#I HAD WAY MORE IN MY BRAIN ABOUT THIS THAN I THOUGHT

[narfin-frood]

i've been itching to share my swap au since i thought it up, but i think i now finally have an actual baseline to introduce it with!!

the idea isn't that it's a personality swap, but a role swap, with wander and sylvia as antagonists and hater and peepers as the protags, and i have a whole lot to say about it so im gonna go ahead and infodump below the cut

so i've renamed these two, at least, since hater's story has become less about getting over himself and more about how he sees the world Now That He's Gotten Over Himself. i'm calling him The Great (and absent) Lord Lackadaisical right now, but i don't think that's what he'd like to be called, since he's an absent ruler who doesn't really care to be in a position of so much power and would rather fuck off to all the planets with really nice hot tubs. he and Sir Peepers (his loyal knight who cannot be convinced to leave his side) travel the galaxy with hater's sweet ride (i'm not too good at designing motorcycles yet. pending).

i haven't thought of new names/titles for wander and sylvia just yet (i cannot just call him Sitter Over Therer) but i do know what their deal is, and it's the main reason i made this au (i feel like if wander were a villain he would not in fact be a villain like lord hater or dominator because i think that kinda disregards wander's whole Shit, he'd be like screwball, and even then he'd have very strong convictions that he's doing the right thing): wander has a cult (a hivemind, kinda) and sylvia is his priest.

i think wander comes along this mushroom during a time in his life when everything seems to have been torn asunder, and instead of continuing his adventures and learning and growing as a person, the mushroom offers a solution that doesn't require much effort on his behalf. the mushroom links people together borg-style, makes them share a brain and a purpose. wander not only thinks it's super neat, but he's in such a poor state of mind when he finds it, he convinces himself it's the only way to make the galaxy a better place.

sylvia is the only person in his Ring of Friends who isn't hooked up to the mushroom, because she's actually wander's friend, and she's his ride or die. she does the things she does out of free will and dedication to her best friend, including preaching and fisticuffs.

^^^ here's some more of my initial concept art. originally the mushroom was gonna be a tree, but i had a vision of an upside down mushroom (or several, to take the place of watchdogs) scuttling around and by god is it easy to make that look like his hat.

the thing that really really pushes wander over the edge is the sheer boredom of it all. when he's connected to the mushroom, he's very little more than the brain they all share. he can't move around, and that KILLS him (see: the hole lotta nuthin). so when hater (name pending) comes along and refuses to join him and annoys him enough, he gets suuuuper stoked about having something to really DO for once.

anyway. this is what i've got for now. do you like it. you can be honest if you dont like it

[hoe4hotchner]

Hi!! If you still take requests could I request Hotch helping a fellow bau member after she tried to hide her ocd from him (like intrusive thoughts, counting and blinking hard etc not cleaning or contamination ocd)

Thanks! xoxo 🧡🧡

Blink twice, tap four times, hold your breath and count to six | [A.H]

Pairing: Aaron Hotchner x bau!gn!Reader | WC: 0.5k  | CW: OCD | Summary: Hotch reasures reader when he notices their OCD being a little more frequent than usual |

You were certain you’d been subtle about it, always careful to keep your mind’s demands invisible. Blinking patterns, counting in repetitive loops, moving your fingers until they felt “right” — these things were all in the quiet spaces, hidden behind closed doors and the shuffle of paperwork. Or so you thought.

But Hotch was observant, maybe too observant for your own good. It started with small things: his brow creasing when you tapped your fingers on the table during briefings, his quiet gaze following when you seemed lost in thought, counting silently to bring calm. You brushed it off, certain he was just being his usual analytical self, until the day his concern broke through the usual boundaries he had set for himself.

It was late, everyone else had gone home for the night. You’d been poring over files, a trail of cold coffee cups beside you, trying to distract yourself from the prickling anxiety that had settled in your mind since a particularly tough case. Then it happened again — blink twice, tap four times, hold your breath and count to six, over and over. You weren’t sure how long you’d been repeating it, but when you looked up, Hotch was standing in the doorway to the conference room — You sometimes worked on your files in there to keep your mind on track.

“Can I come in?” he asked gently.

You cleared your throat, swallowing the reflexive answer to brush him off. “Of course.”

He entered, closing the door behind him, the soft click echoing in the quiet room. You half-expected a reprimand, a reminder to go home and rest, but his gaze was unusually soft, something between empathy and understanding.

“I noticed you’ve been… distracted lately,” he began, his words careful. “More than usual.”

The confession sat on the edge of your tongue, bitter and unwelcome. “It’s nothing. I just get… caught up sometimes.”

He nodded slowly as if weighing your answer. “We all have our patterns,” he said, his voice low and calm. “But if they’re weighing on you, you don’t have to hide them. Not from me.”

The words caught you off-guard. Your heart pounded, the intrusive thoughts flaring up in response to his kindness, an immediate discomfort in your chest at the vulnerability.

“Hotch, I don’t want anyone to think… that I can’t handle this.” The admission tumbled out, quieter than you’d intended. “Sometimes, my brain… it gets stuck in loops. It makes me repeat things to feel okay.”

He nodded as though he’d known it all along. “You’re one of the most resilient agents I know. But you don’t have to manage all of this alone.” He took a seat beside you, close enough that you could feel his presence. “If something is weighing on you, I want you to tell me. I can help.”

There was a soothing rhythm to his words, one that almost matched the way you counted, but softer and kinder. You swallowed, fighting the wave of embarrassment that rose at the idea of admitting everything. But his hand, warm and steady, rested on yours.

“I don’t think less of you,” he continued his voice barely a murmur. “In fact, I have more respect for you than you realize. What you’re dealing with doesn’t make you weak — it shows your strength.”

You closed your eyes, letting his words settle in your mind like stones sinking to the bottom of a pond.

“Thank you,” you whispered, the words carrying all the gratitude you hadn’t known you were holding.

[weltraum-vaquero]

Swan song

Professor Viktor x TA Reader

[PART 1]｡ ﾟ☾ ﾟ｡⋆[PART 2] ⋆｡ﾟ☁︎｡⋆[PART 3] (coming soon)

⋆｡ﾟ☁︎｡⋆[AO3 link] ⋆｡ ﾟ☾ ﾟ｡

Summary: You’re a bright phD student who won’t shy away from a challenge. Getting the most notorious professor at the University of Piltover to hire you as his assistant is one of them.

Tags: Modern AU, SFW (for now…), DILF professor Viktor, romanticizing and eroticizing borsht, lab shenanigans, reader being filled with equal parts shame and lust

Word count: 7.8k

Notice: This fic is written with a transmasculine reader in mind, but that won’t come into play at all until the final third chapter of this mini-series.

Notes: A little something something while we await season two ;] The draft for this post deleted itself twice now. If the formatting looks wonky (especially in the texting section), NO, it doesn't. Shut up.

He didn’t lie. 

Which is all the more shocking, considering you attend his 8AM lecture on the very same day, and he seems more bright and alight than you’ve ever seen him.

When did he find the time?

Though there isn’t a daunting amount to your thesis just yet, you still want to believe you’ve written something quite substantial over the past months. 

You toss one glance around yourself before you follow him into his office after his lecture, and you find the stack of papers you’d left on his desk last night looking positively devoured, in the most… academic way possible. Scribbles and notes litter the margins, the edges of the papers are already somehow lightly worn. 

He must have read it multiple times.

“Coffee?” He offers.

“Yes, please.”

As he gropes the machine in search of its switch again, he cocks his brow at you. “And what was that for?”

You frown. “What was what for?”

“That… glance, before you followed me into my office.” The switch clicks, the light comes on. “Looking around like you were being followed.”

“Oh,” caught in the embarrassing act, you shrug. “I don’t know. Being cautious, I guess. Students have been looking at me a little funny, lately.”

“Much too late for caution, I’m afraid.” 

Uh oh. 

As he retrieves two paper cups, you’re left wondering what exactly that should mean.

“Why’s that?”

“I thought you were well aware of the fact that rumors would start, um… circulating the moment I made it public that I had hired an assistant.” Coffee trickles into the cups, a soothing little melody. Viktor leans against the wall beside the machine as he watches the cups fill.  “I’ve always been adamant about not needing one. It is natural for people to have questions — and to come up with, eh, answers — when I suddenly do.”

The notion of the answers students might have come up with swirls around in your brain. 

You wish they were right.

You’re glad they’re not.

You look at Viktor.

“Do you mind it?”

The coffee stops pouring. Viktor does that thing again, spreading long fingers apart to grasp both cups. And he’s quiet — for a beat longer than he should be.

“No. There are more important things to worry about than… gossip.” He sets the cups on the table, then takes his seat. He hesitates for a brief second, craning his neck before he fixates on you, motionless. Waiting. “Do you?”

“Trying not to.”

The answer makes him… deflate, somehow. It’s barely visible, for just a fraction of a second his chest sinks, before his tone is back to his composed cadence.

“You will get used to it,” he assures. “Now, onto more interesting matters — your work.”

Thank god. You don’t know how much more of the awkward tiptoeing you could have handled.

“Yes.” Your heart leaps into your throat. Acting normal has never been so difficult. “What did you think?”

“Very impressive.” He slides the stack of papers towards you. “I have made some… suggestions here and there, should you wish to take them into consideration. But, I think you struck gold with your hypothesis. Should you need a conversation partner, guidance, anything at all — I would gladly be at your service.”

“Thank you, Viktor. I really appreciate this.”

At the sound of his own name coming from you, something in him shifts. Shifts with an unfamiliar near bashfulness, he stifles a little smile into the rim of his paper cup, the corners of his eyes crinkle, he settles into his seat a little further.

“But you never held up your end of the bargain,” you point out. That snaps him out of it.

“Ah, yes. I did not.” He continues to hide behind his cup, before he finally seems to decide to take a metaphorical leap, as he sets it down and stares down at it. “I fear the unfortunate truth may be that when it comes to research, I either work better with a partner, or that… Cecil is right and I need to slow down. Though I’d guess the former is more likely.”

“You used to work with, uh…” you’re not sure how to approach the topic, “Talis, didn’t you?”

“The five basic principles of applied arcanism are commonly referred to as Talis’ princies, you do not have to feign uncertainty to appease me.”

So you drop the attempt to tiptoe around the subject, and ask, plainly:

“Why wasn’t your name added on?”

Viktor scoffs. “Talis-Sidorov-Sviboda has a terrible ring to it. Or so he’d said. And admittedly… I was more of a conduit than the co-author of his idea. He said we would name the next big thing we would discover after me, but… well, you know how it is. I dedicated myself to teaching, he retired to lead a quiet life in his gaudy mansion with his sports cars and his purebred German shepherds after he married some businesswoman.”

Though his story does line up, those aren’t necessarily the rumors you’d heard. There’d been talk of more than just a mild dispute of names, and… well, there had been… something between Talis and Viktor. But that’s about all you know.

Under your gaze, Viktor grows suddenly uncomfortable — both with the subject and the fact that he might be able to tell you know more. He’s quick to redirect the conversation.

“As for my research: I have been studying the laminal hexoin cascade in stabilized hexgems in various matrices. And though bold, I have been attempting to figure out the ideal matrix — something that will allow for close to a hundred percent energy renewal and render all other sources of energy obsolete.”

”That is bold,” you say. Your other thought, you keep to yourself: it also sounds impossible. You suppose stabilizing hexgems 20 years ago was also something thought impossible — and yet, Viktor hadn’t shied away. If anyone is apt for the job, it is him. “Any luck so far?”

“Partially. They have been yielding favorable results, but not enough to be viable energetic alternatives as of now.” He takes his cup again, bringing it to his lips in a rushed movement, drinking a mouthful, rather than a sip. Once Viktor sets it down, his hand remains on the table, fingers tapping on the shiny surface once, twice— “I could use a theorist to assist me with a few things.”

The implication dizzies you. Is he…?

But then he slides another one of his drawers open, and retrieves a stack of papers. Slanted handwriting, barely legible — you’re by now intimately familiar with it: his cursive. It litters the pages, in different inks and in pencil, diagrams, sketches… just looking at it makes you hungry to read it.

He smiles as if he’s read your mind, again.

“I was thinking it could be you.”

—

You’re invited to his office for lunch break the very next day too. And though he assures you there is no pressure in having to read through his notes by then, you disregard it.

It takes you a reread to be able to make sense of all his scribbles, but… it’s brilliant. He’s brilliant. 

It should stop surprising you by now — his ideas, his drive, his curiosity, his mind — but with every single time Vikror impresses you anew, he becomes something more distant.

As you’re marveling at his intricate weaving of concepts, it strikes you, unpleasantly, that this is the same man you’d wanted to devour just days ago. The man who’s made you coffee, the man whose sharp eyes fold at the corners when he smiles. 

You’d have deified him, had he been your teacher. You still do, especially now, after you’ve seen more of what his mind is made of. The mere notion of him becomes terribly out of reach, and you’re plagued with guilt for that night. Guilt for having tainted such a man with your thoughts. 

And yet, you still can’t help but think of his neck, the soft pink of his chapped lips, the hollow of his cheeks. You wonder what his mouth tastes like, and you want to slap yourself on the wrist for it. You should have, because minutes later, you wonder about worse things too. The scent of his skin, the coarseness of his body hair, how far up under his navel it might reach.

And when you finish reading his notes a second time and bring the paper to your nose to sniff it — hoping for a trace of him — you realize you have a problem. A serious one.

It torments you for the rest of the night, through the hours you spend writing up some suggestions and ideas, all the way to when you switch off the light, and hug whatever pillow’s within reach close.

When you get the urge to tilt your hips against it, you decide to get up and splash your face with water.

And you wish you could do the same thing the very next day on your lunch break, when you’re standing in the doorway of his office and he’s eating borscht. The sweet-tangy smell of vegetables, beef and beets makes your stomach growl, but your physical hunger is long lost on your otherwise preoccupied brain.

The beet red of the soup has pigmented his lips. They look kissed raw, puffy, ripe. A lavish speck of colour on his otherwise pale face, it draws your gaze and does not let it stay somewhere more respectful.

You want to taste them.

He does it for you, raspberry pink tip of his tongue darting over the plush of his lips before he swallows and finally greets you.

“Sorry,” you say, and it comes out tense, near horrified. You’ve caught him eating soup, for chrissakes, not being bent over his table. Oh, god. Why did you have to think about that? ”I’ll come back later.”

“No,” Viktor gestures to the empty seat across from him. He screws his thermos shut, and puts it away. “Please, I’ve been waiting for you. Sit.”

And you do, like the dog you feel like you are right now.

“Did you manage to find the time to read my notes?”

Oh, did you.

“I… followed your example and made some suggestions of my own. But on separate pages. Here.”

His reaction is more than what you’d hoped for. It’s more than the impressed raise of thick brows that had kept you fueled last night, it’s more than the smile you’d been hoping for. 

“You are unbelievable,” he grins, and takes what you offer, pushing his glasses up his nose before he starts reading. You selfishly use the distraction to stare at his lips again. He mutters to himself as he reads, pink mouth molding around whispered jargon, nodding. “Yes, this… this is exactly what I’d hoped for, when I’d asked for your assistance. Your fresh set of eyes is invaluable. I hadn’t thought of approaching the modification from that angle.”

“I’m glad you think so.”

He doesn’t take his eyes off the page for even just a moment, flipping it surprisingly fast, and taking it with him as he leans back in his seat. 

And decides to torture you.

Viktor traces the pad of his own thumb over the curve of his bottom lip as he takes in your handwriting. The give of the flesh under his fingertip hypnotizes, the slight drag of rough skin on soft pink one, your mind is long gone.

You think of rough fingertips on his lips, on his chest, rough fingertips on the pasty white of his gaunt lower stomach, rough fingertips in coarse hair. Rough fingertips dipping between his milky thighs, rough fingertips on where he runs just as pink as he does on his lips, rough fingertips dipping, slipping on slick skin—

You need to stop.

And you most certainly need help.

“Is something the matter?”

It feels like you’ve swallowed your own brain whole when he speaks, because your skull rings hollow when you try to come up with a reply that isn’t incoherent babble.

“Wh— me? No. Why?”

And because embarrassment loves to stick around once it has made its presence known, the stars align for the next social disaster: your stomach growls. Loudly.

“Did you not have lunch?” Viktor asks.

“I… didn’t get around to it,” you admit.

“I won’t take up too much of your time, then,” he assures. If he knew just how much of your time he’s started taking up — and the fact that you wish you could give him what is left of it to him, too.  “I would like you to work alongside me on my research. But if you don’t feel like you can squeeze another project into your presumably busy schedule, I understand. I would be glad to have you merely as… a colleague to consult with, as well.”

Is that even a question? He’s offering you the opportunity of a lifetime. You would be an idiot not take it. 

And an even bigger idiot to turn down more time spent with him.

“You don’t even have to ask,” you joke. “Yes. I would be thrilled, Viktor.”

This is his first smile you witness when his pretty boyishness doesn’t shine through. It’s a gentle quirk of his lips, no teeth to be seen, just tenderness. It makes your heart leap to be the cause of it.

“Thank you,” he says.

“Thank you.”

Silence.

Just as you’re about to breach it — he does it first.

“Would you be free for lunch tomorrow as well?”

He watches you from below long, dark lashes as you give a breathless yes.

—

“I brought you something.”

It’s the last thing you expect as you step into his office at noon, upon exchanging hellos.

You’re alight. With curiosity, above all else. And with worry — why would he bring you something? What will you do to reciprocate? 

“Thank you,” you say, though you have no idea what for just yet. “What is it?”

“I saw you eyeing my borscht yesterday.” There’s a glint in his eye that suggests more, so much so you can’t decide between flirting or digging a hole for yourself in the hardwood floor of his office. 

The middle ground is standing in his office awkwardly as he unzips his backpack.

He retrieves two thermos bottles: the one you’re already familiar with, and another that looks older, more worn, and sorely lacks the sticker you’ve so come to love and fixate on and dream about. “I, eh, I made you some. In case you wouldn’t get the chance to eat before you came here.”

Your chest swells so much it hurts. 

He made you soup?

“You… Viktor, this is… thank you. You shouldn’t have.”

“I wanted to. Have a seat.”

You practically jump into the seat across the table from his — a seat you’ve come to associate as yours, in spite of being well aware of the oppisite.

As he screws the bottle open and pours some steaming soup out into a paper bowl — god, he’d brought paper bowls — his eyes flick to you.

“But if you don’t care for borscht, you don’t have to—“

“I do care.”

And that rings true not just for the borscht.

It rings true for the soup he brings you the next day too, it rings true for every word that passes his lips. And it rings true for the time you start to spend in the insane coffee shop queue to surprise him with his preferred order and a slice of cake (a different one each day, until you figure out his favorite: cinnamon coffee), it rings true for the dark blue roughed up thermos he lets you take home the day you don’t finish the soup he brings you because you’re just so busy talking.

It’s November before you know it.

As the days grow colder, it’s not rare to be finding warmth by lavishing in Viktor’s attention as you ramble on about ideas — either for his research, or your thesis. All while he intently follows your thoughts with a smile, stopping just to shave another mouth-half-full’s worth off his cake of the day with his plastic spoon.

And once he savors the last bite, Viktor almost always flips it hollow side down, sliding it down the swell of his tongue within his mouth, removing it from between puckered lips. His cheeks hollow, he holds eye contact all the same, and it’s a mental image that haunts you. A mental image you project in your mind, nestled between the apex of your thighs. The thick of his tongue. The cushiony seal of his lips, the suction of his cheeks. 

It never becomes any less distracting than the first time it happens. 

You startle when Viktor speaks as he sets down the plastic spoon into the now empty packaging. 

“I would like you to accompany me to the lab sometime soon. When would you be free?”

You’ve been before — but just a handful of times. Mainly for him to demonstrate or disprove certain guesses, or test conclusions you’d reached together. 

“I’m free right now,” you suggest.

Viktor shakes his head. “I have a lecture in an hour.”

Right. 

“I mean… I think we could make it in an hour.”

“I prefer to take my time.” Viktor leans back in his seat, stares thoughtfully at the clock on his wall for a moment. “Would seven PM work for you?”

“Uh…” you mentally go through your schedule for the day, “yes. It should. I might be a little late, though. How about… seven fifteen-ish?”

“Good.” The flow of the word is syrupy, yet his next sentence comes out surprisingly peppy with excitement: “See you then.”

—

Though you’re well into the final week of November, it never stops bothering you just how quickly the sun sets. By the time you get to the lab, the air’s gone cold, dry, and the darkness is heavy and thick.

Viktor waits for you just outside the university lab, under the halo of the street light — perhaps just a hint overdressed for the cold, in your opinion. It’s certainly trench coat season, though his is surprisingly long, reaching somewhere along the middle of his shins. The hand he hasn’t tucked in his pocket holds his cane and is clad in a leather glove. Around his lengthy neck, a red knitted scarf lays in chunky, impenetrable layers, reaching almost all the way to the swell of his top lip and his ears. You can hardly see his smile from underneath when he spots you — but his eyes give him away. 

“Right on time,” Viktor’s tone has just as much pep to it as a few hours ago, perhaps even moreso. He rolls his shoulders, before he subtly nuzzles further down into his scarf, shying away from the biting cold. “Let’s get inside.”

He leads the way into the building, its warmth embracing you the moment you step in. The tip of your nose and your fingertips feel like they’re beginning to thaw, tingling just a hint. As you go to take off your coat, you notice Viktor isn’t in a rush. He rests his cane against the wall before he unwraps the thick, wide scarf from around his neck, folding it. He sets it on a nearby table, shucking off his trench coat, slender shoulders under a wool sweater. You watch closely as he then takes his scarf and stuffs it into the sleeve of his coat before he hangs it up. 

There’s something stiff, painful, about how he moves. You wonder if it’s the cold.

“What?” He watches you with appeased amusement.

Caught red-handed, you jump, still halfway clad in your coat.

“Nothing,” you reply, scraping for a way to deflect from your obvious staring. “Not a big fan of the cold?”

“Never.” He says it like it’s a very serious matter. “I still don’t know how I made it through my first eighteen winters in St. Petersburg.”

“You grew up in Russia?”

He laughs through his nose like you’ve told him a half good joke. “What gave it away? The accent? The surname?”

“No, I just thought… Svoboda is a Czech surname.”

With how his smile turns knowing, self-satisfied, you’re suddenly back in his office again, uncertain and nervous and asking for a job as his assistant. He could taunt you with the knowledge that you’ve looked up his last name, embarrass you a little, play with you.

But he isn’t that man anymore — not to you. This time, he feeds your curiosity, albeit just with crumbs.

“My mother’s,” he clarifies. “Sidorov is Russian — my father’s.”

Oh.

“It’s nice that they used both their names. I’m assuming that wasn’t… common, back then, and back there.”

“It wasn’t, and they did not.” Viktor waits for you to hang up your coat, watchful gaze making your every movement feel loaded with static that’s about to snap. “I added hers when I changed my name.”

Changed his name?

The image of the sticker on his thermos turns up fresh in your mind, and you can’t help but wonder…

“Well? I was hoping we could discuss more in the lab, but if you prefer the coat hanger…”

Goddamn it. Focus. You need to focus.

“Sorry.”

You catch up, then slowly follow Viktor down the hallway, into the small lab he has been assigned. It’s one of the less grand ones, but it has all it needs — from a pretty new hexion accelerator to a humble whiteboard. It smells sanitized, sterile, ozonic.

You assume your usual seat by the whiteboard while he sets up. It still doesn’t feel… right to let him do all of that by himself, but he insists upon it, so, you stay out of his way. Viktor tidies up the space just a little, finding his goggles among the mess. He slips them onto his head, elastic pulling back his soft hair into a fluffy grey and brown mess. His cane thumps against the linoleum with every hurried step — though he doesn’t seem to be hurrying on account of you being there as much as excitement to show you.

Once he’s done, he sits in front of the accelerator, slipping his goggles on, and nods for you to come. Which you do — you’d be at his beck and call beyond just the academic context. For a moment, you pluck the inviting tilt of his head and the quirk of his lips out of their context, and you plant it atop your own bed, him in just a loose shirt, underwear, lax with freshly received pleasure. More comfortable than he’s ever been, all because of you. Beckoning for you. Come here. Smiling at you when your knee dips into the mattress, tucking his index under your chin as you crawl to him, reeling you in for a kiss.

“Come closer.”

God help you.

You comply with a wildly beating heart, stepping forward until you’re close behind his sitting form, watching the accelerator over his shoulder. 

He smells nice. Like an indistinct, aromatic cologne, covering up the natural, gentle musk of his skin. You have to resist the urge to dip your head down and trace the tip of your nose along his spine, from where the bones of his neck show to where the scruff at the back of his head goes thicker, fuller. You wonder if he’d shiver as you let the scent of him imbue you… you wonder if he’d lean into it, if he’d tilt his head for you, let you dip your face into the slope of his shoulder, where his scent’s more potent.

The mere thought of him, vivid in your nostrils and clinging to your palate and the floor of your brain, rattles you with a shiver.

“I thought I’d rather show you than tell you,” he explains, wrapping both pale, bony hands around the handles of the accelerator. Steam hisses from the exhaust, flooding the room with more ozone, and gently, but certainly, the gem starts to spin behind the glass panel, beginning to levitate out of its socket, illuminating the room. 

God, you should have put on goggles too, it’s making your eyes hurt. It’s a welcome reminder as to why you chose to spend most your days staring down a blackboard rather than the thing itself. The screen right above it is more of a familiar sight to you: numbers, reading the rotations per minute, as well as energetic output, steadily increasing. 

It whirrs, magic static whirling up around the blue orb, electricity crackles. 

You can see the appeal of this over a blackboard. But you’d still take the chalk. Especially considering the deafening noise. 

Nevermind the damn goggles. You need to remember to bring some ear plugs.

“Watch the panel.” Viktor raises his voice over the hum of the machine, and turns to you, watching you from behind foggy lenses with a smile. You wish you could see the way his crow’s feet deepen. It rumbles harder, so much so Viktor almost has to shout the next thing he says, which is a shame, because his usually playful lilt is lost in the noise of it. “Not to… spoil the outcome of this experiment for you, but I implemented the conclusions we came to last week, and, it is safe to say…”

With a well-timed click and tug on a lever, the machine disengages, and the gem drops back into its socket under the influence of gravity. Its violating light returns to a faint, blue glow, like an artificially lit aquarium; fluctuating and undulating gently in its intensity. The potential energy indicator’s numbers climb back up, steadily, but faster than what you’ve seen before. 

Much faster.

You can’t help but grin with excitement. “It’s regenerating fast.”

Viktor smirks at you over his shoulder like you’re sharing a sacred, intimate inside joke. 

“It is.“

You await the verdict with a bated breath.

“How much?”

Viktor’s smile only grows, like he’s about to give you a present. And, all things considered, this is going to be one, in months’ or maybe even years’ time.

“A thirty-seven percent recovery after usage within an hour.” Viktor spins in the lab stool to face you with the theatrical self-satisfaction of a magician who just sawed his assistant in half and is waiting for the applause. You nearly forget to step back to give him the space for it, so much so your knees knock together. But there is no chance for you to apologize, Viktor is unbothered, sliding the goggles up his forehead enthusiastically, his show of complacency ditched in favor of pure excitement. “That is more than I’ve ever achieved thus far. Thanks to y—” 

His voice sticks in his throat, turning into a pained hiss.

His hair’s tangled in his goggles.

“Oh, wonderful,” he grits out sarcastically. 

A frustrated half-sigh half-groan rumbles in his chest as he pulls again and only makes things worse.

“Could you get me a pair of scissors? I should have some in the third drawer over there.”

“Wait. At least let me try first,” you insist. Reluctantly, you step closer, and after a moment’s hesitation, Viktor lowers his head for better access like a feral animal letting itself be pet for the first time. He sits still, the sound of both your breaths suddenly loud in the tall, quiet room as you’re forced to step even closer. “Could you…”

You nudge his ankles apart with the tip of your shoe.

He listens.

After a stuttering, fragile exhale, Viktor spreads his thighs. 

You take the space offered. And you try not to think about kneeling, about making a home for yourself between his thighs.

“Do you think you can do it?”

You wish he’d asked you that about any number of things, except for the goggles tangled in his feathery, soft hair.

But yes. You think you do.

It would have been a terrible shame to cut it — though some shorter, bluntly cut hairs that sit a little further back near the top of his head tell you his suggestion was not the product of a new idea. Carefully, you pull whatever hairs are looser from between the lens and the bridge of the goggles, though a strand remains stubborn. 

You try to ignore the warmth of his breath on your shirt, the intoxicating, soapy, yet distinctively human smell of his scalp, and the mesmerizing ratio of grey to dark brown, the subtle heat on the sides of your palms and wrists, resting on his head for stability.

As you separate another few hairs from the stuck strand and accidentally tug at them, Viktor has no reaction. Beyond swallowing thickly, and sitting through it dutifully. 

You wonder if he’d act just the same, had you bunched his hair into the spaces between your fingers and tugged — simply biting his tongue and chewing through the pain — or if he’s leaned into the force, moaning with it, and god, you’ve hurt him, and you haven’t even apologized.

“Sorry.” You sound twice as genuine — mainly because you apologize for much worse than the inflicted pain. “Almost done.”

“The scissors would have been faster,” he half-jokes.

His voice sounds different. A hint more… strained. He shifts in the seat, wipes his hands on his slacks.

“Would have been a shame, though. You have pretty hair.” The last part of the sentence positively escapes you, and once you hear it, you freeze. Your brain scrambles itself trying to add something that will fix the inherent following awkwardness, the horrifying realization you just called your boss pretty, the fact that it’s true, the fact that—

Viktor flinches with another accidental tug of his hair, and so do his thighs — jumping with the surprise, clenching together until they squeeze around yours. But they’re gone just as fast, flinching away with horrified urgency. Before you get to savor the supple flesh pressing into your own in another new perverted way, before you get to imagine his ankles locking behind you, tilting and rubbing your hips into the hug of his thighs.

You need. To get. A grip.

“Sorry.”

You continue on in silence, and thank everything above he at the very least can’t see the way your hands shake, because he’s staring at the floor like he could drill a hole into it with just his eyes. 

You should have gotten the damn scissors. As if through divine intervention, the rest of his hair comes loose not soon after.

“Okay. All done.” You smooth the slightly crinkled, but now free strand back down into the rest of his soft hair. 

Viktor’s dainty features come into view from below his face framing pieces as he tilts his chin up. His lips quirk into a gentle smile, his eyes sparkle in the faint blue glow, soft shadows under the hollow of his cheeks and the swell of his lip and the tip of his nose and the bone of his brow. You wish you could immortalize him in whatever way he’d let you — a sculpture, a painting, a poem. He looks ripe for kissing, eyes half-lidded and twice as dreamy as he peers at you.

You’re going to see him like this in your mind’s eye later tonight.

Nestled between your thighs, or kissing down your stomach, molten gold under long, dark lashes, sitting atop carved marbled bone.

“Thank you.” He says it quietly — like it would break the sudden holiness of the moment to say it any other way.

He’s so warm. 

You could kiss him. See what the ozone of the room tastes like in the slick of his mouth. You wonder if he’d let you, if he’d suckle your tongue into his mouth in a show of submission, or if he’d bite your lip, licking your teeth, pressing, pushing, make you earn the privilege to taste him. 

You wonder if he’d hold you, or if his curious hands would roam, tracing the front of your stomach, or your spine, or press to the middle of your breastbone like he wants to see where you’d split open for him down the middle like a ripe peach. You wonder if he’d let you dip a hand down the front of his slacks, you wonder if he’d tilt his hips into it like he’d been aching for it, aching for you. Scorching your hand with want, materialized in slick or straining hardness. You wonder which it’d be.

From where you’re standing, the distance between the apex of his chin and the space where his slacks stretch between his thighs is small — and your gaze takes the leap, searching. But the material dips and curves in such a way that you’re left none the wiser, and with nothing but a disgusting realization.

You’re staring at your boss’ crotch.

You step back from the heat between his thighs, painfully awake, aware. It squeezes and wriggles in your chest like you have a parasite lodged in the chambers of your heart. 

You’re disgusting.

You need to put an end to this.

“You’re welcome, professor.”

With that, you’re practically bolting from between his thighs, to stash the scissors away again.

You’re neglecting your job, you’re putting it in jeopardy. Putting yourself in jeopardy, risking all the rumors circulating becoming a shameful truth, you’re risking the first man who ever kept up with you, followed you where you wanted to go and took you further — you’re risking it all because he makes you unbelievably fucking horny. 

And it’s absurd. Embarrassing. You need to get a hold of yourself. 

“I was… thinking, actually,” you begin, and want to punch yourself over how Viktor perks back up from where you’d left him. “About some things regarding my thesis that I’d like your thoughts on.”

“Oh. Of course.” You have got to be imagining the subtle disappointment in his tone. The second you let yourself believe it’s more than just a figment of your make-believe, is the second you will be doomed. 

Viktor, with all his years and experience, would and does know better than to fall for his assistant. You know he does.

“What’s on your mind?” He prompts after your prolonged silence.

If he knew the half of it.

—

You’re late.

And it’s a direct, shameful consequence of last night’s lusting, the time you’d spent frustratedly tossing and turning and thinking of his mouth and his eyes and his scent, before you’d given in past midnight, and humped your hand into completion.

Thinking about him under you, about pressing your face into his neck, about pressing him into the mattress and rutting into him until he gushes and his tired body sings for you and his voice cracks. Until he breaks for you, until pleasure itself oils and unscrews all the biological cogs of his body and he comes out unstrung, reborn.

Viktor’s in a wheelchair. 

And he looks worse for wear than you’ve ever encountered him before, slumping in the chair and massaging his eyelids with his thumb and index, seemingly gathering his thoughts. He’s dressed even warmer than usual, in a loose but thick, dark red sweater. There’s a colorful knitted blanket folded and set over the tops of his thighs. 

Viktor doesn’t acknowledge you when you come in and sit near the whiteboard, simply resumes his lecture as he regains his mental footing. And he goes on for a while, not sparing you a single glance, as he goes through powerpoint slides today, instead of his usual writing and hand drawn diagrams. 

He’s at it for a while, not as fast as his usual pace, but undeniably concise, certain. Until…

“The energy output increases proportionately to the spin, and, with powerful enough matrices, some hexgems can create force fields of their own. This is a particularly common phenomenon in unstabilized gems as well, though with the activation of their force field, those tend to also create… eh…”

Viktor stops, sighing, pinching the bridge of his nose. He frowns, mumbling something in another language, which, judging by the heavy consonants and squeezed vowel, you’d assume it’s Russian. The word must be slipping his mind, so you decide to help out.

“A shock wave.”

Viktor’s gaze cuts. He’s looked at you with disinterest before, sure, but this… 

He doesn’t even turn his head to look at you, just eyes you from the corner of his vision like something unworthy of acknowledgment. You wish you could swallow your words back up.

“Yes,” he says. “Thank you. A shock wave.”

You don’t say anything again for the rest of the lecture. 

Once the door falls shut behind the last few students who have left the room, Viktor turns to you. You wish you could shrink; and it feels like you do, when he finally speaks.

“I appreciate your intention to help — but do not interrupt me again. I know what I’m trying to say.” He sounds utterly unlike himself, both spent and angry. “I don’t need help. Especially not in the middle of a lecture.”

“Sorry.”

That alone softens him up a hint. He looks away, rubbing his thumbs against the wheels of his chair, before he speaks again. Calmer. 

“Just… do not let it happen again.”

As he slumps in his seat, massaging at his temples, you understand that his anger… might not have been as directed at you as you’d initially thought. He’d been snippy when his back hurt — having switched to a wheelchair must mean he’s in a lot more pain now.

And you understand his frustration. He’d just gotten himself an assistant a few months back, and started a new project — looking like he requires help in front of his students is certainly not doing his reputation right now any favors. 

“But if there’s other things I can do to make your day a little easier, I’d like to do them.”

“No, thank you.” He shakes his head, before he grabs both wheels and advances to where he’d left his bag. As he starts packing his things, he stops again, quietly groaning somewhere in the back of his throat. “Where did I put my pen…”

Viktor eventually finds it right behind his water bottle on the table, tossing the both of them into his bag, shutting it tightly. You expect him to wheel himself over to the ramp that leads to the exit, but he just hangs his head, massaging at his temples again, before he looks at you.

“Actually, I’d like it if you went to my office and got me a silver tin box in the… fourth drawer on the left side of my desk. Do you have the key with you, or should I give you mine?”

“I have it. I’ll be quick.”

“Thank you.”

And you deliver on your promise. You don’t run, but you power walk there, and you’re back with (hopefully the right) tin box in the same lecture hall before his break ends.

Viktor takes it from you gladly, popping it open. It contains two foils of painkillers, one already half empty, a small ziploc bag of… gummies, and at the very bottom, some dark chocolate. 

You must have pulled a bit of a face at the contents — particularly the gummies — because Viktor cocks a brow at you, before he faintly chuckles under his breath and pops three painkillers in one go.

After depositing the foil back in the box, he fishes out the dark chocolate bar. It looks to be the expensive kind, something Belgian — Viktor breaks off a piece, putting it in his mouth, before he holds it out to you.

“Peace offering,” he clarifies when you hesitate. 

You’d be a fool to turn him down. You take some — it’s rich, buttery, and melts on your tongue. It coats your mouth with its taste, dark and aromatic and unfortunately not as sweet as you thought Viktor preferred. He’d always favored the almost disgustingly sugary cakes.

“Didn’t think you’d like something so bitter,” you say.

“I do not. It sometimes helps with my migraines,” he tells you. “Sugar makes them worse. A very… devastating discovery to make, as I’m sure you can imagine.”

You wonder if right now is the right time to be curious — and you decide it might be.

“Do the migraines also affect your leg? Or the other way around?” 

“No.” Viktor shakes his head, popping off another piece of dark chocolate. “This,” he gestures at himself, the wheelchair, “was just a very unfortunate… overlapping.”

“Oh.” You grimace in sympathy. “Fun.”

“A punishment for it, more like.” 

What’s that supposed to mean?

“Let’s hope my migraine eases up on me throughout this lecture.” He smiles at you — and for the first time you’ve known him, he looks old doing it. Exhausted. The face of a man who’s seen enough hardship for a lifetime, but has yet to cave under it. 

You wish you could hold him. You wish you could melt it away, kiss it better, love it better. Whatever he’d let you.

You surprise both him and yourself when you lay a gentle hand on his shoulder and let your thumb rub a small circle over the wool. 

Though he flinches at the first contact, once something in his brilliant mind unfurls and settles, so does he. Through the cracks, tenderness shines under the fatigue. Viktor can be soft — in spite of everything im his body and his past that protests against it. “Thank you.”

You take your hand away sooner than you’d like — but at the ideal time to keep it from being anything more than a friendly touch.

“I’m glad I could help,” you say.

—

Viktor isn’t there at all next week. 

You come in on Monday to find his office empty during lunch break, and when you attend his lecture, it’s another professor from his department teaching it. The students don’t seem all too excited about the change either — and you leave before it even starts.

Heimerdinger is none the wiser about Viktor’s situation when you talk to him — in spite of their shared history. He simply tells you he’d taken the week off and had arranged for substitutes.

You consider messaging him… and ultimately end up doing so, after some internal debate. You simply text him to get well soon and that you hope he’s getting some well-deserved rest. He replies with just a plain thank you.

Tuesday is quiet. You receive a stack of midterms you need to get through from the substitute, and you do, by Thursday morning. Which is when Heimerdinger messages you.

Dr. Prof. Cecil B Heimerdinger

Good morning! I’m well aware this is on very short notice — but the substitute professor has unfortunately suffered a minor car accident. Not to worry; they only sustained small njury. However, I am finding myself forced to task you with Viktor’s lectures today. Do you think you could take care of that? Thank you.

-Cecil B. Heimerdinger

9:32

Just the thing you needed — teaching two full lectures, entirely unprepared.

Alright. You’ve got this. You’ve got this. You just need to find out what’s even on the agenda for today. You could text Viktor, right? If he answers on time, that is… he’s sick, he might as well be asleep right now. You could call, but… he said only to do that in the case of an emergency when he gave you his phone number. 

Would this count as an emergency?

Your phone beeps.

Dr. Prof. Viktor Sidorov-Svoboda

There should be a black flash drive in the third drawer on the left in my desk. It has all my lectures.

9:34

Today’s topic is LHC segments naturally occurring in unstabilized gems. Feel free to use my work laptop to familiarize yourself with the presentation before the lecture.

9:35

Me

Thank you so much! 

9:35

His answer comes a few minutes later, just as you fish the flash drive out of his drawer, and plug it into his laptop.

Dr. Prof. Viktor Sidorov-Svoboda

Good luck 👍 

9:42

It would be a lot easier to get caught up in the desire to snoop around on his laptop if you didn’t have less than 20 minutes left until the lecture. His background is disappointingly the default image, but some of his folders look undeniably tempting — not just the scientific ones, which take up most of the space. There’s some photo albums titled with the year and location: Germany 2011, Czech Republic 2009, among many others. There’s also a photo album titled Persichka. 

Who is that? 

You almost click it. But then you check your watch again and realize you only have 15 more minutes until the lecture, and decide against it.

—

For how utterly unprepared you are, it goes surprisingly well. You stumble, once or twice, but you’re glad to see that even by the end of the lecture, you still have most students’ attention.

After you dismiss the class, you don’t expect questions. But a good handful of them, a little under ten, approach your desk, whispering among themselves, before a hastily appointed representative emerges. 

“We were just wondering,” she awkwardly begins, “if professor Sidorov-Svoboda is alright. And when he’s coming back.”

“Oh.” You hope they’re asking because they understandably prefer him, and not because you did a particularly shabby job. “He texted me just today — he’s doing alright. But I can’t give you an exact estimate for when he’s coming back just yet.”

“Okay. Thank you.”

With that, all of them turn to go. After the last student has left the room, you reach for your phone, and pray you don’t see any other day-altering messages today. 

Dr. Prof. Viktor Sidorov-Svoboda

I did not mean for you to have to do this. 

10:11

You unlock your phone and jump straight into the chat.

Me

Don’t worry, it’s alright. I handled it :)

12:02

Dr. Prof. Viktor Sidorov-Svoboda

I knew you could.

12:02

Thank you.

12:02

Me

Focus on resting up and getting well soon! 

12:03

Dr. Prof. Viktor Sidorov-Svoboda

I have been. I actually feel well enough for company now. Coincidentally, I’ve gotten some ideas for your thesis and I would like it if we discussed them sometime. Would you be free this weekend?

12:05 

He wants to meet? Outside of the university? Undoubtedly for academic purposes still, but your heart squeezes and bounces and pops with the implications. 

No. You shouldn’t let yourself hope for more than just a few formal, at best friendly hours spent together.

Viktor doesn’t want you. He would never want you — he knows better. You know better.

Me

I’d like that! Saturday works for me. Where would you like to meet?

12:05

Dr. Prof. Viktor Sidorov-Svoboda

If you’d prefer somewhere on academy grounds like my office or the coffee shop, either would be fine.

12:06

My apartment is also an option.

12:06

The choice is obvious.

[smallnico]

i'm literally so flattered by this. i wish i'd come up with a more thought-out argument so i could properly fight your student. i can do the counterargument now if you'd like.

i'm not scared of generative ai. i'm genuinely concerned for the impact it'll have on the neurological development of young people if they become overexposed to the instant gratification of "bringing their ideas to life" and never practice or develop the skills and labour actually associated with creating something from nothing. it means that if the ai gives you dogshit (and it will), you don't have the ability to fix it, because you're so alienated from the process of creating (writing an essay, drawing a picture, organizing a playlist, composing a song, listening to and analyzing and summarizing the art you're examining) that you don't know what isn't working or how to make it work correctly. if you don't learn how to analyze, if you don't train your brain to do these things, they don't stop needing to be done. you will be dependant on ai, or on others to do these things for you. others, you can sometimes trust, but it really helps to be able to really grok the difference between a grifter, an ignorant person, and a person who knows what they're talking about -- and again, the more you alienate yourself from the construction of their arguments, the less you are able to take them apart and see what isn't adding up. and ai is dogshit, frequently incorrect and incapable of doing the small calculus the human brain can do (if you train it to) to tell the difference between quality of sources and reliability of data, so it should never be trusted, period.

the only part of this "new technology" that i'm scared of is based on a history of ideas that i have actually studied. historically, the more we alienate ourselves from the process of labour, the less we are able to grasp it as a reality, and the more people are able to use that fact to exploit us. if you look at, say, the paper coffee cup on your desk, really look at it. where did that come from? it didn't spring fully formed from someone's imagination. someone had to design the shape of that cup, engineer it so it could contain a hot beverage and keep it hot, come up with the sleeve to make sure the drinker could actually hold it, but there's even more to it than that. someone had to make the cup. someone had to source the paper (or the compound) for the body, the material for the lid, the glue that holds it together. someone had to harvest those materials, in whichever country they were sourced, and someone had to package them and transport them to the company responsible for assembling the cup. someone designed the logo and the pattern on the outside, and someone is monitoring the machine that prints those images on the cup. someone will be responsible for picking up the waste and transporting it to a recycling plant, or to the landfill where it'll end up. let's not even start on the drink inside it. farming, harvesting, shipping, receiving, assembling, serving. it takes time to manifest something, and you are in a position of immense privilege to not have to think about where it all comes from on a regular basis. but what happens when the supply lines get shut down? what happens when there's a failure of irrigation or something in the paper mill and the glue holding the paper together doesn't work? do you know? i don't, personally. but there is someone along the line whose job it is to know, and i appreciate the work they (probably aren't paid enough to) do so that i can grab a coffee on my way into my own work. i have to appreciate it because i know that if the process goes wrong somewhere, i have no fucking idea what to do about the problem.

but i'm not pretending to know. i'm not applying for a job at the papermill to work for pennies instead of someone who does know the perfect chemical makeup of coffee cup cardboard because i can order a ton of coffee cups online from amazon in bulk. that's why generative ai offends me. the work that goes into creating art and writing still has to be done, because all generative ai knows how to do is steal, and it doesn't steal like an artist. artists look at the works of others and think, oh, i see how they did that, i want to try doing that, and then they can, because they learned how to appreciate the process. they've actually worked, and practiced, and spent time engaging with the process step by step to create something they find pleasing. generative ai looks at art and spits out a copy by comparing one image to another and assuming based on Uncredited Data that sometimes, pictures have hands in them, and hands sort of look like this. and the computer doesn't have a goddamn clue how many fingers the hand has, or how to translate that data into a visual. you know what does? the human brain. you know what you can do instead of bemoaning that you, a high school junior, can't produce a rembrandt on your first try? you can actually try drawing something.

you can actually try to turn your ideas into a drawing. you can do research into how to make it look the way you want it to. who knows? you might actually have fun doing it. because the creative process can be fun! it isn't for everyone, but unless you actually sit down and try, you won't find out, and if it's not for you, you'll never grasp on that physical experiential level that the creative process is actually a lot of fucking work, and we should respect artists for being able to sit down and do it so we don't have to, same as we respect the farmers who grow our food or the plant workers who mix the slurry that becomes our coffee cup cardboard.

i'm not scared of spotify for pushing ai bullshit down my throat. more than anything, i'm kind of offended, because i do put a lot of work into my playlists, and i have a lot of fun doing it, because i like listening to music and analyzing lyrics and relating the themes of songs to my little characters. i took it so personally because i Want to be involved in the process. i'm paying spotify a lot of my real adult money to have access to music and the tools i can use to entertain this pastime of mine, and it's kind of fucked up that they're raising their monthly fee to fund a tool that makes me, the user of their product, motivated to use their product less. insulting, even. why should i pay more for a computer to do a worse job than me at Having Fun? making a playlist isn't even that fucking hard.

i'm just tired. stuff takes work to make. it takes care and time and effort to create something from nothing, and a lot of the time, the process is necessary to make the thing good, because it forces you to take the time you need to spot and fix mistakes. i hope by now that it's self-explanatory why i don't want an entire society run by a dipshit program that doesn't know how to do what it's doing and doesn't know how to solve the problems it creates faster than human hands could ever manage, and i hope the dipshit machine and the grifters who push it are inextricable from each other in the minds of anyone who's read this whole post. i don't want them to run society either, because they Know that generative ai sucks and can't do anything right, and they're still trying to tack it on to everything to devalue the labour of artists and make a quick buck for themselves.

the best quote i've ever seen about generative ai is "why should i bother reading something nobody bothered to write".

we are a social species. alienation from labour alienates us from each other, from our communities, and makes us feel alone. when we're alone, we're vulnerable down to our core psychology, and there are a lot of people out there who know better who want to take advantage of vulnerable people to manipulate society at large. they want to make money off of your suffering. they want to reduce you to a number for their own convenience so they can use the One Life You Have On Earth to play their own personal tycoon game and get a slightly higher score. they want you to spend less time having fun, creating art, spending time with your family, thinking about what they're Doing to you, so you don't ruin their good time. i'm not scared because it's new, i'm pissed because it's the same old late capitalist shit i've already been dealing with, and i'm sick of seeing it everywhere because it stands a very real chance of turning everyone's brains to even more detached-from-reality mush than late-stage capitalism already has already.

And, on top of all of that, spotify's algorithm sucks shit already, so why on earth would i want it to make my playlists for me. the other day i saw it put zombie by the cranberries on a halloween playlist. she doesn't know dickety shit about my ideas or vibes or anything. so

no, spotify, i don't want to use ai to "turn my ideas into playlists". i already fucking do that with my brain and hands and i do it for fun. what, should i get ai to pet my cat for me? to play my silly games for me? to spend time with my beautiful wife for me? how about i rend you asunder

[monstersflashlight]

Set up by a baby-orc (Orc’s POV)

A/N: Hi there lovelies, I thought it would be really cute to see what he was thinking in this scene, so here we have it. (Part 1 here)

Orc!reader (POV) x fem!human || sfw, meet-cute, soulmates

When your big sister asked you to pick up her kid, you were more than happy to do so. You were the cool uncle and you had to maintain that status or your brother Inar would take that place, and you loved that big stupid dude, but you weren’t against dirty play to be the cool uncle. Like showing up to the daycare and taking him to get ice cream. Even if your sister would hate you later for it.

You could sense your nephew inside, the line joining you wasn’t as strong as the one linking you with your brothers and sisters, but it was enough to feel his happiness and alert him you were already there.

Your special hearing could pick up his fast steps as you heard a sweet voice asked: "Who?" He appeared through the door with a human woman and your breath got caught in your throat. She was the most beautiful woman you’d ever seen, her wide hips and voluptuous figure making your dick twitch in the most uncomfortable moment.

"My uncle!" Your favorite baby orc exclaimed, pointing across the patio directly at you.

If you thought she was beautiful before it was nothing like what you felt when she looked up and your eyes met. She looked amazed at you as she gaped in the tiniest way, making you gape back at her. And then it clicked, she was her. Your mate. The one you’ve been waiting forever to meet. She was your fucking mate and you were gaping at her like a stupid orc.

She walked to you moving her hips, your nephew next to her talking excitedly about something you didn’t comprehend. When she was standing right in front of you, you took a deep breath, her scent hitting you like a tidal wave. She smelled perfect, like the forest in the spring and your favorite food at the same time. She smelled so perfect you couldn’t stop breathing in and out almost driving yourself to hyperventilation.

She looked down at your nephew, and you snapped out of your stupor.

“I told you she was human! Look! Look! Her skin is not green!” Your nephew sounded so excited you smiled down at him, his words making you blush as she giggled. Your heart skipped a beat, her laugh was the most amazing sound you’d ever heard.

“I can see that,” you said in a choked voice, almost too low. She squirmed in the tiniest way, but you were hyper-aware of every breath she took, every tiny movement of her delicious body. Your eyes were fixated on her as your brain filled with adoration and desperation. It was so intense it took your breath away.

Your nephew couldn’t catch the tension in the air as he kept talking. “Isn’t she pretty? She doesn’t have tusks like me!” He said it like it was such a weird thing that you had to bite down on your lip not to laugh. He was so freaking cute.

“Yours will grow eventually, though,” you explained, kneeling on the floor in front of him, you still towered over him but his little green face was closer to him when you said it. You looked at her and realized you were still a bit taller than her, even on your knees, and you couldn’t avoid realizing how hard it would be to fit inside of her… But somewhat you knew she would take you better than any other creature on earth.

“They will?!” Your nephew sounded so shocked by that information that you cursed internally because he should know that. Baby orcs should have that kind of information, fuck.

“Yes, hon, yours will grow until they are as big as your uncle’s,” she explained, touching his head affectionately and making your insides go all gooey with appreciation.

She shivered almost imperceptibly, but you saw. You couldn’t avoid staring at her frame in front of you, your insides turning and moving, asking you to get closer, to touch her, to claim her. But you couldn’t. She was humans and humans didn’t have the mating instincts orcs had. You would have to woo her first, explain everything and made sure she understood what it meant completely.

She looked around uncomfortably and you regretted being such a creep that couldn’t stop staring at her. “I should go back to the kids,” she let out, looking at you and rapidly to the ground.

“Yeah. Yes. I guess so.” He said as she walked a few steps backwards. But you couldn’t let her go just like that, so your impulsive side won and you said: “I’ll be seeing you again… that’s a promise,” you knew you did good when you saw a big smile breaking in her gorgeous face. She didn’t turn back, but you didn’t care, her smile would keep you content for days.

You stared at her until she was at the door of the school, and when she turned around and her eyes caught you, your smile was so big she blushed and ran inside, making you chuckle as you took your nephew to the car, already planning how to woo her completely.

You’d see her soon enough.

[starberry-cupcake]

Welcome back!! I hope you're doing well and, if not, I hope my silly ramblings can make your day somewhat better, like the wildcats used to say: we're all in this together ♥

previously, in harrowcita del 9:

this happened

for those of you recently tuning in, this is the tag of all the ramblings

also, I'm officially in the sixth house now, palmolive can't stop me

CHAPTER 46

we're back inside the emperor's bolthole, which is infested

this is what happens when you have a lyctor orgy without the proper protection

gideon is doing her very best to fight the infestation of herald bees swarming and attacking her

she's in harrow's feeble small kitten baby body, so she's dying a lot

I'm gonna try to represent this visually

gideon keeps apologizing to harrow for getting her bits chewed off and her insides pouring out

and puts emphasis on things she wants harrow to remember

"I saw it eat your thumb—these details are important, so keep up with me—and your thumb was back in the next half minute"

"Child, that bee smashed you"

"I touched your intestines, which is usually what, fourth date"

me:

so, gideon takes off harrow's excess bones, which are no use to her, and goes further into the emperor's infested bolthole, where she finds mercygirl

mercygirl thinks gideon is harrow at first and, turns out, she was the one who stabbed her

these lyctors istg

can't trust any of them

mercygirl thinks harrow should be grateful that she stabbed her

and she was aware that harrow had "stuffed the soul of the cavalier in the back of her brain"

NOW WE'RE GONNA GET INTO SOME TERRITORY THAT MAKES ME GO ABSOLUTELY BERSERK, SO BEAR WITH ME

I NEED TO GET MY NOTES BACK FROM MY PREVIOUS RECAPS FOR THIS

she asks what happened with gideon's eyes and, as we have seen in the previous gideon-centric chapter, gideon's eyes are in harrow's face atm, if memory serves

"You're not her—she isn't driving you—but you have her eyes. Why? When they showed me your corpse I didn't think to check the eyes"

"I thought I knew what you were, though I didn't want to believe it..."

now listen, we're starting to tie some loose ends and some of those loose ends are linked very closely to my previous theories

I have been considering the Commander Wake is Gideon's Mom and Has a Personal Connection To Gideon The First and Is The One Connected With The Harrow Notes In Canaan AU for a while now

I need to link the specific recaps where I said this because I need to be transparent about where my brain was at

Evidence A, Evidence B, Evidence C, Evidence D

there's probably more but those are pretty clear

I swear to god if I was right about this I'm gonna screencap my own recap and put it here when the time comes

I've been marinating this one for months

I actually forgot how much of that I had written down in the recaps until I re-read them

mercygirl says that she thought the commander was a bad girl workaholic who put business before family, that she made her "the dolls" and she must have "played silly buggers with the emission" and that "gideon was on her tail"

"And then Gideon ruined everything. Then the commander ruined everything. Then you ruined everything. This could have been over eighteen years ago"

apparently gideon the first was "obsessed" with the commander, which accounts for some of the notes harrow read

I'LL GET BACK TO THAT WHEN WE GET TO THE SLEEPER, MY THEORIES CONTINUE

mercygirl starts calling gideon all sorts of names, including mutant, and keeps being bothered about her eyes

"Lipochrome. Recessive. You are the evidence. He lied to us...and you are all the proof I needed" "Cytherea would have known as soon as she looked at you"

is gideon the first gideon's dad??????? I mean, I always though he might have Something with the mom but my money was on gideon being made through science rather than Traditional Means

I mean, having lyctor genes in some way would account for gideon being a demigod, something I said with those words when I was reading gideon

also, remember when not!dulcinea told gideon she was prettier than the other gideon?? because I've never forgotten

mercygirl confirms that gideon the first was sent to kill gideon's mom

who, according to mercygirl, would have hated to be called a mom

mamá luchona intensifies

all of which aligns with my theory very nicely so far

she calls gideon more names, including "abomination, you heresy, you failed ambition nineteen years too late"

gideon reacts not wanting mercygirl to touch her instinctively

man, my theories are RIGHT THERE to be fully connected I'm BITING THE DESK

but there's no time for any more talk because mercygirl is trying to kill gideon in harrow's body

but she is stopped

she is shot

by not!dulcinea

but I don't think this is not!dulcinea, I previously mentioned her maybe being used by someone, not sure if it's possession or being used or what's going on but I don't think this is her

I thought about gideon the first being the one to do it but if he wanted harrow dead, I'm not sure he'd save gideon now

not!dulcinea says "with a tone that wasn't" hers: "goodbye"

gideon ends the chapter with "what the fuck is going on?"

CHAPTER 47

we're back at canaan au and it's time to perform an exorcism

harrow has a new note

I've been connecting those notes to gideon's mom possibly commander wake (as linked above)

the latest note continues to add to my theory

"end of the line. falling. oxygen can't last the distance and won't redirect power from the payload. instead I will make you watch every moment as I get the last privilege you cannot enjoy you bygone son of a bitch. I hope you're both as sorry as I am."

I still think this is gideon's mom because that's how she died, I mean, she got to the ninth in a suit without air and gideon still had some, allegedly

I've been thinking that one of the two people involved in the situationship triangle described in the notes was gideon the first, and that maybe the other was dr reverend emperor john

he's the most likely to be a bygone son of a bitch, so maybe I'm right

so, if harrow connects the notes with the spirit that's haunting her

and I'm connecting them to gideon's mom....

what if it's her that's haunting harrow?????

I mean, Waker

I NEED TO STOP GETTING INTO THEORY TANGENTS

anyway, all of the ghoulie ghostie friends are getting together for a sleepover exorcism

I didn't use this when I should have, back when the different aus were going by, but here it is

real!dulcinea says "Pal always said I'd be the death of him. And I was..."

he died being a weenie but he's not all the way dead, so it's fine

harrow questions why everyone wants to help her but everyone's totally fine with all this, for different reasons

real!dulcinea is "horny for revenge" (that's a tshirt for the seventh girlies right there)

protozoa is there because duty is his full personality

abby is really grateful to be asked to help (she also really likes tombs, very lara croft of her)

magnus loves his wife

ortus wants a redemption arc and now has a polycule

martita is behaving better than judith

abby asks harrow if there's anything she can remember from the slasher waker sleeper to try to pinpoint who tf it is

there's a suit, blood, a gun and gideon's sword, which is the only thing harrowcita recognizes and doesn't know where it comes from

my money is on gideon's mom, commander wake, probably also the woman in the shuttle poster that harrow saw but didn't recognize back when she met camilla

I'M PUTTING MORE CHIPS IN MY BETS EVEN IF I GET NO MORE INFO RN

harrow is very interested in how abby and magnus make it work as a married couple who are also a necro and a cav

I wonder why she's so interested

anyway, everything goes to shit on the exorcism

like, it goes really, really badly

group project off the rails bad

I mean, they didn't even have blood

apparently the spirit is also tethered to an object out there (the sword??????? possibly?????)

and she (she's a SHE) is pretty much invincible and shooting everyone and performing parkour while she's at it

harrow says camilla would be impressed, which is the highest praise

the sleeper waker slasher potentially gideon's mom (but not sure because it hasn't been confirmed yet) calls harrow by her name, but in a way that sounds like she's never said it before

she says it like a curse, which maybe means she knows, to some degree, how harrow was made????

she's basically doing whatever she wants over here, shooting ghosts, punching ghosts, throwing them around, regenerating, not bleeding, pulling guns out of thin air

I mean, ok, we got it, calm down lady

where was this energy when it was time to kill the emperor

she says there's "no magic" there and that "she's been doing this for years"

she wants harrow, so she can kill her and use her body to "finish it"

WHICH MAYBE MEANS KILLING THE EMPEROR???

OH MAN I DO WANT THAT TO HAPPEN

BUT NOT AT THE COST OF HARROW

also, mrs potentially gideon's mom, even if harrow dies, there's also gideon in the body right now so, it's a bit crowded atm

maybe find another way to kill the emperor

use not!dulcinea instead, if you can get the current tenant to leave

the chapter ends with: "ortus cleared his throat"

MAN, I HOPE HE DROPS SOME POETRY LINES, WE SURELY NEED THAT

and that's it for today!!!!!things are certainly heating up in the emperor's bolthole!!!! see you soon for the next installment, fingers crossed for my theories!!!

[burningcheese-merchant]

Psst, hear me out: The Beast being fucking yanderes with the ancients.

You Get It™️ I mean... Did you guys see episode 6? Burning Simp Cookie is already a yandere lol. He's been there and he refuses to leave. And Shadow Milk is honestly not that far behind, he feels some type of way towards Pure Vanilla and it would be cute if it wasn't so sad and creepy lol

Really though, I just love hero/villain ships in general (always have, since long before Cookie Run ever existed) and I get a kick out of villains acting stupid over crushes (read: obsessions), and acting stupid in general. There's just something about a villain being in love with the hero to a psychotic, comical degree, and the hero rebuffing them at every turn that's just really amusing to me lol. Like what Joker sort of has with Batman, you know?

Here are my Yandere Beasts in bare-bones terms:

Burning Spice: come on, if you've read my stuff, you know EXACTLY what Yandere Spice is like lol. If not, I'll refer you to this and this, as well as my fics on AO3. If those don't tell you what Yandere Spice is like then idk how else to help you lol

Shadow Milk: if the final boss of theater/drama kids had a crush but was also a malignant narcissist of some sort lol. Absolutely DESPERATE for Vanilla's attention at all times. If he's not actively trying to worm into Vanilla's brain and harass him in his thoughts and dreams, he's in the real world brainstorming better ways to do that lol. He does not grasp why the creepy puppet shows and gaslighting attempts aren't convincing Vanilla to fall in love with him. Will attack and torment and insult Vani in one breath and then praise and love and worship him in another, because he's a histrionic clown freak with whirlwind emotions. But above all else, he literally thinks he owns Vani and is meticulously plotting the horrible and hilarious demise of any and all he perceives as a threat to their union

Eternal Sugar: World's Laziest Stalker™️. Almost exclusively haunts Holly in her dreams (I have to assume that that's what her power will entail, as the Beast of Sloth); however, she's more "effective" in her wooing attempts due to her past experience as the Herald of Happiness. She actually goes out of her way to construct dreams and the like that have things in them that make Holly happy (or what she thinks makes Holly happy; she, as well as the others, has big tunnel vision and is very selfish and self-absorbed, and thus pays more lip service to her own wants than those of who she loves/obsesses over). Thankfully doesn't run into Holly in person often because that's work... but sometimes she DOES work up the nerve to go after her for real, and... well

Mystic Flour: Denial, denial, denial. Not just a river in Egypt the Golden Cheese Kingdom, but she'll say and act like otherwise. No, she does not like Dark Cacao. He robbed her of her volition and the chance to enact her will. He prevented her from freeing the world from pain and suffering. He is a stubborn fool who refuses to understand the truth. He... is very handsome. She does not like how handsome he is. It is distracting. She doesn't like dwelling on her memories of him and their encounters. She doesn't like how she came to harbor a single kernel of respect in her heart after he stood his ground against her; a kernel that she inadvertently nurtured and cultivated slowly but surely, until... no. No, she doesn't like Dark Cacao. She doesn't think about him all day. She doesn't want to try to lure him back to her land so she can trap him in the flour fog with her again. She doesn't miss feeling his dark eyes on her. She doesn't deeply resent his attachment to his people, and seek to transfer that attachment to her instead. No, she... damn it, he's ruined her. He's made her feel things again. He's made her succumb to selfishness and greed, to earthly desire and attachment - desire for HIM, attachment to HIM. All of her hard work and enlightenment gone to waste... She doesn't want to like Dark Cacao, she recognizes the folly in such a thing, but she's stuck - and so stuck is she that not only does she not really see a way out, she doesn't WANT one. She's become too content with her attachment to him too quickly. Now she has to agonize over her own foolishness, and try to keep denying that she doesn't care while also longing for his attention and wanting to do away with all that steals his attention away from her

Silent Salt: probably the least awful of the five, but he's still creepy and that's not a high bar to clear anyway lol. Has a better grasp on "normal" behavior than the others (like... he pays attention to what White Lily likes/wants and tries to adjust accordingly), but he's following her around everywhere and acting extremely violent and territorial over her towards anyone who he catches approaching her. He's legitimately, surprisingly sweet and gentle towards her; he brings her flowers, he listens to her when she asks/tells him something, he's more or less respectful of her personal space (he will try to be as physically close to her as possible, but actually backs off a little if she asks him to, only to try again, and so on and so forth)... but he's still a villain, he's still violent and creepy, he still gets angry when she pays attention to other people for too long and he has brought actual harm to others out of jealousy. He's the best of the worst but that really doesn't mean much of anything, he's still a psycho creep like the others

In short, they form a tight-knit coalition of absolutely fucking deranged freakazoids and they should all probably die :)

[7s3ven]

WHAT HAPPENS IN VAGAS STAYS IN VAGAS. simon riley

( just an idea)

I recently watched a movie set in Vegas that had the title (what happens in Vegas stays in Vegas) as its motto and I thought it’d be a really funny plot. I’ll use Ghost as a placeholder for now.

But yeah, imagine reader and Ghost (total strangers) get married in Vegas and they’re like “wtf” and they don’t officially divorce so, hey, Ghost actually has a wife on paper. And then Laswell introduces TF 141 to a transferred worker and what do you know, it’s Ghost’s Vegas wife.

Ghost wasn’t known for drinking past his limits. In fact, he barely had any. He wasn’t a light weight in the slightest. He could drink at least twenty large pints of beer and still be fully sober. But, it seems Vegas had fucked him over. He blamed Jonny for convincing the team to take a holiday to America.

He could still taste the fruity cocktails on his tongue as he sat up, rubbing his face. His mask was discarded to the side, lying on the floor. The room was surprisingly tidy as he leaned over the body beside him to retrieve his mask- wait, that wasn’t right.

Ghost let out a grunt of surprise, staring at the person beside him. His gaze immediately landed on the wedding ring that glinted in the dim light. His heart lurched. Had he slept with a married person? His brows creased as he tried to remember what had happened. Who even was this strange woman? He had never seen her before.

Ghost racked his brain for clues until he realized that the woman beside him was the one he had been eyeing all night in a drunken state. He thought she was pretty and he hadn’t seen the ring before.

He looked down at his own hand, eyes widening even more at the sight of a matching wedding band. It didn’t take a genius to piece everything together.

Ghost hadn’t slept with an already taken person, he had fucking married a stranger instead. Well, in the grand scheme of things, that seemed a little better than ruining a marriage because he drank too much.

You stirred and Ghost froze as you opened your eyes, blinking in confusion. “Where am I?” You were just as confused as he was. “Hey, did we sleep together? You don’t have a girlfriend, do you?” Your words slurred together. You glanced at the ring on his finger, lurching back. “Oh my gosh! Are you married?! Did I fuck a married person?! I’m so sorry!”

“Look at your own finger.” Ghost grumbled. “Wasn’t married before I met you.”

At least you were a smart one. “Oh… we married each other… um, what’s your name?”

“Simon Riley.”

“Y/N L/N.”

The two of you shook hands, still tangled in the white bedsheets.

“So… what happens now?” You mutter.

“I gotta get to work. Give me your number so I can call ya and we can… figure whatever the hell this is out.”

You hand him a piece of paper with your digits written on it. It doesn’t take you long to get dressed and walk out of the hotel, already texting your friends on what you had woken up to.

Hours passed and then days and finally months. And there was no call from the handsome man you had accidentally married. And there was no chance of even divorcing if you couldn’t get in contact with him.

So you endured it. And whenever your friends asked about the ring, you told them the story of how you had managed to get drunk and marry a total stranger. They found it hilarious.

Kate Laswell was the woman who entirely changed your life, in more ways than another. When you were a teenager, she helped you out of a slump. You owed her a great deal for saving you at your worst. So when she asked you to transfer from your secretary line of work in the military to a special operations unit as their new intelligence operative, you agreed.

She had given a meaning to your life, a well-paying job that could support you, and unintentionally reunited you with the man who was bound to you on paper.

“This is Y/N. Treat her nice.” Laswell says to the four large men towering over you. But you only have eyes for the one with the Skull mask. You could recognzie those vivid eyes anywhere.

He wasn’t wearing gloves, giving you a perfect view of the wedding ring still sitting on his finger. You couldn’t blame him, you still wore yours too for some reason.

“Ey, LT, yer gon’ a burn a hole in the poor lassie if ya keep starin’ like that.” John Mactavish, aka known as Soap or Jonny, said, laughing. “You like ‘er or somethin’?”

“Yeah, I guess. She’s my wife after all.” Ghost grunts. You want to pinch the bridge of your nose. How could he say such a thing without context?

Gaz is the one who makes a fuss over Ghost’s statement. “Wait, you’re married?! And you didn’t invite us?!”

“It was in a dingy church.” You say to fill in the gaps.

“Where?” Gaz presses on.

You and Ghost exchange a look, embarrassed about your reckless actions. “Vegas.” You both say in unison.

You can practically see the cogs working in Soap’s head as he gasps. “Is that where yer disappeared off to? Ya got married to a pretty lass without tellin’ us? How long have y’all known each other?!”

You clear your throat as you hear the quiet sound of Laswell chuckling. Glad to see she finds your predicament amusing. “We don’t.”

“So you married a stranger?” Soap’s eyebrows furrow. “Ey, how come you got married before me?!”

“What happens in Vegas stays in Vegas.” Ghost reminds his team members.

It’d be really funny if, even after that, you and Ghost still don’t divorce. And y’all actually start treating each other like lovers.

Like, yeah, we were strangers and got married in a church in Vegas but we won’t divorce because the married life is actually better than expected. What about it?

Ghost literally brushes off the fact that you guys were strangers. He treats you like his wife, bringing you food and wiping your makeup off when you’re too tired to do so. And eventually, you guys just accept it.

[xoxo-sarah]

Do you think you could do a darylxreader where he takes it upon himself to teach her bushcraft skills bc her fire making skills are absolute trash despite her eagerness to prove they aren't. -❌️⭕️❌️⭕️

Patience

↝a/n: rushed but I hope you still like it! 🩷 Thanks for requesting.

↝pairing: Daryl Dixon x reader

|| Disclaimer: I do not own Daryl Dixon, or any character from The Walking Dead. I only own y/n and any characters I create with my own brain. ||

↝⎙ 11.9.24

You tried ignoring the eye on you, but that didn't do much to help. If anything, it frustrated you more. The whole day was already too much. When you had agreed to go with Daryl, everything was fine. You were in a decent mood.

Then, a buck showed up. It was beautiful. The horns stood strong, the south twitching. It was looking around, glassy eyes shining. After admiring it, you reached back, right into the quiver on your back. Your fingers fumbled, and the arrow fell onto the crunchy leaves below. The buck was quick to run in the opposite direction.

As if on cue, your stomach growled. You threw your head back in frustration.

Daryl watched, brows furrowed. “I saw a squirrel over there.” He pointed to the left of where the buck had been standing. You stomped your way over, not saying anything to him.

Daryl carried the squirrels over his shoulder, thoughts running through his mind, thanks to the silence. You hadn't said a word since you two had left. He could see the gears turning in your own head.

“Stop right here. It's gettin' dark.” He hung the squirrels up on a nearby branch, sliding his bag off his shoulder. Shrugging the thin jacket off, he laid it on the ground, offering a little more comfort than the twigs and leaves of the wood floor.

Sitting down on the edge of the fabric, you shrugged your own bag off.

Scrounging up some leaves and twigs, you put it in a circular shape. Next, your hands were working quick to make a flame. Maybe too quick.

The frustration was growing on your brow. Again, Daryl silently watched.

Grumbling, you threw the sticks a few feet away.

You huffed, the twigs refusing to catch fire despite your best efforts. The frustration was boiling over.

Daryl watched for a moment before kneeling beside you. “Here, you're goin' too fast.”

You scoffed, “No I'm not.” He ignored you.

He took the flint and steel from your hands, demonstrating the proper technique with practiced ease.

You watched closely, trying to ignore the embarrassment creeping in. “I know how to do it,” you muttered, though your tone lacked conviction.

Daryl smirked slightly, “Ain't about knowin'. It's about patience.” He handed the tools back to you. “Now, try again. Slow this time.”

Taking a deep breath, you followed his instructions, striking the flint with more control. This time, a small flame flickered to life, and your eyes widened with triumph.

“See? Told ya,” Daryl said, a hint of pride in his voice.

You smiled for the first time that day, the warmth of the fire matching the warmth spreading in your chest. “Thanks.”

He nodded, settling back against a tree. “No problem. We'll make a survivalist outta you yet.”

Your mood changed for the better. The frustration from before wasn't warranted. Truthfully, you couldn't remember why you were mad to begin with. Usually going into the woods with Daryl was relaxing. Today just wasn't one of those days, at least, not at the beginning. Now, you were willing to talk, even ask questions about survival tips and tricks.

“Do you ever get frustrated out here?”

Daryl looked at you, considering the question. “Yeah, sometimes. But that's part of it. Ain't always easy, but it's worth it.”

You nodded, taking in his words. “I guess I just need to be more patient.”

He chuckled softly. “Patience ain't somethin' you just have. It's somethin' you learn. And you're gettin' there.”

You felt a sense of relief wash over you. “Thanks, Daryl. For everything.”

“Anytime,” he replied, the firelight dancing in his eyes. “Now, let's get these squirrels cookin'.”

You and Daryl made quick work of skinning the squirrels, bellies grumbling with hunger.

You felt something fall in your left hand. Stopping your movements, you looked up.

Another water droplet fell on your face, sliding down the side of your nose. Soon, more droplet fell between the tree leaves, sizzling on the fire. The frustration was quick to come back, “What the fu-”

Daryl glanced up at the sky, then back at you. “Looks like it's gonna pour.”

You sighed, feeling the frustration bubble up again. “Great, just what we need.”

He stood up, grabbing a tarp from his pack. “We gotta move fast. Help me set this up.”

Together, you worked quickly to rig up a makeshift shelter, the rain starting to fall more steadily. The fire sizzled and spat as the droplets hit it, but you managed to cover it just in time.

“Guess we won't be cooking those squirrels tonight,” you muttered, trying to keep the disappointment out of your voice.

Daryl shook his head. “We'll find a way. Always do.”

You couldn't help but admire his calm in the face of yet another challenge. “Doesn't any of this get to you?”

He shrugged, adjusting the tarp. “Been through worse. You learn to roll with it.”

As the rain continued to fall, you settled under the tarp, feeling a strange sense of peace despite the situation. Maybe, just maybe, you were starting to understand what Daryl meant about patience and rolling with the punches.

•2021-2024 by xoxo-sarah on Tumblr•

•My work is not to be translated, copied, modified, and/or reposted on any other site without my permission. [I don't give permission!]

[do-androids-dream-ao3acc]

It hurts to feel, to think, to know I may be nothing

(a kind of fix-it for 8x06)

The knocking on his door is insistent, almost angry. 

Tommy looks at the alarm clock next to his bed. The glowing digits, the only and quite pale light in the room, show 2:45 am. Who would knock on his door at this hour? There's this little tiny heart stumble that gives him a name in response, which he immediately suppresses. Tommy, who is lying on his bed fully dressed and can't sleep anyway, just hopes it's not him. Not … Buck. He couldn't bear that, not now. No pleading from those Bambi eyes, no broken voice with a stutter worse than ever. He wouldn't be able to look at the man and think of him as detached as he had called him when he left, he wouldn't be able to see anything other than Evan, and that would be wrong. Tommy weighed this thought back and forth in his head, trying to make it somehow more correct. 

The knocking is still energetic, it just won't stop. Tommy sighs. He considers just lying there, playing dead and staring at the ceiling until whoever is at the door leaves. But if it's Evan, if it really is him, then he can be trusted to knock all night. Or to try to break down the door. Although... No, he wouldn't do that. Unless he was drunk. Tommy remembers the story of when the Bachelor party got out of hand and a door was kicked in. His thoughts go round in circles, and he sighs again. It sounds theatrical in his empty bedroom, but that's the way it is. He slowly gets up, swings his legs out of bed and shuffles to the door. 

This little stab in his heart, which is not relief but disappointment, is pathetic. It’s not Evan, of course not.

It’s Eddie.

Definitely, the first thing Evan would do is go to Eddie. Then, probably in the early morning, to Bobby. Or to his sister. Heck, he’ll see all his friends because he can; and that thought somehow hurts even more. Tommy isn't afraid that Evan will make him look like a bad guy. He has every right to grieve and seek comfort. It's just that he can. From whom does Tommy find comfort?

In any case, Eddie, who looks a little disheveled and a little drunk with his red cheeks, doesn't exactly appear like someone who wants to console him. 

“Have you checked the time?” Tommy asks gruffly. 

“I did, but have you checked your brain?”

Eddie taps him on the forehead with two fingers, then pushes past him without being asked, casually dropping onto the couch in the living room. 

“This isn't the best time, Eddie,” Tommy says wearily. Yes, he is tired, even if he can't sleep. 

“Might be. But that's what this is all about, isn't it?”

That hurts, and Tommy feels anger building behind his forehead, which will be a decent headache in a few hours. Unshed tears, that's how Abby used to call it. Abby, with whom everything began and somehow everything ended. All the shame and anger about himself make Tommy's muscles tense. 

“Don't think you’d understand.”

Tommy stands there with his arms crossed, defensive, as he has been all his life, but Eddie is not impressed. Of course not, why would he. Eddie has told him stories of Afghanistan and the dirt he's been through. One man’s defensive attitude hardly impresses him. 

“Why not?”

“Because you've never been in that situation, quite simply.”

“Oh, so you want to use my non-existent queer experience against me, do you? Shallow.”

Tommy lets out a long breath and growls, “What exactly do you want, Eddie?”

“I want to know why.”

A simple sentence, a simple statement, but Tommy feels like he's been deflated. He searches for words, but they are hard to find.

“Listen,” he finally says, ”I know you're here as E… as Buck’s friend. That’s sweet, but…”

“That's true,” Eddie replies surprisingly soberly, ”but I'm also here as your friend. Sometimes we need our people to tell us we're being silly.”

Of course, he speaks from experience. That's kind of the point, and now it's bursting out of Tommy. 

“I managed well on my own for years,” he says, the words tumbling out of his mouth. “I've been through it all, the self-denial, the shame, the half-hearted relationships. Evan will never have to experience that, and I'm grateful for that. But still... this guy just stumbled into my life, no, rather rolled through it like a steamroller.”

"He broke your barriers," Eddie interrupts him. 

Tommy gives him a look. Eddie actually understands. Why is he so surprised? Tommy doesn't give away his friendship lightly, and Eddie is more profound than he pretends to be. Or even than his friends sometimes think. Which, by the way, is also true of Evan, which is where he starts chasing his own tail, right?

“He did. And he comes with a lot of luggage.”

“Oh yes,” Eddie laughs. Then, he narrows his eyes, watching Tommy intently. “Wait, you don’t  mean his past and all?”

Tommy drops into the armchair opposite the sofa and shakes his head. 

“We... actually didn't really talk much about the past. It was more like...”

“The heat of the moment?”

Tommy doesn’t have to ponder about that, because it’s true. Every new relationship is like this, everything is exciting and full of icing. You don't use the time you have with questions. They didn't have much time, that's the curse of shift work and a life as a first responder. 

“Suddenly, half a year has passed,” he says with wonder. “And then he says he wants to move in with me.”

“Were you afraid of the next step?”

The way Eddie phrases this question tells him that Evan hasn't fully understood what happened. He's sorry for that, but he's sorry for so much, it's just more grief on top of a big pile of sorrow. 

“I'm just afraid of losing my heart,” Tommy returns, and strangely enough, Eddie laughs again.

“Do you think that's funny?”

Eddie raises his hands defensively, “What I actually find funny is that you lost your heart a long time ago, Tommy. You left the man standing outside the restaurant and gave him a second chance anyway. You’re the first contact in his phone. You're the one with the ice packs, the one who buried his stupid curse with him.”

“You would have done all that too.”

“Sure, except for the part about the funeral maybe, but only because Buck and I are on terms where you can tell your friend that he's being stupid. You, on the other hand... you have heart eyes when you see him. You stroke his hand in passing, you hold back on the kisses when anybody is around only to protect him.”

“You noticed that?”

“I noticed a few things,” says Eddie. “Especially that Buck feels the same way about you. There comes a point in every relationship when you take off your rose-tinted glasses. The only mistake you've made is convincing yourself that this will end anyway.”

“But it will,” Tommy replies dispassionately. 

“Because you're his first? That's stupid, Tommy.”

“What would you know about it?” Tommy replies heatedly.

Eddie tilts his head, “Didn't you listen when I told you about Shannon? I married my first love. I know what you're thinking, of course, it didn't end well, yada yada. But it wasn't because we didn't love each other, Tommy. We were very young and very stupid, and it hurts me to see two grown men like you, who also love each other very much, behaving so stupidly.”

Tommy sinks down in his chair.

“He acts impulsively,” he interjects. “He doesn't know what he's getting himself into, and in the end, when he understands that he needs more, he'll leave. And that will hurt a lot more.”

“Maybe,” Eddie says and stands up. As unasked as he came in, he steps up to Tommy's fridge and rummages through it for a can of beer. Then he points it at Tommy and says, “But not having loved will hurt more. Being too much of a coward hurts.”

“I'm not a coward.”

“Yes, you are, because you're running away from your own feelings. And not even giving Buck the chance to prove to you that he's worth brightening up your lonely life.”

“Now you sound like a guy in a soap opera,” Tommy says sourly.

“Nah, I sound like someone who has screwed up so much in his life that he should be the last person to give advice to others. But this is Buck we're talking about, and he's just a whining misery sleeping on my couch. And it’s about you, a friend I’m fond of.”

He takes a deep sip and grimaces.

“I think you've had enough for today,” says Tommy. 

“Guess you're right.”

Eddie gets up, and to his credit, it has to be noted that he doesn't sway. Or just a little bit. 

“Let me summarize the whole mess like this: you fucked up, Buck doesn't understand why, and honestly I don't quite get it either. But what I do understand is that you should work it out together. Tomorrow morning… no wait, in a couple of hours. Sleep, then come over, and bring breakfast.”

“I don't know if that's such a good idea.”

The worst part is that there is a certain hopefulness in Tommy's voice, it almost cracks. Evan hasn't done anything wrong, and it's probably only right that he at least tells him that. Even if it hurts. Because Eddie is actually right - it will hurt no matter what, and it's better to love than to grieve over a love that could never evolve. 

“But I do.”

There is so much confidence in Eddie's voice. Something has happened to him, and one day Tommy will ask him about it. Now he holds on to his own door and nods weakly.

“Let me sleep on it,” he says. 

Eddie winks at him as he leaves.

[zyafics-recs]

reblogging comment review by @zyafics

i’m alive i’m here (i’m fulfilling my duties bc damn a bitch went offline for 9 days and is behind on everything 😭) ⬇️

You drifted to your room, collapsing onto the small bed. The familiar scent of home did little to soothe the ache in your chest. It didn’t feel right. It never did, only when your brother was around, but now, not even that thought gave you faith as you closed your eyes, picturing Rafe’s face. His smile, his touch, his voice – they were all painfully vivid.

ugh i miss ur writing sm i love how this scene felt “slow” like u were navigating this lagged moment with her because nothing felt real

As you both settled in, the familiar warmth of his presence was a small comfort, a reminder that despite everything, you were still here together.

i don’t give a shit the one thing i love more than romance stories is sibling relationships 😭 they’re my heart n soul

"He’s facing several charges, but the severity of his sentence could depend on his cooperation. If he agrees to testify against his father, the authorities might offer him a deal."

i fear he won’t do it 😭😃

“You’re too good, y’know that? Personally, I don’t give a fuck if he dies.”

jj 😭😭😭 leave her alone 😭😭😭

"Complicated? Complicated is being stuck on an island, wondering if your sister is alive or dead. Complicated is dealing with the fact that the guy who put us through hell gets to play hero for a day and suddenly he's got your sympathy."

screaming into my pillow ur dialogues r too good

A carbon copy of your mother, your punishment.

okay pause ✋🏼 not the thematic parallel to abusive and neglectful parental figures i cannot handle this

You were just trying to find a shred of humanity in someone who had shown you a glimpse of it.

THIS LINE EATS SO HARD 😭😭😭

“Is that what you tell yourself to make you feel better?”

my jj would swing at ur jj for the way ur talking to ur sister

“Because I want to!” You screamed even though you hadn’t meant to. Tears of frustration fell as you raised your head, “And as far as I’m concerned, I’m still my own person and I can make my own decisions.”

PERIOD!!!!

 “He was good to me.”

girl *I* held my breath

Sarah never pushed you to talk, never demanded explanations. Instead, she just sat with you, shared a laugh or two, and let the silence speak for itself. It was a strange comfort; one you hadn’t realized you needed until it was there.

i love ur sarah sm mines a bitchhh 🙂‍↕️✋🏼

“No. Uh, a friend, I guess—” You were about to ramble, not too certain of what to say, but settled for, “Can you tell him Maybank’s calling?”

WHY DO I FEEL LIKE HIS PUNK ASS IS GONNA BE LIKE “i don’t know a maybank”

"I’m sorry. Mr. Cameron has requested not to speak with you," she said. "Is there anything else I can assist you with?"

YOU PUNK ASS BITCH

You screamed until your throat was raw, until you had nothing left to give.

no i didn’t (personally cannot scream LOL)

Six months had passed since that day

what the actual fuck

You had spent the afternoon alone, lounging in the living room with a half-read book and a broken fan that did little to ease the stifling heat. 

such good imagery god i love this

Your words caught in your throat as you saw him standing there. 

my heart is pounding omg

“You had six months.”

YIKES 😬

You looked at him, searching for any sign of deceit. His eyes were clear, more focused than you had ever seen them. “Why should I believe you?”

i’m shaking rn pls give a girl some respite

Rafe looked offended, eyes zeroing in on your lips before his gaze met yours. That's when you felt it again, “I never lied to you.”

i’m throwing punches into my pillow rn biting my teeth ohmygod

Rafe’s expression softened, and he reached out tentatively, his hand stopping inches from your arm. “I’m sorry, baby.”

go away demon 👹 @ gigi

It’s only then, when your brain cleared slightly that you noticed he looked different. His hair had been buzzed, his skin looked tanner than the last time you’d seen him, he looked healthier. 

oh we’re in season 3 now ok

“I’m sorry,” he said, his voice barely a whisper. “I’m so sorry.”

i’m literally scraping my fingernails against chalkboards rn pls stop this madness 🛑🛑🛑

Rafe paused in the doorway, his back to you. His voice was barely above a whisper, but it carried clearly through the thick air. "I don’t regret it," he repeated, his shoulders tensing as he spoke.

gonna die ok 🪦

You had tried so hard to suppress your feelings, to deny the depth of your connection with him. But this…wasn’t something that could be easily forgotten or ignored. You had been so afraid to admit it, fearing that acknowledging would destroy you. 

You were in love with Rafe Cameron. 

oh my fucking god u did it again

final thoughts — ohmygod. i dont know why i kept putting off reading this? i think a part of me was scared because the literal content warning was “aka angst” and i said no. anyways, first and foremost u done it again gigi. what i was so impressed about this chapter was ur ability to create such flowing, strong and long dialogues. the one between jj and reader i read twice because i can’t believe how naturally-paced this story goes through that u don’t even realized it’s chunks on chunks of dialogues. that’s such an incredible feat and knowing now that ur from europe and english is probably a second language? the way u select the right words at the right time is an talent i strive to have. i’m like re-editing in my head being like “would i come up with that?” and being like “yeah i would’ve ended it there (bc i don’t know how to elongate a scene) but gigi knew how to keep it going.” gigi, when i tell u that’s one of the most impressive skills i’ve ever seen in my life i’m so serious. also, the way you structure and keep a consistent flow of emotions. the beginning of the story is stretched out in a way that i cinematically imagined a lagged moment. yk how in euphoria where it drags a scene from one part to the next? like that. and then the ending, when i said i was shaking, i was truly shaking. u had my heart clutched in ur hand and u just SQUEEZED IT 😭 💔 the way i felt everything and was so scared and panicking and my eyes wanted to read ahead because i wanted to know what happens but i also wanted to enjoy the writing 😭 u got me doing mental gymnastics trying to figure out how to read 😃 i thoroughly enjoyed this to the very end and ngl, i am so scared to read the next chapter i think imma hold off for a min…

THE OTHER SIDE OF PARADISE - rafe cameron (+18) - five

request: "a rafe enemies to lovers 🫣 the reader is jjs sister the whole drama before but then she gets left behind on the ship and rafe ends up comforting her and then yea that’s all I got you can do whatever else the rest 😛"

warnings: angst <3333333 for everyone <33; might need some editing bc im too tired to check everything but yeah

word count: 7.7k

The ride back to home was a blur. The plane ride, the ferry.

Everything. 

Every mile that took you further from Rafe felt like a wound being reopened. The police officers tried to engage you in conversation, but your responses were monosyllabic at best. They eventually gave up, letting you stare out the window in silence.

When you finally arrived, the sight of the familiar streets of The Cut did little to comfort you. Your house felt alien, a place you barely recognized. The officers escorted you inside, their presence a reminder of the reality you were returning to. 

“Your brother and your friends were rescued from a remote island a while ago. He was informed of your whereabouts an hour ago, he’ll be here soon.”

Their words barely registered.

You nodded numbly; your mind still stuck between the events that had unfolded just two days ago.

What kind of sister had you turned into? Barely phased over the fact your little brother was thankfully alive and well? You were supposed to protect him. 

Sensing your detachment, they exchanged a look before retreating to the porch, giving you some semblance of privacy.

You wandered through the house, your steps heavy. Each room felt like a snapshot from another life. The couch where you and your brother used to bicker over TV shows when Luke spent days doing God knows what, the kitchen table where meals were shared and stories were told, only between you two– they all seemed like relics of a past you could no longer touch.

Things would never be the same, you knew that.

You drifted to your room, collapsing onto the small bed. The familiar scent of home did little to soothe the ache in your chest. It didn’t feel right. It never did, only when your brother was around, but now, not even that thought gave you faith as you closed your eyes, picturing Rafe’s face. His smile, his touch, his voice – they were all painfully vivid.

That must be your punishment. 

A soft knock on the door jolted you from your thoughts. You sat up, heart racing. Your body was still on high alert, every little noise sent shivers down your skin. The blasting of the gunshots was still deeply rooted in your brain. It hadn’t even been three days. 

The old wooden door creaked open, and your brother's face appeared, bright blue eyes wide with concern. He rushed to your side, pulling you into a tight embrace nearly knocking the air out of your lungs.

"Holy shit,” he whispered, his voice thick with emotion, “Holy shit.”

You clung to him, the dam breaking as tears streamed down your face. The sobs wracked your body as JJ held you like you used to hold him. It devastated you. It felt so disappointing. He was never supposed to be the one carrying the family burden, you were. After what felt like an eternity, you pulled back, wiping your tears. Your brother sat beside you, his eyes searching your face.

“You’re not hurt?”

You took a shaky breath, trying to find the words, but all you managed to blurt out was a small “No. You?”

“No,” JJ nodded, lips pursed into a tight line as if he was figuring out what to say next, “They told me about the shooting.”

Your heart sank further at his words. You had hoped to avoid talking about it, at least for a little while. But he was watching you like he used to when you would act as a human shield for him, you couldn't brush it aside.

“I’m fine, I promise.” You reached out and squeezed his hand. "What about you? How did you get off that island?"

JJ let out a bitter laugh, shaking his head.

“It was a mess. We were stuck there for weeks, trying to find a way out. Pope and Kie kept us sane, but it was rough. We finally managed to signal a passing boat, and they rescued us. But the whole time, I couldn't stop thinking about you."

You squeezed his hand tighter, guilt and gratitude warring within you.

"I'm sorry I wasn't there. I'm so sorry, JJ."

He shook his head vehemently. "No, don't apologize. None of this is your fault. I—I should’ve saved you on that ship, okay? It’s on me, not you.”

You’d cry again if you didn’t feel like your body was about to collapse, “You did everything you could. We both did. It's not your fault."

“The one time we changed places, and I couldn’t do it.”

"Jay—"

"I should have been there for you," He insisted, "I hated it."

It was your fault, not his. You pulled him into another hug, trying to convey with your touch what words couldn't express. The weight of your shared guilt and pain was almost suffocating, but at least you were together. You felt his body shaking, whether, from exhaustion or emotion, you couldn't tell.

When you finally let go, you took a deep breath, hoping to find some semblance of strength.

"We’re gonna be okay.”

JJ nodded, though you could see the doubt lingering in his eyes. "I know. It's just... hard."

"I get it. But we're both here, we're alive.”

A small, sad smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. "Yeah, I guess you're right."

The two of you sat in silence for a while, it was a fragile peace, but it was something. The familiar sound of the waves crashing against the shore outside the window was a reminder that life continued, even when it felt like your world had stopped.

"Do you think things will ever go back to normal?" JJ's voice was quiet, almost hesitant.

If he only knew. The one time you managed to close your eyes and sleep you were plagued by nightmares of JJ finding out what you’d done. About you and Rafe. It made you want to scratch your skin raw. 

“Yeah.”

You could see the exhaustion in his eyes, a mirror of your own fatigue. You knew you both needed rest, but the thought of sleep was daunting. The nightmares felt too close, the darkness too suffocating.

"Let's try to get some sleep," You suggested softly, though you weren't sure you could follow your own advice. "We both need it, ‘kay?”

JJ nodded, but you could see the wariness in his eyes. He laid down next to you, the bed barely accommodating the both of you.

As you both settled in, the familiar warmth of his presence was a small comfort, a reminder that despite everything, you were still here together.

The minutes ticked by in silence, the only sound being the rhythmic crashing of the waves outside. You focused on that, letting it be your anchor. Slowly, the tension in your body started to ease, the weight of the day’s events beginning to lift, even if just a little.

"Do you remember the first time we went out on the boat alone?" JJ's voice was a whisper in the darkness, a fragile thread connecting the past to the present.

A small smile tugged at your lips. "Yeah. You insisted you knew how to steer, and we almost ended up crashing into that sandbank."

He chuckled softly. "We were so scared. But you figured it out. You always did."

The memory was a bittersweet reminder of simpler times, a time when your biggest worry was navigating the boat, not navigating the chaos your lives had become. When you weren’t a complete fuck up.

Exhaustion finally began to overtake you, your eyes growing heavy. JJ's breathing evened out beside you, a comforting rhythm that lulled you closer to sleep. You wanted to tell him everything, but you couldn’t. Not without losing him in the process. 

Sleep came slowly, but when it did, it was deep and dreamless. Completely void, much like yourself these days. 

Morning came too soon, sunlight filtering through the curtains and casting a warm glow over the room.

You blinked awake, disoriented for a moment before the events of the past days came rushing back. JJ was still asleep beside you, his face peaceful in repose.

Carefully, you slipped out of bed, not wanting to wake him. The officer who comforted you after the shooting promised to call as soon as he got an update on Rafe’s condition. And so far? No call.

You wondered if the hospital or the police had contacted Sarah. She was Rafe’s closest family, aside from Wheezie who was still a kid, and Ward who was a sought-out criminal. It made sense that they would reach out to her.

If you rang the hospital, they wouldn’t disclose a thing, you weren’t family, and it wasn’t like you could ask Sarah. She would know something was wrong the moment you asked about Rafe. It was risky. 

The kitchen felt eerily quiet, the early morning light casting long shadows on the walls. You made yourself a cup of coffee, the warmth a small comfort against the chill that had settled in your bones.

Sitting at the table, you sipped slowly, trying to come up with some sort of tangible plan. You wanted to know if he was okay, needed to know, but every option seemed fraught with risk.

Your new phone buzzed on the table, jolting you from your thoughts.

You picked it up, heart pounding as you saw an unknown number flashing on the screen. You hesitated for a moment before answering.

“Hello?”

“This is Officer Thompson. I promised I’d keep you updated on Rafe Cameron’s condition.”

You closed your eyes, thanking God for finally giving you some piece of mind, “Yes, thank you.”

“He’s stable,” Officer Thompson continued. “The surgery went well, and he’s in recovery. It’ll be a while before he’s fully back on his feet, but he’s out of immediate danger.”

The knot in your stomach loosened slightly. “Thank you for letting me know.”

There was a pause on the other end.

“I know this is difficult, but you should focus on your own recovery too. There’s a chance the feds will contact you, they’re building their case on Ward. What happened to you is, unfortunately, considered a minor crime compared to everything he’s done, so maybe you’ll get some peace. If not, you might have to testify against him.”

The idea of having to testify against Ward made you uncomfortable to no end. Reliving those moments in front of a courtroom full of strangers seemed unbearable. 

“And Rafe? What are his charges?”

"He’s facing several charges, but the severity of his sentence could depend on his cooperation. If he agrees to testify against his father, the authorities might offer him a deal."

A deal. It was a slim chance, but it was something. You hated yourself for the weight that left your shoulders. He should be locked up, you knew that, back then you prayed for the day he paid for what he did and yet here you were, holding on to any possibility of freedom.

You thanked Officer Thompson again and ended the call, setting your phone down with a shaky hand. The coffee had grown cold, but you didn't have the energy to make another cup. You sat there for a long moment, staring into space, trying to gather your thoughts.

The sound of footsteps drew your attention, and you turned to see JJ standing in the doorway, his hair tousled and eyes still heavy with sleep.

“Who was that?” He asked, his voice still groggy.

“Uh—Officer Thompson. He was at the scene the other day and told me he’d keep me updated.”

JJ tilted his head, his messy bed hair following suit, “Updated on what?”

“Rafe’s condition,” You replied, the words feeling heavy on your tongue. It was a half-lie. At least you were giving him something. 

JJ stopped in his tracks, “And you care because…?”

“For closure, I guess.”

JJ’s gaze softened slightly as he walked over to the table, pulling out a chair and sitting across from you.

“You’re too good, y’know that? Personally, I don’t give a fuck if he dies.”

You winced inwardly. "JJ, you can't just say stuff like that.”

He leaned back in his chair, brows furrowed. "Why not? After everything he’s done, he deserves whatever he gets."

You couldn't argue with that, but part of you still felt the need to defend Rafe. He saved your life.

“He’s still a human being, okay?”

JJ scoffed, shaking his head. "Barely.”

You didn’t know why you suddenly felt so angry, so defensive. But it made its way up your body until your lips were moving again, practically spitting the words out.

“He saved my life.”

Your brother stared at you like you were speaking another language, “Saved your life? Are you serious? It’s his fault you were there in the first place!”

“He chose to help me. And I can't just forget that."

JJ ran a hand through his hair, clearly agitated.

"This is insane. One good deed doesn't erase all the bad he's done."

You reached for his back, “I know that.”

He pulled away from your touch, your fingers only brushing against his shirt, “Do you?”

His retreat felt like a knife to your heart. JJ had always been your rock, the one person you could count on. Seeing him look at you with such disbelief and anger made you feel more isolated than ever. He looked at you like you’d imagined in your nightmares, but the real thing felt ten times worse. 

"I’m not saying he’s a good person. I’m just saying… it’s complicated."

He paced around the kitchen table.

"Complicated? Complicated is being stuck on an island, wondering if your sister is alive or dead. Complicated is dealing with the fact that the guy who put us through hell gets to play hero for a day and suddenly he's got your sympathy."

"It's not sympathy," You insisted, your voice rising despite your best efforts to stay collected. You never raised your voice at him. "It's just... I don't know. I saw a different side of him. Maybe he can change. Or at least help put Ward away."

JJ stopped and spun around to face you, his eyes blazing. "And what if he doesn't? What if this is all part of some twisted game for him? People like Rafe don't just change, okay? They manipulate, they hurt, they destroy."

“JJ—"

“You sound exactly like her.”

You didn’t have to ask to know what he meant. Suddenly your entire soul felt like it was being drained out and slashed into pieces.

You spent a lifetime hearing it, from Luke.

A carbon copy of your mother, your punishment.

“Don’t say that.”

“That’s exactly the type of bullshit she would spit out about dad, wasn’t it? And look where it got her.”

Memories of your mother flooded back. The excuses, the false hope, and the endless cycle of pain and disappointment. You weren’t her, were you? Holding out for a man who was never going to change, who would only inflict pain upon your life? It couldn’t be. You spent your entire life making sure you were nothing like her.

It wasn’t fair.

You weren’t making excuses for Rafe as your mother did for Luke. You were just trying to find a shred of humanity in someone who had shown you a glimpse of it. You stood there, feeling the weight of his accusation like a leaden cloak.

How could he think you were blind to Rafe’s faults? You knew them all too well. Standing there in the kitchen, under the harsh morning light, you felt exposed, vulnerable, and fiercely defensive.

“I’m not her,” You finally managed to say, your voice cracking, “I’m not defending him like she did.”

“Is that what you tell yourself to make you feel better?”

Your eyes narrow into slits, “I’m not doing this with you, not right now.” 

You turned away, your fists clenched at your sides as you fought to regain your composure.

He followed you hot on your trail, "Don't walk away from me.”

"I'm not defending him," You insisted, your back still to him, “I’m just trying to understand, okay?”

“Understand what? Jesus, Rafe is who he is.”

"And maybe he can change," You shot back, the words spilling out despite the tightening knot in your chest. "Maybe he saved my life because he wants to change."

"He's manipulating you," JJ retorted, his jaw clenched. "Just like he always does. You went through some traumatic shit together, but that doesn't mean you owe him anything."

You stopped dead in your tracks, turning to face him again. Your head was tingling, the headache already forming itself, and you felt hot all-over. 

“Some traumatic shit?” You repeated, “Are you fucking serious?”

JJ raised both his hands, tangling them in his hair in frustration, “You almost died, and now you're here defending the guy who put you in that position?"

The accusation stung. You felt the heat rise in your chest. You hated fighting with your brother. You were letting your feelings for Rafe get between the two of you.

He shook his head, disappointment oozing from him in waves, "Good luck with that. Just don't expect me to sit here and act like everything's okay."

You blinked away the dryness in your eyes, "I'm not asking you to. Can't you see that maybe things aren't as black and white as they seem?"

“All I know is what he's done to us, to you."

"And what about what he did for me?" You shot back, the words bitter on your tongue.

“And what did he do exactly?" Your lips parted to speak, but words continued to spill from his mouth, “What did you do?”

You gave no reply, unblinking, short breaths escaping you. His accusation lingered in the air, challenging you to defend the indefensible. The truth was there, clawing at your mind, but you couldn't bring yourself to voice it. 

Not to JJ, not yet.

"I don't expect you to understand," You finally said, voice strained, "But I’m not turning my back on him.”

JJ's eyes narrowed; frustration etched on his face. "Why?”

“Because I want to!” You screamed even though you hadn’t meant to. Tears of frustration fell as you raised your head, “And as far as I’m concerned, I’m still my own person and I can make my own decisions.”

He opened his mouth to respond, but the words seemed to evaporate. For a moment, the kitchen was filled with nothing but the sound of your heavy breathing and the instant regret that filled your bones.

Finally, JJ spoke, his voice low and strained. "Fine. Do what you want."

You watched as he turned away, his shoulders tense with anger or disappointment – perhaps both. His footsteps echoed loudly in the quiet kitchen as he stormed out, leaving you standing there, feeling raw and exposed. It was the first time you had ever raised your voice at him, and the aftermath left a bitter taste in your mouth. 

Alone in the kitchen, you sank into your chair again, your energy completely drained. Part of you wanted to run after him, to explain, to make him understand. But he never would. None of them would.

Because unlike you, they weren’t stupid enough to sympathize with Rafe Cameron.

Sitting there, you couldn't shake the feeling that you'd crossed a line, one you might not be able to uncross. You stared at your hands, still trembling from the argument, and let out a long, shaky breath. What was it about Rafe that had such a grip on you? 

You heard the front door open and close, a clear sign that JJ had left the house. Maybe it was for the best, giving you both time to cool down. You got up to pour the coffee down the sink, the sound of the liquid swirling away a tiny comfort.

You spent the entire day locked away in your room, avoiding any kind of social interaction, or the sun. Your phone buzzed again, and for a moment, you considered ignoring it.

You picked it up, expecting another call from Officer Thompson, but the name on the screen made your heart skip a beat.

Sarah.

With a deep breath, you answered. “Hey sweets.”

“Hi,” Sarah’s voice was almost unsure. “JJ and the police called earlier, told us what happened. Are you okay? I’m on the mainland with John B, we’re taking the next ferry back home.” 

You closed your eyes, somewhat relieved that you wouldn’t have to face them yet.

“Yeah, I’m…Managing. I'm okay.”

“Good, that’s good,” There was a pause, and then she asked, “Have you heard anything about...Rafe?”

Had the hospital not called her? The question hung in the air. You had, but you didn’t know how much to share. 

“He’s stable. The surgery went well.”

Sarah sighed, “Good. That’s good to hear I guess.”

“Sarah,” You began, hesitating. “Did the hospital call you?”

There was a long silence on the other end before she replied, “Yeah. But I…I don’t know. I just couldn’t bring myself to answer. I knew it was coming after the police called. But—Yeah, it’s just, it’s really hard.”

You didn’t know what to say, “I’m so sorry.”

“You’re the only one not giving me shit about still…caring? I guess. He’s my brother, you know? And I want to hate him, so bad, but I can’t.”

"I get it, Sarah. He's your brother. It's okay to feel conflicted."

"Yeah," She exhaled heavily, "But I don't know how to deal with it. He's done so much harm, and yet. I keep hoping there's still some good left in him. I know there's no hope for my dad, but Rafe..."

She had seen him before Ward turned him into this. She still carried the guilt of reveling in their father’s approval, the clear favoritism that she never stood against for her brother, even though she could see her father’s fingers printed on Rafe’s cheeks. 

Her words echoed your inner struggle. You understood her—how love and hate could coexist in such a tangled mess when it came to family. 

 “He was good to me.”

There was a long pause.

You expected her to hang up on you, to call you a list of degrading names, all of which you felt you deserved. She had suffered deeply at the hands of her brother— the same brother you had come to care for, despite knowing the full extent of what he’d done. 

But you underestimated her.

Caught between your own anxiety and the dread of truth being exposed, you momentarily forgot just how compassionate and noble Sarah was. She possessed a goodness that mirrored your own—loyal, forgiving, and endlessly understanding.

Both lovers and fighters.

 "I know, the feds told me about the shooting," Sarah finally said, "And I think that's what makes it so hard. Picturing him as the same monster from before was a lot easier.”

You nodded even though she couldn't see you, feeling a deep ache in your chest. "Yeah."

"I don't know what to do," She confessed, her vulnerability cutting through the distance between you. "Part of me wants to see him, to talk to him. And part of me wants to never look at him again."

"I think... whatever you decide, it's okay," You offered tentatively, not entirely sure if your words were comforting or just empty platitudes.

“John B disagrees.”

“Yeah, so does JJ.”

"I appreciate you telling me about Rafe," Sarah continued, her voice softer now, more vulnerable. "I... I don't think I could have handled hearing it from anyone else."

You felt a pang of guilt. "I'm sorry you had to hear it like this, sweetheart. I wish things were different."

"We all do," she replied softly. "Thank you.”

“Of course," You said, "Take care of yourself.”

"You too. We'll see you soon, okay?"

"Yeah. See you soon."

The call ended, and you stared at your phone for a long moment, the screen dark and lifeless, much like yourself lately. 

You spent the next few days in a haze, avoiding JJ and the rest of your friends as much as possible. You’d only seen Sarah. Somehow her presence didn’t make you feel as nervous as you thought. It weirdly calmed you down. You’d always been close, ever since she joined the group, but now you felt like she was the only one who understood your point of view. 

You knew Pope and Kie wouldn’t, and you couldn’t blame them.

Sarah never pushed you to talk, never demanded explanations. Instead, she just sat with you, shared a laugh or two, and let the silence speak for itself. It was a strange comfort; one you hadn’t realized you needed until it was there.

The small house felt like a prison. It wasn’t until a week later, as you sat on the beach watching the waves crash against the shore, that your phone buzzed with a message. It was the officer: "Rafe’s awake."

Your heart leaped into your throat. You still hadn’t told anyone the full extent of what had happened between you and him, and you weren’t sure you ever could. They knew he was in the hospital, that you two had gotten caught in a shooting, that he’d somehow saved your life. That was it. But now, with him awake…You didn’t know what to do.

With trembling hands, you dialed the number the officer had provided. After a few rings, someone answered.

"Hello, this is St. Michael Hospital. How can I help you?"

You snap out of your daze, "Hi, I'm calling to check on a patient, Rafe Cameron. I was told he’s awake."

There was a pause, the sound of keyboard keys clicking. "Yes, Mr. Cameron is awake. Are you a family member?"

“No. Uh, a friend, I guess—” You were about to ramble, not too certain of what to say, but settled for, “Can you tell him Maybank’s calling?”

“Okay, just a minute please.”

The hold music was the only thing keeping you centered on the moment, each note heightening your anxiety. When the nurse returned, her tone was pitiful, and you knew then that you weren’t going to like her answer.

"I’m sorry. Mr. Cameron has requested not to speak with you," she said. "Is there anything else I can assist you with?"

You wanted to hurl the phone into the ocean, plunge your head underwater, and only resurface when the ringing in your ears ceased.

 What the hell? 

You had spent weeks on edge, consumed by thoughts of him, hoping he would survive, praying for him despite not believing in that sort of thing. You didn't have it in you to put up a fight.

"No, that's all. Thank you." You ended the call and stared at your phone. 

Rafe didn’t want to speak with you.

You felt foolish, as if you were just now glimpsing the bigger picture and recognizing that maybe he didn’t care after all. Perhaps, on the island, you were the one thing keeping him grounded, but now? Now you were back to being a nobody, just a pogue.

It felt like everything you had shared was for nothing.

Had you imagined it? No, you knew you hadn’t.

Rafe had kissed you and touched you with the tenderness of a lover, as if you were precious and any rough movement might break you.

The moments you had shared, the way he had saved your life—maybe they didn’t mean as much to him as they did to you. The bond you thought you had formed with Rafe was, perhaps, a desperate attempt to find something good in the chaos.

The waves crashed against the shore, the sound a distant roar as you sat on the sand, a storm brewing inside. You tried to hold it together, to keep the facade of normalcy for a little longer, but it was getting harder with each passing day. This felt like it was the final straw.

Without warning, a scream ripped from your throat, raw and unfiltered. It echoed across the empty beach, a primal release of everything you had been bottling up.

The anger, the confusion, the hurt—it all came pouring out in that one moment. Tears streamed down your face, mixing with the salty sea breeze.

You hadn’t cried properly in weeks. 

You screamed until your throat was raw, until you had nothing left to give. The sun cast long shadows on the sand, the beach deserted except for you. Collapsing back onto the sand, you let the tears flow freely. 

There was no one to judge you, no one to see you fall apart. You’d spent a lifetime pulling yourself together, it was only fair you finally got to breathe properly. When the tears subsided, you wiped your face with the back of your hand and took a shuddering breath. The tightness in your chest began to ease, replaced by a hollow ache.

You were many things, but none of them were weak and yet...It was almost unbearable, the way your mind replayed every interaction, every look, every word, searching for signs you might have missed, clues that would have warned you not to get attached.

The sound of footsteps in the sand pulled you from your thoughts.

You turned to see JJ approaching. Your heart sank; you weren’t ready to face him after the argument. He sat down next to you, silent for a moment as he followed your gaze out to the horizon.

When he finally spoke, his voice was softer than you expected.

“I’ve been thinking about what you said.”

You nodded, unsure of what to say.

“I’m sorry for what I said about Mom,” he continued, his tone filled with regret. “I shouldn’t have compared you to her. That wasn’t fair.”

You swallowed hard, the tension easing slightly from your shoulders. “It’s okay, JJ. I know you didn’t mean it.”

“I did, and I didn’t,” he admitted. “I just... I don’t want to see you get hurt. I don’t trust him, and I hate that you’ve been caught up in all this.”

“He doesn’t want to talk to me.”

He glanced at you, eyebrow raised. “What do you mean?”

“I called the hospital. They said he’s awake, but he doesn’t want to speak with me.”

Your brother frowned, his protective instincts flaring up. “That fucking asshole. After everything—”

You shook your head, cutting him off gently. “Maybe it’s for the best. Maybe he’s right.”

JJ’s expression softened, and he reached out, placing a hand on your shoulder.

“Hey, don’t do that. Don’t blame yourself. You did nothing wrong.”

A lump formed in your throat, but you nodded, trying to believe his words. “I just... I thought there was more to it. That maybe he could change.”

“People like Rafe... it’s hard to change.”

“Yeah.”

 “But that doesn’t mean you’re wrong for wanting to see the good in him.”

He spoke with such gentleness and wisdom. You forgot he wasn’t a kid anymore. That he’d also done his fair share of growing up way too fast. 

You leaned into his touch, “I know.”

“We’ll get through this,” JJ said firmly. “Together. You and me, like always.”

 “Love you.”

“Love you too.”

As the sun began to set, casting a warm glow over the beach, you and JJ sat there in silence. The waves continued to crash against the shore, a reminder that life moved forward, even when it felt like everything was falling apart.

Maybe things would never go back to the way they were, but you had your brother, your friends, and a resilience you hadn’t known you possessed. 

⋆ ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ⋆ ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ⋆ ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ⋆ ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ⋆ ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ⋆ ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ

Six months had passed since that day.

Life had settled into a fragile semblance of normalcy. The days were longer now, summer heat pressing down on The Cut, making the air thick and heavy. You had spent the afternoon alone, lounging in the living room with a half-read book and a broken fan that did little to ease the stifling heat. 

You were lost in your book when a loud, insistent banging on the door jolted you from your reverie. Few people would knock with such urgency.

The forceful banging on the door didn’t stop and you jolted upright.

Without thinking, you got up and flung the door open, irritation flaring. "What the f—"

Your words caught in your throat as you saw him standing there. 

"Rafe?" You blurted out. You immediately tried to close the door in his face, but he was quick. His hand shot out, holding it open, "Are you kidding me?" You hissed, pushing harder against the door.

"Maybank—"

"If you don't get off my property, I swear to fucking God—"

"Wait!" Rafe's voice was strained, his hand trembling as he held the door open. "Just listen for a second."

You glared at him, every instinct telling you to push harder, to shut him out. But something in his eyes—fear, desperation, a flicker of the Rafe you once knew—gave you pause.

The last time you saw him, he was bleeding out and terrifyingly pale.

The last update you had on him was from Sarah, months ago. He had left the hospital and kept sporadic contact, reaching out to her only every few weeks.

You never asked her about his well-being or what he was doing; despite guessing that he was cooperating with the police. At least you hoped he was. 

You were determined not to care anymore.

He leaned his weight against the doorframe, “You look good.”

You were going to slap the lack of common sense out of him. 

You scoffed, not letting your guard down. “What are you doing here?”

He looked down, struggling to find the words as he scratched the back of his head, “I... I needed to see you. To talk.”

“And I need you to crawl back to whatever hole you just creeped out of, have a good day.”

You tried to push the door shut again, but his grip tightened. “Please, just give me a minute.”

“You had six months.”

“I know, and I’m sorry. I was— It’s messed up, okay? I’m still working with the feds. I was losing it. Still am, probably. But I need to explain. Please, Maybank, just a minute.”

You hesitated the anger and hurt battling against the small, lingering part of you that still cared.

Finally, you stepped back, letting the door open just enough for him to enter.

“Talk,” you said, your voice icy.

Rafe stepped inside, looking around your small living room as if seeing it for the first time, which you now realized he'd never been in your house.

He turned to face you, his expression earnest. “I didn’t know what to say. I felt—“, He took a deep breath, cheeks puffing, “Ashamed. I don’t know.”

You crossed your arms over your chest, keeping a safe distance between you.

“Ashamed? You’ve done a lot of things to be ashamed of. You can’t just show up after six months and expect everything to be fine.”

“I know,” He admitted, taking a deliberate small step closer to you, “I wasn’t expecting that. I just... I wanted to tell you that I’m trying. I’m in therapy and rehab, trying to get clean. I’ve been going to meetings. It’s been hell, but I’m trying.”

You looked at him, searching for any sign of deceit. His eyes were clear, more focused than you had ever seen them. “Why should I believe you?”

He took a deep breath, visibly struggling to find the right words.

“Because you’re the only person who ever saw anything good in me. And I can’t forget that. I don’t deserve it, but I need you to know that your faith in me wasn’t for nothing.”

The vulnerability in his voice took you by surprise. You had expected anger, arrogance, manipulation—but this was different. Genuine. It felt like you were back in that motel room, in his arms.

You let out a scoff, focusing your gaze on the couch you were just resting on, as you shifted your weight on your feet. “Is that all?”

Rafe's eyes darted to the floor, “No, it’s not all. I just—Shit. I need to make things right. With you. I don’t know how, but I need to try.”

You took a deep breath.

Part of you wanted to believe him, to give him another chance, but the other part of you—the part that had been hurt and abandoned—was screaming not to fall for it again.

“You didn’t even want to talk to me when you woke up.”

He looked up, guilt etched across his features. “I didn’t know how to face you after everything that happened. I was a mess.”

“So you shut me out?” You snapped, “You made me feel like I meant nothing.”

“That’s not true,” He snapped back, head whipping up, then immediately softened his tone, taking another step closer. “That’s not true. You mean more to me than you’ll ever know. I was getting better for you."

“Don’t lie to me.”

Rafe looked offended, eyes zeroing in on your lips before his gaze met yours. That's when you felt it again, “I never lied to you.”

“Cameron.”

Another step closer. His eyes pleading with you to understand. 

You were staring up at him now, the look on your face completely unreadable. You were waiting for an answer, but he had a feeling that no matter what answer he gave, it wouldn't make a difference.

"I never lied to you," He repeated, his voice shaking slightly. "I was scared and confused, but I never lied.”

You felt your anger rising again, every muscle in your body tensing as you tried to keep control. “Scared and confused? That’s your excuse?”

Rafe flinched at your words, but he didn't back down. “I know how it sounds. I handled it all wrong. I’m trying to fix it.”

“You think saying sorry and showing up out of the blue makes it better? It doesn't erase the months of silence.”

His hands reached out, his palms open as if he was dealing with a wounded animal. “I’m not asking for forgiveness right away. I just want a chance to make things right.”

“You don’t get it, do you?” You spat, your voice trembling with emotion, “How it felt, watching you almost die. I spent days wondering if you were going to be—” 

You stopped yourself, knowing that if you continued your voice would crack and the tears would start pouring down your cheeks.

You already cried enough for him. 

Rafe’s expression softened, and he reached out tentatively, his hand stopping inches from your arm. “I’m sorry, baby.”

You took a step back, putting more distance between you, needing the space to think clearly. “I needed you to be sorry six months ago.”

It’s only then, when your brain cleared slightly that you noticed he looked different. His hair had been buzzed, his skin looked tanner than the last time you’d seen him, he looked healthier. 

Rafe noticed your eyes wandering to his head and ran a hand through his short hair, a hint of a self-conscious smile flickering across his lips. “Yeah, I uh, made some changes. Trying to start over, I guess.”

You nodded slightly, not quite trusting yourself to speak. Finally, you broke the silence, your voice steadier now.

“I’m happy for you, but I can’t do this.”

“Pretty—"

You sighed, rubbing your temples as you cut him off, “I feel guilty enough as it is around everyone else.”

“I told Sarah.”

His words hit you like a punch to your gut. 

“What?”

“About us.”

You felt your stomach drop and your vision narrow, the world tilting sideways as the reality of what he just said sank in. “You what?”

“I told her.” 

“You absolute fucking—” You hissed, your voice rising without warning, “Are you serious?!”

“I thought it was the right thing to do,” His tone faltered to one that could’ve fallen on deaf ears if not attentive enough. “I needed someone to talk to, and she’s…my sister.”

“You thought it was the right thing to do?” You were shouting now, unable to contain your anger. “You think spilling everything to Sarah was the right thing to do? Did you ever consider how that might affect me? Or her?”

Rafe flinched, taking a step back. “I didn’t think it would be this bad.”

“Of course you didn’t,” You nearly growled, pacing the small living room. “You never think about anyone but yourself, do you?”

“Listen— “ He opened his mouth undoubtedly to fire back with another half-assed apology - but you barreled forward, letting the months of bottled resentment continue to burst open.

“You’re so selfish.”

“She promised she wouldn’t tell anyone,” His throat bobbed in an audible gulp, “It’s okay.”

“You really believe that?” You stopped pacing and turned to face him, your hands clenched into fists at your sides. “This is too much for her to keep to herself. It’ll eat away at her until she tells someone. And when that happens, my life here is over.”

Rafe looked stricken, his face pale. “I just—I needed someone to understand what I’m going through.”

For the first time, he took the time to explain what was going on in his head instead of letting his frustrations take over and kissing you.

“And what about what I’m going through?” You demanded. “Did you ever stop to think about that? I’ve been trying to move on, to rebuild my life, and you just waltz back in and blow everything up.”

“I’m sorry,” he said, his voice barely a whisper. “I’m so sorry.”

You spotted his sun-kissed freckles. They wouldn’t be noticeable if you hadn’t looked at him so closely before.

“Sorry doesn’t fix this,” Bitterness began to overpower the pit of your heaving chest, “Sorry doesn’t make it go away. You can’t just undo what you’ve done.”

“I know,” One shaky hand scrubbed over his face, refusing to meet your wide-eyed stare., “But I’ll do whatever it takes to make it right. I swear.”

“Make it right? You can’t make this right, Rafe.”

“I don’t know what else to do,” he said, his voice breaking. “I’m trying, pretty. I really am.”

You felt a smidge of sympathy despite your anger. You could see the pain and desperation in his eyes, the same pain and desperation you had felt for the past six months. But that didn’t change the fact that he left you hanging for so long.

“I need you to leave,” you said finally, your voice cold and distant.

You expected him to put up a fight, to lash out, hide his emotions with empty threats and petty names. But he didn’t.

Instead, he nodded, his shoulders slumping slightly as he turned to leave. You watched him go in silence.

Part of you wanted to run after him, to give him another chance, to believe that he could change. But another part—the part that had been wounded and left to heal on its own—knew that it wasn’t that simple.

You had to protect yourself, even if it meant shutting him out for good.

Rafe paused in the doorway, his back to you. His voice was barely above a whisper, but it carried clearly through the thick air. "I don’t regret it," he repeated, his shoulders tensing as he spoke.

You blinked, taken aback. "What?"

He turned slightly, just enough for you to see the raw honesty in his eyes. "I don’t regret what happened. Between us. I regret how I handled it, how I hurt you, but I don’t regret feeling something real for once."

The words hung in the air, and for a moment, the suffocating heat seemed to dissipate, replaced by a cold clarity. You crossed your arms tighter around yourself, trying to hold onto your anger, your resolve. But his words had hit a nerve, bringing back memories you’d tried so hard to bury.

You looked away, unable to look at him, "It doesn’t change anything."

"I know.”

With that, he turned and walked out the door, the door clicking shut behind him, leaving you standing there. The room felt emptier than it hand in months as you leaned your forehead against the cool wood over the door.

You pushed away from the door, needing something to distract yourself. 

You picked up your book, but the words blurred on the page. You tossed it aside, your thoughts too chaotic to focus. Instead, you paced the small living room, replaying the conversation in your mind.

You eventually collapsed onto the couch, staring blankly at the ceiling. You did the right thing, so why did it hurt so bad? 

You felt like a wound had been reopened, and you hated him for it.

But you hated yourself more for letting him get to you. The hours dragged on, the sun dipping below the horizon and casting long shadows through the windows. You tried to lose yourself in anything—TV, reading, cleaning—but nothing could shake the gnawing feeling of unresolved problems that clung to you.

You only saw Rafe's face, his desperate eyes, his trembling hands.

You remembered the feel of his skin, the sound of his voice when he was vulnerable. The memories were too real, too persistent. You couldn't bring yourself to explain it to yourself. Your eyes begin to itch, warning you to think of something else.

Anything else but Rafe.

Was this heartbreak? No—it couldn't be. 

You weren't in love with Rafe Cameron.

 At least, you didn't think you were.

You had never allowed yourself to consider it, to dwell on what you felt for him. But now, in the stillness of your small living room…it was different. You never had a good parental figure to teach you these things.

All you knew was destruction, violence, and heartbreak. And although you’d done pretty well for yourself, all things considered, this was new to you.

The thought hit you like a tidal wave, overwhelming and inescapable.

You had tried so hard to suppress your feelings, to deny the depth of your connection with him. But this…wasn’t something that could be easily forgotten or ignored. You had been so afraid to admit it, fearing that acknowledging would destroy you. 

You were in love with Rafe Cameron. 

[unicyclehippo]

For bishova: regret

it would be stupid to think she knew anything about yelena from one—a mostly masked fight on a rooftop, and two—a conversation slash interrogation (?) in her burned-up apartment but when the widow took the seat next to her in the booth where she had been drowning her sorrows, a bottle of top shelf vodka in her hand, kate couldn’t help thinking maybe the other girl was being nice.

but what the fuck did she know? she hadn’t even know her mom was a mob boss or whatever.

‘what do you want?’

‘to drink,’ yelena said calmly.

kate kept her head low. no one in a bar like this cared who she was—hopefully, though maybe she was risking it by patronising a dive bar, maybe her mom had double-crossed or pressured or stole from or threatened everyone in here.

kate didn’t tell yelena to leave but she didn’t say anything more. just sat and rolled a quarter over her knuckles again and again and again and again and—

‘you are not being a very welcoming friend, kate bish—‘

‘don’t,’ kate growled. out of the corner of her eye, she saw the assassin smirk. she probably sounded like a toothless puppy to her. she was a fucking joke. ‘just don’t. okay? sit and drink or go away.’

yelena sat. she poured a measure into one shot glass and pushed it in front of kate, who blinked down at it.

‘what—did you bring your own novelty shot glasses to a bar?’ she couldn’t think of another reason she’d have an Alice In Wonderland themed glass.

kate let the quarter clatter to the tabletop and traded it for the little glass, lifted it up to make sure.

DRINK ME, it said, with a cheshire grin.

yelena didn’t smile like that but when kate finally looked at her, properly, she was pretty sure the glint in her eyes was the assassin’s version of it.

‘yes. mine is even better. see?’

kate didn’t look down.

‘does it say hot sauce?’

‘it says hot sauce.’ yelena smiled toothily. ‘a funny thing to put on a shot glass, yes?’

‘yeah.’ kate mustered a dry sigh. ‘yeah, it’s - that’s funny.’

‘you are not amused. you are either not a funny person, kate—which i know is not true—or you are not paying attention to my very funny glass.’

yelena threw her shot back.

kate should look away. kate should not find it very attractive, the way yelena shook her hair back and swallowed the shot, licked a drop from the corner of her mouth. the line of her throat. kate should not have got her mom arrested. kate should not be upset about getting her mom arrested. kate should be stalwart and true and brave and—

yelena tapped the table. ‘drink.’

‘don’t tell me what to do,’ kate snapped, overly harsh.

the only sign that yelena noticed was her slow blink. then the assassin scoffed.

‘so rude, kate! here i am, bringing the “good stuff”, and you won’t drink? this is very hurtful. i am hurt!’ yelena insisted, hand to heart.

she was lying, of course. she had some spin, some angle, something she was trying to get out of her or do and kate didn’t have to play along this time! it wasn’t any of her business! except that yelena was here, of course, but what did that mean?

kate scowled down at her drink. she hadn’t even finished the mostly-foam beer the bartender had shoved into her hand, pint sticky with the drink that slopped over the edge. or from the drink before. which was gross but. whatever. she wished she’d drunk more. wished yelena hadn’t shown up yet but when she was a more respectable nine drinks in, which would be a real excuse for not knowing what angle yelena was working this time, for how muddled kate’s thoughts were.

an ache punched up into the soft of her brain, the headache (concussion?) kate had been ignoring for the last hour. she let out an unsteady breath and picked up the quarter again. squeezed it until that hurt more than her head.

‘did you poison it?’

yelena turned so she could lean an elbow on the table, prop her head against her hand. kate watched out of the corner of her eye as the other girl smiled very sweetly.

‘no.’

‘drug it?’

‘no.’

‘steal it?’

‘no.’

kate sighed.

‘fuck it. thanks.’

she drank.

the vodka hit the back of her throat first. then she tasted it; it tasted like the time she swore her head off and her mom told her to wash her mouth out with soap and she’d done it because—

‘another,’ kate rasped, and coughed.

yelena poured her another. when kate drank that one too, she said,

‘you did not strike me as this kind of girl.’

heat poured through kate, stomach out. it was nice. it was always so cold in new york. not the real kind of cold kept at bay with a good coat, and kate always had a good coat and boots she never slipped because her mom always got her the best stuff and scolded her when she tried to slide across a big patch of ice. new york was cold because there were so many people here but none of them were hers. and yet. here was yelena. and vodka. and kate was warm.

her tongue felt warm too, which was weird. maybe the drink was drugged. she didn’t think she cared at this point.

‘what kinda girl?’

‘the kind to sit in dirty bars and drink alone.’

kate considered that seriously. yelena’s words felt as smoky as her voice and the meanings kept slipping through her fingers. how strong was that vodka?

‘me neither,’ she confessed. ‘but before today did you think i was the kinda girl to get my mom arrested?’ it struck her as funny. it was funny! because, guess what, she is!

‘i was not sure,’ yelena said. ‘but i am not that surprised. it was fifty-fifty, yes?’

fifty-fifty chance she’s a bad daughter or a bad hero. great odds. fucking fantastic.

‘you are having regret.’

kate eyed her empty shot glass.

‘i will give you another when you answer my question.’

kate grinned. leaned closer to her drinking buddy. ‘so this—‘ she patted yelena’s shoulder—and was sober enough to see the frown that earned her to remember not to do that again—‘this is an interrogation, huh? okay.’ she leaned closer. ‘i wish you hadn’t told me.’

yelena narrowed her eyes. read kate like an open book. easier—like words on a clear shot glass.

‘you do not mean that.’

kate shrugged. she wasn’t so sure. she nudged her shot glass closer to yelena. ‘any more questions or will you be a good drinking buddy and top me up, romanoff?’

she thought yelena wanted to say something for a second, as she sat back in the seat and tilted her head. but then yelena only poured her another drink and kate thought better of it. what the fuck did she know? not her mom. and certainly not yelena.

[starlightkun]

sugarcoated brain [teaser]

⏯ teaser word count: 723 | full fic: 13.7k ⏯ genre: punk band frontman!shotaro, venue manager!reader, shotaro is whipped, reader is emotionally unavailable, is it a slowish burn or is it angst?, whatever it is ur reading a starlightkun fic so there’s a happy ending :), ft. eunseok/sungchan/wonbin as shotaro’s bandmates welcome back boys & wayv as reader’s coworkers ⏯ warnings: not necessarily a warning but since i do generally avoid describing the reader’s appearance in my fics, i wanted to give a heads up—reader works at a punk/alternative concert venue and is generally in/around that scene. reader is mentioned and/or implied to have some tattoos and piercings (other than earlobes) ⏯ extra info: set in the same universe as filler episodes, but u don’t need to read that in order to understand this one, filler eps!sungchan and sugarcoated!shotaro r just in the same band! also the title is from a 5sos song lol ⏯ estimated release: saturday, november 16, 2024 3:00 p.m. eastern time

“Is that sanitary?” Eunseok’s voice announced Roses for Eyes’ arrival that particular afternoon, as you sat atop the bar counter, scrolling on your phone in one of your few moments of peace and quiet around Venue:Hell.

“Kiss my ass, Eunseok,” you replied without even looking up.

“Yeah, I’ll get in line,” he retorted, making Sungchan and Wonbin laugh.

That finally prompted you to slide your gaze up, just in time to see the three of them laughing over by the stage as Shotaro flipped them all off over his shoulder, making his way towards you. He had two cups in one hand, one with a bright green straw in it, and the other without a straw, and you saw that the other three band members each had a plastic cup with a straw sticking out of them as well. You silently watched Shotaro approach, raising an eyebrow at him once he’d stopped in front of you.

“We were getting boba on our way here, and thought we’d grab you one, too.” His cheeks were a bright pink as he held the unopened cup out to you, and fished a packaged purple straw out from the front pocket of his black jean jacket.

“Who’s this ‘we’ that you’re talking about?” You asked humorously. “They all apparently think getting me boba is kissing my ass.”

Shotaro straightened up, puffing his chest out. “Actually, yeah. Fuck ‘em. I got you one because I thought it’d be nice to get you one too since you do so much for us every week. It’s uh-It’s honey milk tea, because I didn’t know what flavor you liked.”

“Thank you, Shotaro.” You accepted the cup and straw from him graciously, to a chorus of snickers from the spectators on the other side of the floor. “Honey milk tea is more than acceptable.”

“But it’s not your favorite?”

“I don’t have a favorite.” You set the cup on the bartop beside you to stab the straw into it.

“You—Hey, are those mine?” He seemed to have finally noticed the sunglasses perched atop your head.

“What? These?” You teased, tapping the plastic accessory arm on one side of your head.

“I was looking for those today!”

You took them off, offering them out towards him. “You left them here last week.”

Shotaro took the glasses just to turn them right back around, take a step closer to you, and place them back on your head, a fond smile on his face as he did so. “I think you look better in them, actually. You can hold onto them for a little longer.”

You swallowed, your chest suddenly feeling too tight for your heart, and six eyes suddenly feeling like way too many to be in the room with you two right now. You chuckled, trying to keep up the congenial tone as you once more pulled them off. This time, you folded the arms and tucked the sunglasses into Shotaro’s jacket pocket for him. “Thanks, Shotaro, but I can’t take your sunglasses. They’re really rockstar sunglasses anyway, not for someone like me.”

At that moment, you grabbed your boba tea and hopped off the bar, scooting out from between him and the counter. You avoided looking at the others, beelining for the back office.

When Shotaro had to come get his in-ears from you just a few minutes later, you gave him the same pleasant smile as usual, handing him the case. “Here you go.”

“Thanks.” He tapped the case against his palm, the sound dampened by the fingerless gloves he was wearing that day. “What did you mean? When you said someone like you.”

“Wh—About the sunglasses?” You’d hardly expected him to confront you about that comment at all, much less alone now, just you and him in the office, no peanut gallery. While six eyes had felt like too many, this felt far too intimate. You somehow felt more exposed than before. “Like I said—They’re cool rockstar sunglasses, that’s what you are. You should wear them you know, up on stage, being all cool and stuff. I’m crew; no point in me wearing them while I’m sitting back here where nobody can see them.”

He frowned, but thankfully didn’t try to give them to you again. “I think you’re cool, Y/N.”

With that, he left the office.

⤷ masterlist

[gremlin-girly]

Kinktober Day 18

Title: Cheat Day

Pairing: Personal Trainer! Bucky x Curvy!female reader

Tags/warnings: SMUT, semi-public sex, shower sex (slippery), self-consciousness, mentions of cellulite/stretch marks, a smidge of fluff bc I can't resist, vaginal fingering, unprotected p in v (wrap it!!), pet names (doll, baby), praise

Summary: You are a newbie to a gym and one of the regulars takes a liking to you and offers to help you on your gym journey. However, you notice that he's a lot more hands on than other trainers at the gym

Word count: 2.9k

A/N: maybe it should more aptly be gym buddy Bucky but alas... I had plans - I promise!! I might have to get my big fics out tomorrow rip me

Prev | Next | Masterlist

Warm Up

You hate, hate, hate HATE working out.

You hate the gym. You hate the way you look like a lost puppy and don't know which machine to use. You hate that you get so out of breath on a tread mill. You hate how your arms wobble when you lift weights.

And you hate that damn Stairmaster.

The only thing you love is perhaps how your deliciously thick thighs can support the heavy weights on the legs press like it's nothing. That would probably be it.

You take one of the last treadmills available, setting your bottle and towel down before fiddling with your earbuds. You're not really paying attention to the guy next to you; you're too focused on trying to get through your warm up.

You start at a walk. You're hair swishing as you lift it to your crown to tie with a hairband. The guy beside you picks up his pace and your eyes flicker over to him. And oh God. What a guy. He's tall and muscular, clearly a regular unlike yourself who makes every excuse under the sun to avoid the gym, with a mop of dark hair that's bouncing to his movements. He's barely sweating at a pace that would have you panting.

You don't realise you've been staring until he smiles at you, sticking his tongue out playfully, before going back to running.

You are red faced and almost trip over your feet. You need to focus. You turn your music up and eventually break into a light jog. After thirty minutes your gym buddy wipes down the machine and disappears to another section of the gym, flashing you a smirk and a wave has you watch him go.

His T-shirt has the logo of the gym of its back and for a split second you're wondering if you should book a session, before scolding your horny brain.

Workout. Focus on working out.

Arms

The next time you come to the gym, it's dark out. You'd spent the day in work and although you just wanted to go home and eat dinner, maybe have a glass (or three) of wine, you had made a promise to yourself to go and now you were here.

It was so much more peaceful at night. The blaring music was off and there was hardly anyone about. Suddenly, you loved your idea of coming here. You had little reason to be self-conscious with so few people around.

Today was arms and you were busy trying to hype yourself up using the bench press. Arms were the worst, just after cardio and you dreaded having to do this. Suddenly the thought of three glasses of wine didn't seem so bad.

Adjusting the weights either side of the bar, you slip under it, getting comfortable against the hard leather seat. You reach up and grasp the bar, straightening your arms and pushing the bar out of it's rest. Your arms wobble slightly, your arms bracing against the weight and you hadn't even managed one rep. Perhaps you'd done the weight wrong.

"Whoa doll!" A voice calls out and you strain your neck trying to look for the approaching footsteps. It's the guy from the other day. "You're gonna hurt yourself doing it like that."

"I - Uh-" you grip the handles, unsure if he wants you to let go or not, but you're palms are starting to sweat. "Okay."

He grins down at you, placing large, rough hands over yours and gently lifting the handles back to stationery position.

"Thanks." You sigh, rubbing your sweaty palms on your workout leggings. You glance up at him again, only to find you're eye level with his crotch and go beet red.

Bad thoughts. Bad thoughts.

The guy doesn't seem to notice. "I'm Bucky. I'm one of the trainers here."

"Y/N." You try and offer a smile but you're too focused on not thinking that his crotch his just right there.

"I've seen you round here once or twice before, um..." Bucky rakes a hand through his long hair. "You're new right? Have you thought about getting a personal trainer?"

You recalled almost tripping in front of him a week or so ago and flush red. Was it that obvious you weren't a regular? Unhelpful, mean thoughts fluttered through your head and you fought to push them away.

"That obvious, huh?" You smile sheepishly, finally sitting up on the bench.

"Very obvious." Bucky nods, still smiling at you. "You hadn't put the locks on the plates, they could have slipped and injured that pretty face."

Your eyes widen; you hadn't noticed the locks and were grateful Bucky was there to save you from injury... even if he was being a flirt about it.

Even if it made your heart flutter.

"Well, thankfully I have a hero to step in." You tell him playfully. "And about the personal trainer... to be quite honest, I don't think I could afford one right now."

You give him an apologetic shrug but he only smirks in response. "Good thing I'll help you for free. Consider it a free trial."

You eyebrows shoot up. Having someone around to motivate you and show you the ropes would be ideal, and especially if it was someone as handsome as Bucky, it may motivate you to come to the gym more often.

"Only if you're sure." You say cautiously, eyeing him. "I don't want you to lose out on work because you're helping me."

Bucky shrugs. "Hey, helping you is more important. I can just text you what days and times I'll be at the gym - if you're here the same time, then we can do some sets together."

You can't say no to that. His eyes brighten when you agree and exchange numbers before he runs you through how to correctly use the bench press, encouraging you and praising you even though you're red faced and drenched in sweat by the end of your set. But you feel fantastic.

If this was how your sessions with Bucky would be, maybe you'd have to consider saving up for more sessions.

Legs

Whichever the Bucky you saw the night he convinced you to take some sessions with him, didn't exist after that night.

The next few sessions with Bucky he'd been nothing but a hard ass, making your brows furrow with displeasure each time he taunted you. It spurred you to complete reps sure, but that wasn't the point. Quite frankly, you missed him being a little bit nicer and you missed the praise that came with it.

"It's false advertising," You huff mid-squat, shooting Bucky a glare. The more time you'd spent with him, the more confident you'd become at back talking him (even though you'd still complete all your reps). "If I'd have known you were going to be a drill sergeant, I wouldn't have agreed to this."

Bucky chuckles, eyeing your form as he stands with his big arms folded, sipping his water bottle. "And yet you finish every rep like a good little soldier." He teases back.

You scoff in response but your cheeks still grow warm. "Whatever."

After squats it was the leg curl machine. You're on your front, your quads under the foam cushions of the machines trying to push the bar against the curve of your ass but it's too heavy. Bucky is stood, as always, with folded arms watching you intently.

"Bucky, it's too heavy." You huff, letting your legs relax. "I need to put the weight down."

"No, you're doing it wrong." He chuckles. "May I?" He approaches, hands splayed.

You shrug, looking over at him with your chin in your palms. "Be my guest."

You still jump when you feel his strong hands on your thighs, moving them slightly wider. Your heart leaps into your throat and you could swear his fingers linger. His fingers are hot even through your gym wear and you're suddenly bashful when your head is filled with thoughts of another type of exercise you could be doing with Bucky. Again.

His hands trail to your knees slowly, bending them a little more before giving your calves a playful squeeze.

"Try now." He says quietly and you obey. The curl is a lot easier now, and the bar smacks your ass making it wobble.

"Oh, wow, OK." You chuckle bashfully. "Yeah OK you were right."

You catch Bucky smirking triumphantly but his eyes aren't on you; they're shamelessly glued to your legs and ass, watching you perform your reps.

Heat pools to your core and you quickly glance away. You have to be imagining it.

You have to.

Cardio

It had been about two weeks since you last saw Bucky and since you last visited the gym. You'd had a cold and then were so busy at work you couldn't find the time to drop by. You'd dropped Bucky a text to say you'd be out of commission but never explained why - and he'd not asked.

Sighing, you dumped your towel and water bottle next to the treadmill and began to walk. You'd come to the gym tonight for an escape. You hadn't wanted to text Bucky just in case he'd already be asleep but you itched to reach out.

The gym was a ghost town. Only the whirr of your treadmill echoed around the open space. You tried not to think about how you wished you'd bumped into Bucky or remember how he'd looked at you.

Maybe he's like that with all newbies...

That thought made your chest twist uncomfortably. You picked up your earbuds and shoved them in your ears, picking up your pace to a light jog.

So much for easing yourself back into it.

After an hour, you decide to call it quits.

It's 11pm and you just want to be back in your bed, hidden under the covers, away from the world.

You're on your way to the showers when you bump into a familiar face emerging from the men's changing room.

"Y/N?" Bucky

"Hey." You pause as he approaches, taking in the sight of his large biceps under the rolled up sleeves of his tee. "How've you been?

"Good. Long time no see. I thought I lost you."

You can't help yourself from smiling. "Oh no, can't keep me away from this place." You say sarcastically, making Bucky grin over at you.

"Really? Even miss me?" He teases softly.

"I don't miss you being a hard ass, if that's what you mean." You quip and Bucky scoffs. "But I have missed you."

Both of your gazes meet and the tension you'd been feeling over the last few weeks increases a hundred fold.

"So..." Bucky says slowly, barely breathing as he looks at you, not knowing which path to tread. "What are we doing tonight?"

"I've just finished," you say a little disheartened. "I was about to hit the shower."

"Can I join you?"

You both stare at one another. Bucky’s brain was expecting you to say your plan for your next set... not that you were going to shower. Mortified, redness bolts to his cheeks as he attempts to back track.

"I - I mean," he shutters and then coughs awkwardly. Your face is equally red but your eyes glimmer with want. "I thought - Uh- you were going to-"

"Sure," you say thickly.

Bucky's brain short circuits again and you give him that bashful smile that makes his heart stammer.

The women's showers are empty and after two minutes Bucky sneaks in behind you. As soon as the door closes, his strong arms pull you towards him, cupping your face before putting his lips on yours.

"Missed you too," he huffs, pulling his shirt off as you both fumble blindly for a shower booth. Bucky tugs at your gym clothes desperately as he kisses you, urging you to undress.

Your mind swims. He missed you too. He's kissing you senseless and you're sure that given the chance he'd rip your clothes from your body.

You peel away your clothes, pausing only to give Bucky more needy kisses in between layers. Bucky follows suit, discarding his sneakers, shorts and boxers into the pile next to your feet.

You feel a wave of self-consciousness as you take in Bucky's body; all muscle, toned and hard and utter perfection. Your eyes drop to your body; soft, squishable, with silvery zebra stripes running over your hips.

You hear Bucky suck in a short breath and you glance up through your eyelashes, smiling a little nervously. His blue eyes are transfixed on you as he closes the space between you. His fingers twitch as he reaches for you, desperate to feel your skin under his hands, but not knowing where he wants to touch first.

"Perfect," he murmurs, his hands ghosting over your hips, drawing you flush against him. His hands tighten their grip on your hips and you you gasp softly, feeling the hard heat of his cock brush against your thighs. One hand cups your face again, and Bucky’s head dips to kiss you slowly. His tongue brushes against your bottom lip and you open your mouth wider, letting Bucky kiss you with far more passion and severance than you'd anticipated.

You're lost in the kiss for what seems like an age; your fingers running through his hair as his hands explore your body, tracing each and every curve, groping at your breasts, hips and ass. You moan into his mouth, mimicking his actions, running your hands over his pecks and down his abs to his cock against your thigh. Bucky pants a curse as you pump him a few times, nipping along his jaw.

"Bucky," You whisper. "The shower."

"Right," he huffs. He pulls the shower door open and gestures for you to step inside first, following closely behind and pressing the on switch.

You gasp when cold water hits your back and Bucky chuckles, arms encircling your waist and moving in to latch onto your neck under the spray of now luke-warm water. Your arms attach themselves around his neck, half-hoisted as you spread your legs to allow Bucky to slot between them. You bite back a loud gasp when Bucky's hand slides between your legs, running along your slit finding your sweet bundle of nerves and drawing quick, tight circles.

"Bucky," you whimper into his neck, your your breathing hitching and hitching like the tightness in your core; rushing upward so fast you feel lightheaded.

"Cum for me doll, be a good girl and cum for me," Bucky sucks at your neck, groping at your tits with his free hand. You lean your head against the shower wall as you feel pussy clenches around nothing. Your fingers grip at Bucky's wet hair, gasping his name as you hang at the precipice of your orgasm. Without warning, Bucky plunges two fingers into your sopping hole, curling them inside you. Your orgasm crashes over you and you cum over his fingers with a wracked half sob.

Bucky's fingers are withdrawn as quickly as they're inserted, leaving you hollow and looking at Bucky pleadingly. He grins at you pecking your lips with a hasty kiss.

"'M sorry, doll. I promise to take my time next time but I need you so bad."

He lifts you with ease, pushing your back against the cool wall, wrapping his arms under your thighs and spreading them open. Wisps of steam rise from behind him as your eyes lock, his cock brushing against your slick folds only once before he slowly lowers you down onto him.

"Oh - oh - oh!" You moan as he breaches inch by inch, each time your walls contract around him, adjusting to his size. Your nails dig into his shoulders, your thighs shake with pleasure and you're utterly at his mercy as he starts to fuck up into you.

"That's it, baby." Bucky praises, littering your face with kisses. "You feel amazing on my cock."

You moan his name and kiss his lips hungrily, pulling yourself closer to him as he brings you to ruin again. Your pussy's grip is like a vice, milking him as you press yourself flush against him glassy eyes meeting his and Bucky can't take it any longer.

Bucky pants curses rutting into you before pulling out entirely and cumming over your stomach and thighs with a short groan. His cock continues to twitch, his cum slowly being washed away by the water save for the white, thick line that connects to your thigh. Bucky slowly lowers you to your feet and you lean against him for support, relaxing in the post-orgasm bliss and the heat of the water.

"I've wanted to do that since the moment I laid on you," he confesses, tilting your head up to capture your lips in a sweet kiss.

"So have I," You admit with a soft chuckle. "Kinda wish we could have done that instead of you making me do squats."

"But you're ass looked good." Bucky teases, chuckling when you glare at him.

"So you were checking me out!" You smack at his bicep playfully and that earns you one of his boyish smiles.

"So? Besides, more importantly," His hands grasp your hips tightly, forcing you to be still. "Today's a cheat day and I wanna take you out."

"Take me out? At 11pm? What's even open?" You smile up at him and he only shrugs.

"Okay, fine, twist my arm. Breakfast it is." He kisses you again, this time lingering a moment before smirking deviously at you. "But first let's get you cleaned up."

[mydearestbeloved]

Chapter 9 [Draft]

Sung Jinwoo/Trial Player!Reader

CW:

Inspired by @circeyoru ‘s “Future Power Couple”

[Masterlist🦋✨️]

Jinwoo had been mulling over a simple, yet increasingly puzzling question: How does one even contact you?

Despite weeks of fighting together, not once had he taken the initiative to reach out. The strange thing? You two hadn’t even exchanged numbers. You either planned your next raid before parting ways, or—more recently—you would simply show up because of your own schedule, or a butterfly of yours would come to him first.

The answer came to him, in a way that felt both obvious and absurd. Your butterflies.

Jinwoo wasn’t one to wait idly for answers, so he decided to test his theory. Concentrating on the familiar presence of your aura, he extended his hand, replicating that feeling in his mind. Moments later, one of your butterflies—the one that often remained hidden nearby, perhaps acting as your eyes—fluttered into view, landing lightly on his open palm.

Its wings faltered slightly, as if in acknowledgment.

This might actually work.

Closing his eyes, Jinwoo focused on the connection he had felt before, the distinct feeling of the red butterfly communicating with him.

Take me to her.

He didn’t know if it would respond, but soon enough, the butterfly took off, guiding him through the city.

---

He found you in the Hunter’s Market, haggling with a merchant. You were engaged in a rather intense back-and-forth, and judging by the merchant’s begrudging look, you were winning. In your hands, Jinwoo caught sight of what looked like a dormant magic beast egg, likely the reason for the negotiation.

"You're late."

You greeted him without even turning around, continuing to inspect the wares. Jinwoo raised an eyebrow. Not even a flicker of surprise from you. It was becoming clear that not much could catch you off guard.

By now, he was getting used to your way of doing things. "I need to talk to you."

There was an unspoken understanding between you that this wasn’t a conversation for public ears.

As you continued to browse the market, you hummed in acknowledgment. "I need to talk to you about some things too. Let’s continue this conversation in my domain. I’ll be done here in a few."

Jinwoo froze, staring at your back in confusion.

“Domain?"

"Dungeon," you corrected nonchalantly, still focused on the items displayed before you, your words casual as if you were discussing the weather.

Jinwoo’s brain paused for a moment.

"You own a dungeon?"

At that, you paused, a beat of silence passing before you turned toward him with a curious tilt of your head. "Did I never mention it before?"

"..."

"Ah."

For a split second, Jinwoo had the very distinct and rare urge to pinch your cheek. But instead, he just stared, half-amused, half-incredulous. You owned a dungeon, and you were mentioning it in the most off-handed way possible.

Of course, you would be the kind of person to forget to bring up owning something like that.

And just like that, another piece of the puzzle that was you fell into place, though Jinwoo knew he had only barely scratched the surface.

---

Jinwoo couldn't help but feel a rising sense of disbelief as he followed you into the alley. He had barely come to terms with the revelation that you owned a dungeon. Even now, he had to force himself to stop asking questions before they overwhelmed him.

He kept telling himself, Stay calm. Just get to a private place. Ask your questions there.

But, of course, fate had other plans.

As if summoned by his very thoughts, a glowing portal materialized in front of them with a soft hum. Jinwoo froze mid-step, his eyes widening. The gate was far smaller than the typical ones he had encountered, just big enough to fit a full-grown adult comfortably—yet there was no mistaking it for anything but a dungeon gate. The shimmering silver-white wisps that surrounded it were unlike any other, almost blending with rainbow-like accents at the edges. It looked... strange, subdued compared to the usual ethereal blues and reds, but somehow still powerful.

It was just his luck.

Jinwoo had been trying to push the thousand and one questions flooding his mind to the back of his thoughts, but now, they came rushing back in full force. He glanced at you, but you didn’t even seem phased by the sudden appearance of the portal. Instead, you waved him forward, as if portals and dungeons appeared in alleyways every day.

He hesitated for a split second but, deciding it was better to follow your lead than be left behind in confusion, he stepped forward, his senses alert. The instant he crossed the threshold of the gate, everything seemed to shift. The world around him blurred for a second before stabilizing again, and he found himself standing in a vast open temple-like structure.

It was nothing like the harsh, ominous dungeons he’d been to before.

The structure was grand, with high ceilings and pillars that seemed to stretch endlessly upwards. The atmosphere had an air of serenity to it, something so starkly different from what he expected when entering a dungeon. But it didn’t end there. As he followed you forward, stepping through what looked like the entrance of a colossal, ancient temple, Jinwoo’s gaze was drawn outward.

The view beyond the floating temple was breathtaking.

The sight was nothing short of a dreamscape. Lush forests and vast gardens stretched far beyond what the eye could see. Gentle rivers meandered through valleys, their sparkling waters catching the sunlight. Towering, misty mountains loomed in the distance, and there were labyrinthine paths that seemed to lead into hidden areas, mysterious domed structures rising proudly in the distance. The land appeared to have been untouched by time, ancient and majestic in its quiet beauty.

It felt more like a paradise than any dungeon Jinwoo had ever seen.

This is a dungeon?

"I know, right?" you spoke, breaking his thoughts, your voice playful. "Trust me, the first time I got here, I thought I was dead and that this was paradise."

Jinwoo’s eyes flicked to you in surprise.

But you continued walking calmly ahead without a glance back, seeming completely at ease, at home.

This place, this dungeon, was a paradox. It was both beautiful and dangerous, serene and lethal. As you moved forward, he couldn’t help but make comparisons. It reminded him of the butterflies—so ethereal, so delicate, yet with a deadly bite.

Like you, Jinwoo realized.

As if sensing his thoughts, you shot him a brief glance over your shoulder. Your eyes caught his for a moment before you turned back ahead, leading him forward through the landscape. Jinwoo shook his head, his thoughts momentarily swirling. But something made him froze in his steps.

He watched you from behind, the soft fluttering of butterflies surrounding you, some of them trailing closely behind, others flitting about aimlessly.

One butterfly, the familiar red one, fluttered close to you and landed delicately on your finger. You brought it up to your lips and kissed it gently, a soft, quiet action that felt impossibly tender.

Divine.

Jinwoo couldn’t help but wonder again, and for some reason, his pulse quickened. But, before he could dwell too much on his absurd thoughts, he shook his head and hurried to catch up with you.

---

The two of you continued walking until you reached a beautiful outdoor gazebo. The serene atmosphere of the garden, complete with a quiet pond surrounded by vibrant flowers, made it feel just like the rest of this space shouldn’t had been, a paradise. The soft trickle of water from nearby waterfalls added to the peaceful ambiance. On the table in front of the gazebo, there was tea and snacks laid out, ready for the conversation he knew he had to have with you.

Jinwoo sat down across from you, his mind buzzing with questions. He had so many things he wanted to know, and yet, he wasn’t sure where to start.

You, on the other hand, took a sip of your tea, completely at ease, before setting it down. You studied him quietly for a moment, perhaps waiting for him to speak first.

It took a moment, but Jinwoo finally asked, "This place... this dungeon. How did you come to own it?"

You sighed, leaning back in your chair, looking out over the garden for a moment as if gathering your thoughts. "Ah, yes. The story of how I got this place. It’s not simple, but I suppose I owe you an explanation."

You paused, seeming to gather yourself. "The truth is, this dungeon was here long before I ever arrived. In fact, I... was lost here when I was a child."

Jinwoo blinked, surprised. You—lost?

You continued, seemingly unfazed by his reaction. "I was barely a teen when I stumbled into it. The Trial System... it didn’t exactly help me, if you know what I mean. But it gave me a challenge I couldn’t ignore. To leave this place, I had to defeat the dungeon’s guardians."

Guardians? Bosses? Multiple?

You caught his gaze, raising an eyebrow as if to ask if that was a question. Jinwoo didn’t say anything, but his mind whirled. It was clear that this place wasn’t like any other dungeon he’d ever encountered.

"So, how did you own it?" he asked, his voice quieter now, as if trying to make sense of this all.

“The Trial System gave it to me as a... reward, I guess,” you said, a faint smile playing on your lips. "It’s mine now, in every sense of the word. And because I own it, I can summon it whenever I need to. I can open a portal to it and leave at will." You looked at him, eyes gleaming. "That’s how I was able to summon that gate earlier. It’s a... special gift."

Jinwoo absorbed the information, slowly piecing it together. "So, you can teleport anywhere?”

“Not exactly, I need to have a clear picture of where I want to go." You shrugged nonchalantly.

Jinwoo exhaled sharply, his thoughts swirling. As much as he wanted to ask more—wanted to demand answers—he felt something within him pull him back. This was your secret to reveal, in your own time.

So, instead of questioning you further, he allowed himself a moment of quiet contemplation. You seemed to know what he was thinking. With a soft smile, you raised your cup again and said, "I don’t mind sharing more, Jinwoo. But just know, some things are better left unsaid.”

Jinwoo nodded, his gaze lingering on you. He would get the answers he was looking for, one way or another. But for now, he would have to trust you—because there was no other choice.

---

Jinwoo stared at you, completely flabbergasted, his eyebrows raised in disbelief. "You have to what now?"

You sighed, sinking a bit deeper into the seat of the gazebo, as if this whole conversation were some kind of exhausting memory you'd rather not dig up. "I have to level up my skills manually. Yes. Manually."

You could almost see the gears turning in his head as he tried to wrap his mind around it. "Wait, so… no shortcuts? No automatic leveling?"

"None." You let out a dramatic groan, leaning back and stretching your arms out. "The system basically made me work my way up through blood, sweat, and endless labor. You’d think the trial version would offer at least some quality-of-life updates, but nope. If I wanted to get better at farming, I had to actually go out and till the fields. If I wanted to improve cooking… yeah, let’s just say that was a nightmare."

Jinwoo blinked, half in shock, half in amusement. "Wait… so, all those skills that the system grants—crafting, mining, cooking—you had to actually do all those things?"

"Yep," you replied, with a roll of your eyes. "No instant boosts for me. While you get to succeed or fail with crafting based on your intelligence stat, I actually had to sit down and grind every skill point myself. And, of course, I started off just as badly as you’d expect.”

He tried to picture it and stifled a laugh. "So you’re telling me… you burned a boiled egg?”

"Listen," you huffed, giving him an exasperated look. "It was the lowest-level cooking skill, okay? Apparently, it was so low that I couldn't even be trusted to make something as simple as a boiled egg. Somehow, it just… burned." You buried your face in your hands, grumbling, "It’s still a mystery to me how boiling water and an egg turned into charcoal. But that was my life. Trial version for the win."

Jinwoo couldn’t hold back his laugh anymore, and the sound of it filled the air, rich and full of genuine amusement. "You? Burning an egg? You?"

"Hey, don’t laugh! It’s not funny," you protested and pouted at him. "Let’s just say I made my fair share of… tragic cooking attempts before my skill level got high enough to handle basic meals without a disaster."

You watched him try to stifle his laughter, but your own lips twitched, betraying a smile as well. "And it wasn’t just cooking," you added. "Farming was another story. I didn’t even know the basics—soil preparation, crop rotation, pest control. Do you have any idea how long it took me to produce anything that wasn't... wilted? Even mining was brutal. There I was, chipping away with an old pickaxe for hours just to get a sliver of ore."

He shook his head, still grinning. "Looks like you went through your own personal training arc as well."

"Of course I do." you agreed with a snort. "If the system hadn’t taken feedback from me eventually, you’d be the one cursing it out every time you tried to do something simple. But yeah, thankfully, the system decided to cut you a break. Guess my suffering counted for something, after all."

You straightened in your seat and took a sip of your tea, a satisfied smirk crossing your face. "But at least, once I got a skill to a decent level, it stayed there. Permanent. I don’t have to touch a frying pan for years, and the skill level’s still as good as ever. And the skills I invested in heavily—those have even broader effects."

Jinwoo’s brow furrowed, curious now. "Broader effects?"

You nodded, glancing up thoughtfully as if reliving memories. "Take my language skill, for example. I leveled it up while studying Monster Tongue, which was excruciating at first. But once I maxed out that skill, learning other languages was a breeze. The system gave me a boost, kind of like an automatic enhancement for anything similar. If I tried learning another language now, it’d be easy compared to when I first started out.”

He gave a low whistle. "So basically, the more you leveled up, the easier it became to learn things related to that skill?"

"Exactly." You placed your cup back on the saucer with a gentle clink. "Though there’s a catch. Back then, whenever the system went through an update, some skills would get expanded. The cap would get set higher, and I’d have to grind all over again to max them out."

You gave him a look of exasperation. "Imagine maxing out a skill only for the system to update and say, 'Hey, you can go up to Level 50 now instead of 30!' That happened so many times, I lost count."

Jinwoo leaned back, his expression growing more serious. "So… what happens now? Are you stuck with your current stats forever?"

You took a slow breath, letting the question sink in before nodding. "That’s exactly it. Since the trial stage ended when you became the player, there haven’t been any more updates. My levels, skills, and stats… they’re frozen as they are. I can’t adjust my stats, I can’t level anything up, that’s why I don’t get EXP anymore. It’s like I’m in a kind of… stasis."

He was silent for a moment, digesting the weight of that statement. It was strange to think that someone with as much knowledge and power as you would be… limited.

"I still have everything I gained during the trial, of course," you continued, your tone turning thoughtful as you gazed out over the garden. "But it’s a strange feeling, knowing that I’ll never improve again. All my stats, skills, and levels are frozen in time. There’s no ‘growth’ anymore—not like what you have."

Jinwoo frowned. "And that doesn’t bother you?"

You shrugged, meeting his eyes again. "It did, at first. But after a while, I came to terms with it. I put in the effort back then, and I reaped the rewards. Sure, I miss the feeling of progress, of leveling up. But the fact that you’re the player now means the system’s finished with me." You managed a smile, though it was a bit bittersweet.

He looked at you, quiet for a moment, perhaps feeling a hint of the sacrifice you'd made just for the sake of his journey.

"So now," you said, breaking the silence with a brighter tone, "I’m basically a living relic of the trial version, here to help you navigate the system’s quirks."

Jinwoo smirked at that. "The legendary burnt-egg chef, my official guide through the system."

You snorted, rolling your eyes. "That title better not stick." Then, with a playful nudge of your cup in his direction, you raised an eyebrow. "And hey, if I’m going to help you, maybe you could use a few pointers. Starting with, oh, I don’t know… naming tips? You’re downright horrible at that."

The two of you shared a look, both of you smiling. And despite the strange circumstances, Jinwoo knew he was glad to have you by his side, guiding him, burnt eggs and all.

[Oh, he’ll not let that go, will he?]

“And whose fault do you think that is?”

---

"The meals with healing properties, the intricate mana stones, and how your butterflies can affect my daggers' stats... So that's why..." Jinwoo trailed off, connecting the dots.

You nodded, munching on a biscuit. "Mhm, pretty much. Since I have to actually *learn* the fundamentals of each skill, I can manipulate and craft related items more easily. It makes altering, replicating, or even making things from scratch a lot more natural."

You paused, reflecting for a moment before continuing, "It’s a blessing that the last system update allowed me to max out certain skills to the point where I can do these things in reality without relying solely on the system."

You brushed the crumbs from your fingers and leaned back, satisfied. "Anyway, that's all I wanted to tell you. Now, what is it you wanted to say?"

Jinwoo took a deep breath, locking eyes with you. "Join me for a week."

"...Eh?"

Without a word, he held up an item—a key.

<Castle Door Key>.

It was the entry to the Demon Castle, the S-rank dungeon created by the system itself.

"There’s no rule saying I can’t bring someone with me. You don’t gain any more experience, so there’s nothing for me to lose. But you might get materials you won’t find anywhere else, not even in the hunter's market—"

"I refuse."

Jinwoo blinked, surprised. "What?"

You looked away, your mind racing. The offer was tempting—you had several experiments in mind, but there was too much at stake. There were bigger forces at play—the plot, the system's interference, and Jinwoo's crucial development. You couldn’t afford to be too involved in this one. You needed a good excuse, something he would believe.

"Jinwoo," you began, "you’re aware of my powers' limitations, right?"

"What does that have to do with—"

"Listen." Your voice, suddenly sharp, cut through the air, and Jinwoo froze.

For the first time, Jinwoo felt uneasy, confused, like he had said something wrong. He didn’t like the shift in your demeanor, especially when it was directed at him.

"'Demon' Castle," you continued, your tone softer but firm, "just by the name alone, we can assume the majority, if not half, of enemies there will be undead."

"..."

"My powers thrive off life. In an essentially ‘dead’ land, I’ll be at a severe disadvantage—"

"I'll protect you."

"And that’s exactly the problem. I’ll be a deadweight."

"Just focus on supporting me and my shadows."

You stared at him, the determination in his eyes unwavering. He was serious—dead serious.

You rubbed your temples, feeling a headache coming on. "You’re really persistent."

"I know," he replied, not once backing down.

You exhaled, resigned. Deep down, you knew that continuing to refuse him would lead to something far more troublesome. There was no winning against Jinwoo when he was this determined. "Alright," you finally said, "I’ll join you. But if things go south, you have to trust me to pull back. Understood?"

As if you could leave him, the nagging thought echoed in your mind.

Jinwoo’s gaze softened slightly, and a small, rare smile crept onto his lips. "Understood."

You only hoped that the system wouldn’t interfere or cause any unexpected complications this time. But one question remained: why was Jinwoo so insistent on bringing you along, despite the risks?

Unbeknownst to you, Jinwoo was asking himself the same thing. But it was something he wasn’t quite ready to admit—not to you, and perhaps not even to himself.

End Note:

Unedited Draft of [023/10/2024] -

The middle part of this, the convo between Jinwoo and (Name) feels a bit weird, so I apologize for the OOC-ness. I'll come back to this later.

[planetpedri]

hey diva… just give me anything with torres and lowkey… make it ansgty

Better than this — Fernando Torres.

Pairing: Fernando Torres x Fem!Reader

Summary: All he wanted was you, but you were certain he could find someone to treat him better than you ever could.

Word count: 740+

Disclaimer/s: angst , arguing , hopeful ending

A/N: I hope this made you happy beautiful, @ar4ujos ^_^ I luh you.

Knocking and knocking and knocking. “Baby open the door.” Fernando pleads, his head resting against the wooden frame. You’d locked yourself in your bedroom after he’d.. oh God. Even thinking about it made you nauseous.

He had, in simple terms, confessed his very real feelings for you. At first, when he’d started hanging out with you more, taking you out on ‘dates’—not that you’d let him call them that, it was fine. It wasn’t serious or anything, just the both of you having fun.

“Fer, go away.” You groan, head tipping back against the bed frame. You sat on the cold wooden floor of your bedroom, trying to collect your thoughts. He deserved better than you! Why wouldn’t he just go away?

“I’m not..” His voice grows quiet. “Listen, I know it scares you, I know you don’t like relationships, but please. I want—I need you.”

You wanted to believe that, you did. But your brain was practically screaming ‘danger! Danger! Danger!’ He didn’t deserve to be locked in a relationship with a girlfriend who would constantly overthink. You had too much baggage and the blonde did not deserve that.

“Baby, open the fucking door.” He says through gritted teeth. “Please, if you’re going to break it off, I need to you say it to my face.”

Reluctantly, and against everything your brain was telling you to do, you stand up and shuffle toward the door. You unlock it, opening it just enough to poke your head through. Then you see his face, that beautiful.. no.

Blinking slowly, you chew on your cheek. “Okay. I—“ You couldn’t do it. You couldn’t say it. You couldn’t tell him to go.

“You…?”

“I, uhm.. Can you not look me in the eye when I say this?” You huff, eyes diverting to his shaggy blonde hair. Lord, his hair. Memories of your fingers threading through the blonde locks flooded your mind. You did not want to break anything off, but you had to.

“No.” He stays firm, shaking his head. “And, open the door all the way. If you really didn’t want this, you’d be able to say it to my face.”

“I am?” You scowl at his hair. “You make my life so difficult.”

Fernando nods. “I’m sure I do.”

“And you are insufferable, and very, very! Annoying. You also—“ Your brain short circuits. Why was he looking at your lips? “Stop that. Now. I’m trying to get you out of my life.”

“Are you really? You’re not trying very hard.”

Oh.

Your face flattens. “You’re proving all the points i’ve been making.” You point out, which unfortunately had a smug look forming on Fernando’s freckled face. “I want you to—“

You couldn’t speak. You almost said something wrong, something the complete opposite of what you’d been trying to say.

His eyebrows raise, beckoning for you to continue. When you don’t, his previous grin falters. He says your name quietly, concern etched into every syllable.

“Sorry, I, uhm,” you shake your head. Get a grip! You could give in, or slam the door in his face again, but you don’t. Instead, you scratch the side of your head. “Okay, clearly I don’t know what I’m trying to say. But, Fer, you don’t deserve this—me. You should be with someone who can provide for you exactly what you need.”

“But you are what I need.” He furrows his eyebrows, his head rolling to the side. “Why can’t you just give this—us.. a chance?”

You had never been so irritated and appalled by someone in your life. And you were thankful. Because his words only made you want to believe him, despite the part of you that couldn’t. The fact of the matter was, he was giving you hope, and hope is dangerous. But what is life if not decades of risks?

“One date. One real date. Then, I will think on it.” You finally give in, rolling your eyes at the way his face lit up.

“Yeah?”

“Don’t make me regret this.” You point at his chest, your pointer finger digging into it. Fernando smiles, his hand wrapping around your wrist, pulling it away, but still keeping a hold on it.

Fernando beams at you, “I promise you won’t.” A short pause, “does this mean I have to leave?”

You think for a moment before taking a step back into your bedroom, dragging him with you. “I suppose not.”

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DTS , @halfwayhearted @ar4ujos @joaosfelix @hrts4havertz @spidybaby !