish school?”

Your eyes blink open. “Yeah. A while ago.”

“Thought so,” he murmurs. “You used to study here. In this chair.”

You huff. “I used to do a lot of things in this chair.”

He pauses. Then wipes your skin with slow, deliberate pressure. “Still mouthy.”

“Still quiet.”

“One of us had to be.”

The machine hums again. You both fall silent. But the air isn’t. It hums now—charged and heavy. After another few minutes, you speak, voice softer.

“You still living above the shop?”

Minho’s hand doesn’t pause, but you hear the answer in the way he exhales. “Yeah.”

“You ever fix the leak by the kitchen window?”

“Eventually. Felix slipped on the water and broke his assbone, so…”

“Justice.”

A faint smile ghosts across his lips. You catch it. Pretend not to. “What about you?” he asks. “Where are you now?”

You shrug. “Seoul. Still. I work freelance—mostly visual design, some concept art stuff. Clients suck. Pay’s decent.”

“Still draw?”

“Always.”

He nods, as if that explains something only he understands.

Another beat of quiet. Then: “You tattoo now too?”

That makes you pause. “A little. Not full-time.”

“Anyone ever ink your ribs like this again?”

You meet his eyes. “No one ever touched me here again.”

That silence? Not like before. This one cracks. Minho sets the machine down slowly. Wipes the needle. Re-inks. Doesn’t speak for a full thirty seconds.

Then: “Good.”

You shift, heart thudding. “Why?”

He glances up, and for once, doesn’t look away. “Because it’s not theirs to touch.” He says it like he didn’t just lay a claim. Like it’s fact. Like it’s law.

You don’t reply. You can’t. Your ribs ache—not from the needle, but from the breath you’ve been holding since he started this goddamn piece.

Minho presses the foot pedal again.

The machine whirs to life, slicing through the silence. The black ink spreads, sharp and deliberate, marking over what was once softness.

His hand settles against your waist again. Firmer now. Less technician—more… anchor. His fingers brush under the hem of your top again. Not on purpose.

But he doesn’t apologize.

“Gonna do the lower spiral now,” he murmurs. “I need to adjust your position.”

You nod. Try to keep your voice even. “Tell me what you want.”

His gaze flicks up. Something flashes in it—heat, recognition, regret. “Lift your arm. Stretch back.”

You obey. Your back arches slightly. The angle shifts. Your shirt slides up higher. And suddenly, his breath catches. Not visibly. Not loudly. But you feel it—in the tiny hesitation between glove and skin. He moves slower now. Drapes the barrier cloth gently over your chest. Focuses on the lower edge of the design.

His hand brushes the curve of your hip. “Still got the scar,” he mutters.

“From your old chair. That screw that stuck out.”

“I told you to stop climbing into my lap during sessions.”

“I told you to fix your fucking chair.”

Another small ghost of a smile. Another memory you didn’t mean to let through. The machine buzzes. The lines go deeper now. Bolder. You wince slightly—less from pain, more from the weight of his closeness. “Hurts?” he asks, quiet. “Not as much as losing you did.”

The machine goes silent. He sets it down. Slowly. His head tilts up, eyes dark, unreadable. “You think I didn’t lose you too?”

Before you can answer—knock knock knock.

The booth door creaks open an inch, and Jisung’s head pops in. “Hey, just checking—OH.” He blinks. Stares. Feels the temperature of the room. “Never mind.”

Another head appears behind him—Chan, black tee, clipboard in hand. Owner. OG. Quiet ringleader of this whole tattoo circus.

“Minho, did you review the—” He pauses mid-sentence. Eyes shift from Minho to you. To your lifted shirt. To the way Minho’s gloved hand is hovering just above your skin.

Chan arches a brow. “...So this is happening again.”

Minho doesn’t even flinch. “Out.”

Jisung salutes. “Godspeed, soldier.”

Chan just sighs. “Try not to punch holes in the wall this time.”

The door shuts. The lock clicks. Silence again.

You exhale. “They always this nosy?”

“You always this distracting?” His voice is low now. Tight.

You blink. “Minho—”

“Lie back.”

You obey. He pulls the stool closer. Closer than necessary. Then, gloved hands on your hip, he says—quiet, slow: “I’m finishing this. Every goddamn line.”

You nod. And the machine starts again.

You lose track of time somewhere around the fifth wipe.

The sky outside is darker now. The booth hums with that post-tattoo stillness—low light, blood buzz, the deep ache under your skin like something blooming and bruised.

Minho’s working slower now. Not out of fatigue. No—he’s dragging it out. You can feel it in the way he traces your skin. The pauses. The glances.

It’s 7:23 PM.

You know this because your phone buzzes uselessly on the counter and Minho glares at it like it’s an intruder. Then again—he hasn’t looked away from you much at all.

“You’re almost done?” you ask quietly, voice hoarse from the hours of not speaking.

“Final shading,” he says, shifting. “Then bandage.”

You nod, letting your head fall back against the chair. You close your eyes.

Until—click. The door opens again.

“You better not be tattooing her feelings back on,” Jisung says, peeking in once more.

“It’s after seven,” Chan adds, stepping in behind him. “We’re leaving. You can lock up.”

Minho doesn’t even glance at them. “Bye.”

“Damn,” Jisung mutters. “I missed when you were nice.”

Chan folds his arms. “He was never nice.”

Minho wipes your side again. “Do you two need something, or are you just doing walk-in commentary now?”

“We’re giving you the key,” Chan says patiently, tossing it toward the counter. It lands with a clatter. “And also warning you: no sex on the chair.”

“Especially not that chair,” Jisung adds. “That’s the holy one. Client blood and heartbreak juice only.”

You blink up at them. “You do know I can hear you, right?”

“Sweetheart, you’re like three moans away from a confessional,” Jisung grins.

Minho’s hand tenses on your hip.

Chan gives Jisung a sharp look. “Okay, that’s enough. Let the man finish tattooing his ex.”

Minho’s voice cuts in—low, flat, and dry: “I’m raising the booth rent if you two don’t leave.”

Jisung gasps. “You can’t evict my vibe.”

“Watch me.”

With one final laugh, Chan tips an invisible hat at you. “Pleasure seeing you again. Don’t break our boy, yeah?”

You don’t respond. You just hold Minho’s gaze.

The door closes. The lock clicks again. Alone. Again.

He exhales. “They never change.”

You hum. “Neither do you.”

“Not with you.”

His hand brushes your skin again, wiping the last bit of ink away. He doesn’t move it. Just leaves it there. Warm and steady.

“I’m done.”

You nod. Slow. Dazed. “Yeah,” you whisper. “Me too.”

But neither of you move.

The machine is off. The gloves are still on. His hand is still resting on your bare waist.

You watch his throat move as he swallows.

“I need to bandage it.”

You nod.

Minho finally pulls back. Peels off the gloves, slow. Tosses them into the bin with a soft crack. His hands are bare now—warmer, familiar, devastating. He reaches for the tattoo film. The kind that clings like a second skin.

“This part’ll be cold,” he murmurs.

“So were you.”

His hands pause.

Then, with infinite care, he presses the bandage to your ribs. The plastic clings, sealing the ink beneath. His fingertips ghost over your side. Flattening. Smoothing.

Too gentle.

His hand lingers a second too long on your hipbone. Then again on the edge of your waist, just under your breast. You don’t move. You don’t breathe.

Neither does he.

“You’re still warm here,” he murmurs. “Still soft.”

“I never stopped being yours here,” you whisper. “Even after you let me go.”

His hand freezes.

And then—

Minho exhales. Slow. Controlled. Devastated. “Fuck,” he says. “Don’t say shit like that unless you mean it.”

“I do mean it.”

He looks up at you, finally. Face unreadable. But his eyes? Wrecked.

“I didn’t stop wanting you,” you say, soft. “I just stopped begging.”

And that’s when something inside him cracks. Minho drops the rest of the bandage. One hand cups your jaw. The other pulls you forward by the waist. His lips crash into yours—not neat, not planned, not patient. Just real. Messy. Hot. Familiar. Like all the years you lost were just smoke.

He tastes the same. Regret and hunger.

You kiss him back. Desperate. Needy. Home.

When he pulls away, he’s breathless. “The shop’s closed,” he says hoarsely.

“I know.”

“You’re not leaving yet.”

“I know.”

But he can't stop kissing you and his kisses leave you gasping, lips parted, your ribs burning with fresh ink and something even hotter under your skin.

But Minho doesn’t move for your mouth again.

He just looks at you. And presses the last edge of the bandage into place. Palms flat on either side of your ribs, holding it there. Holding you there.

“You need to keep this clean,” he murmurs, voice wrecked. “Saniderm on for at least a day. No sweat. No friction. No heat.”

You smirk. “So I shouldn’t fuck my tattoo artist, huh?”

He closes his eyes like that physically hurts. Then opens them again, and they’re darker. Gone. “Fuck,” he mutters. “Come here.”

He grabs your face and kisses you again—harder this time. His mouth is warm, demanding. He tastes like ink and restraint and the last piece of something you thought you’d never get again.

You whimper into it, fingers fisting into his hoodie, tugging him closer. He moves fast now, pulling you upright, spinning you around so your back hits the wall behind the chair.

Your top rides up, exposing your waist. His hands drag along the un-tattooed side of your ribs, his touch finally hungry.

“Minho—”

“You still talk too much.”

His hand finds your thigh, fingers digging in as he lifts you onto the edge of the chair.

“Don’t you dare come undone on this chair unless you want your name carved into it,” he growls.

“Do it,” you whisper, breath hot. “Like old times.”

He groans. Hands gripping your hips, pulling you forward against the bulge in his jeans. But even now—he's careful. His fingers skirt around the bandage. His mouth trails everywhere but the fresh ink.

“I can’t touch there,” he pants. “But everywhere else? Mine.”

He leans in—bites at your neck. Licks under your jaw. You shudder. “Mine.”

You nod, breathless. “Yours.”

“Say it again.”

“Yours.”

He groans into your skin. One hand slips under your waistband—slow, deliberate, filthy. “Keep still. You move too much, I’ll stop.”

“Minho—”

He kisses your collarbone. Soft now. “I never should’ve stopped touching you.” His voice is low, almost broken against your skin. And then his hand dips further—sliding past the waistband of your pants, then beneath your underwear. You flinch at the first brush of his fingers against your bare heat.

“Fuck,” he hisses. “Already soaked?”

You moan, soft and unfiltered. “You did this.”

“Damn right I did.”

He doesn’t dive in right away.

Minho’s fingers ghost along your folds, barely there—just the suggestion of touch. Teasing, cruel, worshipful. Like he wants to remember this. Every slick, desperate twitch.

“Still so fucking warm,” he murmurs. “Still react to me like this.”

“Because I never stopped needing you.”

That does something to him. His jaw tightens. His free hand grips your thigh harder.

His fingers stroke your clit now—slow and purposeful. He still hasn’t pushed in. Just teasing, rubbing, feeling every tremble in your core.

“You’re shaking,” he whispers. “All this time and I still ruin you like this.”

You whimper, hips bucking up—but he presses you down against the chair again.

“What did I say?” he growls. “Keep. Fucking. Still.”

You nod, gasping. “I’m trying—fuck—Minho, please—”

He slips one finger inside. Just one. It glides in so easily, so wet, he groans low into your neck.

“Still tight,” he pants. “Still perfect.”

You clench around him and he curses, fingers curling just slightly as he begins to move.

“Say it again,” he whispers, lips dragging over your ear.

“Say you’re mine.”

“I’m—fuck—Minho, I’m yours—”

His second finger joins the first. Scissoring. Filling. So slow it’s maddening. His thumb circles your clit in rhythm, expertly cruel. You’re grinding against him now, trying not to cry out.

But it’s no use.

“That’s it,” he growls. “Let me hear you. You think I forgot what you sound like?”

You moan—loud this time—and he smiles against your skin.

“There she is.”

His fingers curl again—deep, deliberate, cruel. You cry out, thighs trembling, body completely unhinged on his tattoo chair.

“Fuck, you’re clenching so hard,” he groans, dragging his fingers out almost entirely before plunging back in with a wet sound that makes you whimper. “You missed this, didn’t you?”

“Y-Yes,” you gasp.

“How much?”

You can barely breathe. “So much—Minho—fuck—”

“That’s not good enough.”

He pumps harder. Faster. His fingers scissor deep inside you, stretching you wide while his thumb circles your clit with just enough pressure to keep you right on the edge. His forehead presses to yours, breath ragged, jaw clenched like he's holding back a growl.

“Feel how fucking hard I am for you,” he grits, grabbing your free hand and dragging it down between you both.

Your fingers brush the bulge in his jeans and—fuck. He’s thick. Hard in a way that hurts even through the denim.

“All that from just your voice,” he rasps. “From your pussy sucking my fingers in like it still belongs to me.”

You whimper, hand tightening instinctively over his cock. He twitches under your grip.

“You’re gonna make me cum just from your fist at this rate,” he breathes, panting into your mouth. “And I haven’t even fucked you yet.”

Your hips roll against his hand, the wet slap of your cunt obscene now, the squelch of each pump making your eyes roll back.

“M-Minho—can’t—too much—”

He leans in, lips brushing your ear. “Take it. You used to take it so well.”

You cry out, grinding shamelessly against his hand, your wrist still caught against the outline of his cock. His fingers are relentless now—deep, punishing strokes that angle just right, hitting the spot that makes your back arch.

“That’s it, baby,” he whispers, voice hot and filthy. “You gonna cum for me?”

“Please—need to—”

“You think I’m letting you go home with anyone else’s cum in you again?” His hand grips tighter. “Nah. You’ll cum on my fingers. Then my tongue. Then my cock. One by one. Until you remember who you belong to.”

You sob into his shoulder, body locking up.

“Then cum,” he growls. “Let me feel you fucking fall apart.”

And you do. You shatter. Right there in his chair, cunt clenching around his fingers so hard he curses, hips bucking involuntarily, thighs shaking. The orgasm crashes through you like a wave that never breaks.

You’re still gasping, barely coming down, when he kisses you again—rough and breathless.

Then he pulls his hand out and brings his digits to his lips, licking his fingers clean with a sinful groan. “Still the sweetest fucking thing I’ve ever tasted.”

Minho leans in—presses a soft kiss just beneath your jaw. Then another. Then pulls back, his lips swollen and wet with you.

“Stay,” he says simply.

“Yes.”

“Upstairs.”

You nod again, dazed. He grabs a clean towel, wipes his fingers off, then flicks off the booth lights.

You stumble to your feet. He steadies you with a hand on your lower back—protective, but firm. The other hand? Already sliding down to cup the curve of your ass.

“Don’t test me,” he murmurs, voice rough. “Or I’ll take you right here. Front door be damned.”

You laugh breathlessly. “You always talk this much now?”

“Only when I’m starving.”

He steps out first. Walks to the front.

The shop’s dark now—just the glow of the neon sign outside, and the sound of him flipping the lock with a click. Pulling the blinds. Turning the CLOSED sign.

The only other sound is your breath. And the creak of stairs.

Minho turns back to you. Extends his hand. “Come home.”

And you do. You follow him up the stairs—your fingers tangled in his, your heart in your throat. He pulls you behind him, not once looking back.

The upstairs apartment is dim, clean, and familiar in a way that makes your chest ache.

His hoodie hits the floor first. Your shirt follows. Your bra is gone with one snap of his practiced fingers.

“Fuck,” he breathes, stepping in closer. “I’ve dreamed about this. Exactly this.”

“Then stop dreaming.”

“I’m not stopping anything tonight.”

He kisses you hard, mouths crashing, tongues tangled. His hands roam over every inch of skin he missed—the good side of your ribs, your back, your thighs. He lifts you. You wrap your legs around his waist.

Your back hits the hallway wall.

Your pants are yanked down, barely a memory. His belt clinks open, jeans shoved past his hips. You’re both gasping, biting, pulling, years of silence poured into filthy, reckless touch.

“I missed your body,” he mutters into your mouth. “Missed how you sound. How you taste. How you fucking feel.”

“Then take me.”

“You think I won’t?”

He kicks the bedroom door open with one foot, lays you down onto his bed, and finally—finally—he crawls over you like you’re something holy. You are.

Minho kisses you again, slower now, lips dragging down the column of your throat. Over your collarbone. Across the top of your chest. He palms your breast—squeezes, just enough to make you gasp—and then closes his mouth over your nipple.

You arch.

“Still so responsive,” he murmurs, flicking his tongue over the peak before sucking hard, slow. “Still so good for me.”

Your hands knot in his hair.

He kisses across to the other one—giving it the same attention, tongue lazy, mouth open and hot. Every sound you make fuels him.

Then lower.

His mouth trails down the center of your stomach—soft kisses, open-mouthed and hot, then bites just sharp enough to leave blooming heat behind. He kneels between your legs, hands parting your thighs.

You’re soaked again. Dripping. Panties long gone.

He growls low, eyes locked to your pussy like it’s fucking divine.

“You knew this was next,” he says, voice low, hands sliding under your thighs to lift your hips. “I told you.”

“Then shut up and—”

He doesn’t let you finish.

Minho licks one long stripe up your slit—slow and filthy—from the bottom of your entrance to your clit. And moans. Loud.

“Still taste like a fucking fever dream.”

Your hands shoot into his hair again. “Minho—fuck—”

He flattens his tongue against your clit, then circles it. Slow, heavy pressure. Just enough to make your thighs jerk around his head. “Keep them open,” he mutters, pulling back only to kiss your inner thigh, your hipbone, your mound. “Let me see all of you.”

And then he devours.

Tongue pressed deep. Lapping. Sucking. Flicking. He eats like he missed meals for years and this is how he survives now. Your moans go from soft to broken, gasps ragged, legs shaking around his head.

“Oh my—fuck—Minho—”

He groans into you, the vibration making your hips buck. His arms wrap tighter around your thighs, holding you down, keeping you right there as his tongue circles your clit in tight, ruthless rhythm.

He sucks your clit—harder now. Lips wrapped around your clit, tongue swirling in circles so precise it feels like he mapped this out. Every flick is a promise. Every kiss, a punishment.

“Minho—fuckfuck—please—”

Your thighs tremble against his shoulders, toes curling, head thrown back into his sheets. But he’s relentless. Focused. Cruel in the way only someone who knows your body this well can be.

Then—suddenly—his tongue dips lower again.

He licks into you—deep—pressing into your entrance, slow and wet and hot.

Minho—”

He moans into your cunt, arms flexing around your thighs, nose pressed into your mound like he never wants to come up for air. He tongue-fucks you harder, the slick sounds obscene now, spit and arousal dripping down his chin.

He pulls back just enough to suck your clit again, messy and loud—then goes back down, tongue fucking you like it’s a competition. Like it’s penance. Like he’s going to draw the second orgasm out of you with his mouth alone.

“You’re close again,” he pants. “I feel it. You gonna cum for me, baby? Gonna soak my face?”

“Yes—yes, please—don’t stop—”

He doesn’t. In fact, he doubles down—tongue driving in and out while he rubs tight, fast circles on your clit with his thumb. Your thighs snap around his head. You try to pull away, too sensitive, too much—

But Minho just growls, deep and possessive.

“Fucking take it.”

Fuck you do. You fucking do take it. How can you not. And you finally break apart on his face, legs locking, body spasming as that second orgasm rips through you harder, wetter, longer. He holds you through it, licking and sucking until your voice is nothing but choked whimpers and your body can’t stop twitching.

When he finally pulls away, his mouth is glossy, chin soaked.

He smirks—wild, satisfied, dark before kneeling up, grabbing a condom from the drawer, tearing it open with his teeth.

“Now I’m gonna ruin this pussy properly.”

You’re barely conscious of the way he tears the condom wrapper open—just the sound of it, sharp and needed in the haze of your wrecked body. He rolls it on quick, jaw clenched, hand pumping his cock once, twice, eyes locked on you like you’re prey he’s finally allowed to devour.

“Get on all fours.”

You try to move, limbs shaking, but he grabs your hips and flips you himself—effortless, firm, like muscle memory. You barely get your arms under you before he’s behind you, one hand gripping your ass, the other dragging along your spine.

“You remember how loud you used to get?” he mutters, voice thick. “Gonna make you scream into my fucking sheets again.”

He guides his cock to your entrance—rubbing the tip through your soaked folds, slow and teasing, soaking himself in your mess.

“Fuck—you’re dripping,” he groans. “You came so hard for my mouth, and you’re still ready for my cock?”

“Please—Minho—need it—need you—”

He sinks in. Deep. One smooth, devastating thrust that punches the air from your lungs.

“Oh my fuck—”

“That’s it,” he growls, bottoming out. “Tight as ever. Like your pussy never forgot me.”

You choke on a moan as he pulls out slow—just to slam back in, harder this time. Your arms buckle, face falling into the mattress as his hips snap against your ass with punishing rhythm.

“Minho—fuck—you’re so—deep—”

“Yeah? You missed this cock?” His voice is ragged, filthy. “Tell me. Tell me who fucks you like this.”

“Only you—fuck—only you, Minho—”

“Damn right.”

He grips your hair, pulling you up by the back of your neck, arching your body so your back curves into him. His mouth is by your ear now, panting, biting.

“No one touches you here,” he growls, fucking into you harder, deeper. “Not your mouth. Not your thighs. Not your pussy. All mine. Say it.”

“I’m yours—Minho—I’m fucking yours—”

“Louder.”

“I’m yours!”

He snarls into your neck and slams into you so deep you see stars. One of his hands slides down to your clit, rubbing fast, relentless circles while his cock drags against your g-spot.

“You gonna cum again?” he pants. “On my cock this time?”

“Yes—yes, please—don’t stop—”

“Let go for me, baby.”

You don’t even need to try.

His thumb circles your clit with such devastating precision, and his cock hits so deep, so right, you come apart again—body locking up, mouth falling open in a moan that barely sounds like your own.

Your orgasm slams into you like a wave, sharp and overwhelming, your pussy fluttering around him, gripping him, milking him like your body knows he’s supposed to stay there.

“Fuuuuck—Minho—!”

“That’s it,” he growls. “Cum on my cock like a good girl. So fucking wet—so tight—I can feel you pulsing, fuck—”

Your vision blurs. But he doesn’t stop. He keeps thrusting through it, relentless, dragging it out with brutal pace, your pussy so sensitive now you can barely breathe. His hand’s still on your clit, rubbing slow now—just enough to make you whimper.

“Minho—please—I can’t—”

“Yes you can.”

He leans over your back again, teeth dragging along your shoulder, breath hot and harsh. “You gonna take it, baby,” he pants. “You’re gonna be good and take it. All of it. Until I cum too.”

You cry out when he fucks you harder, cock slamming in deep, hips slapping skin, the sound so obscene it makes your whole body flush. You feel your own slick running down your thighs, pooling under you—and still he keeps going.

“You said you were mine,” he groans. “So act like it. Let me fuck you how you need.”

“Minho—f-fuck—it’s too—too much—”

“It’s never too much,” he hisses. “Not for my good girl.”

His fingers leave your clit, only to grip your throat—lightly, possessively, pulling you up so your back is flush to his chest. His cock drives into you deeper from this angle, the stretch unbearable, perfect.

“You feel this?” he whispers into your ear. “You feel how hard I still am inside you? I’m not even close, baby.”

“Oh my god—”

“You’re gonna take every fucking second of it.”

You moan, broken and needy, as he slams into you again and again. His hips are ruthless now, fucking you straight through your oversensitivity, chasing his own high while demanding you keep up.

“Gonna ruin you,” he groans. “Gonna fill you up and fuck you until you can’t even stand—until all you know is my name in your throat.”

“Please—Minho—yes—yes, please—”

You feel another orgasm building and he knows it. His hand snakes down again, fingers finding your clit, rubbing quick tight circles just as he starts fucking you even deeper, fucking into your sweet spot with perfect, punishing rhythm.

“Cum again,” he growls. “Do it. Show me how good your pussy gets when it’s mine.”

Your legs are trembling now, slick and spent, but Minho doesn’t let up.

“C’mon,” he pants, voice wrecked. “Give it to me again. You know you can.”

His fingers never leave your clit—tight, ruthless circles in time with the brutal rhythm of his thrusts. He’s fucking into you so deep you swear he’s carved out space inside you. Your body’s a live wire, too sensitive, too soaked, too close.

And then—

You break.

A cry tears out of you as your body convulses, squirting hard around him, wetness gushing as your vision whites out. He curses low and vicious, gripping your hips to ride it out, holding you through the aftershocks.

“Fuck—just like that, baby. Look at this mess. All for me.”

You’re limp, gasping, gone—and he’s still fucking you, chasing the edge with a growl in his throat. His rhythm stutters, hips snapping faster, deeper, until he finally buries himself to the hilt with a sharp gasp.

“Mine,” he groans. “Taking all of me—fuck—mine.”

You feel the shudder of him spilling into the condom, body tight, muscles locked, every filthy, pent-up second poured into you.

And then—

Silence.

Only breath. Sweat. Your heartbeat in your ears. He doesn’t pull out right away. Just stays there, chest pressed to yours, mouth by your ear and pressing soft kisses.

Then finally—slowly—he pulls out. You both shiver from the loss.

Minho moves carefully now, the storm in him simmered down to something softer, raw-edged but human. He slides off the condom, ties it off, discards it in the bin by the bed. Then he vanishes for a beat—into the bathroom maybe—but returns just as fast with a warm cloth, water, tissues.

“Easy,” he murmurs as he wipes between your legs, his touch gentle, reverent. “Let me take care of you.”

You wince slightly when the cloth brushes too close to your clit, overstimulated and twitchy. He notices immediately.

“Sorry,” he says quietly. “You okay?”

You nod. Too gone to speak yet, but he sees it—your blinking gratitude, the softness returning to your breath. He kisses the inside of your knee before tossing the cloth aside.

And then he climbs back into bed, arms open. You crawl into them without hesitation. He pulls the blanket over both of you, tucks your head beneath his chin. One hand rubs slow circles into your back; the other is tangled in your hair.

For a long time, neither of you say anything. Just breath. The muted thud of his heartbeat under your ear. The faint creak of the studio pipes somewhere above.

Until you finally whisper, “Why’d we stop talking?”

His fingers still for a moment. Then resume. Slower. “I was angry,” he says. “And stupid.”

You hum. “Me too.”

He sighs. “I hated that you left without saying goodbye.”

“I hated that you let me.”

A pause.

“You came back,” he says quietly.

“I never stopped thinking about you.”

Another beat of silence, heavier now. “I never moved on,” he admits.

You look up at him, eyes glassy. “Neither did I.”

His jaw flexes. His thumb brushes your cheek. And this time, when he kisses you—it’s slow. Deep. No lust. Just longing. A kiss built on what-ifs. On might-have-beens. On maybe-again.

He whispers against your lips, “Stay the night.”

You nod, barely breathing. “Okay.”

It’s been three weeks since that night. Since Minho locked the studio door, fucked you senseless, and told you—without words—that he never stopped wanting you.

Now?

Now, your toothbrush is in his bathroom. Your sketchbook’s on his kitchen counter. Your bra’s been living on his bedpost for four days and counting.

You’re upstairs more than not—first it was overnight visits, then a drawer, then a closet, then one morning he just grunted, “Your stuff’s already here. Might as well stop pretending.”

So you stayed.

Mornings are quiet. Shared coffee in oversized mugs, his hand on your thigh while he skims client bookings. Nights are louder—sometimes it’s just TV and takeout, sometimes it’s moaning into his mouth while he fucks you over the arm of the couch, one hand tangled in your hair and the other keeping your legs spread.

Rebuilding hasn’t been linear. You argue. You remember old fights. You see old wounds still healing. But you talk now. And when you don’t have the words, he kisses the silence out of you, palms framing your face like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he blinks too long.

One afternoon, Jisung barges in to drop off a delivery and freezes at the top of the stairs. You’re half-naked in one of Minho’s shirts. He’s behind you, tattoo gun still buzzing.

“Are you seriously tattooing her naked again?”

Minho doesn’t even flinch. “My apartment. My rules.”

Jisung groans. “I’m gonna start charging rent for the trauma.”

Minho just smirks, wiping your skin clean and pressing a kiss to your bare shoulder. “Close the door on your way out.”

You laugh into the sleeve of your shirt. You’re glowing. A little inked, a lot in love.

And Minho? He’s not going anywhere this time.

[danidrabbles]

well.

this is why fiction is so important because i am never writing letters to people in prison but i am very interested in reader-insert-me's choice to do so

really love the characterization throughout this, how they kind of match each other's obsessive freak right off the bat. it's so sweet that she goes to the beach to write that first letter, it's so funny that his reply starts with "thanks for the sand"

the way he detectives himself to her is so... so him, i really liked how you wrote his almost like internal monologue, how he sees it as a puzzle, how he doesn't even know what she looks like but can close his eyes and dream about her to the point he envisions the colour of her apartment, and how he cuts himself to get into the emergency room.

really enjoyed how their interactions were so.. stiff but also laced with familiarity, and how you intwined their more at ease conversation with kisses. “you’re just as nice as i knew you’d be.” “you think i’m nice?” “i think you’re so nice that you’re not telling me everything you’ve wanted to do to me these last few years.” and omg all the colours being yellow just like he pictured. GOD. feeling sooo normal about it. this line also killed me :') and then you pull him down for another kiss and it all washes away like letters in the sand.

smut had no business being so soft. the introspection from his pov was so nice, how he thinks so much about how it is vs. how he imagined it, and that it's better and he can't quite believe it, and he just wants to give her everything.

the ending made me laugh so hard. her being scared about his reaction to her naming her cat after him and him being like, “do you think we should get married?” they're perfect for each other!!!!!!!!!!!! made me laugh, made me swoon, which isn't something i thought i'd say about a you send a letter to a man in prison fic, but you really pulled it off wonderfully. thanks for writing and sharing!!!!

𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐢𝐬 𝐦𝐲 𝐡𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐰𝐢𝐥𝐥 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐦 𝐲𝐨𝐮 — 𝐚.𝐜.

summary: against better judgement, you send a letter to a man at folsom with very sad eyes. against even better judgement, you send letters every week for years until he stops replying one day. and against everything you know, when he shows up at your door, you invite him inside.

pairing: prison letters reader x andrew cody

word count: 12.4k

tags: reader is silly and does things i do not recommend. kids do not write letters to prisoners and fall in love with them. unless it's andrew cody obviously. lots of context no one asked for. nurse!reader, descriptions of wound (andrew cuts himself to get into your work because why wouldn't he!), descriptions of wound handling, smut (oral - f receiving and mating press and the tiniest hint of breeding). takes place in season one, but just imagine he's got season two's hair. you have to fully immerse yourself in the fact that it's andrew cody and then ask yourself—wouldn't you take him home too? it's not her fault!

author's note: here she is! thank you for the patience ♡

you honestly had signed up as a joke. the club was known through your campus to be run by a couple of bleeding hearts. no one had thought the school would approve their activities—letters to prisoners. it was a recipe for disaster.

you should have known better.

but a friend of a friend was involved, and you knew it would make your nursing school application look better, and honestly, you didn’t think anything would come of it. a couple of letters here and there. you had thought it’d be all anonymous, messages of motivation and prayers signed with a first name only.

until your friend—bleeding heart and hopeless romantic, trying to appeal to those very same qualities in you—had shown you the website. that’s when you should have realized it wasn’t just a recipe, it was going to be a disaster.

the prisoners recorded videos—thirty seconds, short and sweet. a name, a couple of sentences about them, hometown and hobbies. underneath the video you could see what they had been arrested for. only the ones who were in for petty crimes—drugs and robbery, things where no one else had really gotten hurt, were allowed to partake. that was good at least. didn’t need any murderers sending letters to pretty co-eds.

your friend picked the guy she thought was the cutest. you watched his video—he was handsome, you couldn’t deny it. but the more videos you watched, the less you wanted to write a letter. you could almost see it, the desperation behind their eyes. it seemed like every man had nefarious intent. like your prettily written letter would not be used for motivation and prayers of a better life outside.

you decided not to send one. you’d rather have an empty slot on your application than a bad feeling in your gut for the rest of the semester. it’s not like the prison was across the country—it was just a couple of hours away.

she asked you to give it one more chance, watch a couple more videos. just pick a cute one, she’d told you. when you’d made a noise of disapproval, she had rolled her eyes.

“okay, pick whoever seems the nicest, then.”

so you had.

the video had been labeled andrew cody. first degree robbery.

the man in the video had been incredibly genuine. you don’t remember exactly what he had said—just bits and pieces. you knew he was from oceanside, born and raised from the way he sounded. he said he had a lot of brothers and a sister back at home. that he spent his time working out and reading books to distract himself from how noisy it was inside. the first thing he’d do when he got out was go to the beach and listen to the waves and breathe in the clean salty air.

and deep down inside, you knew you were just as much of a bleeding heart as the rest of your friends. you had folded instantly.

but it wasn’t just that. you spent the next several nights thinking about him. sad eyes, a singular half-smile at his own joke and then a real one when he mentioned going to the beach once he was released. he’d followed it up with—not that it’ll be any time soon. that made you sad, in turn. you thought about what he was like before prison—did he smile more? was he always so sad?

you thought about a lot of things. more than whatever your friends did, telling you how they had sent their letters, flirty yet inherently professional, so as not to get in trouble with the advisor.

you took a while to send yours. first you couldn’t think of what to write—everything felt so stupid compared to what he must be going through. andrew would hardly want to hear about the mundaneness of your daily life, or the struggles of trying to get into the nursing program.

you thought about not sending a letter at all after the first few times you tried to put pen to paper.

and then you thought about how sad he must feel, how lonely and scared, how terrible it would be to see all the other prisoners get letters besides him.

so you drove to the beach. you surprisingly had more in common with andrew cody than you even realized when you selected him. there was nothing you loved more than the beach, which is why you had even picked your college to begin with. and now, four years later about to graduate, you couldn’t imagine living anywhere else.

you caught the sunrise. you brought your little notebook with you to the water after setting your bag down on the bench. the seagulls were flying around, a couple of other beach-goers walking along the border where the sand met the ocean. it was a day like any other.

there were two sides of you—a hopeless romantic inside of an inherently logical girl. one side argued how stupid it was to send letters to a stranger. the other wondered if this would be the day that changes your life. you push away the thought and focus on writing the damn thing.

you thought andrew might like if the letter smelled like the salt-water. the stupid idea felt a lot less silly when you were attempting it, bringing your notebook all the way down to the water and hovering it. a slightly bigger wave caught you by surprise, the corners getting wet where it splashed up.

cursing to yourself, you walked back to the bench with sandy feet. and then you started writing.

dear andrew, and then you paused. fuck. you got out some of the introductory stuff—your first name, that you were a nursing student. it took a while to get the rest of the page filled, until you stopped for a moment and thought about what you would tell the man with the sad eyes if he was sitting next to you.

i came to the beach to write this letter. i’m sorry if the corners are wrinkled when you get it, i almost dropped it in the water trying to get it to smell like the beach so you had a little piece of home with you. i’m not near oceanside but it’s still the pacific.

i can’t imagine how hard it must be to grow up near the water and then be so far away for so long. but at least you know it’ll always be waiting for you when you get released. they want us to write motivational things but i’m not sure how motivating it would be for you reading this letter about my silly life. so i thought i’d write about the beach instead.

it’s about seven in the morning. the weather isn’t too cold and sky is pink and orange right now. the waves were calmer an hour ago when i got here but now it’s getting more intense. there’s a couple with their dog, and another man running on the sand. i’m on a bench writing this, but i’ll walk along the water again before i leave. i would try to send you a shell but i’m sure they’d take it away. maybe sand?

i love the sound of the waves too. my school isn’t close enough to hear it, but i have one of those machines that makes the noises. it helps a lot when i’m trying to sleep. maybe you can get one when you get out too.

you fill up a page, and then another page. when you fold up the letter and slip it into the envelope, you take a couple grains of sand and drop it in there. a little piece of home for him.

then you mail the letter, and think that was that.

+

two weeks later, you get a letter in the mail. you’d heard some of the other girls had also gotten responses—some had been mildly wholesome, while others had been more along the lines of what are you wearing?

but you weren’t worried when you opened yours. andrew didn’t seem the creepy type to you, it felt more like… like he would be glad to have someone to talk to.

you read it in bed, holding an old stuffed animal tightly. his handwriting is stiff and neat, the evenness of the letters and dotted i’s and crossed t’s makes you smile. the way he wrote your name, with bleeding ink like he had pressed too hard into the paper while doing so, made you smile wider.

the first line—thanks for the sand—made you laugh.

andrew writes of the book he’s just read, how the beach you described sounds just like the one in his hometown, and a request that you tell him more about your life in the next letter. his letter isn’t as long as yours, which makes sense to you. he couldn’t have that much to write about. but the last line is what really gets you—thank you for the letter. it’s nice to talk to someone.

you blink away tears, unsure when you had started crying. you reread the letter twice over the next day and a half, deciding to head back to the beach early in the morning to write the next one.

and you’ve always been bad at this. your friends have always called you a hopeless romantic—but maybe you’re just in too deep. it was the product of having been alone for your entire life, not having the dreamy, intense love that so many of your friends had already gone through once or twice at this age. the result had manifested in how you treated the world around you. every door someone held open, every nice response, every lingering gaze could mean something more. that this could be the person, that this could be your soulmate.

you knew it was stupid. nothing could be stupider than assuming that a prisoner, for god’s sake, would be anything more than just that—a prisoner you write letters to. but your heart still beats faster each time you reread the letter, and when you think of his pretty, sad eyes and earnest expression, the urge to write another letter haunts over your entire body.

dear andrew, thank you for writing back. thank you again for writing back and not being creepy (like the responses some of my friends got). i could tell you more about my life but i really wasn’t lying—it’s pretty silly and mostly boring, but since you asked so nicely i’ll try for you. right now i’m getting ready for graduation. i bought a white dress last week. i’m waiting to hear if i got into the nursing program here. i majored in nursing so I just need to do one more year and then after that i can go work in the hospital. i’m thinking about labor and delivery since i think it would be so nice to see babies all day, but one of my friends said the emergency room is always hiring. she thinks it would toughen me up. but I’m not so sure i want to be tough. just incase all of this school talk is boring you, i’ll just tell you about my day on the condition that you'll tell me about yours. yesterday i woke up early and went on a walk. i made breakfast and went to class, and then studied in the library. my friend showed me a creepy response from one of the fellow inmates (by the way, thank you again for not being creepy.) i walked to get a chai—i don't really like coffee. and then i studied, watched the bachelor. it was terrible! my favorite contestant got sent home :(. and had dinner, then I went to sleep early because i woke up early to come to the beach today to write this for you. so i went to sleep thinking about this letter and woke up thinking about it too.

you add a little bit more about your routine this time, just so he has something to read about. you try to make yourself sound interesting where you can—but you’re really not. and you don’t want to force it, make your letters sound grand and full of lies.

you don’t know why—it’s not like you’ll ever meet him. but lying to andrew feels wrong, you guess.

stupid. you’re stupid for adding the last part—but something in your heart flutters reading the line again, because you did. andrew’s sad eyes are in your mind all the time, and you know it’s just a silly infatuation, that he’s a prisoner and you’re a random student and more likely than not, he’s not going to respond to this letter. but you still keep it in.

and so you send the letter. and what’s worse—the one you get back makes your heart swell. he says that you describe your routine so well he can almost see it happening in his head like a movie. he says that he could describe his day-to-day but that it might make you sad. you’re sure it will. he seems to know a lot about you from just a handful of letters.

you reply. he sends another. you reply. and before you can even discern what’s happened, this has been going on for the better part of a year and a half.

andrew gets all the life updates—your nursing school acceptance, how the first year goes. early morning clinicals, the mean preceptor who made your life hell for a month, the baby you got to help deliver, the cat you’re thinking about getting. and the not so great stuff—despite the nursing shortage, it seems the only available job at the hospital you like is in the emergency room.

you don’t give him names but he figures it out well enough. the program you sent the letters through was smart enough not to include the university’s name in the return address, but dumb enough to use a p.o. box in the same city. and in that city, there’s only two colleges, and only one of those has a nursing program.

these are the things he uses to figure out where you are after he gets out—not that you need to know any of that just yet.

after you get the job, the letters are stamped with the mark of the local post office. you must not know that they’re doing that, now that you can’t send the letters through the school anymore. that’s the last piece of the puzzle, figuring out which emergency room you had been working in.

he keeps those letters. they’re his sanctuary—pages and pages about your life. the highs and lows of an innocent girl who thought it would be a good idea to send letters to a prisoner. letters where you asked about him, how he was feeling, how he was doing. how much time he had left, how he thinks the next parole meeting will go, how that annoying guard has been recently. how’s your family, andrew?

if he closes his eyes, he can almost see you. you’re a faceless entity, a glowing angel with a halo hovering in his mind when he really needs you. you’re too perfect to be real—and he knows you would be outside too. if you can care this much through letters, go out of your way to send them even after you graduate, he can only imagine how you’d be if you stood in front of him.

the other students who sent letters stopped after one or two. he’s likely the only one who’s still getting them, and when someone questions who they’re from, he tells a story about his girl, waiting for him outside. a nurse—smart and pretty and devoted and who never fails to send him a weekly update. lives too far to drive up here but he’ll be there one day.

and then he gets sent to solitary.

he doesn’t like to think about it, if he can avoid it. sometimes the noises of the world get to him, brings him back to days and hours he wish he could wipe from his memory. the sound machine you recommended in your very first letter helps some. but the day he goes free, there’s only one sound he knows will calm him down—your voice, the first time he’ll get to hear it.

he has to go home first. he needs a car, the internet, a couple of phone calls to make sure he’s going to the right place.

days turn into weeks. unfortunately—very unfortunately. the only thing andrew wants is to finally see you in person, to finally hear what your voice sounds like. what color is your hair? what color are your eyes? he knows you like yellow—what would he find if he saw you? yellow hair clips? painted nails? how about your apartment? would the walls be yellow?

no, probably not. you rent. you wouldn’t do anything that wouldn’t get you your security deposit back. you’re too good for that, too safe.

yellow sheets, maybe. blankets, pillows. if he closes his eyes, he can imagine himself in it.

he tries to leave after the first job but there’s too many watchful eyes, too many moving pieces. he needs to get everything together—his truck, cash and some cards, a plausible excuse. he needs to make sure no one comes following him, needs to make sure that in his quest to come find you, he doesn’t get you tangled into the web of his family instead. he’s stuck somewhere between figuring out how to keep you safe and the realization that the safest you’ll ever be is right now, before he comes for you.

but fuck, if it doesn’t haunt him. the fact that he’s finally so close to you. that you’re a car ride away. that somewhere out there is the girl who, one day, realized another letter wouldn’t be coming.

had you cried then? been upset? wondered what had happened? bothered to find out if he was dead or freed or living without you? he hates that he couldn’t get you another letter to explain himself, but he figures explaining in person would be easier, and better. in all those years, you never once wrote him about a date or a boyfriend or anything in that realm.

the way your last few letters were, it were almost as if he was your boyfriend. (he lets the thought linger inside him for a few seconds, if that. any longer and it would possess him like a demon and he’d be rendered useless. unable to work, unable to think, unable to breathe. just him and the idea that he was that important to someone else.)

+

and then one day, a couple days after a job and after being fed up with the entire world being scared of him, he leaves to find you.

that’s just the thing—no one understands him. all his life, he’s been the unstable one, the one others are worried about, frightened of. but no one understands that there’s nothing to be afraid of.

no one, except maybe you.

so he says he’ll be back in a week, and he drives down to the hospital where you work.

he hasn’t gotten a real look at you yet. he spent the first night in the parking lot of the emergency room. he watches hordes of nurses go in and out, and no one stands out. he spends some time doing research—nurses only work three times a week.

his odds of seeing you for the rest of the time he’s in town are fifty/fifty. it feels like he should be able to pick you out from a crowd, with the way he knows you so intimately, but he can’t. he keeps an eye out for yellow water bottles or shoes or lunch bags, but he doesn’t see any for two days.

so he decides that he needs to get inside.

pope keeps a pocket knife on his person, and another one hidden in the car in case of emergencies. that’s what he uses to slice his palm open so he has an excuse to get inside. not too deep—he’s not stupid. just deep enough to need stitches, shallow enough that he can still feel all his fingers and wiggle them around.

and then he goes inside, and he waits.

each time the doors open, a different nurse steps out. some are too old, others too young. no one has anything yellow on them, or the personality that he knows could only belong to you. cheery, but serious. empathetic to a fault. you would probably cry if you saw a kid crying, just like how you used to write to andrew, telling him you had cried thinking about a patient you lost and their family, cried thinking about him alone in prison.

you’ve shed tears for him. a man you’ve never even met. he has to recognize you when he sees you. he knows he will—the two of you are bonded in more ways than one. through ink and blood and tears.

“david?” a voice calls out. so lost in his thoughts, he’d not realized the doors had opened again or the name he’d given them. he looks up, making eye contact with the nurse, his nurse, and she walks closer. “david?” the voice repeats, and he raises the non-bloody hand.

you are just like he thought you’d be. your hair is pulled back, which is a shame. he wants to see what it looks like when it’s down, what it smells like when you get close enough. pieces in the front fall out from behind your ear. his finger twitches momentarily.

and, he thinks with a pleasant sort of smugness, there is yellow—the plastic band around the stethoscope, the badge reel with a smiling cartoon on it, the pens tucked neatly in your scrub top pocket.

“hi david, i’m going to be your nurse today,” you start, looking at him in the eyes. your eyebrows furrow a little, like you’re trying to remember why this man looks so familiar—it’s not like he had expected it. his hair isn’t the same anymore, longer than the video you had seen of him. if that was your benchmark, he certainly looked somewhat different. he doesn’t fault you for not recognizing him right away. in fact, it’s better this way. “if you’re ready, i can take you back now.”

you smile at him, beautifully. a bright, wide smile, like there’s nothing in this world you’d rather do than take david back, and have a look at whatever’s bothering him. it’s genuine, it’s safe, it’s warm. how do you do it? he thinks briefly to himself, how do you make everyone feel like they’re the most important person in the world? just with a smile and a couple of sentences you must say a thousand times a shift.

andrew’s not one for many words, but his thoughts run rampant—he’s always thinking. he can’t get his brain to turn off, not now, not ever. even putting pen to paper was hard for him, even for you. but you seem to understand him, just like you did back then. without words, without talking, without touching or knowing. you just know him.

you take him to a bed behind a curtain and start rattling off a list of rehearsed questions. first name, age, date of birth. the more he says, the more you seem to get a step closer to recognizing him, but he doesn’t push it.

you come closer to the bed and gesture to his wrapped up, bleeding hand.

“may i?”

“yes. yes,” andrew says, unsure of how it’ll be to feel your hands on him for the first time. you start slowly, unpeeling the layers of gauze that he had brought with him from home as a just incase. he doesn’t flinch or wince, but you still speak up.

“i’m sorry, i know it’s not very comfortable.” you apologize without needing to, and he’s sure it’s because you want him to feel better about it. “how did this happen again?” you ask, staring at his wound closely. you’re not very far from his face. he can feel your breath even against his skin.

“accident. was cutting something.”

“well, you should be more careful, david.” his middle name has always felt foreign to him, though somehow, it doesn’t seem that way coming from your lips. andrew briefly feels like there’s nowhere else he’d rather be than here, no one else he’d rather be than david, getting his hand tended to by you.

“yeah. i should.”

“well i’m going to go ahead and get this cleaned up. just to be sure, any drug allergies?” he shakes his head. “great. we’re gonna clean it and then the doctor will be in here to stitch it up and we’ll get you on your way back home. does that sound okay?”

you look at him earnestly. as if on the off chance he said it didn’t sound okay, you’d have an answer ready to go. nothing to shame him, nothing to make him feel bad. just to comfort him and make him feel better. like there’s nothing more important than getting him back home with aid instructions for the rest of the week.

memories of your letters wash over him like a warm wave over soft sand. you’ve known from the jump that you were meant for this, but it all suddenly makes sense. how kind you are, how gentle you are with him, how you’d be with anyone.

you were meant for this, just like how you were meant for him.

“that sounds okay.”

you sit on a stool at the level of his hand. you dab with the cleaning solution and tell him you’re sorry about the sting. it’s half a dozen apologies in the short time he’s known you, and he sits and wonders, staring at your pretty hair and the undoubtedly smooth skin of your neck, that he’ll have to work you out of that habit.

you shouldn’t be apologizing for anything, much less helping people the way you do.

he stares at you while you think of another question to ask him to distract him from the pain of cleaning his wound.

and your patient is nothing if not a starer. when you got up to add something to the chart and stopped to chat with a fellow nurse and friend of yours about how long it might take the doctor to see him—calling him by his nickname, mister sliced hand in bed four—she interrupted you half way through the conversation.

“the one who’s staring at us right now?” you turned your head too quickly to see what she was talking about, and were faced with sliced-hand david, looking at you and the other nurse.

not in a creepy way, like some other past patients of yours. he’s just…looking. like he’s waiting for you to come back. his gaze doesn’t leave you, you notice. he watches your friend as though he’s watching over you.

the thought is almost… sweet.

and then you shake your head and turn around, breaking the eye contact. you have a bad habit of doing this—turning every interaction, every look into your eyes and held-open door into something more than it was.

your new friends at the hospital also call you a hopeless romantic. you knew that you were just sort of an idiot when it came to these things. it was the long-standing result of still never having been in a real relationship. you’d never felt the fireworks, never known the rom-com sort of true love and happy ending. you had never even gotten to the angst-filled third act breakup.

so maybe you were still a bit of a projector—projecting every single interaction into something more than it was. a patient with a staring problem became a man who was looking out for you, worried for you, love at first sight.

and you shake your head again. snap out of it. you had a problem, seriously.

the closest you’d even come to anything remotely related to love at first sight was the insane amount of letters you’d written to a prisoner a few years ago, and even then—

stop. it. you barely knew what the guy looked like, and yet, you found yourself wondering all the time what had happened to him. if today would finally be the day you’d find out. he could be the stranger next to you in the coffee shop. the person buying fruit next to you in the grocery store.

for all you know, he could be the next guy who walks into your life, and yet—

“you are seriously such a goner,” she says with a laugh, playfully shoving your shoulder.

“what? i-i just got lost in my thoughts.”

“a guy could blink at you and you’d be imagining your embroidered towels and baby names-”

“that is not true-”

“right, i know. you’re right. you’re just gonna hold out for mister prisoner until you’re an old lady with a bunch of cats-”

“hey! i have one cat and he is adorable, okay-”

“yeah, yeah. that’s how it always starts. one cat.”

“i’m going to go take care of my patient now.”

“don’t let him blink at you.”

you roll your eyes and make your way back to bed four, where david stares up at you with pretty, sad eyes. eyes that seem a little familiar, but it’s hour eight of twelve and you’ve taken care of half a hundred people so far. your tiredness seeps through your pores but you still smile and sit on the stool.

“sorry about that, david.”

“are you okay?” he asks, incredibly earnestly. you blink at him dumbly. once, then twice.

“yes?” you reply slowly, unsure of what he means. maybe you’re more tired than you thought. “is everything okay?”

“i saw her push you.” you blink again.

“oh. oh. no, no, she’s my friend. that was just, um-” you blank momentarily. his concern is so palpable you can feel it in the air. “-a joke. she was joking.”

“oh. okay.” david goes silent but his eyes are still on you. you decide the best course of action is to change the subject.

“so! david. this might be hard but no going in the water for at least a couple days. maybe more, depending on what the doctor says.”

“sure. can i.. can i still go sit on the beach?”

“yeah. that should be fine.” you clean out the wound further, but he doesn’t wince. “do you do that often?”

“yes. it calms me down.”

“me too. something about the sand and the waves. the air is just-”

“cleaner.” for the first time that night, david interrupts you. your eyes leave his hand to look up at his face.

“yeah,” you agree, slowly, wondering why his words feel so familiar to you. “cleaner.”

there’s a brief pause, and david doesn’t say anything. you look back down at his hand, continuing your work. but something inside of you stirs, curiosity poking and prodding at your memories. you’ve heard that before, somewhere, and even then you had thought about how no one had ever used that word to describe the ocean air before, when—

“i thought you wanted to deliver babies. do you not want to do that anymore?”

as if it was in slow motion, you retract your hands away from his. you move your head to look up at him and your jaw falls open a little—you had known david looked a little familiar, but when you had seen that thirty second video of him, his hair had been short and his skin had been a little paler, and the man sitting in front of you now—

well he wasn’t cute anymore.

he was handsome now—dark brown curls grown out. he looked like he’d spent some time in the sun, recently. his eyes—sad and pretty as they were—seemed a bit softer now. and your gaze on him made them even softer, like he was trying his best not to frighten you. how someone takes care of a skittish animal, ready to bolt at any second.

you swallow, and then bring your hands back to his, keeping the piece of soaked gauze on top of his wound gently

“i-i do. want to. this was just the only job opening when i-” you pause, sucking in a deep breath. he already knows about this—andrew. it was in one of your letters. “when i finished school.”

you feel his hand move under your touch, and then his other hand, the unwounded one, over yours. his grip isn’t tight, but it’s tense. hard. like he wants to make sure you can’t just disappear like sand between his fingers.

“i thought you might have found another job by now.”

“it-it’s hard. you get used to something and it’s hard to leave.” you pause again. there’s a million and one questions storming through your mind, but you stare into hazel eyes and they all go quiet, one by one. “you said your name is david-”

“i wanted to see if you would recognize me.”

“i’m sorry, i-”

“don’t apologize.” andrew, like his letters, speaks concisely. you should have guessed. you would send him pages just to get a few paragraphs back—and he would always say it’s because he didn’t have much to talk about, that learning about your day to day was much better than whatever he could tell you.

it was the first time your heart fluttered with the knowledge that out there, somewhere, is a man who wants to hear about your day. the closest you had ever gotten to the semblance of a real relationship. a man who cared about you, even if he never said as much. it was always clear to you, through his carefully chosen words and the things he wrote you about and how much he said he liked hearing about you.

he used to ask you questions about things from a dozen letters ago. remember to follow up after some big exam or a really hard week at work. asked you what you did to feel better. tell you what he would do to help you feel better—nothing creepy, never creepy. if you were supposed to be scared of him, you never were. he never gave you any reason to.

“are you okay?” andrew asks, and you blink yourself out of your thoughts.

“yes. yes, sorry. i just-” it’s a little ridiculous.

you’re a smart girl. you’ve always been a smart girl. you don’t do stupid things—you don’t drink yourself silly at bars and go home with random men. you don’t say yes to dates with strangers, despite how much you believe that a stranger can become a soulmate in an instant. you don’t put yourself in situations you can’t get out of.

but when it comes to andrew, you haven’t listened to a single one of your own rules. you sent him letters for ages after the other girls in your class had stopped. you had opened up about your life and wanted to learn about his life in exchange.

and despite every greater instinct, you had fallen asleep for years thinking about the day he might walk back into your life.

“did you ever get my last letter, andrew?”

you’re not even sure where the words came from—that’s the last thing you should be saying right now. how did you find me? when did you get out of prison? why are you here right now? should have all come before.

but something inside you burns, like it has for years, with the knowledge that he never sent you another letter. and you need to know why.

andrew sits up a little straighter, taking heavy breaths and staring at you. it’s the first time he’s heard you say his name, his real name. you two haven’t moved an inch, his hand still on yours. he blinks slowly at you and you don’t realize it, but you’re holding your breath.

“i did. i-i was in solitary. they don’t let you write letters there.”

“oh. i’m so sorry,” you say, and it’s second nature. you hate what andrew went through, and seeing him in front of you brings you back to the first letter you ever got back from him. how polite he was in it, how sweet the whole thing seemed. it was never meant to get this far, but it had, and you—

you are nothing if not a believer of soulmates and fate.

“that’s okay. not your fault.”

“but still. that must have been really hard.”

“i wanted to write back. i-” he stops, pulling out something from the pocket of his button-up shirt. he unfolds a piece of white notebook paper—and the breath you were holding leaves you quickly. that’s the paper you used to write him letters on.

“is that my last letter?” when andrew moves to look at you, he’s expecting it. a nervous lilt to your voice, fear in your eyes. like he’s crazy, like you’re scared.

instead he glances over hesitantly and you’re beaming up at him.

“you carry around.. my last letter?” the words come out as a smile forms on your face—pretty and genuine and sincere. you stare at him expectantly, and he doesn’t know how to respond.

“i…” the words falter. “i just wanted to ask you about it. did you, did you get that cat?”

“i did!” it comes out louder than you meant it, drawing the attention of some other nurses around you. you turn briefly, using your free hand to push the curtain so it’s closed around you two. “sorry. i did, yes. he’s so cute. i don’t have my phone or i’d show you the pictures-”

“that’s okay. you-you can show me later.”

“but i didn’t say i was getting a cat in that one. i just said i was thinking about it,” you feel breathless.

“but there was another one before that. you mentioned it then too. i figured you’d get it since you were thinking about it so much.”

“yeah. yeah, exactly.” your brain can’t seem to compute what’s going on. any fear that had been in you, if there was any of it to begin with, has completely melted away, replaced with a warm, glowing feeling in your chest, slowly spreading out to your limbs.

you had been thinking about getting a cat for ages—a thought you had mentioned to andrew maybe twice. and your justification had been just as andrew said, because you were thinking about it so much.

how did he know that?

and then the curtain opens behind you, and the doctor comes in to stitch up andrew’s hand. you have to pull away from his hand and andrew thinks you’re leaving, eyes following you and his expression shifting, but you don’t leave. you go to the cabinets to pull the supplies and help the doctor and and keep your eyes focused on the wound while his hand gets stitched up. eight stitches and not a single wince of pain or discomfort.

and though the thought makes butterflies emerge and fly around your stomach, when you finally look up at andrew, he’s been staring at you the entire time.

+

you have a tiny apartment in a shitty neighbourhood. it doesn’t feel safe at all, save for the fact that one of the houses down the street is owned by a rookie cop and his wife. there’s not that much crime, but the area inherently feels bad.

maybe it’s just that way to him—since he doesn’t want you living in a place like this.

it’s fine for now though. he’ll get you a better place soon enough. it’s by the water, and when he closes his eyes, he can hear the waves crashing on the sand. the sound alone might be enough to justify why you’d live here.

he keeps his eyes shut, just for a half dozen heartbeats, when he pulls up against your curb. he just wants to hear it before he says goodbye—it’s getting late, almost dark, and you must be exhausted. you’ve been at work all day and though you act like you’re completely fine, he knows how intense it is. there’s other letters, safely stored away, where you told him about how breaks are far and few in between, how you barely get time to drink water and eat a snack because of how busy it gets. he offered to stop and pick you up something to eat but you refused, saying you had food at home that you shouldn’t waste.

you sit in the passenger seat of his truck, staring around it as if you’re looking for some more information about it. anything would help you—half-empty drinks or gum wrappers or extra clothes in the backseat, but there’s nothing. the truck looks like he just got it yesterday, no sign of use or anything branding it as andrew’s car.

“can i walk you to your door?” you snap out of your thoughts.

okay—maybe it wasn’t the smartest idea in the world to let a virtual stranger drive you home. but when his hand was taken care of and you give him the paper instructions with way too many sample packets of antibiotic gel, all he said was that he’ll wait for you.

“wait for what?”

“to make sure you get home safely.”

and, really, what are you supposed to say to that? no, i’m good, thanks. you’d be even stupider than you already are to say that to someone who is just trying to be nice to you.

(he’s more chivalrous than any guy you’ve ever talked to, and probably more than any guy your friends have ever complained to you about. and more than that, it’d be rude to say no, especially once he realized you wait for a shoddy-at-best bus to get you home because you don’t have a car and it’s too dark to walk. he wouldn’t take no for an answer after that.)

and more than that—he waited another two hours for you to get home. every time you’d step out to bring back another patient, you’d see him, sitting there, waiting patiently for you. glancing up when the door would open to get a glimpse of you, of the small smile you shot his way before taking back whoever’s turn it was.

and he’s not a real stranger, a voice in the back of your head keeps reminding you. you’ve known him for longer than some of your coworkers have known their fiancees and husbands. and in all the time you’ve known him (meaning all the letters you’ve sent and received), you’ve never gotten a creepy word or even a fragment of a sentence that frightened you.

so you think the least you can do is let him drive you home and walk you up the two flights of stairs.

“of course. thank you, for-” your sentence gets interrupted. andrew gets out of the car and you turn to do the same, but then you see him—walking around the front of his truck, coming to your side and then opening the door for you.

oh.

your heart thuds dully in your chest at the very idea of andrew opening his car’s door for you to get out. after driving you home and politely asking to walk you up. whatever inhibitions you had melt away and you briefly think that whatever he asked of you, you’d do it in a heartbeat, no questions asked.

if that made you stupid, then so be it. you’d gladly be the stupidest girl on the planet if you get to feel whatever it was that andrew cody has made you feel for the last couple of hours.

his truck is jacked up tall, and he gives you his hand, the one without the cut, to help you get down, and you accept. he closes the door for you and lets you lead the way up the stairs.

silently, you two walk up the creaky steps together. hands brush together for all of seconds and he briefly wishes seconds lasted longer, until you’re standing in front of your door.

you’d once had a cute spring-themed wreath on the door, bought on clearance from the local store after easter, and a matching door mat. your elderly neighbor had told you to get rid of it because it was basically an invitation to criminals that a young girl lived here alone. you’re stupid, but not that stupid.

and now your front door looks barren and empty. there’s a few plants you can see from the window sill but the curtains are drawn and there’s an extra dead bolt a fellow nurse from the hospital’s husband had helped you install.

you look up silently at andrew and he looks back at you. this is it—it’s supposed to be goodbye. any normal girl would know that this is where the night needs to end, that you need to process what all of this means and if you had any friends you trusted with this information, calling them and asking what to do.

but you don’t want to call your friends, because you know what they’d say—to lock your door and get a restraining order and burn andrew’s letters, the ones you kept in a cute box under your bed and reread much too often for anyone’s comfort.

and you’re not a normal girl.

“do you want to stay for dinner?”

there’s not much to study on andrew’s expression—he keeps it stern and serious for the most part. his eyes are soft when they look at you and they soften even further when you say those words.

“yes. yes, thank you.”

you think maybe he wasn’t expecting it. you think that you weren’t expecting it either, not exactly sure where the words had come from. but you still lead andrew inside, showing him the only slightly comfortable couch you had to get delivered since you didn’t have anyone to help you lug a used one up the stairs. the squeaky door that leads to the bathroom, the tiny space you called your kitchen. your bedroom is behind a closed door and andrew stares at it when you go inside to change out of your scrubs and come back out in the kind of clothes that you sleep in.

and then he stares at the shut door even after you leave, before realizing that you’ve already made your way to the space between the living room and kitchen, a narrow expanse with a small round table and some placemats with flowers on them. you set down your backpack and take your hair out of the clip that holds it back for you at work and suddenly, he’s staring again.

it’s just a little too close to everything he’s been dreaming about for years.

“i’m really sorry. i was supposed to go grocery shopping but i hate bringing everything up-”

“don’t apologize.”

“also, i’m-i’m not really a good cook. i’m sorry-”

“i don’t think anything you make can be worse than prison food.”

“i really doubt that. you’ve never had my cooking.”

you glance back him and he meets your eyes at the same time, and you both start laughing. it’s nothing crazy—andrew didn’t seem like the kind who laughs easily anyway, but he cracks a smile and the noise is indelible—all you can think of is how you can get him to laugh again.

“do you like spaghetti?”

+

if someone had told you yesterday that this time tomorrow, andrew from your letters would be sitting across from you at your dining table, eating spaghetti that you made while rushing, looking so in place in your tiny home that your heart hurts, you think you would have passed out.

you watch him while he eats, absentmindedly swirling your own noodles on the plate, unable to focus on eating when he’s really in front of you. after countless dreams and days spent wondering what had happened to him and if he was okay and if he ever thought about you. he’s… bigger than you thought he would be. shoulders broader than you had realized from that tiny video. his mannerisms interest you more than they should—how quiet he is, but how he seems to latch onto every word when you go on and on. just like the letters, it seems he’s still a listener.

(it doesn’t help matters when he tries to clear the table and wash the dishes after—you have to wrestle the plates out of his hand and tell him to go sit down, that he can’t get his bandage wet. jostling against his iron-hard body was not on the list of things you thought you’d get to do today, and the very realization that andrew is twice as strong as you on his worst day does…things to you. things that do not need to be named or explored right now. he’s still a stranger, you try to remind yourself. no he’s not.)

but it seems that he can’t sit still. he wipes down the counter and then comes back to help you dry your yellow dishes and when you both finish up, with you still smiling at him and unsure of what excuse you can conjure to get him to stay, he finds it all by himself. you tell andrew to go sit on the couch while you finish up and he does, and when you follow him out there, he’s standing in front of it. he turns his head to look at you and then back at the couch.

your cat is perched on his usual spot, and you go over to him, scratching the top of his head between his ears and making extremely childish, stupid-sounding noises at him.

“andrew this is wardy,” you say, picking him up and bringing him closer. “he’s really friendly. i promise.”

“hello, wardy.” when he says it, you look up at him with a look he can’t find words to describe. as close to love as you can get it when it’s a technically a stranger. the way he greets your cat and helps you clean and knows more about you than some of your friends and coworkers do.

there’s no words for it. it just is.

so you sit on the couch next to andrew, your cat between the two of you, and you wait for him to tell you that he wants to leave. you flick on the television, settling for whatever silly romance movie is playing on your netflix account, sitting in the almost-silence with andrew and wondering why still, it doesn’t feel necessarily uncomfortable.

eventually andrew reaches out to pet wardy, and he curls up into his touch, settling comfortably against his forearm. (his huge, thick, veiny forearm, you think briefly, before chasing the thought away with a broom. and then another one—no wonder he had bled so much at the hospital. with veins like these.)

“this area’s not the best,” andrew says, speaking as though you need to be reminded of it, to know that he doesn’t approve.

“i know. but it’s cheap and it’s near the beach.”

“but you live alone. it’s dangerous.”

“but-” you glance over at him. he takes up most of your couch, wardy’s head resting against his thigh now, while he continues petting him. he looks over at you and it’s clear—this isn’t an argument. “you’re right. but i mean, how bad can it be? if you’re here now?”

you pause. stupidly, you’ve just revealed whatever thoughts have been rattling around in your head. like the fact that you’re assuming he’s going to be here more often, when the truth is that you have no idea if that’s true.

why would it be true? you tried, in earnest, to make sure your life never seemed anything more than it really was in your letters. but andrew drives a brand new truck and wears an expensive watch and you have absolutely no idea what he was robbing or why he was doing it—and you never asked. the assumption that just because he found you, meant that he was going to keep you was completely insane. a misgiving on your part, because surely, whatever’s waiting for him back home is better than your crappy cooking and a tiny apartment and a cat that you—

“sorry, i’m sorry. that’s such a jump. we just met. i’m so sorry, i can-” you stand up, and so does andrew.

“why are you apologizing?”

“because i just.. i don’t know.” you try to pace around your apartment but you only get a few steps away before you have to come back. “this is crazy. we’re both crazy.”

you feel it in the air before you hear him say it. it gets tenser, quieter, more serious. like what you’ve both been dreading for the last few hours is about to happen.

“do…do you want me to leave?” you turn to face him quickly.

“no! no, i don’t. that’s why this is crazy. people are going to think we’re insane. i don’t want you to go. i want you stay. i want you to tell me everything i missed in the last year and a half. i want to know what you did with my letters. i want to know-”

and when andrew reaches forward to grab your forearm—gently, not meant to hurt you—you freeze in your tracks. staring up at him, all the words in your brain, every stupid thing your friends ever told you about this make-shift relationship you had concocted in your head melting away.

“i want that too.”

“oh. well, i just thought-”

and this time, he doesn’t let you finish, leaning in for a kiss that makes your knees give out. andrew’s mouth—wet and hot and on fire—kisses you like you two were made for each other.

as cheesy as the thought feels, you swallow it and wrap your arms around his neck. it’s every stupid romance movie you’ve ever seen coming to life, your life. all because of him. he doesn’t break the kiss, not even to breathe. you feel his tongue poke into your mouth and you accept it gladly. you fall back on the couch and the movement of it makes wardy scamper off, and you move your head just for a second to see where he runs off too, but andrew doesn’t stop. he lines kisses along your cheek and your jaw until you turn back and he gets your lips again.

you feel his weight on top of you, and briefly, you wonder if you should tell him.

countless nights spent wondering what this would feel like, how he would kiss you, all the things he would do to you. you have to keep reminding yourself, you’re just a stupid girl—it’s not your fault that a few nice letters was enough to make you head over heels for the last few years.

because somewhere deep down inside, you knew. you knew that it would be like this, that it would be perfect, that it would be everything you wanted. that he would take care of you and want you as badly as you want him. your crown title of hopeless romantic had finally paid off.

another thought stirs as he keeps kissing you. it’s feverish and hot and makes you warm all over—how long it’s been since he’s had someone, how he kisses you like he’s out of practice. his mouth is so hard against yours it almost hurts, but you welcome the pain. it’s like he’s proving to you that he’s really there now, that nothing can tear him away from you.

but then he does pull away. you catch your breath, hands traveling to his face and running your fingers through his hair. andrew’s pretty eyes close and you cherish it—that you made him feel like that. he leans into your touch, head resting against your hand while you both take long, heavy breaths.

andrew leans in, pressing your foreheads together.

“i-i’ve wanted to do that,” another breath. you feel butterflies continuously emerge and flutter around your chest and your stomach, all the way down to between your legs. “since your first letter.”

and then you can’t resist—leaning back in for another hard, wet kiss. you feel him shift, strong hands on your hips, but staying firmly there, not traveling despite how much you wish they would. he’s been polite again, you think. waiting for you to give him permission.

“you can-” you start, but andrew keeps pressing kisses against your neck that make it hard to finish your sentence. “you can touch me.” you expect his hands to spread—grope and grab and tease until you’re begging for more. for him to be impatient and hungry and not stop until he’s inside of you.

“i can’t believe you’re real,” he says quietly, one hand moving up to your waist and touching the soft skin there gently. he traces up your arms and then down before intertwining his fingers with yours. you stare up at him, stupid as ever. every time you think you know anything about andrew, he proves you wrong.

“i can’t believe you are, either,” you say, tilting your head up for another kiss. a short, chaste one this time. “you’re just as nice as i knew you’d be.”

“you think i’m nice?” he asks, voice low. you nod in response, words escaping you. you settle to answer with another kiss, hands going to his shoulders to steady yourself, tugging and pulling on his bottom lip with your teeth.

you push up until he understands, and he uses two huge hands to get you into his lap, sitting up with his back against your couch. you straddle him, trying your hardest to not lose your train of thought as you realize how hard he is against you.

“i think you’re too nice,” you tease, unsure where you’re finding the confidence. under you, andrew looks spacey and flushed and all kissed out, but you don’t plan to stop. you lean in to press kisses to his cheeks and work your way to his jaw and neck. when you stop to look at him again, he looks hopelessly up at you, and you think he’s waiting again, waiting for permission to do something. “i think you’re so nice that you’re not telling me everything you’ve wanted to do to me these last few years.”

the way andrew looks up at you after you said that—god. you wish you could engrain it into your memory. you’re not someone who does this often, but you might just be good at figuring out how to get andrew to crack. he looks up with some of the hunger you’d imagined there’d be, and it makes something stir inside of you.

it feels strange to be wanted the way andrew wants you right now. you’re just not used to it, not entirely sure that you’d ever feel this way. that someone would ever make you feel this way.

your thoughts are wiped again when he pulls you into another kiss, and you deepen it, moaning into his mouth. you’re being so loud that your older neighbor might be able to hear you, but you can hardly bring yourself to care right now. andrew is quiet, like you thought he would be, but each soft grunt and heavy sigh is enough to make your entire body tingle.

you think you’re being better at staying quiet yourself when andrew scoops you up into his arms, carrying you like it’s nothing for him. you yelp loudly, forgetting everything for a second, realizing how lovely it feels to be carried by him. he leads you two to your bedroom, setting you down gently on the bed.

you stare at him, hovering above you, wondering how you’ll get to do this. how you’ll get his clothes off and watch out for his hurt hand and that you’ll finally get to feel him inside of you—when he just stops moving.

andrew looks up and around your bedroom, craning his neck to take in all of it. you’re not sure why, stuck in a position under him that forces you to just watch.

“is everything okay, andrew?” when you say his name, he turns back to stare down at you.

“yes. yes, it is. it’s just-” he pauses, looking back up and then down. the room is decorated with lots of pretty frames. there’s yellow curtains on the windows and your sheets are yellow under you too, just like he’d suspected. seeing it in real life almost sends him back to years ago—the first time he’d wondered what your bedroom looks like. the place from where you write your letters, the place you read them. “it looks just like i thought it would.”

and just like every other part of tonight, your reaction continues to surprise him. you smile and then laugh, holding onto his shoulder even tighter.

“spend a lot of time thinking about my bedroom, huh?” you tease, and he remains just as confused as ever.

you are such a conundrum. andrew thinks that he wants you so badly he can’t form a proper thought—and then the thoughts merge and blend and anger at the very idea that you’re so trusting of him. you should be more careful. you shouldn’t trust anyone how much you’re trusting him right now—inviting him inside your home, letting him into your bedroom.

and then you pull him down for another kiss and it all washes away like letters in the sand.

eventually he does pull away—though it takes an enormous amount of self control. the words you said on the couch haven’t completely left him yet and he still needs to answer you. you claw and pull at his shirt so he lets you take it off of him, you trace a hand down his chest, stopping at his heart and pressing your palm flat against him.

you’re staring, he thinks, but you’re really just admiring. taking in every detail, every scar and bruise so you can ask him about it later, moving your fingers down his abs and biting your lip while you stare daggers at his chest.

he moves away from your touch though, as sad as it makes you.

“you wanted to know everything i’ve thought about you?” andrew says, and the words make you tense up—thighs clenching, walls fluttering just from words alone. your fingers tighten around his bicep where you’ve been holding on, and you nod up at him dumbly. “can i show you?”

your head falls back onto your pillow with a thud. you nod again.

you let andrew set the pace—he peels off your clothes and you lift your hips and raise your arms in compliance. he starts with a kiss to your stomach that makes you whine, fingers leaving his skin and grabbing onto your sheets instead just to have something to hold on to.

you’re embarrassingly wet—you already know you are. it’s almost painful how badly you want him, even against better judgement that tells you that you could have, at the very least, taken things slowly.

you guess andrew just brings it out of you.

his kisses move south and you brace yourself, every muscle tensing up in anticipation. andrew is silent except for his deep breaths and somehow, with each one deeper than the last, they make your entire body shudder in anticipation. when he finally gets to your leaking cunt, you hear it. a strangled moan, sounding painful and from the depth of his chest and filled with want and need. just from looking at you. you can’t imagine what he’ll sound like when—

“this is what i thought about. this is always what i thought about.”

and then andrew licks down the length of your cunt with the flat of his tongue, and you can’t think about anything else anymore. he’s relentless, exploring you with his mouth like he’s a man starved. you can hear the noises, obscene and sloppy and wet as they are.

and then you feel it—his mouth around your clit while one finger prods at your tight opening. your back rises off the bed but he holds you down with one huge hand over your stomach. his finger slips inside you more easily than he thought it would. though you’re wetter than he imagined, he doesn’t stop teasing your clit.

your wetness coats everything—his tongue, his lips, his chin. your thighs are wet too, and he’s sure he can get your yellow sheets soaked too if he could tease you long enough. but he’s been incredibly patient all these years, unsure if he can wait any longer to get what he’s wanted.

his hand keeps you pinned down while his mouth stays on your clit and then andrew adds another finger and you thrash up against him. it’s useless against the weight of his hand holding you down, but your body moves anyways, hands wrangling into his brown curls, likely making a complete mess of them. you keep pulling and he moans between your legs and the vibration makes you thrash harder, a completely exhilarating cycle.

when he finally releases you from his grip, you think the other hand will explore up and down your body, but true to form, you’re wrong. andrew finds your hand and holds onto it, lacing your fingers with his while he keeps going.

when adds a third finger, you realize that he’s saying something against you. you can’t quite make it out with your heart thudding in your ears and how loud you’re being, but then it becomes a little clearer—

“you taste even better than i thought you would-” and you can’t stop it, the tension in your stomach winding tighter and tighter before it snaps altogether. a white hot heat washes through your body and makes you shake even harder, but andrew’s hold on you keeps you completely grounded. he works you through it, not stopping even once, not until you’re trying your hardest to pull away from him. you try to catch your breath but it’s useless. your head feels completely empty.

incoherent, you grab at andrew, murmuring something about inside, please, and he really tries to stay level headed. but one glance at your naked, writhing body and your expression while you beg for him is enough to tip him over the edge.

resisting you requires a level of self control that he doesn’t think he’ll ever be able to have.

andrew doesn’t think he’s ever had any self control when it comes to you. it’s why he did this, isn’t it? showed up at your hospital with your sweet letter folded up and somehow convinced you, without saying much of anything at all, to trust him and let him back into your life. he doesn’t even know how he did it—he can’t recall most of what he said to you. it plays in his head like a movie, like how your letters used to.

he doesn’t know what he did to deserve your trust, just knows that he’ll do whatever he has to in order to keep it forever.

andrew’s thoughts about keeping you cloud him while he lifts up your legs, manhandling your body while you squeal under him. he pushes your knees to your chest and lets your legs hang in the air while he hovers over you. all he can think about is getting inside of you—-giving you exactly what you’ve been begging for, fulfilling every fantasy he’s had about you in the last three years. the noises you’ll make. how tight and wet and warm you’ll feel around him. how you’ll look with his cum dripping out of-

“andrew, please, please,” you plead, and he’s not sure that you understand exactly what you’re asking for. it’s good that it’s him you picked for those letters, good that he’s the one who tracked you down.

someone else, well, he thinks, lining himself up with your soaking wet entrance, someone else might have had bad intentions with you. not andrew, though.

his intentions for you are only good. intentions to keep you happy and safe and move you away from this tiny apartment and make sure you get the job that you want, no matter who he has to threaten in order to do so. intentions to keep everything taken care of so the only thing you ever have to worry about again is him, just like you’d done for all those years when you wrote to him.

and as he slips inside, he knows those letters are in this bedroom somewhere, that this bed is where you read them, that these were the pretty hands that held his letters and these were the pretty eyes that read them.

you stare at him while he hovers over you, not pushing in just yet. andrew’s dick is just like the rest of him—thick and broad and so wide that you don’t know how you’ll be able to walk tomorrow. there’s veins too, just like his arms, and it’s all you can think about with him enclosed over you.

when he pushes his thick head past your fluttering walls, you make a noise like nothing he’s ever heard before. pure want and heat wrapped up with pleasure and pain. you keep begging for more but he’s not sure you can even handle it—but who is andrew to deny you?

he pushes further inside of you, now half way, and you cry out. andrew leans in to kiss you again, swallowing the noise and letting you moan against his lips.

another thrust and he’s almost all the way in. he pulls out and pushes back in, and then he starts his rhythm. your tits bounce with every thrust and he watches entranced, until his eyes go back to where you and him meet. in this position, on his knees with you folded underneath him, he can see it perfectly.

it’s enough to make him finish instantly. you look completely fucked out under him, crying out with each push of his hips.

your open your wet eyes and glance up at him. through wet lashes and blinking eyes, you get out a few words, stopped by each thrust.

“is it-” you gasp, words getting caught in your throat because andrew is so deep inside of you that you can feel him in your stomach and your chest. “is it what you imagined, andrew?”

“god, yes,” he says, and the sound is so perfect to you. it comes out broken, in the form of a gasp and a moan combined, and you want to hear it again and again. he says your name like it’s a prayer grounding him to you and you keep your arms wrapped around his neck, holding him close to you and bringing him in for another kiss. you can feel andrew’s pace start to stutter, his moans getting louder and his grip on you getting tighter. you hold his face in your hands, locking eyes again.

“inside, andrew, please, i want it inside, please, please,” and again, andrew thinks to himself, like some besotted fool, who is he to deny you? he releases whatever inhibitions he had left and fills you up with his cum—rivulets almost never ending. it leaks out around his dick, messing up your sheets and staining your thighs and making a mess of everything. he hears your heavy breaths and looks to see you smiling sweetly up at him.

and then he collapses next to you.

“hi andrew,” you say quietly next to him. your hands go to his, playing with his fingers and running the pad of your thumb over the veins on his hand. “was it how you thought it’d be?”

“it was better,” he says, breathless. you giggle and lean in to press a kiss to his cheek—and for a moment, he forgets everything. the circumstances of your introduction and the way he’d discovered you long forgotten for a few heartbeats. just you and the sound of your laugh and the promise of the future he wants with you before him.

“there’s still some things i thought about that we didn’t get to yet,” you tease, and he wonders, briefly, what he’s going to do with you.

and then you two hear it—scratching at your closed bedroom door.

“oh god,” you say, sitting up in bed.

you groan a little since your thighs are sore and it’s a wet, sticky mess between them. andrew keeps his hand on your arm and helps you sit up, and joins you in the position, like he’s preparing to help if you need something.

“warden, stop,” you say, but he doesn’t listen. you turn to andrew. “i’m gonna get him.” you try to move your legs and put weight on them, but you feel your knees buckle immediately, with andrew rushing to your side to help you back into bed.

“oh my god. you broke me.”

“i’ll get him. just-just sit down.”

andrew opens the door and picks up your cat like it’s second nature, bringing him to you on the bed before getting in right beside you. your cat is sweet but there’s not many people over at your apartment, and you worry for a moment that he won’t be nice to andrew when he wants your attention. but wardy doesn’t move from his position, staying curled up again andrew’s chest and arm, completely at ease.

“he likes you. that makes sense,” you say, smiling up at him, leaning in to pet wardy’s head.

but andrew doesn’t understand.

“warden. i thought you said his name was wardy?”

“that’s just a nickname.”

“why warden?”

“oh well. it’s silly, um-”

“tell me.”

“well, uh. well, warden is just the letters in andrew. uh, rearranged.”

“oh.”

“i’m sorry. i’m so sorry, is that creepy? i was really projecting, i guess, when i got him. i just loved your letters so much and i’ve never had a boyfriend or anything like that-”

“do you think we should get married?”

thanks for reading! ♡

[brownlyfe]

Love A Woman (Bonus): Wish I Never…

The Bonus Part to a Three Part Modern Day AU

Part 1, Part 2, Part 3

cw: smut, slightly ooc

wc: 7,921

summary: annie is caught between two brothers who show their love for her in two different ways. one quiet and soft beneath her control, the other? unapolegtically rough and playful. weekdays are a slow burn of passion and promise, but the weekends are chaos and surrender personified. but when blurred lines, missed promises, and real feelings start to surface, the balance shifts. loyalty gets tested. and annie has to decide what kind of love she really needs, and who’s strong enough to hold all of her.

notes: omg yall!! we’re at the end fr fr this time! first i would like to say yall have me cracking up really bad over last chapter. I was fighting for Stack’s life writing this. and the way I thought everyone was going to say yes and not no 😭😭. also I saw a tiktok comment about this story, yall even mad over there 😭. anyways enjoy this last part and get ready for more stuff to come!

The bedroom was a mess of half-packed outfits, open suitcases, and shoes lined up in disarray. Annie was crouched near the edge of the bed, holding up two different swimsuits with a frown on her face while her phone balanced between her shoulder and cheek.

“I’m serious, Mia,” she said. “I need backup. I’m not going without moral support.”

Mia’s voice crackled through the speaker, dry and amused. “It’s just a weekend getaway. How bad could it be?”

“It’s Stack,” Annie replied flatly.

That shut Mia up.

“…Alright. Fair. Still... Kennedy’s gonna say no. You know she doesn’t do group trips.”

“Tell her I’ll make the pasta she likes.”

“Girl, you’re already bribing my wife?”

Annie threw the swimsuit onto the bed. “Yes, desperately. Smoke just told me that Stack’s girl is bringing a friend. So I’m not showing up alone like some ex with baggage.”

Mia sighed. “You are an ex with baggage.”

Annie flopped backward onto the bed. “I know. That’s why I’m trying to pack light.”

Smoke walked in, fresh out of the shower, a towel around his waist, a cigar unlit in one hand. He paused in the doorway, watching her with that steady, unreadable gaze.

Annie glanced up at him and raised a brow. “I’m bringing the navy set or the burgundy?”

Smoke’s eyes flicked to the bed. “Burgundy.”

Mia caught the tone in his voice and groaned over the phone. “Oh God, he’s there. I’m hanging up.”

“Tell Kennedy I’ll text her.”

“Uh-huh. Tell Smoke not to start anything he can’t finish.”

Smoke smirked as Annie ended the call and tossed the phone onto the bed.

“You good?” he asked, setting the cigar down.

“No,” she muttered, sitting up. “I’m packing for a trip that I’m probably going to regret.”

Smoke stepped closer, slowly and deliberately. “You’ll be fine.”

Annie rolled her eyes. “You don’t get it.”

“I do.” He stopped in front of her and cupped her chin. “You don’t have to prove anything. Not to him. Not to anyone.”

Annie leaned into his touch just a little.

“I know,” she whispered. “But I still want to look better than her.”

That made Smoke grin. And then he kissed her. 

-

The sky was a soft, lazy gray, just overcast enough to calm the road. The kind of weather that made hours pass quietly, letting the hum of the tires and the low beat of music do all the talking.

Annie had one foot tucked under her in the seat, phone in her lap, legs bare under a pair of soft black shorts. She scrolled through work emails she wasn’t truly reading and sipped from a green juice that had long since warmed up. Her hair was slicked into a braid. Her tank top hung off one shoulder.

She looked put together, but Smoke could feel it. The way she hadn’t said his name once. Not during the packing. Not on the drive. Not since she found out he’d be at the house. She was dodging that truth like it had claws. Floating on top of it like it didn’t still had teeth.

So she talked about everything else.

“…and you remember Deja from accounting?” she said, flicking a nail against her phone screen. “Tell me why she’s pregnant again, and nobody knows who the dad is. Again.”

Smoke chuckled under his breath, one hand on the wheel, the other resting casually on her thigh. “She consistent, I’ll give her that.”

Annie laughed, a real one, head falling back for a second. “You’re sick.”

Smoke chuckled low, eyes still fixed on the road. His thumb stroked a slow circle just above her knee.

She didn’t react at first. She was used to him touching her, palm wide on her skin, thumb dragging circles just above her knee. 

He watched her from the corner of his eye. The tension hadn’t left her shoulders. Her jaw was still too tight. Her foot was bouncing. She was running.

Then his hand slid higher, past her mid-thigh, and the hem of her black knit shorts. Fingers drifting with precision and no announcement.

“Smoke,” she muttered, glancing up.

“Shh.”

His fingers slid over her, parting her slowly, then dipped inside, two fingers curling deep with practiced ease. Annie's whole body stilled, then she melted.

She gripped the door for balance, the breath catching in her chest before her left hand reached for his arm instinctively, gripping tight with her diamond ring catching the light.

He stroked her gently at first, just enough to pull her breath into a higher pitch, her thighs trembling.

Smoke didn’t look at her. His eyes stayed on the road. He was calm and focused. Like he wasn’t currently sliding two fingers into her while driving seventy-five miles an hour on a rural highway.

Annie tried to say something, but all that came out was a sharp inhale, her body leaning back into the seat.

“You need to relax,” he murmured, eyes still on the road. “Let go for me, baby.”

Her moan cracked free. “Oh my– fuck–”

Smoke smiled, just a little. His thumb found her clit and circled slow, the pressure perfect, rhythm tight, until her hips started to move on their own.

She bit her lip, trying to stay composed, but it was already unraveling. The angle of his hand, the slick drag of his fingers, the pressure of his thumb circling her clit like he knew her better than she knew herself. And he did.

She was trying so hard to keep her composure. But he knew what she sounded like when she broke.

“Don’t hold back,” he said, voice low. “I want it all. Right here.”

She clutched his forearm harder, nails digging in. And when he curved his fingers just right, she shattered. A choked cry spilled from her lips, her body curling into the seat, eyes wide and wet, thighs shaking violently around his wrist.

But Smoke didn’t stop; he kept going. Slow and steady. And when she whimpered, already too sensitive, he leaned in and kissed her shoulder without taking his fingers out.

“One more,” he said quietly. “You’ve been running too long. Let it catch you.”

She sobbed out his name, and it wasn’t long before the second wave slammed into her. It was deeper, hotter, wrecking her in his palm.

She slumped into the seat when it was over, breath shaky, lips parted like she was still trying to come back to earth. Smoke pulled his hand out gently, licked his fingers clean, then took her hand, the one with the ring, and kissed her knuckles slowly.

“Smoke–” she whispered, wrecked.

He finally looked at her then and smiled.

“You good, mama?”

She nodded, eyes glassy.

“Good,” he said. “Because the weekend’s just starting.”

-

The last year hadn’t always been smooth sailing. Actually, it had been more like a roller coaster than anything. 

The slam of the kitchen cabinet echoed down the hallway. Annie was barefoot in the doorway, arms crossed, face tight with frustration. Smoke stood near the sink, hands braced on the counter, cigar forgotten in the ashtray beside him.

“I can’t keep doing this,” she said, voice hard.

Smoke didn’t look at her. “Doing what, Annie?”

“This. Pretending like everything’s fine when we both know it’s not.”

He turned slowly, eyes darker than she’d seen them in months. “You think I don’t know that?”

“Then act like it,” she snapped. “Stop holding shit in until it explodes. Say something. Yell. Be mad. Just do something other than stare at me like I’m a fucking burden.”

“You want me to say something?” he barked, stepping forward. “Fine. I’m tired of feeling like I’m option two. Like I’m just the man you fall back on when Stack’s too busy being a fuck-up.”

Annie’s jaw dropped. “Are you serious right now?”

“You think I don’t see it?” he went on, voice rising. “You’ve been grieving him while lying in my bed, and you think I’m not supposed to feel that?”

“That’s not fair,” she said, but her voice wavered.

“What part? The part where I let you keep us both because I thought love could stretch? The part where I watched you unravel over him for years and still gave you my whole damn heart?”

Annie blinked fast. Her throat was tight. “You think this was easy for me?”

“No, I think you made it easy for him.” His voice was sharper now. “You begged for his attention. You softened for him. But me? I was the one holding you when he didn’t show up. I was the one who loved you first.”

“I was with you,” she shouted. “I chose you.”

“No, you settled for me,” he growled. “There’s a difference.”

Annie’s face twisted in disbelief. “You think I don’t love you?”

“I think you loved him more.”

She laughed, bitter and sharp. “Wow. That’s rich coming from a man who doesn’t even talk unless I pull it out of him.”

“You always needed somebody loud to validate you,” he shot back. “Maybe that’s why you were never satisfied with me.”

Her whole body recoiled. “Fuck you.”

“You already did,” he said coldly.

There was a thick silence. The air between them cracked.

Her next words came out low, dangerous, and hurt. 

“You want to talk about settling?” she whispered. “Maybe I did. Maybe I needed something because I was tired of being second place to your silence.”

His nostrils flared.

“And maybe I needed someone who didn’t need to be the center of every goddamn universe to feel loved.”

Annie took a step back.

Smoke’s voice lowered, strained, and shaking. “You think you’re hard to carry, Annie? You are. But I did it anyway. I did it because I loved you. But this…this ain’t love anymore.”

Annie blinked fast. Her chest burned.

“You’re right,” she whispered. “Maybe it never really was, Elijah.”

The room froze. Smoke’s face changed. The hurt hit him like a slap.

“You wanna end it?” he asked, voice low. “Say it.”

She hesitated.

“Say it, Annie. Say you’re done.”

“I’m done.”

He nodded once. Took off his chain, the one she gave him two birthdays ago, and set it on the counter.

“Then I won’t come back.”

And she didn’t stop him. Not this time.

The apartment used to be the kind of quiet that comforted him. Normally, the lighting was dim with jazz bleeding through the speakers, and Annie would be somewhere in the next room. Her presence had always been a constant. Now the empty silence pressed against his chest like a hand he couldn’t move.

Smoke sat on the edge of his bed, elbows on his knees, the soft glow from his nightstand lamp casting long shadows across the room. The cigar between his fingers had burned out minutes ago, but he hadn’t noticed. He hadn’t been to sleep. 

His phone was facedown. Her contact hadn’t lit up in a month. And yet, her memory hadn’t shut up once.

His mind drifted past the silence, back to the dorm rooms with thin walls and even thinner mattresses. 

Back then, she used to make everything quiet. Back when he was barely more than a storm walking around in boots and low expectations. Annie had a way of softening the edges of his anxiety. Of showing up.

He remembered how she used to pack extra granola bars in her backpack, just in case he forgot to eat again during midterms. How she’d show up at his dorm uninvited with her laptop, crawl into his lap, and say, “I’m not leaving until you submit that assignment.”

She’d help him submit his assignments. Email his professors. Keep snacks in her drawer for the days he forgot to eat. Pull him out of his shell when he wanted to drown in it.

How she used to touch his face gently after his nightmares. Stroke his back. Press kisses to his neck. Whisper, “You’re okay, Elijah. You’re not there anymore.”

And he’d wake up sweating, heart pounding, breath tight. She’d wrap her arms around him and hum into the crook of his neck until his breathing leveled out. She learned him before he learned himself.

She never judged him for how quiet he was. She just understood. Even now, he could still hear her voice when she called him Elijah. And he let her in even when he didn’t let anyone else in.

He leaned back on the bed, eyes burning. She used to be the only thing in the world that ever made him feel safe. And somehow, he’d let her go.

-

She was sitting on the floor in her bedroom, hair in a loose bun, wrapped in an old hoodie that she forgot to give back. The wine on the dresser was half-full, but her thoughts were overflowing. A whole month and not one call from him or to him.

Her friends still thought everything was fine. She hadn’t told a soul. Every time Mia got close to asking, she changed the subject. Lied with a smile. Said they were “just taking time.” But there was no we anymore. Just the cold absence of a man who used to be her everything. And that was what hurt the most.

Smoke had always been there. Through her long hours, her promotions, her breakdowns behind the bathroom door. He’d run her baths before she even asked. Cooked her dinner when she forgot she hadn’t eaten. Took her phone when her clients stressed her out. Fucked her slow when she needed to remember how to breathe.

He didn’t take up space in her life…he held it. Even when she was cold or when her new job made her impatient, entitled, and hard to love.

She started turning bratty around the same time she started losing herself in work, snapping at him, dismissing the things he did, forgetting he was trying. But he never threw it back at her. He just tried harder.

Smoke didn’t make big gestures. He didn’t talk a lot. But he constantly showed up.

He was the one who held her when she fell apart at work. Who massaged her shoulders when the tension wouldn’t leave. Who made her feel beautiful on the days she felt like nothing. Who ran her bubble baths and poured her wine and kissed her slowly when the world felt too heavy to carry.

He was never loud about his love, but it was everywhere. And now, without it? She felt the silence like punishment.

So here she sat there on the hardwood floor, legs crossed, realizing she had no one to blame but herself for how far he drifted. Annie buried her face in her hands, her heart squeezing tight. She missed him. And for the first time, she wondered if missing him would be all she had left.

-

The line was longer than usual, but Annie didn’t mind. She had thirty minutes before her next meeting, and the place was quiet, tucked into a block of glass offices and tree-lined sidewalks.

She checked her phone, absently scrolling through emails, heels clicking softly as the line inched forward. That’s when she felt it. A presence. She looked up, and her breath caught in her throat.

He stood near the other end of the counter, waiting for his order. Wearing a charcoal suit with no tie and the sleeves rolled up. His watch glinted beneath a pressed cuff. He looked every bit like the man he had grown into. 

And when his eyes lifted and met hers, it was instant. Something between them broke and rebuilt all at once. He didn’t smile. He just looked at her long enough that her stomach tightened.

Annie turned back toward the register, pulse hammering. She ordered her coffee and breakfast sandwich quietly. And when she reached for her card, the barista shook their head.

“It’s already taken care of.”

She blinked. “What?”

The barista nodded toward the other end of the counter.

Smoke didn’t say anything. He just met her eyes again and gave a small nod. That was all. But it hit her harder than she expected.

They sat across from each other at a corner table, tucked away from the bigger crowd. It was quiet except for the soft background music and the clinking of silverware. They hadn’t seen each other in over a month.

Smoke stirred his drink slowly, thumb tapping against the side of the mug.

Annie looked down at her plate. “You didn’t have to pay for it.”

“I know,” he said, voice low. “But I still wanted to.”

She didn’t argue, but there was a beat of silence.

“I’m sorry,” she said.

Smoke looked up, surprised.

“For what?”

Annie took a shaky breath. “For everything. For all the ways I made you feel less than. For falling into Stack’s trap when I knew better.”

Smoke’s jaw tensed, but not in anger, just pain.

“I should’ve known,” she whispered. “You were the one who always showed up. I just– I didn’t see it clear enough back then. And by the time I did, I’d already hurt you.”

Smoke stayed quiet for a second, but then said, “I didn’t handle everything right either. I held things in when I should’ve said them.”

She nodded. “Still, you didn’t deserve what I put you through.”

“You didn’t deserve what you were dealing with either.”

Their eyes met, but it was different this time. There was no begging. Nor was there any blame. Just two people who had lived through the worst of it and still found room to sit across from each other.

Smoke leaned forward slightly. “I think about you a lot.”

Annie looked down, lips twitching into something sad. “I miss you.”

He reached for her hand, just enough to hold. Her thumb was tracing his knuckles.

-

The house was gorgeous. There were vaulted ceilings, polished floors, warm lighting that poured across expensive furniture, and an open floor plan that made the whole place feel like luxury with no walls.

Annie stepped inside first, pulling her roller suitcase behind her, the soft clack of wheels on hardwood echoing under her sandals. Smoke followed close behind, a duffel in one hand and their wine bag in the other.

“Damn,” Annie said, looking around. “This place is beautiful.”

Smoke nodded, gaze sweeping over the high ceilings and curated decor. “Definitely not cheap.”

They wandered slowly, past the open-concept kitchen, into the living room, toward the hallway with several doors branching off. Annie turned the corner and immediately froze.

There they were, Stack and Crystal, half-naked on the couch. 

Crystal gasped, startled, scrambling for a throw blanket that barely covered anything. Stack didn’t move at first. His hand still rested on Crystal’s hip, but his eyes, his eyes locked onto Annie’s like time had slowed.

And he didn’t look guilty. He looked like he wanted her to feel something, anything. Like he needed her reaction. But Annie just blinked. Completely unbothered. She almost looked amused.

Smoke stepped in behind her, immediately reading the room. He caught Stack’s stare, the weird tension laced into it, and with zero hesitation, he gently turned Annie around by her waist.

“Let’s go,” he said under his breath, cool and calm.

Annie let him guide her out without protest. She didn’t say a word, but the silence spoke volumes. Stack’s stare burned into her back the entire way out.

Smoke led her down a hallway and into one of the guest suites tucked away from the noise and the tension.

The room was stunning, cool-toned linens, oversized windows, a king bed that looked hand-pressed, and a balcony overlooking the lake below. The en suite bathroom was even better, with marble tile, gold fixtures, and a rainfall shower big enough for two.

Smoke dropped their bags by the bench at the foot of the bed and wrapped his arms around Annie from behind.

“You good?” he asked, voice low against her neck.

Annie nodded, exhaling. “Please. I didn’t expect anything different.”

-

Annie sat cross-legged on the bed, still in her travel clothes but barefoot now, scrolling through the TV menu. Smoke was reclined against the headboard, one arm draped behind her, the other lazily scrolling on his phone.

Neither of them had said a word about the run-in with Stack and Crystal. They didn’t need to. It didn’t quite matter.

“So,” Annie said, clearing her throat, “we left off in the middle of the reunion, and I swear if Kenya gets one more dig in, I might actually switch teams.”

Smoke didn’t look up. “She’s messy.”

“You say that like you’re not dying to see how it ends.”

“I ain’t invested.”

Annie turned and gave him a look. “You literally asked me last week if Shereé ever got her damn joggers.”

Smoke cracked a small grin. “That was one time.”

“Uh-huh. You love the drama.”

“I tolerate it.”

“You watch it more than I do.”

He looked at her then, soft amusement in his eyes. “And I watch you watch it. That’s the point.”

Annie smirked and leaned into him, her fingers brushing his jaw as she pressed a kiss to his cheek. It was gentle. Like they’d chosen to be here, in this moment, instead of stuck in the past. But the peace never lasts long.

A knock on the door pulled them apart.

Annie groaned. “Let the chaos begin.”

Smoke stood to answer it, pulling the door open just as Mia and Kennedy stepped in with overnight bags and a bottle of wine. Mia sunglasses on and her energy was hot. Kennedy, by contrast, looked calm, amused, and slightly resigned to whatever drama her wife had dragged her into.

Annie hugged Mia tightly. “You came.”

“Of course I came. I don’t trust any situation that involves your ex, his new girl, and some mystery couple.”

“Please don’t get kicked out before tomorrow.”

“I’m not making promises we both know I won’t keep.”

Downstairs, Crystal’s friend, Nina, and her boyfriend had just arrived as well. They all made their way back down there to properly mingle with each other. The energy in the room was mildly awkward.

The introductions started off politely. But the moment that Nina started to eye Mia a little too hard, things got tense. Annie pulled Mia away to the kitchen before things got to be too much.

-

The dining table was set, candles lit, wine bottles uncorked, plates passed around. It should’ve felt like a peace offering. Instead, it felt like waiting for a spark in a room full of gas.

Annie sat at one end of the table, Smoke to her right. Mia and Kennedy sat across from them, doing a perfect job of being calm. Stack was at the other end, Crystal to his side, and Nina and her boyfriend sat between them, like the self-appointed royal couple of the group.

The conversation had started light. Vacations. Favorite shows. Someone made a joke about group trips being cursed, which, ironically, got the biggest laugh. But then Nina started asking questions. The kind that made everyone’s wine glasses pause halfway to their lips.

“So, Annie,” she said sweetly, slicing into her roasted chicken. “How long have you and Smoke been together?”

Annie’s eyes lifted slowly. Her smile stayed polite. “Since college.”

Nina blinked. “Oh, that’s cute. So, not sharing anymore?”

Mia’s fork clinked against her plate. Smoke didn’t look up. Just kept cutting his steak, slowly.

Crystal let out a quiet, almost embarrassed laugh. “Nina–”

“What?” Nina shrugged. “I just mean it used to be a…unique arrangement, right?”

“We grew up,” Annie said, tone even. “Some of us do that.”

That earned a chuckle from Kennedy.

Nina kept smiling. “Right. Growth is everything. I mean, not everyone finds peace when they finally pick someone.”

Annie raised her brows. “You’re right. Some people just pick…convenience.”

Stack set his glass down a little too hard. Crystal touched his arm lightly, her jaw tightening. Mia didn’t bother to hide her grin. The conversation stalled for a beat.

Then Nina turned her attention to Smoke. “And you, Smoke, you good with all this? I mean, no offense, but you don’t seem like the type to take that.”

Smoke finally looked up, steady and calm. “You asking ‘cause you’re curious, or ‘cause you want something to talk about later?”

Nina blinked while Annie smirked into her wine glass.

Mia let out a little “oop”, and Kennedy reached for her hand under the table to keep her still.

The rest of dinner was spent with overly loud sips of wine, surface-level conversation, and a lot of pointed glances passed silently between four of them.

-

Steam curled into the night sky as the jets bubbled around Annie and Mia. The hot tub lights glowed, casting both women in a soft blue and gold. A half-empty wine bottle floated on a tray near the edge, but their glasses were within easy reach.

Annie leaned back, arms stretched wide across the rim, her hair in a bun and her lashes still perfectly curled from earlier. Mia, on the other hand, had shed all physical signs of dinner, but her attitude was still on.

“I swear to God,” Mia said, swirling her wine, “if Nina tries you one more time, I’m snatching her by that cheap ass wig and drowning her respectfully.”

Annie burst out laughing. “Respectfully is crazy.”

“I’m just saying,” Mia shrugged, “I came here for peace. What I’m not doing is letting some recycled wanna be bad bitch try you about your relationship like she doesn’t smell like expired Dior and desperation.”

Annie snorted into her glass.

“No, but seriously,” Mia said, serious again. “Don’t let that girl get under your skin. You handled her at dinner, but I know you.”

“I’m fine,” Annie said. “Really. She’s just…”

“A fan,” Mia finished. “Heavy on the fan behavior.”

They both sipped. Then Mia grinned.

“So, anyway,” she said, lowering her voice, “I brought some of those honey packs I was telling you about.”

Annie blinked. “The what?”

Mia held up three fingers like she was swearing an oath. “Those TikTok honey packs? The ones that make your coochie hum like a Tesla?”

Annie chuckled while sipping her drink. “Mia.”

“I’m serious! I brought one for each of us. Me, you, Kennedy. I was gonna sneak one to Smoke, too, but he doesn’t need it.”

Annie flushed, but grinned. Just then, the back door slid open.

Smoke and Kennedy stepped out in their own swim attire, towels in hand. They were both used to the shenanigans of their women, so it was no surprise that dinner turned out the way that it did.

“Well, well,” Kennedy said, slipping into the water next to Mia. “Y’all been out here talking shit without us?”

“Obviously,” Mia replied, kissing her cheek. “And planning a little experiment.”

Smoke sank in beside Annie, arm sliding along the back of the tub behind her. Annie relaxed instantly, her thigh pressed to his under the water.

“What experiment?” Smoke asked.

Mia smirked. “I brought the honey.”

Kennedy shook her head with a smile. “I told you that stuff is probably illegal.”

“It’s legal…I think?” Mia said. “Anyway, I’m just saying, we’re all grown, and the tension in this house is high, why not let everybody go home happy?”

Annie covered her face, laughing.

Smoke leaned into her ear, voice low. “You down?”

“Don’t tempt me,” she murmured back.

The conversation turned playful from there, laughter echoing into the night as the group slowly unraveled into each other. For a moment, Annie forgot all about Nina, Stack, and the weirdness of it all.

-

The lake glimmered under the high afternoon sun, with just enough breeze to keep the heat from sticking. Everyone was outside, lounging and playing around. Music pulsing low from a speaker set on the dock.

Annie stood at the edge of the water, her toes curling into the wooden planks as she watched the group settle in. She wore a sleek burnt-orange bikini, high-cut with a wrap around her waist. Her curls were pulled into a puff, and her face was bare except for sunscreen and lipgloss. Her engagement ring was tucked safely in the little jewelry dish on her nightstand, back inside out of fear that she would lose it. 

“Don’t overthink it, baby,” Smoke’s voice came from behind her, low and teasing.

She turned. He was already shirtless and wet, standing waist-deep in the water. Swim trunks low. That calm, focused look on his face that always gave away his next move.

“I’m not getting in yet,” Annie warned, backing up.

Smoke raised a brow. “That wasn’t a question.”

Before she could react, he lunged for her quickly and held her in his arms. Annie shrieked, her body wriggling as she tried to pull away, but it was too late. He had walked them backwards until the water swallowed them both.

When they came up, Annie was gasping through her laugh, splashing him hard across the chest. “Why would you do that?”

“You needed to relax.”

“I was relaxed!”

Smoke smirked, water running down his shoulders.

She rolled her eyes but stayed close. Her arms looped loosely around his neck as they floated in the shallow water. His hands found her waist like they belonged there. Which, at this point, they did.

Meanwhile, on the deck, Mia watched the whole thing with her arms crossed and a margarita in hand. Kennedy was beside her, calm as ever, rubbing sunscreen on her legs.

Crystal and Nina were sitting nearby in matching swimsuits that were clearly curated for Instagram, and not for movement. Both wore full faces of makeup and had done a grand total of zero swimming.

“This is…fun,” Nina said, in a sort of sarcastic tone.

“Super fun,” Crystal added, sipping her sparkling water like it was tea. “I guess this is what people do to remember what a good relationship feels like.”

Mia didn’t turn to them, but with her ears on sonar mode, she heard everything. She didn’t blink or hesitate in the words she was about to say.

“I guess you need a vacation to remember what a good wig feels like, huh?”

Kennedy coughed to cover her laugh, Crystal blinked, and Nina narrowed her eyes.

Back at the water’s edge, Smoke had Annie hoisted onto a float, and she was trying to keep her balance while he nudged it from underneath.

“Don’t–” she warned, laughing. “Smoke, don’t tip it.”

“Say you love me.”

“I do love you. Don’t play with me–”

He flipped it anyway.

-

The dining room was dimly lit, warm-toned, and almost too quiet as everyone settled into their seats. The food was good, plated beautifully, smelled inviting, but the energy was off. 

Annie sat beside Smoke, her hand resting on the table, her wine glass just close enough to touch. The diamond on her finger sparkled under the overhead light, subtle but impossible to miss.

Stack noticed. His eyes would flick to her hand every time she reached for her glass. Next to him, Crystal had seen it too. She hadn’t said a word about it, not directly, but her smile was tight, her grip on her fork tense.

Nina, of course, was in rare form.

“So how long have y’all been engaged?” she asked sweetly, swirling her wine without looking up.

Annie looked over slowly. “A while.”

“That’s so nice. Some of us get that one good love, you know? Others just keep running in circles.”

Crystal’s jaw tightened. Stack shifted in his chair. Mia raised a brow, but stayed silent. She stored the rising tension and comment in her head for later.

Conversation continued in scattered bursts, half-forced, half-tipsy. Kennedy tried to change the subject, asking about the jet ski rental. Smoke kept a hand on Annie’s thigh under the table, grounding her. 

Then Nina struck again.

“I mean, I get it,” she said, addressing no one and everyone at once. “Some women like their men quiet and safe. Some of us like a little spice.”

Mia set her fork down slowly.

“Girl, what the hell are you talking about? Is this you trying to say something, or do you just like hearing your own voice?”

Nina tilted her head, sucking her teeth. “I’m just saying, silent men are nice, but they get boring real fast.”

“You must be bored a lot,” Mia said, dead calm. “Considering how often you’re in other people’s business.”

Crystal snorted into her wine.

Nina’s smile faded. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me.”

“Oh, I did. I just don’t think you realize how you sound. Grown women who act like guard dogs? That’s usually insecurity.”

Mia stood up. Kennedy’s hand shot out, grabbing her wrist.

“Mia,” Kennedy warned. “Not at the table.”

“I’m good,” Mia said through clenched teeth, eyes locked on Nina. “But let the bitch say one more thing and I swear…”

Annie reached up, placing a hand gently on Mia’s arm. “Please. She’s not worth it.”

“She asking all these dumb ass questions. She don’t know you. She don’t know me. And if she did, she wouldn’t be talking right now.”

Nina raised her brows. “Touchy.”

Mia took a step forward. Kennedy and Annie both rose halfway from their seats, holding her back just as her chair scraped the floor.

“Mia.”

Stack cleared his throat. “Let’s not do this.”

“Why not?” Crystal piped up, her voice honeyed but icy. “You weren’t concerned about keeping the peace when you were staring at Annie’s ring for the last thirty minutes.”

The room fell into stunned silence. Stack froze. Annie looked down. Smoke didn’t move, but his hand on her thigh gripped just a little tighter. Mia slowly sat back down, still heated, still staring daggers across the table. Nina stayed quiet for once.

Crystal lifted her glass with a fake-ass smile. “To love, I guess.”

Nobody raised theirs. Nobody said a word. The toast died in the silence.

-

The kitchen was quiet, except for the low hum of the fridge and the soft tap of Annie’s nails against the marble counter.

She was perched on the edge of it in her short silk robe, loosely tied, with one leg swinging. Her eyes focused on Smoke, who stood in front of the open fridge like he was considering life’s deeper meanings.

Smoke stood across from her, also in his robe, barefoot, holding a small bowl of sliced fruit they hadn’t bothered touching at dinner.

He held up the gold foil packet between his fingers. “Still wanna try it?”

Annie smiled slowly. “You said we were sharing.”

“I’m a man of my word.”

Smoke walked in between her legs while he ripped the package open and held it out for her to take from him. Instead, she wrapped her lips around the small package and sucked until half of the golden liquid was gone. Their eyes remained locked on each other.

“It’s sweet.” 

Smoke took the pack from her and downed the rest. “We’ll see how sweet it gets.”

Smoke helped her down from the counter so they could make their way to their room to wait out however long it would take for the honey to start taking effect. 

As they walked back, with their robes loose, they passed by Mia and Kennedy’s door just in time to hear the unmistakable sounds of pleasure echoing through the wood.

Mia’s voice, muffled but dramatic: “I’m sorry, baby…oh shit– I’m sorry, I was just mad–”

Annie stopped mid-step.

Smoke kept walking, unbothered. “Guilt’s a hell of a foreplay starter.”

-

Their balcony was quiet, lit only by the moonlight and the dim outdoor sconces. They sat side by side in matching robes, nothing underneath, skin brushing every time they shifted.

The lake shimmered below, crickets filled the silence, but the air between them was tightening.

Annie licked her lips, her body suddenly too aware. Heat had started curling low in her stomach, her skin hypersensitive.

Smoke leaned back in his chair, legs spread, robe open just enough to tease.

“You feel that?” she murmured.

He nodded once. “Mmhmm.”

His eyes dragged over her body. Her thighs. Her collarbone. Her fingers rested on her knee. Annie shifted, crossing her legs, only for the fabric of her robe to part. Smoke’s jaw flexed. The air between them grew thick.

“You wanna go back inside?” she asked, voice a little softer now.

Smoke didn’t answer right away. He leaned in slowly, one hand on her thigh, the other sliding up her waist until it rested just under her robe, fingers splayed across bare skin.

“Nah,” he said. “I think we can start right here.”

Annie’s eyes fluttered closed for a second. When they opened, he was watching her like he already had her answer.

“Come here,” he whispered, voice raspy with something unspoken.

She stood and moved between until she was straddling him. It felt like second nature the way his hands traveled up and down her body and the way her arms wrapped around his shoulders. The pressure in her body bloomed with the sweetest ache, and the warmth between them turned sharp. He didn’t rush it just leaned in and kissed her neck all slow. And suddenly, that balcony didn’t feel too public anymore.

The night air was thick with heat, but Annie felt hotter than the breeze. His hand was around the base of her throat, thumb stroking slowly over her pulse. The honey pack was surely kicking in full gear now.  She could feel it in her chest, her gut, her clit, everything pulsing and too aware.

Smoke's other hand slid down her back, settling on the curve of her ass. He gripped it firmly, then slapped it once, hard enough to sting. Annie gasped, breath catching, her hips already rolling.

“Greedy already?” he murmured against her ear.

“It’s the honey,” she whispered, but she was lying. It was him. It was always him.

Smoke shifted, dragging her robe off her shoulders fully. He leaned in and placed kisses along the tops of her exposed breasts. He could feel her shudder from what he was certain was the feel of his mouth on her heated body. 

“You like that?” he asked.

“Yes, Daddy.”

He smiled. “Good.”

He slid her off his lap, stood her up, and turned her to face the railing. Her hands gripped the edge automatically. He pushed her robe open and bent her slightly.

“Stay there.”

He knelt behind her, kissing the inside of her thighs. Then he spit between her legs, fingers spreading her open as he licked her like he hadn’t eaten all day. Deep, slow, messy strokes with his tongue until Annie was shaking, gasping, grinding back into his mouth.

“F-fuck, I—”

He sucked her clit just right.

She came with a cry, legs buckling. But Smoke wasn’t done.

He stood and slid two fingers inside her, pressing up until she whimpered. His other hand wrapped around her throat again, pulling her back into his chest while he fingered her hard and fast from behind.

“I want that shit on my hand, baby. Come again, baby.”

And she did, wet and loud, her body jerking, a high-pitched moan spilling into the quiet night. He stood with the most focused look on his face. 

One strong hand between her shoulders, the other gripping his slick shaft. When he slid into her, it was deep and possessive. Her favorite combination. The kind of strokes that made her legs tremble from the first thrust.

“I missed this pussy,” he gritted out. “Missed the way it gives up for me.”

He started slow, just enough for her to feel him everywhere, then picked up speed. He had his hand on her ass, giving it a few slaps after some thrusts. Her cries were barely contained. Then came the choking again.

When she came again, she collapsed into the railing. He caught her, wrapped his arms around her, and kept fucking her through it until he couldn’t hold back. He came with a low groan, buried deep, both of them breathless. When it was over, he held her there a moment.

He decided to pull back when it seemed like both their bodies regulated themselves enough. He crossed the balcony to sit back in his chair from before. Annie’s legs were still trembling from the last orgasm, but she wasn’t done.

She looked over at Smoke, seated in the balcony chair, legs spread wide, his dick hard and glistening, chest rising slow. His robe had fallen completely open. There was nothing patient about the way he looked at her now, his eyes low, heavy with hunger.

She walked back to him, climbed into his lap without a word.

Smoke gripped her hips instinctively. “That what you want, baby?”

She nodded, lips brushing his. “I want to ride it. Let me.”

He leaned back, voice deep. “Do your thing.”

Annie gripped him with one hand, guided him to her entrance, and eased down slowly. Her mouth parted in a breathless moan, and his hands tightened as she took every inch.

“Fuck,” he growled, head falling back.

Annie started to move, slow rolls of her hips that made her clit drag right across the base of his stomach. She kept her arms wrapped around him, her mouth near his ear, her moans soft and unfiltered, sweet and filthy all at once.

He licked his thumb, reached down between them, and pressed it to her clit. Her breath caught. The pace stuttered. She ground harder, then started bouncing. Her thighs slapping against his with every rise and fall.

“Daddy, shit! Yes–”

“Good girl,” he growled, rubbing tight circles on her clit while she fucked herself on his lap.

Smoke watched her, his jaw clenched, hands guiding her rhythm. He loved watching her take control; how she started slow, built the pressure, then began to bounce harder, deeper, faster.

Annie cried out, leaned in, wrapped her arms around his shoulders, her breath hot against his ear.

“I’m close again,” she whispered.

“Take it,” he said. “This yours.”

She came again, shuddering in his lap, tight, wet, clenching around him so hard it made him hiss through his teeth. The orgasm hit her sharp and sudden, a wave that made her body tremble and her cunt flutter around him. She slumped forward, clinging to him, eyes closed, mouth open.

“Too much?” he asked.

She shook her head. “Not done.”

Annie dropped to her knees between his legs, robe slipping completely off her shoulders. She dragged her tongue from the base of his cock to the tip, then sucked him in with purpose.

Smoke leaned his head back against the chair, one hand gripping the armrest, the other fisting her hair.

“You tryna finish me off like that?”

She didn’t answer, just went deeper. Spit gathered at the corners of her mouth, dripping down her chin, her eyes locked on his the whole time. She moaned around him, and the vibrations made his hips jerk.

He grunted, low and strained. “Don’t stop.”

She didn’t. And when he came, it was rough. His body tensing, a sharp groan ripping from his chest as he spilled across her tongue. Annie swallowed everything. Licked him clean. Then looked up at him like she knew exactly what she’d just done.

Smoke leaned forward, cupped her jaw, and kissed her slowly.

“Always mine,” he murmured.

She nodded, resting her head on his thigh, smiling against his skin.

“Always.”

-

The morning air was crisp and full of goodbye energy as everyone gathered at the driveway. Bags were being loaded, hugs exchanged, and the jet ski group chat began planning their next outing.

Annie stood near the car, clutching her travel bag, watching the others with a gentle smile. Smoke was right beside her, luggage at the ready. Mia and Kennedy were chatting with Smoke while Crystal and Stack talked quietly a few feet away.

An uneasy pause settled over the group.

Stack cleared his throat and walked over to Annie. “Can we talk?”

She nodded, slipping her arm out of Smoke's. “Sure.”

They stepped to the edge of the driveway, out of earshot.

“So, Annie,” Stack began, voice steady but low, “I wanted to say, I’m sorry. For everything. I never meant to hurt you like that.”

Annie closed her eyes, took a deep breath. “I forgive you.”

Stack’s relief was brief. “That means everything.”

She looked away, gaze distant. “But I…I regret us. I regret letting myself get tangled up for all those years. I wish I had never did that.” Her voice caught. She stopped.

Stack nodded slowly. Hurt flickered across his face. “I get it.”

They stood in silence for a beat, two people who once meant everything, now broken into something quiet.

Annie took a small step closer. “I hope you can forgive yourself, too.”

He offered her a sad smile. “I’ll try.”

They started to move back toward the others, but the moment was interrupted by a shout.

“Mia, stop!” Kennedy’s voice cracked across the yard.

Everyone’s heads snapped toward the porch just in time to see Mia, barefoot and furious, dragging Nina down the wooden front steps by her hair. Nina’s screams echoed, high-pitched and panicked, as she flailed in protest, trying and failing to get free.

“You trifling bitch!” Mia screamed, yanking harder. “Say one more slick thing about Annie! One more you bitch!”

Kennedy rushed down behind them, wrapping her arms around Mia from behind, trying to lift her off the ground. “Mia! Baby, let her go!”

But Mia was gone. She was pure adrenaline, rage, sharp and unforgiving. “This ho been running her mouth all weekend!”

Nina hit the bottom step hard, scrambling to sit up, clutching at her hair. “Get her away from me!”

Mia kicked off Kennedy’s grip just enough to spit, “Next time you speak on Annie, bitch, make sure you don’t have a wig I can rip off!”

Crystal was screaming, panicked, “Stack! Do something!”

But Stack just stood there staring, wide-eyed.

Smoke stood a few feet away, arms crossed, completely unfazed. He didn’t even blink. Annie stayed near the car, her hand on the door, eyes following everything but not moving to stop it. Because this wasn’t her fight. Mia had always been loud with her loyalty.

Kennedy finally got a solid grip and dragged Mia back toward the car.

“I’m good!” Mia yelled, yanking her arm from her wife’s hold. “Let me go. But I meant that shit!”

Kennedy opened the car door and physically pushed her inside. Mia stuck her head out the window before it closed and pointed directly at Annie.

“Call me, bitch. I got time.”

Then she disappeared into the car, and Kennedy peeled off seconds later, gravel spinning behind them.

The yard fell into stunned silence. Crystal was still breathing hard. Nina was crying, crumpled on the stairs. Stack looked like someone had just unplugged him from reality. Smoke calmly picked up the bags, walked around the back of the car, and loaded them into the trunk like it was any regular morning.

Annie didn’t say a word. Just walked to the passenger side. Smoke opened the door for her, kissed her shoulder, and helped her in like she was breakable.

Then he turned to Stack and said a simple, “Take care of her,” before closing the driver’s side door and starting the car. They pulled off without a second look. Because when it was over?

It was over.

-

-

-

Taglist: @stormynovashambler @coolfoodrunworld-blog @katezy2x @lizbehave @summrsovrinterlude @bigjh @tadjoa @puffmamaa

[absolutebl]

This is a BL Challenge for you (if you want to accept them) :

1.) Is there a BL that you finished even when :

a. You love the story but not really fond of the actors (maybe the acting or other reasons)?

b. You love the acting (the series as a whole) but not really fond with the story?

2.)

a. Is there a BL that you dislike at the beginning but when you finish them, it became one of your favorite?

b. What is your fav BL cover?

3.) Please write your top 3 or top 5 favorite tropes in BL.

From each trope, write at least 2 BL that you love.

4.) Who are your top 5 (or top 3) top & bottom from your favorite BL media, the top and bottom don't have to be from the same BL.

5.) What are you favorite BL from the 1990s and 2000s?

6.)

a. BL you finished that is just bizarre but you still enjoy them?

b. BL that have stayed with you (special for you) or influenced you (at least 5 titles)?

7.)

a. BL that you love only (mostly) because of the sexy scenes?

b. BL that is your guilty pleasure?

8.) Your fav non-canon BL ships from any media?

9.) Your top 5 or top 3 fav each for Green Flag BL couples & Red Flag BL couples.

10.)

a. What is your first BL that made you got into BL?

b. What BL that made you cry (happy or sad)?

Thanks if you want to answer all of the above! Feel free to answer how many that you want...

Also, thanks so much for your BL recs & reviews! 🤩😆

OMG this is so fun! Exactly what I wanted to do this morning (and not work). Challenge accepted!!! (I also added a few for s&g)

The BL Challenge Questions

1.) Is there a BL that you finished even when :

a. You love the story but not really fond of the actors (maybe the acting or other reasons)?

This is hard, very rarely does BL get me on story alone. It would likely be from Korea or Japan. Picks up an examines Life Love On the Line. Sets it back down gently. Maybe Blueming? Don't kill me stans, but Bump Up Business? Would I put some of the first season HIStory in here.?

Honestly? I'm super hard pressed to name a BL that got me on story alone.

b. You love the acting (the series as a whole) but are not fond of the story?

One instantly springs to mind for this, Eternal Yesterday. I knew what I was in for with that story from the start. We all did. But it is still horrible.

Also My Stand-In, The On1y One, and The Time of Fever. Oof.

I would put a number of second seasons into this category too like Minato 2, or To My Star 2. And quite a few of early BLs with missed or muddy endings like I Am Your King. All the true dark BLs and moody artshouse stuff have to be set aside, I think, because I knew what I was in for. Well, except The Effect and HIStory3: The BL That Shall Not Be Named. Never forget. Never forgive.

c. You're not fond of either just some kind of BL masochist?

Cupid's Last Wish and Ossan's Love in all iterations. (WHY did I do that to myself)

If I had a do over I would have dropped CLW. Now that I have a solid DNF policy in place (and there is so much BL airing I can be picky) there are quite a few BLs I wish I had simply never wasted time on in retrospect.

2.) Is there a BL that you dislike at the beginning but when you finished, it became one of your favorites?

Ooooh another easy one! Bad Buddy. It started as a trash watch and became a praise watch and it stuck that landing like nobody's business. I live blogged it, so you could all watch my CTJ moment in real time.

There are actually a few others in this category like My Beautiful Man, DNA Says Love You, even Love Sick but I wouldn't say I disliked them as much as I did BB at the start.

3.) What is your fav BL cover?

You mean OST? Oh good, another easy one (I have so few songs I like from BLs).

Eternal Yesterday's Sunshower by Ayumu Imazu

Ooo, now I'm listening to it. Yay!

4.) Top 5 favorite tropes in BL. For each trope, write at least 2 BLs that you love that represent it.

Whipping Boy - My Beautiful Man, My Personal Weatherman

Stepbrothers (or similar family taboo) - Unknown, Cherry Blossoms After Winter

Age Gap (specifically were the younger is the aggressor) - Minato's Laundromat, Old Fashion Cupcake

Student/teacher - Private Lesson, Love Class 2 (side couple)

Kink - KinnPorsche (side couple), The Next Prince (side couple) - neither of these are BLs I love, but I love these couples in them.

I know I have some other rare topes too, but I wanted to choose 5 obviously recognizable ones.

5.) Who are your top 5 top & bottom seme/uke from your favorite BLs, they don't have to be from the same BL.

I specifically tried to pick not from the same BL as a challenge.

a. Top 5 seme

Dean in Until We Meet Again

Solo in Oxygen

Shin in Minato's Laundromat

Togawa in Old Fashion Cupcake

Karan in Cherry Magic Thailand

Gotta say I eliminated a number of favorites because they were too toxic (my bad) and others because they did not come from a favorite BL. But most went to the wayside because they didn't fit the ideal of seme well enough. Bye bye Taiwan.

b. Top 5 uke

Taekyung in Light On Me

Sangwoo in Semantic Error

Kakeru in I Cannot Reach You (possibly my favorite of all time)

Amagi in Takara & Amagi

Won in Unintentional Love Story

Different reason for eliminating favorites with the uke. Blushing maidens and super tsunderes don't make my cut.

Gotta shout out My School President for satisfying both.

6.) What are you favorite old BLs?

a. From the 1990s

I would argue that BL as a genre (defined as such by watchers and critics) did not exist until after 2000. So instead here is a blog post on some 90s movies that, in retrospect, have certain QL leanings. Old Guard Queer Cinema for BL Lovers.

b. From the early 2000s

Seven Days

Another easy one. Always shows up somehow. Someday everyone on this hellsite will have watched this show and it will be primarily because of me.

And then I will disappear in a puff of smake and accomplishment.

But here are some early BLs you might not know about that I also enjoy.

7.) 5 BL you finished that is just bizarre but you still enjoy them?

The Sign

To Sir With Love

Secret Relationships

Pit Babe

Laws of Attraction

8.) 5 BLs that have stayed with you (special for you) or influenced you?

We Best Love

Dark Blue Kiss

Until We Meet Again

Seven Days

Old Fashion Cupcake

9.) BL that you love only (mostly) because of the sexy scenes?

This Love Doesn't Have Long Beans

The Sign

Deep Night

Love in the Air (sigh)

Jack & Joker

10 more here from 2023 and prior. My Stubborn might get into this category too.

10.) BL that is your guilty pleasure?

2 Moons Ambassador probably. But I don't really feel guilty about BL. Here are some of my all time favorite Trash Watches,

11.) Your fav non-canon BL ships from any media?

I try not to ship unless strictly called for so, Devil Judge probably.

12.) Your top 5 fav each:

a. Green Flag BL couples

ThamePo

WandeeGoodday

Monster Next Door

My Ride

Your Sky

Just to name a few. I have MORE. 2024 was very good to us.

b. Red Flag BL couples.

My Personal Weatherman

Our Youth

The Time of Fever

the stepbrothers in HIStory 4 (I KNOW)

far too much MAME

13.) BL that got you into BL?

Until We Meet Again

I had seen some before it from Japan (Takumi etc..) but I thought of them as a rare one offs (not a genre). Which they kind of were. I think it took Thailand really entering the field to drag my arse in whole hog.

Honestly, my memory from 2019 Bl is so Hazy it might have been Love By Chance instead. But UWMA is my origin story and I am sticking to it.

This is one reason I advise, if you keep a spreadsheet, to have a column for "date you watched" as well as "date it aired."

But I didn't even have a spreadsheet back then. Early days...

14.) BL that made you cry (happy or sad)?

A hard one, since it isn't charted on the Spreadsheet of Doom. And I cry A LOT. I'll just pick 10 recent ones:

Unknown

Love For Love's Sake

Let Free the Curse of Taekwondo

When it Rains it Pours

See Your Love

Our Youth

Secrets Happened on the Litchi Island

Caged Again

Heesu in Class 2

The Time of Fever 

(source)

[torusangel]

hate the sin love the sinner | Choso Kamo

Description: for all of Choso’s life he had believed in a higher being that could save him. As the older brother of 3 brothers orphaned at the church, he always had faith that it was god who saved them and brought them to safety after being alone on the streets. Dutiful to a fault, he would never dare to cross a line of the holy scripture he was taught. That was until a storied family came back to their peaceful community. A minister had moved back with his family and his daughter seemed like a gift from god himself. Beautiful, faithful, kind, and a fellow student of the father. How could he have known she’d be a hurricane set on breaking him completely.

Warnings: 18+, smut, religious themes, just slightly non-con, sub! choso x dom! reader, virgin! choso

A/N: I’ve wanted to write something about religion and corruption for awhile and finally got the motivation to do it. Originally I thought of this with Gojo but when I really thought about it, Choso definitely seemed like the better fit. This is not meant to belittle or demean anyone’s faith, just an idea based in fantasy and kink that I think is pretty hot. Also it’s been a hot minute since I’ve posted! It’s so hard for me to actually finish writing something. I come up with the idea and start it but can never seem to find the end so I’m very happy with this. High chance I’ll make another part just because it was so enjoyable to write but I make no promises haha. Enjoy!

It was a busy day at the church with everyone eagerly preparing for the famed minister of the towns arrival. He was famous for his unwavering devotion to the lord and the help he brought to rebuild communities. Finally after his long mission across the country to help those in need, he was returning home with his family to fulfill his position once more. Choso had never met him before as he had only joined after he took his family to spread god’s power to others but he heard many stories of his heroics. How many people he saved with the word of Christ.

Choso diligently helped the older ladies carry the food they brought inside and made sure to clean every spec of dust in the chapel. Most importantly he made sure to drill it into his younger brothers heads that they had to be on their best behavior. Although good kids, they were getting to be the age where mischief was starting to run rampant and Choso could not let their first impression be that they were tricksters or heathens. He made sure to emphasize how important this was for all of them, and though they had pouty expressions, they agreed for the sake of their big bro.

“They’re here!” one of the younger ladies eagerly exclaimed, poking her head in briefly before scurrying off to tell the others.

After quickly giving his brothers one last warning, Choso too, made his was hastily to the front courtyard to welcome the family he’d heard so much about.

He immediately spotted one of the higher ranking priests shaking hands with a very polished looking man. Next to him stood who seemed to be his wife but his eyes were instantly drawn to the young woman who stood behind them. She smiled radiantly in a pretty floral dress that flowed in the calm breeze in sync with her hair. Choso was so enamored that he barely comprehended when your head turned to lock eyes with him. Gorgeous and bright, he felt himself slipping further away into your trance. He almost fell over when he saw the sweet little smile you aimed his way.

‘An angel’ he thought. A beautiful perfect angel who had come to bless him with their presence. Thoughts of how he could court you swirled through his head. Bring you freshly picked flowers for any occasion, politely open each door and take your hand for every stair. Would you look at him like that again? Could he make your cheeks flush? Would your father except him as good enough for his precious daughter?

He was so caught up in his daydreaming that he could barely remember how you ended up on top of him in a basement closet of the church.

This couldn’t be right.

He had to still be in his fantasies because how could it be that you, the shining beauty of his dreams was looking at him with such sultry eyes. How could it be that the ministers exemplary daughter had her dress hiked up to her hips while sitting on his stomach? How could it be that such a perfect angel looked like the embodied of lust.

That was right. Choso started to faintly remember the priest picking him out from the crowd to introduce him. Telling your father of how he was a wonderful student of the lord, completely dedicated and humble to boot. He remembered how your father had earnestly asked him to show you around after all the years you’d been gone. That it wasn’t often you got to interact with other people your age and that it’d be lovely if you could be friends. The angelic soft laugh you gave just to him as he lead you to the basement, mostly used for storage.

Ah yes. The reason he found himself in this position was when you opened the closet like you had never even forgotten the layout and pulled him in along with you.

Before he knew it your hands were cupping his face. Your head was dipping down closer to him and your breath was hot against his skin, “so pretty boy, tell me what you want.” oh heavens above. Every movement was leading him further and further into a depth he would not be able to repent from.

“P-please…. this isn’t right. We’re in the home of the lord, we- we aren’t even married!” careful not to touch you, Choso’s hand flew up to block his face from yours. You were a ministers daughter, there’s no way you wouldn’t know the debauchery you were partaking in right now. Which could only mean you were doing it purposefully, knowingly.

This time, your laugh hit him like a slap in the face. Not the same light and airy giggle from earlier, no. This was much more dark, “do you really think that old book dictates the laws of good and evil?” it couldn’t be, “Choso, was it? I imagine since you’ve never experienced a different path in your whole life you can’t begin to imagine a world where god doesn’t infiltrate your judgement,” his mind was spinning, how could you say such things with such a beautiful mouth?

The worst part was that he couldn’t move. No, that he didn’t want to move. Not when your hands unbuttoned his shirt with a practiced touch, not when your glossy lips kissed his neck, and not when your fingers grazed over his chest just for you to pinch one of his nipples. The forbidden fruit of desire was corrupting him faster than he could react, thoughts swirling so rapidly that he could barely think. Choso wasn’t strong enough to deny you, and his body yearned for your attention.

Too pretty. Too perfect. Too beautiful.

With every tweak, every kiss, his conviction slipped even further from his grasp. He could feel himself aching down there, one all too familiar to him. The same one he’d try his best to just pray away in the mornings and sometimes late at night. A sinful part of him he desperately wanted to ignore, “poor thing. I can feel you rock hard underneath me,” you spoke in a feigned pity. In a tone that reminded him of how mothers tend to their children’s needs, “I can help you. You’ll feel so good I promise.”

God, did he believe you. The way you’d touched him so far set his skin ablaze. Made him pine for more while part of his subconscious was still trying to reject you, “please oh please~” the words came out before he could process them, he barely registered that it was his voice. Never had he spoken so whiny and wantonly.

So you did. You made swift work of his belt and pulled his slacks down to just about his mid thigh. There lied the evidence of his transgressions. The spot on his black briefs that was dampening even more the closer your got. ‘So cute’ was the first thing that came to mind. You had no doubt that Choso was a virgin but seeing how desperately his adorable little cock wanted to be touched made you want to taint him even more.

“Tell me if it’s too much.”

That was the only warning he got before your hands were freeing him from his confinement and your mouth was sloppily spitting on his dick. With a flick of your wrist he was coming undone.

If this was so wrong why did he feel like he was ascending to heaven?

‘Lord save me save me save me’ A rush of pleasure he never knew was possible came flooding through him. All he could do was cry your name and squeeze his eyes shut as wave after wave of unholy satisfaction wracked his body. He opened his eyes still in a daze of rapture and depravity. With his senses slowly coming back, he finally found the strength to push himself up to sit but he was instantly greeted with a horrific sight of his own creation.

You smiled sweetly at him once more but his semen had defiled your face,”Please forgive me, I’m so sorry I’m so sorry I’m so-“ with a light press of your index finger to his lips, you stopped his rambling; with the other you collected his cum from your face and stuck out your tongue to make Choso watch you lick it clean.

It was worth it to see his reaction. Flushed red, his hair sticking to his face, and eyes completely glossed over. Not to mention the wrecked state his body was left in. He was still shaking, probably from the shock to his system after such an intense orgasm.

“What a good boy~ shh shh I’ll help you.” and help you did. After grabbing your purse that you had carelessly thrown and finding the small pack of tissues tucked in the side, you gently wiped him down. Not only that, using your mini brush you fixed his hair back into the neat fluffy buns on each side of his head. Choso didn’t talk during the whole ordeal. His mind was elsewhere thinking of the divine punishment that awaited him.

By what means did he have to even be here anymore? After the sacrilegious acts he’d just partaken in he couldn’t think of how he would face anyone knowing what he committed in a place of the lord. He didn’t know how to process it all. The feelings that bubbled up inside finally burst as he broke out into tears, “I’m so terrible,” he sobbed out trying to stifle his cries, “god will never forgive me.”

Immediately you jump into action. Pull him into your chest and gingerly stroke the back of his head, let his tears stain your dress as he tried not to get any snot on you, “breathe, it’s okay. You’re okay. You have nothing to apologize for.” your words are so tender and caring that Choso almost believes you. Almost forgets all the verses that tell him just how much of a degenerate he was. Almost. Still, he just couldn’t rid himself of the guilt he felt. Remorseful for his actions— but even more so because he didn’t regret it.

He was just so helpless against the melodic ring of your voice. The way your hands felt against his skin, leaving him eager for more. You just made him feel so euphoric, never had he felt like he was seeing the gates of heaven when he’d sunk so deep into the pits of hell. There was something about you that he couldn’t deny. Even if a tiny voice in his head was telling him you were big trouble, a sinner, he was incapable of being truly upset with you.

So you sat there with him until his breath steadied. When you tried to pull away though, his arms pulled you back in. He just wanted to listen to the rhythmic beat of your heart a little more. Take in your scent for a little longer. How was it that the source of his grievances also gave him so much solace?

Why did you have to be so compassionate towards him?

[sleepybunnysnail]

So we actually have to backtrack a bit before I can teach you about what happened in the eyes and ears au. mostly because I am a stupid little guy who didn't remember the events after the endfight that well in our last lesson.

After the end fight the players are introduced to the listeners, creatures similar to the watchers although just like with the watchers their origin is unknown. The players learn that the watchers were evil and the listeners aid the players in escaping evo.

Now back to the life series, were Martyn, the dramatic little guy that he his, decided to add a little flair to his personal pov.

The first time something happens is in Martyns third life finale, right after he dies. Make sure you write this down because you will need it for the test. You see Third life Martyn falling in front of a black screen. A strange dramatic almost western narration over it. Then it cuts away and we hear an ominous voice talking in rhymes. They are not happy and they shout the iconic phrase of "Our will be DONE!" That is a term that will appear on the test so make ure to remember it.

Over the course of last life this same mysterious voice can be heard multiple times, accompanied by a glitching or completely blacked out screen. The ominous voice even talks to Martyn directly, promising a good ending for him and his friends. In the last episode there's a long conversation between Martyn and the voice. The voice doesn't keep his promise. delivering the iconic line of: "We had a taste before. Back in the winter. IT WASN'T ENOUGH!" We also learn that The voice isn't happy with Scott. Mostly beccause he refused the boogeyman curse, choosing to become red instead, and now he'd become the winner. The voice also says the following about Grian. "He was never meant to be here. He was only ever meant to watch." The first obvious reference to the watchers that is made. The voice also says Martyn is "more of a listener".

In double life there is not a single reference to any watcher stuff, so we're skipping to limited life, which is consequently the end of the eyes and ears au. The season Martyn won. All the watcher stuff happens in the final episode so keep that in mind here. My theory is that Martyn wasn't planning on doing more watcher stuff until he knew that he had won. There is also a reference to the canary curse in here with the line "Canary call, the first to fall." But I'm not sure if the canary curse idea originally came from Martyn or that Martyn had seen it in the fandom.

Then finally we get the first mention of the listeners. "There are those who watch, we are those who listen." I can't say with certainty if this is the same ominous voice we've heard the whole time or if this one is different, but i digress. The scene we see here mirrors the one we saw in the third life finale, although this time it's limited life falling in a void. The listener talks about shards of a soul, on Martyns body we see three fragmented rune like markings, probably one for each previous season. The listener gives him back a fragment of his soul. This is where the Eyes and Ears AU ends.

So, what is happening here? I'm glad you asked that question but next time please raise your hand before shouting stuff across the classroom. After evo the watchers wanted to punish those who escaped, putting a few of them in the life series death game while others presumably got their punishment in another way. The players that come from evo are Martyn, Jimmy, Pearl and Bigb. You might be thinking I'm missing someone but I'll get to Grian later.

Watchers feed on emotions. This is why they were doing everything back in evo and this is also why they started the life series, next to the fact that they wanted to punish the players for escaping. Grian wasn't supposed to participate but he wanted to help the rest. He tries to keep everything lighthearted no matter what happens, tries to keep a smile on everyones faces so that the watchers don't have anything to feast on.

Every life series the players lose a fragment of their soul, a mental toll that this experience causes them. On top of that their emotions are wiped, or more accurately absorbed, meaning they'd still have memories from previous seasons but they won't have any lingering anger from it. There are a few exeptions to this with for exemple Pearl still being mad at Martyn for killing Tilly but in these cases the emotions were so strong that the watchers couldn't get rid of them.

The listeners are primarily just against the watchers, just like they were in evo, leading them to helping Martyn.

Lastly a small fun fact is that Martyn actually came up with an explanation for why Pearl and Cleo couldn't be there for one session. Pearl was still to emotionally unstable, and so was cleo due to ranking way higher then she ussually does in the previous season, so the listeners switched in Gem and Lizzie to give Pearl and Cleo's soul a break.

Anyways, that's all I have time for in this lesson. I will see you in the next class which will be the last of this semester. If you have any questions make sure to email me and don't forget to practice both the material we handled today and everything you've already learnt.

can someone really not normal about hermitcraft infodump to me what the fuck is going on with the watcher lore please . Please . I literally don't know anything about it where am i

[scionshtola]

a bit of sugar

pairing: Corisande Ymir/Y'shtola Rhul word count: 1.5k | rated: G | read on ao3 summary: A date with Corisande at the county fair has Y'shtola reconsidering what she really wants out of their time together. notes: another fic in the rodeo au verse, where Y'shtola is a geologist come to survey the land of the ranch that Cori works on. written for Wolshtola Week Day 4 - Date Night! [divider credit]

Just inside the entrance to the county fair, Y'shtola waited for Corisande in the shade of a large tree. A cool breeze blew gently through the fairgrounds, fluttering her skirt about her knees. The grounds were bigger than she had expected, and far more crowded, too, so used had she grown to the small town establishments she now frequented.

A steady stream of people bustled through the entrance, many of whom beelined for the same line Corisande now stood in. They were at the front of the queue now, and as tall as they were, Y'shtola could just see them from here—their pink tipped ears, the burgundy curls that streamed down their back, head and shoulders above most of the others in line. A tiny flutter started somewhere in her stomach, a feeling that, to her continual chagrin, she could no longer describe as unfamiliar.

She tried not to think anything of it. It was only a trip to the fair, after all—a date, Corisande had called it, when they had asked if she wanted to come. Seeing as she already spent most of her time—personal and professional—with Corisande, it didn't seem anything to get worked up about. But even that logic did not stop the warmth that spread through her chest as they approached, smiling brightly as they brandished neon pink wristbands in one hand.

"Unlimited rides," Corisande said, and reached for Y'shtola's hand. They wrapped the band carefully around her wrist, their fingers brushing warmly against her skin as they smoothed the adhesive into place, and the fluttering in Y'shtola's stomach started up again with the thrill of their touch. She felt vaguely ridiculous, like a schoolgirl with a silly crush rather than a grown woman who had, more than once, done far more than brush fingers with Corisande.

Corisande handed over the remaining wristband. "It almost matches your hair," Y'shtola teased, tugging on a pink curl that fell in front of Corisande's shoulder, warming when she laughed. When Y'shtola was done settling the wristband into place, Corisande twisted her wrist and laced her fingers easily with Y'shtola's. There was so much affection in her gaze that it took some effort for Y'shtola to turn away and study the fairgrounds beyond her. "Where do we start?"

"I recommend saving the food for after the Tilt-a-Whirl. But—" Corisande gestured at a nearby booth. Several teens sat on stools, shooting water into the open mouths of laughing clowns, bright balloons inflating above their heads. "—If you would like a giant stuffed bear to carry around all night, we can start with the games."

"You're certainly confident," Y'shtola teased, laughing when Corisande replied, with a shrug, "I have good aim."

Quite the understatement, considering Y'shtola had seen their performance at the rodeo, where they had hit their target with the loop of their rope with ease each time. She leaned into Corisande and said, "Tilt-a-Whirl it is, then. But I expect to eat far too much fried food before the night is over, and to bring home at least one unreasonably sized plush animal."

"Don't worry," Corisande replied, leaning down to kiss her. They squeezed her hand as they started guiding them both toward the rides. "I'd never let you leave the fair without at least one fried Oreo for the ride home."

The afternoon passed by in a whirlwind as Corisande tugged her between rides, starting with the Tilt-a-Whirl, as promised, before moving on to others—the Cliffhanger and the Downdraft and the Skyscreamer, side by side, bumping shoulders while they soared through the air. Corisande's cheers carried through the air as they spun and fell, and Y'shtola, heart racing and stomach dropping as the Mega Drop carried them fast toward the ground, lifted her voice to match, laughing and yelling alongside her.

Y'shtola found herself a little amazed—and perhaps a little enamored, when she let herself give in to the sentiment—by the way Corisande was so free with their affection in public. They held her hand as they walked between rides, fingers laced; they shifted their arm around her shoulders when they stood in line, pressed her to their side, dipped down to kiss her seemingly whenever they had the urge. It was easy for Y'shtola to press back into their touch, to lean into the long line of their body, to rise on her toes to meet their kiss. Y'shtola marveled at every touch, delighted in each kiss Corisande pressed to the back of her hand, at how intuitively it came to her to kiss the curve of their shoulder in return.

They found a table as the sun set, orange sky giving way to the faded blue of dusk, two bottles of Coke and a large basket of fries between them. Y'shtola smoothed her dress under her thighs before she sat in the plastic chair, and Corisande tangled their long legs, bare below the hem of their denim skirt, with hers beneath the table. Every so often their fingers brushed as they reached for the basket of fries at the same time, and Y'shtola's cheeks would warm at the sweet curve of Corisande's smile across the table.

They moved on to other attractions after, bumper cars and the carousel, laughing at themselves in the mirrors of The Funhouse and kissing in the dark corners where they were sure no one was behind them. A surprising amount of carnival games involved aiming—tossing basketballs into a basket and rings onto a bottle, knocking over pins with a softball—and by the time they made it to the booth Corisande had first pointed out, with the water guns and the laughing clowns, they had already accumulated a myriad of plush animals: a small monkey that now swung from Y'shtola's purse, velcro hands clasped around the strap; a fanged cat with wings and a cape; and a large stuffed paissa wearing a white chef's hat.

"Please," Y'shtola said plaintively, when Corisande proved herself exceptionally good with the water gun. "We can't carry around any more of these creatures."

Corisande studied the wall of prizes, humming with consideration. After a moment, she lifted something delicately from the wall, and turned back to Y'shtola. In the palm of her hand laid a bracelet made of large white beads, the size and shape of plastic pearls. A small, heart-shaped charm dangled from between the beads.

"May I?" Corisande asked, gesturing to Y'shtola's arm. Y'shtola obliged, heart skipping as Corisande lifted her arm, cradling her wrist gently as she slipped the bracelet over her hand. Beneath the flashing lights of the games, the white beads were almost pearlescent. It was silly, only a plastic piece of children's costume jewelry, but when Y'shtola looked up into Corisande's fond gaze, she felt the way she had on the Mega Drop, her stomach dropping and her heart racing with the thrill of the fall.

"It matches your hair," Corisande teased, taking the ends of Y'shtola's hair between her fingers just as Y'shtola had done to her earlier, and Y'shtola rose to kiss her.

Their lips were warm and inviting against hers, sweet from the powdered sugar of the funnel cake they'd shared. She kissed her and kissed her, fingers curling in the belt loops of Corisande's skirt, until the teenager who ran the booth clapped his hands and said, briskly, "Okay! Who's up next?"

"There's one more thing I want to do," Corisande said, when they pulled apart, laughing, noses bumping. Y'shtola swept her thumb across Corisande's cheek and was rewarded with a warm smile before Corisande straightened. She slung her arm over Y'shtola's shoulder as they walked, and Y'shtola, still warm with affection, leaned into her and slipped her hand into the back pocket of Corisande's skirt.

The line for the Ferris Wheel was short when they reached it, and it wasn't long before Corisande was helping Y'shtola into the carriage. It was fully evening now, and as they rose above the fairgrounds, night stretched dark across the countryside in all directions. But even with the lights blazing below them, the stars were bright and beautifully visible above them. It reminded her of that first evening she had spent with Corisande, dancing beneath the stars outside her motel room, music floating out of the windows of Corisande's pickup truck. And that second evening, too, kissing for the first time under the night sky, wrapped up warmly in each other's arms.

Is this how it would always be, here with Corisande? The two of them, side by side under a brilliant night sky. Hands in each other's pockets, leaning into touches, kissing sugar off each other's lips. Sharing silly gifts and fries and dances and warm, sweet smiles. Is that what she wanted—until the job was complete, of course, however many weeks or months that might be—so long as it was Corisande next to her?

Y'shtola looked at Corisande, who had her head tilted back as she gazed up at the stars. A small smile played at the corners of Corisande's heart-shaped mouth, growing when she turned to face Y'shtola and saw her already looking back. Y'shtola's heart raced as their gazes met, as if they were soaring through the air on one of the roller coasters rather than spinning slowly on the Ferris Wheel. When Y'shtola leaned in to kiss them, they met her mouth sweetly, and the last of her uncertainty was brushed away with gentle fingers on the back of her neck, twining into the ends of her hair.

[sodaneko]

he's just like me

[yourinsomnea]

Sometimes I like to ramble about my own writing, so you get this scattered analysis of Apostasy’s Epilogue: why I used certain lines, references & callbacks to other scenes from the main story, imagery & themes, a study of the sexualities of various AFTG characters & their differences.

1) Hands! The imagery of the hands as it pertains to each one of the characters in this epilogue. Andrew’s hands during the talk with Neil at the bar:

“Andrew couldn't meet his eyes. He watched his own hands gripping the whiskey glass—rough and useless.”

This line is meant to highlight Andrew’s guilt when it comes to his involvement with Neil and the harm he thinks he might have inadvertently brought to him. The way Andrew couldn’t help Neil, couldn’t save him, until it was almost too late. Hence, why he sees his hands as “rough & useless.” Neil doesn’t blame him for anything, but that isn’t how guilt works anyway, right?

I bring the imagery of the hands back in Andrew’s apartment when Neil punches the wall out of frustration:

“Andrew took his arm—the one with the bleeding knuckles—and laid it across his palm, watching the fingers flex, the specks of blood welling and retreating.”

Neil’s knuckles bleeding is the physical manifestation of his lingering trauma, and Andrew wanting to cradle them is his way of wanting to help—of wanting to be there for Neil’s healing journey.

Then, in the final scene with Jean's POV, the imagery of the hands comes back one last time:

"[Jean] looked down at his hands—perpetually smudged now with oil and grease from the shop—lifelines stained with a future he still didn’t believe he was allowed to have."

This one is pretty straightforward—just a tidbit revealing that Jean works as a mechanic at a shop, that he's building his life up, but that it's still difficult some days. That it takes courage to rise each day and convince himself that he deserves this life.

2) The line:

"The cigarette slipped from Andrew’s fingers as their arms found each other—grew into an embrace. It was the only thing Andrew wanted. The only thing he needed. Be real, Andrew’s hand pleaded, tracing the length of Neil’s back, up and down."

This is obviously a callback to canon, and the ending line of TKM ("This was everything he wanted, everything he needed, and Neil was never letting go.") But Andrew pleading with the fates for Neil to be real is a reference to Apostasy's recurring theme as well—I laid the foundation of it pretty early on, in Chapter 2, when Andrew counts Neil down to give him a chance to back out of their intimacy before it changes them irrevocably:

"[Andrew] lifted Neil’s wrist, pressing his thumb into the quickened pulse, grounding himself in the rhythm of it. Reassuring himself that the man beneath him was real. That this wasn’t a mistake."

The theme of Neil's "unrealness" is further explored in later chapters—Andrew knows he is going to lose Neil and can’t do anything about it. In Chapter 9, Andrew says,

"Neil was a mirage, something Andrew refused to let himself hold on to—but still tried to," and then, "It was real. It was unreal. It was never meant to be."

When Neil and Andrew are finally reunited, Andrew can't help but question the realness of him:

"Andrew’s hands itched to reach out. But he was still angry. Still heartbreakingly furious. His heart swam in the wreckage of it, even as the cause of it stood within reach. Real or unreal? It didn’t matter. Time would not tell, because they didn’t have a lot of it."

This also, I think, ties in nicely with the idea of Andrew viewing Neil as a hallucination in canon. Ultimately, at its core, it's just Andrew seeing Neil as too good to be true—and being scared of allowing himself to have this good thing—because deep down he knows that it's not nothing, that it's too important and vital, and that it has the power to destroy him. It's definitely a theme that I love seeing explored in different variations of Andreil fics.

3) And this line:

"Neil murmured kisses against his skin, repeating gently, 'Slow, slow,' his hand slipping along the tantalizing line between Andrew’s tank top and the band of his underwear. Teasing. Dipping. Pulling away. 'I’ll be so slow. So good,' Neil whispered. 'Let me suck your dick.'"

First, it’s just a horny callback to a scene in Chapter 4 when Neil gives Andrew a blowjob in the car, and it culminates with:

"The confession did nothing to stall Andrew’s orgasm. He groaned, fingers fisting in Neil’s hair as he pushed his head down. 'Be good and swallow.'"

I’m low-key obsessed with the line “be good” in the context of Neil & Andrew’s relationship—because it’s gentle, but layered with kinkiness, the inherent command to submit, the subtle reference to Neil’s inability to be good, to behave. "Be good & shut your mouth," "be good & swallow," etc—the possibilities are endless!

So in this scene in the epilogue, Neil promises to be good and go slow with Andrew, the way Andrew wants their relationship to proceed out of consideration for all of Neil’s trauma. And there is tension in it too—because neither of them knows how to go slow, how to temper their obsession for each other. They both possess a wild and violent streak, despite Andrew's indifferent facade that he likes to project unto the world, and it's only inevitable that this volatile nature will have them committing mistakes on their journey to intimacy. (It’s okay though! They can get through it together & learn.)

4) Jean. Oh Jean. He probably deserves his own essay. He broke my heart through the entirety of writing Apostasy (the scene when Jean has to say goodbye to Neil,

"Jean kissed him deeply, whispering, Je t’aime over and over, his voice trembling with what he was saying—and maybe even more with what he wasn’t."

It wasn’t easy to come back to him in this epilogue without shattering it all over again. I find the idea of Jean being in love with Neil—unrequited or otherwise—so fascinating, because of how close it is to canon in terms of the sheer capacity Jean possesses for love.

I wrote Jean as bisexual and biromantic in Apostasy—which is, again, pretty close to canon—but I also made him polyamorous. He’s in love with Neil, but he’s attracted to Andrew, and he could learn to love him with the same fierceness he does Neil (same thing applies to Kevin).

Jean (in Apostasy) would be happy in a monogamous relationship with Neil, but he would also be happy in a polycule that involves any combination of Neil/Andrew/Kevin (and Jeremy, of course, though Jeremy does not appear in Apostasy). Which brings me to my next point:

5) The differences in sexualities of our main cast. Apostasy easily could have been a Jean/Andrew/Neil story we all deserve, but the problem, of course, lies with Neil, who—despite having a strong platonic connection with Jean—is deeply monogamous and is in love with Andrew, to the point where it drives him insane that Andrew’s attitude about sex is so casual.

My take on Andrew in Apostasy might differ from canon (for one, he’s a lot more morally grey in my story), but I tried to capture some of the A-spec qualities of him that we do get hints of in the books. I think Andrew is more aromantic than he is romantic—but his connection with Neil pushes him to commit, and move closer on the spectrum toward Neil. The same way Neil’s sexuality can be interpreted as demi, and the way his connection with Andrew pushes him closer to Andrew on the sexuality spectrum.

They meet each other perfectly in the middle (romantically & sexually), and it’s the reason why they work so well—both in canon, but significantly in Apostasy as well, where Andrew makes a conscious decision not to hurt Neil and commit to him monogamously.

Andrew doesn’t mind sex with other people—though he enjoys it the most with Neil, and is self-aware enough to realize why:

"Andrew wasn’t blind, wasn’t resisting the truth—he understood that there was no way to slot into someone so seamlessly, to flow into another person, to fill the hollow spaces that had once been empty or murky with neglect, to become so suffused with heat that it set them alight, and then walk away unchanged. To not come away needing it.

At its purest level, maybe it was just desire. A chemical reaction, as primordial as the exchange of oxygen, as natural as photosynthesis under a burning star, as electric as neurons firing in their brains, as violent as atoms colliding.

Yes, that was it, the violence, the force of it—the sheer, unstoppable impact.

It had to mean something.

Because if it didn’t, then nothing meant anything at all."

Chemistry & sexual attraction of this magnitude doesn’t arise in a vacuum—and Andrew recognizes that there is something more beyond it. Their connection holds the key to this unfathomable desire, even if he can’t fully grasp it because he’s somewhere on the ARO spectrum. But he knows enough to hold on to it.

And that’s enough for Neil. Enough for both of them.

"The cigarette slipped from Andrew’s fingers as their arms found each other—grew into an embrace. It was the only thing Andrew wanted. The only thing he needed. Be real, Andrew’s hand pleaded, tracing the length of Neil’s back, up and down."

I finally added an epilogue to Apostasy <3

It was fun to revisit this universe and make some edits to the original story along the way.

(now I need to do the same with the dating show au!)

[kithj]

recently i've been making an effort to go through and play a lot of the games that have been languishing in my steam library (for many years, at this point...) here are my brief thoughts on a few so far:

gone home - this was constantly recommended on my old post about haunted house games. i actually bought this back around when it was first published, 2015/2016. and i think if i had played it at that time, it would have really hit for me. i've discussed birdland here previously and 2015 is around the time i played that game, too (probably my first exposure to interactive text games) and it had a profound impact on me as a younger lesbian who hadn't quite come to terms with my identity yet. all that to say, i recommend this if you're looking for a short, atmospheric experience (i played with headphones and definitely got creeped out a few times) but prepare for a bit of a dated narrative. some of the art was done by E.M. Carroll, a name you might recognize from their viral comics.

TACOMA - this game came out back in 2017, and it's another walking sim similar to gone home and from the same developers, though it has a bit more interaction, namely a mechanic where you "reconstruct" scenes and play through them to extract data. but this one definitely felt dated. not entirely, to be fair, some parts did still feel evergreen, specifically around the discussion of AI and human labor rights... but TACOMA chooses to focus more on "AI rights" in the end, which feels a little silly in this day and age, and in general it's a sci-fi game, so it's a bit more fantastical than what we're seeing now in real time. also there was a magazine i found that had an article referring to "president musk of south africa" which induced a full body cringe from me. E.M. Carroll appears here again and is credited with the character concepts, i really enjoyed their designs of the crew & the crew themselves as we slowly learned more about them and their relationships while moving through the station. it's a little longer than gone home but still pretty short, and i did enjoy it, so i recommend it if you can get over the dated AI depiction. i really liked the reconstruction mechanic, and following the "ghosts" around the station. (if you can't tell, i enjoy games where i get to be nosy and go through people's stuff)

Milk outside a bag of milk outside a bag of milk - so i made the mistake of playing this without realizing it was the sequel rather than the first... i don't think it impacted too much but i would probably recommend to play it in order, so play Milk inside a bag of milk inside a bag of milk first (unfortunately i don't have this one myself). i find this game kinda hard to review, but i really liked the way the player served as the mc's internal voice, and how the game & its mechanics are utilized and contextualized within the narrative as a way for us, "The Voice," to make choices for her, if that makes sense (there's some fourth wall breaking too, which is always fun; she refers to herself as a VN character at one point). i liked all of this, the art and the writing & the animations, though all in all i'm not quite sure how much of it i fully understood, and this could also be because i played it out of order (or it could just be abstract on purpose). i did also only playthrough once, but i believe there are a lot of possible variations, and it takes a lot of trial and error to see everything. i tried my best to be kind to her and help her out :( however i did like how there wasn't always a "nice" option, just like a real internal voice would work; you aren't always kind to yourself even when you should be...

the next few i hope to get through are Mundaun, Saint Maker, and Sub-Verge :3

[forcedhesitation]

*wheeze* slowly, but surely, working on art of them all

[wallissa]

did I ever talk about the fact that I wrote a fic where Homelander has a wet dream about Starlight and Soldier Boy*. What an intense ride. Really fun stuff though.

*he's there for moral support. With his shield and everything. top notch stuff I have to say.

[naamahdarling]

Horses. All animals but especially horses.

“Be curious about what you’re writing about” is not stock Common Writing Advice but it really, really should be. There are a lot of written works that fail due to the authors just being obviously incurious about what they are writing about.

[yzzart]

⋆˙⟡ BOYFRIEND!DANTE ── HEADCANONS!

── content warnings: F!reader, mention of anime, Dante being needy, fluff, cute and light content and part two is here!

── word count: 653!

⭑.ᐟ Dante is always, ALWAYS, in contact with you and it doesn't matter where or when. — This is not an exaggeration, or a complaint, never. — Whether through physical touches or messages, SMS, — that man only uses his damn cell phone because of you and even though it's risky — he never lets you keep in contact.

“thinking about you right now ;)” “Dante, you only left about 5 minutes ago…?” “painful, isn’t it? do you believe i have an amazing joke ready? i need to tell you when i get back.”

⭑.ᐟ The demon hunter loves to snuggle up to you, to cling to you; being unable, and in his words, impossible, not to be close to you. — Well, that's his biggest weakness. — Dante always kept his hands around you, usually on your waist and caressing the region. — Like holding your hand, caressing your face and massaging your thigh.

⭑.ᐟ He loves receiving your attention, especially when he is between your boobs and receiving caresses, which make him fall asleep instantly. — you know this very well — However, there was one night, after a long and unbearable killing against beings from the underworld, Dante ended up falling asleep during one of the night conversations, which was your routine, and ended up drooling on your shirt.

⤷ The scene was…naive, also pitiful; your boyfriend was tired, he needed rest more than anything else. — And you, wanting to make him comfortable and pleasant, tried to get out of the position, which was to be underneath him, but an extremely sleepy and heavy Dante prevented your action and mumbled inaudible words — asking you to stay there, with him — and even without understanding, you obeyed.

⭑.ᐟ DDR — DanceDance Revolucion nights? This has become a routine worthy of you and Dante. — Every night, no matter what time it is, and even knowing that you have things to do the next day, this gentle game becomes a competition; Dante, without even caring who is in front, doesn't miss the chance to have fun with his girl.

"Come on, ma'am! Make me impressed, go, go!" + “It was with that swagger that you won me over, right, you smart little girl?” + “I can’t believe you beat me at my own game?”

“Shut your pretty mouth, big boy.”

⭑.ᐟ You are the only person, the only thing that can breathe, that can touch or question his necklace. — There is no discussion about that. — Dante trusts you, until his last breath, even though he has reason to distrust everyone and everything, he would never leave or abandon his loyalty and trust in you. — Out of fear, and respect and common sense, you don't dare to touch it on some occasions and Dante realizes this, he finds it funny, cute, pure; feeling loved and so cared for by you.

⤷ “There’s not a day, not a single day, that the memory of the day she gave me that necklace doesn’t cross my mind.” — Dante mentioned his mother, able to feel a small and unbearable burning in his eyes; he sighed, arranged you in his lap, directing a compassionate look in your direction as your fingers pass through the cord, without touching the amulet. — “And every day, i’m sure she would adore you.”

⭑.ᐟ Dante knows how to be a knight with you, and he really does. — Last piece of pizza in the box? He makes a point of leaving it for you, and that's a high-class knightly role in his eyes. — Even living such a complicated life, working with something so violent and filthy, he can't help but indulge his girl in a few whims.

⤷ Little writings on small pieces of old newspaper, which he left in his pants or jacket pocket, telling some joke or unfunny pick-up line and decorations are typical of Dante. — Teaching you to play pool and then beating him and your prize are moments of grabbing? Oh, Dante is a lucky boy.

[gyuuberryy]

right next door!

pairing: enemy!sunghoon x reader

synopsis: you and park sunghoon have been tangled in hogwarts' most explosive rivalry since fifth year—all duels in corridors and sabotaged potions and lingering stares across the great hall. now in your last year, you're forced to share prefect duties, and between his infuriating teasing and surprisingly caring moments, you can't decide if you want to hex him or kiss him. but when old wounds resurface and the line between rivalry and something else blurs, you'll have to confront why his attention still makes your pulse race—and whether some bridges are better left burned.

genre: hogwarts au, ex friends to enemies to lovers, forced proximity

warnings: highly suggestive content!!, a steamy pool scene, sunghoon gets called an exhibtionist as a joke, mentions of blood status, jealousy, swearing, lots of hogwarts lore references, angst

note: lowkey got inspired to write this after reading deadly education but ended up making it spicy lol. also i haven't specifically mentioned which hogwarts houses the reader and hoon are in since you guys must be different houses so yeah. enjoyyy

word count: 8.1k

If you liked it please reblog or comment to give me your feedback! <3 | taglist

the parchment trembled slightly in your grip, the edges crinkling under your fingertips as you stared at the freshly inked letters spelling out your name beside the words girl prefect. your breath caught—just for a second—before a giddy warmth spread through your chest. you could’ve sworn your feet barely grazed the stone floor as you made your way to the front of the classroom.

this was it.

all those late nights hunched over textbooks in the library until your eyes burned. every extra credit assignment you’d taken on, every house point you’d fought for. the way you’d practiced spells until your wrists ached, all for this moment—the recognition you’d craved, the proof that your effort hadn’t gone unnoticed.

then the head of house cleared their throat.

“—and your fellow prefect will be park sunghoon.”

the air left your lungs in one sharp exhale.

your head whipped toward him instinctively, muscle memory from years of tracking his movements, and just like always—just like always—he was already looking at you. his lips twitched, not quite a smirk but something dangerously close, his dark eyes alight with amusement.

of course.

of course it had to be him. the universe had a cruel sense of humor.

the head of house folded their hands atop the desk, surveying the two of you with the weary patience of someone who had long since grown tired of your antics. “i trust,” they said slowly, “that this appointment will encourage you both to set aside your… differences and act with the decorum expected of prefects.” their gaze flicked between you, pointed. “no duels in the corridors. no jinxes in the common room. and for merlin’s sake, no more sabotaging each other’s potions.”

sunghoon’s expression was the picture of innocence. “i would never.”

you barely suppressed a scoff. liar.

the moment you were dismissed, you spun on your heel, determined to escape before he could so much as open his mouth. but sunghoon, with his long legs caught up and fell into step beside you with infuriating ease, his shoulder brushing yours just enough to make you stiffen.

“looks like we’re stuck with each other, sweetheart,” he mused, voice dripping with false sweetness.

you clenched your jaw. “don’t call me that.”

“what, would you prefer partner?” he grinned when you shot him a glare, the torchlight catching the sharp curve of his cheekbones. 

“oh, come on. admit it—you’re thrilled. all those patrols together, just you and me.” he leaned in just slightly, and you hated the way your pulse jumped. “bet you’ve been dreaming about it.”

“dreaming of hexing you into next week, maybe.”

he laughed, low and taunting, and you hated the way it sent a prickle down your spine—the way it still did, even after all this time. “you’d miss me too much.”

“in your dreams, park.”

“already there.” he winked.

you stopped short, turning to face him fully. the corridor was empty save for the two of you, the flickering torchlight casting shadows across his sharp features that made him look almost otherworldly. 

“listen,” you hissed, “just because we’re prefects now doesn’t mean i’ve forgotten what you did last term. or the term before that. or—”

“you’re really holding onto that?” he tilted his head, feigning thoughtfulness, but you didn’t miss the way his fingers twitched at his side—like he was stopping himself from reaching for something. 

“i’d say it’s flattering, but it’s starting to sound like an obsession.”

your fingers twitched toward your wand. “i swear, if you don’t—”

“ah-ah.” he tutted, nodding pointedly to the enchanted portraits lining the walls—several of whom had paused their conversations to watch the spectacle. “decorum, remember?” his voice dropped, just for you. “wouldn’t want to disappoint the head of house on our first day.”

you forced your hand to relax, but the fire in your chest refused to die. this wasn’t just about rivalry. this was about the way he’d looked right through you fifth year, like you were nothing. like you’d never been anything.

“this isn’t over,” you muttered.

sunghoon’s smile widened, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “oh, i’m counting on it.”

and with that, he strolled past you, robes swishing behind him like a victory banner. you stared after him, torn between the urge to scream and the sinking realisation that this year was going to be very long.

but if he thought for one second you’d let him win?

he had another thing coming.

you should’ve known it wouldn’t be that easy.

the moment you stepped into the prefects’ wing, the air itself seemed to thicken, pressing against your skin like a warning. this part of the common room was unnervingly quiet—separated from the usual chaos by an ornate archway woven with enchanted ivy that shivered as you passed. two doors faced each other in the dim torchlight, close enough that you could’ve stretched out your arms and touched both at once.

yours. and—

“no.”

sunghoon’s voice curled around you from behind, rich with amusement. “yes.”

you didn’t need to turn to see his expression—you knew it by heart. that lazy, lopsided grin, the way his eyes would crinkle at the corners just before he delivered some infuriating remark. your fingers twitched toward your wand, but you clenched them into fists instead, nails biting crescents into your palms.

the door in front of you seemed to taunt you with its very existence.

“this is a joke,” you muttered.

“a hilarious one,” he agreed, brushing past so close his sleeve whispered against yours. he leaned against his doorframe with practiced ease, the flickering torchlight carving shadows under his cheekbones, gilding the curve of his smirk. 

“aw, don’t look so heartbroken, princess. could’ve been worse,” his voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper, “you could’ve been stuck next to someone boring.”

you shot him a look that could’ve melted steel. “right. because you’re a delight.”

he pressed a hand to his chest—the same way he used to when you’d accuse him of cheating at exploding snap—and the familiarity of the gesture lodged like a splinter in your throat. “i’m wounded. after all these years, you still don’t appreciate my charm?”

“your charm,” you spat, the words tumbling out raw and unfiltered, “is what got us here in the first place.”

the silence that followed was deafening.

for one fractured second, his mask slipped—just enough for you to catch the flicker in his eyes, the barely-there tightening of his jaw. but it was gone before you could name it, smoothed over with a careless shrug that didn’t match the sudden tension in his shoulders.

you remembered when those shoulders had carried your unconscious first-year self to the hospital wing after your disastrous attempt at flying. remembered how they'd shaken with silent laughter during history of magic when you'd charmed his quill to draw rude pictures on his parchment. remembered most painfully how they'd turned away from you in fifth year, when he'd started sitting with them—the polished, pureblooded group who whispered about blood status in the corridors.

it had started small. skipped study sessions. forgotten inside jokes. then one day you'd walked into the great hall to find your usual seat by the window—your seat, the one he'd saved for you every morning since first year—occupied by some simpering girl from his new circle.

when you'd cornered him after potions, demanding to know what his problem was, he'd just shrugged. "people change." like it was that simple. like four years of friendship meant nothing.

so you'd made sure he remembered.

if he wanted to pretend you didn't exist, you'd force him to notice you. you charmed his robes neon pink during presentations. swapped his pumpkin juice with vinegar. turned all his quills into snakes during arithmancy. each prank was a scream into the void: look at me, see me, remember what you threw away.

now, standing in the dimly lit corridor, the weight of those memories pressed between you like a third presence. sunghoon recovered faster than you did, his smirk sliding back into place with practiced ease.

"still holding onto ancient history, i see," he mused, pushing off the doorframe to take a step closer. the movement brought him into your space, close enough that you caught the faint scent of cedar and ink that still haunted your dreams. "what's next? you gonna charm my shoes to stick to the floor like third year? or—"

"that was you," you interrupted, your voice sharper than you intended. the accusation hung between you, trembling with the weight of everything unsaid. you did this first. you started this war.

his eyebrow quirked. "and you turned all my quills into snakes during arithmancy."

"after you vanished my potions textbook the week before NEWTs!"

"allegedly."

"you left my handwriting on a fake love note to flitwick in the margins!"

he grinned, wide and unrepentant, and it was so familiar that your chest ached. "allegedly."

you turned back to your door before he could see how his smile still affected you, how your traitorous heart still stuttered at the sight. but sunghoon, ever relentless, wasn't finished.

"you know," he said, his voice dropping into something softer, more intimate—the tone he used to reserve for midnight confessions and hidden corners, "if you wanted my attention this badly, you could've just asked."

your hand froze on the doorknob.

for one suspended heartbeat, the air between you crackled with the ghost of what you'd once been—two halves of a reckless, unbreakable whole. you could almost feel the warmth of his shoulder pressed against yours in the library, the way he'd whisper jokes into your ear until you had to bite your lip to keep from laughing.

then reality came crashing back.

"keep dreaming, park," you scoffed, shoving the door open with more force than necessary.

his laughter followed you inside, warm and melodic and wrong—because it wasn't yours to keep anymore. "already do," he called after you.

you slammed the door behind you, pressing your back against it as if it could shield you from the way your pulse raced, from the way your eyes burned with something dangerously close to tears. outside, you heard his footsteps pause, followed by the sound of his door gently slamming shut

your chest ached.

this year was going to be hell.

it becomes a thing after that.

you start bumping into sunghoon at the worst possible times—as if the universe has decided your suffering is its favourite spectator sport. like when you drag yourself into the hallway at 2 am, bleary-eyed and half-dead from studying, your vision swimming from hours of staring at ancient runes, only to collide with something warm and solid.

"oof—"

the scent hits you first—cedar and something faintly sweet, like the peppermint candies he always used to sneak during classes. your sleep-addled brain recognizes it before your eyes do, and your stomach does a traitorous little flip.

sunghoon steadies you with hands on your shoulders, his own hair sticking up in three different directions, dark strands falling into his eyes. he's wearing what might be the most ridiculous sleepwear you've ever seen—flannel pants with little animated broomsticks that actually move, hanging low on his hips, and a threadbare quidditch jersey that's definitely two sizes too big, slipping off one shoulder to reveal a sliver of collarbone.

you blink.

he blinks back.

for one horrifying second, you're both frozen there in the dim torchlight, his fingers warm through the thin fabric of your oversized hoodie (the one with the cartoon snitch that says "catch me if you can"—a gift from your friend jungwon that you'd never admit to owning).

then his gaze drops to your feet.

and he snorts.

"please tell me those were a gift," he says, pointing at your slippers—fluffy monstrosities shaped like kneazles, complete with little ears that flop when you shift your weight. one ear has started to curl inward from wear. "tell me you didn't willingly purchase those."

you flip him off, shuffling past with as much dignity as you can muster when your slippers make a soft mrrp noise against the stone floor.

"they're warm," you mutter.

"they're embarrassing."

"says the guy wearing pyjamas with his dancing broomsticks on them."

you don't even have to look back to know he's grinning. you can hear it in his voice. "you noticed? i'm flattered."

your cheeks burn. damn him.

he starts stealing your favourite study spot, too.

the one by the window in the common room—the table with the perfect view of the lake, where the afternoon light turns the water to liquid gold and the old oak table bears the carved initials you'd put there fourth year (SH + Y/N, hidden under the edge where only you'd know to look). you've claimed it for years, and everyone knows it.

which is exactly why sunghoon's sitting there when you walk in one evening, already sprawled across the bench like he owns it, twirling his wand between his fingers with lazy precision. the dying sunlight catches on the silver rings he always wears, making them gleam.

you stop dead.

"wow," you deadpan. "you work fast."

he doesn't even glance up from his parchment, but you see the way his lips quirk. "what can i say? early bird gets the view." he finally looks up, and the smirk he gives you is all sharp edges and challenge. "maybe you should try being less predictable."

you consider setting his notes on fire.

instead, you take the table next to his—the wobbly one that always tilts your inkwell—and pointedly ignore the way his knee brushes yours under the table when he stretches.

(he definitely does it on purpose.)

(you definitely don't think about how his legs have gotten longer since fifth year.)

but the worst is the patrols.

being forced to walk the castle's quiet, echoing corridors together—where every footstep sounds too loud, every breath feels too close. 

tonight, he's holding his wand aloft like some kind of dramatic victorian ghost hunter, the lumos glow casting long shadows across his sharp cheekbones, catching on the silver hoop in his left ear.

you roll your eyes. "bit dramatic, don't you think?"

"sorry for not having bat vision like you."

"maybe if you didn't spend all your time preening in mirrors—"

you don't even see the uneven step.

one second, you're scoffing at him—the next, your foot catches on a raised stone, and you're lurching forward with a startled gasp, your wand flying from your grip.

but before you can faceplant into the cold stone floor, his hand shoots out, gripping your elbow and yanking you back upright with surprising gentleness. your chest collides with his, and for one terrifying, electric second, you're right there—close enough to see the flecks of silver in his dark eyes, close enough to count his eyelashes, close enough to feel his breath hitch against your lips.

neither of you moves.

his fingers are still wrapped around your arm, warm and firm, and you hate how familiar it feels. how right. how easy it would be to lean in, to—

then he clears his throat and lets go like you've burned him, taking a deliberate step back.

"watch your step," he mutters, already turning away to gather your scattered notes.

you don't miss the way his jaw clenches, the way his fingers tremble just slightly as he hands your wand back.

the rest of the patrol is silent, but everything left unsaid makes the air between you suffocating.

you pushed open the heavy oak door to the prefects’ bathroom, steam curling around your ankles as you stepped inside. the massive sunken tub glimmered under floating enchanted candles, their reflections dancing across the marble walls. and it seems that no other prefect from the other houses were here.

perfect—just what you needed after a gruelling day of school.

then you heard the water splash.

sunghoon stood waist-deep in the pool, his back to you as he peeled off his soaked white t-shirt. water sluiced down the defined muscles of his shoulders, tracing the elegant dip of his spine before disappearing beneath the waterline. the dim candlelight gilded every curve of his toned arms as he tossed the shirt aside with a wet smack against the tiles.

your brain short-circuited.

he turned at the sound of your choked gasp, water dripping from his dark hair. for one horrifying second, his eyes locked onto yours—wide, startled—before his lips curled into that infuriating smirk.

"enjoying the view, sweetheart?"

you whirled around so fast you nearly tripped over your own robes. "this is a shared space, you—you exhibitionist!"

his laugh echoed off the marble. "shared, yes. which means knocking is customary." you could hear the grin in his voice. "unless you were hoping to catch me like this?"

"i'd rather catch dragon pox!" you fumbled for the door handle, cheeks burning.

"liar," he called after you. the splash of water told you he'd leaned back, completely at ease. "you stared for a solid five seconds."

you slammed the door hard enough to rattle the torches in their sconces.

…

"five seconds?" sunoo nearly spat out his pumpkin juice, eyes sparkling with mischief. across the table, jungwon choked on a laugh, thumping his chest.

you stabbed your fork into a roasted potato with unnecessary force. "i did not stare."

"sure," jungwon drawled, stealing a roll from your plate. "and i'm the minister of magic."

sunoo leaned in, lowering his voice conspiratorially. "you two need to either fuck or duel already. the sexual tension is giving me hives."

"sunoo!" you kicked him under the table, but your traitorous gaze flickered across the hall before you could stop it.

sunghoon sat with his usual group, idly stirring his soup. as if sensing your stare, he glanced up—and winked. the bastard had the audacity to mouth "five seconds" before his friends noticed and started elbowing him.

you dropped your forehead onto the table with a groan.

you should’ve known the universe had it out for you.

the thought pounded in time with your footsteps as you stomped toward the forbidden forest, the cold night air biting at your exposed skin. 

of course this would happen on the one night you actually planned to sleep before dawn. 

of course it was a group of reckless first-years from your house who decided to wander off here. 

and of course—because fate had never once been kind to you—sunghoon was the one marching beside you, his shoulder brushing yours every few steps like some cruel reminder of how things used to be.

"this is your fault," you muttered, more out of habit than anything else.

his sigh was barely audible over the crunch of leaves underfoot. "how, exactly?"

"you gave them detention for the dungbomb incident. this is clearly revenge."

"ah yes, because children are famously logical creatures who plan elaborate revenge schemes." his voice dripped with sarcasm, but there was no real heat behind it. just exhaustion. it threw you off—this version of sunghoon who didn't rise to your bait like he used to.

you risked a glance at his profile in the moonlight. the sharp line of his jaw was tense, his brows drawn together in that way they always got when he was thinking too hard. you hated that you still noticed these things. hated that after all this time, you could still read him like a book you'd memorised but pretended not to care about.

the forest loomed ahead, darker than the sky around it. a shiver ran down your spine that had nothing to do with the cold.

"we'll split up," you said abruptly. "cover more ground."

"no." the word came out sharp, surprising you both. he cleared his throat. "it's... not safe. we stick together."

there was something in his voice you couldn't place—something that made your chest ache in a way you refused to examine. so you just nodded, stepping into the treeline beside him, close enough that your sleeves brushed. neither of you moved away.

the forest was wrong tonight.

usually alive with rustling leaves and distant animal calls, now it was eerily silent, like the trees themselves were holding their breath. your own breathing sounded too loud in your ears, your heartbeat pounding a frantic rhythm against your ribs.

"this is stupid," you muttered, just to break the silence. "what kind of idiots think wandering into the murder forest at midnight is a good idea?"

next to you, sunghoon huffed a quiet laugh. "the same kind that think turning their rival's hair pink right before a quidditch match is a solid life choice."

the unexpected callback to simpler times caught you off guard. warmth bloomed in your chest before you could stop it, quickly smothered by years of built-up resentment.

"that was one time—"

"and the time you swapped my pumpkin juice with vinegar—"

"you deserved that—"

"and the time you definitely stared at me in the prefect's bathroom for five full seconds—"

something inside you snapped.

"oh my god, are you serious right now?" you whirled on him so fast he actually took a step back. your wandlight threw wild shadows across his face, illuminating the startled widening of his eyes. "you're really gonna act like i started all this? like you weren't the one who—"

your voice cracked traitorously. you hated it. hated the way his expression shifted from amused to concerned in an instant. hated how your eyes suddenly burned with unshed tears.

sunghoon went completely still. "who what?" he asked quietly.

the words tore out of you like a dam breaking:

"who ditched me the second you found a shinier group of friends!"

the silence that followed was deafening.

sunghoon looked like you'd struck him. his mouth opened, closed. for the first time since you'd known him, park sunghoon seemed at a complete loss for words.

you didn't wait for him to find them. turning on your heel, you stormed deeper into the forest, your pulse roaring in your ears. you made it three steps before you heard him move behind you—quick, urgent footsteps—and then his hand was wrapping around your wrist, pulling you to a stop.

"wait—"

a shrill voice cut through the trees before he could continue.

"oh thank merlin!"

the first-years.

sunghoon's grip loosened immediately, but his fingers lingered for half a second longer than necessary before falling away. the ghost of his touch burned long after he'd turned toward the sound.

the walk back was torture.

the kids shuffled ahead of you, sniffling and covered in mud and leaves, while you and sunghoon trailed behind in suffocating silence. your mind raced, replaying the moment over and over—the look on his face when you said those words, the way his hand felt around your wrist.

at one point, he moved closer, his shoulder brushing yours. "we should—" he started, voice low.

you sped up, pretending to adjust the scarf of a trembling first-year. you didn’t wand to do this now.

by the time you reached the common room, your jaw ached from clenching it. you handed out detentions on autopilot ("no, you cannot serve it together, yes, you're lucky we're not telling the head of house"), your voice sounding distant even to your own ears.

the second the kids scurried off, you bolted for your room, desperate for space to breathe, to think—

—only for a hand to catch the door before you could slam it shut.

suddenly, you were being yanked into his room.

"what the hell—"

"i didn't ditch you."

his voice was rough, raw in a way you'd never heard before. his grip on your wrist was tight enough that you could feel his pulse racing against your skin—or maybe that was yours. you were too overwhelmed to tell.

you glared up at him, chest heaving. "oh, really? because i remember you ghosting me for months—"

"my parents made me."

the words burst out of him like he'd been holding them in for years. he released your wrist to rake a hand through his hair, pacing the small space between his bed and the door like a caged animal.

"they—merlin, they lost it when they found out i was friends with a muggle-born," he continued, voice cracking on the last word. "threatened to pull me out of hogwarts. i had to—" he stopped, swallowed hard. "i had to pretend. until i could figure something out."

the confession hit you like a bludger to the chest. all the air left your lungs at once.

memories flooded back—sunghoon's sudden distance fifth year, the way he'd flinch whenever his new friends made comments about blood status, the times you'd caught him looking at you across the great hall with an expression you couldn't decipher.

"you could've told me," you whispered, your voice barely audible.

he shook his head, eyes shining in the dim light. "I couldn't. you would've tried to fix it. you would've—" his voice broke. "you would've gotten yourself hurt."

the raw honesty in his words stole your breath. for years, you'd assumed the worst; that he'd outgrown you, that you weren't enough. but this... this was something else entirely.

the air between you was heavy with everything unsaid. you could see the exact moment he realised how close you were standing, because his breath hitched, his throat bobbed as he swallowed hard.

"...i'm sorry," he murmured, so quiet you almost missed it.

the words settled over you like a warm cloak. not perfect. not a complete fix. but a start.

"me too," you whispered back.

when you slipped out of his room and back into yours, the weight on your chest felt a little lighter.

neither of you slept that night. you lay awake staring at the ceiling, replaying every word, every look. wondering if this changed everything—or nothing at all.

you woke with a start, your cheek pressed against a half-open textbook. sunlight streamed through the common room windows—you’d fallen asleep at your usual table with the view ofthe lake, the one sunghoon had stolen so often. your neck ached, and there was drool on your parchment.

a shadow fell across your notes.

"rough night?"

sunghoon stood over you, holding two steaming mugs. he looked unfairly put-together for someone who’d also presumably gotten no sleep—his hair slightly damp from a shower, his prefect badge already pinned neatly to his robes.

you sat up too fast, your elbow knocking into an inkwell. "what are you—"

"coffee." he set one mug down in front of you, black with three sugars, just how you liked it. "figured you’d need it."

you stared at the mug like it might transform into a dungbomb. this was new. this was terrifying.

across the room, a group of fourth-years whispered behind their hands.

sunghoon cleared his throat. "patrols tonight. meet at eight?"

"yeah," you managed. "eight."

he nodded, already turning away—then paused. "oh, and y/n?"

"what?"

"you’ve got…" he gestured to his own cheek, mirroring where your face had been smushed against your notes. "ink."

you swiped at your face furiously as he walked off, but not before catching the way his shoulders shook with silent laughter.

the whispers started the moment you walked in together to the dining hall.

it wasn’t intentional—you’d just happened to leave the common room at the same time, and sunghoon had held the door open for you like some kind of gentleman, and now the your entire table was gaping.

"what the hell happened last night?" sunoo demanded as you slid onto the bench. next to him, jungwon’s eyebrows were in his hairline.

"nothing," you muttered, reaching for the toast.

"nothing?" jungwon leaned in. "he’s been staring at you since you sat down."

your head snapped up. sure enough, sunghoon was watching you from across the hall, chin propped on his hand. when he caught your eye, he smirked and took an exaggerated sip from his mug—the same one he’d brought you earlier.

you kicked sunoo under the table when he opened his mouth. "don’t."

meanwhile, at the slytherin table, sunghoon’s so-called friends weren’t even pretending not to stare. one of them—a tall guy with a permanent sneer—said something under his breath. sunghoon’s response was too quiet to hear, but the way his friend’s face paled was very satisfying.

you found out what he’d said to them later, when you passed them in the corridor.

"—thought you were done with that," sneer-boy was hissing, just around the corner from where you’d frozen mid-step.

"changed my mind," sunghoon’s voice was calm, but there was steel underneath. "got a problem with it?"

"she’s a muggle-born—"

"finish that sentence," sunghoon said, so quietly it was almost a whisper, "and i’ll hex you into next week."

silence.

you ducked into an alcove before they could see you, your heart pounding. when sunghoon walked past minutes later, alone, he paused—like he could sense you there.

"you can come out now," he called, amused. "unless you’re planning to ambush me again. which, fair."

you stepped out, cheeks burning. "i wasn’t eavesdropping—"

"liar." he fell into step beside you like it was the most natural thing in the world. "but since you heard all that…" he bumped your shoulder with his. "you’re welcome."

you bumped him back, harder. "idiot."

he grinned.

things changed after that.

sunghoon stopped stealing your study spot—instead, he’d join you there, sprawling across the bench like he owned it. you stopped hexing his belongings—mostly. (some traditions had to stay alive.)

his old friends glowered at you in the halls. yours teased you mercilessly.

and when you had patrols together, the silence wasn’t suffocating anymore—just quiet, comfortable.

(though he did still tease you about the bathroom incident. some things would never change.)

the moment the first raindrop hit your nose, you knew this trip was doomed. 

you'd been assigned to chaperone a group of first-years on their first hogsmeade visit, with sunghoon as your unfortunate co-supervisor—because apparently the universe still hadn't finished laughing at you. the kids had dragged you from honeydukes to zonko's, their excitement barely contained as they pressed against every shop window. 

sunghoon lingered at the back of the group, hands in his pockets, occasionally shooting you glances you couldn't quite decipher.

then the sky opened up without warning. one second you were counting heads near the post office, the next icy rain was pelting down in sheets, sending students scattering in every direction. 

"in here!" sunghoon's voice cut through the chaos as his fingers closed around your wrist. you didn't process where he was pulling you until the bell above the door tinkled and the overwhelming scent of floral perfume hit you.

madam puddifoot's. the most notoriously romantic tea shop in the village, all lace doilies and floating cherubs and couples canoodling in heart-shaped booths. 

"we are not—" you began, already backpedalling, but it was too late. the first-years had already stampeded inside, their squeals of delight echoing off the pink walls.

sunghoon stepped in behind you, his chest brushing your shoulder as he shook rainwater from his hair. "well. this is cozy." 

you shot him a glare that could melt steel. 

"i'd rather swim back to the castle." 

the elderly witch behind the counter beamed at your bedraggled group. "young love! how precious!" 

"we're not—" 

"just chaperones," sunghoon finished smoothly, though the smirk playing at his lips ruined any attempt at innocence.

the next twenty minutes passed in a haze of humiliation. the first-years were seated at a large table near the back, leaving you and sunghoon wedged into a tiny booth for two—one adorned with actual cupid statues that periodically blew glitter into the air. your face burned as a cherub floated by dumping rose petals on unsuspecting patrons. 

across from you, sunghoon looked unbearably amused, stirring his tea with infuriating calm.

"you're enjoying this," you accused, watching as he added a third sugar cube to his cup. 

he raised an eyebrow. "the tea's decent." 

"i meant the utter humiliation of this situation." 

the corner of his mouth twitched. "that too."

a sudden commotion at the first-years' table saved you from responding. one of the girls was pointing between you two with alarming enthusiasm. "are you going to kiss?" 

your teacup clattered against its saucer. sunghoon choked on his sip. 

"we are not—" 

"not in front of you lot," sunghoon interrupted solemnly, sending the table into giggles. 

you kicked him under the table hard enough to make him wince. "you're dead to me."

the rain showed no signs of letting up, trapping you in this pastel nightmare. as minutes ticked by, you became increasingly aware of every accidental brush of sunghoon's knee against yours, every time his fingers grazed yours reaching for the sugar bowl. the shop's enchanted ceiling—currently mimicking a sunset—cast warm light across his features, softening the sharp angles of his face in a way that made your chest feel oddly tight.

at one point, you caught him staring at you with an expression you couldn't quite place—something between amusement and that same unreadable look he'd worn in the forest after your argument. 

"what?" you muttered, self-consciously wiping at your face. 

he leaned forward slightly, voice dropping so only you could hear. "just wondering how long it'll take you to admit this isn't so bad."

before you could retort, a chorus of "ooooooh!" erupted from the first-years' table. you looked down to realise sunghoon's hand was still covering yours on the tabletop—when had that happened? 

you jerked back as if burned, sending a saucer clattering to the floor. the resulting cheers from the children made you want to disappear into the upholstery.

by the time the rain eased, your dignity was beyond salvage. the walk back to hogwarts was a parade of giggles and not-so-subtle whispers from your charges. sunghoon walked beside you, his shoulder bumping yours every few steps like he couldn't quite help himself. 

"you realise we're never living this down," you groaned as the castle gates came into view. 

he grinned, that infuriating, lopsided grin that used to make your stomach flip in fourth year and—annoyingly—still did now. 

"where's your sense of adventure?" 

"back in that tea shop, buried under approximately two hundred rose petals."

his laughter followed you all the way up the path, warm and familiar, and despite yourself, you found your steps falling into sync with his. (and if you didn't protest when one of the first-years snapped another photo of you two walking shoulder-to-shoulder—well. some things were better left unexamined.)

things between you and sunghoon had become dangerously comfortable. what started as reluctant co-prefect duties had slowly melted into late-night study sessions where your head would end up on his shoulder, patrols where his fingers lingered a second too long when helping you up, and inside jokes whispered too close to each other’s ears in the great hall. 

it wasn’t a relationship, not really—just stolen moments and unspoken tension that made your stomach flip whenever he smirked at you across a crowded room.

that’s why it stung so much when you walked into the library and saw him laughing with eunji, a bright-eyed ravenclaw a year younger than you both who had newly joined. logically, you knew there was nothing romantic about it—he was leaning back in his chair, arms crossed as she enthusiastically explained some arithmancy concept, his expression more amused than affectionate. but the way his eyes crinkled at her enthusiasm, the easy way he nodded along—it reminded you too much of how he used to look at you before everything got complicated.

"y/n!" sunghoon called when he spotted you hovering by the shelves, waving you over with that same warm smile that always made your pulse skip. "come join us. eunji’s explaining this ridiculous theory about using arithmancy to predict quidditch outcomes."

you forced your feet to move, your grip tightening on your book bag. eunji greeted you with a cheerful wave, her braids swinging. "sunghoon said you’re brilliant at charms! maybe you can help me understand this part about wand movement harmonics?"

the next hour passed in a blur of half-hearted contributions from you and increasingly animated discussion between the two of them. every time you tried to interject, the conversation would circle back to some inside joke or advanced magical theory that left you feeling like an outsider in your own friendship. when eunji reached over to adjust sunghoon’s grip on her notes, demonstrating some wand technique, you suddenly couldn’t breathe properly.

"i should go," you muttered, gathering your things before either could protest. "forgot i promised to meet sunoo for... something."

sunghoon’s brow furrowed as you stood. "you okay?"

"fine." you forced a smile that didn’t reach your eyes. "just tired."

the walk back to your dorm felt infinitely longer than usual, each step weighed down by memories of fifth year—of sunghoon slowly slipping away from you, of empty promises to study together, of eventually finding him surrounded by new friends who looked at you like you didn’t belong.

hogsmeade weekend only made it worse. you’d been hoping to bump into sunghoon accidentally-on-purpose near honeydukes, maybe share a chocolate frog like old times. instead, you found him outside the three broomsticks deep in conversation with eunji again, their heads bent together over some parchment. when he laughed at something she said, that familiar loud, unguarded laugh that used to be yours, something sharp twisted in your chest.

you turned on your heel so fast you nearly collided with a group of third-years.

"there you are!" sunoo’s voice cut through your spiralling thoughts as he and jungwon appeared beside you, their arms laden with zonko’s purchases. "we’ve been looking everywhere—oh." 

sunoo followed your gaze to where sunghoon was now helping eunji adjust her scarf. "that again?"

you let them steer you into the three broomsticks, where jungwon immediately ordered three butterbeers. 

"you’re being ridiculous," sunoo said bluntly as you slumped into a chair. "he looks at you like you invented sunlight. that’s just some kid he’s tutoring."

"but what if—"

"what if nothing," jungwon interrupted, pushing a frothy mug toward you. "remember when you turned his hair pink before the gryffindor match last year? he still smiles when someone mentions that."

the memory should have comforted you. instead, it just made you think of how easily things could change—how sunghoon had drifted away once before, how his parents’ disapproval still hung over whatever this was between you.

by monday, you’d started taking deliberate detours to avoid him. patrols were reassigned, library visits carefully timed, and when you couldn’t avoid crossing paths, you kept conversations painfully polite. sunghoon’s confused frowns and hesitant "hey, wait—"s as you hurried away only made your chest ache more.

"are you trying to break his heart or yours?" sunoo demanded one evening after you ducked into an empty classroom to avoid sunghoon in the corridor.

you pressed your back against the cold stone wall. "it’s not like that. i just... need space."

"from him? or from whatever’s happening between you two?"

you didn’t have an answer.

the tension came to a head in charms class. with flitwick delayed by some mishap in the staff room, the classroom had dissolved into chaos. 

you’d gotten pulled into helping jay, a handsome gryffindor, untangle some particularly stubborn enchanted yarn. his dramatic retelling of his disastrous attempt to knit a scarf for his gran had you laughing so hard your sides hurt.

then you felt it—that unmistakable prickle of being watched.

sunghoon sat three rows back, his usually expressive face unreadable as he stared at you. his quill had stopped moving entirely, fingers clenched so tightly around it you could see the whites of his knuckles from across the room. when jay leaned in to whisper another joke, sunghoon’s jaw tightened visibly, his dark eyes flashing with something that sent heat crawling up your neck.

you forced yourself to look away, suddenly fascinated by the grain of your desk. but like a compass needle finding north, your gaze kept drifting back. minutes passed, and he was still watching you with that same intensity, as if trying to communicate something words couldn’t capture.

when flitwick finally arrived and class ended, you were out of your seat before the dismissal fully left his mouth. you didn’t look back, even when you heard sunghoon call your name in the corridor. your heart pounded as you took the stairs two at a time, your mind racing with questions you weren’t ready to face.

why did his attention still affect you like this? why did part of you still want to turn around and walk straight into that stormy gaze?

and most terrifying of all—what if you’d been wrong about everything?

the uncertainty settled heavy in your chest as you disappeared around the corner, leaving sunghoon and all your unanswered questions behind.

you should've known better than to think you'd have the prefect's bathroom to yourself. the universe had a cruel sense of humour when it came to you and sunghoon.

the massive, pool-like tub was empty when you arrived, steam curling off the water's surface in lazy tendrils. you'd changed into your bathing suit—a modest but pretty thing—before stepping in, sighing as the warm water lapped at your skin.

the golden taps lining the walls gleamed, each set with a different jewel that dispensed everything from rose-scented bubbles to vanilla-infused oils. you'd chosen a mix of both, the sweet floral scent wrapping around you as you leaned back, eyes closed, finally relaxing for the first time in days.

then the door slammed open.

your eyes flew open just in time to see sunghoon stride in, already shirtless, a towel slung low over his hips. your breath caught. he looked unfairly good, water droplets clinging to his skin from the humid air, his dark hair slightly damp like he'd just showered.

his gaze locked onto yours immediately.

"you," he said, voice rough, "have been avoiding me." 

you swallowed, sinking a little deeper into the water. "i wasn't-"

"don't lie." he dropped the towel (thank merlin, he was wearing swim trunks) and stepped into the pool, not breaking eye contact for a second. the water rippled around him as he moved closer, and you instinctively backed toward the far edge, your pulse thundering in your ears.

he stopped you with a hand on your wrist. "where are you going?"

"the-the soap." you gestured weakly to the rose-and-vanilla tap across the pool. "i wanted to.."

sunghoon's grip tightened just slightly. "then go."

you didn't move. neither did he.

the silence stretched, thick with tension, until he finally let out a frustrated breath and tugged you closer. "you're really going to pretend nothing's wrong?"

you bit your lip, glancing away. "i don't know what you're talking about."

"bullshit." his thumb brushed over your wrist, sending a shiver down your spine. "you've been dodging me for days. skipping patrols. running away every time i get near you." his voice dropped, low and dangerous. "was it because of him?"

you blinked. "who?"

"that gryffindor. the one you were laughing with in class." his jaw clenched. "are you into him? is that why—"

"what? no!" you gaped at him. "i was just helping him with—"

"then why?" sunghoon's fingers slid up your arm, his touch burning even through the water. "why avoid me?"

you hesitated, then muttered, "you were the one always with that ravenclaw girl."

sunghoon stilled. then, slowly, a smirk tugged at his lips. "eunji?"

you scowled. "don't act like you don't know who i'm talking about."

he laughed, low and amused, his other hand coming up to cradle your face. "she's my friend's little sister, and, for the record, very much into girls."

your cheeks burned as he leaned in, his breath warm against your ear. "were you jealous?"

"no!"

"liar." his nose brushed along your neck, and you shivered.

"you've been driving me crazy, you know that? watching you laugh with someone else, then running every time i tried to talk to you—" his hands slid down to your waist, gripping tight. "i couldn't take it"

your breath hitched. "sunghoon—"

"let me help you with that soap," he murmured, already reaching for the bottle floating nearby. 

you didn't protest as he poured a generous amount into his palms, his hands smoothing over your shoulders, down your arms, his touch deliberate and slow. when he reached your back, you tensed, but his fingers were careful, kneading the tension from your muscles as he worked the lather into your skin.

"you're so fucking pretty," he muttered, his lips brushing your shoulder. "it's unfair."

you leaned into him without thinking, your head tipping back against his chest. his hands stilled, then slid around to your front, tracing the dip of your collarbones, the curve of your waist. you could feel his heartbeat against your back, rapid and unsteady.

"sunghoon," you whispered, "your parents wouldn't approve of this. of us."

he stilled, then huffed a laugh. "who cares what they think?"

"they pulled you out of my life once already—"

"and i regret letting that happen every day." his thumb brushed your wrist. "they'll give in once they meet you."

your breath hitched. "you're going to make me meet them?"

"yeah," he said simply, pulling you flush against him. "you're gonna be my girlfriend after all."

the word sent heat rushing to your cheeks. "i never agreed to that."

sunghoon's hands slid to your waist. "then say no." when you didn't, his smirk returned. "that's what i thought."

he turned you to face him, his eyes dark with something that made your stomach flip. "tell me you feel it too."

you didn't have to ask what he meant. "i do."

his breath left him in a rush, and then his mouth was on yours, hot and desperate.

the kiss stole the air from your lungs, a messy clash of teeth and tongue and aching want. his hands gripped your hips like he was afraid you might slip away, fingertips digging into your skin through the thin fabric of your swimsuit. you whimpered against his mouth, your fingers tangling in his damp hair, tugging just enough to make him groan—a low, broken sound that sent a fresh bolt of heat straight to you.

"fuck," he muttered against your lips, voice hoarse, "i missed you. you have no idea—"

he cut himself off by kissing you again, deeper this time, his tongue sweeping into your mouth with a hunger that made your knees weak. you barely realised you were moving until your back hit the slick marble edge of the pool, trapping you between the cool stone and the hard, burning press of sunghoon’s body.

he kissed like he was trying to memorise you—long, unhurried drags of his mouth against yours, punctuated by little nips to your bottom lip that had you gasping. one of his hands slid up your side, tracing the curve of your waist, the dip beneath your ribs, until his thumb brushed just under the swell of your breast, featherlight.

you broke the kiss with a gasp, your head falling back against the marble. "sunghoon—"

"tell me to stop," he said, voice wrecked, forehead pressed to yours. his hand stayed where it was, trembling slightly.

you opened your mouth—but no protest came out. instead, your hands slid down his chest, mapping the planes of muscle, the slick heat of his skin, until you were clutching at him helplessly.

"that's what i thought," he breathed, almost a laugh, before his mouth found your throat.

you choked on a moan as he kissed down the column of your neck, teeth scraping lightly, tongue soothing the sting. his hands, bolder now, roamed freely over your body, mapping every inch like it was his right. the thin straps of your bathing suit slipped down your shoulders under his touch, and you shivered, equal parts from the chill of the air and the heat building inside you.

"someone could walk in," you gasped, barely coherent as his teeth grazed your pulse point.

he cursed under his breath, dragging himself back enough to look at you. his eyes were black with heat, pupils blown wide, chest heaving.

"then come to my room," he said roughly, his voice pure sin. "please."

you hesitated—but then he kissed you again, slow this time, coaxing, like a promise of everything he wasn’t saying out loud. his thumb rubbed slow circles into your hip, grounding you.

"unless," he said against your mouth, smirking wickedly, "you'd rather stay here and risk getting caught."

you swatted his chest, but the fight had long since gone out of you. your body was already leaning into his, your mouth chasing his kiss. "fine," you whispered. "but only because—"

he didn't let you finish, with a grin, he lifted you out of the water in one smooth motion, making you squeal as he carried you toward the door, his lips finding yours again before you could protest.

“your room is right next door after all, so we don’t have to worry about disturbing anyone else.”

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