#AND HE DID THIS IN FRONT OF EVERYONE TOO?

[heavysighing-dreamyeyes]

I actually think Jason Todd would be terrible when it comes to reacting to embarrassing situations. Like in the way that he leans too far into it while trying to make the moment not embarrassing for you

Accidently knocked over your drink at the coffee shop? Well, he ripped the top off his drink and poured it right next to yours on the ground. (He didn't even think about the mess it would make, he just did it and met your gaze with complete seriousness while you openly stared at him. Yes, he helped clean it up after, I swear)

Tripped in a room in front of witnesses? He's sprinting over to your side from the opposite end of the room and throwing himself to the floor dramatically. (He's checking if you're okay as soon as he hits the ground)

Accidently waved to someone you don't know? He's gaslighting them into believing you all went to school together. (You walked away from the situation with a new group chat and plans to meet up next Thursday)

He simply has never had a normal interaction in his life and is committed to the bit (no matter how weird that bit seems to be to everyone else)

[lieslab]

If we could only turn back time

꘎♡━━━━━♡꘎ ꘎♡━━━━━♡꘎

Pairing: Chan X gn reader

Summary: After a Dispatch article leaks, your betrayed boyfriend kicks you out of your shared apartment and you're silenced in the worst way possible.

Genre: Angst with a happy ending

Word Count: 5.1K

Trigger warning: Misunderstood trope, physical assault, anger, yelling, a car accident, plus graphic descriptions of physical injuries, and doctors/hospitals.

A/N: I had three hours of sad One Direction music, one request, and a dream. Requestee, you asked for angst and I have given it my all. I hope this meets every expectation and more <3

_ _ _

You were the light of Bang Chan’s life. At least, that’s what he thought. For months, his love grew for you. Over time, he opened up more and more. You crawled into his heart and made yourself at home. 

And then you tore it open. 

He thought he finally had the love of his life, but it turns out, you were just like the others. Not really loving him, but dragging along, clinging onto clout, and when the next man came, you jumped with both feet. You didn��t even say goodbye, but neither did he. 

There was no warning for either of you. One day, the two of you were head over heels for each other. The next, everything fell apart. Hearts cracked like stained glass. Tears fell, but the words from both of you didn’t provide the comfort the other so desperately craved. 

In the end, two hearts ripped apart. The world tipped in the wrong direction. You both lost your footing and for weeks, nothing would be the same for either of you, ever again. 

~ ~ ~ 

When you came home from buying groceries, the apartment was quiet, like usual. Chan’s warm presence had been gone since this morning. Up at the crack of dawn, he disappeared to continue making his dreams come true. 

You missed him when he was gone, just as he missed you, but dreams were important. No matter what happened between the two of you, it was the one thing you both agreed that it was important. No matter where your life took you, the most important thing was keeping focused on your dreams. 

Yes, the two of you were in love, but that wasn’t stopping either of you from pursuing your passions. Not yet engaged, the two of you vowed to be supportive of each other. Through thick and thin, in the risky moments, and everything in between; you swore to be there for one another. 

Your bare feet glided across the tile floor with ease. Without Chan, the apartment felt empty, but that didn’t stop you from trying to make it feel warm and fuzzy. Over on the side counter, you turned on the candle warmer. Maybe by the time Chan got home, the apartment would be full of a welcoming vanilla buttercream. 

You swore his cologne had hints of vanilla. He disagreed with you and insisted you didn’t know your scents. Just to prove a point, you bought the vanilla candle, and yet, he refused to see it.

He could be stubborn like that sometimes. Certain things he couldn’t see. No matter how hard and how obvious you attempted to make these things, he refused to see them. Sometimes, it was more frustrating than anything, but you learned to deal with every part of him; the good and the bad. 

You had your own set of flaws, too. Out of everyone existing in the world, there was nobody that you wanted to be with more than Chan. The two of you were still so young. There was a lifetime of adventures and fun to have. You were hoping the relationship between the two of you would last forever. 

It ended when Chan stormed through your front door. The bang of the front door slamming against the sidewall sent your heart racing. You grabbed a can of peas for defense and held your breath. 

Footsteps stormed through your living room. Your fingers turned pale around the can. A sigh of relief fell from you when you saw the furrow on Chan’s face. “Holy shit, you scared the crap out of me. What’s wrong, baby? What happened?” 

You put down the can and walked towards him. Your hands stretched out to grab his face. To your surprise, he swatted them away. Your eyes widen at the faint sting. “What are you-” 

“You don’t get to baby me after what you did!” 

“I-I did something? What did I-” 

“Shut up! You don’t get to pretend like you don’t know! You know I’ve felt like a piece of shit because I can’t be here twenty-four-seven! You know I travel for work and yet you still choose to hurt me in the worst way possible!” 

Confusion filled your face and it just pissed him off more. He jerked his Samsung phone from his pocket. You watched as he typed in the password. Your actions from the past few days rolled through your head like stop-motion. Each silent click, more scenes filled your head. 

None of them stood out. You couldn’t recall what you did wrong, but Chan was furious. Your mouth opened, but words didn’t come out. He flipped the screen to find the bold words of a Dispatch article. Your heart hit the ground with a sickening splat. 

Trouble in paradise: A Rocky Road Ahead For Stray Kids’ Bang Chan’s Romantic Relationship. 

Attached, two photos of you grinning at another JYP idol from another group. In one, you were waving at them. In another, you were leaning over and hugging them. 

“It’s not what it looks like!” 

“Really? Because you know what it looks like to me? It looks like you were attempting to hide a close relationship with someone in a younger group.” 

“That’s not true! Chan, it’s Dispatch! You can’t possibly believe that I-” 

“I want you out of my apartment.” 

Your face fell at his words. “You…you wouldn’t. Please, just let me explain and I-” 

“When have you ever talked about him? Never! You’ve never been close to another idol! Yet now, you’re hugging him?” 

“Chan, please!” 

“Get out!” 

“But-” 

“Out!” His voice raised. “Get your stuff and get the fuck out of my apartment! Don’t bother coming back!” 

The words were loud enough to frighten you. You left the grocery bags scattered on the kitchen island and took off. Tears filled your eyes. You wanted to explain, but he kept cutting you off. 

Too heated to think about the situation, his insecurities got the best of him. In the kitchen, he slumped against the counter with his head in his hands. Warm tears filled his eyes at the sound of your sniffles. 

He wanted to comfort you, but the hurt was too much. He grew to love you with everything he had and within one Dispatch article, his swollen heart popped. How could you do this to him? After everything the two of you had been through, why did you have to ruin it? 

Tears blurred your vision and you didn’t look back. You jerked items from the closet and tossed them in your suitcase. Grabbing handfuls from each of your dresser drawers, you tossed them in with everything. Even the toiletries, you didn’t have time to organize them. 

Chan wanted you to go, so you’d leave. At the end of the day, this was his apartment. You paid rent, but his name was the first on the contract. He paid the down payment, not you. 

You gave him one last desperate look as you passed by, but he didn’t see it. His name fell from your mouth in a weak croak, but he didn’t pull his hands from his eyes. “Please, just go away.” 

You spun around, gripped your suitcase tighter, and then you did. 

~ ~ ~ 

All night, you drove around without a destination in mind. You refused to call one of Chan’s members and plead for help. It’d only stir up drama in the group. That was the last thing you wanted. 

Numbness hung over your head. You still couldn’t believe everything that happened a few hours ago. If he would have listened, he would have understood. The tears dried up a while ago, but the empty feeling in your chest didn’t go away. 

Seoul’s late afternoon crept into another dark night. Gray blotted skies drifted into a pitch black. Neon lights reflected off the paint on your car, but the warm colors didn’t warm your heart. 

The car felt lonely without Chan. You’d give anything to hear his laughter from beside you. The playful banter while he reminded you to turn on the correct turn signal. It’d been a constant inside joke between the two of you. Ever since you accidentally flicked on the wrong signal and turned the wrong way, he’d never let it go. 

The way he tipped his head forward. Messy tendrils of dark hair fell over his forehead. His squeaky laugh warmed your heart. Such a far comparison from the anger that rattled the apartment walls earlier. 

You poked his dimples between the stoplights. On nights when the two of you wanted to get away from everyday life, you found peace in this car. You’d drive and be in control for once. He’d sit beside you with a hand on your thigh. 

Simple conversations filled the car. Love pooled between the two of you. Shared laughter, quiet conversations, and the secret getaway that your car provided you’d do anything to turn back time. 

You loved him for a reason. You always had and you always would. Just because photos told one story, it didn’t mean they told the entire story. Snippets didn’t capture the truth. The context was important, but Chan was too distraught tonight. 

Too stressed out. Too angry. Too frustrated. Things built up and that article was the breaking point. Those photographs became thorns in your relationship. In one day, the roses wilted. Withered petals gathered at your feet. 

Tomorrow would be better, you reassured yourself as you drove. Tomorrow, Chan would realize he was wrong. He jumped the gun in this situation. In the morning, he’d call you and apologize. 

Tomorrow, you’d be welcomed home with a heartfelt apology and a bouquet of fresh flowers. A glass full of red wine, sweets, and a home cooked dinner. Tomorrow, things will be okay again. These tears were temporary. This hurt wouldn’t last forever. 

At a stoplight, you grabbed your phone and dialed Changbin’s number. On speaker phone, you waited and waited, but he didn’t pick up. If anyone would know the truth and be able to rationalize Chan’s brain, it was him. 

The red light from the stoplights highlighted faint tear streaks. You sniffled, wiping your long sleeve across your dripping nose. Your eyes shut and your voice cut out and quivered as you spoke. 

“Please know that I didn’t mean to cause him or you guys any harm. I ran into him the other day and asked if he could help teach me a dance. He’s one of JYP’s best dancers and I know Stray Kids are busy. His group is on break and I just thought I could surprise Chan with a dance.” 

“Saying it out loud, I get that it’s stupid now. I was just hoping it’d cheer him up. He’s been so stressed lately. I thought the least I could do was make him laugh.” 

“If you get a chance and if he’s willing to hear it, please let him know I love him. I love him and I’m sorry. Dispatch is stupid and I hate them. You can even ask that idol and he’ll tell you the same thing. I’m so sorry, Changbin. I’ll talk to you later. I have to find a place to stay tonight.” 

You swallowed the lump in your throat and shut your eyes. After clicking the end call button on your phone, you threw the device into your passenger’s seat. Maybe if you were lucky, Chan would hear out Changbin. Level-headed and rational, you knew Chan appreciated the advice he gave out. 

A car horn honked behind you. Your eyes quickly reopened and the green light stared back at you. Unblinking, you grumbled beneath your breath. “I’m going, I’m going, geez.” You inched out into the intersection, expecting to continue going straight. 

You weren’t expecting your car to jerk left. Your screams blended with the sound of crushing metal. Orange sparks flew. The sickening scent of burnt rubber and diesel hit your nose. Your seatbelt cut into your neck and briefly cut off your air flow. 

The last thing you remembered was the horn of the semi-truck vibrating your entire car. 

~ ~ ~ 

It wasn’t Dispatch that was the first one to find out about the devastating car accident; instead, it was Jeongin. He sucked in a deep breath as he walked into the hospital. Last night, after struggling with the flu, someone admitted his friend to the hospital. 

He mumbled beneath his breath, trying to figure out what to say. A blue medical mask sat over his nose and mouth. He knew to keep his distance, but he still felt awful that they were here. 

Hospitals were lonely. In the brief moments when families and friends disappeared. When the nurses were following their routine rounds and doctors were checking in on other patients, people were left alone. The isolating white walls. The uncomfortable piercing beeps from the heart rate monitor. The cold IV drips, distributing medicine directly into the bloodstream. 

Surgical stitches ached. Disease weighed heavily upon the lungs. Intubation and the mechanical push and pull of oxygen and carbon dioxide. Hospitals were the opposite of warm and welcoming. Cold and sterile, he rather wished his friend was at home. 

The colorful bouquet of multicolored flowers was the brightest thing in the hallway. Closed doors with numbers passed by as he walked. The nurse’s announcement of his friend’s room number echoed in his head. 

It dissipated when he heard your name from a nurse in a cracked room. Before he knew it, he was pushing the door open and stepping inside. On the hospital bed, you were unrecognizable. Scrapes and cuts laced your face. Both plum purple eyes swelled shut.  

The right side of your face puffed up unnaturally. Black stitches poked out from the bottom of your lip. That was just your face. That wasn’t beginning to touch the cast on your arm and the rest of your body hidden beneath the blue covers. 

He knew it was you. He recognized the promise ring on your ring finger. He had helped Chan pick it out. He glanced around, searching for Chan, but he wasn’t there.

“Are you lost?” 

He glanced up to find the nurse. Her blonde hair tied back in a high ponytail. She observed him through black, circular-rimmed glasses. 

He shook his head and repeated your name. The nurse frowned and he pointed to you. “Is this-” 

“Are you family?” 

“Brother.” 

You weren’t biologically related, but it felt true deep down. 

~ ~ ~ 

Changbin tried to bring the situation up to Chan, but every time he spoke your name, Chan would shut down. From what Changbin knew, Chan didn’t know what happened to you. The rest of the guys did, but they all received the same results. Every time they spoke your name, Chan grew irritated and short-tempered. 

“I don’t want to talk about them! Stop bringing them up! Enough!” 

The charming and charismatic leader unraveled at the seams. His heart was full of love for you and you ruined it. That wasn’t something he took lightly. The hurt oozed out in other ways. 

His songs weren’t coming together as easily anymore. He used to get your feedback when he went home, but now the apartment was empty. The bed was colder without you. He was lonely, but he wouldn’t admit it. 

He snapped during dance practice. After he snapped at a manager, a manager lectured him about authority and respecting his elders. Nobody understood the hurt that he was going through. It didn’t help that Dispatch began showing up and bothering him. 

They could take all the pictures they wanted. He’d never give them the satisfaction of breaking his heart. Instead of listening, he put on his airpods and cranked up the music. He shoved through the camera flashes with his baseball hat low and a face mask covering the rest of his face. They didn’t deserve to turn his heartbreak into entertainment. 

He’d never let them break him. They already did it once. You were gone and the longer you went without a call or a text, he assumed they were right. They caught you cheating and you accepted it. You didn’t fight for your relationship. 

You didn’t call and beg for him to take you back. You didn’t call and try to explain. He sent you one text, but you never opened it. He was at a complete loss without you. 

Some would call him stubborn for it, but he’d say that he was just trying to protect himself from more hurt. 

~ ~ ~ 

The lonely days for you didn’t stay lonely for long. Jeongin discovered you hours after your accident. The days slipped by, but you weren’t alone anymore. Unconscious and pumped full of medicine, sure. They were far from lonely. 

Every evening, the guys took turns hanging out beside your bed. Seungmin would sing the songs you liked. Jeongin told you funny stories of Chan, trying to bring you back to consciousness. Minho brought you warm comments from the fans who found out about your accident. The rest of the guys had their own things, but Chan’s voice never filled the room. 

Stuck in a coma, things were dark. Occasionally, you could hear the beeping of your machines. You could feel your lungs expand and compress unnaturally. Your body felt like a shell more than anything. Voices came and went, but never Chan’s. 

In the darkness, you couldn’t see. You weren’t sure if you were dead or not. Stranger’s voices appeared in soft whispers and then they faded. You weren’t sure what was going on, but you knew you were exhausted. 

Those audible voices and sounds never lasted for long. You couldn’t feel pain. Every sensation within you felt numbed. A heavy fog filled your head and something clouded your vision. 

You attempted to open your eyes every so often, but they didn’t budge. Someone glued them shut. Every limb tingled with tiny pins and needles. You didn’t know if this was death, but it didn’t feel comforting. Somewhere between the realm of the living and dead, doctors kept you in a medically induced coma. 

How else could they heal the swelling of your brain? ~ ~ ~  

“I can’t take this anymore!” Felix cried out. He shoved himself from the chair and pulled out his phone. “This is such bullshit! I’m tired of keeping this from him.”

“Well, we’ve tried. What do you propose we do? Tell him to get to the hospital without mentioning his significant other’s name?” Seungmin crossed his arms over his chest. “Good luck. We’ve tried everything and it’s been twenty-something days.” 

“Actually, that’s exactly what we should do. How much longer can this go on for? This is pathetic, even for him! I get that he’s hurt, but look at them!” He reached over and gestured towards your bed. 

You remained intubated and unmoving. The swelling in your puffy eyes faded a little more each day, but they still looked awful. The stitches in your lips disappeared, but a fresh pink scar remained. 

Swirls of purple and blue smeared along your face. Broken bones reset and were on the mend. You were a living miracle. The first responders were afraid you wouldn’t make it, but when they pulled you from the wreckage, you continued breathing. 

So he unlocked his phone and hit Chan’s contact name. 

“Hello?” 

“Chan?” 

“Yeah?” 

“You need to get to the hospital right now. Call me when you get here.” 

“WHAT?” 

“I can’t talk. Just call me when you get here.” 

“Felix!” 

He grimaced and hung up the phone. Seungmin shook his head and rolled his eyes. “You probably gave him a heart attack. He’s going to kill you when he gets here, you know?” 

“That’s a problem for later.” ~ ~ ~ 

Chan flew from his apartment. His heart pounded in his chest and he couldn’t breathe. Losing you was hard enough. If anything happened to a member of his group, he’d never forgive himself. 

“Come on, come on!” He fumbled with his seat belt in one hand. With the other, he swung his car door shut. In seconds, he jerked the car in reverse and slammed the pedal. 

He lurched down the driveway, spun the wheel with a rubbered squeal, and shifted the car into drive. The engine roared and he sped down the road. 

What-ifs grew stronger on the way to the hospital. His breath caught in his throat and he struggled to stay calm. Last he knew, everyone was fine so what happened? Who? How bad was it? 

The moment he parked, he whipped out his phone and dialed Felix’s number. When Felix responded, his voice came out frantic. “I’m here! Where are you?” 

“Room one-twelve. I’ll meet you half-way. I’ll see you soon.” 

“Wait, who is-” 

Click. 

“Fucking hell!” He cried out. He grabbed the keys, sped from the car, and rushed towards the automatic door. 

Everything was a blur inside. Voices appeared from the waiting room. The receptionist glanced over the front desk and eyed him, but she didn’t stop him. He glanced left and right and opted to go left. 

The carpet disappeared beneath his feet and turned into squeaky clean white vinyl. An easy material to clean and disinfect daily. He rushed forward when he saw Felix appear down the edge of the hall. 

The squeak of his shoes didn’t matter. He ignored the doctor he passed that told him to stop running. By the time he reached Felix, he grabbed the front of his shirt and pulled him closer. “Who is it? What happened? Tell me!” 

“Just, come on.” 

“Felix!” 

Felix didn’t budge. He grabbed Chan’s wrist and pulled him along. His chest filled with anxiety and his lungs compressed. When the pair appeared at the right door, Felix dropped his wrist and slowly pushed the door open. 

He expected to find Han or Jeongin. A broken and battered Hyunjin or Changbin hooked to oxygen. This was the intensive care unit. This was for the severe cases. The patients that required a close eye and keen detailing. 

Upon seeing you, his face fell. The bruising upon your face. The tube down your throat. Your lifeless skin and unmoving limbs. There was no sign of the life the two of you created. 

No reassuring smiles, or laughter. Seungmin sat solemnly beside your bed in a chair. “I’m shocked that you finally made it.” 

“What the hell happened?” He hurried to the opposite side of your bed. His hand reached out, but he didn’t touch you. Too frightened by your state, he didn’t know where he could touch without causing you pain. 

“Try their hand,” an unfamiliar voice spoke up. He whirled around to find a nurse in blue scrubs. “Their hands survived the crash. You can touch their hands if you wish.” 

“Sorry, I came in to get some vitals. It’ll only be a few moments and then I can leave you alone. Visiting hours are open until eleven o’clock tonight. I’ve never seen you here before, so I thought you should know.” 

“How long have they been like this?” He whispered. Tears filled his eyes and his heart ached. 

“Since the night you told them to leave your apartment.” 

“What?” 

“Felix!” Seungmin’s voice shot out sternly. “It’s not like that, Chan. Yes, the accident happened that night, but don’t beat yourself up over it. A driver of a semi-truck was speeding and couldn’t stop in time.” 

“That was nearly a-” 

“I’m sorry, hyung.” Felix’s hand appeared on his shoulder. “We tried to tell you, but every time we tried to utter their name, you were angry. We should have found a better way to tell you, but…” He trailed off, unsure of what else to say. 

The nurse grabbed your vitals and disappeared to give the guys time with you. Chan collapsed to his knees and grabbed your hand with both of his. For nearly a month, you’d been stuck in this bed. He thought you’d given up on the relationship with him. 

This entire time you haven't texted him back. Not because you were angry. Not because you were sad. Not because Dispatch’s rumors were true. But it was because you physically couldn’t. Intubated and trapped in a medically induced coma, you couldn’t reach out, even if you wanted to. 

“I’m so sorry,” he croaked. “I’m so sorry, I-I thought that they-” 

“Easy, hyung.” 

“What did I do? What the fuck did I do? If I wouldn’t have kicked them out of the apartment, this wouldn’t have happened. I shouldn’t have been so angry. I should have let them explain.” 

Seungmin shot Felix a look. He shrugged and gently rubbed Chan’s shoulders. “It’s not your fault, Channie. You were hurting and you didn’t mean for this to happen.” 

He was supposed to be the leader. A strong pillar and an even stronger influence on his younger members. As the eldest member, he was supposed to be reliable. At that moment, he crumbled. Tears appeared in his eyes as a sob broke from his chest. 

No wonder you had been so quiet. He called you once and hit your voicemail. He longed to hit the call button, just so he could hear your voice again. He squeezed your hand tighter and pressed it against his cheek. 

“Wake up. Wake up, baby, please! Come back to me. I’m sorry, I’m sorry! I'm so sorry!” 

Tears blurred his vision. He struggled to comprehend your mangled face. Your other hand sat wrapped in a cast. You must have been so broken when you arrived here. He wasn’t here to comfort you. He wasn’t here to try and console and cheer you up. 

A wheeze fell from his throat. The betrayal slicing through his heart disappeared. This time, he felt like he was the one that had betrayed you. He hurt you in the most unimaginable way possible. 

You laid here broken and half-dead. You spent hours fighting for your life alone. And where was he? Walking around your shared apartment drowning in his own self-pity. He’d never forgive himself for this. 

“What is this?” He finally whispered after his sobs faded away. His throat was raw. His voice came out scratchy. “How bad is it?” 

“The doctor said they should wake up at any time. They weren’t breathing on their own. A medically induced coma ensured to make sure their brain’s swelling could stop.” 

“It was that bad? They’ve been suffering through all that alone?” His bottom lip quivered. He grew afraid of the response he’d receive. 

“No,” Seungmin spoke up. “Jeongin found out first. He was the one that notified us. He said he tried to tell you, but when he showed up at your apartment, you told him to leave.” 

Horror filled Chan at the memory. Later that same night, back when you left, Jeongin appeared on his front porch pale. Instead of hearing out the younger member, he told him to get lost and slammed the door in his face. Deep down, he was afraid to be viewed as weak in front of the younger member. 

The memory stung his heart. Poor Jeongin just wanted him to know the truth and he slammed the door in his face. No wonder Jeongin seemed so nervous around him. He was probably worried that Chan would find out the truth and yell at him for not telling him. 

He rubbed his face and pawed at his eyes. “So does everyone know?” 

“Everyone besides you.” 

“Sorry you’re late. None of us knew how to get you here. You’d never listen when we tried to talk about them.” 

“I was such a stupid, selfish asshole.” 

“You were hurting,” Felix corrected him. 

“And a stupid, selfish asshole.” 

“You were.” 

“Seungmin!” Felix cried. 

“No, I want him to know that he was. I’m not going to sit here and pity him. You were a jerk, Chan. I hope you remember this moment whenever you try to act like an asshole again.” 

The words were a slap in the face, and yet he wanted to laugh. As harsh as Seungmin’s words were, they rang true. He was a jerk and maybe, in the cruelest way possible, this was his karma. 

He opened his mouth to respond, but paused when your fingernails scratched at his hand. The tube in your throat caused you to choke. You couldn’t fully see as your eyes half-opened. Still swollen, your vision remained limited. Silhouettes appeared and voices became more distinct. 

“Get a nurse!” 

Footsteps hit the ground. You gargled and reached your opened mouth. “No, no, no! You can’t touch that yet.” 

“Easy, love. Try to relax and don’t fight the tube. It’s breathing for you right now.” 

The distress and quickened-pace of the heart rate monitor hit a hiccup. Chan’s familiar voice grounded you, but you still struggled with the tube. Your lungs wanted to expand, but the machine compressed them. You choked again, still fighting the pesky thing. 

More footsteps. Another silhouette. Glasses on an unfamiliar face and latex rubbing against your skin. “It’s okay, you’re safe. I’m going to take this out now, okay? On the count of three. One, two, three!” 

You gasped and coughed at the removal. Your lungs filled with air of your own accord. More coughing. You attempted to swallow, but your mouth was so dry. The lingering phantom of a headache filled the side of your head. 

“Try a sip of this, sweetheart.” 

The nurse’s tone was honey to your ears. You swallowed the water the moment it hit your lips. One swallow and then another. Two more and suddenly, you were gulping like crazy. 

“Easy, or you’ll choke,” Chan gently reminded you. 

The nurse pulled the glass away when you finished. “Do you know where you are?” 

“Hospital?” 

“Do you remember your name?” 

“Chan?” 

“I’m right here, honey. I’m here now and I’m not going anywhere. Do you remember your name? This nice nurse wants to help you get better. Your doctor is on his way.” 

Every question asked, you answered it perfectly. A buzz of excitement swirled around the room from your consciousness. Seungmin and Felix left the room to give everyone the good news. 

When the doctor concluded you were stable, he disappeared with the nurse. A silence fell between you and Chan. You still couldn’t see perfectly, but you could feel the weight of his hand in yours. 

“Baby, I’m so sorry for that night.” 

“I don’t want to talk about that night.” 

“I was an idiot.” 

“Dumbass,” you weakly corrected him. 

“I see getting hit by a semi-truck hasn’t taken away your sass.” 

“If I can survive this, I can survive anything.” 

“I love you and I’m sorry.” 

“Yeah, I love you and I don’t want to hear anything else about that. I’m so tired. Can you sing me to sleep or something?” 

“If I do, promise you won’t die?” 

“I promise.” 

Even if you couldn’t make out his face, you knew his voice, and that was good enough for you. 

| ♡.﹀﹀﹀﹀.♡ | ♡.﹀﹀﹀﹀.♡ | ♡.﹀﹀﹀﹀.♡ |

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Love Hangover⸻ Gojo Satoru x reader

synopsis: "Call me back. Call me back. Call me back." — love hangover by Jennie & Dominic Fike

Cw: toxic relationship, emotional cheating, manipulation, just sex and NSFW stuff, choking (took something from the mv and applied it where I think they implied it :3 ), lot of back and forth, use of the word 'bitch' to refer to the reader (not by Gojo), hate sex, oral sex, fem anatomy, no particular use of pronouns for reader, lowkey angst sorryyy, they are just both pretty shitty lol. Mention of alcohol consumption and cigarettes

'Call me back' received. 2.13AM 

You and Gojo Satoru might be great people, your respective friends will agree. But when you're together it's as if all hell breaks loose. They do not understand. Neither do you two. He makes you so unlike yourself, so unrecognizable, it's often difficult for you to fathom the person you become around him. 

He becomes an unbearable prick; controlling and smothering you, simply too much for you to handle. In return you become a shady bitch; criticizing his every gesture. “Roses instead of lilies? Did you confuse me for someone else?” One day you would be joking over the dinner you made him, next day you would be wishing he was dead. Going through his phone, shouting at him and asking if he is speaking to his exes, was a regular occurrence. Then you won’t talk altogether, but just fight constantly—while lying under your covers together, while eating, on the phone, in public— just making things harder for everyone and yourselves. Until one of you goes;

‘I’m over, I'm so over.’

But you two would always end up where you started. One coincidental meeting with Gojo Satoru somewhere, anywhere, could be that you're across the street from each other; sitting in different restaurants, with different people— and that would be enough for both of you. Doesn't matter he has some girl hanging off his arms. Or the fact you are on a second date with some guy, thinking this might be something serious; a single, double, triple back from him, and suddenly the fact that he was still entertaining his date while you could practically feel his gaze burning your skin, won’t matter—not that it did not bother you. In fact, to put it simply, you do not really mind when he plays you. Because you two will always end up back in each other’s arms. 

‘One minute, we're growin' apart, and next, I'm in her apartment.’

And here you go again. Doesn't matter how many times either of you tell yourselves and your friends that ‘I swear I'll never do it again!’ But you always do it again, and again, and again. He always ends up ringing your doorbell, unannounced. Does not matter you did not pick up his calls, does not matter you did not answer his texts— One “Call me back” at 2 AM, then suddenly he is at your door. And you know he will be there. No matter what, you two always end up in front of each other’s doors. You may not answer his texts or calls; but when you open the door for him and beckon him inside, he will always be welcomed with two glasses of wine. For the sake of the pretense of wanting to have a civil conversation over wine like two grown adults, finally resolving this push and pull and drawing a firm boundary— is all a faux excuse. you still have the keys to his place, and he still has the keys to yours. And they are not being returned any time soon.  

In a flash you're on your couch, back arching off from its surface and fingernails digging in and ruining the fabric. Again. The other hand would be a tangled mess in his hair. The bigger mess would be pooled under you and around his mouth. Again. Eating you out like he has never before, or he might never again. But he knows better than that. 

So, you would start all over again. Things would be blissful for a while. Sweet talking, going on dates, reminiscing about everything which was good. Thinking this time you would take it slow. Take your time with just hanging out and getting to know each other all over again, promising to not repeat the past. All over again. Though when you two would go out for dinner, all that talk would bore you to death. It is not that you feel like staying with Satoru because of who he is, in fact the more you think about that the more it makes you want to leave him, but you want nothing more than to keep him around, forever. And Satoru knows that, hates that really. Always thinking “what's up with that?” — but just as the waiter would bring out the check, you would gaze at him all sultry and go, 

"Let's head to mine."

And all Satoru would be able to utter is , "Okay, awesome."

Subsequently, there would be just lots, lots of sex. Spending days in bed; skipping work, calling in sick, flaking on friends and practically going missing. And everyone would already know what to expect, nothing new, just the cycle repeating itself. 

Spending days in each other’s company giggling about, high on sex and the thrill of having each other back. Then the nights would pass with him being  buried, as deep as he possibly can be, inside of you. Just spending nights watching you get naked instead of watching the movie he chose himself— roaming his hands all over every ridge and curve on your body, encoding new details, leaving kisses and marks all over you. Places where everyone will be able to see, but also places only he would be able to access; tucked away safe even from your own eyes.  Letting the muscles inside your pussy hug him snug, fitting like she has never known anyone but him, because even she knows no matter who comes and goes— his shape will stay. 

As soon as he would get his hopes back up again. Just as soon the momentary bliss would be unexpectedly cut short. One day you are holding each other to sleep after indulging in each other’s bodies, the next moment you are shaking his hands off you and he is waking up with cold sweat all over him. Then you would stop reciprocating his kisses, leaving his lips cracking. Giving short and curt replies to questions, getting irritated over small things. Not that this is unprovoked. Unknowingly to Satoru, before he could delete the texts from the girls flooding his phone and block their numbers; you saw it all.

Back to square one. Fights and nights spent away from each other doing reckless stuff to provoke each other. Because why are you kissing his eyelids and calling him your one and only one moment, and then accusing him of ruining your life another day.

Soon enough you’re going to a club and letting people openly hit on you. Ignoring his calls and texts, to a point he has no choice but to pull up your location (do not ask how he got that). Then letting him drag you back to his place, shout out profanities at you, rip off every piece of clothing from your body. Doing nothing about him pushing you face down on the bed, pulling on the necklace— which he gave you—on your throat from behind and practically choking you, as the necklace leaves behind marks on top of the marks he previously left behind with his lips and teeth. As he thrusts himself inside you, mercilessly, not even letting you turn back around, putting all his body weight on yours— very literally smothering as always. One hand keeping a firm grasp on your throat while the other comes down to place slaps on your thighs and ass, from time to time. You would barely phrase something between loud moans and whines, “F- fuck you.” 

“You are. As always” all he would reply with with a singular impactful thrust. 

Next morning he would wake up to  empty, cold, and wet sheets. A singular half burnt cigarette would be lying on his bedside table, from the stash of cigarettes in his dresser, despite the fact he does not smoke. And a bottle of whisky would be gone from his collection, even though he does not enjoy whisky. All that would be left of your immediate presence, are the shredded to nothing flimsy pair of painties, which you wore last night. Not like you ever went out of his apartment with the same panties you entered through his doors with. 

Concurrently you would be drowning in alcohol, shooting glasses of shots after another to cure the hangover from the day before. You were not one to drink, but you were also not one to be irrational. Yet here you are, hungover and functioning on autopilot. If anyone asked what is wrong, you would not have an answer. Though you do know what this is, the need to never get over this hangover, instead perpetuating and fostering it. Because you know better than anyone that no alcohol will relieve the itch in your throat the way the whisky in Satoru’s cabinet burns down your chest, and alleviates you. You can buy similar whisky, the same brand even, or maybe even a wine or rum— but it won’t taste the same, it won’t get you drunk the same. 

‘I swore l'd never do it again.’

And after a month, Satoru would wake up to a singular missed call from you. 

‘you know I'm gonna do it again.’

a/n: dividers by @/dollywons & @/aquazero, header from the mv for the said song. essentially saw @jumpinglillies talking about wanting to read a Satoru fic based on this song, thanks to them for bringing the song to my attention i hope this lives up to your expectations <3

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[alwayslurkinginthebackground]

Anger - A Joel Miller Drabble

Pairing: Joel Miller x f!reader Rating: E (is there anything else with him?????) Truly this is the least crazy thing I've written in days. Unprotected p in v. Word Count: 1155 a/n: Sometimes I spend all afternoon trying to write Joel and get nothing and other times I write 1000 words in less than 30 minutes. There is no in-between. Written for TLOU Sundays!

"You've really gotta do something about him," Ellie tells you from where she's sitting at the kitchen table.

You're barely through the door, coat still covered in a layer of snow from outside. "Well hello to you, too, Ellie," you respond, pulling off your boots before you track any more water into the house. It's strange, how something like keeping the floors dry didn't matter for twenty years and now suddenly again it does. "You're the fourth person to say that to me today though, so I assume you also are talking about Joel?"

She's flipping through the pages of a comic, barely paying you any attention. "Yes, Joel," she emphasizes, not that you need any further confirmation. Maria had cornered you at the saloon, the other half of your patrol had been on your case, and you had a run-in with Jackson's resident grandma first thing in the morning, who gave you an earful about how you needed to learn how to satisfy your man so he would stop torturing the entire town with his bad mood.

You sigh, shucking your coat and flexing your toes in your thick socks as you make your way into the kitchen. "Any idea what's wrong with him? He seemed fine this morning."

Ellie shrugs, still engrossed in the pages in front of her. "I don't know, Dina just told me he was being a real fucking asshole. You know how he gets."

That you do. You're well aware of the way Joel Miller can make or break an entire day based on his mood, especially since you've been at his side to witness it longer than anyone else.

Before you can contemplate further, the man in question storms through the door, a grumble on his lips before it's even closed behind him. Ellie meets your gaze, glancing over at him before turning back to you and then quickly rising. "I've gotta get going," she says quickly, sneaking past Joel to grab her jacket.

She's out the door before he can even say a word.

"Where the fuck is she going?" he questions, ignoring the way his boots squeak on the floorboards as he makes his way to the couch, collapsing into it. A part of you wants to scold him for the wet spots now littered all over the floor, but based on the furrow in his brow, there's no use, and you simply follow him instead, swinging a leg over his thigh to climb into his lap and settle there.

Only he has the audacity to grumble. Again.

"Joel," you say sternly, "don't do that."

"Don't do what?" he fires back, and now you know exactly what everyone had been warning you about. "I didn't do anything."

"What's up with you today?" It's a simple question, an inquiry that he should have no problem answering, but he doesn't, so you continue with a follow-up request, "Just tell me why I had four separate people tell me that I needed to figure out who you're so angry today."

"I'm not angry."

You frown. "Bullshit, Miller. Tell me what the fuck is wrong."

His answer is to seal his lips to yours, his rough grip dragging your hips against his so you can feel the hard press of him between your thighs. This felt familiar, especially since he'd been in an equally shit mood the day you first met, something you'd promptly fucked out of him later that night. And usually, that did the trick, but there was always something else lingering beneath the surface.

Not that you have time to contemplate what it might be because he pushes any thought of his mental well-being from your head when he rips your shirt from your body and latches onto one of your breasts. Likewise, any train of thought is gone just as quickly as the remainder of your clothing.

It's a good thing Ellie left quickly, because within minutes he has you spread out on the couch beneath him, one of your legs hitched around his hip as he pounds into you. There's little space left between you, the moment feeling intimate even with the intensity of the way he's pressing you down, grunting with each thrust until he has you clenching around him.

His fingers are on your clit before you come down from your climax, already drawing you higher a second time. "Joel, fuck, I can't," you whine, gripping at his hand.

"You can," he emphasizes, "you're gonna take every fucking inch of me."

And then you can see it. The rage behind his gaze, the emotion that has his eyes glassed over. The anger he has to unleash somehow. It scared you when you first met him, the first time he had you like this back in Boston, pressed up against the door, the first time you watched his fist collide with a FEDRA officer who tried to touch you, and the first time you saw him have to kill someone who definitely wasn't infected.

But now, you know better. You know that he won't hurt you, but he still needs a way to release the pent-up emotion that boils beneath the surface. You don't know what happened to get him here today, but you do know how to fix it.

Joel groans when you shift to wrap your legs fully around his waist, pulling him down so the soft expanse of his stomach presses against your own, increasing the pressure of your walls wrapped around him. It's all he can do to rut into you, your back slowly snaking up the arm of the couch as he fucks you. The angle changes the higher you move, guiding his lips to yours so he can catch the scream that rips from your throat when you clench around him a second time.

He follows you into the abyss, pulling out seconds before he spills against your center, jerking himself off until the last drops drip down onto the fabric.

When he regains his breath he stands, cock softening as he moves to grab a cloth to wipe his spend from your core. And then he's pressing you into the couch again, settled in the safety of your thighs as his head rests on your chest.

"Do you wanna know what Mrs. Davis told me today?" you ask softly, fingers curling through his hair.

Joel rests his chin on your breast as he looks at you, eyes softer now, more playful. "Fuck, what did she say?"

You smile. "She saw me at the store and pulled me into the corner to tell me that I needed to get you home and ride your cock because she was sick of your shit."

His laugh is rough, but he says nothing else as he settles back against you.

"Was she right?" you ask, your own laughter threatening to bubble up.

He doesn't answer, but he doesn't deny it either.

[andvys]

The edges of your soul (I haven’t seen yet) ⭐︎ chapter two

⭐︎ can you see right through me?

Warnings: angst, misunderstandings, post apocalypse, gore, mentions of death, grumpy!steve, grumpy x sunshine

Pairing: Steve Harrington x fem!reader

Word count: 5k+

Summary: You didn’t think that trying to get close to Steve would end up hurting your feelings — but you also didn’t expect to get a glimpse of who he once was, before the darkness of this world dimmed the light in his eyes.

Authors note: Buckle up for the next chapter y’all, it’s gonna be something. always a shoutout to @hellfire--cult who always takes her time to edit and write with me 🩷

⭐︎ series masterlist

⭐︎ prologue ⭐︎ previous chapter

☀︎

On the first day of your official stay in Hawkins, Nancy took you to the greenhouse, you spent all day gardening, taking care of the crops, watering vegetables and fruit, picking the ripe ones and planting new seeds – it amazed you how well everything was growing, you didn’t think that it would be possible after seeing the effects this world had on nature but you suppose that miracles exist after all. 

By the end of the day, your knees hurt, your hands felt sore and there was too much soil and dirt under your fingernails, not that you would ever complain, you haven’t felt as much happiness as you did when Steve told you that you were allowed to stay since… well, since your college acceptance letter and that is too long ago. 

On your second you cooked french toast with leftover bread that Nancy had made the day before, using fresh eggs – you were surprised when you found out about the little stable with chickens behind the garden, you thought most animals had died. You made ratatouille for dinner, using the freshly picked vegetables from the greenhouse. Nancy and Eddie had complimented your cooking skills, though the reaction you were mostly looking forward to was Steve’s, he only hummed in approval and he got a second plate, you took that as a good sign. 

Today, you haven’t been assigned to any tasks yet and you don’t exactly know what to do when you walk down the stairs to find the house empty, well, mostly empty. There are no signs of Eddie and Nancy, you don’t hear him humming, you don’t hear her walking around in the kitchen or somewhere else, the only one around is Steve. He is in the living room, standing in front of the window, holding a cup in one hand while the other is propped against his hip. 

The smell of coffee lingers in the air, it must be his third cup, he already had one before breakfast, another during it. You wonder if he is just addicted to the bitterness of it – it certainly matches his attitude. Or if he is just tired and in need of something to keep him awake, you have a feeling that he doesn’t sleep much. 

“Where’s everyone?” 

Steve doesn’t even flinch, he heard you walking down the stairs, he felt your eyes on him. 

“Eddie is working on the RV,” he grumbles, still not fond of the idea of leaving, nothing will change his mind, he is just waiting for his friends to drop it. “Nancy is with him.”

You nod even though he can’t see you. You look around, still holding onto the railing of the stairs. The house is spotless, clean, not a single grain of dust lying around. Eddie is cooking dinner tonight, so there isn’t anything for you to do around here. 

Steve takes one last sip and then he puts the mug on the coffee table, not even glancing at you as he turns around and reaches for the gear he had left by the doorway. He puts the gun into his holster, secures the walkie into his belt and lastly he picks up his rifle before he starts making his way over to the door. 

“Wait, where are you going?” You ask, not hesitating to follow him. 

“Patrol.” 

You furrow your eyebrows at him, shaking your head, “I thought you said it’s a two man job.” 

He rolls his eyes and stops walking, turning around, he looks down at you, “Eddie and Nancy are busy–”

“I’m not,” you shrug, giving him a smug smile, knowing that he isn’t fond of your company. “I’m coming with you.”

“Can’t you find something else to do–”

“No, I cannot.” You interrupt him as you reach for the door knob and open it, “can’t let you break the rule and let you go out there by yourself, who knows what you might run into. I’m gonna keep an eye out for you, maybe you’ll get distracted with your shoelaces again!” 

Steve huffs, clenching his jaw. His eyes move up and down your body, eying your belt, the knives tucked into it, the gun in your thigh holster – he has a hard time believing that any of those things have been used by your hands, you couldn’t even kill the man that had attacked you when you had the chance to – he heard your conversation with Eddie that night, heard what happened, what almost happened to you, you could have killed that man, you should have, but you didn’t. 

People like you are not made for this world, it will get you sooner or later. 

“Like you’d be able to do anything,” he murmurs under his breath as he steps out onto the porch and shuts the door behind him. 

“What was that?” You turn around to face him. 

“Nothing.” 

Steve brushes past you, not glancing at you but motioning with his hand for you to follow him, “c’mon.” He makes big steps, fast ones too, forcing you to catch up with him when he is already past the gate and out on the road, walking down the empty street, he ignores the way your footsteps get louder as you hurry to get to his side. 

“Jesus, slow down, cowboy.” 

Steve scrunches his nose up, furrowing his eyebrows at the nickname you have just called him by. 

“Cowboy?” He scoffs as he turns to look at you to see you nodding already, a small but smug smile on your lips, though you look right ahead and not at him. “Why, cowboy?” 

“You’re so grumpy and brooding.”

He scoffs again, like you said something crazy, like you didn’t say the truth. 

“Who says that cowboys are grumpy and brooding?” 

You shrug, “there’s two types of cowboys, the flirty funny ones and the grumpy, brooding ones!”

Steve looks away from you, shaking his head a little. He can’t fight you, knowing you’re right about one thing, he is grumpy. He no longer is the guy he was before all of this, this world that has changed him, and not for the better. He was forced to kill the boy in him when he realized how much he was hurting someone he once loved dearly, he became better, he became a good guy but that guy got his heart broken – that was for the better, as much as it hurt at that time, it was for the better. He became better, he stopped caring about what other people thought of him, he found new friends, he found a best friend, his soulmate. 

Robin.

Robin made his world a better place, she fixed his broken heart, she taught him what it was like to have a real friend, an actual best friend. She taught him that love didn’t always have to be romantic, that it could be platonic and that this love could be just as strong as any other. 

They had so many plans for the future: leave Hawkins, live in a big city, get a place, figure out a future together. 

But then this happened, the world got uglier than before, evil. Their plans got crushed and they were ripped apart. She changed and he did too, and now he can’t be with her whenever he wants, too many things are in the way. 

This world had forced him to kill the person he was before all this, he was forced to kill himself a second time. 

Steve looks back at you, you don’t seem fazed by this world at all. You’ve been attacked not too long ago and not even that has fazed you, he doesn’t know you, doesn’t know half of your story and all the things you have been through since the day the world had gone to shit but from what he heard, you have seen – encountered some ugly things out there and yet there is something about you, something pure, something… good, something he didn’t think was still out there but he can see it. 

He can see it in your eyes, no ounce of hatred resides in them, only goodness, hope that should not even be a thing in this world. You are the complete opposite of him, you are bright, so bright that it almost blinds him, you are all smiles and giggles – and you are so goddamn talkative. 

Thirty minutes into patrolling and he fears his ear might fall off from listening to you jumping from one topic to another. So far you have talked about all your favorite movies, bands and books, told him of a specific cowboy character that he reminds you of before saying how much he looks like Patrick Swayze or well, how much his hair looks like Patrick Swayze’s. 

You are chattering away, not minding the huffs and sighs that keep falling from his mouth, a signal for you to just shut up. He begins to regret his decision to let you stay. 

“I think I made a grave mistake.” He murmurs as he looks around the empty neighbourhood, looking out for any signs of monsters or sick ones. 

“What?”

“Nothing. Do you ever shut up?” 

To his surprise, you do shut up and for a moment the only thing heard are yours and his footsteps and the leaves rustling from the wind. With a heavy sigh, he turns to look at you. You are pressing your lips together, looking down at the asphalt. He turns away again in satisfaction, enjoying the silence… the silence that doesn’t last long. 

“You called the monster demobat before, what does that mean?”

He restrains his eye roll, tries not to clench his jaw. 

“Uh…” He pauses, he keeps forgetting that the world doesn’t call the monsters by the names the teens have given them. “Eddie is a fan of a game and he used a name from there to name them…” He cringes at himself. 

“Oh!” You say in that voice, the one that pisses him off, the cheerful one. “What game?”

“Dungeons and Dragons.” He replies, hoping that answer is satisfying enough and you finally give him some peace. 

“Do you play?” 

Steve sighs, tightening his hold on the rifle in his hands. It was a mistake to let you come with him, he hates talking, hates answering questions, hates company. 

“No.”

You furrow your eyebrows, tilting your head at him. 

“Why not?”

“I don’t have the patience to learn all of that,” he shrugs. 

“Why?” 

Steve takes a deep breath, he is getting irritated by all your questions but he still turns to you, scrunching his face up as he shrugs again, “I-I don’t know, I don’t wanna be a nerd like him?”

You raise your eyebrows, lips parting, your head is still tilted – you look like a fucking curious puppy, he has to look away. He almost sighs in relief when he sees the house at the end of the road. 

“It’s a nerd game?”

He huffs loudly, glaring at nothing in particular, “seriously, can you keep quiet for more than two seconds!?” He snaps at you, forcing you to be quiet… for a moment. 

He counts the seconds, one… two… You are quiet, it’s almost nice to enjoy the silence again, almost. 

He hears you taking a deep breath. 

“What was your job before the world ended? Cop?” 

Three seconds. Three fucking seconds. 

“Jesus Christ,” he murmurs under his breath and he finally stops walking, looking up at the sky, he places his hands on his hips and takes a deep breath before he turns to face you. 

You halt in your tracks and turn to face him as well, taking in the sight of his deep frown, of the irritation in his hazel eyes and the annoyance that radiates right off him. You almost get nervous, almost. 

“What the fuck,” he grumbles at you, “are you always this talkative?” He asks, stunned. He will be forced to get used to this. 

“You don’t ask me anything, so I have to make conversation,” you shrug, pulling your hands up in front of you, “I haven’t had a good talk in months, I have pent up words.” 

And you chose him out of… three people – that is… he doesn’t know what to think of this. 

“Yeah, Eddie is the best choice for this, not me.” 

The frown on your face says otherwise, your eyes move up and down before they stop at his face again, he doesn’t know what you are exactly looking at or searching for but he needs you to stop. He shifts and huffs again, tapping his fingers against the rifle that he holds on for dear life. 

“But I want to talk to you.” 

He blinks, staring at you like he didn’t understand what you just said, he tries not to look at anything but your eyes.

“Horrible decision.” 

You break eye contact, looking away to take in the view around you, you sigh at his words and shrug before you continue walking, making him follow you this time. 

“I don’t think so.” You pause and look back over your shoulder to see if he is following. “Don’t you have any questions for me?”

“Uh…”

He does. 

But he won’t ask. He can’t. He just can’t, the less he knows the better. 

He looks down awkwardly, clearing his throat, “how old are you?” 

This time you scoff and shake your head at him, “seriously?” 

“What?” He frowns, looking up to see you staring at him with a confused pout – jesus christ. 

You sigh and roll your eyes, of course he asks the most boring question. 

"Twenty-two."

His eyes widen and his lips part – this might be the first other expression you see on his face other than the constant frown. He stares like you have grown two heads. 

“You’re a fucking year older than me!?” 

Oh. 

Oh… 

You didn’t expect to be older than him either, though you aren’t as surprised as he is, he looks shocked even. He stops walking again, you do too. 

“So… what about it…?” You ask quietly, lifting your shoulders.

Steve notices the unsure look on your face, the way your eyes move back and forth between his own and the ground, the way you cross your arms over your chest, like you are suddenly insecure.

He clears his throat, straightening up as he blinks himself out of his stupor. 

“I… nothing. Nevermind.” He retorts, ready to drop that topic. 

“No, tell me.” 

For some reason, he can’t look at you when he opens his mouth again. 

“You don’t act your age.”

“Oh?” Your voice is suddenly higher than before, hopeful, “do I act older?” 

He pulls his brows together, not looking at you yet, finding the ground beneath him very interesting all the sudden. 

“...Sure.” 

You don’t reply this time, don’t say anything to it, don’t ask any more questions, you simply turn around after a beat of silence, you start walking again, giving him your back. 

He counts the seconds, one… two… three. You give him the silence that he wanted this whole time. You don’t look at him either. He got what he wanted but when the awkwardness fills the space between you both, he suddenly feels a sliver of guilt rising up in him, he knows he must’ve hit a sore spot and he can’t help but kick himself for it. 

A part of him wants to apologize, the other wants him to stay quiet – the stronger side wins though. 

“I uh–”

Though you don’t give him the chance to keep going, you pick up your pace when you see Nancy on the porch, walking away from him quickly, not wanting to spend another second beside him. 

He watches you basically flee from him, it makes him sigh and it makes him halt in his tracks. Frustration bubbling up inside of him, a voice in his head calling him ‘dumbass’. He sighs softly, brings his hand up to his head, he runs his fingers through it nervously. 

He hit a sore spot, one that made you stop talking to him, one that prevented him from finding out more about you. 

It’s for the better. 

Yeah, he knows it’s for the better. 

-

Eddie cooked dinner and Nancy set the table tonight, neither of them noticed the lack of attention you were giving to the man sitting across from you or how he kept looking at you, not with hatred or anger in his eyes but with guilt. 

He hates that feeling, he hates feeling guilt or regret towards someone he barely knows, towards someone he does not want to let in. He knows that he hurt you with what he said, with how he reacted, he didn’t mean to, he couldn’t have known either – he didn’t react badly, he thought, and yet it shut you up and it made you stop looking at him. 

It’s for the better. He kept telling that to himself, kept repeating it in his head, over and over again until he could no longer stand these words. 

He notices that your plate is still filled with food, you only ate half of it. The whole time you sat there and pushed around the vegetables on your plate, you looked a little lost, your eyes were troubled, you looked far gone, like you weren’t at the table. Nancy and Eddie didn’t notice as they were busy talking about some news Dustin had shared from the radio station earlier. 

“You’re gonna like Dustin,” Eddie says, nudging your shoulder. 

Steve watches the way you blink, the way you plaster a smile on your face before you look at Eddie. 

Nancy hums, nodding, “yeah, he was always my favorite out of my brother’s friends.” 

You squint your eyes, like you are trying to remember something, “your brother is… Mike, right?” 

“Yeah, hold on!” She gets up all the sudden, walking away from the table and out of the room, she comes back a moment later with a book in her hand – a photo album. She sits back down beside you and pushes away her empty plate before she slams the album on the table and opens it, flipping the pages, she furrows her eyebrows as she looks for a certain picture, “wait… there it is!” 

She points at the picture of a group of four boys, dressed in Ghostbusters costumes. A smile instantly appears on your face and your eyes light up, “aw! They’re little Ghostbusters!” 

Eddie chuckles at the picture, even Steve smiles but you don’t notice. 

“That’s Mike,” she points at her brother, before she moves her finger to the boys next to him, “that’s Will and Lucas, and lastly that is Dustin!” She points at the curly haired boy. 

“Adorable,” you smile, thinking of your own brother. “My brother loves Ghostbusters too, although he’s way older than they are.” You chuckle. 

Steve’s eyes are back on you, he didn’t know you had a brother… but then again, he doesn’t know anything about you. It’s for the better. 

“Well, that was a few years back, they’re not the tiny humans they used to be,” Nancy laughs sadly. She flips to the next page, “that’s them now – or well, that was them before the world went to shit, I’m sure Mike is even taller now and his hair is longer too.”

The picture shows them at a skatepark, Dustin is grinning into the camera, Mike’s arms are crossed, a grumpy look resting on his face, Will is smiling, Lucas is looking down at the girl leaning into his side. 

“That’s Max,” Eddie points at the redhead, “she’s kinda scary.” 

You giggle at the serious tone in his voice. 

“I have to agree with that.” Steve snorts, earning a short glance from you. He pulls his sleeves up and leans back in his seat, crossing his arms over his chest. 

Your eyes lock with his for a moment, though you quickly look back down.

There is another picture of Mike and Dustin, both of them wearing the same shirt – The Hellfire Club. 

“What’s that?” You point at their matching shirts to which Eddie straightens up in his seat, already grinning. 

Nancy and Steve groan at him, causing you to frown. 

“I’m glad you asked, sweetheart.” He pauses, looking at Steve smugly. 

“That was his nerdy game club that I told you about before,” he rolls his eyes. 

“You didn’t tell me he had a club!” 

“Shame on you, Harrington. It was the best thing to ever exist beside Corroded Coffin, of course.” 

You know all about Eddie’s band already, he told you about it on your first night here, and showed you pictures of his sweetheart. 

“I beg to differ–”

Nancy sighs loudly beside you, leaning back in her chair as she prepares herself for their banter. 

“Dustin, my buddy, was very passionate about the club.” Eddie grins. 

“Oh yeah, that little nerd you stole from me?” Steve retorts, squinting his eyes at the metalhead. 

“I didn’t steal him, I’m just cooler than you, Harrington–”

“You– You literally play a boardgame, how is that cool? I was prom king!” 

“Oh my god,” Nancy mumbles, shaking her head. 

Her reaction tells you that she is used to this, and sick of it. 

You though, you can’t help but be amused, looking back and forth between them. 

“Cry me a river, Henderson thinks I’m better, in fact, all teens do.” Eddie shrugs and reaches for his beer. 

“Except Lucas,” Steve smirks. 

Eddie nearly chokes on his beer when he straightens up in his seat, “I apologized!” 

Steve shrugs at him this time, taking a sip of the whiskey he poured himself earlier. 

“What about you, sweets?” Eddie asks, turning to look at you, “what did you do in high school?”

Nancy turns to you, as well as Steve – and suddenly all eyes are on you and you can’t help but feel a little flustered beneath their gazes. 

“I uh… I was prom queen…” You admit shyly, not looking at the hazel eyes that stare at you intensely.

Eddie’s eyes widen, “oh, we have royalty up in here, Wheeler.” 

Nancy giggles at his reaction, more so at the look on your face. She’s not surprised, you’re beautiful and sweet. 

“You were prom queen?” 

Out of the three people around you, you least expected him to ask you anything, but just like before, the tone in his voice, his reaction leaves a bitter taste in your mouth. You slowly look up at him. 

“You sound surprised and I’m kinda offended. Am I that ugly?” you joke but he notices how your shoulders fall a little. 

His cheeks heat up and he wants nothing more than to roll his eyes at Nancy’s and Eddie’s judging faces towards him. He shakes his head at you, “I– no, I didn’t mean that… I mean it’s not all about looks anyways.” 

You purse your lips and furrow your eyebrows at his words, taking a deep breath, “...so I am ugly?”

Nancy huffs beside you, glaring daggers into Steve. 

“I didn’t say that, I’m just saying that apart from looks… people vote for nice people,” he mumbles, shifting in his seat and under your gaze. 

Nancy is back to pinching the bridge of her nose, begging him with her eyes to just shut up. 

If only you looked to your right, you would have seen the stunned and comical look on Eddie’s face. 

“So you’re saying I’m nice?” You tilt your head at Steve, growing a little satisfied with the way he is squirming around. 

He sighs, clenching his jaw and turns away from you, “I’m done with this conversation.” 

“...You were a fucking asshole in high school. You got prom king because Billy was a bigger asshole.” 

“Were?” You blurt out, making him look back at you stunned. 

Nancy hides her giggle with a cough, earning a glare from him. 

“He redeemed himself at Scoops Ahoy,” Eddie smirks, wiggling his eyebrows. 

“Scoops Ahoy?” 

Steve shakes his head at him, if looks could kill, Eddie would be lying on the floor, right now. 

“Mhmm,” Eddie nods. “He was an ice cream man, and wore a sailor outfit too.” 

“Wait, what?” You ask, stunned. You can’t even imagine that. “I refuse to picture him in a silly sailor outfit, I need proof or else I won’t believe it.” 

“Too bad. Every picture of me in that outfit is burned.” Steve declares, looking very convinced until he sees the smirk on Nancy’s face.

He clears his throat before he leans closer to the table, “Nancy Wheeler… do you have a fucking picture–”

“No, I was just smiling,” she shrugs but pulls out two pictures from the album and hands them to you, giving him a smug smile.

“No way,” you mumble as you take a good look at them. There he is, the man you thought had a serious job before all of this actually worked at an ice cream shop, wearing a sailor outfit, in the first picture he even wears a silly hat as he serves ice cream to someone not part of the picture. His hair was much shorter back then, so different from the mullet he now has. His eyes are crinkled, his smile so big and bright, his cheeks slightly pink, unlike the pale color in them now. He looked so different, he looked happy, he looked like a different person. 

You glance over at him to find him staring at you already, watching you. His hazel eyes are cold, the frown on his face so deep you are surprised there aren’t any lines on his skin yet, the light in his eyes has faded. There is nothing left of the guy he was before, at least at first glance. 

You look back down and focus on the second picture, placing it on top of the other – it turns out to be a mistake because for some reason, your eyes like what they see, a little too much. With his hands behind his back, he stands against a brick wall, wearing the same sailor outfit, though this time without the hat, his hair styled yet messy, a hint of a smile pulling at his lips. You don’t know what it is about that picture, perhaps it’s his broad shoulders, the blonde highlights in his hair, the tanned skin or the way the golden light shines on him but he looks handsome – it’s something you haven’t noticed before, you aren’t blind, he is a good looking man but you couldn’t really see it before, not this clearly at least. His rude and mean attitude made it impossible to see, you couldn’t look past it. 

Your cheeks heat up a little, your ears do too, you sink deeper into your seat, hoping that none of them notice how flustered you feel. 

But Eddie does, he notices the way your eyes are basically glued to that picture, Nancy notices as well – they both glance at each other, amused. And Steve, he notices too, of course he does… The Steve from back then would have loved it, the flustered look on your face. 

As you hold the picture, you notice that the sides are frazzled, like a part is missing, like something or someone was cut out of both pictures. You look over them, taking a look at all the pictures lying around, of the teenagers, of other people you haven’t anything about yet, of Nancy’s family, of Eddie and Dustin and it only now dawns on you, that you stepped into something, that these people haven’t found each other in this world but in the one before – a tight circle, a family. 

A family you don’t belong in, you intruded – and now even more than before, you understand why Steve didn’t want you here, it wasn’t only about him not trusting you, it was about you stepping into something he didn’t want you to be a part of. 

This is his place of comfort that he didn’t want to share with a stranger. 

You hand the picture back to Nancy and reach for the wine Eddie had poured for you earlier, you take a big sip. 

Maybe you should have left when he told you to, maybe you should have done him a favor, you shouldn’t have broken into someone else’s home. 

“Is your brother older or younger?”

It wasn’t Nancy’s voice, nor was it Eddie’s.

It’s Steve’s. 

Not only do you look at him in surprise but also Nancy and Eddie. He ignores them though, keeping his eyes on you. 

You blink, putting the wine glass back down, you lick your lips. 

“Uh… he is older, he’s twenty four.” 

“Is he with your parents?” Nancy asks. 

You nod. 

“Yeah, he was home from college when it all… started. That idiot broke his leg during lacrosse, I don’t know why he kept trying with it, he was never the most athletic,” you chuckle. 

“Yeah, me neither. I always hated anything sport related,” Eddie says with wide eyes, earning a snort from Steve. 

“You’d get along well, he’s a major nerd.”

“Are you calling me a nerd, sweetheart?” Eddie pretends to be offended. 

“Uh,” you look him up and down, “yeah, major nerd just like my brother.”  

He nudges your side with his elbow, chuckling at the look on your face. 

Steve hides the smile on his face, looking down at his hands. 

“I’m hoping to get home, see a big gate surrounding my house, and I bet that asshole has a semi-automatic somewhere and is pretending to be in a zombie movie or something,” you chuckle. “He always dragged dad and me to the theater and forced us to watch the goriest shit. I used to hate it, now I want it back more than anything.” 

“Hey,” Eddie says softly, smiling at you. “Maybe you’ll do it again someday, maybe not at the theater but you could do movie nights with your family.” 

And his smile slowly fades again, he doubts that you will see your family again, he doubts that you’ll find them how you want to. He thinks it’s wrong of Eddie to fuel your hope, he is doing more damage than anything else and it’s gonna hurt even more when you find your family dead. 

There is no hope for anything or anyone in this world, it’s a foolish thing to have. 

You shrug, a smile on your face as you get up from the table to rush upstairs. Everyone just sits there wide eyed, looking at each other, hearing how there’s some stumping and then, something falling, and then you are cursing. Two seconds later you are coming back downstairs with something in your hands.

“This is my family.” You put the polaroids on the table, the ones you took back to camp so you would not miss your family so much. “That’s my mom, my dad, and the idiot of my brother.” 

They all grab a picture each. Eddie’s picture was of the four of you smiling while camping. Nancy’s was a picture of a family trip to the grand canyon, but Steve’s picture was something that made his heart shrink for some reason. The four of you were laughing, surrounding a christmas tree. You were younger, probably a teen, and it made him think of how now your personality made sense. 

You were never shown anything but love. Something he never experienced from his own family. He was slightly jealous at your picture, and he knew you were the only one between the four of you that had a normal and loving family. Nancy’s parents didn’t seem to love one another, Eddie’s father was an abusive asshole that ended up in jail and his mother passed away, and then there was Steve. Even with the apocalypse happening, his parents didn’t even care to find him. Find out if he was dead or not.

His eyes moved upwards to find you looking at him, and he wondered why you had a frown on your face. It wasn’t a second later that he felt his eyes burning and you could see the glistening of tears forming. He can’t cry. It’s stupid to cry about his family now. It’s stupid to cry about something he knew all along. It’s stupid to cry over people that he knew never cared for him.

“Your brother looks like Eddie.” Nancy suddenly speaks, making him look at her as well as you and Eddie. The metalhead tilts his head as he grabs Nancy’s picture and– 

“Ha, ha, very funny.” Sure, it was a picture of you four in the grand canyon, but it was your dad’s birthday, and your dad has a fear of pigs. Your brother had the greatest idea to put a pig's head over his head for the picture, and your dad was simply screaming bloody murder while you and your mom laughed.

“I mean, my brother doesn’t play that game you do, but he is a fan of star wars, and he read a lot of books! He liked one called The Hobbit?” Nancy and Steve groaned loudly at your words, which made you confused for just a few seconds and then you realized your mistake when Eddie was talking your ear off about why your brother was so cool, and the reason for that was because the plot for the hobbit was incredible.

And he explained it bit by bit and you didn’t know how to escape him. He was still talking about it like a kid on christmas as Nancy and Steve started washing the dishes, and you wanted to hit yourself for your big mouth. In all fairness, you didn’t know Eddie was gonna get as excited as he did.

“Anyways, what matters is, your brother is cool, so is Dustin and the other teens and Steve sucks.” At the sudden insult, Steve turns around with his hands covered in soap.

“What?” Eddie opened his mouth to probably repeat his words, only for Steve to shake his hands on his face, making the soap fly all around as well as water, and getting into Eddie’s mouth.

“GOD–” He screeched loudly as he got up from the table, rushing towards the sink to try to wash his tongue with the water while Nancy screamed at him to not waste it. Steve was smirking and all you could do was just stare at him. He was being playful. He was being more than the grumpy self he claimed to be with you. You started laughing loudly when Eddie insulted Steve with his tongue out, trying to not taste the soap anymore.

Steve shrugged as he wiped his hands away, turning to look at you doubling over in laughter and it made him feel less guilty for his actions of before. You weren’t immature. Your world was just always filled with love and affirmations, and you just wanted people to feel the same exact way you felt. It was a lost cause for him, but he felt good for making you laugh like this. It’s been a while since he made someone laugh.

It’s a good sound.

☀︎

taglist: @prettyboyeddiemunson @thecreelhouse @tvserie-s-world @thesickestqrmydcll @crispystarfishhottub @sophal22 @definitionwanderlust @talkativecarnation @mysticalwoolenfroglegs @ariesandwolves @mortqlprojections @sattlersquarry

[banjo15]

Trans people are technically a minority. Intersex people. What about non-binaries? Are they minorities? They technically are. I’d argue diabetic people are minorities as he rejected making insulin cheaper.

Hitler literally made factories, facism is historically a far-right ideology. If Hitler was a socialist why did he work with the rich?

What if said illegal is a child? Don’t you support protecting children? Even then your grandparents were immigrants, they literally bought a boat ticket. You couldn’t even pass an immigration test

I don’t watch mainstream news like cnn, I think it’s all propaganda, especially Fox News.

Eh fair point but I’d argue MAGA hats and swastikas are historically… Hateful symbols. I’ve never heard a MAGA person preach love and acceptance like Jesus did. You all want everyone who disagrees with you in jail.

There are literally worldwide protests against trump, Mexico hates us, Greenland hates us, Canada hates us and they’re offering to buy our states which… sounds pretty good, free healthcare, abortion rights, pretty good deal. And what freedom do you have? The freedom to oppress others? Why do you preach “freedom” and yet you constantly tell people how to live their lives? You hate trans people. You hate women obviously. If we’re so free why can’t they have the freedom to abort pregnancy and choose whether or not they have to have a permanent responsibility? Even then what if the pregnant person can’t work and they go bankrupt? Thats capitalism for you, mothers don’t get 9 months paid leave.

I’d argue trying to overthrow the government through violence against police and storming the capital is quite violent. And I bet you condemn BLM for the violent protests, why do you condemn the left’s violence but cheer whenever someone talks about killing Joe Biden and overthrowing the government? I hate the government just as much as you but trump is gonna make it worse.

Oh really? Then do what Elon did at work. In front of your coworkers. Do it at your family’s next gathering, go on the news, right now, or any social media website, and do what Elon did. Right now. You won’t.

Why does he support far-right German parties? I’d argue those are some Nazis, even then why do you lick the balls of billionaires? Do they taste good? Fondling another man’s balls? You’re no different from a prostitute.

He’s literally surrounded by yes men too scared to say no to him. The second someone opposes trump you guys get irrationally angry that your boyfriend is getting criticized. Even then, they own most social media. What about Twitter? That’s really censored, you can’t criticize the government or people in power. You can’t fact-check there anymore. TikTok censors anything against trump, how he “rigged the election”

All of you fund genocide too, through sending all that money to Israel where they bomb Palestinian children. And grandmas. Why can’t you just be against the war? You’re not. You just want genocide of anyone who disagrees with you.

Yo, correct me if I am wrong please, but didn't Hitler rise to power because he promised to fix the German economy and people really liked that so they looked past everything else he was doing??? Like exactly what's happening in America right now???

So many people said they voted for Trump, put a truly evil person in power, because he said he'd fix the economy, and a little voice in my head is going, "Isn't that what happened with fucking Hitler??"

But I've seen no one point that out so maybe I'm miss remembering???????

[omgfangirlland]

The Shadows That Nurture 7

Ch 8 is done, working on Ch9 so here is ch7! Enjoy and check the end notes for a bit of explanation(?) 🫠

The action is starting soon- I'm buzzing with the need to finally get into the Viltrumite plot but it still will take a bit, haste spoils the work, and all that.

Masterlist || First || previous<< Chapter 7 >>next(TBC)

In the week that it took to get all documents done and over with, you and the Graysons grew closer and closer, specifically you and your brother, both of you seemed to sink your claws into each other, acting more like twins in sync than an older and younger sibling duo.

If Mark wanted to go somewhere and Nolan wasn’t around. You’d fly him there, if you wanted something and were too shy or nervous to ask his parents for it, he’d ask for it and give it to you later. And, while you both had bedrooms, every other night there was a sleepover in the others one room, always ending up with you two sleeping under a pillow fort, being kids, having fun.

You loved Debbie, and Nolan was okay even when he was clingy and talking nonsense about training you to conquer words. You were quite sure he was joking, the face he made right after saying things like that reassured you that wasn’t quite what he wanted to say- or it wasn’t how he felt anymore.

It was easy to see that you preferred Debbie, no matter how much Nolan tried to spend time with you, or how close you were to Mark, your priority was always Debbie. You weren’t calling her mom, it felt too soon for you, you weren’t ready, but you were a mama’s girl. You were the first to greet her, the first to offer to help her cook and clean, the first to go shopping with her, even the first to shyly ask her to paint your nails or to just spend time together.

It was so long since you went physically into a shop, even after leaving the Waynes you stuck to online shopping, and the first time you did it was with Debra, your hand shaking in hers as you stuck close to her, quieter than usual. The traffic of the store clearly made you nervous, so the woman made sure to always have a reassuring hand on you if she couldn’t hold your hand. With time you didn’t need to hold onto her anymore. Debbie almost cried when she realized that soon you wouldn’t need her at all.

And then the discussion of school came up. You could have lied, told them that you haven’t gone to school since your mom died- but you didn’t want to be like Bruce, all secrets and lies, you were already keeping quite the secret by not telling them about who your biological father is. So, you told them everything about you skipping grades, showing the diplomas and online school you’ve still worked on.

Neither of the adults seemed happy about you being stuck with online class, and honestly, neither were you. When your question about maybe joining the same grade as Markus, to keep close to him and meet other children your age, seemed to make both as happy as you were when they approved.

Now, it was easy to get you in, you even met William, Mark’s friend, but keeping yourself from correcting the teachers was another thing. You understood to a degree that the curriculum was different, that you were still kids and maybe learning about genocides wasn’t ideal- but when so many of your peers are willing to throw slurs left and right like 4Chan degenerates you were sure they could take the reality of what actually happened in history.  

Then the math teacher accused you of having an answer book, of cheating, of using a calculator when you were told not to- you may have snapped and yelled at him to give you an equation, any equation that was taught in the older grades, and if you could complete it in front of everyone, on the board, he’ll have to shut up about you.

That’s how you ended up seeing the principal, not because of your outburst, but because the teacher decided you were wasting your potential sitting around with the others when you could be in a grade that fulfilled your needs and developed you further. The principal agreed, and he was tired of the other teachers complaining, so you and your guardians were given an option of either taking a test to assess what grade you should be put in- or expulsion due to the many complaints against you.

You took the test. That way you could at least still be in the same building as Mark, and could still socialize, even if the idea of the older kids made you anxious- the high school themed movies didn’t help your expectations. The girls that you hung around in your new class, however, were quite nice, saw you as a little sister, including you in their study sessions and girl talk, braiding your hair. The boys mostly ignored you, and in return you ignored them. It was nice.

Debbie always worried about the older kids, and while Nolan did too, he was more enthusiastic about you being in school for one year instead of the other 4 or 5, after all, surely, you’ll want to help dad with hero work instead of going to college… Right?... Well, no. Your sight was set on the School of the Art Institute of Chicago, their art programs making you go rabid with need- so many options, so many possibilities, you couldn’t decide on what you wanted to apply for. If you had eternity on your side, you’d apply for all of them, not like Bruce will need the money.

The year you spent at school, actually at school, was as fun as it was exhausting. You never realized how much energy it takes to wake up at a specific hour every day, to socialize, to take tests with about 30 other students- It sometimes overstimulated you, making you miss online schooling to a degree. Still, you found solace in your visual arts class.

The teacher loved you, not many other students were that interested in drawing, let alone actually learning and painting on canvases. So, you coming in with sheets of paper as tall as you were, with paints and canvases, with charcoal and markers- oh she could almost cry of happiness. She wasn’t a mean teacher, or eccentric like in the movies, but she wasn’t a pushover either. If you wanted a grade in her classroom, you had better have something to show for it, and you had plenty.

While the others had a theme to follow due to them not taking the class for love of the arts but because they thought it would be easy work, she gave you freedom, so you took it. Your first drawings were of Lady Gotham, racking your brain to remember the stories the kids told you every night of her, not wanting to forget them or where you came from. Your teacher didn’t comment on the small figures you sometimes added sitting on her shoulder.

While you stuck to painting her statue in classes, your sketchbook was full of the many variants of her, everyone seemed to see a loved one in her face, but the only common thing was the long hair tied into a nice Edwardian or Victorian crown-bun, and her dark grey, fancy dress and pale, clawed hands.

If you were to ask the teacher which one was her favorite, she’d say it was your depiction of Death in the first painting you did in her class. It also depicted Morpheus, both of them standing over a bundled-up child trying to find some warmth in the corner of an alley as the God-like entities melted with the shadows, though the one of Persephone lounging with Cerberus and Hades was a close second. To her it was poetic, to you, it was a reality you didn’t want to duel on for any longer.

Time has never flown this fast for you, it was like you blinked and the year was over, finals and graduation looming close. You’ve grown closer to the Graysons, slipped once or twice and even called Debbie “mom”, got quite comfortable being close to Nolan, fell asleep on him a few times as he made for a nice furnace after training, and you and Mark were as inseparable as ever.

This was everything you wanted, more than you could ever dream of. Your eyes sparkled in tempo with the shines of the stars as you lied on your back on the roof. You missed your friends in Gotham, there will always be love for them in your heart- but this isn’t something you’ll be willing to give up without a fight, not when you were getting more and more powerful with each month.

Your hands moved in a similar manner to Atom Eve’s over your day clothes while you got up, making them shine a bright neon green, the color diming down and revealing pajamas once you set foot back in your bedroom.

You’ve learned- you know better now. You’re more than willing to eliminate any threat before they get the chance to do so, to take another loved one from you.

Tag list: @bat1212 @trashlanternfish360 @shycreatorreview @syrooo @a-lurking-fae @alittletiredcry @kittzu @plsfckmedxddy @blackhood1229 @nxdxsworld @leeiasure @dandelion-delusion @lovebug-apple @sillysealsies @tsxukikami

Notes: The green color of her powers is more a nod to the Lazarus water, it can be easily changed in y'alls mind but I think it's an important tiny detail. The reader's powers developed, but she still uses other's heroes moves to use them. And Nolan's training and words have felt a mark on batsis.

Hope I'm not forgetting anything else- 😬

[darnell-la]

Can you do dark!Logan being kinky and baby trapping you?

summary: Logan knew everything in the past, wouldn’t matter once he did his job, so he decided to go on a side mission to fulfill a dream he’s been dreaming about for years.

btw, this story was a bit rushed just like the rest that we will be posting soon. college has been kicking our main authors ass…

DO NOT READ IF CNC/SA TRIGGERS YOU!

———

Logan had woken up on a huge hotel bed, with a hand over him. The man was confused, not understanding what was going on until he remembered he was sent back in time.

Logan quickly got dressed, not wanting to wake up the women that were in his bed. His only thought was on y/n. He even remembered offering his room to these two women because he couldn’t have y/n.

Y/n was and still is dating Scott Summers. Logan couldn’t stand it. Scott had confronted Logan once, telling him and everyone how jealous Logan was of him because he had everything the lonely animalistic man wanted.

Logan couldn’t help but laugh when Scott thought he read him like a book. Logan could have any girl Scott wanted. He proved that by reeling in Jean.

Logan wanted y/n before anyone knew who she was. He was the first to see her, the first to talk to her, the first to make her laugh, and the first to make her upset. Logan hated the fact that they didn’t talk as much because of Scott.

“We can’t talk if you’re gonna keep flirting with me, Logan. I’m not Jean, and I’ll never be her,” y/n said years ago at a party after Logan pulled her into a bathroom.

“I know you’re not Jean. You’re better, and he knows that. He knew I wanted you, so he got you first,” Logan tried explaining to y/n, but she ended up leaving after apologizing. It wasn’t her problem or fault that Logan couldn’t commit.

Logan is currently outside of y/n’s house, debating on whether he should go through with this or not. He bought a basket, hoping he could sweet talk his way into her house, maybe even get her to take him and leave Scott.

“Hello?” Y/n asked in her sweet and soft voice as she opened the front door. “Logan- Hey, what are you doing here?” Y/n asked as she opened her door further, seeing a friendly face.

“Hey, just wanted to stop by. It’s been a few months, right?” Logan wanted to confirm to make sure his dates were right. “Yep — I do miss the team, though. Maybe I’ll visit next week,” y/n smiled.

“Could I maybe come in, and put this down?” Logan asked as he lifted the basket that he had put together for a good hour. “Yeah, of course,”

Y/n and Logan talked for a while, catching up on each other, but she couldn’t help but notice how flirty he was. She had told him not too long ago, that he needed to quit with it.

“Logan, it’s nice to meet you and all, but you can’t just come in here- In my house that Scott pays for, and flirt with me — I-I thought you came by to say congratulations on Scott’s sad mistake,” y/n giggled at the end of her sentence.

“Congratulations? To what?” Logan asked. “Didn’t Scott tell you as well as the others that I was pregnant? Well, at least I thought I was. Sadly, I was only two weeks late,”

Logan felt an instant pressure in his head. He’s never known anything about any close pregnancy. If his calculations are right, this would only be the first six months of Scott and y/n dating.

“Are you okay? Logan, hey,” y/n snapped her fingers in Logan’s face to get him back into reality. “You were almost pregnant? How? Why? When- I-“ Logan couldn’t keep himself from thinking.

It’s almost like Scott took no time to try and claim her — To try and claim what was his.

“Relax, I’m not actually pregnant. We’ve had our small talk, and we think it’s better to wait until it’s our one-year anniversary,” y/n smiled as she sat down on the living room couch.

“You haven’t even been with the man for a year, and you already had a pregnancy scare? Are you serious, y/n?” Logan asked in a tone y/n was surprised by. Why was he so upset?

“I mean, we’re around the age people start making a family, so-“ y/n went to continue, ur Logan cut her off with a loud sigh as he rubbed his hands all over his face. He’s never been this stressed in his life.

“You let him breed you? Are you- Fuckin’ hell, Bub,” Logan cussed as y/m scrunched her eyes. “Logan, what is your problem? Scott has been my boyfriend for months. Why do you care if he breeds me?” Y/n could barely repeat the word Logan had used.

The tall man snapped his neck to look at her. He was upset about how she could see how wrong this was. Opening her legs, and letting Scott go in raw within six months?

“You wouldn’t even kiss me when I tried. You wouldn’t touch me. You wouldn’t let me please you — I was willing to keep it slow and only go down on you, but you rejected me? For what? For Scott!?”

“Logan, it’s fine to leave,” y/n got up to show Logan out of her home, but instead of letting her, he pushed her back down on the couch. “No! No more running. I’m fuckin’ tired of this. Are you even happy? Do you seriously see more in him than me!?”

“Logan, please just leave. Scott will be back in half an hour, and-“ y/n tried getting up again, but this time, Logan pushed her down on her back and hovered over her.

“Then he can come home to a pretty sight if you bread right,” Logan growled before he began tugging at y/n’s leggings that he just knew Scott bought for her. All Scott did was buy things Logan would love seeing y/n in.

“Logan- Stop! Get off of me!” Y/n tried fighting, almost forgetting that Logan was a mutant and she wasn’t. He was automatically stronger than him. He didn’t even struggle.

“Gonna take it easy on you for right now, Bub, but when I get back to my future past, I’m gonna give you think kids you want,”

Y/n didn’t know what to say. He was all over the place. She’s never seen anything like this in Logan. She wanted to talk to him and ask him what was going on, but that left her mind when he got her leggings just under her ankles.

“Logan- Stop this! Get off of me, you can’t- You can’t fucking do this!” Y/n cried out, upset that Logan never got the idea. It’s not like y/n never saw anything in him.

Y/n just hated how he wanted women to chase him, and when he never got them to, he pushed until he got what he wanted. Today, he had to do more the seduce a woman with his looks and words.

“I can do whatever I want. Who’s gonna fuckin’ stop me, huh? You? Oh, you can’t lie, Bub. I smell how sweet you are from up here,” Logan chuckled as he pulled himself out of his jeans.

“You know, when I get back, the date will be set back before Scott met you, meaning, I get to have another chance. I could’ve waited to taste you, but as soon as you mentioned Scott impregnated you — God, that pissed me off,”

Logan held his cock as he pushed pushed into her. He knew his length would be the biggest she’d ever taken, and that only made him want to stretch her out more.

“L-Lo!” Y/n screamed as her back automatically arched. “Yeah, that’s it? Haven’t had a good cock since you’ve been with Scott, huh?” Logan asked as he continued pushing his cock through her lips.

“Logan!” Y/n cried loudly as he slammed himself all the way into her. “Take it, baby — I know you can,” Logan took his hands and pushed her waist into the couch, pinning her down so she couldn’t get away.

“Just look at you — You’re soaked and gripping me so tight,” Logan pounded away as y/n’s eyes rolled to the back of her head. She tried telling herself she couldn’t do this, but the way her body reacted made things so difficult.

“I bet you’ll love it when I fill you up, babe — No matter how much you say no, I know you’ll love it. You’ll love me,”

[tribalmajesty05]

Title: The Kiss Hunt

Roman Reigns x Reader

****

It was an unspoken rule by now—before every match, Roman needed his kiss.

No one knew exactly when it started, but somewhere along the way, it became part of his routine. Just like taping his wrists or putting on his vest, he wouldn’t step through that curtain without it. If you were nearby, it was easy—he’d find you, pull you in by the waist, steal a kiss, and head off to dominate in the ring.

But sometimes, you weren’t so easy to find.

Which meant he had to go on the hunt.

Tonight was one of those nights.

“Where is she?” Roman grumbled, already growing impatient as he stormed through the backstage halls.

Jimmy and Jey, sitting on a crate nearby, exchanged looks before Jey smirked. “Damn, Uce. You that desperate for your good luck kiss?”

Roman shot him a look. “You got a problem with it?”

Jimmy raised his hands in defense. “Nope, just funny watching the big uce go on a scavenger hunt for his woman.”

“Shut up,” Roman muttered, moving past them.

Jey laughed. “Whipped.”

Roman ignored them.

He checked catering.

Nothing.

The women’s locker room?

Naomi leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, amused as hell. “She left a few minutes ago. You really out here chasing her down, huh?”

“Where’d she go?” he asked, exasperated.

“Somewhere near the production area, I think.”

Roman groaned. He was already supposed to be at Gorilla in five minutes, but he was not stepping out there without that damn kiss.

Meanwhile, you were completely oblivious to the search party forming for you. You had stopped by the production area to chat with Bayley and Rhea when suddenly—

“There you are.”

You barely had time to turn before Roman was right in front of you, hands gripping your waist as he pulled you in.

You blinked. “Uh… hey?”

“I got a match,” he muttered, like that explained everything.

And for him, it did.

A knowing smile spread across your lips. “And what do you need before your match?”

He arched a brow. “You know.”

Bayley, standing off to the side, smirked. “God, you two are disgustingly cute.”

Rhea snorted. “Nah, this is next-level. My man’s been hunting you down like a bloodhound.”

Roman ignored them completely, his focus solely on you. “C’mon, baby. Don’t make me beg.”

Your heart flipped at the way his voice dropped, but you couldn’t resist teasing him just a little. “Beg? Now that I’d like to see.”

He huffed. “I swear to God—”

Before he could say another word, you leaned up and pressed a kiss to his lips. He instantly melted into it, his grip tightening on your waist like he didn’t want to let go.

The moment should have been sweet, romantic even—if it weren’t for the round of cheers that suddenly erupted around you.

“WOOOO! GET IT, TRIBAL CHIEF!”

You pulled back to see The Usos, Solo, Seth, and even Dean standing there, all of them grinning like they just walked in on a damn rom-com.

Seth cackled. “Man, he really couldn’t go out there without it, huh?”

Dean smirked. “You got this man acting like an addict.”

Jey nudged Jimmy. “I told you, Uce. Whipped.”

You rolled your eyes. “Oh, shut up, all of you.”

Roman, however, was completely unbothered. He smirked down at you, tilting his head slightly. “Don’t act like you don’t love it.”

You sighed dramatically. “I tolerate it.”

He chuckled, then leaned in to whisper, “That’s not what you were saying last night.”

Your face heated instantly.

The guys lost it.

“OH, HELL NO—”

“TOO MUCH INFO, MAN—”

“DAMN, UCE—”

Bayley covered her ears. “I did not need to hear that!”

Rhea just nodded in approval. “Respect.”

Meanwhile, Roman smirked in victory, pressing one last kiss to your cheek before finally backing away. “Alright, I’m good now.”

Jey threw his hands up. “Oh, now you good?”

Jimmy shook his head. “Man, if y’all ever break up, we’re done for.”

You crossed your arms. “Not happening.”

Roman smirked. “Damn right.”

And with that, he walked off toward Gorilla, leaving everyone behind to recover from the overwhelming amount of PDA.

As soon as he was out of earshot, Dean shook his head with a grin. “Man, y’all are something else.”

You just shrugged, smiling to yourself. Because honestly?

You wouldn’t change a thing.

[sturnmeovr]

♡‧₊˚ Neighbor!Matt x Brat!Reader - Let Us Happen (February Au Special)

It had been a week since he saw you last; since he had you coming undone, pressed against the tile walls of your shower, his hand tangled through your sex crazed hair while he talked you through your orgasm, leaving a trail of sloppy kisses down your neck. You couldn’t get him out of your mind. Every time he wound up at your doorstep, he wound up in your bed by the end of the night. You didn’t know what was going on between you and the man who lived in the apartment above you, but one you did know was you craved any type of attention from him. It didn’t matter if it was physically, mentally, or emotionally — you craved it. 

Music bumps through the surround sound connected to your tv, you were hosting a girls night for a few of your friends, since it was the first weekend of February. Mixed drinks, charcuterie boards, and a good game truth or drink were the plans for the night. You knew most of the girls would be too wasted to get home safely, much like nights out at the bar, so you were prepared for the sleepover that awaited ahead. 

“Take another one!” one of your besties shouts, forcing another shot glass into your hand. The clear liquid spills down hands, making the potent alcohol a bit more identifiable. A shiver shoots down your spine as you pinch the bridge of your nose, gulping the shot down in a hurry, your throat and chest burning from the after effect. Twisting your face in disgust, you slam the shot glass on the table, “Gahh! — that’s fucking disgusting,” as you gasp for air. Your reaction earns a giggle from her, “s’not that bad.” She was definitely the friend that had no tolerance and spent her night getting everyone around her drunk as fuck. You loved her, though. 

“Uhmm, Y/N?” one of the girls chimes in from across the kitchen table, making you look up to her. You quickly follow her gaze, only to set your eyes on a messy-haired Matt leaning against your door frame with his hands stuffed in the pockets of his hoodie and a smirk stretched across his face. The music fades out, almost like it's on cue, as you look back at your friends who were gossiping amongst each other, probably because you hadn’t told any of them about the steamy hookups you had been sharing with the boy standing in front of them. One thing you learned over the years, never brag about good dick because other bitches love to go after it. You’d be damned if you saw one of your ‘friends’ exiting his apartment, the feminine rage would make you explode in an instant. As much as you loved your girls, you'd learned your lesson – on more than one occasion – when it came to gossiping about one your new boy toys. You knew not to make that mistake again, especially with a guy like Matt.

You eye him down, rolling your eyes as you pull yourself to your feet. What the hell was he doing? The room fills with whispers and giggles as you stride towards Matt, the alcohol in your system makes you stumble a bit, “what do you want?” A faint mixture of his cologne and weed engulfs your nose as soon as you plant your feet in front of him, holding onto the door to steady yourself.

Matt raises an eyebrow at the sharpness in your tone, a small smile playing at the corner of his lips as he pushes himself off the doorframe. He knew you were pissed at him, but it was adorable how you looked when you were so annoyed with him. It was amusing to him how you had been avoiding him in the stairwells, ignoring all his calls and texts once again. He loved the chase. He clears his throat, “I wanna talk to you,” the sly smile making itself known as he says his next words, “princess.” 

He tests the waters with the magic pet name, both of you aware it always left a pool in your panties each time he said it. His comment earns a gasp from one of the girls behind you, making you cringe, “what’s there to talk about? I’m busy right now,” your eyes falling to the side like you're motioning to the small group behind you. You were the host after all. How rude would it be to ditch your girls just to get fucked senseless by the only guy you had been hooking up with? 

“Oh, I don’t know,” he coos teasingly, “maybe the fact that you’ve been ignoring me since I had you —,” his hands traveling up to your face to sweep a strand of hair behind your ear.

“Okay — okay,” you speak above him, a bit surprised he’d tell your business to the room. If he was willing to do that than what other secrets was he willing to spill? Irritation boils in your gut as you tighten your grip on the door, ready to slam it in his face. Matt raises his eyebrows at you, letting you know he wasn’t leaving even if you closed it. You let out a sigh, “we really have to do this right now — right here?” The desperation seeps through your voice as you whine at him, your reaction earning a chuckle from the back of his throat. He was very keen on your tricks by now.

“No, we’re not doing this tomorrow,” he grumbles, his blue eyes fixed on you. his brows crunched together in a combative manner, “you’ve been being a brat for too long. This conversation is happening now.” 

“Matt,” you whine, stomping your foot on the floor. He didn't care about your dramatics – no way in hell had he been giving you the best dick of your life just for you to ignore his existence the very next day. Pissed, he takes a hold of your wrist, pulling you out of your apartment and into the hallway, in one swift movement. His tight grip around your wrist earning a gasp from you, he looks up to your group of friends behind you, “jus’ burrowing her for a minute, ladies — carry on.” Your friends watch the door slam behind the two of you, erupting in giggles and gossip as it does so.

“Matt, you can’t just —,” you scold him, thrashing in his grip before he cuts you off, smashing his lips into yours like he always did. It was obvious he had a bad habit of kissing you at the worst times, always when you were fuming and never when you really wanted it. Your soft lips dance against his plump ones, the magnetic force pulling your bodies together instantaneously. His hands clasp around your waist, and he attempts to pull away. Only to fight the urge, walking you backwards until your back is pressed against the wall, his arms pinning you in. Your fists make balls into the thick material of his hoodie, rolling your body against his as your way of telling him to never stop.

Once he finally breaks away, staring down at you with a hard lust filled gaze, “just stop fighting it — let us happen,” he whispers, his face so close to yours you can smell the minty freshness of his breath. Redness creeps to your cheeks and you trap your bottom lip between your teeth, looking up at him with those seductive siren eyes he loved so much. Completely under his hypnotic trance, you nod in agreement. What was this man doing to you? 

wc - 1273

♡‧₊˚ Cheys Note - I knoww, I said I'd post this yesterday, but this flu isn't doing me any favors 🥲I hope everyone enjoys!! <3 I'll still be posting, just not too sure about dates now since I'm still working on the others!

Masterlist

Neighbor!Matt Materlist

Taglist (comment to be added)

Sends me asks and suggestions <3

Check out my February Au Special 🥰

[innorris]

Against All Odds

Summary: Being Oscar Piastri’s sister came with its perks—like paddock passes and front-row seats to every race. But it also meant dealing with him. Lando Norris. Her brother’s teammate and the one person who could drive her up the wall with just a look. But when the two are forced to spend more time together off the track, she realizes there’s more to Lando than just his smug grin and sarcastic comments.

She leaned against the garage wall, scrolling through her phone while the McLaren team buzzed around. It was another race weekend, and as usual, she was here to support her brother, Oscar. But no amount of excitement could prepare her for him striding over, that signature grin plastered across his face.

“Lost again, Piastri?” Lando’s voice was light, teasing, but it made her roll her eyes immediately.

“Just avoiding unnecessary conversations,” she shot back, not even bothering to look up.

Lando chuckled, clearly unfazed. “You’ve got jokes. Guess it runs in the family.”

She finally glanced up, meeting his bright blue eyes. Annoyingly bright, like he knew exactly how to get under her skin. And he did. Ever since Oscar joined McLaren, Lando had made it his mission to tease her every chance he got—whether it was about her coffee order, her terrible parking skills, or the fact that she always seemed to be in his way.

But things took a turn when McLaren organized a charity event, and she was roped in to help coordinate. And, of course, he was her partner for the day.

“This is going to be fun,” Lando said with a wink, as they loaded supplies into a van.

She scoffed. “Define fun.”

“Spending the day with me, obviously.”

Despite her annoyance, she couldn’t ignore how easy it was to fall into a rhythm with him. Between organizing activities and dealing with a group of overexcited kids, she saw a different side of Lando. He wasn’t just the cocky driver who loved to push her buttons—he was kind, patient, and had a way of making everyone around him laugh, even her.

By the end of the day, they were both exhausted, sitting on the grass, watching the sunset over the track.

“You’re not as terrible as I thought,” she admitted, surprising even herself.

Lando turned to her, his grin softer this time. “You’re not too bad yourself, Piastri.”

There was a pause—a charged moment where neither of them looked away. And before she could second-guess it, Lando leaned in, his lips brushing against hers, tentative at first, then deeper, as if all their arguments had been leading to this.

When they finally pulled apart, she whispered, breathless, “Oscar’s going to kill you.”

Lando chuckled, his forehead resting against hers. “Worth it.”

[lvnleah]

Rory’s 5th birthday.

“Roo, slow down!” Beth laughed as you ran in front of her, eager to head into the training ground, “Wait for me and Mamma please.” She said as her and Viv grabbed their bags from the car. 

“But Mummy it’s my birthday and I need everyone to know!” You huffed, stopping in your tracks. “I’m five and I wan’ show them all my new teddies!”

It was your fifth birthday and since the moment you had woken up, you hadn’t stopped. Beth and Viv had stayed up till late last night and had decorated the living room with balloons and banners. All of your teddies even had their own little party hats on, two spare ones sat beside them for you and Twix. 

Viv laughed softly, ruffling your hair as Beth adjusted the strap of her bag. “Don’t worry, Roo. Everyone will love meeting Twix’s new friends.”

You grinned up at her, “They better! Twix new friends are excited!”

As you all made your way into the training centre, the familiar hum of voices and clinking dishes filled the air as you made your way to the canteen. The smell of coffee and bacon made your tummy rumble, but you were too focused on finding Buddy and Monkey to notice.

The moment you spotted them, Buddy sitting at a table colouring with crayons and Monkey scrolling through her phone opposite her, you let out an excited squeal.

“Buddy! Monks!” you yelled, sprinting across the room.

Leah, who was seated beside Buddy, looked up with a grin. “Uh-oh, here comes trouble. Happy Birthday, Roo!”

“Roo!” Buddy squealed, dropping the crayon and practically falling off her chair as she scrambled to get to you.

You collided in a giggly hug, your backpack bumping awkwardly between you. “It’s my birthday!” you announced proudly.

Buddy gasped, her eyes wide. “B’fday? ‘Ou five now?”

You nodded, already unzipping your bag. “Yeah, and I brought my teddies to show you. Look!”

Buddy clapped her hands excitedly, bouncing on the spot as you carefully pulled out Twix and his new friends. “This is Twix, and this is Myle 2 and Sprinkles. They’re new!”

Buddy reached out with chubby hands, grabbing for Sprinkles before you had even finished your sentence. “Me ‘ove Sprinkles! He so soft!” she exclaimed, squishing him to her face.

“Twix says you have to be gentle ‘cus they new!” You told Buddy. 

Buddy nodded, still holding Sprinkles by one paw. “Okay, I’ be gentle,” she promised, before suddenly turning to Leah, who was seated next to her. “Mummy! Look, Roo’s bear!”

Leah chuckled, reaching over to ruffle Buddy’s hair. “I see, Bubba. Sprinkles looks very important.”

“Very ‘portant,” Buddy agreed, holding the bear out to Leah for inspection.

Monkey, sitting on the other side of the table, leaned over to watch the scene unfold. “This is serious birthday business,” she teased. “Twix recruiting a squad?”

You nodded firmly, “Twix is the boss. He said they can come watch the match today!”

Buddy gasped again, looking up at Leah. “Dey’ watch football?! Mummy, dey’ watch football!”

Leah grinned, pulling Buddy onto her lap. “Yep, looks like it. And I bet they’ll cheer really loud too, huh, Roo?”

“They’re the loudest,” you said proudly. “but not as loud as me and Buddy!”

Beth and Viv finally caught up, both smiling as they saw Buddy and you deep in conversation about the teddies. “She’s been planning this all morning,” Beth said, setting her bag down.

“You’re very excited about your birthday, huh Roo?” Leah asked you, “Did you get nice presents?”

You nodded enthusiastically, “I got lots of presents! And Mummy and Mamma put party hats on all my teddies. Twix says he’s the boss of the party.”

Before Leah could respond, the canteen doors opened and Steph came in, a grin already on her face. “Alright, where’s the birthday girl?” she called, looking around dramatically.

You practically leapt out of your seat, waving your arms. “I’m here! I’m here!”

“Well, there she is!” Steph said, walking over and crouching down to your level. “Happy birthday, Roo! Five years old, huh? Does that mean you’re a big girl now?”

You nodded, “I’m really big now. And I got new teddies!”

Steph pretended to gasp, glancing at the line of stuffed animals on the table. “Which one’s the boss?”

“Twix!” you said immediately, holding him up. “He’s the oldest, so he’s the boss.”

Steph nodded. “Looks like he’s doing a great job keeping everyone in line. You bringing them to the match later?”

“Yeah, they’re gonna cheer really loud!” you said, your excitement bubbling over.

After a bit more chatting, the rest of the team came in for breakfast, each wishing you a happy birthday. You ended up sitting on Beth’s lap, feeling cosy as she helped you cut your pancakes into bite-sized pieces.

Just as you were finishing the last bite, Katie stood up and got everyone’s attention. “Alright, everyone, we have one last thing to do before we head out for the match,” she said, glancing over at you. 

A moment later, one of the kitchen staff walked in, carrying a cake covered in pink frosting and topped with five candles. Your eyes widened as the entire team broke into a loud, cheerful rendition of “Happy Birthday.”

You tucked your face into Beth’s shoulder, suddenly overwhelmed by all the attention. “Mummy,” you whispered, your voice muffled, “it’s so loud.”

Beth rubbed your back gently, smiling. “It’s okay, Roo. Everyone’s just really happy for you.”

As the song ended, the room filled with cheers and clapping. Viv leaned down to whisper in your ear. “Ready to blow out the candles?”

You peeked out from Beth’s shoulder and nodded shyly. Beth helped you stand on her lap so you could reach the cake, your hands gripping her arms tightly for balance.

“Alright, big breath, Roo,” Beth encouraged, her smile wide as everyone leaned in to watch. You took a deep breath and blew, your cheeks puffing out with the effort, but only two of the five candles flickered out.

The team burst out laughing as you frowned in frustration. “They won’t go!” you huffed, trying again with another puff of air, but the stubborn candles stayed lit.

“I’ help ‘ou!” Buddy announced, trying to slide off Leah’s lap. 

“Buddy!” Leah laughed, quickly scooping her up. “Let’s let Roo have another go.”

“Okay, Roo,” Viv said, her hands resting lightly on your waist. “Biggest breath you can manage. Ready?”

You nodded, your cheeks turning pink as you gave it your all, but only one more candle went out. You frowned again before giving it another go, this time all of them blowing out. 

“You did it, Roo!” Beth said, kissing your cheek as you grinned shyly.

“Twix helped,” you whispered, holding your teddy close.

“Well, Twix is very clever,” Viv said with a chuckle, brushing a stray hair away from your face. 

“Good job, Roo!” Leah called, and Buddy clapped her hands, shouting, “Go, Roo!”

“Did you make a wish?” Beth asked as she hugged you tight.

You nodded, hugging Twix. “Mhm, Twix made it with me!” you said softly, and Beth smiled, kissing your cheek.

[maretinelli]

FAVORITE AUNT

Oscar Piastri X fem!reader

Summary: When Y/n needs to buy a birthday present for her niece, she doesn't know how to do it because she's never been that good with children. But Oscar sees at dinner how much the children love her.

Words: 2.8K+

Warnings: Cute, funny, Oscar being very affectionate (oh how cute😭) And I think that's it

Author: English is not my first language, so apologies for any spelling, grammar and slang mistakes that may be in the story. You can request stories on my profile. ❤️🇧🇷

MASTERLIST

The Australian sun seemed warmer that afternoon, painting the sky with golden hues as the sea breeze tried to alleviate the heat. The air carried a faint smell of salt mixed with the sweet aroma coming from the coffee shops scattered along Melbourne's busy streets.

Y/n and Oscar walked hand in hand through the shopping center, passing illuminated storefronts and listening to the lively buzz of people enjoying the end of the holiday season.

Oscar, who was on vacation after the end of the championship, liked the light energy that the city transmitted. He was used to the fast pace of the races, but there, next to Y/n, everything seemed to slow down in a good way.

They had already passed by several stores—bookstores, children's clothing stores, and even an educational toy section—but Y/n still didn't seem satisfied with any of the options. Oscar, on the other hand, was already starting to find her indecision amusing.

"I think we've already walked halfway across the city," he commented, squeezing her hand lightly. "What exactly do you want to give as a gift?"

Y/n sighed, stopping in front of a large, colorful toy store. "I have no idea" She admitted, biting her lower lip.

Oscar arched an eyebrow, gently pulling her into the store. The atmosphere was vibrant, filled with children running between aisles filled with stuffed animals, dolls, cars, and board games.

"What do you mean?" He asked, watching Y/n look at the toys with a confused expression.

"I've never been very good with children," Y/n confessed, crossing her arms. "I don't know, I don't have that natural instinct to know what they like."

Oscar laughed, picking up a dinosaur doll that roared as he squeezed his belly. "Are you serious? You seem to be great with everyone." He asked a little in disbelief.

Y/n smiled, picking up a teddy bear and examining it uncertainly. "The kids don't really seem to like me," she confessed, pouting a little.

Oscar frowned, still a little skeptical. "You sound like you have a curse that keeps children away."

"Looks like I do," Y/n rolled her eyes. "One day, I was at the salon getting my nails done with Mackenzie, and the manicurist's daughter came in all excited, smiling at her and saying, "Cinderella Moana!"

Oscar frowned. "Cinderella Moana?"

"Yes! She was wearing a Cinderella costume over a Moana one, it looked like a Disney crossover." Y/n laughed lightly. "And I tried to be nice, didn't I? I asked smiling what that meant..."

"And what did she say?"

Y/n huffed and threw her hands up. She turned to me with the most sullen face in the world and said, "I'm not talking to you, I'm talking to my mother."

Oscar held back his laughter, not wanting to disappoint his girlfriend with a laugh, and then handed her another toy to examine.

"Okay, that was a good one."

"And there's more!" Y/n continued, picking up a stuffed toy without much enthusiasm. "Once, my neighbor asked me to take care of her son for half an hour because she needed to take care of something quickly. I accepted, I thought it would be easy." Oscar was already looking at her expectantly. "But the boy cried non-stop because he said I looked at him the wrong way."

Oscar almost choked, allowing himself to laugh now. "What do you mean?!"

"I wanted to know too! I asked him what he meant by that, and he just cried harder and screamed 'I don't like this!'" She puts on a high-pitched voice.

Oscar was still laughing when Y/n sighed and began walking slowly towards a hallway full of teddy bears. He could tell her frustration was genuine and, without thinking much, he placed a light hand on her back, offering comfort.

"But Mary really likes you," he said softly. "And not just her, but the others too. Whenever I go to family gatherings with you, you can see how much they love having you around."

Y/n sighed, putting one hand in the back pocket of her jeans. Her eyes wandered over the shelf full of colorful teddy bears. "They probably just like me because I'm family," she muttered. "Because I'm their mother's sister."

Oscar smiled slightly and turned his body a little to face her better. "That's not true," he said, picking up a small stuffed rabbit and placing it in her hand. "Mary would love anything you gave her. If you gave her a rock, she would scream with joy and say it was the coolest gift in the world."

Y/n couldn't help but smile shyly, looking up and running her hand through Oscar's hair briefly, in an affectionate gesture.

In fact, her nephews really enjoyed spending time with her. They liked to play games, ask random questions, ask for help with schoolwork, and even tell secrets that not even his parents knew. But still, an insecurity insisted on staying there, hammering in his mind.

"But sometimes I think..." She hesitated, biting her lower lip. "What if one day I become a mother and my children hate having me as a mother?"

Oscar paused. The lightness in his eyes faded a little, and he pressed his lips together, feeling his chest heave. "Y/n..."

"I mean it," she sighed. "What if I'm not good with kids? What if they think I'm boring, or weird, or... I don't know, what if I'm just not good enough?"

Oscar turned to her completely and gently cupped her face, forcing her to look at him. "You have no idea how lucky our children will be to have you as a mother," he said, his voice firm but sweet. "And honestly, I bet they'll love you more than they love me."

Y/n smiled weakly, feeling a cozy warmth spread through her chest. She wrapped Oscar in a brief hug, resting her face on his shoulder.

"Thank you for always being here."

Oscar smiled, placing a soft kiss on her cheek. "Always," he replied, before pulling away slightly and clapping his hands once. "Now, let's find a really cool gift for Mary."

Y/n laughed, finally feeling that maybe this whole kid thing wasn't that hard after all. After all, with Oscar by her side, everything seemed a little easier.

••••••••••••••••••••

The warm Australian night air brought a comfortable breeze, making it the perfect weather for an outdoor party. The sky was clear, dotted with stars, and the streets were quiet, lit by yellow streetlights.

Oscar parked the car in front of Meredith's house—Y/n's older sister and mother of her nephews. He turned off the engine before turning to Y/n, who was holding tightly the wrapped gifts in her arm, almost as if her life depended on it.

He raised an eyebrow, a playful smile playing on his lips. "You're more nervous about delivering this gift than you were when we first went out together years ago."

Y/n let out a sigh, adjusting the package in her arm. "Because I am! What if she doesn't like it? What if..."

Oscar chuckled, leaning down to kiss her cheek softly. "She's going to love it, love." He said sweetly, getting out of the car and opening the door for his girlfriend to get out as well.

With a suspicious look, Y/n took a deep breath and walked to the door, knocking a few times. A few seconds later, Meredith appeared, opening the door with a warm smile.

"Y/n! I'm glad you came!" She hugged her sister briefly before looking at Oscar. "And Oscar! It's been a while. It's good to see you again."

Oscar smiled, greeting her with a wave. "Time flies, doesn't it? But I'm glad to be here."

Meredith made room for the two to enter, and Oscar took the opportunity to place a comforting hand on his girlfriend's shoulder.

"Breathe, everything will be okay."

Meredith, not noticing the brief moment between them, turned back into the house and called out excitedly, "Mary! Aunt Y/n and Uncle Oscar are here!"

Oscar couldn't help but smile a little when he heard that, Uncle Oscar. He has sisters, but he didn't have any nephews yet. It was sweet that Y/n's family made a point of including him like that.

They followed Meredith into the backyard, which was beautifully decorated with balloons, confetti, and red and silver ornaments.

It was then that Mary spotted Y/n. Her eyes lit up and, without hesitation, she dropped what she was doing and ran towards her.

"AUNT Y/N!!!"

Y/n bent down just in time to receive the little girl in her arms, laughing as she spun her around slightly in the air before hugging her tightly.

Oscar, taking advantage of the scene, began to greet Y/n's parents, Meredith's husband and her other sisters, but his eyes always returned to his girlfriend and niece, a slight smile on his face.

Mary pulled away from the hug a little, her eyes shining with excitement. "I missed you!"

"Me too, sweetie!" Y/n smiled, holding out the gift to her niece. "Here's your present, little one. I hope you like it... Uncle Oscar helped me choose."

Mary grabbed the package with excitement and quickly tore the paper open. When she saw what was inside—a huge unicorn plush toy, a painting kit, and a Barbie doll—her eyes widened with pure happiness.

At the store, Y/n had been at a loss as to which gift to choose. Afraid of making a mistake, she ended up picking all three, which made Oscar laugh at the time and say that she was exaggerating. But now, seeing Mary's reaction, he knew that she had made the right choice.

"I LOVED IT!!!" Mary squealed, jumping into her aunt's arms again, hugging her tightly. "Thank you, Aunt Y/n!"

Y/n laughed, caressing the little girl's back. "I'm glad you liked it, princess."

Mary pulled back a little, looking at Yin with a pure smile. "Anything you give me will be nice. Because I love you."

Y/n felt some tears wanting to come out, but then she smiled and hugged her five-year-old niece once more. "Oh love, I love you too!"

Oscar, who was very close, leaned over and whispered in his girlfriend's ear: "Did I tell you? If you gave her a rock, she would be happy too."

Y/n laughed, rolling her eyes before finally approaching her parents and other family members to greet them with hugs and smiles.

Oscar stood beside her, placing a hand on his girlfriend's waist while her father and brothers-in-law brought up the subject of racing, asking about the season. Meanwhile, Y/n's mother and sisters talked about random subjects, laughing among themselves.

Suddenly, an excited scream echoed through the yard, coming from inside. "AUNT Y/N!!!"

Before Y/n could turn around, three little 7-year-old hurricanes—the triplets, her nephews too—ran up to her and wrapped her in a tight hug, almost knocking her backwards.

She laughed out loud, trying to balance herself, but it was Oscar who, in a quick gesture, held her back so she wouldn't fall. Making everyone laugh.

"Okay, okay, boys, I missed you too!" Yin said between laughs, kissing each of their heads.

The triplets had moved away a little, but now their focus was on Oscar, who was watching them with amusement. With the seriousness of growing boys, they each reached out to shake his hand firmly.

Oscar bit back a smile and returned the handshakes as if they were closing a big deal. "Hey, boys? How's it going?"

"Well, Uncle Oscar!" they replied together.

Y/n looked at her boyfriend and smiled. He was already part of that family, and every day that became clearer.

After the lively greetings with the triplets, Y/n's father, who was chatting happily with his family, suddenly remembered a funny moment from his daughter's childhood and, with a nostalgic smile, asked:

"Y/n, do you remember that time you tried to run away from home because I wouldn't let you eat cake before dinner?"

Y/n widened her eyes, already feeling the heat rise to her cheeks. She laughed nervously, hiding her face in her hands.

Her father turned to Oscar, eager to tell the story. "She was about six years old and decided she was going to run away. She took a little backpack, put two stuffed animals, a Barbie and... a piece of bread in it. She said she could take care of herself and that she would never come back."

Oscar laughed out loud, shaking his head in pure amusement. "Four years of dating and you still haven't told me that, Y/n?"

She laughed, embarrassed, and hid in his chest, making the family burst into laughter.

Before he could respond, Meredith and her husband appeared, calling everyone to dinner. The large table in the house was filled with excited voices, silverware clinking against plates and constant laughter.

The triplets and Mary were curious about Y/n's travels with Oscar. "Don't you get sick from flying so much, Aunt Y/n?" one of the boys asked, drawing laughter from the table before she could answer.

Oscar exchanged glances with Y/n during dinner, a discreet smile always present on his lips, as if to say that she did very well with the children.

After the congratulations and the cake being cut with Mary insisting that the first piece should go to Y/n, the night continued pleasantly. Y/n was chatting animatedly with the adults on the balcony when she felt a light tug on her dress.

She looked down and saw Mary, who was staring at her with bright eyes. "What's wrong, love?" Y/n asked, smiling.

The little girl fidgeted her fingers nervously before asking softly, "Can you and Uncle Oscar play with us? We have a cool game, but we're missing two people..."

Before Y/n could even respond, Oscar leaned over and said, laughing, "Sure, me and Aunt Y/n are going!"

He placed the glass of wine on the table and, in a natural gesture, took Y/n's hand, guiding her to the backyard, where the children were waiting anxiously.

The conversations on the porch died down when the adults noticed the couple approaching the group of children.

Y/n looked at her nephews curiously. "Okay, what's the joke?"

One of the triplets held up a plastic crown and placed it on her head. “It’s a wedding!” Mary announced excitedly.

Y/n and Oscar laughed out loud as they saw the kids putting on makeshift costumes. Mary clapped her hands to get their attention.

"Now everyone pay attention, because Aunt Y/n and Uncle Oscar are getting married!"

The game unfolded amidst laughter. The children improvised a speech, pretended to be priests and threw plastic flower petals.

Until Mary crossed her arms and looked at them seriously. "Now you need to kiss."

Y/n's eyes widened and she opened her mouth to respond, but Oscar just smiled at the corner of his mouth and, before she could think about running away from the situation, he gently held Y/n's back and waist and leaned her back, sealing their lips in a sweet and long kiss, respectful, but passionate enough to draw excited screams from the children.

The adults on the balcony whistled and clapped excitedly. When Oscar lifted her back up, Y/n buried her face against his shoulder, giggling shyly.

The night passed at a light and happy pace. Soon, Oscar and Y/n were at the front door saying goodbye to the family.

The children were the ones who took the longest to hug, holding Y/n tightly, and she ran her hand through each of their hair, promising that she would come back for them to play more often.

Oscar then held her hand as they walked to the car. He opened the door for Y/n and walked around to get into the driver's seat.

When he started the car, he gave her a long look before getting out.

Y/n frowned, laughing. "What is it?"

Oscar smiled. "Nothing... I was just thinking about how much the kids love you." He paused and joked, "I guess kids who don't like you are born with defects." Y/n laughed and pulled Oscar into a quick kiss, feeling his smile against her lips.

As they pulled away, he sighed, still smiling. "You're going to be a great mother, you know that?"

Y/n blinked, feeling her heart race. Before she could answer, Oscar continued, his voice full of affection: "I can imagine you going for walks with them, teaching them how to ride a bike, encouraging them in sports, cooking and reading stories before bed..." He chuckled softly. "And I'm there, by your side, watching it all happen."

Y/n bit her lip, feeling a warm warmth in her chest. "That sounds like a perfect plan." She smiled.

Oscar squeezed her hand gently before finally leaving with the car, guiding them back home, his heart light and full of love. Y/n knowing that now she knew that the children loved her.

[queensunshinee]

So sweet- part 2 || Patrick Zweig x reader, Art Donaldson x reader

Rating: Explicit (18+)

Warnings: SMUT (mention of p in v sex, oral sex), mention of an eating disorder, family drama, death in the family, cheating. It's a mess.

Word Count: 7.9k

(Part 1)

So sweet- part 2:

Art leaned against the doorframe as he looked at you. Since your back was to him, you hadn't seen him yet, and he felt like he had the upper hand. As if he didn’t need to be defensive. As if he was still part of your life. Your hair looked shorter than the last time he saw you. But then again, the last time he saw you, you told him you never wanted to see him again, so maybe he didn’t remember all the details as well as he’d like to.

Maybe he felt that "never" was subjective. That everyone could choose what to take from the word "never." That a year and a half without speaking to you was enough "never" for him, and you'd be a hypocrite if you said it wasn’t for you too. "Are you going to stand there much longer, Donaldson?" Your voice sounded the same. He'd recently discovered he hated a lot of things, but at the top of his list were all the times you called him by his last name instead of his first.

"You really do have eyes in the back of your head," he tried to joke, but he didn’t hear you laugh, not even a chuckle. He hadn’t seen your face yet, but he could guess you weren’t even smiling. "Aren’t you supposed to be in Atlanta?" you asked. If he didn’t know you, he might have thought you were fine. That this was just polite conversation between two acquaintances who hadn’t seen each other in a while and ran into each other by chance. "My first match isn’t for another two days. I couldn’t miss the funeral," he said quietly. "I’m really sorry for your loss, you know that, right?" He took a few large steps and sat on the bed next to you, hoping you’d give him this moment. Hoping you wouldn’t be angry. Not when he was trying so hard.

"She was a mean drunk," you muttered. "Not a huge loss," you added, glancing at him for a second, allowing yourself to surrender to the moment. He recognized the piercing gaze. Maybe a wrinkle that wasn’t there before, but your eyes were the same eyes. You were the same girl he used to love. Used to. Used to. Used to. Before he went on his path in life and you on yours. Before he made a decision, and then you made a decision, and then both of you made decisions. Before words were said. Before he left and you stayed. Before he opened up and you shut down. Used to.

"You’re a grown man, you should know how to tie a tie by now, don’t you think?" you asked, probably trying to lighten the sadness that filled your childhood room, located right across from his childhood room. He wanted to thank you for that. But he never knew how to talk to you honestly. Why would he start now? "Tashi usually does it," he said quietly, and you stood in front of him, starting to adjust the damn tie. You had no idea what you were doing to his heartbeat. "I’m sorry about your grandmother. I was at your parents’ house afterward. I don’t know if they told you," you mumbled.

He was so angry at you for not coming to the funeral. Because by what right did you take his tragedy and make him consumed with thoughts of you? About your absence. About your hand that could’ve held his tightly, just like you did when he was eight, and Jameson died. Instead, he held Tashi’s hand. She didn’t squeeze. She let go after a few minutes. He was so angry that at his grandmother’s funeral, more than anything, he missed you. So now, a few minutes before heading to your mother’s funeral, he squeezed your hand for a moment while you adjusted his tie, looking at him with big eyes filling with tears you refused to let fall. "Better," you said.

He didn’t think it was better. He didn’t want to argue. He just nodded. . . . Patrick couldn’t focus. Every time he hit that stupid ball, he thought about the fight he had with his dad a week ago and the dumb argument he had with you before leaving for Atlanta. He hadn’t told you yet that his parents decided to cut him off from the trust fund. He hadn’t told you that he was basically broke. Sometimes Patrick thinks you’re the only person in the world who looks at him like he understands something about life. Like he’s capable of pulling off magic at any given moment. Sparkling eyes and a smile. He wonders when was the last time you looked at him like that. It’s been a few good months. He can’t deliver. Not the damn ball and not in real life.

He hesitates. Everything he does comes with a certain delay. He knows that at 24, he’s expected to understand who he is and what he wants from life. But what he wants from life doesn’t want him back, and that’s something he’s not willing to accept. He blames his parents for the fact that he’s too spoiled. That he doesn’t know when to stop. That he can’t let go of dreams. That he has to be the best, even though he’s drowning in his own mediocrity. He moves too fast between knowing how good he is at what he does and the harsh slap of reality that comes with each of his failures. Every tournament he loses in the second round, every person who was once in his life and doesn’t want him anymore. They found something better. Something more put-together.

He saw Tashi from a distance for the second time in the last two days. Always alone, Art wasn’t with her. He wondered why Art wasn’t here. He knew Art was competing. Everyone knew Art was competing. The rising star of American tennis. Motherfucker. His dad screamed it at him when he lost it a week ago— “I wish Art Donaldson were my son, maybe then I wouldn’t be so ashamed.” Patrick won’t tell anyone that it hurt. Not because he cares what his shitty dad thinks of him. Not because he cares that Art is succeeding on an international level, breaking into the world’s top ten. Fulfilling all the dreams they once dreamed together. Patrick cares because he knows that at any given moment, he could beat Art. He’s better than Art. So how is it that Art is ranked eighth and Patrick is a nobody? No one takes him into account.

“You planning to embarrass yourself in another tournament?” Tashi’s voice crept up behind him. “You know that if he competes against me, I’ll win, right?” he asked. Overconfident. Always overconfident. “I know you’re ranked 243rd, and he’s ranked 8th. It doesn’t matter who wins this, you’ll still be a loser, and he’ll still get a Nike campaign. They asked us about a winter collection.” She was trying to hurt him. He couldn’t understand why it was so important to her—to hurt him. But he thinks only two people can: you and Art. Tashi isn’t on that list. He doesn’t think Tashi comes close to being on that list.

He thinks Tashi is beautiful. Maybe the most beautiful woman he knows. Maybe you’re the most beautiful woman he knows. He doesn’t really know- it’s blurry and messy. But hearing you moan or say his name softly, sweetly, is the most beautiful thing he knows. So maybe it’s the same thing. Maybe he measures beauty differently than he did four years ago. “Sounds good. I promise to buy a jacket with his name on it. Do you need anything, Tashi?” he tried to end the conversation. He didn’t want her to see the pathetic training session he was having with himself against a wall. “I don’t know, maybe to ask why you’re here?” She shrugged like it was obvious. Like she cared about the useless existence of Patrick Zweig. Like he mattered. “I’m competing, just like Art-” he started, rolling his eyes.

“Yeah, but Art’s not here. How is it that you are?” she cut off the monologue he was about to throw at her. “I don’t know why Art isn’t here, Tashi.” If it were possible, his eyes would roll so far back into his skull they’d get stuck there. “Because he’s at a funeral, obviously. She’s your girlfriend last time I checked- how are you not there?” The furrow of her brows showed she was genuinely confused. But now he stood in front of her, terrified too. Whose funeral? Who the fuck died? “What are you talking about?” he muttered, feeling his heart pound. Every muscle in his body tensed. “(Y/N)’s mom passed away, Patrick. How am I the first one telling you this?” She doesn’t understand. But he does. And right now he hates Tashi. And Art, who’s with you. And himself- mostly himself- because after four years, he’s still a selfish bastard who only cares about himself. . . . You’re not crying, and you suspect it bothers your father. He looks at you strangely. As if you’re making things difficult. Because this is an event. A funeral is an event, and you need to behave the way you're expected to behave. You just can’t seem to do it. Because you don’t think you have a warm spot in your heart for the woman you called Mom for the pathetic 24 years of your existence. To anyone else, it would sound sad. Pathetic. You don’t say it out loud very often. You don’t want to make things harder for anyone. You don’t want to make anyone uncomfortable. You considered cutting an onion before you left, just to save yourself from the weird looks from the extended family you haven’t seen in years, but Art fucking Donaldson hasn’t left you alone since the second he heard she kicked the bucket.

His hand held yours like his life depended on it. Maybe yours. Someone’s life depended on it. Definitely not your mother’s. She’s dead. You wonder if the need for sacrifice died with her. You wonder if your constant need to make everyone feel comfortable all the time died with her too. It’s exhausting. You wish you could be less like that. Your hand is sweating into his. He probably thinks it’s disgusting. He probably doesn’t like it. You miss the time when your whole world was making sure Art Donaldson was comfortable. His parents hugged you, and you’re pretty sure his mom left lipstick on you. He’s been staring at you for an hour straight. Maybe two. Maybe your whole life. You can’t know; it’s an emotional day.

You try to move your hand away from his; there’s no way this is comfortable for him. He grips harder. Doesn’t let go. Doesn’t leave you alone. Your father says the Kaddish, everyone responds "Amen" and cries. You don’t. Maybe you really are crazy, like she hinted at a few times when she got drunk and called you at an inappropriate hour. Maybe you really are the reason for every problem she ever had. Maybe you didn’t sacrifice enough. Maybe you didn’t love enough.

Maybe you just don’t know how to love, and then it makes sense that you don’t deserve to be loved. Not really. Not unconditionally. Not like your father loved your mother. Not like Art loves Tashi. Not like Patrick loved Tashi. Not like Patrick hated you. Maybe he still does- sometimes you’re not sure. Patrick isn’t here. Art’s hand keeps holding you both steady. You finally cry.

When you walk into the house, your extended family is already there. Uncles, cousins- you think you saw the grandfather of someone your father goes to synagogue with. All you wanted was to sit quietly in your room for a second. Take off the heels and the damn dress. You felt the thong digging into your ass. That’s what happens when you let a dead woman dictate what you'll wear to her funeral. A woman who had conditions for her own funeral. Who told you what dress to wear. What underwear to put on. Sometimes you wonder how many years ahead you’ll keep dragging her advice, her judgmental looks. The tongue clicks. The general dissatisfaction with the world, wrapped in fake smiles. Maybe that’s where you learned to fake so well. To fake who you are down to your core. To fake and fake until you don’t know what you want or from whom.

“You disappeared. I figured you’d be here.” Art walks into your childhood room like it’s his. Like he always did. “You’re still here?” you mutter, and he hands you a plate of food he picked up from downstairs. “Where else would I be?” he sighs. As if that’s the only answer that makes sense to him. As if you two were in touch. As if you know anything about his fancy life or he knows anything about your painfully mediocre one. “In Atlanta,” you answer and place the plate on the nightstand beside you. “When’s your flight?” you ask, not looking at him as he sits next to you on the bed like he did before the funeral.

“I can stay-” he starts quietly. You know he’s looking at you, almost begging you to see that he means it. "Ridiculous,” you mumble to yourself, but you know he hears. “When’s your flight, Art?” you ask, your voice steadier, looking at him with an almost hollow expression. One that doesn’t show any emotion or maybe shows all emotions at once. A look that scared him. A look that worried you. A look you’ll think about a month from now. You’ll sit at home, writing the structure for one of your classes, and you’ll think about Art Donaldson and the empty look you gave him when your mother died. Embarrassing. Everything is so fucking embarrassing.

“Tonight,” he sums up. You glance at your phone’s clock. Sixteen missed calls from Patrick. Instinct says to call him. But it’s 6 p.m., and his first match is at 8 in the morning. “Don’t you need to pack?” He rolls his eyes, ignoring your attempt to dismiss him. “What are you doing?” he asks quietly. “Excuse me?” you snap back, not understanding the direction of the conversation. “Now. In general. What are you doing?” His gaze surrounds you from every direction. You can’t look anywhere that isn’t Art Donaldson. He reflects off the damn mirrors in this room. “Trying to sit quietly in my room, clearly,” you reply stiffly.

You remember how all your conversations used to be warm. Soft. You’d talk about dreams. About books you’d write. About tournaments he’d win. You’d kiss. He’d touch you. You’d touch him. There was curiosity. There was love. Or at least that thing you’ve spent years believing was love. The thing where you become exactly what he wants and needs and disappear when he needs something else, something better. That was the unwritten contract between you. Lately, you’ve been thinking that’s the unwritten contract between you and everyone you know. A depressing thought. You try not to dwell on it too much. On the way you please people in your suffering. Please in deprivation. Please to the point of tears, and more tears, and more tears. You try not to think about all the dreams you had when Art Donaldson -maybe- loved you. You try not to think about the joy of life. About how much you loved seeing him happy, how much you loved making him happy. How much you loved being responsible for his happiness. "Why isn’t Patrick here?" He quietly asked what he really wanted to know. He wanted to understand if you’d broken up. If you were alone. If he could laugh and say he told you so. That he told you; you had no business being with Patrick Zweig. "Because he has a match tomorrow at 8 a.m., and he trained too hard to miss it," you said it coolly, without breaking eye contact. As if it made perfect sense that you hadn’t told your boyfriend, the person who was supposed to be your confidant, that your mother had died. "He didn’t want to come?" Art continued, confused. Ice. That look again. The immediate shift in his mood confuses you, but it doesn’t throw you off balance. You know him. For the past four years, every time he’s seen you, all he’s tried to do is confuse you, to knock you off balance. It never works, at least not in his eyes.

"Hedoesn’tknow," you mumbled the words as if they were one. Quietly, knowing that what you’d done didn’t make sense. Wasn’t reasonable. Wasn’t acceptable. Didn’t fit into the unspoken rules of a relationship. "You’re an idiot." He stood up and started pacing back and forth. "A fucking moron, really." He was angry, as if he was the one who hadn’t been told your mother had died. If it were up to you, he wouldn’t have known either, but his mother told him. Whatever. "I’ll tell him when he gets back from the tournament, it’s not a big deal," you said and shrugged. Art stopped and looked at you like you’d just fallen from the moon. Like you were some natural phenomena. "If you did that to me, I’d kill you. If you thought some shitty tennis tournament in shitty Atlanta was more important to me than you, I’d murder you and then die myself. I don’t like what you have with Zweig, God knows I hate it, but how could you not tell him? Do you even understand the concept of a relationship?" He let out this Shakespearean monologue while looking at you with a half-pitying, half-angry expression. Maybe he was sick. Maybe he thought you were Tashi.

"Art, I’m not your problem. Do you remember that?" You didn’t know what else to say, so you said the only thing you knew for sure in a defeated voice. Art Donaldson was not a part of your life. "You’ll always be my problem. You should know that by now," he said, half despairing at himself. As if wondering how you both got here. As if wondering if there was anywhere else you could be. . . . Patrick was beyond frustrated. He won his first match after two and a half hours, barely. It didn’t come easy. All he could think about was how nothing came easy for him anymore, and how everything used to be so easy.

The thought that you didn’t tell him your mother had died, and then didn’t answer his calls either, hovered over his head like a rain cloud focused solely on him. He didn’t know how to approach it. He knew why you didn’t tell him- because unlike what Art thought, unlike what your dead mother thought, he knew you. He knew how you thought. He understood the mechanics behind your strange decisions. He hated that he had become someone you had to overthink things for.

That afternoon, he went to one of the courts and caught Tashi and Art’s practice. They both saw him sit down. He thinks it made Art play better. He wondered if Art imagined his face when he hit the ball. He thinks he does. Because when Tashi checkmated his relationship with Art, Patrick wrapped his life around yours as if that was how it was always meant to be, while everyone involved knew it wasn’t. While everyone involved knew that you had embroidered Art’s name on bags from the moment you learned how to stitch. While everyone knew that Art Donaldson didn’t know how to exist in the world without you.

So, Patrick took you for himself. Most of the time, he didn’t think of it as something technical, as a game he was playing against Art. Most of the time, he looked at you, really looked at you. Most of the time, he tried to make you laugh and understand the world through your own eyes. Most of the time, he tried to protect you from complex emotions you couldn’t express, from hunger. He tried to protect you from yourself, the way you protect some helpless creature. In some way, you were. In his eyes, you were helpless.

When you first started sleeping together, Patrick treated you with kid gloves, in a way he had never treated anyone before. Like you were porcelain. Like you could shatter and crumble in his hands at any moment. You had gestures and habits, ones you thought no one noticed. But he always saw. You tried to please everyone all the time. You switched from a smile to a sad look in a second, for the sake of the feelings of whoever was in front of you, for the sake of what you thought they wanted from you.

But Patrick didn’t want anything from you. He wanted to give you all the orgasms that you missed and for you to eat at least three meals a day. Some days, he didn’t know how to make you do it. Some days, he raised his voice. When he was desperate, he cried. When he was really desperate, he asked you to eat for him, so that he would be happy. That was the easy way, it always worked. He exploited a destructive mechanism someone had embedded in you (he suspects your dead mother) and used it to get you to do something he thought would be good for you. He wanted to throw up.

Art was playing well. He was playing against Tashi in front of him, and he was playing well. Too well. Patrick no longer thinks he can beat him. Not something he would ever say out loud. He wanted to ask him how you were. He didn’t want to admit that you hadn’t answered his million calls. He didn’t want to admit that he was a loser who didn’t know where his life was going. Not when Art had been with you at the fucking funeral of your awful mother. He hated that woman with everything he had. More than he hated his own father, and that had to be some kind of record. Art looked at him for a moment. The moment passed. Patrick thinks Art won. He’s not sure. . . . Patrick finds Tashi alone in the evening. Completely alone in the middle of the lobby restaurant. She suddenly looks small and fragile to him, holding a drink he can guess is whiskey or cognac or whatever it is that Tashi Duncan drinks these days. He doesn’t know anything about her anymore. Only that a few years ago, he thought he loved her, and in return, she took his best friend away from him.

When he stands in front of her, he is like a streetlight- impossible to ignore. It dawns on him, belatedly, that he is wearing her shirt. She must think he’s pathetic. He feels pathetic. He doesn’t think he cares about being pathetic in front of her. Because he sees her for what she is right now, and she is miserable. She doesn’t have much in life. She clings to what Art has. Which is fucked up on so many levels, but that’s reality. They both cling to things they shouldn’t be clinging to, and his eyes wander to her ring. Massive. Flashy. A bit like her, like the woman she tries to be when she’s not half-drunk and pathetic in front of him.

He places his hand over hers just as she’s about to take a sip of her drink, stopping her. He doesn’t know what he wants. Not from her, not from himself, but his lips find hers within seconds, and she doesn’t resist. He knew she wouldn’t resist- he saw it on her face. She wanted him just as much as he wanted her. Maybe more. And what a thought that is- that Tashi Duncan wants Patrick Zweig more.

They exit through the back door of the restaurant, go up to his room. Naturally. As if more than four years haven’t passed since the last time he was with Tashi. He wishes he knew what he was doing; it would make this easier. But it’s not particularly difficult, either- otherwise, he wouldn’t be pressing Tashi against the wall. Otherwise, his lips wouldn’t be kissing every inch of her body he can reach.

Hunger. Patrick feels hunger. It’s the only emotion coursing through him as he looks at her. He thinks he wants to hurt Art. He thinks about how Art was there for you at your mother’s funeral, and that was supposed to be his role, but you didn’t call him. So he strips Tashi of her shirt. Only to discover she isn’t wearing a bra. He compares her to you every few seconds. You never go without a bra. He can barely convince you to just be at home, without clothes, without defenses. Just be. He doesn’t think you’re capable of that. He doesn’t think you know how to feel at ease. That worries him more than he’s willing to admit.

“You’re thinking about her?” Tashi’s voice is almost angry as she kisses his neck. “No.” A lie. A complete lie. He can only think about you. He realized that a few years ago and stopped fighting it. You and tennis, as if that’s all there is in the world. What else even exists? What else even matters? “You’re a terrible liar,” she mutters against him, and somehow, the ugly shirt he’s pretty sure was Tashi’s -he doesn’t even know why he wore it- ends up on the floor. ‘You’re not thinking about Art?’ he should have asked, but he’s not here to ask questions. He’s here because he’s angry. At Art, at you, at Tashi for telling him, at the world. So he’s here. And they’re both shedding more pieces of their clothing and maybe their souls, because what they’re doing now has no way back. No forgiveness. They are bad people. Patrick knows it. Tashi knows it.

And after he wrings a heavy moan from her, one that follows an orgasm, she quietly tells him she thinks Art loves you. Patrick stares at the gaudy ring stuck on her finger, the ring that, in another universe, Art would have placed on yours. “Why do you think that?” Patrick asks softly, because what else is left to do? “I didn’t want him to go to the funeral. I wanted him to stay and train, but he went anyway,” she mumbles. Patrick says nothing, just nods. He would have done the exact same thing, and that’s why you didn’t call him. He would have come. Despite the dreams. Despite the tennis. Despite everything.

And Patrick remembers all the times Art called you sweet. All the times Art never wanted to tell him anything about what happened between you two. All the times Art didn’t want to talk about you. And it wasn’t because it wasn’t good. It wasn’t because other girls were better. It was because there was depth Patrick can only put his finger on now. So much happened beneath the surface- so much that Art had no words to describe it. So much that Art drowned in his own emotions. Repressed them and kept them bottled up until he found something shiny to bury his feelings in. Until he found Tashi.

And Tashi is safe. With Tashi, you can’t get lost. With Tashi, there’s a plan. With you, he just has to be himself. He doesn’t know how to be anything else. And that’s terrifying.

For the first time, Patrick understands Art in absolute terms. He lies in a hotel room, stroking the hair of a woman who isn’t you, and understands everything there is to understand about life. Mainly, he understands again- that you are so fucking sweet. And that there’s no way he can win. . . .

You're going over tomorrow’s lesson when you hear the door open. Without turning around, you already know it’s Patrick. Who else could it be? His scrutinizing gaze doesn’t waver from you, even when he says nothing. “How was it?” You find yourself breaking the silence, lifting your head toward him with a smile. He doesn’t smile back. He looks exhausted. The message Art sent you lingers in the back of your mind; He’s cheating on you. -Art Donaldson- Art has his reasons to make something like this up, but you doubt he’d be cruel enough to lie about it. Not while you’re mourning your horrible mother. No matter how angry he is at you. No matter how angry he is at Patrick. You don’t think Art is capable of that. You want to believe he isn’t capable of that. Then again, you also want so badly to believe Patrick wouldn’t do it. That Patrick wouldn’t cheat on you. That he wouldn’t find someone prettier, better, more cheerful and do all the things with her that he probably can’t do with you. You don’t want to think about the possibility that you haven’t sacrificed enough. That you didn’t try as hard as you were taught to. Your fault, your fault, your fault. You don’t want to believe it’s your fault. That another love will slip through your fingers, as if you’re trying to hold water. So, you choose to say nothing, because even if it’s true, even if he was with someone else, he came home. And home isn’t big, to say the least, not grand, not dazzling. But he came back. He’s right in front of you. You’re not alone. He knows you. He knows such ugly parts of you that sometimes you’re scared to acknowledge they even exist. He knows what you refuse to recognize in yourself, and sometimes he reminds you that you deserve more than you think. Which is a bizarre thought in itself. But you let him think it, you let him believe it enough for him to believe it for the both of you. “I lost in the third round. To Peter Michelson,” he says shortly, and you nod. “No choice but to make a voodoo doll with Peter Michelson’s face,” you try to joke. He usually laughs. At least smiles. He does neither. He just stands there like a block of wood, with the same expression. “I’m sorry you lost. I wish I’d been there,” you mumble, not knowing what else to say. “What about you? Anything special happen this week?” he asks, his gaze never leaving you.

Now you could tell him your mother died, but there’s no way to say it without it turning into a fight about the fact that you didn’t tell him the moment you found out. “No, nothing special, you know. My routine is boring.” You shrug and shift your focus back to the lesson you’re supposed to teach tomorrow. The Great Gatsby. A shitty book. “Nothing special at all?” he presses. “If you count the fact that Mr. Grace forgot to put in his dentures on Monday -again- and I had to sub for his class, then no.” It’s a half-lie because the thing with Mr. Grace and his dentures did happen, just not this week. Most of this week, you were at your parents’ house, helping your father deal with shiva and all the people who came by. He was completely heartbroken.

You see Patrick shake his head slightly and close his eyes. You know this is something he does when he’s trying to restrain himself. When he doesn’t want to lash out. When something is bothering him, and he doesn’t want it to turn into the biggest fight in the world. He has a bad history with fights that spiral out of control. “No one was born? No relatives died? I don’t know, maybe the woman who gave birth to you?” he says, his piercing gaze back on you. “Shit,” you mumble. Because what else is there to say in this situation? “Yeah, shit,” he stays exactly where he is, making you feel like a child being scolded. Like you dropped a lollipop and won’t be getting a new one.

“I’m sorry-” you start. “My mom isn’t dead; your mom is dead. I think I’m the one who’s sorry.” Patrick hated when you apologized. He said it was irrational with you. That you apologized more than was normal and more than people around you deserved. “Patrick,” you sigh, scrunching your nose as you try to think of a good way to explain it. “I really need to understand this, (Y/N). When were you planning on telling me your living mother was no longer alive? Another month? Two months? Two years? What was the timeline in that head of yours?” His words drip with sarcasm, like the way he used to talk to you before you became you and Patrick. Before you learned to love who he was and before he started treating you like you weren’t the worst person in the world.

“I didn’t want you to withdraw from Atlanta. You trained for it so hard.” You sigh again, quietly. This time, you’re the one closing your eyes, not wanting to look at him- and in doing so, you miss the fact that he moves toward you in giant strides. “I wish you’d told me, Little Dove. I wish I’d been with you instead of being there.” His hands cup your face as he crouches in front of you, looking up to catch your eyes. “I’m sor-” You stop yourself mid-sentence when you see his displeased expression. “How do you feel?” he asks, and you shrug in response. Because what you feel isn’t something you can say out loud, not even to Patrick. It’s not okay to feel relieved. A lot of sadness, of course. But also, relief.

“Tell me,” he insists. He has a habit of knowing the things you don’t want to say. He can look at your face and catch the slight twitch of your left eyebrow to understand what you’re feeling. To see what you try so hard to hide. You can’t beat him at this. You can’t lie to him, not too much. Not about your feelings. Not when he spent years of his life learning what to hate about you, and then a few more years learning to love it. “She wasn’t the nicest woman in the world,” you murmur quietly, like you’re confessing the most forbidden secret. Like it’s a secret that could start a world war. Like Patrick would tell someone.

“She didn’t like me.” Patrick lets out a dry chuckle, his eyes glassy as if he’s remembering something. “She used to call me Art all the time and then correct herself, like it was an accident, but she did it on purpose. So I’d know she wanted me to be Art.” His jaw tightens slightly. You can see the anger and frustration behind the fake lightness in his tone. “I’m sorry,” you say because you don’t know what else to say, and he sighs. His large hands wrap around you in an almost crushing hug. Almost making it hard to breathe.

But that’s how Patrick is. Everything he feels is out in the open. Everything he thinks, he says. Everything he wants, he does. And most of the time, he wants to be present in your life, which is ridiculous because there is no one more present in your life than him. He still acts like he needs to prove something to you. “I wish you’d let me take care of you, Little Dove. It would be easier.” He whispers into your hair, not letting go for a second. You can almost feel him thinking, almost see him guessing what might help you. “I know you care about me,” you say, shifting slightly to look at him, to show him that he doesn’t need to prove anything. That you’re okay.

“Did you eat?” he suddenly asks, stepping back slightly, scanning you, then moving toward the half-empty fridge. “What did you eat?” he follows up. “I don’t know, Patrick. I don’t keep a journal,” you roll your eyes. “Don’t give me that bullshit. What did you eat, (Y/N)?” He doesn’t let up. “A sandwich,” you mutter the first thing that comes to mind. “Since this morning?” His eyes stay locked on you. “Patrick, my mother just died. Can we not focus on what I eat for one second? It’s exhausting,” you roll your eyes and cross your arms, turning your face to the side as he steps toward you and nods. . . . "What do you want to focus on?" he asked. Patrick felt guilty. He looked at you and saw nothing but the fact that just a few days ago, he had been with Tashi. While you were mourning your unbearable mother, he was busy fucking Tashi in a fancy hotel room, at a tournament he lost and that Art Donaldson would probably win. "You," your voice was small as you looked at him, almost pleading for a break from the interrogation and the anger. He hated when you made him the center of your focus, when you tried to do what you thought he wanted you to do. So he nodded and placed a small kiss on the crown of your head, knowing exactly what he needed to do.

Patrick felt like a man on a mission as he dropped to his knees in front of you. "Pat-" you tried to protest, to tell him he didn’t have to. You always tried. As if going down on you was a burden to him, as if all it would take for him to spend a lifetime just like this was for you to fucking ask. "Baby, can you take these off for me?" It was a question, but there was no question mark at the end. Not in that tone. Not when he was looking up at you like that, completely in control of the situation.

So you slid your pants down slowly, trying to hold on to the last bit of control slipping away with every second he stared at you like that. He took care of your underwear himself. Leaving you bare in front of him. "Fuck, Pat," you mumbled, closing your eyes for a moment, leaning back against the wall, making him look up at you one last time with a smirk stretched across his face. And then he got to work.

His lips explored you like you were his source of oxygen. Like his natural place was buried under you, his mouth inside you. "Baby, I’d eat you for the rest of my life. Every day. Every fucking day." His grip on your thigh was ruthless. Patrick felt like he was holding on for dear life, like this was all there was left to do. Like it was all he knew. "Sweet fucking pussy," he kept mumbling into you, until his face was coated with his own spit and your slick. He was ready to take it all, everything you gave him. In these moments, everything that was yours became his, and the little that was his became yours.

So he was milking it. He licked your clit in slow, agonizing strokes- for both of you. He took his time. The euphoria would come, but he was going to enjoy it until it did. Your small whimpers made him growl directly into you. "Patrick, Patrick, Patrick," like a prayer. He felt it. He felt divinity in all of it. He sped up and slowed down and sped up and slowed down. Merciless to the near-sobs escaping from you. "You're so sweet, baby. Do you want to come?" And he wasn’t asking if you wanted to come for him, because he wanted you to come for yourself. Because he wanted you to always, always come for yourself. He wanted to be a vessel. He wanted to erase all the stupid patterns in your head and make sure every orgasm you had was yours and for you. "Patrick." He thought that was the only thing you were capable of saying coherently, and he was fine with that. He was selfish enough to be satisfied if his name was the only word you could say forever.

And when you came with a moan he had learned to recognize and nearly worship, he told you how good you were. How rare you were. That he was yours and that he would always take care of you. He looked up at you from below, saw the tears slipping down your face, and pressed another kiss to your thigh. One that emphasized the word always. Because he didn’t think he could ever let this go. He was too selfish to ever let this go. . . . Art peeked through the door of the room every few seconds, searching for you among the guests. At this point, he didn’t even bother lying to himself about it. Because he didn’t know what else was left for him besides admitting the truth to himself- things he was never able to admit before. Lately, he’d been thinking a lot about the nights he used to lay beside you. When you didn’t even fuck. When you just lay in that rickety twin bed in his dorm room. He was willing to take that. He was willing not to fuck you if it meant you’d hold him again. More than that, he was willing not to fuck anyone ever again. But you were too sweet, you wouldn’t let him go through life without sex. The thought made him chuckle for a second. But he was nervous. So fucking nervous.

He was about to marry Tashi, and she didn’t cross his mind even once. He accidentally saw her dress, even though he told her that he hadn’t really noticed it was there. He knew she would be a stunning bride. That months from now, people would still be talking about Tashi Duncan in a wedding dress. He knew people would envy him, he knew everything. His mind knew everything.

But all he could think about was what kind of wedding dress you would have chosen. He was almost sure it would be something less extravagant; you’d try to draw as little attention as possible. But the Art he was today wouldn’t have let you. He would’ve told you that you deserved all the attention the universe had to offer. That you deserved to be seen. He hated himself for how long it had taken him to realize that. Only when you truly weren’t there. Only when you belonged to someone else. Only when you chose Patrick Zweig of all people.

Patrick Zweig, who hated you with every fiber of his being. Patrick Zweig, who Art was almost certain had cheated on you with Tashi. It should have hurt him much more than it did. But all he cared about was figuring out if this would be the thing that made you get up and leave. You had to know you deserved better. That if not him- if not Art, the guy you both knew you loved with all your heart- then at least someone who didn’t want anyone else. That was the bare minimum you deserved. For years, he’d wondered if he had something to do with how little you thought you deserved, with how low your standards were.

He convinced his mother- who probably loved you even more than he did- to take upon herself convincing you to come to his wedding. Which was almost sadistic of him. Maybe masochistic. Maybe both. But he had to see you. He hadn’t seen you since your mother’s funeral. Sometimes he dreamed about that day and how his hand held yours, he wanted it again and again and again. He wanted everyone to die if it meant he could hold you like that again. If it gave him an excuse.

He noticed that everything about you required an excuse. It hadn’t been like that when you were his. Except you were never really his. He didn’t even understand why it had been so complicated- why you hadn’t told him that’s what you wanted (though he could have guessed). And more than anything, he didn’t understand why he hadn’t known what he wanted. Why it hadn’t been clear to him that you were his person. That you knew the deepest parts of him.

He saw you walk in and texted you, almost begging you to come to the room where he was. You could tell him to go to hell, but that wasn’t your style. No, you were sweet. So sweet that all you did was knock on the door and push it open. Looking at him while he already had his eyes on your little black dress. While he was already studying the red nail polish. While he was already focusing on the lipstick he so badly wanted to wipe off of you.

“Your mother asked me to prepare a speech. Was that your idea?” you asked. There was no coldness in your voice, which made him happy. You stepped closer and started fixing his tie. He wanted to close his eyes, but at the same time, he wanted to see you. To remember you like this; in a little black dress, in heels, standing in front of him, helping him with his tie. “What can I say? You’re my best friend,” he said. And it wasn’t a lie, just as much as it wasn’t the truth. “That’s really sad, Art,” you said, probably referring to the last four years you spent apart. “Are you saying you have a better friend than me?” he asked, hoping you’d deny it because a yes might make him break down crying.

“It’s a mediocre speech. I didn’t know what to say at your wedding,” you sighed, confessing a secret. “Saying you don’t want me to get married would’ve been a good start,” he said, taking a risk. Because he calculated the timing, and you were late, so he had a very short window for this risk. “Don’t be ridicul—” you started, quietly. “If you tell me not to do this, I won’t get married. Tell me not to do it. Tell me it’ll be okay. That we’ll be okay,” he whispered. Not looking away from you.

The silence in the room was deafening, and the chuckle that escaped him was bitter. Fake. He felt pathetic and small and miserable, and maybe he was all those things because he never knew what he wanted in time. “I’m sorry,” you murmured. Not knowing what else to add, because what was left to add? He could see the wetness in your eyes. He knew how unfair he was being. “I’m sorry,” he echoed. He didn’t think he had ever told you that before, but he really, truly was. “Did you write something good about me?” he added. “That you’re my best friend. And that my soul will always love yours,” you said, letting a single tear fall as his rough hand wiped it away with whatever gentleness was still left in him.

It was a nice speech. Everyone applauded. Art cried. . . .

Here we are- the second part of So Sweet! Hope it turned out good enough. Thanks for stopping by and reading what I write, it means a lot. Let me know what you think. Love you guys, stay sweet! 💕

[bussyyeukie]

Neon Lights and Blood Fights drabble

Fighter!simon x reader: Simon’s first time seeing you, and the first time he’s ever truly wanted something for himself.

Simon stood with his arms crossed, black jacket pulling at his muscles on his shoulders. Brows pinched together tightly, his lips downturned–although you couldn't see that part past the black baklava he was wearing, skull painted on the bottom half of it, hood pulled up over his head. Eyes blacked out by the dark smudging around them. Blending into the scene like a ghost despite his size.

Eyes scanning out over the crowd, air murky with smoke and the neon lights in the basement.

He couldn't seem to get away from the scent of mildew that filled the air. Groaning to himself about how he wanted to take his 5th smoke break of the hour just to get out of the thick air and men shouting.

A fight was going on in the makeshift ring in the middle of it all, Gaz repeatedly slamming his fist into some poor bloke's face till it was nearly mush. The crowd ate it up. Simon rolled his eyes as he swept his gaze around again. Everyone was behaving–or behaving for the event, no other fights breaking out, no one causing unnecessary problems.

His boots thudded against the ground as he walked over to the makeshift bar, looked pretty legit for being set up that afternoon, but Price knew good people for it.

It was packed with drunk men, shouting and spewing nonsense.

His eyes landed on a familiar face, who was practically slumped over the bar with a drink in hand, squinting at his phone that was turned up too bright. The blond man shoving his way through the crowd, and damn near slamming his arm down next to the man, leaning towards him.

“Yeah I mean,” the man hiccuped a bit, rubbing his mouth, trying to show the bartender something on his phone, “She’s so hot ya know, but god just a bitch–like she just wants me ta-to be there allll the tiimmmee. Then when I actually wanna see her she’s all like, ‘bleh i’m so busy with work,’ and ‘wah wah i’m too tired tonight’.”

The bartender rolled his eyes as he mixed the drink, looking at the man with an annoyed gaze.

“It’s so annoying, she was cool at the beginning but ugh, she’s like…she’s so hot and good in bed but jesus it’s like, like she, like I’m supposed to just go to her whenever, like, I need my time ya know, my man time and shit…”

The lumbering man felt his stomach churn with what he was hearing, growing even more irritated with the bastard than he was.

The man looked at his phone again, sighing, muttering to himself, “Wish she had bigger tits though…”

“Nice night, ey mate?” Simon’s voice was gruff as he spoke–the man jumping in his seat and whipping his head around.

“Christ–uh, Ghost–heyy man uh–”

The man's hair was sweaty and stuck to his forehead, face flushed as he fumbled with his phone. Simon glanced at it, and felt his fist tighten up and his heartbeat speed up.

“Price’s been lookin' for ya, got some things to settle with ‘im.”

“Y-yeah,” the man looked to the bartender, who snorted out his nose and left the two alone, sending Simon a quick look, “I, I’ve got the money–almost um got the money like i’m so close to it–”

Simon cut him off by slapping his back roughly, jolting the man forward, digging his ribs into the bars corner.

“Oh I’m sure,” there was a beat of silence before he gestured to the phone on the bar, “That yer bird there?”

The man gulped and looked to his phone, as did Simon, a picture of you on the screen–it was a picture of you sitting with your knees to your chest, you were in a pair of black sports shorts that were just starting to ride up on your ass and a worn green t-shirt with some soda slogan on it. Your hair up messily and a fork resting between your lips. You were looking up at the camera through your brows a bit annoyed, a bowl of pasta sitting in front of you.

Simon felt his teeth grind together a bit, forcing himself to peel his eyes away from the phone to look at the much less pleasing sight of the drunk man who was sitting with his mouth open.

Simon agreed, you sure were something that was easy on the eyes. More than easy, he could look at you all day everyday if given the chance.

“Um…yeah?” the man sounded unsure of himself, slightly confused, “She’s my girlfriend.”

“Hm,” Simon hummed to himself, looking down at the picture again, “Pretty thing, ain't she?”

The man chuckled in a douche manner, “She’s pretty hot yeah, that’s why I’m dating her.”

There was a weird sense of boasting that rolled off the man's tone, eyeing Simon up and down.

“Wanna see more?”

Simon's gaze grew dark as he looked back to the drunk sitting there, who scrambled for his phone and started tapping at it, before holding it out to Simon–whose muscles tensed up and whose scowl deepened.

It was a picture of you on your hands and knees, chest nearly to the floor and your arm bent uncomfortably to reach under a shelf grabbing for something. Obviously unaware the picture was being taken.

“The fuck is that?” the titan of a man felt his voice drop lower, shoulders squaring out.

The drunk seemed to not catch the shift in atmosphere, “Got a great ass, don’t she?”

He looked back to his phone as Simon grabbed the man's wrist tightly, making him shout out a swear and look up with wide eyes.

“Hey what the hel–”

“Delete it.”

“Wh-what?”

“Delete. It.”

Simon’s tone was scary smooth, pulling the man's arms closer to him as he squeezed, leaning in closer.

“Uh–I…yeah I, ok I will…” Simon let go of the man and he stumbled back slightly, before shakily bringing his phone back to him, “Ya know she’s my girlfr–”

One look from the much bigger man caused him to shut up, snapping his attention back down to this phone.

“Ok, it’s gone…ass.”

Simon nodded, then reached around to grab the back on the man's collar. Pulling him up as Simon straightened up, arm solid with muscle as the scrawny man stumbled and reached around for him.

“Since ya ain't doin' nothin’, sure Price would like to 'av a word wi' ya…”

“I-I–”

Simon dragged him away, leading him out of the crowd stumbling and tripping over his feet with Simon’s wide steps. The blonds mind wandering back to the bird on the screen, his heart jumping again in his chest. For a moment he was taken out of the grimy place he was stuck in for the night, the air seemed easier to breathe and the nose not so grating on his ears…he had to see you again.

the lovely fighter si tag list:

@sophhieannee . @rafaelacallinybbay . @oceantornadoo  . @jamdoughnuts . @kupids-arrow . @msjaeger . @hidden-treasures21

[queeniewithabeanie]

The Letters

Dpxdc Prompt #34

Family dinner in the Wayne Household could be a bit of a... tense affair. With everything that's happened over the years, making them all stay in the same room at least once a month may not be the best idea.

It makes Alfred happy though, and who are they to deny the man that practically raised all of them? he's still holding onto hope that maybe with enough exposure in a safe space they could heal, they could forgive

Bruce and Jason were about to get into another screaming fit when they were interrupted by two bright green letters appearing out of no where, one next to Damian, and one right in front of Jason.

Dear dead, undead, or anything in between being,

You are cordially invited to the coronation of the new High King and Savior of the Infinite Realms—the halfa, vigilante, Phantom.

The ceremony will take place exactly one week after this letter is sent, if you accept the invitation burn it and you shall be transported to the location of the ceremony 10 minutes prior to the event.

We await your decision.

All hell broke loose in the Manor, some arguing that the two should go while others were against it.

"This obviously is an important ceremony if everyone that has ever died is being invited! We do not want to offend the new king of a place called the Infinite Realms."

"If the realms truly are infinite as their name suggests then why would they miss two people? Plus it could be a trap!"

"I agree, mysterious glowing letters—this practically screams 'cult'."

"But if it is legit then we could be making a powerful enemy as opposed to perhaps making an alliance if we did attend."

And on and on and on.

With all of the chaos occurring, no one noticed the letters that were the topic of conversation had been floating dangerously near the fireplace until it was far too late and the decision on whether to go or not had been made for them.