#whether it be to hear a loved one’s laugh again or to see the sun come up or see a funny meme that might come out tomorrow

[cherry-leclerc]

so long, london ☆ ln4

genre: angst, toxic relationship traits, fluff, humor, established relationship, one-sided, smut

word count: 7.3k

You've never been read so easily by someone until he entered your world. All is good, all is true love, but realistically, that all comes crumbling down. Leaving you with a series of doubts. The kind you ignore because why not?

nsfw warning under the cut!

18+...penetrative sex, m!receiving, f!receiving

inspired by this and this !

To be completely fair, the accent wasn’t all that familiar to you. It’s odd, then alluring, then it makes you curl a brow. Australian? British? Irish—no, that’s too far off, ridiculous, really. 

It’s the end of spring, which means it’s also the start of summer, which also means your job is in full force. Which is good if you’re still considering transferring to London to study abroad. You were, thank you very much, which is why you needed a shit load of money. 

Being a waitress isn’t all that bad; the view was breathtaking. Laguna Beach has always been and always will be. It’s impossible to take away its charm. 

The diner is small, yet crowded, so it’s hard to get through with a stack of breakfast plates atop one another. A piece of bacon slips past you as you let out a curse, mentally noting to clean it up on your way back. “An order of pancakes, french toast, two hashbrowns, bacon, four freshly squeezed orange juice—shit. I forgot, it was grapefruit, wasn’t it?”

Setting down the plates as carefully as you can with their assistance, you let out a sigh. “I’ll be right back—”

“It’s fine, mate. Orange juice is just as good.” His voice is soft and rough, all at once. 

You halt, fixing your apron, awkwardly. “No, it was my mistake, I’ll fix it—”

Mmm, delicious, his friends chime in as they take a sip from the fresh beverage. The blue eyed boy signals with his dark brows. “Told you. Don’t worry about it.”

“Cool,” you mumble. “Enjoy. Oh, and let me know if you need anything.”

They don’t, which is quite upsetting since you were slightly curious to find out if you were right. Smoking a joint, you hear a loud cough. The mysterious brunette waves. “Tough shift?”

“Of course not, I love it.”

He nods. “I’m sure you do, but I’m also sure that’s not the complete truth.” He sits. “You’re on your break, I presume, which means you're not on the clock, which means I’m no longer a customer, but rather just a stranger. A stranger whom you will most likely never see again, so…”

A puff expands through the blue sky and yellow sun. You squint. “I’m worn out. Down. Worn down? Both.”

“You’re good at hiding it.”

A chuckle. “But you were able to notice which obviously means I’m not much of an actress.”

He motions over to the cigarette. You hesitantly hand it over to him as he sucks sharply and releases. Bemused, you make a face. “I was because I go through the same thing, oftentimes. More like all the time.” Another hit. “I understand.”

“I’m not sure whether I should feel seen or scared…” Humor laces your soft voice as you quirk a brow. He laughs.

“Seen, definitely.” A beat. “I’m Lando. Foreign visitor.”

Shaking his hand, you ease up, smiling, gently. “Nice to meet you, Lando—foreign visitor.” A pause. “Resident.”

“Really, now?” He plays along, teasing. You can hear it. 

“Lucky, I know. Been here my entire life. Can’t complain.”

“I bet.”

“Yourself?”

Lando winces. “England. Bristol, specifically. Ever been?” Nope. A toothy grin. “Don’t—rains all day long, gloomy all year. It’s depressing, but…” He relaxes. “It’s home.”

Staring off into the waves, you cover your face from the strong breeze. Salt air splits your tongue in half as you wipe your mouth. “Your accent. It’s captivating. As soon as I heard it, I grew jealous.”

The Brit frowns. “Your accent is much better. Clean,” he adds and you let out a snort. Accent—what accent? He rolls his blue eyes. “That one. You might not consider it one, but it is. Very…pretty.” A rosy tint flourishes onto his cheeks. Summer heat, summer breeze, perhaps. 

Retreating the roll from his hand, you stomp on it, letting the light die. “Thank you, Lando from England. You made my day.”

-

That’s the end, really. Just a nice encounter that still doesn’t make much sense, but you’re glad it happened. Normally, after a tiring shift, you borrow Benny’s surfboard and rush towards the killer waves. The soothing water releases a lot of the built up tension that lies between your shoulder blades. 

Today isn’t much different. After getting yelled at for— “getting the fucking order wrong, bitch” —and— “my toddler just threw up, yes, oh, nevermind, had a…teensy accident” — you don’t second guess it. As soon as your skin connects to the warm temperature, you sigh in sweet relief. 

“I need to get out, I need to get out, I need to—”

“You just got here, though. Plus, the water feels nice, don’t you think?”

Startled, you sit up on your board, rocking back and forth. With what looks to be a painful tan, Lando smiles, sheepishly. “Hello…again.”

“Are…” You look around, but the ocean is practically empty. “A-are you stalking me?”

His smile drops. “W-wh—no! Of course not! I saw you from afar, and I just thought…” He grimaces. “I should go.” Except he can’t. Every chance he tries to tread away, the waves only push him back. It’s comedic. “One sec…crap. One more—shit. Okay, two, two sec—”

“Ah, forget it, stay. Land of the free, no?” Rubbing your nose, you pull his paddle closer. “What brought you out here?”

“Heard it was a good day to attempt to surf. Tell you what—it’s not.”

A giggle escapes, then lessens. You furrow your brows. “Hold on a minute; are you teaching yourself? As in, no instructor? Just you? Alone? Solo?”

“Yeah, what about it?” he grumbles. “I can do it.”

You’re wheezing at this point, stomach clenching. “That’s nearly impossible! I’m mean, sort of, sort of not.” When his eyes don’t switch from being offended to getting the joke, you quickly snap your lips shut. “Can I teach you? It’s not that hard.”

He gapes, curls grow more and more. They’re cute, the way they bounce when he shakes his head. “And if it’s so easy then why can’t I just do it myself?”

“How long have you been trying?”

He burns up. “That’s not the point.”

“No, that’s exactly my point. You need a mentor, and lucky for you, I’m a surf instructor on the weekends. Come on.”

The twenty-four year old is not sure he even wants to be here, suffering from an overdose of embarrassment. Every single attempt ends up with him splashing straight into the clear water. He groans for the millionth time, clutching into his board. “I think I’m done for the day.”

You don’t fight him on it. His bruised nose makes you feel bad, and his chipped lip makes you want to giggle, so yeah, that’s enough. He can taste the salt water as he smacks his lips, trying to get rid of it. You click your tongue. “That doesn’t really do anything. Not until you bathe and brush your teeth. Or rinse. Either or.” 

He invites you to the mansion he’s rented for him and his friends, declaring that there would be endless amounts of alcohol, but when you decline, he rubs his jaw and grimaces. “Yeah, I’m not in the mood, either. Craving tacos?”

So, that’s what you two do; converse over an amazing meal. You can already note his skin shedding, but for some reason, it’s endearing. You even spot a couple of moles. Chewing rapidly to try and forget about the spice, he pants. “London, eh?”

“England,” you correct. He deadpans you.

“That’s basically the same thing. It’s along the same lines. Just like Monaco and Paris.”

You shrug. “London—yes.”

Sniffling, he reaches for his can of Coke. Gasping left and right, he winks to the best of his ability. “You’re a smart girl…I think. And you’ll get in…I think.”

“Gee, thanks, I think.”

He laughs. “I hope you get in. I really do, Laguna Resident.” You roll your eyes. “You won’t miss all of this, though?” The warmth, the people, everything. A bittersweet feeling runs through your veins, momentarily, before you wave him off.

“Nothing is holding me back, forcing me to stay. I’ll be just fine.”

Finally, he calms down, occasionally sneezing. The way he excuses himself makes him look very polished. Lando licks his lips clean, drumming his long fingers against his lap. Later you would find out this would be his nervous tick. A teller. A good one, at most. 

“Call me? When you get there, I mean—if you want to, of course. No pressure.”

And while you may not have a reason to be a part of SoCal anymore, something else seemed to tug you to the other side of the world. “Might have to take your word for it.”

“Good.”

You grin, looking down onto your lap. Later he’d know this was your way of avoiding his stare. Butterflies, for the meantime. “Good.”

-

“No, no, no! You were supposed to—forget it, nevermind. Did you at least—” The stream flatlines and Lando is left speechless, headset drooping down, inch by inch. The way his eyes furiously twitch is enough for you to peck his cheek. 

“It’s late anyways. Come on, let's go to bed.”

There’s utter nonsense, and mumbo-jumbo that he spills as he reluctantly follows. If Max had done this, and if Max had done that. Pouting, you cradle his face, forcing him to look at you. “You’re telling me you wish you would still rather be playing than spend time with me?” You gently slap his face and he smiles, sheepishly. “I’m hurt.”

“No, no, you’re right. Of course I want to spend time with you.” When you peck his nose, he sighs. You can faintly smell the cheap beer, courtesy of said Max, so you let out a screech, creating a distance. 

“Never mind. I don’t want to spend time with you, you reek.” His smile drops and you pinch the tip of your nose. “Reek, I tell you. Go brush your teeth!”

The McLaren driver snarls, then makes his way over to your shared bathroom. “I remember when you used to be fun. Seems like a decade ago.”

“And make sure to floss!”

-

If you’re able to remember, you could openly admit that you did make that call. Actually, text. You got cold feet and sent a text last minute. You met up at the pub just around your dorm, the one that is only busy during the weekends, so is practically empty during the week. Hence, Wednesday night.

Wow. Your tan is gone, is the first thing he says when he sees you. It’s true. Being away from the California sun has completely changed you. A bit, but it did. Giggling, you accept his hug, finding warmth. London weather. “How was the move? I want to hear all about it.”

Oh, the move was as good as it could get. The airport lost two of my luggages, but it’s fine, I didn’t really need many dresses, because yes, you were right, it’s always gloomy. I miss Benny like a baby, but we always keep in touch—I’m actually going to visit him for his birthday. Which is in January? Yes…yes! January third. 

“What about you? Work?”

First of all, can’t really consider it work when it’s fucking fun. Second of all, it’s quite swell. I’ve got a new teammate, which sort of sucks, but he’s nice. The car is a bit wonky, but I’m sure that’ll change throughout the course of the year. Guess we’ll just have to wait and see. 

Conversations switched from having them on a steady stool in the pub, to having them in the comfort of his flat. Plus, you two were more open and honest with one another. 

Benny, yeah, it’s pancreatic cancer, and no, I’m not okay. 

The team is fucking shit. My arm still hurts from last week's crash, but I’ll be fine. Please, don’t you worry, love. 

Lando is an absolute angel. He pays for your tickets back home, along with Benny’s treatment. He declines the help at first, but as soon as he meets your smiley boyfriend, he accepts. I’ll pay you back. Once I’m better. Lando laughs with a muppet dive. Of course—of course, Ben.

You take care of him and his injuries. Follow doctors orders. Ice at least twice a day. Don’t forget to take your pain meds. No, for the love of God, they’re not candy, sweetheart.

It’s the best and the worst. And it’s all yours.

-

He’s very much obsessed with Mila as soon as she’s born. He congratulates his brother and his sister-in-law once, and off he goes, straight to the newborn. It makes you fall in love even more, which you didn’t know was possible, but here you were. 

“I say give it a year or two.”

“More like five. Come on, honey, be realistic.”

“I am! Can’t you tell he adores her?” Oliver scoffs. “He’s my brother. I would know.” His wife rolls her eyes, then moves on to snap a few pictures of Lando and Mila, then a thousand videos. 

“Crap. I want one,” he mentions on the drive back home. He gently rubs his thumb over your leg; you shudder. “You saw me, you were a witness, I was a good enough babysitter!”

“Babysitter? You’d be a dad, not a babysitter,” you retort, though your wobbly grin is a dead giveaway. A long finger pokes at your ribs as you laugh, scooting as far enough away as the McLaren allows you to get. “One day. Just not now.”

And he knows that’s true. He’s busy with racing, you’re busy with school; it's irresponsible. Your confirmation was sweet though—it was enough. The Brit hums, continuing the drive with a bright smile. 

“One day, then.”

-

Baby talk was a fun thing to dream about. To think, daydream. Marriage talk? Now that’s serious. 

It started on a Sunday morning; a non-race week. He’s finally back home and you're ecstatic. He was too, but that slowly goes out the window when you rush him to the room. I like where this is going, he starts when you drag him along. You bite back a smile, waiting for his noise. “What the shit?” he yelps, pulling on his curls. Spinning to face you, your boyfriend groans. “Where’s all my gaming—sweetheart,” he softened his voice, softened his eyes. “Sweetheart…”

“It’s gone! Bye-bye, adios!” You twirl around the empty room. “You don’t need it, Lando. It was rotting your brain.”

The color from his vibrant face fades, leaving him to let out a delirious laugh. “No, no, it wasn’t. Wh-why would you do that?” He doubles over. “I’m going to be sick.”

After a while of letting him drown in a puddle of self-pity, you snicker. Blue eyes look up at you; furrowed thick brows. What? “They’re in the guest room. I just needed us to paint the walls.” Releasing a scream, Lando plunges for you, picking you up and spinning you around until you flop against his arms. 

“Asshole!” you yell, smacking his arm. After a series of instructions, you both fall into a pattern. He focuses on the left side of the room and you focus on the left and the right. It just makes sense.

“Stick to your side,” he mumbles, pushing you away. You burn a laser to the back of his head. “I can feel you killing me—stop it.”

“Then quit drawing, you’re ruining it!” There’s a cat, a dog, a house, his racing car, you—you presume— and Mila for good measure, but he serves her no justice as she appears to be more of a blob. Going over it with a thick layer of paint, he curses to himself. As soon as he picks up the thin brush once again, you immediately set your foot down. “No, Lando, think before you commit.”

But he must not hear you—or ignores you—because suddenly he’s drawing something unrecognizable. You almost laugh when you guess it must be a donut, but when he draws the familiar rock, you come to a halt. “Stellar, no?”

“Hardly. Looks like more of a neck guard—next!”

But he pushes you away as soon as you reach over to cover it up. “I’m being serious. I’m mean, not now, but someday. Are you…” His voice drops, slowly, and he drums his fingers onto his thigh. Your lips turn upward. “...open to it? Getting married?”

“Well,” you start and his breath hitches, nervously tapping, awaiting for your response. Pressing your lips against his, you breathe out, and he groans. “I love you, Lando. I’m more than open to it.”

He sighs in relief, kissing you harder this time, with more emotion. “Good.” A beat. “Thank you.”

-

Slowly, but surely, you’re celebrating your three year anniversary—in Japan, a race week—but still. Yuki specifically gives you two a list of places to visit, so it makes everything a thousand percent easier. Fifth, he grunts, throwing his helmet onto the tiny bed in his motorhome. Screw it, I’m blowing my brains out.

“Hey now, quit talking like that.” A kiss. “I don’t care if you’re upset, I happen to be super duper proud.”

“It’s Super Trouper,” Oscar yells from the other side of the wall. “Don’t disrespect ABBA like that.

“Yeah,” Lando hums, pulling you in. “Don’t.”

“I’ll pull the trigger,” you warn. 

He gasps, theatrically. “You wouldn’t dare…”

“Try me.” 

“I already have—sweet.” His dirty implications makes you heat up and the Australian groans as he turns up his music. Lando snickers, changing quickly. “Happy Anniversary. It’s not everyday, you know?”

“I know,” you cheer, playing with your promise ring. You beam up at the bubbly Brit. “I just wish we were home. Celebrating in the comfort of our own place.”

He doesn’t mention it, but you considering London your home—despite not growing up there—makes him crush on you harder than ever before; it's sickening. Clapping loudly, he stands up, reaching for your hand. “Then let's go back home. What’s keeping us here?”

“Yuki,” you grunt, taking his open hand. “We’d be breaking his heart, Lan. We need to do these twenty-one things.”

“Ah, he’ll understand.” A pause. “If he doesn’t then we’ll just buy his next meal to make up for it.”

Cackling, you peck his face, over and over until he pushes you away in a jokeful manner. “This is why I love you, Lando Norris!”

And he’s content, admiring the way you pack happily. He’s never seen someone so giddy to spend fourteen hours on a plane just to curl into the comfort of their bed. He’s just never seen or met anyone like you. 

It was perfect.

-

As soon as he picks up his own digital camera, he’s in love. Part of you would be jealous, definitely, if it weren’t for him stopping to take a thousand pictures of you. One in the McLaren garage, next to his car. One where you balance yourself on a swing, eventually falling straight onto your face. One of your newly bruised nose, due to the fall. One where you’re sleeping, drooling like a—

“Delete that, I don’t even want to see it!”

Shaking his head full of curls, he runs away. “No! I happen to love it!”

“Lando!”

“You look adorable.”

“Fuck you, I’m leaving. Spend the night alone, loser.”

You don’t end up keeping your word. You get your revenge, eventually, when you pie him in his sleep. He nearly chokes, but it’s all in good fun, according to you. 

But neither of you would have it any other way. You just happen to be his muse. 

-

His greediness starts to show overnight, nearly. It catches you off guard, leaving you like a lost dog. The worst part is that it’s not directed directly at you, per se, but it felt like it. Most of the time, you’d deal with this by talking to him until he calms down, by making him a cup chamomile tea, because—

“It doesn’t help!” He paces the small room, throwing his gloves harshly against the wall. 

“Studies prove—”

“Studies my ass.” An angry huff. “I just need to be alone. For a while.”

And it also catches you off guard how you don’t fight him back on it. Instead, you’re glad, fleeing out the door, straight to God knows where. Strolling, you twist and turn the thin band. 

Where are you going?

“You said you wanted to be…” Except it’s not Lando. George quirks a dark brow. You gulp, forcing a smile. “I’m sorry. I thought you were…” A painful pause. “I thought you were Lando.”

“Must be the accent.” He laughs. “Don’t worry about it. Carmen actually made me chase you down. Said she wants your opinion with something about the wedding. You know her—perfectionist.”

“Oh. Yes. Of course.” Throwing your hair over your shoulder, you beam brighter this time, though it doesn’t quite meet your eyes. “I have plenty of time.”

He’s rude when he finds you. Well, not really, but even your friends notice it. I’m telling him to wear a simple black and white suit. A bow or a tie, he can decide, but he’s insisting on wearing white and I’m like hello? You giggle, orbs moving to find George with a playful glare. 

“Why can you be the only one wearing white? It’s this some kind of rule or?”

“No, but it’s weird!” Carmen turns to face you, desperate eyes begging for backup. “Come on! Tell him it’s weird.”

Plump lips flicker upward. “I don’t know, George, it is a b—”

“Awful. You’re going to steal all the attention away from Caren and you’re going to look horrible. Just go with a traditional suit.”

The Mercedes driver doesn’t pay any attention to what was just said to him, but you and Carmen do, and that’s probably worse. You can tell she’s bothered by your boyfriend's unwanted opinion and for him going after her fiancé, so you briskly stand up. “Sweetheart, are you, um…ready to go?”

The Brit nods, fixing his bag that lays over his shoulder. “That’s why I’m here, no? Could have let me know you were leaving, too.” There’s tension in his voice; annoyance. “Also, I forgot your bag. I’ll wait for you here.”

His implication makes you queasy. You blink hastily. “Of course.” Turning to the older couple, you smile politely. “Um…text me, yeah? Let me know what you two decide on.”

Once you rush off, Carmen narrows her usually kind eyes, hard. George is quick, placing a steady hand onto her lap, and clears his throat. “You know, just because you didn’t place a podium for once doesn’t mean you get to act like a jerk. Seriously.”

Lando chooses to ignore his comment, bidding goodbye, and strolls over to find you, flustered. “Now I’m ready,” you confirm with a weak smile. The Brit laces his fingers through yours and brings it up to his mouth, pressing a warm kiss. 

“You know I love you, right?”

“I do. I do know.”

-

He’s trying to be more gentle, you can tell. With his words, with his actions. It reminds you why you chose him. He had apologized after a quiet night, settling with what he had done. How he had treated you and his friends. George is quick to accept his apology, and you were too.

“I didn’t mean it,” he groans quietly, chest pressed against yours as you ride him. “I s-shouldn’t have—fuck.” The way you clench around him tightly makes his head spin. A whine escapes your swollen lips as you nod, fast, then slow, then staggered. “I’m sorry. I’m so fucking sorry.”

“It’s okay,” you pant, finally opening your eyes to find him already looking up at you. He squeezes your hips harder, keeping you firm. “You were upset, that’s all. I get it.”

She gets it, he remembers thinking, considering himself lucky for having a girlfriend who understands. His highs. His lows. His wins. He loses. This—this is why you were the one. 

But once again, his lack of display is what reluctantly pushes you away.

Then back in.

-

It’s been three months of him not even picking up his camera. Maybe he’s just too lazy to develop his pictures, so you do it for him. There’s really no excuse. That’s what you say with light humor when you push it towards his chest, but he only cocks his head to the side. “I never asked for you to do that.”

Your stomach churns. You lick your chapped lips. “You don’t need to. I just…did it. Thought it might help get you out of your slump.”

This pushes something in him as he narrows his brows like a set of sharp knives. “Slump?” A scoff. “What? Because I haven’t been able to get a win?”

“What?” You’re dazed. “No.” You’re confused. “No, why would you say that?” 

“I don’t know—why would you?”

“I mean it because you’ve been down, that’s it. Not because…” When his eyes don’t change, and your heart continues to pound, you flip him a smile. “You’re right. My choice of words weren’t the best. I’m sorry.”

The blue eyed boy clicks his tongue to the roof of his mouth once, then sets the camera to his side. “Whatever, it’s fine, I guess.” And suddenly he’s making his way to his gaming room, leaving you with wide eyes and a bruised heart. 

“Wait!” Carefully, you pick up the small camera, extending it out towards him. “Wh-what do you want me to do? Should I pack it into your suitcase? Or maybe I could—”

“Pack it, yes, but into a box and put it in the attic.” He continues his march. “I lost interest a long time ago, either way.”

You’re not dazed. You’re not confused. 

You’re broken hearted.

-

You would think that you would have learned by now. He loves you, damn it. He’s just having a tough time proving it, but it’s fine, stuff like this happens all the time.

“Hello, darling,” Carmen greets, pulling you away from your trance. The camera  pans over to Lance, Carlos, and Lando. She gingerly takes the spot next to you. “Feeling alright? Lost a bit of weight and color.” Her concern can’t be hidden behind even the tallest mountain. 

Been working out. London is gloomy all day long. Haven’t gotten proper Vitamin D. Looking down onto your lap, you twirl your fingers. Over and under, over and under, over and un—

Her hands feel warm against yours and you can’t help but flinch, instinctively needing to pull away, but she holds on tighter. Not even your boyfriend's hands have felt as warm as hers; not in a very long time. “You can talk to me. Anytime.” Eyes remain downward, watering, so, like most nights before bed, you blink them away. Hard, fast, and cruel. 

“Have you chosen the song you want to be for your guys’ first dance?”

She remains still for a second, focuses directly into your soul and you blink faster before she has a chance to decode you. She always did. “We have. My Funny Valentine. Hear this, Daniel wants to sing it. With a band and the whole thing. Nightmare.”

And you’re glad for having her stories to distract you from your feelings, because silly is what they are. Childish. False. It’s only until the end of the race where you two realize you hadn’t been paying attention. As soon as George walks in through those doors, he jumps up and down. “Hey. Top five!”

“That’s my boy!”

You feel like a creep watching them kiss with sweet emotion you can’t help but miss and crave. Your eyes flicker over to the flat screen T.V. and you’re shooting up from your seat. “Shit! I have to go!” 

He’s in the middle of a speech of some sort when you rush in gasping for air. Sheepishly, you wave, then scoot closer to Zak who gives you a quick side hug. Everyone claps and then he’s making his way to—

Not you. 

First it’s Zak, then he squeezes by. Then it’s his entire team. Then it’s Oscar. Then it’s Carlos, which is the last straw because he’s not even supposed to be here. “Mind if I squeeze in?” you squeak. The Spaniard shakes his head.

“Be my guest. I should leave anyway.” “Are you sure?” Lando quips. “Why don’t you stay?”

Brown pity eyes dance over to where you look down, then settle with a wobbly smile. “I, um…I actually have a few emails to respond to. Stay, Carlos.” It’s pathetic and embarrassing how he’s the only one who convinces you to stick around. Not even your own boyfriend. Though his hand remains by your side, it feels all for show, which it is because as soon as a few fans take a couple of pictures of you two, he finally retreats his arm.

Once the Ferrari driver finally jogs away, Lando turns to face you. “Where were you?”

“I was watching the race.” Your heart beats faster.

“Liar. Your lips just did the thing.” A halt. “What thing?”

“There! There it is again! You didn’t watch it, did you?”

Taking his palms into your own, you kiss them, feverishly. “I was, but then Carmen came over, and we started to talk, and then one thing led to another and…” Blue eyes stare down, empty. You grimace. “I’m so sorry, Lando. You got second place and I wasn’t there to celebrate. I’m so sorry.”

And perhaps he feels he already made you suffer enough with his ignorance, or maybe he was still high off his accomplishment, but it surprises you when he leans down to peck your forehead. “Just don’t let it happen again, yeah?”

You let out a breath of relief. “Pinky swear.”

He laughs, ruffling your hair. “Ah, see, I don’t believe in pinky promises.”

“Take my word for it then.”

He winks. “Good enough.”

-

I can’t believe we haven’t had a sunny day in weeks! Flipping over to face him, you pout. Weeks! That’s bonkers.

The Brit hums against his blankets, against you. It’s officially been a year since you two have been dating and it honestly felt surreal. Especially in moments like these. The kind where he was just yours. 

I tried to warn you.

You groan, pressing your cheek against his firm chest. His heartbeat is slow and steady, indicating he’s half asleep, indicating you were too awake. Indicating you should probably go to sleep, too. 

Guess I’ll just have to learn to live with it. 

Guess so.

You know…I sort of love it.

You say so because you haven’t lived here your whole life.

I could easily, you want to confess. If it’s with you, then yes, I can. But it’s too soon and you don’t want to scare him off. Not when things were a dream. Cloudy, sunny, rainy, sunshine—I don’t care. I have a good enough reason to stay. 

He vibrates due to his chuckle and you giggle due to his chuckle. Look at you being all cute.

Not trying to be cute, just speaking my truth. 

In one motion, he flips over you, hovering. You love it? Like truly? 

I love it. I truly love it.

Make me believe it.

Are my words not enough?

He grins, eyes crinkling. I’m more of a pinky promise type of guy.

You lift your small finger and he’s fast to wrap his own around it. Pinky swear. I love you and London.

And it was true. It was true for a while.

-

It all came crashing down on you, really. It was alarming, yet you had expected it. It was lonely, but survivable. It came in phases. You first noticed the doubt a bit after your third year anniversary, but no, he loves me. I know he does. 

But you were good at pushing it all away; far, far, and further. Until you couldn't think about it anymore, even if you tried. His acts were a suck punch, though. Everytime you started to heal and stand up, he only sent a new one. A stronger one. But, hey, no—he loves me. He only says it every night.

Like last Monday night. When he fucked you in his hotel room.

Or last Thursday. When he went down on you under the table.

Or Friday. When you sucked his cock in the shower.

All right before bed.

God, I fucking love you so much. Hot cum shoots down your throat and he groans like a madman. Love you so, so much. You can’t even begin to imagine. 

So, when your friends ask and check up on you, that's what you say. Yes, he reminds me everyday. He means it. Don’t worry, we’re doing better than ever.

The second comes in like a slap to the face. He had just done what you consider a low blow, but no—he’ll make up for it. He always does.

“Bullshit.” You blink your hot tears away. Carmen never—ever—curses. She’s too classy for any of that, so it’s almost funny to hear it now. But it’s not, not really. She sighs, rubbing her temples. You and your problems were stressing her out, God, how could you be so selfish?

“Forget I said anything. I’m being a fucking crybaby—”

“No. You’re not.” It seems like she’s choosing her choice of words, delicately. “You have every right to be upset. Every. Single. Right.”

And for the first time in a while, you feel completely seen. Heard. Understood. And that was a lot, but it must have been what you needed, because suddenly, you were spilling the ugly truth. The reason why you didn’t attend the last race. Or the one before that one. 

The reason why she and George found you clutching onto your chest that night in Vegas. Forgot my keys, you giggled. You two have fun! Don’t worry about me. 

Carmen is older, wiser, and so fucking mature. You love it. But you hate it because now that you sit here with more of an open mind and less defense, you blink like a lost kid at the grocery store. “You love him.”

A whimper. “I adore him.”

“A lot?”

“Infinitely.”

“But?”

Another whimper, louder this time, more wet. “He makes me sad sometimes. Is that normal?” “It is—” And it’s the delusion that always makes you stay. You’re quick to swallow it down, eager and fast. It’s all you need to hear. Carmen shakes her head. “But not to this extent. You get sad over them forgetting your favorite drink order, or when they forget to pack your heels.” An unwanted pause. The kind that gives you the room to overthink. “Not because they locked you out. Or because they forgot your anniversary.”

And she won’t admit—not when you were already so broken—but Lando hadn’t forgotten. 

She likes wine, fuck, she’s obsessed with that sparkly shit. Wine testing! We could go wine tasting and I could do it there. He twidles with the ring box. Is that good?

George raises a playful brow before releasing a laugh. It sounds great. As long as you have a nice place to take Instagram pictures, then you’re set to go. Chicks love that. Isn’t that right, love?

But she pinches her lips, forcing a smile to the younger Brit. Lando lets out a shaky breath. It’s about to be our four year anniversary—it’ll be perfect. I’ll make sure.

So, yes, she knows he loves you. But that still doesn’t make the way he treats you right. What kind of love was that? Sobbing loudly, you push your hair back. “But you don’t get it! When he’s good…” Her eyes soften and yours grows more glassy. “...he’s so good.”

“Is it worth the pain, though?”

-

The third one is the breaking point you had been avoiding for so long. The day started out gray, either way, and not just because of the dark London weather. Dragging your feet to the end of the bed, you tremble. You got the call at four a.m. and those are never good, so why were you shocked to hear from Benny’s son?

“Oh, baby…” He pulls you atop his lap, kissing your temple. “I know how much he meant to you.”

“I still owe him a surfboard. The expensive kind, too.” He quirks a confused brow, but you continue staring off into space. “They stole the last one. The one he always lent to me. His mom had gifted it to him.”

“When did this happen?” he questions, trying to keep you talking because that sounds like a good idea. To get your mind off things. 

You hum. “Last January; his birthday weekend.”

“Birthday weekend? I don’t recall—” “You weren’t there.” He doesn’t have to remember to know that’s true. It's become a habit of his nowadays and now he’s feeling guilty. Another hum, this time sadder than the prior. “He was going to teach you how to grill steak, just the way I like it.”

His stomach churns. “And how do you like it?” A beat. “I don’t remember. Ask Benny.” Then you’re crying like a newborn.Worse, actually. But he holds you through it all. So maybe this was do-able. He was nice, after all. You could stick with him forever and you’d be grateful. After what seems like a decade, you finally calm down, though your nose keeps runny. “The funeral is later this week. Are we going?” You were, with no fucking doubt, but you just wanted him to say it. There— on the tip of his tongue. You can spot it and he could taste it.

“Sweetheart…you know I have a race.” You didn’t expect him to drop everything and venture off with you, but this cut deep. Still, you understood. Plus, the proposal was ditched the moment you got the eerie call. So, yes, everything was unbalanced, but it wasn’t your guys’ fault. It was just a twist of fate. Nothing you couldn’t handle; you’ve dealt with worse.

“Right. I can go by myself.” He feels bad—you know he does—but anything, really? “You can write a letter, maybe? Just a couple of words for his family. I know it’ll mean a lot.”

He chuckles. And you should have known at that very moment because it wasn’t one you’ve heard before. “Why would I? I barely even knew the guy.”

“Excuse me?” 

The Brit continues tracing shapes onto your thigh. “I’m just saying! It sounds a bit weird coming from someone who spoke to him once. Twice at best.”

And you’re no longer dazed, no longer confused, no longer heartbroken. 

You’re just angry.

Pushing yourself off him, you glare coldly. “Barely even knew…the guy? We Skyped with him over dinner! You paid his bills! You fucking attended his sons wedding! How could you be so…fucked.”

“Sure… He was a sweet lad, but do you really think they want to hear from me?”

“Maybe not, maybe they don’t give a flying fuck, but I do. Remind me why I loved you!”

He’s up now. His heart quickens, pierces through his skin. “Loved?”

You sigh, clutching your chest. “Love. I said love.”

A huff. “No, you definitely spoke in past tense—do you not love me anymore?”

“Lando…” “No. Just be upfront with me, I can handle it. Tell me now so I don’t waste my time any longer.”

Every uncertainty you ever had, every word of advice Carmen has given you comes crashing down. She was right. He’s keeping you around for good fun. For his benefit. “Your time? What about mine? You’re the one who’s been blocking me out these past couple months!” “That’s not true—”

“Fuck, you’re right—this past year. God Lando! Haven’t you noticed how good I am at apologizing now? My zombie appearance? You left me out in the hallway! All because of what? Because I didn’t tell you I was going out with the girls?” A sour laugh. “Wake up—it’s 2024. Since when are you a shitty masochist?”

His jaw clenched. “I was worried about you! It was fucking Vegas, what was I supposed to do? And for the love of God, this again. I. Didn’t. Hear. You. Knock.”

A peach seed forms onto your chin. Skin is flushed and tears stream down your face. But he’s fine. He’s tall and firm Hard headed. Without an ounce of regret. And you want to do it. You want to make him feel what you’ve felt.

“I got my degree…”

“Woo-fucking-hoo, we’re not talking about that right now.”

“I lived a few good years, filled with pure happiness.”

He pauses. 

“But I see it now. Past all the gray clouds, I see it.” He can feel it coming and he’s desperate for you not to say it aloud, but you shrug it, face downward. “Nothing is holding me back to stay.”

His tone washes away like the Laguna waves as he gets closer to you, cradling your face. “Yes. Yes you do. You have me…”

“Lando, quit lying—I haven’t for a while now. I was just a trophy you didn’t want. One you got bored of.”

“That’s not—” “True?” A beat. “It is. And you know what also is? I don’t love you anymore.” The light in his eyes gave out, pitch black. He feels as if he’s going into cardiac arrest and you…you look at ease. Peaceful. Free. With a soft smile, you push his hands down. “I don’t think you love me anymore, either.”

“Don’t say that,” he pleads. “Please, don’t say that. Of course I love you.” Rushing over to his nightstand, he pulls out a box you only ever dreamt of. “You want proof—here! Take it! It’s yours anyways.”

“Where was this a year ago?” Opening the velvet box, you’re left with an inaudible gasp because of course it was gorgeous. And he feels a gist of hope when you place it onto your ring finger, but he slowly pales when it doesn’t fit.

“No. No. That’s your size. I know it is.” He takes it from you, analyzing it in an accusing manner. “I swear it was, I pinky…” The heater kicks on. “I swear.”

“It’s alright. This is the right ring…just not for me.” It shouldn’t affect you to see his cheeks grow splotchy, to hear his voice tremble like a kid who just skinned his knee against the pavement. But he was once your other half, so it does. 

“I don’t want you to go…”

“I don’t either. I loved being here.”

“Then stay.” You purse your lips, then scrunch your nose. “It doesn’t love me, though. And I can’t go unwanted.”

If we start saving enough money then we could buy the house—you know—the one close enough to drive to your parents? Sweet, no?

Won’t they hear us fuck? 

Ew, gross. No. I’d tape your mouth before I let that happen. You pinch his ear. This is your home.

And SoCal is yours, so why don’t we move there?

Because I don’t want to. I want to be with you and the people you love, in the place you love. Because I love you and I love the people you love, and I love London. 

You’re quite literally perfect. I hope you know.

You make it clear everyday. 

And I won’t ever stop. Because you deserve to know.

“This place is cold, the way you said it was. This place is gloomy, the way you said it was. But this place isn’t a home to me anymore…the way I once thought it was.”

Should he have been more careful—more caring—then he wouldn’t be here. This wouldn’t be happening, but it is. And it’s no one’s fault but his.

Sniffing, you rub your swollen eyes. “I’m going to pack my things and go to Benny’s funeral.” It's a declaration. He nods, attentively. “And I’m not coming back. Is that okay?”

No. It wasn’t okay. You’re tearing him in half, you’re stabbing his heart over and over again. You’re telling the truth and putting yourself first. Something he was awful at doing. What brought you two to this very moment in time.

“I’m so sorry. I’m sorry I treated you the way I did.” I love you. “But if that’s your decision, then go on. Do what you need to do.” I love you. 

“Good.” I love you. But I can’t say it aloud if not I’d stay forever. 

You smile and he smiles back.

“Good.”

taglist: @blueflorals @starmanv @coolio2195 @lovrsm @weekendlusting@chanshintien @brune77e @myownwritings @timmychalametsstuff @milasexutoire@alesainz @c-losur3 @darleneslane @togazzo @urfavnoirette @namgification @lpab @d3kstar @anniee-mr @nebarious

[joelmillerisapunk]

bad idea, right?

Dad's boss!Joel Miller x Reader

masterlist

↳ wordcount: 1,628

↳ summary: The thrill of sneaking around and the intense physical pleasure are difficult to forget, but the guilt and shame that accompany them can not be ignored. You find yourself questioning whether your actions were justified and whether you should risk it again.

↳ warnings: 18 unprotected p in v, sneaky public sex.

↳ notes: hiiii! I wrote this in about 30 minutes this morning because that first picture got in my head. I hope you enjoy! lemme know what you think 💋

You pull up to the construction site in your old beat-up truck, the same one your dad used to drive before he started working for Joel Miller. The sun is high in the sky, casting a warm glow over the dusty site. You can see your dad, hard at work, operating one of the heavy machinery machines. You take a deep breath, gathering your courage to make your way over to him.

As you step out of the truck, you notice Joel standing near one of the half-built buildings, talking to one of the workers. You can't help but admire him from afar. His broad shoulders look like they could through his t-shirt at any moment, his hair pushed back, revealing his sharp jawline. You've had a crush on him since the first day your dad brought you to the site to look around, but you never had the guts to talk to him.

But today is different.

You grab the thermos of coffee and the bag of sandwiches from the passenger seat and start making your way towards your dad. As you approach, Joel notices you and gives you a friendly wave.

"Hey there, kiddo," he says, his voice deep and gravelly. "Your dad's inside that building over there. I'm sure he could use a break."

You nod, handing him the thermos. "Coffee?"

He grins, taking the thermos from your hand. "You're a lifesaver. Thanks."

You feel warm, mumbling a response before quickly turning and walking away. You can feel Joel's eyes on you as you make your way over to your dad, your heart pounding in your chest.

After a few minutes of chatting with your dad, you decide to take a walk around the site. You've always been fascinated by the construction process, and you love exploring the different areas of the site. You wander around and without thinking, you find yourself wandering towards the building Joel disappeared into earlier. As you approach, you can hear the sound of hammering coming from inside. You push open the door, your heart racing as you step inside.

The room is dimly lit, with patches of sunlight streaming in through the windows. Joel is standing in the corner, his hair damp with sweat, his muscles glistening in the sunlight. He looks up as you enter, a wicked grin spreading across his face.

"Well, well, well. Look who decided to join me,” he sets down the hammer he's been using and walks over to you, a mischievous glint in his eye. "I'm glad you decided to come find me."

You feel your cheeks flush as he steps closer, close enough that you can feel the heat radiating off his body. "I... I wasn't looking for you," you stammer, your heart pounding in my chest.

Joel just laughs, a deep, rumbling sound that sends shivers down your spine. "Sure you weren't," he says, his eyes sparkling with amusement. "But I'm glad you're here anyway. I didn't take you for the type to sneak around and explore abandoned buildings," he says, his voice teasing.

"Oh, I was, uh, just curious," you mumble, looking down at the ground.

Joel chuckles, his fingers gently lifting your chin so that you're looking at him. "I like curious," he says, his voice full of mischief. His body is just inches away from yours. You can feel the heat radiating off him, making your heart race even faster. Joel reaches out, gently pushing a strand of hair out of your face. His fingers linger on your cheek, sending shivers down your spine.

"You're so beautiful, you know that?" his eyes locked on yours.

You can feel your entire body heating up, you look down at the ground. Joel's hand moves to your arm, gently squeezing it.

"Hey, look at me," he says, his voice soft and soothing.

You look up, meeting his gaze. Joel's eyes are full of desire, making your heart race even faster. He leans in, his lips brushing against yours. You gasp, your body trembling with desire. His hands move to your hips, pulling you closer to him. You can feel his arousal pressing against you, making your heart race even faster. He deepens the kiss, his tongue exploring your mouth as his hands continue to roam.

"I want you," he murmurs, his lips against your ear. "Here, now."

You moan with pleasure, your body trembling with desire. You know it's wrong, but you can't resist the temptation.

Joel leads you to a corner of the building, his hands gently caressing your body as he undresses you. You gasp as his fingers enter you. Joel's hands are gentle but firm, exploring your body with a skill that leaves you breathless.

Joel's hands move to your breasts, his fingers gently teasing your nipples. "You like that?" You nod, your breath hitching in your throat. Joel's fingers move lower, gently teasing your clit. All you can do is moan, he leaves you speechless. Joel's other hand pulls his pants and boxers down to his ankles, just far enough to free his erection, giving him just enough room to move.

You gasp as Joel’s girthy length enters past your wet folds and snuggles into your tight walls, he begins to move, his hips thrusting against yours. His fingers continue to tease your clit, sending waves of pleasure coursing through your body. And ust as you're about to reach your climax, you hear the sound of footsteps outside the building. You freeze, your heart racing in your chest. Joel's fingers still, his body tensing as he listens. The footsteps get closer, and you can hear the sound of a worker's voice talking on the phone. Your heart races as you realize that you're about to get caught.

But Joel doesn't seem phased. He gently pulls out of you, his fingers stilling as he reaches for his pants. He pulls them up, his movements quick and smooth. You quickly fix your clothes, your heart still racing in your chest. Joel gives you a reassuring smile, his hand gently squeezing yours.

"Don't worry, we're good,"

You nod, trying to steady your breathing. Joel's hand stays on yours, leading you to the corner of the building, hiding you from the worker's view. The worker walks by, not noticing the two of you hiding in the corner. Joel's hand stays on yours, his thumb gently caressing your skin.

As the worker disappears out of sight, Joel turns to you, his eyes full of desire. "Where were we?" he murmurs, his lips brushing against yours.

You moan as Joel's fingers begin to move again. You know that you're taking a risk, but the pleasure he gives you is too strong to resist.

Joel leads you back to the corner, his hands gently caressing your body as he undresses you once again.

"Sweet jesus you're so beautiful, I can't resist you."

You gasp as Joel enters you once again, his movements slow and deliberate as he takes his time exploring your body. His fingers move to your clit, gently teasing the sensitive bundle of nerves as he thrusts his hips against yours.

"Good girl, takin’ my cock so good arent’cha?" he murmurs, his breath hot against your skin.

You nod, your breath hitching in your throat as Joel increases his pace. His fingers move faster, matching the rhythm of his hips as he drives you closer and closer to the edge.

"I want you to come for me," he growls, his teeth grazing your ear. "I want to feel you trembling beneath me."

“fuck, im so close,” your bodys trembling with pleasure as Joel's fingers work their magic. You can feel the tension building inside you, your climax just within reach. "Yes, yes, yes," you chant, your voice barely above a whisper.

Joel's fingers move faster, his hips thrusting harder as he drives you over the edge. You cry out, your body trembling with pleasure as waves of ecstasy wash over you.

Joel follows close behind, his body tenses as he reaches his climax, his hips thrusting harder as he drives himself deeper inside of you. You can feel the heat of his release, the sensation sending waves of pleasure coursing through your own body.

Joel collapses against you, his body trembling with the aftershocks of his orgasm. His breath is hot against your skin, his lips brushing against your neck as he tries to catch his breath.

You can feel his heart racing, matching the rhythm of your own as you come down from your own high. Joel's hands are still on your hips, his fingers gently caressing your skin as he tries to steady himself.

"You're incredible," he murmurs, his lips brushing against your ear. "I can't get enough of you.”

Joel slowly pulls out, and you instantly feel a pang of longing for him. You feel shy all the sudden, looking down at the ground. Joel's hand moves to your chin, gently lifting it so that you're looking at him.

"Hey, don't be shy," he says, his voice full of warmth and affection. "That was perfect, and I want to do it again."

You smile, feeling your cheeks flush with pleasure. Joel's hand moves to your waist, pulling you closer to him.

"I want to see you again," his lips brushing against yours.

You nod, your heart racing in your chest. "I want that too," you say, your voice barely above a whisper.

Joel grins, his hand gently squeezing yours. "Good," he says, his thumb gently caressing your skin.

As you dress yourself, you can't help but feel a sense of guilt and shame wash over you. But the memory of the pleasure Joel gave you is too strong to resist, and you know that you'll be back for more.

[ghosts-cyphera]

Harder.

╰﹒ sometimes a slip of Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley’s hand is all the push you need.

content/warnings: swearing and suggestiveness; gn!reader; wc: 1k

a/n: gods, it's been years since I've last posted my stories online, but I couldn't sleep after playing CoD and... well. those who get it, get it. feedback and requests are welcome! ♡

Your feet pounded the cement as you ran through the cargo hold, finding security from the midst of the rusty metal containers.

All around you shouts and calls erupted from your friends' lips—some followed by warm laughs, others by deep curses, as the Task Force 141 submerged into the practice session.

"Gaz, do you copy?" The call passed your lips as a warm chuckle, as you crouched behind an oil container. "I've just gotten Soap's dog tags."

"Oh, I know." The reply was spoken with a laugh. "He's sent Ghost to come and find you. Fuckin' dumb on his part, considering that—"

"His tags are the last ones we need to win." You nodded your head. "Any visual on him? The last I've seen him was when he swiped poor fucking Roach off his—"

"I only needed his dog tags, didn't I?"

You grinned at the deep voice echoing from the other side of the container. You should have focused on listening to him approaching, but then, when did you ever really hear him coming?

"Funny," you chuckled back at the man, as you planted your feet steadier against the ground, careful to not make a sound. "You see, Lieutenant, your tags are exactly what I need. So why don't you just go ahead and toss them to me? We can take it real nice and easy."

"'Cause that's how you fuckin' like it, eh?"

You could hear the laughter in his voice, slightly breathless from the time spent dashing around under the scorching sun. Just moments before you had cursed the heat under your breath as you'd felt the pearls of sweat rolling down your forehead. Running in full gear tended to get to the fittest of the force, yet it did have its benefits, too.

Benefits, such as the sound of Ghost's vest brushing against the metal of the container. At your ear level, right around the corner to your right.

You wet your lips with your grin. "Want me to show you just how I like it, Lt.?"

"Darlin', you and I both know that I can read you like an open fuckin' book."

You could hear the brush of his vest against the metal again, as he moved closer to you. You knew he was out of paint-ammo: Gaz had gotten away with his tags from mere luck only moments prior, which meant that you had the higher ground. The moment he moved to lunge at you, could take him down with a single pull of the trigger, and grab his tags off his soon-to-be paint-covered vest.

Yet what was the fun in that?

With an arched brow, you laid your gun on the pavement. The screech of it against the ground, as you kicked it out of both your reaches, did not go unnoticed by Ghost.

”Sure you wanna do that, love?”

"Just to make it fair and square," you chuckled.

"You know I can't just kick off half my fucking body, yeah?"

"Wasn't it just this morning that I wiped the floors with your—"

A gasp and a curse were all you could manage, as your back collided with the hard cement of the ground. Handling the shock of the impact was one thing, but seeing him towering over you, fucking victorious, was another pill to swallow.

"Jesus fuck, Ghost." Despite your voice being a mere pained groan, you could not shake off the laughter from your features: the same laughter that glimmered in his eyes. "You know we're just fucking practicing, right?"

"I know. But you see, whatever the fuck it was that you said about takin' it nice and fuckin' easy—," he chuckled, as he crouched by you, "just doesn't do it for me. So what do you say I take these…"

His skeleton-patterned gloves reached for the chain around your neck, and just as you rolled your eyes at the certainty of your team having lost over you letting down your guard, the events began to unfold.

Whether it was from his finger slipping on your glistening skin, or from you turning your head at the exact wrong moment—perhaps it was from the combination of both—his hand did not wrap around the chain of your dog tags.

Instead, Ghost's fingers wrapped around your throat.

One moment he was sure of the victory of his team. Next, his brain could not function. For there you fucking were, on your back with your eyes slightly widened and lips parted, and his hand—his goddamn gloved hand around your throat from all the fucking places.

The worst of it all was not the wave of embarrassment that flushed through him. The worst of it was how fucking good you looked.

Yet he knew.

He knew.

No, he should have known better than to let his guard down: to allow himself to get distracted by the tug of the corners of your lips, as you tilted your head ever so slightly, chest rising and falling with your heavy breaths, your eyes fucking twinkling. 

Yet as the fingers of your hand rested on his and the word passed your lips, fucking pretty, who could blame him?

"Harder."

To hell and fucking above. From your breathless request, his lips parted involuntarily under his mask. To say what, he did not know: plead, maybe, for the first time in his life.

No, it wasn't pleading and begging you wanted from him, was it? Quite the fucking opposite.

No. Focus.

Fucking focus, Lt.

Using the fleeing moment of his racing thoughts to your advantage, you pushed off the ground and brought your knife—sheathed—to his throat. The twinkle in your eyes was brighter than ever, and as you laughed, the sound was all but menacing.

"Really, Ghost?"

"Don't even fucking begin," he cursed, breathless, as your fingers wrapped around the chain around his neck, and tugged off the dog tags. 

Yet as long as he had tried to deny it, it was not the slight touch of humiliation of having lost that made his head spin. You—he wet his lips, as he watched you twirling the tags around your finger—were going to be the goddamn death of him, and for one reason or another, he was ready to welcome it with open fucking arms.

“Ready for round two, sarge?” His chuckle was deep as you tossed his dog tags back to him, your eyes twinkling with challenge. “You know, I’m not gonna take it fuckin’ easy on you now.”

“Oh, that’s mutual, Lt.” 

That—Ghost wet his lips with a chuckle—that he was fucking counting on.

[satoruhour]

a/n: fluff today! about 1k <3 domestic mornings (afternoons) with satoru always my fav to write about. pls support this as much as my smut works ty 💟 !! / @crysugu @hyomagiri @satohruu @shotorus @greycaelum

by now, it’s late in the afternoon so much so that you’re sure the blinds are hot to the touch from the harsh rays of Amaterasu and her blessings of another bright, hot day. it’s normal in tokyo to wake up to warm sheets and a throat desperate for some water but you’ve learned to avoid it by setting an earlier alarm — take a morning shower, make some tea and grab a book.

satoru, not so much.

he likes to whine a lot when he first stirs, a plethora of sounds that leave him at how he can’t feel your warmth in his arms (“you’d be complaining even more about the heat if i was, you idiot.”), sometimes about the morning being too bright (“mister, it is twelve thirty-four right now.”) and mostly about sweat. today he decides to do all three.

gojo mumbles something incoherent when you accidentally nudge your legs into his, a childish whine how he missed you. “baby, i’m right h—”

“yeah, but . . oh, jesus christ,” his voice is awfully loud when he complains about the rays. “why is it so bright?”

“sun—”

and like always, in classic gojo satoru fashion, he never really lets you finish.

“oh eeewwugh . . i’m so sweaty,” your boyfriend has reached full consciousness by now and if it wasn’t the morning perhaps you’d think he was drunk from how dramatic he was being.

“you literally live in a penthouse, stupid, just go take a shower in one of your bathrooms.” and you go right back to your story. at the corner of your eye you can hear him pouting, crawling up to you and resting his chin on your thighs as he reads the synopsis of your book. satoru blows a raspberry, which you can feel on your hand and the spittle from his mouth makes you sigh; you think it’s due time to give your boyfriend some attention.

“story sounds boring,” you roll your eyes and put it to the side and the reveal of his stupidly cute face almost makes you cave. there’s a deep frown on his face because you’re insulting him so early in the morning and thinking your book is better than him, when really you’re just trying your best to reach your quota before book club saturday. eventually, you do give in after reading the starting sentences of chapter 18 over and over again and frankly digesting nothing, thinking only now of his body wash on your body.

it hasn’t exactly sunk in how you manage to be dating the gojo satoru, with all his cheeky smiles and inappropriate jokes (and timing too), that you are the only one to see him like this in the morning: all not what people says he is and yet he doesn’t hide it one bit from you. why is there any need to?

it’s you.

“don’t frown, ’toru,” you mumble, fingers that were previously turning pieces of paper now smoothen out the furrow of his eyebrows and the tautness of his expression. they’re soft against his skin, and while he’d like to commend it to the body wash he uses he thinks it’s just because it’s you. every inch of you is soft but not without good measure. you still stand up for yourself and sometimes your feet walk a little too much and he can feel the callouses on the balls of your feet when you accidently shock him under the duvet.

you are soft in the way you feel against him, whether it’s when you ask meekly for a kiss and when you hum under the scorching shower water as he lathers your body. you are soft when you laugh loudly and you have to squeeze his hand as you slap his back with the other, and other times soft as you chastise him for buying yet another big stock of your favourite strawberries.

soft is strong, attractive in satoru’s book, because even when your love resembles the first breath of hypnos, it still pulls and tugs and yanks at his heart to drown in you like a siren luring a sailor; right into the depths of the darkening sea where he’d let you take him anywhere even if it meant travelling blind.

“done sulking?” you asked as a mutter, hands now cupping his cheeks that possibly hold all of gojo’s cracks and insecurities and feelings together. they bring him up gently, sweaty back now quelled momentarily with a strong draft from the windows and it’s like his soul reaches the highest point of existence like he did eleven years ago.

you kiss him gently, lips moving in tandem with his as your hands lose themselves over his body and you huff in surprise when he straddles you. long body hunching over yours as you chase his lips like riko after stingrays and you both after suguru and him after a reformed jujutsu society and—

“whew.” is all he says when he pulls away and you’re equally out of breath and gojo swiftly switches your positions. there’s a big grin on his face from the attention you finally give him, “you love me, huh?”

you roll your eyes again at the stupid, harmless comment, shutting him up effectively when you lean down again and kiss him rougher this time, feeling his wet palms span the expanse of your back and up your shirt. gojo sits up and you follow like choreography, moaning softly when he tugs you closer and suddenly you think you should’ve made yourself a cup of cold tea instead.

“i love you,” it’s a whisper against your lips and you have influenced so much of satoru that he is also soft, “i love you so goddamn much.” you nod back, pulling away lightly and you swear you see okinawa again in his irises. they look just as beautiful as the day he lost his youth and gained wisdom and you still love him the same.

“i love you more than my book, promise.” you quip, forehead against his and eyes mapping out each lagoon to pond to sea in the multiplying blues of his eyes — they seem only to do that when he’s with you.

“you better!” he laughs softly into your mouth and he can taste the tiramisu from yesterday on your lips, and you can taste his intoxicating smile. the absence of you, the sunlight and the heat doesn’t matter much to satoru now, and will settle for being soft in the sheets of cloud nine. satoru will make you forget about the tea you’ve woken up early to make and all the nuances of the characters of your book and maybe the slowly rotting strawberries (you might still eat them).

“you better . .” it’s like a plea the way he repeats it but his doubts are silenced once you mumble i do against his skin like a promise, a vow, and satoru then decides he cannot wait to see you from across an aisle.

yeah, soft laced white would look terribly beautiful on you.

♡

[storiesforallfandoms]

i don’t ever wanna see you with him ~ roman godfrey;hemlock grove

word count: 2551

request?: no

description: after he gets jealous of her best male friend, she decides to put him in his place

pairing: roman godfrey x female!reader

warnings: swearing

masterlist (one, two, three)

Roman Godfrey was spoiled and entitled. Everyone in Hemlock Grove knew that. He was the heir to the massive empire in their small town, so it wasn’t a surprise that he had a sense of entitlement. That entitlement tended to extend to his romantic relationships, too. Roman was often very possessive and jealous over his girlfriends. Most of them liked that, most of them viewed it as hot and endearing.

(Y/N) was not one of those girls.

She and Roman had met through (Y/N)’s best friend, Peter. He was enamored with her the minute he laid his eyes on her, and, secretly, (Y/N) had felt the same way. Not that she would ever tell him that. She had been warned about Roman before she met him. She wasn’t about to give into him so easily; she made him work for it - for her. And he really did put in the work until (Y/N) trusted his commitment to her and agreed to date him.

There was one issue about Roman, though, and that was his jealousy towards (Y/N) and Peter’s friendship. He thought he kept it lowkey, but both Peter and (Y/N) knew. They both knew Roman better than he thought they did. They could see when his eyes darkened whenever he looked at them. They could see his jaw tighten whenever (Y/N) laughed at something Peter said. They could see the way Roman always needed to be touching (Y/N) whenever the three of them were hanging out.

It wasn’t that Roman didn’t like Peter. When it was just the two of them, they were the best of friends. It was Peter with (Y/N) that Roman didn’t like. And that was what pissed (Y/N) off. Peter had been her friend long before he was Roman’s, and long before Roman and (Y/N) started dating. And that’s all they were - friends. There had never been any sort of romantic feelings between them, and there never would be.

That’s why (Y/N) was walking up to Peter’s trailer on her own on a sunny afternoon. He was laying in a hammock, his eyes closed as he soaked up the sun. Upon hearing her footsteps, he opened one eye and peered over at her.

“Where’s your shadow?” he asked.

(Y/N) rolled her eyes. “He’s not that attached to me.”

“He may as well be a wart on your ass, (Y/N). Especially when it comes to me.”

“He’s certainly a pain in my ass,” (Y/N) muttered. “Move over, I want some hammock.”

Peter chuckled and shuffled over slightly. (Y/N) got into the hammock, laying with her feet towards Peter’s head and her head towards his feet. The hammock swayed with the motions before it settled again.

“He doesn’t know I’m here,” (Y/N) said as her body relaxed into the swaying fabric.

“What?” Peter asked.

“Roman. I didn’t tell him I was coming.”

“Is that healthy? Like, for your relationship.”

“I didn’t lie to him or anything. He’s busy with some family shit, so I haven’t even heard from him yet today. If he were to ask, I’d tell him I’m here.”

“And then he’d show up and kick my ass.”

(Y/N) sighed and rested her head back against the hammock. “Do you think he’ll ever stop being so...”

“So Roman?” Peter finished. (Y/N) nodded. “It’s hard to tell. His entire life he’s been surrounded by enablers, or he’s been under the control of his insane mother. I think we’re the first people to treat him like an actual person and not like he owns the world. So either we could help him, or he’ll annoy us both to a point where we can’t deal with him anymore.”

The latter option was what worried (Y/N) the most. She loved Roman, other than his jealousy he was an amazing boyfriend who loved and cared for her so deeply. She didn’t want to lose him, but she knew Peter had a point about if Roman couldn’t control that jealousy. She couldn’t live the rest of her life wondering how Roman was going to react to every guy she interacted with, whether it was friends, co-workers, or just random guys she ran into on the street. And she definitely was not going to be made to choose between Roman and Peter when she had known and been friends with Peter the longest.

She didn’t say anything, but she didn’t have to. Peter knew what she was thinking. It wasn’t the first time they had this conversation.

They fell into a comfortable silence. There really didn’t need to be any conversation. This was the first time in quite some time that the two were able to spend time together and actually enjoy it. So that’s what they were doing: enjoying their time.

The enjoyment didn’t last too long, though, as they heard a car pulling up in front of Peter’s place. Peter’s mom’s car was already in the driveway, so there was only one person it could be. That suspicion was confirmed by a car door slamming and Peter rolling his eyes when he saw whoever it was approaching. (Y/N) huffed out a sigh as she prepared herself for the argument that was undoubtably coming.

“You two look comfy,” Roman commented.

“We are,” Peter responded. “Wanna join? you can lay across us.”

Roman glared at him before turning to (Y/N). “I was trying to call you. Why haven’t you been answering your phone?”

She looked down at her purse where her phone was, which she had left on the ground when she climbed into the hammock. She gestured to it. “It’s too far away for me to reach. And my phone is on vibrate, as it always is, and you know that.”

His jaw clenched. (Y/N) felt her frustration reaching its peak.

“Why didn’t you tell me you were coming here?” Roman asked.

“Well, for one, you haven’t responded to my texts at all today, so it’s not like I’ve even been talking to you today,” (Y/N) retorted. “And two, you don’t own me, Roman. I’m not required to tell you every single thing I’m doing or where I’m going.”

“You do if you’re hanging out with other guys by yourself.”

(Y/N) swung her legs over the side of the hammock and stood up so quickly that Peter nearly flipped out of it. She approached Roman with such ferocity that Roman took a step back before she reached him.

“Let me tell you one thing, Roman Godfrey: I’m done with this jealousy bullshit. I am not your property, I am your girlfriend. You do not control where I go or who I’m friends with. Especially when the person in question is my best friend who I’ve known way before I met you. This dark, entitled rich boy bullshit might work on other girls in this town, but it’s not working on me. If you want someone to put up with that, then you may as well find someone else to be your girlfriend, cause I can’t do this anymore.”

She picked up her purse and put it over her shoulder.

“Where are you going?” Roman asked as she started walking away.

“Anywhere that’s away from you!” she hissed. Over her shoulder she added, “I’ll talk to you later, Peter.”

~~~~~~

(Y/N) was home by herself that night. Her parents had gone out to some kind of function, and had asked if she wanted to tag along, but she told them to go on without her. She felt like she needed some time alone to come to terms with what had happened that day.

Peter had texted her asking if she was okay, but she hadn’t responded. She wasn’t upset with him by any means, as he didn’t even do anything wrong, but she just felt like she didn’t want to talk just yet. When she did respond, it was going to be to tell him she wanted to forget everything that had happened that day and to move on as if everything was normal, minus the fact that she and Roman were no longer together.

Roman hadn’t texted or called at all. She wasn’t sure if it hurt more that he hadn’t, or if it had hurt less.

She was sat in the living room, half paying attention to some movie that was playing on TV, when a knock came at the door. The sudden sound startled (Y/N). She wasn’t expecting anyone, and she knew her parents weren’t either as they weren’t even home. She figured it might be a door to door salesman, or someone trying to talk to her about the Lord, although it seemed too late at night for any of that. Either way, she stood from the couch and went to answer the door.

Standing there, leaning against her doorway, was Roman Godfrey.

“What are you doing here?” she asked him.

“Can I come in?” he asked in return.

“Not until you answer my question.”

“I came to talk to you.”

“You have a phone, which I know you know how to use because you were blowing mine up before you came to attack me and Peter.”

“I wanted to come talk to you in person. You’d be more likely to answer the door if you didn’t know I was coming than to answer your phone if you knew it was me calling.”

Okay, he has a point.

(Y/N) reluctantly stepped aside and gestured for Roman to come in. She closed the door behind him and led him towards the living room. She had been sat with all the lights off before Roman knocked and hadn’t realized just how dark the room had become. She switched on a small table lamp and muted the movie before sitting back in her spot on the couch.

“Your parents aren’t home?” Roman asked.

“No, they’re gone to some gala for dad’s work,” she responded. “Don’t get any funny ideas. We’re not together anymore, remember?”

Roman winced, as if her words had physically harmed him. “Yeah, I know. That’s what I came to talk about.”

He sat down next to her on the couch, but left a respectable distance between them. She appreciated that it seemed like he wasn’t trying to be too pushy towards her or anything, at least not yet.

“Go on then,” she said, waving her hand at him. “Start talking. What was so important that you had to come down from your castle to speak to the commoner?”

Roman scowled at her. “You know you’re not a commoner.”

“Compared to you and your wealth I am. But that’s not the conversation we’re having right now. Whatever it is you wanted to say, say it, and then I’ll decide whether or not I want you to leave immediately.”

Roman sighed and ran his hands through his hair. (Y/N) quickly glanced at the dark brown strands that were between his fingers. His hair was always incredibly soft. (Y/N) always loved to run her hands through his hair and seized every opportunity to do so. She had to look away just as quickly and shove down those painful memories. She couldn’t let herself break and go back to him just because of something so trivial.

“I’m sorry.”

The words shocked (Y/N) so much that she almost physically jumped when he said them. They were words she had very rarely ever heard said with such sincerity coming from Roman’s mouth. She had heard it in sarcastic mutters under his breath whenever his mother chastised him for something stupid, or said to defuse a situation that was getting a little too heated, but this wasn’t in either of those ways. This time, he actually meant it.

“Can you say that again?” (Y/N) asked.

Roman chuckled and rolled his eyes. “I said I’m sorry.”

“One more time.”

“(Y/N), I do have more to say.”

“Yeah, but this is what I want to hear.”

Roman shook his head at her, a smile threatening to break out across his face. “Look, what you said earlier, at Peter’s, you were right. You are my girlfriend, not my property. I shouldn’t have been so possessive and attempting to control your friendship with Peter. I just...every time you two are together, I’m reminded about the fact that you and Peter are close, and that you’ve been close for a very long time. I know that Peter isn’t as much of a prick as I am, some would say he’s an actual nice guy I guess. I know there’s nothing between the two of you, but there’s always been this fear in the back of my mind that maybe...maybe that could change. That you would want Peter more than you want me.”

There was hurt in his big green eyes. His confession surprised her because Roman always seemed so confident in himself. It was one of the first things she had ever heard about him, about how cocky he was.

“Why did you never tell me before?” she asked.

Roman shrugged. “I don’t know. I didn’t want to seem like a crazy, possessive boyfriend. I didn’t realize I had already been acting like that. I actually thought I was hiding it well.”

“Yeah, because showing up to Peter’s place because I didn’t answer my phone is totally not a crazy, jealous boyfriend move.”

He chuckled. “Okay, touché. That was not one of my better moments.”

“None of how you were acting was one of your better moments,” (Y/N) said. “I would’ve much preferred you to have told me how you were feeling instead of bottling them up and allowing yourself to treat your best friend like garbage whenever we were hanging out.”

Roman cringed. “I did treat Peter pretty terribly, didn’t I? God, he probably hates me.”

“You’re definitely not his favorite person right now, but I’m sure you can get back in his good graces by acting like an actual person and not like a jealous piece of shit.”

“What about your good graces?”

(Y/N) thought to herself for a moment. He had come to apologize in person. He knew the way he had acted was wrong, he actually apologized for it, and it seemed like he was willing to make a change. That’s what she wanted, wasn’t it? For him to work on the jealousy and actually change it.

“I think you can get back there,” she said. “You’ll just have to work for it again.”

“I’ll do whatever it takes.”

(Y/N) smiled. She moved closer towards him and unmuted the movie. “You can start by cuddling me and finishing this bullshit movie with me.”

He smiled back at her and put his arm around her shoulder. “I can do that. But why are we finishing the movie if it’s bullshit?”

“Because I’m invested in the bullshit.”

Roman chuckled and pulled (Y/N) towards him. She rested her head against his shoulder and he put his head on hers. He tested the waters by placing a kiss on the top of her head. (Y/N) didn’t argue. Instead, she turned her head to kiss his cheek before settling against him again.

[setsugekka]

❥the sun will rise, and we will try again (m)

↳ Minho would tell himself everyday that it was good enough. That he was happy enough. Content enough. Alive just enough.

He chose you over himself, you just never really knew it.

lee minho x fem!reader — friends to lovers, unrequited love, angst, porn with plot, explicit sexual content. [11,6k wc] cws: heavy pining, alcohol consumption, sexual activity under the influence, penetrative sex (unprotected), some light teasing.

Minho has never been sure whether to curse or be forever indebted to his eidetic memory.

On one hand, it made school a breeze, and the majority of his career prospects thereafter similarly simplified. Not that he had taken any of them truly to heart, obviously — given the fact that he had followed you all of the way to another country for not much reason beyond feeling like it.

That’s what he said, that’s always what he would say.

But it’s his eidetic memory that has such a particular way in proposing his suffering. He deliberates that he may always remember exactly what it was that you were wearing that night, and precisely the food stands that surrounded the two of you at that moment in time. It’s been three years since that night and the two of you had attended the Christmas festival each and every time — the same one, same location — and sure, the shop locations and snack booths change year after year; the only constant being the large glühwein stand in the middle of the festival which served as the prime meeting spot for all of the attendees.

A large windmill-looking contraption, seats strewn about as far as one could see and people at every inch of one another — laughing, smiling.

Loving.

And Minho remembers this night in particular because it was the first year that the two of you had moved to Germany together — you for school and Minho for…his own reasons. Years later and of all of the things he does remember, he’s not sure he recalls whichever lie it was that he had told you about why it was that he chose to move to another country with you; the only thing that was for sure, is that whatever he said was not the truth.

Long, tan coat with a burgundy scarf accenting colorfully, Minho remembers watching the way you struggled to hold the strap of your bag up and on your shoulder as you juggled a glass of glühwein in one hand, and your change in euros in another — realizing that dealing in cash was a rather distinctly Berlin sort of thing that would certainly take some getting used to — but taking your bag and slinging it over his shoulder, hearing the desperate exhale of a “thank you” escaping from your lips as if freedom had surely been assumed to never come — he pulls the polaroid camera out from the main pocket and smiles with just the left corner of his mouth, holding it up and dangling it in front of you. “Shall we? Commemorate the move?”

Minho takes one of the two of you together, you snuggled up into his arm next to him in an attempt to fit into the frame — he takes another — and then for the third one, it’s the moment he’ll certainly never forget for as long as he lives, he truly believes that.

The way your arms wrapped around his own in the instant and warm lips pressed to the skin of his cheek just as he takes the photograph. It became quite a topic of humor once the film developed — the look of shock on Minho’s face at the sudden realization of what had physically occurred. And emotionally.

Minho knows that he was in love with you long before that moment — and well aware of it at the time, as well. Figure one would have to be to move to another country just to be around a person — and sure, the two of you were friends and had been for a good while prior but…it was a big change, a huge leap of faith. Minho thinks, his final shot at what could be the rest of his life.

And it was an easy choice for him. A man with no particular ties to home and a hunger for adventure — for seeing, doing, experiencing. Despite having never even been to Germany prior, he found himself now uprooting his entire life to go live there for however long it took. Whatever it was, at least. Acknowledgment? Acceptance? Love? Loss? Minho figured that at the end of this, he would have some answer, and may as well get to experience life while he was at it.

Although, perhaps choosing to live together wasn’t the best option, given the circumstances. His circumstances. Not to be confused with circumstances that the two of you were equally and equivocally involved in and aware of. He was well aware that his feelings were one-sided.

Until they weren’t.

It’s another moment in time in which his photographic memory deserts him in the most cruel ways. All of the test taking and number crunching in the world that served him well, only to betray him like a dagger straight to the heart. A scene that he can’t stop replaying in his mind even still. It’s been years. 

For the most part, Minho has learned to let go — to move on. Minho has learned to be precisely what you need him to be in your life — crushing and deforming himself to fit into the exact mold that you find ideal at any point in time. A friend. A companion.

After two and a half months of perfect dating bliss (if you were to ask him, of course) he still remembers the way you smiled at him — pathetically, like you were cooing at a puppy who wasn’t able to get it’s way — when you told him that you just wanted to be friends. That they should go back, undo, revert the process.

Long, long after Minho had already ingrained the taste of you into his mind for the rest of eternity, and the way you looked the first time he kissed you, when it wasn’t the intent of a couple of drunk friends late one night just having a giggle.

Lee Minho resigned himself to making himself as small as he had to in order to make you feel as big as you could, unbeknownst to you, of course. Any way that he was required to bend and lessen, he was happy to oblige — an alternate state of happiness, perhaps.

You were always going to be the only thing that mattered, forever, he thought; and at the expense of himself, if necessary.

He thinks often about how he simply just doesn’t want you to forget where you belong; and not in a possessive, jealous, weird wannabe-boyfriend kind of way, it’s just that he truly is in love with you and will do anything for you, and that love like that — romantic or otherwise — is hard to come by nowadays. Minho had always prided himself on his absolute devotion to people. To anything that he deemed worthy of himself.

You, the most worthy in his eyes, albeit you would never know, probably.

And that was the burden that Minho had to bear after that night of being told that all of the late night kisses, and cuddling, and holding hands in your center-city loft: for a fleeting moment in time, he was able to live precisely the way that he had dreamed of with you — memories he would have to hold onto to despite the pain that they held, because they also served as the happiest simultaneously. He contemplates often if he should have told you in that moment — told you everything — spilled his guts out for you, a full display of raw emotion and disgusting vulnerability. Would it have mattered? Would it have changed the course of the relationship? Friendship?

Minho looks down at his phone, setting next to him on the concrete flooring of your shared balcony, tapping the screen to illuminate it with intent to read the time.

“Almost 2am, eh?” he says to no one, tipping the beer bottle in his hand all of the way back in an attempt to drip any remainder of alcohol onto his tongue, but to no avail. Rolling his eyes, he abruptly sets the bottle down, clattering with the other four empty bottles also keeping him company.

“Late night,” he adds under his breath, as if to be playing out a conversation between two people despite no one else being present. This is by design, because Minho would rather be dead than ever make his own problems, yours.

But he knows where you are, and he knows what you’re doing.

And most pained of all, he knows who with.

For Minho, moving to Germany with you was an easy decision — not one he had put a lot of thought into. A man that fresh out of college made a good living for himself freelancing photography work along with a handful of other things here or there, it landed him a comfortable amount of money to play around with for a while, and Berlin being the relatively cheap city that it was; affordable accommodation helped make the choice even simpler.

Plus, it was with you, as if he would ever give up the opportunity.

And it wasn’t some deeply considered, manipulative, creepy attempt at trying to mind game you into a relationship with him — that happening was all-in-all, a happy accident. Of course, the ideal outcome of his, but not gamed for, not finagled. More than anything, Minho just wanted to be around you. Exist in your space. Experience a life with you in it; by whatever means necessary.

He would find, however, that this would result in grave emotional torment. Every day waking up and going to sleep feeling the same way: having to swallow the hot dagger of things not being exactly how one wishes them to be. It was good enough, sometimes suffering is. These are the choices we make to coexist with others.

Minho would tell himself everyday that it was good enough. That he was happy enough. Content enough. Alive just enough.

He chose you over himself, you just never really knew it.

When you eventually crawl out of your bedroom at a quarter past eight in the morning, you come to find your roommate already sitting at the shared dining room table — coffee in-hand and newspaper lying on the table. A sight for sore eyes, that Lee Minho. Always stable. Rarely changing. If there was one thing you could count on, it was him — for better or for worse, as it were.

“Morning, sunshine,” he says dryly, eyes not prying themselves from the words laid out in front of him, “long night?”

He’s being funny, or so he thinks — knowing how hungover you are.

“Ha ha, Lino,” you quip back, accessorizing with his nickname from college to express just how unamused you are by the exchange already. “Yeah, I got in pretty late. What time did you go to bed?”

“Around midnight,” he lies, and it feels like a jab to the heart every time he does, not enjoying the habit he’s made recently of telling little fibs to you in the moment.

“Lucky you,” you respond, pouring yourself a coffee and plopping yourself down into a white chair adjacent to the one where he sits. “But I don’t have class today so I suppose it’s fine. Do you want to do anything?”

Minho finally looks up, eyes slowly pulling from the article he had been reading, “are you capable of doing anything today?”

“Oh my god, I had a few drinks, I didn’t get annihilated, calm down. Let me have a coffee and a painkiller and I’ll be fine,” you quickly answer, rolling your eyes. “I want to go to the mall to get a new dress.”

Always somehow the best and worst way to spend a day with you, he thinks to himself.

“Alright, let me know. Alexanderplatz? I might want to take some photos while we’re out that way.” he adds, looking back to his newspaper and sipping from his mug.

“Of course, Princess,” you respond, kicking back the rest of what’s in your mug and standing to head back towards your bedroom. “Anything you want.”

Deep down, despite knowing the joke, Minho always hates it just a tiny amount when you say that — because it’s not true. However, over the years, and especially in Berlin now, Minho has absolutely mastered the art of acting; of not projecting, of maintaining a cool, calm and collected demeanor.

You’ll never know the way he dies by your hand every day. Not if he can help it, at least.

The mall is busy, Alexa Centre typically is, but especially around holiday season with the Christmas festival just across the street, and Minho can’t help but regret just a bit his agreeing to come with you for this excursion.

“What did we come here for, again?” he asks, trying to manage his tone as to not sound exceptionally annoyed. Which he is, but he doesn’t want to sound it.

"I need a dress,” you reply, rolling your eyes because you can see right through him regardless.

And Minho sort of wants to forget the reason again, because he knows what a new dress entails.

“You should get something new, too, you’ve been cycling through the same shit for a few years now,” you tell him, linking an arm into his and pulling him into the direction that you had desired to go.

To Minho, every moment with you happens in slow motion — so that he carefully craft the memory; etch it into his brain for all of eternity, at least that’s what he hopes. Every touch, every split second of intimacy — whether as friends or anything else — he doesn’t care. These are all of his moments. The flip book he proverbially looks through every night before he goes to sleep to remind himself of what he’s doing, and why he’s there, and all of the ways that he has failed as every second passes by.

“Yeah, I guess I should,” he answers, allowing himself to be dragged into a shop and stopping next to you in front of a mannequin — adorned with a silver, loosely fitted, glittery dress and a large, fluffy black coat atop it.

“Wow,” you say, a little bit in awe at the outfit on the mannequin, but more so at what the outfit on the mannequin could mean for your trip to the Centre. “If I'm really able to get this shopping trip done this quickly, it’ll be a fucking miracle.”

Minho laughs and agrees, moseying himself over to the men’s section and rifling through some long-sleeved shirts on the hanger. It’s only a short while before you return to meet him, shopping bags indicating a successful foray into Alexanderplatz, and in record time, at that.

“I’m gonna get something,” he says, pulling a few hangers onto his arm and continuing to look around. It was a good trip, things had gone well.

And we can’t have that, now can we?

“Are you still seeing that girl?”

Minho stops in his tracks, frozen in place by the question. It’s certainly not an out of place one by any means — not given the relationship between the two of you. Friends tend to talk about their romantic situations…circumstances…affairs.

But truthfully, he hated talking about it with you, because it made him feel fake.

Minho did date. In fact, he had been seeing the same woman for a few months now. Not anything serious — and yes, she knew that — but it was the phoniness of the entire thing. He sits awake in bed every night pining for another woman that he can’t have while he runs around and attempts to forget it between the legs of the one that he can have.

He hated that man. That man, like every other man. But deeply, Minho was looking for any sign that he could eventually forget you, let you go. Move on. He figured he would be doing you and himself a disservice to not at least try.

Suppose sometimes that comes with collateral damage — albeit, with intent to take the best care he could.

“Yeah,” he finally responds after what feels like hours, “she’s been busy so we haven’t met lately but, yeah.”

“We should all go out together some time!”

Sounds like a fucking miserable idea.

"I’d like that, let me know,” he responds. Fucking fool. God forbid he let you suffer for even a second at the expense of his own well being.

Despite the relative quickness of the shopping trip, rain falls from the skies as the two of you exit the large shopping mall — people crowded around under the awning in feeble attempt to stay dry — the wind not lending itself to the endeavor, and Minho looks over at you as you attempt to shield yourself from the wetness; strands of hair strewn about and squinting, he pulls out his camera for the first time since the two of you have left the apartment and snaps a quick shot of your profile. You slap his arm playfully as he brings the device back down from his face and smiles.

“I must look crazy in that photo, quit it.”

“Nah, you don’t,” he replies, looking back at it on the digital display. He reconsiders not once, but twice, if he should say the thought really running through his mind.

His heart tends to get the best of him, however.

“You look beautiful.”

And you smile at him in response before letting out a quiet “oh shut up,” Minho puts the camera down and away once again.

He finds himself musing to no one all too often, perhaps, “am I allowed to look at her like that?” And unfortunately, never being met with an answer.

Minho is happy for every day that goes by where he is not met with an invitation to go double dating with you and your partner, but as the days drag on with no such invite and more noticeably, you spending more time at the apartment, he begins to feel a worry — a distinct cloud of eerie sadness wafting over the shared living space that is never acknowledged. Every relationship has it’s struggles — Minho forces himself to not wish ill of yours, despite knowing that the wishing of any intent does little in actuality. Would it make him a bad man to wish for you and your partner to break up?

He feels guilt every time the fleeting thought passes by him, but still it passes by all the same.

After a week, Minho startles to the sound of you knocking on his door close to midnight. Meek knocks, knocks entirely unlike you.

“They said it wasn’t working out, I don’t know,” you say, arms crossed and shoulder leaned up against the door frame of Minho’s bedroom. “I didn’t ask a lot of questions.”

“Are you okay?” Minho asks, shifting in his seat — uncomfortable with the topic, and the nervous energy coursing through him at the prospect. He disgusts himself, on some basic, primal level.

You sigh and shrug. “Yeah, I mean, it’s fine,” you start, answering on the exhale. “We weren’t together all that long and it was just kind of casual so…it’s fine.”

Make a move on his newly single best friend, Lee Minho absolutely will not. Not under any circumstances. Minho questions if he would make any sort of move on you at all, under any circumstances at all, and fails to come up with a scenario in which he might.

But it delights him, deep down, no longer having to deal with the intrusive thoughts of the sheets you lie between elsewhere. For now.

“Hey, I know it’s late but uhh,” you begin, changing your demeanor from a solemn one to a more joyous one in an attempt to pick up the mood. “Would you want to like…go get a drink and some take out or something tonight?”

And Minho simply smiles at the proposition.

“Sure, of course I would.”

It’s one of those nights where you’re happy to be living where you are. Berlin — seemingly a city that never really sleeps, with corner stores open for hours on end and selling just about anything you could imagine — including alcohol; it's a stop to the nearest one before the kebab place on the adjacent corner, to then make your way to the dimly lit park only a couple of blocks down from the apartment. A relatively cold night, not one the two of you would be loitering in under normal circumstances certainly — but desperate times call for desperate measures, and to Minho, “anything that you desire” falls into that slot. Thus, chilled to the bone with a bottle of wine to share between the two of you and a kebab each — you sit on a cool, grassy hill just under a couple of trees where the visual of the streets and the very much alive city sidewalks still remain lit. Minho takes it upon himself to steal a few glances at you, of course — some from his peripheral — some much less inconspicuous, as you speak about living in the city and how much you have been enjoying it, how you considered never moving back home.

How you had everything that you needed right here already.

“What do you think?” you ask the man next to you, turning and looking towards him as he stares out towards the streets not too far off from where the two of you sit — wine bottle in hand and taking a swig directly from it before beginning to answer.

Trying to figure out which lie to tell you this evening.

“I like it here too,” he replies, trying to reign in any volume of emotional tone from his words. “It’s nice.”

“It’s nice? That’s it?” you chuckle, stealing the bottle from his hands with playful aggression and sipping from it just the same as he had. “Sounds like you could be anywhere, then.”

Internally, Minho laughs at just how unfathomably untrue that statement is.

“It’s a beautiful city and I enjoy being here,” he amends, carefully and not wanting to give too much of himself to the conversation. “And of course, I enjoy spending time with you.”

Even just saying it makes his heart drop into his stomach, despite it being a completely normal thing for friends to think and feel towards one another. To say 'I enjoy your company, thank you for being a part of my life.'

Minho knows that it feels bad because the intent is off. Truthful words hiding behind a cloak of fictitiousness. It’s true but in all of the wrong ways.

“Truthfully, I couldn’t imagine being here with anyone else.”

Words that flip Minho’s entire world upside down in an instant.

In a movie, this would be the moment where he finally kisses the girl, confesses his feelings for her and empties his heart right at her feet — only for her to joyously accept him and his love, and for them to live happily ever after.

He’d have been lying if he said he didn’t consider it.

But in the end, he settles for the removal of a wine bottle from your hands — drinking down the remains, and standing up in place — reaching a warm hand down to you for you to take.

“It’s getting late, we should get back home.”

When the two of you do arrive back home, taking turns showering in the single shared bathroom and trading off goodnight wishes before retiring to each room, Minho flops himself into his bed for the night — arm draped across his forehead to do his typical pre-sleep routine of torturing himself with countless thoughts of what if’s and what could be’s. On tonight’s agenda; a little special treat of realizing that he is no longer in any position to be dating anyone else — that things have become too entrenched. He was not escaping you, not so long as this continued to go on.

He realizes in the moment that this was always the life that he had chosen. Was it really reasonable to assume that he would ever be capable of being in a good, healthy, committed relationship with another person? Unlikely. Long ago, years ago, when Minho had chosen you, he had chosen all of the things that would go along with that.

Including the endless pining of not being with you, albeit, this not a part of the manual when signing up, of course.

For the first time, Minho acknowledges and makes peace with how unhealthy his pining is. It’s easy to make a case for anything when it’s impact on your life is easy to ignore. They say “when it starts impacting your life negatively, that’s when you know you have a problem.”

He knows, he just doesn’t necessarily want to fix it — not in the way that may be required of him, at least.

“I love you, why won’t you let me.”

The words ring through his brain repeatedly as he dozes off to sleep, but not before sending off a lazy text to the other woman, about how they should have lunch tomorrow — to talk.

such a unique flavor of masochism, unrequited love.

Minho sometimes finds himself wondering what goes through your mind when someone mentions his name to you.

He tries not to allow himself much time to it — because the what if’s make him crazy with unknowns, but certain weak, lonely nights at home — nights when you’re out with friends, or late with class work, he can’t help himself. Does it make you smile? Do you get butterflies? Do you feel anything?

One particularly lonely Wednesday night, he reminisces about the first time he met you. A weekend spent together as a result of a mutual friends gathering: a rental home for an after-semester getaway for partying, relaxing, maybe even hooking up. At least, that had been Minho’s plan. Meet a nice girl, have a nice weekend together, probably never speak to her again after the fact. Nothing against her, he just hadn’t been looking for anything at the time.

Love has a funny way of knowing when you’re least equipped for taking it on.

You walking into the house in your skinny jeans and a loose sweater, bag slung over your shoulder — Minho doesn’t believe in love at first sight on a fundamental level, and he would certainly never attribute the connection the two of you shared to it if he were asked.

It was a thought he kept to himself, completely asinine and unreasonable as it was, he couldn’t ignore the truth of the matter.

He remembers Hyunjin introducing the two of you when the three of you had all found yourselves at the makeshift bar — watching you attempt to find an empty cup that was not previously used with much trouble. Minho holds out an empty and seemingly dry cup from his hand and towards you without saying a word. He remembers the way you stared at him like he was insane, and like he surely thought you were an idiot.

Hyunjin catches the scene, sliding himself over and between the two, “it’s okay,” he assures you. ��He’s mine, he means no harm.”

“Kind of nuts for a woman to take a cup from a strange man at a house party, don’t you think?” you say in response, not entirely to Hyunjin alone, but also to the stranger in front of you.

“I accidentally had two,” Minho says dryly, pointing to the bottom of his own cup that had a beverage inside of it. “It was stuck, but you’re welcome to continue on your search.”

It’s against your better judgment in usual circumstances, but with Hyunjin’s glowing approval you take the chance — accepting it and pouring yourself a drink. Holding it up in a bit of a cheers towards the man with the brown hair and the sort of crooked smile, you thank him.

That was the moment, for whatever reason. You didn’t know it, there was no indication at all.

That night, as he stands with you in a group of people, listening to the way you speak and interact with not only them, but him — he thinks that he’s probably going to fall in love with you. Looking back now, he realizes he already had by the time the drunken conversation about whether people have one or two butts had begun to take place in the living room of the rental home.

Minho would find himself spending the next year contemplating all of the ways that the two of you would be perfect for one another. The nature of infatuation — you can convince yourself of it easily, can’t you?

It’s been years now, of Minho never saying what he’s really thinking. Suppose people never really do? That’s what he tells himself.

“Do you want to go to this party tonight?”

Minho looks up from his book, sprawled out lengthwise along his bed in sweatpants and a black shirt with bleached out splotched from the last time he had attempted to do his hair and he finds the question a little hilarious, given the way he currently looks — in no position to be seen by people, and hardly even much of one to be seen by you.

“Um,” he starts, squinting a bit as he attempts to run the idea through his mind. “Where? Who?”

“Couple of friends from my humanities class are having a get together,” you say, shrugging as the words leave your mouth. “We’re not doing much else so figured I’d ask.”

“Yeah, sure,” Minho answers, slowly sitting himself up from his bed and sliding a bookmark in between pages before closing his reading material. “Give me like, thirty minutes?”

You roll your eyes. “Who are you going there to impress?”

People don’t say what they’re really thinking.

“Can’t I not want to look like I just rolled out of bed?”

“You are just rolling out of bed”

“yes, but I don’t want to look like it,” Minho insists, standing and walking towards his clothing rack, “now get the hell out so I can get ready.”

“Oh my god,” you exasperate on your exit.

The playful banter being one of the things Minho loves about your friendship the most. Play fighting made his heart skip a beat or two, every time. A bizarre charming point, perhaps, but a charming point to him all the same.

When the two of you arrive to the apartment, the gathering is already in full swing. A relatively small grouping of people — all from different places in the world — a few drink options sitting out on the kitchen counter but nothing too excessive or over the top, Minho is actually pleased to find that this would probably just end up being a reasonably chill night. A night to just spend time in your presence, and among good company. He introduces himself to your friends and vice versa before settling down on one of the smaller sofas in the general living space with small drinks in hand. You look at him, watching him survey his surroundings in the same way that he always does — taking everything in. Enjoying the moment.

“Tonight will be nice,” you say softly to him, leaning over to nudge him lightly. “Thanks for coming with me.”

“Of course,” he responds before bringing his glass to his lips and sipping, “everyone seems nice.”

“They are,” you affirm as you take a sip of your own.

A few hours into the night, right around 11pm, the host of the party calls for the attendees to gather around the living room for fun and games. Minho raises an inquisitive eyebrow, unsure of what to expect, but another caring nudge from you settles him once again.

It always was just that easy for you with him.

As the host carries on an explanation of what was planned for the rest of the night, you lean into him and ask delicately, “sorry for asking if it’s a sore spot but…did you and that girl stop seeing each other?”

After all, love is a pretty good reason to make everything go wrong.

Minho shifts in his seat a bit, and almost choking on the liquid he had just taken into his mouth he manages to swallow down and sort of chuckle. “Yeah, not a big deal, though. We both agreed.”

Lying to you never got easier no matter how many times he did it.

“Ah,” you respond, unsure of how else to carry on the topic. “Well that’s good — I mean, it’s not good, but it could have been worse…I guess? Sorry.”

Do you know what it’s like to be so in love with someone that you can’t even breathe?

“Yeah, it’s fine, I’m fine.”

Sort of true, depending on how you look at it.

The two of you bring your attention back to the host in just the moment that they mention a game of truth or dare. Minho’s fight or flight response kicks in immediately despite his perfectly managed demeanor on the outside and you can’t help but feel a bit of discomfort yourself. Doing things that you wouldn’t normally do was not your idea of fun, even in the nature of a game.

And as the game carries on among the people in the room, everyone makes it out relatively unscathed. No one being asked to do especially heinous acts, Minho begins to feel a sigh of relief at the fact that he might actually be able to get out of this night having only had to chug a beer, or maybe lick a kitchen floor — all things he can manage without a care.

“Okay Minho, truth or dare,” a blonde girl from across the room shouts a bit louder than necessary.

“Dare, give it your best shot!” he responds enthusiastically, happily playing along with the atmosphere of the evening.

“Okay,” she smirks, tone dropping into something a bit mischievous, and in the moment Minho truly considers that maybe he got a little bit too brave.

“Seven minutes in heaven with her,” she says, pointing towards you. “Should be easy enough, shouldn’t it?”

He swallows hard, because of course it is. The two of you live together. Your entire life is effectively one long game of seven minutes in heaven together, just without all of the spontaneous joys the kids tend to enjoy of it when playing such a game in the teenage years.

“Okay, where?” he answers confidently as the girl walks over to them and drags them both down a hall and into a bedroom.

A bedroom? Really?

While the implications are certainly not lost on him, and despite being absolutely and madly in love with you, Minho finds himself at least a little insulted at the thought that someone would consider that he’s not capable of even being in such a wide open space as a bedroom offers with you. He loves you, and he wants you, but he’s not a fucking snake.

But it’s the fact that the dragging doesn’t end once into the bedroom — still being pulled towards a small door at the other end of the space, the girl pulling it open and shoving the both of you inside and closing it immediately thereafter.

And now Minho suspects that this might just be the tiniest closet ever invented. How do people even make closets this small? Much less use them. What the fuck.

He can hear the girl outside of the bedroom say some words — he can hear her voice, but the actual things she says get lost among his hyper awareness at your body pressed tightly up against his own. Hands splayed out on his chest in an attempt to keep yourself held upright and steady.

You shift against him in an attempt to create space, or comfort. Something. It’s a fleeting attempt. “Sorry,” you whisper.

“It’s okay,” he responds, clearing his throat. Minho stands statuesque in the darkness of the space — surrounded by a handful of coats that smell faintly of old cigarette smoke, cologne and beer.

Silence takes over. It’s awkward. Minho thinks it’s the first time that the two of you have ever felt this uncomfortable in the company of the other. Not even the break up was this bizarre.

And he knows it’s not only radiating off of him. Not with the way you keep shifting against his chest.

“We don’t have to do this,” he says finally, “It’s just a game, we can just go home if you want.”

“No, it’s fine,” you respond quietly. “It’s kind of nice, I haven’t been this close to a man in a while,” you chuckle.

Minho knows it’s a joke, all in good fun,  but the implications of it are impossible to ignore. He wonders for a second — running the sentence through his brain a few times before truly asking himself what he’s really wondering.

Is this…sexual tension?

of course, it’s not the first time he’s ever experienced the concept of sexual tension. But not with you. Not like this. When the two of you briefly dated the first time, sex had never even been on the table; he realized later, after the fact, that this was because you had firmly been in friendship mode the entire time, and never truly viewed him sexually. As someone who could be fucked. Who could fuck you.

Minho doesn’t want to simply fuck you. He figures that if he had played his cards right in any number of situations, it’s possible that he already could have. It’s not completely unheard of for friends to fuck, and the both of you are obviously good-looking.

It’s not what he wants, though. And it’s definitely not worth tanking any potential future just for one night.

It is becoming painfully apparent, however, that the two of you actually share very little physical affection, even just as friends. Feeling your body pressed up against his has Minho realizing that he doesn’t remember the last time that the two of you hugged — really hugged. Not an arm linked or being dragged around by a wrist — but an actual, full embrace.

He snaps back into the present, thinking about checking his phone for the time, but knowing fully well that not more than two minutes could have possibly passed.

Around 2am, games end and cups dry as guests begin exiting the apartment. You both thank the host for the invite and the warm reception before heading out into the chilly night to make your way home. A somewhat bizarrely quiet walk back home, no doubt as a result of the game played.

Minho staunchly disbelieves in wishing death upon anyone, but if emotions were personified, they’d be the first to go.

You turn the second key into the door, lock clicking open and door lightly squeaking as it opens. Minho walks in first, kicking his shoes off and setting his coat up on the hanger — setting his wallet and keys onto the holder next to the door designated just for such things. You follow suit.

But it’s a swift switch of direction, when you reach forward and dig fingers into Minho’s shirt — pulling him towards you, into you, and spinning him so that his back presses up against the door. You push into him, chests meeting just as they had back in the tiny closet at your friends place. All part of the game.

This, however, was not.

And Minho’s head spins, the way your cold lips press up against his own, so fast that he almost doesn’t know what hits him. He doesn’t meet your enthusiasm at first — considering the fact that this is all a mistake, just a misunderstanding. Surely you simply fell into him, this is all just a funny scene in a romcom where the girl accidentally slips into the guy who is desperately in love with her and it doesn’t mean anything. It doesn’t mean anything at all.

You pull off of his lips, peppering kisses lightly to the side of his mouth, “Minho,” you whisper between two, “kiss me back.”

“I—” he tries to respond, but before he knows it, your lips are pressed to his hard again and now he knows it’s intentional, despite not knowing why. Part of him wishes he was a better man, a stronger man. A man that could resist the temptation of experiencing bliss for even just a moment in time.

But he isn’t.

Minho brings his hands up, cupping the sides of your face and kissing back against you with matching firmness. He pulls himself off of the door and brings his body forward and against you. He’s all encompassing, feeling as though he’s attempting to devour you. Not far from the truth, perhaps.

It’s sloppy, messy. Minho thinks that the two of you never kissed like this before, not even during the brief stint of dating. He wonders for a moment what has changed, neither of you having drank that much that night, nothing was different in your relationship — not really.

He was forever constant. “I love you” running through his head each second that he’s able to taste you on him in that short time before you carefully pull from him and smile at the sight of his bright red, brutally kissed lips.

“We should go to bed,” you say, gently holding one of his hands in your own.

“Yeah,” the only thing he can manage to utter out that won’t expose him as everything he really is.

“Thank you for tonight, it was really fun,” you say, slowly pulling your hand from his own, and Minho only nods and whispers “sure” in reply as you turn and head towards your bedroom, shutting the door behind you.

Minho stands there in the doorway of the apartment, in the aftermath of a whirlwind that he’s sure will be just as quickly forgotten by you as it had been decided upon. The worst bit, he thinks to himself, is that he’ll probably never forget that moment for as long as he lives, given that they come to him so few and far between.

When he sends himself to sleep that night, opening the scrapbook of memories of us that he has carefully cultivated in his mind, he slots it away along with all of the rest. So, so, many memories of moments in time in which he’s allowed to experience paradise.

The mere existence of you, over the years, grows to be so big inside of him. All consuming.

“Minho.”

And he’s barely conscious at all, only drawn awake by the utterance of his name and the way that every expanse of his flesh that your fingertips touch leaves a trail of fire in it’s wake.

“Touch me.”

It’s all a whisper, barely legible, so little that he believes for a moment he may still just be asleep. He focuses for a second — as hard as he can will himself — on the physical sensation of you pressed up against his side, in his bed, hand roaming the exposed skin of his chest under his duvet — only dipping low enough to brush against the waistband of his boxer briefs and that is the moment that he is brought wide awake and to his senses, tensing strongly under your touch — so strongly that it causes you to pause and slowly pull back from him.

“Should I go?” you ask, and he becomes starkly aware of how standoffish he appears, quickly responding that no, you should not, before reaching over to you and snaking a hand of his own around your waist and under your loose bed time shirt.

As much as he wishes nothing more than to genuinely be lost in the moment, his mind takes him to countless what if’s, as it always does in such situations. Feeling the way you move beside him with every press of his hand into the apex of your thighs, he relishes the look, the sound — of course — but at the fore front of his mind, and his chest, the painful feeling of emotional strangulation in his throat; knowing what this is to you, and precisely what it isn’t.

Equally inconsequential to the both of you but in strikingly different ways: to you, a quick release, and to Minho: the image of you coming just another moment added to the scrapbook of his insignificance.

For the first time possibly ever, when Minho walked into the dining room in the morning for his coffee, you’re already up, sitting there waiting for him. A common scene but flipped, that feels so frequent to him now. Constantly unsettled in all of the ways that he thought he had been.

“Morning,” he says, grabbing a mug from the cupboard and pouring himself a drink, then walking over to join you at the table. “Sleep well?”

“Yeah,” you say. And that’s all.

He had hoped that deep down, the two of you could get out of this situation unscathed. It wasn’t much. Just a hand down your panties and then you retired to your own room again for the night. That’s what Minho told himself for the entire rest of the night that he couldn’t sleep, at least. It wasn’t important. It didn’t matter. Everything will be fine.

“We should talk.”

Ah.

“About last night.”

Minho knew that already.

“Okay,” he says, almost sheepishly — a tone not often worn by him, but with a million thoughts running through his mind and almost all of them meaning the worst, it was all he could manage out in response.

“I’m not blaming you, obviously, I started it,” you begin, rolling your eyes — at yourself mostly, but painfully so to Minho all the same. “But we shouldn’t cross lines like that. Like I said, totally my fault, I just don’t want there to be the wrong idea or anything, ya know?”

Yeah, he knows.

As far as he’s concerned — truly, all things considered — this was the best possible outcome, actually. On a scale of terrible to catastrophic, this was much closer to the terrible end of the spectrum. Obviously, you weren’t going to confess your undying love for him and how you wanted to be with him forever and ever, but if the only wound Minho has to leave with is the reminder that he will only continue to suffer in all of the same ways he already had been; he writes that off as a win, as pathetic as it was.

He chuckles in response, corner of his mouth upturning as he gives you a playfully devilish grin from over his mug, “Wasn’t good enough, huh?”

Laugh through the pain.

“Oh my god Lino, really? Stop it! Don’t make it weird!”

He watches you shy away in embarrassment, hiding behind the newspaper you had in your hand and continues to laugh. He knows it’s not the case, but he has to keep things light — especially because of the way his chest feels so fucking tight in that instant.

Naturally, you take it as his admittance to the terms, which is as intended by him. Meanwhile, Minho wonders how long he can stand being reminded of all of the ways he will never be the one for you. Yes, he chose this. Yes, he would choose it again.

but still, he wonders sometimes.

Placing your used mug in the sink and filling it with water, you grab your belongings and head towards the door, pulling your keys from the rack and waving at him. “I’ll let you know when I’ll be home!” before turning on your heel and running out of the door.

Minho remains in his seat, still staring up at the front door long after it has already closed behind you. Despite being an often self-reflective man, it’s the first time ever — truly ever — that he finds himself feeling almost guilty about the thought that crosses his mind, going just as quickly as it had come. A fleeting conception in a split second of hurt.

It’s so fucking exhausting loving you.

Is this resentment?

When the next party rolls around — only a few weeks later, Minho makes it a point to be more mindful. No more drunk party games, no more passing physical touches. It’s not the end of the longing, not by a long shot.

But suppose it might be time, he thinks to himself. He’s been thinking it to himself since that morning at your dining room table.

You see, the thing about Lee Minho is how he loves totally. Completely. With every fiber of his being, and despite some times coming off as cold or standoffish, the one thing that was always going to be true of him was that once you were his: you were his completely.

Well, the better way of looking at it was that you had him completely, rather than the other way around.

A contract that Minho once happily signed his life away to, now feeling bitter to the thought — for the first time since that night at the house party back home where you met, Minho contemplated letting go. Moving on. Properly.

But he knew that that meant letting you go, and that was a tough pill to swallow.

You had noticed the way that Minho no longer cared after you the way that he once had, but in ways so subtle that you almost questioned if they were there at all. The tiniest gestures and changes: Minho was far from rude, far from mean, not even particularly uncommunicative.

But he was distant. Impersonal in a way that felt brand new, like a stranger of exact likeness had moved in overnight.

Minho contemplates all of the ways in which he can forget you, while you, unknowingly, contemplate all of the ways in which you can retrieve him.

Two people simply never feel exactly the same way about one another at exactly the same moment.

So you try not to think much of it, watching the way the brunette across the room runs her hand down his arm as she laughs at whatever it is that he’s saying to her. You think of how charming and funny and warm Minho is. Kind, constant.

But the clock is ticking, unbeknownst to you.

There is a world in which the greatest tragedy is a love story that, despite both people feeling the same — fails to occur simultaneously. As the sand in the hour glass for Minho ticks away, yours only just begins — and the problem being, you just don’t know. An alternate universe where the glimmer that would appear in Minho’s eye each and every time he met yours — it didn’t live any longer, and it’s typically only in those moments of hindsight that you ever really noticed it had existed at all. In it’s absence.

Minho looks over towards you from across the room during a short pause in the conversation with this other woman, and it’s different. Surely you’re not imagining it now. It’s still him, it’s still warm, and he still carries care, concern for you.

But a glimmer of light behind the eyes dims with every passing second, before turning back to the person in front of him and grinning wide.

Had you always…?

When the night ends and the two of you head home together, it’s silent for the majority of the way. Minho carries a half empty beer bottle in hand with him and a cigarette in another — you weren’t fond of when he smoked but it had become a social drinking thing he picked up since living in the city. Besides, who were you to say anything about it?

Saying anything to Minho at all now felt completely foreign to you.

Getting back to the apartment building, Minho sets the glass bottle down on the street and heads up with you, still in silence and putting out his cigarette at a trash can just before the stairs. it feels like five hundred flights of stairs despite only being five, but finally reaching the front door feels like a god send. Reprieve. Being near him…you now find suffocating.

“Night,” you say in feigned brightness before turning and heading towards your bedroom, hopeful that you can make it out of this night relatively unscathed.

“Is everything alright?”

The first thought to your mind, is “no,” obviously, because it’s not. The second, is the better choice.

“Yeah of course, I’m just tired,” you laugh, “exhausted from watching you flirt with that girl all night I guess!”

It drops from your lips before you even have a chance to control it, petty bitterness lacing each and every word and it’s so obvious, too. Completely transparent in it’s contempt. You wince as you turn back towards your door and can only pray that he takes it as the joke you only barely were capable of tonally implying.

Minho’s taken aback, confusion splashed across his features.

“What?”

“I’m kidding, goodnight!”

“You don’t get to do that.”

And all you want to do is run away to your bedroom and hide, go to sleep, try again tomorrow, but it’s the tone of his voice in those quiet words that stops you. That, and the growing romantic inquisitiveness for him in your heart.

“You don’t get to—” Minho starts again, but pauses, and you can tell the way that he sounds; his voice, his demeanor even without the ability to see him, he’s angry. Years of pent up emotional obstruction, after all. “You can’t act like this, not about that. That’s absolutely not fair.”

You finally turn around to face him as he still lingers in the doorway of the entrance, not even having removed his coat or shoes yet.

Minho wears a mask almost all of the time around you, and for a short while, he remembered what it had been like to live without you being at the forefront of his ever waking thought — incredibly selfish of you, he thinks to himself, to place yourself there once again. He had almost remembered what it had felt like to feel whole again — to not have to wear the mask that hides each and every pathetically tragic thought and feeling that came to him.

The mask is still off, evidently, from the way sorrow graces his every feature in the dimly lit entry way of your apartment. The place that may surely become the grave for you both, in some way or another.

“Minho, I—” you respond quietly, sadly. It sounds exactly the way you sounded when you broke up with him and stings in all of the exact same ways, Minho recalls.

He never was able to forget, after all.

“I don’t know, I must have just had a bit too much to drink,” you say, trying to laugh off the entire situation. “It’s not an excuse, of course, it’s not like you’re my—”

Minho’s eyes had since pulled to the side, jaw clenched in irritation, until the utterance of those words left your mouth. Eyes now pulling in your direction.

“Your move,” he thinks to himself in the moment.

“You’re not my boyfriend or anything,” and it’s the twist of that specific word that just so perfectly does the same to the perpetual knife in the heart that he’s carried for you for years.

You simply chuckle, hoping that the moment passes so that the two of you can go to sleep and carry on like normal in the morning.

“You’re so fucking selfish,” Minho spits, and the words feel like a slap to the face, because what? Where is this coming from?

Little do you know.

“What the fuck?”

“Love to play house, have a man around to go out with, to hold your bags for you, to rub you off one every now and then when it suits you,” he says, the resentment fully flowing through his tone with every word. “And then have the fucking gall to be jealous when I just talk to another woman? Do you hear yourself?”

It’s not the words that he’s saying, because he’s right, but rather the way that he’s saying them. Minho has never spoken to you like this in all of the years that the two of you have known each other.

Words coming from a place of the deepest contempt, and sounding just the same.

“You don’t get to talk to me like this,” you finally respond, walking back in his direction as he goes back to grabbing his wallet and keys — the only things he had happened to set down upon walking in. “Minho, it’s not fucking okay to talk to me like that.”

“Nothing about this situation is okay!” he shouts, turning back towards you and dropping his wallet from his hand; it landing in such a way that numerous items spill from it, although, he notices not — having been caught up in the moment. “You have no idea. You don’t have a clue what it’s like being around you every day. You’ll never fucking get—”

It’s then that Minho pauses, noticing the way that your eyes had stopped watching the way his lips tore into you and had settled towards something on the ground. Following yours, they land on presumably the same item that your own had just moments earlier.

A lone polaroid photograph from the first Christmas festival since moving to Berlin together — your lips playfully planted to his cheek. Even after all of those years, the quality of the photo had not waned. Perhaps Minho had just taken extra special care of it — just as he had with all of your other memories before.

“Minho…”

Perhaps this is it, defeat after all, he contemplates. Years of playing a dangerous game, all leading up to this moment.

Failure. Freedom?

“Here’s the truth,” he says, airy in tone and eyes still dropped to the ground, not daring to look back up and chance meeting yours. “I love you. I’ve been in love with you for years. Nothing makes me happier, and nothing makes me sadder — than you.”

A pause takes the room, neither of you being entirely sure what to say in the moment. It’s been such a long time coming, the confession from Minho — feeling immediately liberated upon the last word leaving his mouth, in spite of what it was, and in spite of what it meant, too.

Maybe this was freedom after all.

“And I’m moving out.” he finalizes his statement, bending down to gather the belongings from his wallet and carefully placing them back into the spots from which they came — the photograph included.

“What if I wanted to try?” you say suddenly. “Again, I mean. Try again.”

And in moments like these, Minho desperately wishes he were a stronger man, a man more capable of doing what’s best, what’s right, what’s safe.

“Don’t,” he responds, a pathetic plea to talk you down from whatever it is that you’re attempting to do. Unconvinced that it’s coming from a place of genuine reciprocation.

Change can be terrifying, sometimes people will do anything to avoid facing whatever may lie ahead. A concept that Minho finds himself all too familiar with.

But it’s the look on your face in that very instant, that has Minho halting with his hand on the doorknob. You won’t beg, you wouldn’t, and it’s not fair;  too much to ask of a man that had already given you everything of himself before you even knew it. Maybe that was his fault, maybe it was yours.

Maybe it was everyone’s, and also no ones.

But what if the timelines did manage to overlap — just briefly — just long enough. Strings of fate barely holding onto each other by a thread before the inevitable snap of discontentment. That is, unless force be relinquished in just the knick of time.

Could they do it? Had they done it?

“For the last time,” Minho starts, and for the first time — in all irony — with full transparency. “I will do anything for you, so tell me.”

You know it’s easier for you in that moment than it’s ever been for him in all of the years that he’s put himself aside to be next to you, but the fact does not do much to quell your fear of the unknown, the what if’s. You wonder how Minho has lasted, living every day in and out just like this — and worse.

But you have to do it.

“I want to try again,” you answer, looking up at him through lashes and tears welling in your eyes ever so slightly. “I know it’s selfish to ask you to stay, but I have to. Please stay. Please try again.”

A man that always prided himself on being a bit cool, tough looking — all too happy to rush towards you and scoop you into his arms after the words finish leaving your lips — wasting no time pressing his own to yours, as well.

“Don’t expect too much of me,” you say, somewhat playfully between kisses, “I haven’t been in love with you for as long as you have with me.”

“Oh shut up,” Minho replies, kissing you hard again.

And it’s not the first time Minho touches you sexually — not even in the month, but this time is different — carrying you with legs around his waist to the couch in the living room, plopping you with back against the cushion and immediately covering you with his entire being, kisses become more and more hurried and needy. So needy. The way you feel in your stomach makes you think you might just be right there with him.

Minho wastes no time pulling his torso off of you and prying his shirt off, following suit with your own before quickly working towards his jeans; the sound of belt buckle clattering and zipper pulling resonating in your ears, and it’s enough just then to realize that this is really happening. Part of you is a little surprised that it hasn’t yet.

Better late than never.

Minho stands to pull his jeans from his legs, and once again follows through with your own — pausing to really take in the sight before him. Sure, he’s seen you in swimwear before, and even changing, but this was different.

This was for him, this was meant for him to see now.

“You’re so beautiful,” he whispers, carefully lowering himself back down to you and shuffling his hips in between your legs; hardened length settling just against your clothed core and eliciting a sigh of relief, but also desire from the both of you, sighs immediately swallowed by the others mouth in between fervent kisses. “You’re perfect.”

You relish in the way that Minho makes an attempt to consume you entirely that night. Lightly toned body pressed fully against your own, his hips gently pressing against your own as his hands snake up and into your hair — fingers wrapping within strands as if you hold you in place, as if to ensure you could never leave him. Not now. Not after all of this.

Chaste kisses following the natural curve of your jawline, down towards your ear and up against it, Minho whispers that he loves you but his voice dripping with desire, with passion, and you believe that truly nothing could sound better to you. Minho still ever so delicately grinding against you — as if with no intent at all — completely encompassing you beneath him and breathing, whispering in your ear, the feeling comes onto you quickly. Not that you will orgasm, but that you desperately need to.

“Minho,” you groan, bucking your hips up to meet his own, “Don’t. Just—”

It’s not really a sentence, and so Minho chooses to not acknowledge it as such.

“Hm?” he quietly responds, pulling his left hand down from it’s entanglement in your hair and caressing the side of you all of the way down until it finds it’s resting place on the underside of your thigh. Pulling it up and out to give Minho a better angle to not fuck you with, it makes you want to cry in desperation. You find it unbelievable how quickly you’ve unraveled beneath him after all of these years. Had this been the case all of this time, or was it a simple matter of the strings of fate perfectly aligning at just the right moment.

The thought it interrupted by the man above you, whispering in your ear if it’s okay, if he can have you, and ignoring all of the patriarchal implications of the concept of a woman giving her body to a man; in the moment, in a vacuum, just between the two of you. It feels right.

And so, you are happy to have him.

Minho allows your leg to drop to free up his hand and release himself from his fabric confines — fingers then gently making their way to the side of your panties and carefully toying at the side — but not enough to make much happen, and Minho laughs at your impatience from under him, huffing against his face at his lack of being inside of you.

“Where did all of this come from?” he quips against the side of your face, and you choose not to acknowledge it in favor of focusing on the main event; the way he finally pulls the fabric aside and exposes you to the tip of his length and wasting no more time pressing into you slowly. Such a delightfully pleasant stretch as you adjust to him — and Minho feels it — every pulse and squeeze of your walls around him as he attempts to steady himself inside of you. It’s been so long, that he’s wished for this moment, he thinks about how it’s somehow even better than he ever could have imagined it being — your warmth enveloping him in every conceivable way and all at the same time. Emotionally, mentally, physically.

You can feel his breath against your ear, the way it already begins to lose it’s cohesion with the first few gentle strokes into you, but really, it’s that first groan of “fuck” into your ear that has you reeling, and your orgasm creeping up on you much faster than you had ever thought possible. The throaty, airy, desperation in his voice — so weak because of you, so absolutely enamored by you in all ways.

It wouldn’t be long, not for either of you. It had already been too long, it turns out.

“M—Minho, I—” you whimper out and against the skin of his shoulder: a desperate plea of your own. “I’m going to come soon, what the fuck,” in much fewer and less complete words, but you’re thankful that somehow he must have caught the memo, lifting his torso up with his hands planted flat against the couch cushion beneath you in an attempt to fuck into you better, more thoroughly, the best attempt he can make in the moment to try to get you there before him. He hasn’t said it, but you can tell that he’s close — too close for his liking, surely.

“Close?” he sputters out, forgoing sentences altogether, and with a quick nod and a biting back of a sharp whine, Minho changes the angle of his hips in such a way that grinds his pelvis right against your clit and you swear in that moment, you think you’ll pass out on the spot. Repeated chants of his name along with desperate requests to not stop and it’s a handful more presses of his hips into your own before your eyes roll into the back of your head before clenching shut; mouth ajar in silent shouting as your orgasm washes over you in intense waves, the man between your legs never relenting until his own catches him, following your lead of pleas of names as he does his best to fuck the both of you through your orgasms, until his body no longer reads capable of cooperating and he collapses — once again pressing his torso flush against your own and panting hot breath into the curve of your neck.

It does cross your mind, albeit briefly: that perhaps this would now be the end of everything as you know it between you and Minho. That maybe everything the two of you had experienced up until that moment had just been a journey to this — that no one was in love, that none of this had been real all along.

But when Minho pulls himself back up a bit, granting enough space between your two bodies to once again allow himself to plant kisses on every centimeter of skin that his mouth could possibly reach, all the while telling you all of the ways in which he’s madly, desperately and completely in love with you, you actually do wonder if maybe sometimes, just maybe, two people can feel the precisely the same way for one another, at precisely the exact same moment in time; because surely if it were possible, it would feel just like this.

Between kisses onto the flesh just below him, Minho contemplates all of the ways in which this was never meant to actually be. He knows that deep down, nothing he did ever put him in a position in which he deserved this, that he was never owed love, or sex, or you.

He wonders how he ended up so lucky, after all. Minho thinks back to the first year that you both moved to Germany together, and the first christmas festival — the night that the two of you took the polaroid photograph that he would forever keep with him everyday since that night, unbeknownst to you. He still remembers every detail perfectly, right down to the way your lips felt pressed against his cheek, despite knowing so many more feelings now.

Minho pulls himself up, just barely — only enough to reach your cheek to kiss you in just the exact spot that you had kissed him that night, and then whispers into the skin, “I love you.”

The single most important moment in Lee Minho’s life: that kiss at that Christmas festival that year. Life is only ever a series of moments that form us, shape us.

And the next second, we are in another moment.

♡ send me your thoughts and feelings in my ask.

—this is a oneshot, there will be no part 2.

[jakescakeislateforourdate]

Stealing Kisses

(Actors from The Boys in the Boat)

Joe Rantz, Don Hume, Bobby Moch, George (Shorty) Hunt

tbitb masterlist

A collection of kissing scenes. Might write something for Chuck Day later, we’ll see, anyway, got carried away with Don, I would die for Bobby

Enjoy this garbage!

…

Joe Rantz:

Joe is a gentleman. He plans it’s out, wanting to take you on a decent date beforehand to set the mood and feel out just how much you like him. He doesn’t have money or a nice apartment or cooking skills for that matter. What he does have is his strength and his smarts.

So he takes you for a boat ride one sunny afternoon. He brings his guitar, opting for a little less country than the banjo, and paddles you out to a secluded spot. Despite his protest, you brought a basket full of treats and you talk as you share them under the hot sun.

His blond curls become waves of amber grain in the sunlight. After a while you fall into a comfortable silence which gives him the opportunity to pull out his guitar. Now he’s been planning this date for a little while so he picked some new songs to memorize. Sweet and romantic but not too lovey dovey. Though he doesn’t hide the fact that he loves country music.

As he strums his guitar he catches you intently staring at him. You look at him with so much affection that it makes him blush and stutter and he forget the words to his song.

“You’re cute, Joe.”

It makes him laugh so much he has to stop playing entirely. You tease him, enjoying his laughter.

After he recovers you both decide to venture out onto land. Wild flowers grow along the banks in great colorful bunches. Joe begins collection some, blue and purple and white and yellow, and he begins to weave them together.

It’s a special trick he learned while he lived alone, cutting and clearing trees for a living. During his breaks he taught himself to do this. The braid the delicate flower stems into bracelets and rings and crowns.

Joe makes the finest crown his has ever managed. He carefully lays the creation on your head and tucks away any loose strands of hair. ‘You’re gorgeous’ he wants to say. If he was a little more gutsy he would.

His hands trail down to cradle your cheeks. He’s not gutsy enough to tell you you’re pretty but for some reason he has the gall to lean down and kiss you.

His lips are a little chapped from rowing practices, the heavy breathing dropping his jaw and the wind biting his lips. But they’re gentle and sweet. Joe soaks up the private moment and rests his forehead on yours. He wraps his arms around your waist and sways back and forth with you. He starts singing again and you dance together in the afternoon sun.

Don Hume:

Let’s be honest here, you’re more likely to kiss him first. You simply make him too nervous to even find the coordination to plant his lips over yours.

After their first win, Don is dragged out to celebrate. Luckily his sweetheart of a few weeks now is already there. You’re happy to see Don out and about whether or not he likes it. Bobby flashes you a wink as he pushes Don into a chair next to you.

It’s too loud. You can’t hear a word the other says. In a blinding moment of courage, Don takes your hand and pulls you out of the hall. His calloused palm is sweaty. His fingers tremble between yours. You remember him first approaching you, Bobby pushing him forward and then abandoning him at your library table.

“Hey, you’re Don Hume right? From the rowing team, right?”

He nodded, swallowing hard.

“What can I do for you, Don?”

His tongue had gone dry. Where are his words? His mouth dropped open “I—” you smiled at him and it made everything worse.

“C’mon, Don!” You heard Bobby whisper shout, a collection of the rowing team has amassed behind a bookshelf, quietly cheering him on.

“Can-can I takeyouonadate?”

He panicked and cursed himself out, thinking he spoke too fast and you don’t catch what he said and now he’s going to have to ask all over again.

“I’d love to go on a date.” Your smile brightened and Don’s shoulders drooped in relief.

He still stutters asking you on dates now.

Don finds himself walking you across campus grounds and the pale light of the moon. “You did so good, Don, in your race.”

“Thanks.” He speaks so softly the whistle of the night breeze in the leaves is almost louder. He turns to you, catching your gaze first and then blushing and nervously glancing down at your lips.

He’s never kissed anyone before, but he thinks he wants to kiss you.

There’s a comfortable silence that fills the space between your faces. Don’s eyes keep flickering to your Cupid’s bow. To that perfect curve. He starts to say something but his words leave him again as he feels soft lips shutting his mouth.

His lips are rough, worn from the blustering winds. He smells faintly of sweat and the river water that sprays up from the churning oars.

Don can hardly think enough to kiss you back. He blinks, stunned and you lean in to kiss him again and again. He’s overwhelmed by the warmth of your lips and the velvet soft press of your tongue. His shaking hands clutch at your cheeks, trying to ensure that it doesn’t end.

“Don, baby—”

“Kiss me again, please.”

There’s a smile on your lips when you wrap your arms around him. “Only if you promise to dance with me.”

“Yes, yes, okay. Just…”

This time he kisses first.

Bobby Moch:

Bobby is a confident man. He maybe shorter than your average guy but his boldness makes up for it. But I also think you’d kiss him first.

You’re waiting for him to finish up practice, your routine being to go on a long walk and let Bobby blow off some steam before studying together and then going home. Bobby emerges from the shell house, clearly bothered, but he can’t help his smile when he sees you waiting on a bench with two warm cups of tea in your hand.

“Good evening, lovely, should we go to the library or the bridge?”

You hand him a cup and take his free hand. “I think… the library would be nice.”

“Me too.”

He squeezes your hand. He starts his rant and angrily blabbers on until you’re at the steps of the library. Somehow, between all his complaining, he’s managed to chug his whole cup of tea.

The library is fairly empty at this hour. Most students having given up on studying for the day and retired to either their dorms or gone off to work. Bobby drops his bag onto a secluded sofa and the two of you sit down for a nice, quiet study date.

While Bobby reads over his textbook chapter, you notice things about him. The wrinkle that forms on his forehead when he's focused. The tilt of his eyebrows. How his lips purse. You notice the tiny blemishes on his cheeks; they were once little nicks or pimples that he picked. You keep stealing glances of him. Absolutely fascinated by the way lamplight reflects off his skin or the curve of his jaw or the bob of his Adam's apple when he swallows. He hadn't really bothered to straighten out his hair after his shower and it's dried wild, tickling his face.

Bobby catches your gaze and it's stunning, how light pools in his eyes. How his irises brighten. His gives you an adoring look and returns to pouring over his textbook.

Then there's his lips. They look so soft and they're so gently rounded they look hand carved. Occasionally he'll lick his lips and you get a flash of tongue and white teeth. At some point you decide to just go for it. You've been dreaming of kissing Bobby for some time now but he's been content to let you take things at your own pace.

You reach of his textbook, "Need something?" Bobby asks genuinely. His gaze is uncharacteristically kind. He's always yelling at the top of his lungs or bossing around or saying something snappy. That's just Bobby. So why does he look at you like this? Like he's watching the sun rise.

"Yes, actually." And then you deliver a kiss to his lips. Bobby is caught off guard and before he can really even kiss you back, you're pulling away. "Sorry--"

"Don't even think about it." Bobby quips, "Get back here." He cups the juncture of your jaw and throat to bring you in but you hide in his palm. "Finish what you started. C'mon. Don't you feel like trying it again? I'm ready."

When your lips touch again Bobby is gentle in making it last. He never presses too hard but be doesn't let you shy away again either. He kisses you until the taste of him has stained your tongue and the oxygen is gone from your lungs.

George "Shorty" Hunt:

Sly dog, this one is.

George is highly tactical(he likes to think so) and because he’s so brilliant he hatched a perfect plan to get you to kiss him. He wants to see how bold you can be.

He makes three plans, two of which fail. They go like this. The first time he tries it, you’re walking him to practice. His jacket is slung over his shoulder and he’s telling you about his engineering class. “You know there’s this term we use called osculate which is where the curve of on surface meets the curve over another and they share a common tangent.” You raise a brow. Shorty licks his lips, “It’s also formal code for kissing.”

“Don’t even—” you swat at him and push him towards the shell house. “Go practice and share a tangent with Day!”

“Hey now,” Shorty pouts and disappears into the shell house, defeated. That was attempt 1. The second attempt hardly goes better.

It’s the night after their first win and Shorty is dancing with you. His nerdy pick up lines proved to be a failure so he goes for building some good old fashion romance. He’d gotten you flowers and taken you out for dinner before he brought you here where the music is so loud it blocks out everyone else around you.

Now you’re slow dancing, cheeks pressed together, hands laced with one another. The first thing you notice is that he smells good. You have no idea if he’s wearing cologne or if it’s the soap he uses to wash his clothes but he smells divine. The second thing is how soft his hands are despite the wear and tear of the pad. The third is that he didn’t put any product in his hair. You’ve always loved to play with the dark curls and fluff it up. But sometimes he styles his curls and the products make his hair stiff. But his curls are free today which tells you he’s been thinking about you and all the things you do.

“Watcha smilin’ about?” Shorty asks, his eyes light up as he smiles back. He hopes you’re thinking about it. He hopes you’re wanting to kiss him.

You plant your hands on his chest, “Nothing, you just make me happy.” It’s quite possibly quite possibly the nicest compliment he’s ever received. And then you rise up on your toes a place a kiss on his cheek. It’s not what he expected but he’s as pleased as ever.

The third and actually successful attempt is on the train before he leaves for Poughkeepsie. You’d arrived late and missed him boarding. You force your way to the train and look through the window. George sees you and throws the window open. “I was afraid you weren’t coming!” He shouts of the chatter. He’d actually been heartbroken.

“Had trouble getting here!”

“Can I…” you don’t catch what he says.

“What!”

Shorty smiles and shakes his head. He turns and gestures for something. He opens the window as far as he can and you see Chuck and Johnny behind him. And then George is falling out of the window. First his shoulders and chest and then his hips and your almost scream but Chuck and Johnny are holding his thighs. He wedges one hand on the window sill to support himself and the other reaches for you.

He pulls you as close as he can and gives you a kiss goodbye. “I’ll come home with a gold medal!” Don’t you worry!” The people who notice give him a cheer and a laugh as he’s pulled back into the train. He blows you one last kiss and then the train starts rolling.

tbitb masterlist

Dear Reader,

Thank you for reading. If you enjoyed this piece please be sure to check out my masterlist and if you want to request something you are more than welcome to. Have a nice day.

- the author

[caapsiizzereads]

Meet me in the afterglow

Jamie Tartt x f!reader

Words: 2,7k

Warnings: language, a bit of angst (with a happy ending this time)

A/n: part 2 for Tell me that I’m all you want 🫢

Jamie has never been more excited for the pre-season. The weather in London is delightful today, the sun is shining and the temperature is at that perfect level of warmth where it doesn’t feel too hot. He’s back at Nelson Road Stadium, right where he belongs. No funny business this year. Jamie’s smiling cheerfully as he’s walking down the very familiar corridors, holding a cup holder with two cups of coffee in his hand. He strides into your office, and you smile brightly at him, putting your work aside and giving Jamie your full attention. You happily slip back into your routine.

Jamie had barely seen you during the off-season. If you weren’t working, you were somewhere away with Jason. You’d been to, like, four different countries in five weeks, living your best life. Vacation definitely suits you – you look so radiant and well-rested. Your hair is wavier than usual, your skin is glowing, and your posture is relaxed. Aren’t you a sight for sore eyes?

“I’ve missed this,” you say after fifteen minutes of chatter and giggles, and Jamie grins at you. “Almost as much as I missed this,” you add, smugly bringing the coffee cup to your lips. Jamie rolls his eyes but laughs nevertheless. God, he missed this too.

The blissful happiness doesn’t last long. Jamie doesn’t care much about what people say on the Internet, even if it’s everyone predicting that Richmond will get relegated again because it’s just poop-eh, yeah?

But then there’s something else.

“Did you know that Roy and Keeley broke up?” Jamie all but burst into your office.

You mimic zipping your mouth and throwing away the key.

“Oh, come on!” Jamie flops on the chair in front of you and sighs dramatically.

You shrug, unaffected. “How’s Roy doing?”

“Well, I promised not to say anything either!” Jamie crosses his arms determinedly.

Jamie doesn’t know whether it’s a lawyer thing or just a you thing, but he’s pretty sure that one stern look from you can make him spill all of his deepest secrets. So, predictably, you just raise one eyebrow, and it’s enough convincing for him to start talking.

After a short conversation, you agree that it’s a sad turn of events because Roy and Keeley were really good together.

“You and Jason are good?” Jamie asks because it feels fitting. He’s somewhat made peace with the fact that you’re in love with someone else. As long as you’re happy.

“Yeah, we’re good,” you smile.

It only gets worse from there.

Jamie is in your office the first thing after he hears that Zava might be joining the team because if someone knew anything about signing a new player, that would be you. You say that it’s just something that Rebecca wants, but it is very unlikely to happen. That is, until it does.

“Who the fuck signs a contract with ‘you’re welcome’?!”

Usually Jamie doesn’t like it when you’re mad, but nothing is more comforting for him than knowing that he has your support in his disliking for Zava. He becomes almost a permanent resident at your office. Every day, it’s “Zava this” and “Zava that”. Reminds you of the time when Roy first rejoined Richmond as a coach and refused to coach Jamie…

On the upside, Richmond is on a four-week winning streak. Like Zava or not, you’ve gotta admit that he is a hella good player. Before you can even finish that sentence out loud, the look on Jamie’s face is one of full-on betrayal. You roll your eyes, the fragile male ego.

“At least I'm still your favorite player,” Jamie declares self-assuredly.

“I'm sorry, at what point did I ever say that you are my favorite player?” you sneer at him, crossing your arms.

“It’s implied!”

“Aah,” you nod in faux agreement.

“So who is it then? It can’t be Zava.” Jamie will jump off a cliff.

“Lewandowski.”

Jamie shrugs, “Fair enough, he’s fucking great. I can be second after him.”

“See, that’s funny, because I don’t remember saying that you’re my second favorite either,” you say with an amused smile on your face.

“Oh, fuck off!”

Things haven’t been going really well for Richmond ever since that match against West Ham, they haven’t won a match for four weeks now. Needless to say, it was a little bit depressing. There is something else bothering Jamie, though. You’ve been acting weird lately, distant. You weren’t at the match last week, you told Jamie you couldn't hang out twice in one week, and when the third time you finally agreed, it seemed like your mind was somewhere else the whole evening. He gets that you want to spend time with your boyfriend, but Jamie wants some scraps of your time too! It takes you hours to reply to his texts, and even when he comes to your office during the day, it feels like even having a simple conversation with Jamie costs you effort. You just seem tired in general.

Jamie has been quietly sitting in your office for five minutes, waiting for you to finish whatever it is you are so busy doing. Not knowing what to do, he takes your coffee cup and takes a sip.

He grimaces in disgust. “What is this?!”

“Triple espresso,” you answer without looking away from your laptop.

No milk, no syrups, no joy, nothing.

“That’s disgusting.”

“Then don’t drink it,” you snatch the cup back.

“Not getting enough sleep?” Jamie smirks and wiggles his eyebrows at you.

The look on your face just screams that you don’t find it funny one bit and can’t wait to be done with this conversation.

Jamie’s shoulders slump, “Are you mad at me?”

“For what, hurting my coffee’s feelings?”

“I don’t know! But you’ve been acting weird! You always say you’re busy, you don’t reply to my texts, you don’t make fun of my outfit choices, and I wore a jacket with shorts yesterday.”

“The fact that you know that it’s something I would make fun of you for means that my job here is done.”

“It was raining for the whole day two days in a row, and you didn’t even complain!”

“It’s London, it’s always raining.”

“And you always complain!” He’s got a point there.

Jamie looks genuinely worried, and you didn't mean to upset him at all. You sigh weary. “It’s not you. It’s just– I needed some me-time.” Jamie keeps looking at you, waiting for you to continue. “Jason and I broke up.”

Well, that was unexpected. Jamie doesn’t really know what to say. His previous attempt at post-breakup comforting wasn’t exactly successful.

“What happened?”

“Nothing happened,” you say apathetically. “Sometimes people are just not right for each other.”

“I thought you guys were great.”

“Yeah, me too,” there’s a very bittersweet tone to your voice.

“Why didn’t you say anything?”

“Because I don’t wanna talk about it.”

Jamie gets the hint. There’s only one thing that he wants to know anyway. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah, I’m fine.” That doesn’t sound very convincing even for yourself, and judging by Jamie’s skeptical look, it doesn’t for him either. “I will be,” you rectify, feeling a lot more sincere now.

His own selfish feelings aside, Jamie never really wished for you and Jason to break up (well, maybe except for the first, like, two weeks), and with you clearly being upset about it, Jamie doesn’t have it in him to feel pleased or hopeful about the fact. What you need right now is a friend, and that’s exactly what he’s going to be.

It’s fascinating how healing a good girls night can be because a week and two hours of screaming Taylor Swift songs later, you were terribly hungover but feeling like a whole new person. Luckily for you, your boss was one of the said girls, so after lunch, the two of you decided that there was no work that required your immediate attention and was worth all that suffering and, with a clear conscience, went home.

The loss against Man City was pretty bad. Especially considering that Zava left the team. And the sport in general… Jamie wasn’t so upset about this, but you weren’t particularly excited about all the paperwork that it left you with. Richmond hadn’t won a match in nine weeks, which was pretty discouraging too. You even invited Jamie for dinner after another lost match to cheer him up a little bit.

Then finally, a miracle happened, and Ted “came up” with some “total football” thing, which, once they had figured it out, seemed to work really well for the team. After they won a match again for the first time, Jamie invited you for a celebratory dinner, on which he cheated because he ordered takeout instead of cooking. You didn’t really mind, though, because Jamie’s cooking abilities are limited to a short list of dishes that he can make himself and a bit longer list of dishes that he can make if you tell him what to do, and you didn't feel like playing Nigella.

Richmond is on a winning streak, and the team’s spirit is exceptionally high. Jamie has been on his best game too, which he can admit that he has Roy to thank for, because he is mature like that now. Life has been really good lately.

The practice is over, and Jamie’s on his way to go and pester you when he bumps into Keeley in the hallway.

“Jamie!” She doesn’t appear to be as surprised to see him. “Walk with me.” She wraps her arm around his and starts leading him down the hall.

“You know that (Y/n) helps me out with the legal stuff in the firm, right?”

“Yeah.” Jamie’s not sure where this is going.

“So yesterday I asked her to come to this meeting with me ‘cause we were signing with that one guy. And he had his lawyer with him too, and he was, like, really hot. The lawyer, not the guy. And he was totally into (Y/n) too. I didn’t even know you could make legal terms sound so sexy…”

Keeley glances at Jamie, who resembles a kicked puppy at the moment. “I’m telling you all of this because you better put your big boy pants on and ask her out before somebody else does. Again.”

Jamie doesn’t even feel like asking how and how long she’s known, he just nods at her, and she gives him that sweet smile of hers and leaves.

It’s been almost three months since you and Jason broke up. Jamie’s been more than happy to be the one you spend your free time with again, and he’s been content with how things are between you enough to not want to risk it. He hasn’t seen you being really interested in someone anyway, but he’s seen people being interested in you. Evidently, it was just a matter of time before someone caught your attention too.

Jamie goes directly to your office, and the first thing that he notices is a big bouquet of flowers on your desk. Jason stopped renewing them a few weeks after your breakup, so it’s gotta be from someone else.

“Nice flowers,” Jamie announces his presence in the room. “Who are they from?”

“Just some guy I met at Keeley's meeting yesterday,” you say noncommittally.

So it is him. “Why is he sending you flowers?”

“Well, I don’t know for sure, but my guess is that he wants to ask me out.” You look pleased.

It’s now or never. “Don't go out with him,” he blurts.

You frown. “What?”

“Don’t go out with him,” he repeats with more conviction this time. “Go out with me.”

You contemplate him for a moment. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

“Why not?” Jamie hadn’t really thought it through.

“Just let it go, Jamie,” you say insistently.

“The fuck I will!” There’s no going back now. “I want this. You.” That comes out a bit desperate.

“Right,” you scoff.

Now it’s Jamie’s turn to frown, “What?”

“For fuck’s sake, Jamie!” Even with your patience, there's a limit. “You only wanted me ‘cause you couldn’t fucking have me, which is somehow even worse than if you never wanted me at all.” You glower at him. “And now again. I’m not some fucking trophy for you to want just because someone else does!”

Jamie is completely stunned, just sitting there with his mouth open, not being able to come up with a single sensible thing to say.

Your attention turns to Higgins peeking through the door frame, “(Y/n), I need your help with something.” You have never been more grateful to see him.

“I’ll be right with you,” you nod at him, smiling. He reads the room and decides not to wait on you here.

When Higgins disappears from your view, you turn back to Jamie, “We have a good thing here. Let’s not ruin it.” With that, you get up and walk away.

You haven’t seen Jamie since your little talk yesterday. This is probably for the better because you needed some space after everything. You’re done with your work for the day, but instead of going home, you’re sitting in one of the thousands of seats at the empty stadium, staring at nothing in particular and a lot going on in your mind. The sunset is absolutely stunning today. The sky is colored with all kinds of shades of red, orange, and pink, illuminated beautifully by the afterglow of the sun.

You see in your peripheral vision that someone is walking towards you, and the clashing colors of the clothes that someone is wearing are enough for you to know exactly who this is.

Jamie takes the seat next to you. You just sit there in silence for a minute before he finally speaks up.

“You were wrong, you know,” he starts softly. “I’ve always wanted you. It’s only when I couldn’t have you that I realized it. I’m sorry I was an idiot. Shouldn’t have taken me so long.”

You keep staring forward, so he continues.

“You are not a trophy, but you are my best friend. It means more to me than you know, and I didn’t wanna risk losing it. But then Keeley told me about that guy, and I thought I would regret it for the rest of my life if I didn’t say something.”

You finally turn to look at him. Jamie’s looking at you with those puppy dog eyes of his, which makes it’s impossible to be mad at him. You give him a small smile. “You wouldn’t lose me.” He smiles too.

It gives Jamie the courage that he’s been looking for, and he gently takes your hand in both of his. “Give me a chance. Just one date. And if you hate it, I swear I’ll never bring this up ever again.”

You study him for a moment, and his eyes look so hopeful. “Alright, Jamie Tartt,” you smile at him. “Make it worth my while.”

Winning the last match of the season, Richmond finishes the season in second place. Not bad for a Premier League comeback. Today’s celebration is Ted’s last day with the team. He sure as hell will be missed, but today is not about sad farewells – it’s about appreciating the people around you and everything that awaits you in the future.

Ola’s is filled with music, laughter, and joy. Jamie looks around the room: Dani is having a drinking contest with Beard, Richard and Jan Mass are having a passionate debate about something, Ted is spinning Rebecca in the rhythm of Never Gonna Give You Up, surrounded by Keeley and the rest of the players cheering and dancing next to them. Like one big and very happy family.

Jamie is pulled out of his thoughts by the movement in front of him and the sound of glasses being put on the wooden table. Then you pull him up by his arm and start dragging him with you towards the dancing crowd with a carefree smile. Jamie eagerly takes your hand in his and lifts it above you, making you twirl. You laugh and give him a quick kiss on the lips. Life has never been better.

A/N: did i sneak in the name of the songs in the most literal corniest way? yes, and what about it.

[crusty-chronicles]

Kite As A Dad Headcannons

An: You can't make me shut up about this man 😤😤. He deserves so much love and I'm not ready for Ch 16 of Moon and Sun. Fluff, lots of fluff.

----------------------

Kite, to put it quite simply, is a great father.

He never thought he'd ever have kids of his own. He always felt he was too busy, and relationships never tended to last with his line of work. But his perspective began to change when he met you.

He was content having you in his life. One of the only constants. He was content having the boys stop by occasionally. Already treating them like his own. And a part of him thought that was the closest the two of you would ever get to having kids.

So imagine his shock when you told him you were pregnant. 

The surprise when he could see two little blimps of life inside you instead of one.

He's the type of father that when his little girl is older, doesn't mind her giving him ‘makeovers’. Who doesn't bat an eye when she starts applying splotchy eyeshadow to ‘make him pretty.’ Who lets her braid his hair and put all of her glittery clips in. Who makes sure to sit in on every tea party, tiara and all, just to see her smile.

He's the type of father who can never say no when his son asks to go on a fishing trip. Who teaches him all his favorite tricks for the perfect catch. Who listens to him rant excitedly about the trout he caught, listing off each and every fact from the top of his head. Who is more than supportive when he decides to be a hunter just like his father.

But even in the early stages he seemed to excel.

Kite is the type of dad to listen and nod his head when his two infants start babbling. Cooing a ‘mhmm’ and a ‘your’re absolutely right.’ Acting as if he really understands what they're saying. Who, when they make little grabby gestures, always seems to know what they want. Whether they just want to be held or fed, he just knows.

Who, instead of being grossed out when there's a bit of spittle on his shoulder, laughs it off instead. He'll set his little girl down to clean it off, only for his boy to drool on his boot next. Who'd rather it be that then the throw-up currently on the front of your shirt. And who, when you eye him with a mischievous smirk asking for a hug, flees while the twins giggle and laugh at the sight.

He's the type of father to beam with pride when his kids start speaking. Who, after being gone for a few weeks on an expedition, returns home to hear his two toddlers arguing in their playpen. ‘Gib me!’ from his son trying to pull the pacifier from his sister's mouth. A ‘No! Maaaa!’ from his daughter. And he's definitely the type who's heart melts when they turn around and coo ‘Dada’ at him for the first time.

He's the type of dad who absolutely adores the fact that both of his children look exactly like you. From your hair to your eyes, they were both mini copies of you. Who loves you with his whole heart, and in turn loves his kids just as much, if not more. 

He's the type of father Who tries to be around more for you and them. Who makes sure he's not gone for more than a few weeks at a time so he doesn't miss any major milestones. Who immediately steps up to help you with the twins, and who tells you to rest so you don't overwork yourself. 

Who wants to be able to give his kids everything he never had as a child. Including a home filled with warmth and love. 

Who likes to tease you after a night of intimacy by placing a hand on your tummy and whispering, “Maybe we should have just one more. But knowing our luck,we'd end up with two again.”

-----------

This is how I cope!!!! I'm still not over MatPat 😞

[sagaduwyrm]

Infinite Realms World-building

So I have a lot of thoughts over why their aren't that many ghosts in the Ghost Zone/Infinite Realms and how other afterlives fit into the situation so here.

The Infinite Realms aren't an afterlife. They're not a place any mortal soul is supposed to reach. They're the lining between afterlives, the wall holding them apart, the cradle holding all those places souls are meant to go. The Infinite Realms aren't anything, just a no man's worthless land.

The Infinite Realms weren't anything.

But. Picture this.

You are dead.You are dead you are dead you are deadyou aredeadyouaredead

It hurt. It was the worst thing you've ever felt, that moment when the bindings between your mortal body and your immortal soul were sundered beyond all recovery. You're disoriented and in pain and crying, weeping wails echoing across the metaphysical expanse.

But then a hand reaches out to you.

Hands, really.

They whisper in your ear. Come home, one says, offering gentle, glittering love. You've earned this, screams another like it’s a battle-cry. A dozen voices like hellfire and damnation offer atonement, if that's what you seek, although the punishment they offer varies. One voice that is not a voice but is the void offers the rest of non-existence, the creak of a wheel suggests reincarnation.

These gods and demons and spirits and entities want you, is the thing. Their grip is like chains around your ankles, dragging you down, and you have to choose, you hAVe To cHooSE, or It Will Be Chosen For You.

And this is what's supposed to happen, isn't it? The next step. Your eternal rest. Getting to pick is a greater mercy than a little mortal deserves, even.

But.

But…

You aren't a little mortal. You refuse to be.

You are the woman who revolutionized school lunches.

You are the greatest hunter in the world.

You are Romeo and Juliet, except they were a tragedy and you are not because you can bet your ass you went out laughing.

You are the world's next rock-star whose voice no one ever got to hear.

You are a man who loves boxes.

You are a clever wish-granter, the greatest magician in the world..

You are a Queen with people to protect.

You are the master of technology.

You are a boy who died too soon, too young, and hell, you should give up, but you never got to see the stars. You never got to see the stars, or what your sister looks like graduating from college, or how your friends look when they change the world. You'll never know if you'll be an uncle, if you'll have your dad's shoulders or your mom's wiry strength, what it feels like to kiss someone, whether or not Dash will ever get that stick his ass and become a decent person again. No one will ever read your paper on the genesis of stars, or fly to Pluto in a rocket ship you designed, or welcome you home after you've fulfilled your life's dream and gone to space.

It's a goddamn tragedy is what it is.

And dying hurt, so bad you're not sure if you'll ever be the same. But. All your chains are broken now. Your soul is free, in a way that it's never quite been before. You are a butterfly, broken free from your cocoon.

And they want to chain you.

They whisper so sweetly, so gently in your ear, even as they tear you apart in a child's game of tug-of-war. You have to choose.

Fuck that.

Fuck that. Dying hurts but it also freed all the potential of your beautiful, brilliant soul, and you aren't going back. Maybe you’re Icarus, flying too close to the sun, but you have wings now, and you won't let them be pinned.

You take the plunge. Through brimstone, through the river with its eternal ferry, through light and dark and a thousand different afterlives that want you like they have any damned right to your soul.

You fly, and you aren't sure if you're running forward or fleeing, but you fly. And it takes forever, a century and a day that lasts less than the beat of a heart, but then you burst free of all those grasping hands and you see green.

The green is infinite and it's empty. But it's free. It's beautiful and bright and you breathe it in, this base stuff of reality, this entropy in motion, and your soul comes to life. You aren't bound anymore, not by the base practicalities of your body, not by the laws and hunger of the gods, not by anything but your own willpower and trust in yourself.

Once the Infinite Realms were empty, once they were nothing. Now there are ghosts singing their exultant freedom. With them they bring ideas and movement and life, and the eddies they stir become whole new beings, spirits that never lived as anything other than what they are. These empty currents now hold whole worlds, ghosts and spirits and monsters.

And one day some strange being comes and tries to take your freedom and he calls himself Pariah Dark. Maybe he was a determined mortal just like you, maybe he was a demon, something sent by the gods to punish you for daring to be more, but it doesn't matter. Regardless of how hard he tries, how many lands his armies invade, how deep he digs his clawed hands in, it doesn't matter. 

No one can conquer Infinity.

And then the Ancients awake. Even in a realm of equals, there are still those who are more. And what is the point of power if you can't protect your fellows?

So they shut him away, this fool who doesn't care for the freedom the Infinite offers, put him in a sleep so deep even his dreams can't disturb others. And when he wakes up there is a boy, small and young, but with more determination in his body than most could dare claim, and the tyrant who steals freedom is sent straight back to sleep.

The Infinite Realms need no King, but this boy is small and clever and kind, and when two people war, he is the first to come and mediate, the first to shove himself between their fury and make them remember themselves. They don't need a King, but the Infinite Realms are so big, with so many people, and they wouldn't mind a Speaker. Someone to connect them all, regardless of how far they lay apart.

And this boy with stars in his eyes and gentle hands grumbles, but he loves the Infinite as much as they love him, and he's almost meant for this, existing between Ancient and New, Living and Dead. They would never chain him, but he was always meant to explore, and who wouldn't want to meet and see and know everything?

The Infinite Realms are green and free and beautiful, and no god can ever change that.

[just-a-torn-up-masterpiece]

i never thought you'd happen to me.

masterlist | boygenius masterlist

emily prentiss x reader

this seems angsty but i promise it's not; i guess it's just a little snippet of people being human, finding comfort in another

instalment for the song 'leonard cohen' | wc: 813

Two broken souls can mend once forged together, meeting right when you need each other most, to fix what once was broken. 

Darkness bares itself to you, sinking its teeth in so deeply that it scars. And no matter how far you walk into the light, it will never leave you completely, leaving shadows in any space it can. You carry it with you like a familiar friend, choosing to feel the warmth of the light on your cheeks, keeping it at bay as much as it will let you. 

It’s a burden of being human. 

But when you’re shrouded for so long, burned enough times, it’s easy to begin to think that perhaps that’s all there is for you. Maybe settling for glimpses of shadows is what you have to do; it’s better than being dragged under at least. 

Emily let the dark times of her past follow her in her shadow, each and every tainted memory that brought her to this day. The ones that carried her through her career, through each blow that knocked her down, each piece she had to desperately put back together time and time again. The ones that made her who she is, the chief of the BAU. 

She settled for the darkness that came to her just as the sun forms a shaded patch beneath a tree. Sometimes she welcomes it, leaning into its comforting touch, as an old friend greets you with familiarity. It’s a way for her to know that there’s a constant, something she can turn to and know it will always be there. 

And then she met you. 

Like a piece falling into place, she found comfort in the sound of your laugh, the sight of your smile, the memorised contours of your face. 

She let you see the ghosts that followed her just as you did with her. 

She was nervous the first time she pulled you in for a kiss, a late night in her office over case files and small glasses of the burning tequila she hid beneath her desk. She swore you to secrecy and you laughed. 

She likes to trust her gut, whether she enjoys it or not, and she desperately ached for her heart to be right. That the touches you provide her with in passing and the way you subconsciously search for her in every room, are signs of reciprocated emotions. 

How she adores being right. She tasted the liquor on your tongue and felt the flush of your cheek beneath her palm, she smiled at the breath you let out against her lips when you parted for air and at the shy flutter of your eyes. 

You were the optimism she’s so constantly ducked away from. She was the optimism you’d always yearned to find; the one you’d always heard of, settling to never find it, even resenting the mere concept. 

Emily was the moon and you were the body of water best suited to reflect her light. Better together, shining back at one another in a way that defied the darkness around you. It was easy to focus on the beauty of your love, to let it take the lead. And whenever the shadows showed themselves at least you weren’t alone. 

Just like the nights you’ve shared so many times before, you found comfort beside each other, that solid intimacy of naked skin pressed against skin. The air was still and calm. Peace, occupied only by your breathing. Your head rested against her chest with the echoes of her heart beating a soothing rhythm whilst her hand stroked through your hair. 

You could tell she wanted to say something. It's a perk of knowing somebody so truly and deeply; recognising the hitch of a breath, knowing that it signified words that begged to be set free. She’d watched the stars out of the window deeply in thought, a constant smile making her cheeks begin to ache.

“I have something cheesy to say,” she sighed, you could hear the embarrassed grin in her voice. 

“I think I’m sleepy enough to stomach it,” you returned, she felt your lips twitch amusedly against her collarbone. 

“You have ignited something within me that I never thought possible,” she muttered with her words falling onto the top of your head. “It makes me feel weightless and free, as though nothing can touch me.”

She couldn’t imagine speaking words more true. In fact, she couldn’t imagine any type of happy life without you. No person or thing could ever take that place next to her; the spot reserved for you, that blossoming garden never short on sunlight. 

“What’s that?” you asked, sitting up to meet her eyes with yours, hazel filled with adoration. Her gaze was honest and just like that first night you let her hold your cheek, leaning into the touch that felt like home. 

“Hope.” 

[runningmunson]

Hii!! If requests are open could I get an aemond and reader fic where theyre in an arranged marriage and she loves him but doesn't think he loves her back and she gets insecure bcs of what the people at court are saying?? happy ending and a love confession please! Thanks💕

The Life You Dreamed

Pairing: Aemond Targaryen x Female!Reader

Word Count: 1.7k

Warnings: insecurities?, angst to fluff

Masterlist

Falling in love with Aemond was as easy as breathing. He was a gentleman, strong, intelligent, and handsome. Everything you could want in a husband, he possessed. So no, falling for him wasn’t hard.

Continuing to love him, however, was like breathing in the cold morning air- difficult and painful. You could feel your chest tighten every time he resisted your attempts to show him how you loved him. Whether it was the many times he pulled his hand away from yours or when you begged him to join you at night only to wake as the sun rose to find he never went to bed with you. He could be gentle and kind one day, then distant and harsh the next. 

Just like your lungs so desperately craved air, you crave to feel Aemond’s love. 

It was one of those latter days where he would perform his duty the way he was taught but show no real care towards you. He escorted you, arms linked, into the hall where the royal family was celebrating the name day of Jaehaerys and Jaehaera. Your chair was pulled out, and his hand led you to sit next to his mother. Short pleasantries were made before the food was served.

Not long after, the music and dancing commenced. Alicent made her way around to greet all the Lords and Ladies who came to celebrate. Aegon, who was already drunk before the event started, had surprisingly dragged Helaena to the dance floor. That left you and your husband alone at the table. He had barely even said more than a few words to you since you got there. You had hoped he would ask you to dance, but you were not so lucky. 

You felt the disappointment creep in as you watched the happy faces of those dancing in front of you. How you only wished to feel Aemond’s arms around you as you danced around the room, to have a taste of the joy these people must have felt. 

You were drawn out of your thoughts to find Lord Tully standing in front of you. You figured he was there to talk to Aemond but left shocked when he held his hand out and asked for you to dance. You turned your head to see Aemond’s reaction and saw nothing but his typical neutral exterior, so you stood and walked around the table to accept his request. 

“I would be happy to dance with you, Lord Tully,” you smiled brightly at him. He led you to the dance floor and placed one hand on your waist while the other grabbed your hand. You spun around the room together, laughing at one another's jokes and enjoying each other's company. 

It wasn’t often that a man seemed genuinely interested in what you had to say, so you tried to take advantage of the moment. However, it was hard to ignore the harsh stare of Aemond. If he didn’t like it, then he should have just asked me to dance, you thought.

After a few dances, you grew tired. “I think I am going to sit this one out and grab a drink.” 

You walked toward a table that housed the wine and poured yourself a drink. There was a small group of ladies not far from the table. You could hear bits and pieces of their conversation.

“I heard someone spotted the prince leaving a brothel the other night yet again,” Lady Tyrell spoke. This piqued your interest, knowing you liked to hear occasional gossip of the people in the courts. You figured they must be talking about Aegon. It was common knowledge that your brother, by marriage, was not faithful to his wife and often sought comfort in wine and women.

“Maybe that is why her belly has yet to swell with child despite them being wed for some time. The poor girl can't possibly satisfy a real man such as himself,” Lady Tyrell continued, causing the other ladies to giggle. 

You were confused at first. Aegon already had children with Helaena, so the only other prince is Aemond. Tears began to form in the corner of your eyes when you realized they were talking about you and your husband. Why would Aemond be visiting a brothel? You no longer felt well and wanted to leave.

Your eyes searched the room for Alicent and found her with Aemond, who was still at the head table. Your feet carried you over there as you tried to force your tears away. “Your grace, I am not feeling well and wish to retire for the night.”

“Of course, dear. I hope you feel well soon,” she pulled you into a hug.

“I shall accompany you then,” Aemond said and stood from his seat.

You shook your head, “That is not necessary, my prince. I do not wish to take you away from your niece and nephew’s party. My handmaiden will attend to me.”

Aemond raised his brow when you called him my prince. You haven't called him that since before you were wed after he requested you call him by his name. He took notice of your shining eyes in the candlelight and your withdrawn posture and knew something was wrong. 

“I would still like to accompany you. If we may be excused, mother?” Aemond stood firm, almost begging you to challenge him. You gave in and bowed your head to the queen. He offered you his arm, but you turned away from him and made your way to your chambers, knowing he followed not far behind. 

Aemond closed the door once you made it inside. You paced nervously, afraid to confront him about what you heard. He spoke up, “What troubles you?”

“Have you been visiting brothels?” you asked bluntly.

“What?”

“I overheard Lady Tyrell say people have witnessed you leave a brothel. She figures that is why I have yet to bear your children, that you visit those horrible places because I cannot satisfy you,” you could feel your throat tighten as a sob threatened to come out. 

Aemond stormed over to you, “That is rich coming from Lady Tyrell, seeing as her Lord husband has fathered several bastard children. And no, I have not been visiting brothels. I have been with no other woman but you since we wed. I am not my brother and truly offended that you think so lowly of me.”

“Then why do we not have children yet? Why do you refuse to bed me most of the time? There has to be some logic for all of this!” you cried out.

“I do not believe this to be the true reason you are upset. What else troubles you so much that you falsely accuse me of something so vile?” Aemond was beginning to get angry at this point. He did not like when his integrity was questioned. 

“I mourn, Aemond! I mourn for the life I wish to have,” you said but didn’t look at him. Your red-rimmed eyes were faced toward the window. 

“You mean a life without me as your lord Husband?” Aemond stared at you with a clenched jaw, his hands clasped firmly behind his back. 

You shook your head, “I think you are mistaken. I mourn for the life I wish to have with you.”

“What do you mean by that?” He questioned.

“Aemond, I desire nothing more than to have a happy and loving marriage with you. I don’t want to question whether I am the only woman you share your bed with. I want to have your children together and grow old with you. It has been difficult for me to come to terms with the fact that it will never happen,” you sighed. Tears flowed free and landed on your cheeks as you let the pain crush your heart once more. 

“Why- why would you desire that with me?” Aemond stared at you in shock. He couldn’t believe you possibly wanted a real life with him. You turned to face him. 

You walked over to him and placed your hand on his face, slowly running your thumb down his cheek, “I love you, Aemond. I do not know why it is such a surprise that someone other than your family by blood could ever love you. I know I do not have your love, but that is a burden I have to carry alone.” 

“Oh, my sweet wife. The only one who is mistaken is you. I have all but yearned to hear these words from your lips, for you to say you feel the way I do,” Aemond felt his anger fade, and relief flooded his body. 

“You love me?”

“Yes, I love you. I have from the moment I laid my eyes upon you,” he took hold of your hands.

“But why can you be so cold sometimes? Why is it so hard for you to show me you love me like I have been trying to do to you?” you questioned, wanting nothing more but to understand him.

“I do not know how to show love. I’ve never had an example of what true love should look like and only ever known how my parents treated each other and me and my siblings. But truly, it is no fault but my own, and I am sorry for how I acted. I am so sorry that you have had to question my love for you,” his face turned into a frown, embarrassed at his actions.

He continued, “I want nothing more than the life you dream for us. I want days spent in bed making love to you. I want to dance the night away with you. I want a family with you, to watch our children grow up and have children of their own. I want to spend every day loving you as we grow old together.”

You couldn’t help but cry at his admission, knowing you prayed to the gods every night for this moment. “Do you promise?”

“I swear on my life that I will give you everything you have ever wanted as long as I am by your side,” he wrapped his arms around you to pull you closer, placing his lips on yours. You spent the night dreaming of the rest of your life together. 

—

Taglist: @cullenswife , @wrendermeuseless , @darylandbethfanforever9

[mazeinthemiroh]

Hi! First, I want to say I really love your writing ❤️

Can I request an Ateez reaction to catching their S/O singing and dancing to an Ateez song (maybe right when its their part as well)? ❤️

ateez catching their s/o singing/dancing to their songs

genre: insanely fluffy like idk what to do with myself, obviosuly louds of crack as well because it's funnnnnn

word count: 1.5k

warnings: mentions of being drunk in woo's

a/n: i took the liberty of doing a little scenario for this ask because i thought it was just super cute and funny! hope you enjoy <3333

hongjoong

hongjoong lent against the door-frame and grinned to himself as he watches you getting ready to go out. oblivious to your boyfriend watching, you swung your hips to the rhythm of the music, humming to yourself.

it was only when 'TO THE BEAT' started playing did you gasp in excitement, clearly in your own little world as you braced yourself to do hongjoong's rap.

he held a laugh back as he continued to watch, listening to your.... attempt at rapping his verse. he couldn't tell whether he found it adorable or utterly hilarious. once you had finished your boyfriend's verse, you swirled proudly around in a flourish, before coming face to face with your grinning boyfriend.

"nooooo how long were you watching," you whined, covering your face with both of your hands in embarrassment. you swatted a hand at his chest as he threw his head back with laughter.

"long enough" he answered in amusement, still smiling as he pulled you in for a sloppy hug as you tried to pull away playfully, "hey, you may not be the best rapper, but you're definitely my favourite!"

seonghwa

you were waiting for seonghwa to join you at the park. you had set up a little picnic date for the both of you, and the park was very nearly empty, with the occasional dog walker or cyclist enjoying the fresh air.

on waiting for your boyfriend to make an appearance, you decide to play your summer playlist out loud, since you wouldn't be bothering anyone near you.

swaying gently to the music, you smile and pull down your sunglasses as 'Eternal Sunshine' started to play. the song definitely suited the weather; the sun's rays shone persistently down, kissing your glowing skin gently.

you sang softly and gently to the melody you knew so well, watching the breeze tickle the leaves of the trees. you didn't hear the footsteps of your boyfriend behind you, clearly entranced by the scenery.

"you sound so pretty," his gentle voice spoke as he sat down next to you, his hand finding your waist. you give him a shy smile in return.

"not as pretty as you, park seonghwa" you grinned and leaned into his touch, "so pretty that i will forgive you for being late!"

yunho

you were waiting for your boyfriend to get home from work. he always arrived a little bit later than you did, and so you had a few hours to be able to do whatever you wanted before spending time with him.

right now, you had your music blasted and echoed around the corners of the house. you thought you would get ahead on the household chores. you usually did the vacuuming and dusting while yunho did the ironing and washing up.

so there you were, dusting the over the surfaces, when you heard 'WIN' start to play. you smirked to yourself, your body moving to the beat of the song.

"heyyyyyyy, we are gonna win" you sang, your body doing what you thought were the correct dance moves (you knew they probably weren't.) when it came to the dance break at the end though, you twerked like your life depended on it. it just felt right!

and yunho was glad that he came home when he did to see you like this, the dance machine you were! your flustered face told was one that is now permanently ingrained in his memory as he laughed hysterically.

yeosang

you had the tendency to sing in the shower. when you were alone in the house, you sang at the top of your lungs. but when your boyfriend was there, you tended to tone it down a bit.

there you were in the shower again, your phone just outside and turned up just enough for you to hear it over the pouring water.

as soon as 'HALAZIA' started to play, you gasped this was your moment. grabbing the bottle of shampoo and grasping it in your hands like a microphone, you weren't aware how loud you were actually singing.

you did in fact wake your boyfriend up out of his light sleep. he smiled slightly at the sound of your voice and went to investigate some more, his curiosity overtaking him.

he didn't have to press his ear up against the bathroom door to know what you were singing. he could hear you attempt to sing his lower verses before clearing your throat. he let out a tiny giggle, an adoring smile growing on his face as he left you to sing your heart out.

san

well, you got bored when waiting for your boyfriend to get changed after his dance practice. you loved supporting him, but he took so damn long to get showered and ready afterwards.

as you waited for him, you had the whole practice room to yourself. you thought that you might as well make use of it.

so getting up, you played 'HALA HALA' on the sound system. the music bounced off the walls as you stretched half-heartedly, getting ready to do the choreography you had seen so many times.

you didn't notice your boyfriend come in, an amused look on his face as he watched your intense, concentrated expression. he was impressed that you remembered so many moves!

it was only until the very last move where you were supposed to grab your head and twist it like you were cracking your neck that actually caught you off guard; your neck actually made a loud crack sound and you thought you'd died for a second.

san was concerned at first but as soon as he saw you were okay, he burst into laughter at your perplexed and shocked expression.

mingi

getting ready in the mornings was fun with you because you always played music in order to get ready efficiently and on time. it also gave you a bit of a boost to start the day.

mingi was still in the shower when 'Rocky' started playing. you were just putting your underwear on, wiggling your butt to the music. this was your favourite ateez song yet, it was hard not to sing and dance along to it.

you didn't hear your boyfriend come out of the shower so you kept getting ready, fluently belting out the lyrics as if your life depended on it. but your favourite part was yet to come.

mingi could hear you singing and grinned, peering his head through the crack of the door as you shouted "let's start the second round, fix on!" not able to contain his laughter, he chuckled loudly at your immense enthusiasm. at first, you didn't notice but when you did?

"mingi!" you pushed the door fully open to your boyfriend almost in tears "why are you laughing oh my gosh." you huffed and folded your arms over your chest. "you're just jealous that i'm a better rapper than you!"

wooyoung

you don't know how you ended up in a karaoke bar with your friends. perhaps your friends pressured you into singing. or perhaps you were too drunk to be affected by insecurities you once had before.

whichever it was, all you knew is that you were on the mini stage, your friends the only ones really paying attention and cheering you on loudly.

your chosen song? 'WONDERLAND', of course. thank goodness your boyfriend wasn't here to see you make a complete fool out of yourself, and all whilst singing one of his own songs, right??

well, i wouldn't get your hopes up because mid-song, your charming boyfriend wooyoung had entered the same bar with a couple of his friends. he was laughing hysterically at your off-beat singing and unnecessarily sexy dance moves. it was too funny not to record this on his phone.

when your... special performance ended, you could hear an all-familiar shrill laughter somewhere in the club. when you turned in that direction, your eyes met with your boyfriend's. and you knew at that moment he was never going to let you live this down.

jongho

the producers at kq entertainment would sometimes let you into the studio and mess around, just because you were friends with them as well as the partner of their beloved maknae. you did get certain privileges for being jongho's significant other and you were going to take advantage of that!

at one point, when things weren't so busy, you asked if you could have one of the studios to yourself while waiting for your boyfriend to finish his vocal practice.

you thought you would have a little vocal practice yourself. shoving the headphones over your ears, you could only hear yourself now. you hummed to yourself, wondering what you wanted to sing.

'Utopia' came to mind, and without a second thought, you started singing into the microphone. you were impressed by your own vocals, particularly when it came to jongho's lines.

you didn't notice him even enter the producer's booth on the other side of the glass, but he could hear your beautiful singing. he watched and listened intently, a small, proud smile playing on his lips.

[fiapartridge]

cruel summer | jack hughes

"he looks up grinning like the devil..."

jack hughes x reader

summary: it's another hot summer night at the hughes family's lake house, and yours and jack's secret relationship is tested now more than ever...

warning(s): swearing

top 3 songs on lover: cruel summer, cornelia street, dbatc (honorable mention: the archer) and you can quote me on that

You've known the Hughes family for as long as you could remember. Your parents met in college, and since then, your families have spent every summer at the lakehouse together. To say that the three boys and you were close would be an understatement. You guys were inseparable.

When Jack moved to New Jersey to play for the Devils, you had just recently got into Princeton. You both were elated. Sure, it was still about an hour drive away from him, but it beat being in Michigan. Before the move, everyone saw you and Luke as the best of friends, the ones that could barely go a day without seeing each other, the ones where laughing was the only thing in their vocabulary, but when you moved to New Jersey, all of that changed. 

You still talked to Luke and you saw him on occasion, like Christmas break or on Thanksgiving, but not as much as you saw Jack. When Jack learned that you were going to Princeton, he rearranged his entire schedule to make him able to pick you up on the weekends and bring you to Newark to hang with him and the team. They became some of your best friends and Jack, well, you guys were closer than ever.  

You suppose that that was when it all started: the secrecy, the quick kisses, the hand-holding underneath table linen— the start of your secret relationship. Though it was all out in the open in Jersey: you staying at his apartment; in his bed, having an extra toothbrush in his bathroom, wearing his hoodies, and staying up talking until the sun came up. 

After a year of going back and forth between Newark and Princeton, debating whether this whole thing was merely just you guys hanging around each other for your families’ sake, or if it was really something more, Jack felt like he knew the obvious answer. He never wanted to talk to you and be around you because of your families. Sure, that was a factor, but he just loved you, and knowing you. And when he asked you to be his girlfriend, to his surprise, you said yes.

So when summer started up again and Jack Hughes was officially your boyfriend, you knew your families would have a field day with it, so you kept it a secret. You didn’t want things to change, you didn’t want them to feel uncomfortable with you going into his room anymore just like you had done so many summers before, or them being weirded out with the fact that you guys kiss and hold hands among other things. You guys just didn’t want them to see you two differently— especially his brothers. Quinn and Luke— they were your best friends. You couldn’t mess that up.

The boys (along with the addition of Z, Coley, Turcs, Eddy, and Duker, who practically begged Quinn to let them stay for the summer) were in the backyard, playing games in the pool when you walked back inside the lakehouse, water spilling off your swimsuit, dampening up the hardwood floor. 

“Y/N/N, you’re getting the floor all wet,” your mom scolded as she and Ellen sat on the couch, drinking wine and talking about their lives leading up to today. 

You grabbed a towel from the cabinet beside the door, letting it hang over your shoulders as Ellen smiled brightly at you. She waved you over to where they were sitting. “Oh, let me see my beautiful, Y/N/N.” 

You grinned upon hearing Ellen’s voice. She was like a second mother to you. You came to her for almost everything. And Ellen loved her boys, but you, you were like the daughter she never had. “You, darling, are stunning,” she beamed. “Come, sit.”

You sat on the carpeted floor, not wanting to mess up the couch. “How’s college?” Ellen asked.

“It’s— a change, but I really like it.”

She raised her brow humorously. “Any boyfriends?”

Hm. You figured the first night of summer may not be the best time to tell her that you are dating her fucking son. So, you shook your head and said, “No. Uh, that department’s still in development.”

She laughed. “I remember when you and Lukey would chase each other around the house when you were little. You’d knock over every single vase in sight. We’d spent a thousand dollars on repairs that month.”

You scrunch your nose. “Sorry.”

“No, no!” she waved it off. “You kids were having fun. I missed it when you guys were kids. The boys have been— stressed to say the least, but the second Jack found out you were going to be in Jersey with him, it’s like his whole demeanor shifted. This past year, it’s like… he’s only been happy.”

“Speaking of Jack,” your mom turned to the figure walking through the backdoor. 

“I was wondering why the lemonade was taking hours,” he smiled at you. “Hi, moms.” He kissed the top of his mom’s head and kissed your mom’s cheek as he stood behind the couch, beaming at you. He loved seeing you with his mom. Every girl he dated in the past had good relations with his mom, but they were never you. You’d known her since birth. No one had a bond like you two. 

Maybe that was another fear; why you had to keep this whole thing a secret. What if Ellen hated you? I mean, she never could. She always anticipated you ending up with one of her boys, but there was still some fear lingering in the back of your head; that maybe she’d think of you differently.

“Sorry we stole her,” Ellen said. “We just needed some girl talk.”

“That’s never good.”

Ellen threw a pillow at him as he ducked, grabbing your hand and pulling you up towards the kitchen. “Go, go, go!” he yelled as you laughed behind him.

When you two finally made it into the kitchen, checking if anyone was around, Jack slowly backed you up against the counter, a smirk dancing across his lips as he held onto your hips and kissed you. You sighed into the kiss, placing your hands on his sub-burnt cheeks. There wasn’t much time for intimacy like there was back in New Jersey, so you took every slim chance you had.

“What’d you guys talk about?” he whispered, his lips still a close distance from yours as if moving a bit farther would ruin the electric atmosphere around you.

“College, you, boyfriends.”

“Boyfriends?” he looked at you, grinning like the devil before tickling your sides as you laughed, pushing his hands off of you. “What’d you say?” he asked once he was done attacking you with tickles. His hands remained on both sides of the counter, trapping you in him. You both glanced at the entrance from time to time, making sure the coast was clear.

“What? You jealous?” 

He rolled his eyes. “Yes, I’m so jealous. Let me go beat up this boyfriend of yours,” he said before pretending to hit himself in the face. 

“Okay, okay, okay. This is getting embarrassing,” you laughed, scrunching your nose at him as you walked around him and pulled out the pitcher of lemonade from the fridge.

Just as Jack was about to pull you back into him, he jumped backwards upon hearing Luke’s voice enter the room. “God, you guys are so fucking slow. What are you doing? Making out?”

Your face turned beet red as Luke shook his head and took the pitcher from where you placed it on the counter.

“Why? Is that what you and Duker are doing outside?” Jack asked, smirking.

Luke scoffed, rolling his eyes. “How have you never noticed that Duker and I have something going on? It’s like you don’t even pay attention anymore, Jacky,” he said, shaking his head before shuffling out the door and back outside to the pool.

You let out a breath, laughing as Jack wrapped his arms around you, matching your energy. 

This was going to be a long summer. 

[satorkive]

DNA :: SATORU

“첫눈에 널 알아보게 됐어, 서롤 불러왔던 것처럼, 내 혈관 속 DNA가 말해 줘,내가 찾아 헤매던 너라는 걸…”

gojo satoru knew that it’s his time.

honestly, he doesn’t know what to feel. emotions override his logical way of thinking that he doesn’t even have the energy to formulate his thoughts.

is this the end?

is this how suguru felt when he’s bleeding out?

is this how you felt when you took the blade for him?

is this how nanami felt when half of his face was burned?

if yes, then he’d gladly welcome the arms of death.

he can finally reunite with his bestfriend, his love of his life, and his almost-bestfriend. nothing is worth living in the jujutsu world. he can apologize to shoko when they meet again—not very soon, he hopes.

he has trained the kids so they can defend themselves. he shows a portion of his vulnerability to them, but they can never equate the two of you.

it was probably the best twenty-eight years he experienced in this cruel world. he hopes in the afterlife, he can be happy—for a lifetime. not just temporarily, but for eternity.

the sky is blue and the sun shines above him. the air is fresh and the war is fading.

“satoru!”

his eyes snap widely when he hears your voice. he frantically moves to go to you when he felt your soft hands touching his face.

the bleariness slowly vanishes and he can clearly see your pretty face who is looking at him in concern.

“are you okay? you seem to be… disoriented?”

“yo, satoru! you fell for [name] so hard you are ready to collapse? that’s lame.”

the voice he never heard for so many years greet him like an ice bucket.

what’s happening? he’s really dead? he didn’t wake up?

“oh, oh…” then he laughs. like a deranged psychopath laugh. you step back in surprise and suguru put a hand on satoru’s shoulder to smack him.

“oh my god, you’re being insane, satoru. what’s happening?”

the white-haired boy shook his head and wipes the tear that has fallen. “nothing, nothing. i thought i was being delusional—”

you chime in. “you have always been delusional, satoru, what’s new?”

suguru giggles like a girl and satoru stands up to headlock you. you put your hand over his and you feel like your blood thrumming in your veins. like your dna is recognizing who you are biologically engineered to be with.

you feel him and he feels you. goosebumps form under your blouse and you look at him with wide eyes.

it feels like you’re seeing him again. it feels like seeing him renewed your entire being. it feels like seeing him is coming home to him again.

“satoru, you’re…?”

“hi, baby.” he gives you that dimpled smile.

“whether we are in the past life or in this one as well, we’re going to be together forever because—

—we’re the two who found the destiny.”

[kitashousewife]

iwaizumi hajime doesn’t consider himself a nostalgic person.

but when summer crawls to an end? he’s feeling it for sure. every good memory, every long night for the last three months floods his mind. he finds himself longing for the early summer feeling of freedom and excitement, dipping his toes into a few months of bliss.

so, to mourn the time gone by so soon, iwaizumi has spent the last few days on the beach.

his broad shoulders shine in the sun, golden brown and littered with freckles. his cheeks, littered with freckles of their own turn to face the sun. he’s rotated to his stomach, deciding to rest his eyes while he suns his back. after this, maybe he’ll run into the ocean.

he’s trying everything in his power to make time slow down.

iwaizumi pouts when he rests his forehead on his hands, face nuzzling the fuzzy towel beneath him. he knows he’s being ridiculous, he knows his last year of university will start on monday whether he wants it to or not.

the beach is fairly empty today, which he assumed. everyone has slowly entered into their post-summer routines, leaving him to his thoughts, save it be for the few other people trying to pack in as much as they can during these last few days of summer. the sound of waves seem distant as iwa attempts to filter through the nagging thoughts of productivity.

he sits up, muscles flexing as he rises to his feet. the light blue shorts hugging his legs are pulled back down to his mid thigh before he walks into the water. he allows the waves to push him and pull him lazily, enjoying the steadiness of it all.

iwa is conflicted. sure, he quite enjoys not having anything to do besides hit the gym, call his friends and family, and take care of himself. but really, you can only spend so long at the gym (despite his best efforts of course) and when your loved ones live across the world, phone calls and facetimes can be limited. at least once he’s in school he will have a routine, a little more structure, and many more things to fill his time. that can’t be all that bad, people thrive on consistency and schedules!

he so strongly wishes that wasn’t true as he trudges back to land. despite wanting to be a beach bum gym rat without responsibilities, iwa knows that isn’t him.

a sad feeling creeps into his stomach as the sun begins to fall slowly. he packs up his things and takes one long look at the ocean. i’ll be back, he thinks. i can always come here to study, he shakes his head, almost laughing at how completely untrue that is. when he begins to walk home, the end of summer blues hit hard. to soothe his hurt, he decides to order a pizza for himself tonight. an end of summer, beginning of his last year celebration.

when he shuts the door to his apartment, he’s got his phone pressed to his ear between his shoulder, both hands full of his belongings. after he sets them down, iwa swears he hears something on the other side of the wall. pulling the phone from his ear, sounds of the pizza place’s hold music becoming a little less painful as he listens for the sound. as soon as he puts it back to his ear, he hears it again.

just as he hangs up to call the building manager, he hears something fall over, followed by a very disgruntled sound, and the front door slamming shut. about three seconds later, there’s a knock at his door.

iwa’s heart beats a little too quickly for someone with his stature, answering the door alone. when he checks the peep hole he sees you, arms crossed and lips pulling into a small pout.

“hello,” he opens the door just a bit, enough to show part of his body. really he’s a little embarrassed at the state of his apartment, but realized as well that he is still in swim trunks.

only swim trunks.

you notice, eyes going a little wider at the absolutely gorgeous man in front of you. tan body, muscular biceps and messy hair. before you get too distracted, you remember why you came over here.

“h-hi, i just moved in next door. i wanted to say sorry for all of the noise,” you wince as he nods. “i wanted to ask, do you have much experience building furniture?”

iwa is sure you’re embarrassed, but he can’t help but smile just a little bit.

“i have a little,” he opens the door a bit wider. “do you need-“

“yes!” you light up, thrilled that you’re finally getting some help. “come over, whenever you’re free. i would really appreciate it.” you wave, giving iwa possibly the prettiest smile he’s ever seen before turning on your heel to walk back home.

he shuts the door, snatching up the t-shirt on the kitchen counter before slipping it on and heading out the door once more. he decides that pizza can wait. who is he to not help someone in need?

“oh wow, you’re fast,” you open the door and motion for him to come in, and iwa’s cheeks turn pink. you introduce yourself quickly, he returns the favor, and he follows behind you to the living room. spread out are different parts and instructions, and based on the photo on the box, it appears to be a coffee table.

“the website said it would be easy to set up but i’ve been trying for thirty minutes,” you sit on the floor and sigh. iwa joins you, grabbing the instructions.

“it never is,” he thinks back to the absolute nightmare it was setting up his bed frame. “did you move in today?”

“this morning,” you nod, grabbing one of the many boxes in the room. “do you mind if i unpack? would that be rude?”

“no,” he says a little too quickly. “i would do the same thing. i hate having my things in boxes.”

you laugh, and his cheeks turn pink again. he cringes, knowing if any of his friends saw him right now he wouldn’t hear the end of it. sitting here in a pretty girl’s apartment, stinking of salt and sunscreen in a pair of shorts and some random old t shirt.

“how long have you lived here?” you’re in the kitchen now, moving different cups around with a furrowed brow. iwa is beside himself, he can’t believe someone this cute is going to be right next to him every day.

“about three years,” he tightens one of the screws, making amazing time building it. he almost wants to slow down so that he can stay longer, but he won’t bother you.

“that’s good to hear,” you move the now empty box to the corner. “i don’t want to have to move again any time soon.”

i don’t want you to either, he thinks.

the two of you talk while he finishes building, getting to know each other. you learn where he’s from, what he’s studying, and vise versa. you two chat about school and before you know it, your table is complete.

“oh my gosh, thank you!” you give him a tired smile. “can i pay you?”

he snorts. “no, don’t worry about that. i’m happy to help.”

“can i at least get you dinner? you have no idea how much this helps me.”

he stands in your kitchen for a moment, before nodding.

“that would be fine,” you smile at him.

“i’ll order a pizza, does that sound okay? i haven’t been to the store yet,” he nods, and you pull out your phone to call them.

iwa forgets his summer blues for an evening. each minute he spends with you, the longing feeling in his stomach is replaced with excitement. instead of mourning the summers end, he welcomes every opportunity coming to him in the new season.

as he eats pizza with you on your living room floor, he can’t help but smile. after three years, he finally has his first real “college” experience.

and when he goes home, he thinks of any excuse he can to get you over to his place.