#I actually hit the wall with this show a while ago

[manonsmartini]

The Softest Revolution (S. Laforteza) — II

✒️ the angst is here 🤝🏻

(5.6k words) | previous

Sophia didn’t expect the second message.

It came a week after the interview, late in the evening, after she’d just come home from a joint barangay session where half the discussion had been about whose relative deserved a slot in the next scholarship batch. Her head was pounding. She’d just removed her sneakers when her phone buzzed.

Hi Councilor Sophia, this is [Y/N]. I hope you don’t mind me reaching out again. I’m going through the transcripts and I was wondering if I could clarify a few things. Would you be open to a short follow-up, maybe online if that’s easier for your schedule?

Sophia read the message three times. It was polite. Smart. No emojis.

She stared at it for a moment before typing, then deleting, then typing again.

Sure. If you don’t mind doing it over coffee instead, I’ll be in the plaza office Thursday morning. No cameras, I promise.

She regretted the last line the moment she hit send.

But [Y/N] replied less than a minute later.

Sounds good. See you then.

Thursday morning came hot and heavy with dust, the kind of weather that made the plastic chairs sweat before people even sat down. Sophia arrived five minutes late, though she’d left the house much earlier than needed. She told herself it was because of traffic. It wasn’t.

[Y/N] was already there—seated neatly near the window, laptop open, iced coffee in hand. She wore a clean white button-down tucked loosely into straight-leg pants, sneakers just barely scuffed at the edges. Nothing flashy, nothing girly. Just well-pressed and thoughtfully plain, like someone who didn’t try too hard because she already knew how she looked.

Still, it wasn’t the clothes that caught Sophia’s attention.

It was the way she crossed her legs with quiet certainty. The way she tucked a stray hair behind her ear without looking in a mirror. There was something distinctly feminine about her—not loud or curated, just… lived-in. Like softness wasn’t a weakness, just another kind of armor.

Sophia didn’t realize she was staring until [Y/N] looked up.

“Morning,” [Y/N] said, smiling politely.

“Morning,” Sophia replied, stepping inside. “Sorry, the mayor cornered me about some event next week.”

She wasn’t wearing her usual pink polo shirt today. Instead, a crisp black blouse tucked neatly into dark jeans, sleeves rolled just enough to show her forearms. Her hair was down—not styled, just brushed and clean—and she wore a thin line of eyeliner, barely noticeable unless you were close enough to tell. It wasn’t obvious, but it was enough for someone like Lara to have teased her if she were around.

They sat on either side of a small table, facing each other like equals this time. No desk, no official seal on the wall. Just a fan clattering somewhere above them, and a pitcher of cold water sweating beside a pile of papers.

[Y/N] dove straight into the questions. But they weren’t the same kind as before.

“How do you manage public perception when your policies go against the dominant voice?” she asked, her tone sharper than casual but gentler than confrontational.

“You don’t manage it,” Sophia said, wiping her palm across her jeans. “You survive it.”

[Y/N] didn’t write that down. She just let it sit there.

Later: “Do you feel alone in council?”

“More than I let on.”

Then: “What would you do if you weren’t in politics?”

That one made Sophia pause—but not because she hadn’t thought about it. She tilted her head slightly, considering.

“I actually passed the nursing board a few months ago,” she said, almost casually. “Late bloomer. Took me a while to finish.”

[Y/N] looked up, surprised. “I didn’t know that.”

“Most people don’t. I’ve been helping with health ordinances and community clinics since my first term, but I wanted the license for myself. To make it real. Just in case.”

“In case?”

“In case I needed to walk away,” Sophia said, her voice softer now. “Or in case the voters helped me do it.”

[Y/N] didn’t speak. She just let the silence stretch.

Sophia gave a small shrug. “I don’t think I’ve ever done just one thing at a time. Even when I was studying, I was drafting resolutions on the side. I’ve always been split down the middle. But I never really thought of doing anything else other than public service.”

“I think you have thought about it,” [Y/N] said, quietly. “You just haven’t let yourself go there.”

Sophia didn’t answer that either. But this time, when she looked at [Y/N], she really looked. Not in the way politicians scan a room, or the way mentors measure potential—but in the way people look when they’re a little too curious for their own good.

The fan kept spinning. Someone outside was selling taho. Neither of them moved.

Eventually, [Y/N] began closing her laptop, lingering a bit longer than necessary. “Thanks for making time again,” she said, adjusting the strap of her bag. “I’ll type all this up and send you a copy if you want to check for accuracy.”

“You don’t need to,” Sophia replied. “I trust your interpretation.”

[Y/N] raised an eyebrow. “That’s a dangerous thing to say to a student activist.”

Sophia smiled. “Maybe I like dangerous.”

It slipped out too fast. Not flirty, not overt—but enough to make [Y/N] glance up and hold her gaze just a second longer than necessary.

They didn’t say anything after that. [Y/N] left, her sneakers soft against the tile. Sophia stayed, pretending to check her schedule but really just staring at the glass of untouched water between them.

Later that day, she would reread their text thread again, trying to convince herself it was just admiration. Just professional interest. Just… something safe.

But the thing tugging in her chest didn’t feel safe at all.

The small barangay daycare center sat at the edge of a dusty road, a one-story concrete building painted in fading pastel murals of cartoon animals. Outside, two folding tables had been set up under a tarpaulin printed with the logo of a local NGO. Inside, the noise was a soft chaos: squeals, clapping, a cartoon song playing off a tinny Bluetooth speaker.

[Y/N] had her hair tied up in a loose ponytail and was crouched beside a little boy who refused to let go of a toy truck. She smiled as she gently tried to redirect his attention to the coloring page in front of him, tapping the crayon like it held the answer to world peace.

It was a Saturday. She wasn’t required to be there — the NGO just posted a call for volunteers for their community day with children with special needs, and [Y/N] had signed up on impulse. Maybe she was trying to ground herself. Maybe she just wanted to get out of her own head.

She didn’t expect to see Sophia Laforteza walk in the door with three barangay tanods and a staffer carrying a box of nutritional kits.

Sophia wore the pink polo again—her name embroidered over the heart—and dark jeans, slightly dusted at the hem. Her sneakers looked newer this time. Her hair was in a neat low ponytail. She had the look of someone who knew exactly how many minutes she could stay without appearing insincere.

[Y/N] looked up just as Sophia entered—and the moment their eyes met, they both hesitated.

Sophia blinked. Her expression shifted, almost imperceptibly. “Oh,” she said, more to herself than anyone else.

[Y/N] stood slowly, brushing her hands on her pants. “Councilor,” she said, her tone neutral but unreadable.

Sophia recovered with practiced grace. “[Y/N] [L/N],” she said with a faint smile. “Didn’t expect to see you here.”

“I volunteer when I can,” [Y/N] replied. “They needed extra hands.”

Sophia nodded. “Same.”

[Y/N] didn’t say sure you do, but the thought hovered.

The coordinator came over, looking frazzled and grateful. “Councilor! Thank you po for coming. Ms. [L/N] has been a big help since this morning.”

Sophia glanced at [Y/N] again. “She usually is.”

There was no sarcasm in her tone. Just something quiet and sincere.

They didn’t speak for a few minutes after that. Sophia gave her standard short speech, handed out the kits, posed for a few photos without doing the current mayor’s signature hand sign—her hand instead resting at her side, relaxed. [Y/N] noticed that, too.

But just before she was about to leave, one of the children started crying. A sharp, high-pitched sob that cut through the noise.

The boy wouldn’t let go of [Y/N]’s hand.

[Y/N] crouched beside him again, whispering something no one else could hear. She wasn’t trying to fix it. She was just staying with him.

Sophia stood a few feet away, watching. Something in her expression shifted.

After the moment passed, after the child was calm and sketching on the floor again, Sophia stepped closer.

“That was… patient of you,” she said, softly.

[Y/N] didn’t look up. “Not everything’s about solving things right away.”

Sophia was quiet for a second. Then: “Sometimes I forget that.”

[Y/N] finally turned her gaze toward her, brushing a loose strand of hair from her forehead. “You don’t strike me as someone who forgets easily.”

“I do,” Sophia said, quietly. “Especially when I’m performing.”

And there it was — a slip of honesty she hadn’t meant to say aloud.

[Y/N] held her gaze. “You don’t have to do that here.”

Another beat. Just a moment. Then one of the tanods called for Sophia from the van.

“I have to go,” she said, stepping back. “But… you handled that beautifully.”

[Y/N] gave a small smile. “Thanks. That almost sounded like a compliment, Councilor.”

Sophia didn’t rise to the bait. She just looked at her for a second too long before replying:

“It was.”

Then she turned and walked out the door, her footsteps quieter than expected.

Sunday morning smelled like pan de sal and fabric softener.

[Y/N] was curled up on the couch, hair still damp from a rushed shower, flipping through the margins of her thesis notes like they might rearrange themselves. Her laptop was open but untouched. Her mind kept drifting back to the daycare: the sound of crayons scraping on paper, the child’s tiny hand clinging to hers, and the way Sophia had looked at her when she said, “Sometimes I forget that.”

She was still lost in thought when her Tita Lorna walked in from the kitchen, mug of coffee in hand and her usual soft-sarcastic energy turned up to ten.

“So,” she said, taking a seat across from her niece. “Guess who came by the health office last week looking like she hadn’t slept in four days and still managed to make the interns blush?”

[Y/N] raised an eyebrow. “Please don’t tell me it’s another mayor’s niece.”

“Councilor Sophia,” her aunt said, grinning. “The usual Laforteza glow. But what’s interesting is what she told Marisol.”

[Y/N] set her pen down, warily. “What?”

“She said if she wins this next election, she wants to bring in a researcher-slash-writer type. Someone smart, young, opinionated—‘the kind who knows when to shut up but doesn’t back down,’ direct quote.” Her smile widened. “Then she said your full name.”

[Y/N] blinked. “She… what?”

“‘[Y/N] [L/N] from UP.’ Sound familiar?”

[Y/N] felt the slow, blooming heat behind her ears. “She didn’t tell me that.”

“Of course not. Why tell you directly when she can let chismis do the heavy lifting?”

[Y/N] tried to roll her eyes, but her stomach was doing something else entirely. “She’s probably just being nice.”

“She doesn’t say people’s full names when she’s just being nice,” Lorna said, sipping. “Also, you know how fast things travel Hilaga. She probably knew I’d hear it—that I’d tell you.”

[Y/N] was quiet for a moment, unsure of what she was feeling.

Her aunt watched her, more curious than amused now. “Do you want to work in her office?”

“I don’t know,” [Y/N] muttered. “It’s probably not even a real offer. Just—political goodwill.”

Lorna tilted her head. “Mmhmm. You’re doing that thing where you downplay things when they start to mean something.”

[Y/N] scowled. “No, I’m not.”

“You are,” Lorna said, standing to stretch. “Anyway, if you’re not interested, I’ll take the job. I’ve always wanted to work in an office where nobody wears red.”

[Y/N] tossed a pillow at her.

But even after her aunt left, [Y/N] stared at the blank laptop screen for a long time.

[Y/N] [L/N] from UP.

She didn’t know what that meant to Sophia — not really. But she knew how it felt to hear it. Like being seen through a window she didn’t know she’d left open.

The Laforteza house was quiet for once.

It was late afternoon, the kind of light that made the walls look warmer than they were. Sophia sat alone in the kitchen, peeling calamansi into a bowl without any real purpose. Her phone was face down beside her. She hadn’t checked it in hours.

Lara had left earlier after a short visit—just long enough to raid their fridge and leave behind a comment that still echoed:

“She’ll hear about it, you know. That kind of message never dies quietly.”

Sophia hadn’t responded. She just gave her friend a half-smile and let her go.

Now, sitting at the kitchen table with citrus under her fingernails and no camera pointed at her, she let herself wonder.

Has she heard?

What did she think when she did?

Sophia wasn’t used to wanting people in ways that felt personal. Wanting votes? Of course. Support? Naturally. But this—this wasn’t strategic. Not exactly.

[Y/N] was young. Sharp. Idealistic in a way that didn’t feel naïve. She had a spine. A mind of her own. And even in the ways she kept her distance, there was a kind of pull in her presence—like she was quietly asking people to meet her where she stood, not the other way around.

Sophia didn’t know what that meant yet. But she’d meant what she said.

“If I win, I want her here.”

She hadn’t even said it with a full plan in mind. Just… a placeholder. A reason to see her again. To keep her orbiting nearby. To maybe, maybe ask her one day what she really thought of all this.

She peeled another calamansi, the juice stinging a tiny paper cut on her thumb. She winced, then smiled.

“You’re acting like a teenager,” she muttered to herself.

The kitchen clock ticked on. Her phone stayed quiet.

She didn’t check it.

Not yet.

The café was almost empty that late afternoon, just the low hum of ceiling fans and the soft scrape of cutlery against ceramic. Sophia stirred her coffee, fingers fidgeting with the paper napkin beneath her cup.

Across from her, [Y/N] was calm but sharpened at the edges — the way she always was when talking about politics. Or maybe just when talking to Sophia.

“I still don’t understand the Dynasty endorsement,” [Y/N] said, her voice level but unmistakably pointed. “They’ve shut down every participatory program in the past five years. Aligning with them was a choice.”

Sophia didn’t respond immediately. She kept her eyes on the swirl of her coffee. “It was,” she said eventually.

[Y/N] waited for more, but none came.

“And you don’t regret it?”

Sophia looked up at her, and for a brief second, her face softened. “I regret a lot of things.”

[Y/N] met her gaze, trying to read the spaces between the words — but Sophia’s expression had already returned to neutral.

The silence between them stretched, dense and undecided.

Sophia finally said, “Politics in a place like this isn’t always about ideals. Sometimes it’s just surviving long enough to do one thing right.”

[Y/N] didn’t argue. But she didn’t agree either.

Her eyes dropped to her tea, and her shoulders settled into a quiet disappointment.

When they stood to leave, Sophia offered to pay — [Y/N] insisted on splitting the bill. Their goodbye was polite. No lingering.

But as Sophia walked back to her car, she couldn’t stop replaying the moment when [Y/N]’s gaze shifted — not angry, not even disillusioned. Just quietly distant.

“You like her,” Lara said, peeling mango slices at the Laforteza kitchen counter, not looking up.

Sophia blinked. “We’re not doing this.”

“I didn’t say you’re in love with her. I said you like her.”

“I don’t—she’s just… sharp. Committed. Kind of exhausting.”

Lara smiled. “Because she says the things you won’t?”

Sophia looked away.

“She challenges you,” Lara continued. “That’s why you invited her to your office without really inviting her.”

“I didn’t invite her,” Sophia said.

“You said her name in front of someone whose mouth is faster than your staff’s printer. That’s basically a job offer in the municipality of Hilaga.”

Sophia sat down, the exhaustion from the day settling into her bones. “She’s not like us.”

“She’s not like you,” Lara said. “She’s braver. But only because she still believes she’s allowed to be.”

Sophia didn’t reply.

She stared at the glass of water in front of her, the condensation dripping down her fingers. “I was never that brave. Not at her age. Not even now.”

“She reminds you of what you gave up?” Lara asked.

Sophia smiled, but it was faint. “She reminds me of what I stopped expecting from myself.”

They sat in silence for a moment.

Then Lara added, “You don’t have to be her. But you can stop running from her, too.”

Sophia didn’t answer. But later, in bed, with the lights off and the fan humming above her, she thought about [Y/N]’s voice.

“They’ve shut down every participatory program in the past five years. Aligning with them was a choice.”

And she hated how true it was.

The municipal gymnasium was packed.

Plastic chairs filled every corner of the floor. Banners for the provincial government’s health caravan were draped from the rafters, with photos of smiling officials and slogans in all caps. A marching band had played earlier. Someone had handed out pink fans with a drawn version of the councilor on them.

[Y/N] stood near the back of the crowd, notebook in hand, her name pinned to her chest on a volunteer ID. She hadn’t planned to be there — it wasn’t her assigned weekend — but her NGO supervisor needed an extra set of hands to coordinate one of the pediatric stations.

She hadn’t seen Sophia yet.

She knew she was coming. It was on the program: Hon. Sophia Elizabeth G. Laforteza, Councilor, Hilaga Municipality.

When the microphone squealed and her name was announced, [Y/N] turned automatically toward the stage.

And there she was.

Sophia stepped up with the same practiced confidence she always had. Blush pink blouse—not too loud, not campaign-colored either—sleek black trousers, hair tied back. No makeup but enough poise to make up for it. She spoke briefly about local medicine access and municipal health gaps, enough to sound serious but not enough to invite criticism.

[Y/N] couldn’t look away.

But this time, she didn’t move closer.

After the speech, Sophia made her way through the crowd, shaking hands, smiling for photos. She didn’t do the mayor’s hand sign. She never did. A few of the other officials noticed but didn’t say anything.

She caught sight of [Y/N] from a distance.

[Y/N] didn’t wave.

Sophia hesitated for a moment, then gave a small nod.

[Y/N] returned it, coolly, then turned back to the line forming at the kids’ table.

They didn’t speak that day. Not directly. But they kept moving in each other’s periphery—brushing past at the water station, standing a few feet apart while waiting for updates from organizers.

At one point, a staffer came up to Sophia. “Councilor, that’s the [L/N] girl you mentioned, right?”

Sophia only said, “Yes,” and nothing more.

Sophia stayed behind as the crowd cleared. She said it was to help pack up, but mostly she just wanted to breathe in the emptying gym.

Lara, passing through on her way home from clinic duty, nudged her elbow. “Saw your girl today.”

“She’s not—” Sophia started, but didn’t finish.

“She didn’t even come up to you,” Lara said, amused.

“She doesn’t owe me anything.”

“No,” Lara said. “But you miss when she did.”

Sophia looked across the now-quiet gym, where [Y/N] had stood earlier with her sleeves rolled up and her chin high, talking to a barangay mother about vaccines.

“She sees through me,” Sophia murmured.

Lara gave her a long look. “Good. Someone should.”

[Y/N] didn’t talk much on the jeep ride home.

She sat by the window, forehead grazing the metal frame, letting the sticky breeze carry the heat off her skin. Her ID lanyard was stuffed into her pocket. Her fingers played absently with the corner of her notebook — the same one she’d used the first time she interviewed Councilor Sophia Laforteza.

Councilor.

She hated how her brain still called her that. Like a habit that hadn’t caught up to the shift in whatever they were now.

Or weren’t.

Earlier, when Sophia took the stage, [Y/N] felt it before she even saw her — that subtle change in the air, the way conversations around her seemed to pause. And when their eyes met across the crowd?

Something flickered. But it didn’t burn the way it used to.

She hadn’t gone up to her. She could’ve. Should’ve, maybe.

But she didn’t want to be just another eager face nodding at a politician’s carefully weighted answers. Not when she knew what Sophia had chosen to align with. Not when she remembered how carefully she’d dodged the political dynasty question weeks ago.

Still, she felt it — that stupid pull in her stomach.

She couldn’t help thinking: if she had said something different, would I still be this angry?

Would I still be this drawn to her?

At the end of the program, when Sophia had walked by again — closer this time, close enough for perfume and sunscreen and just a trace of citrus — [Y/N] kept her head down, pretending to study a checklist. But she felt Sophia slow. And then move on.

That night, she journaled it like a confession she couldn’t say out loud:

I think I want her to fight harder. Not for me. For herself. But maybe she thinks she already has. And maybe that’s the difference between us.

I still believe in the burn. She’s spent years learning how not to get scorched.

And God, I hate how much I still want her to look at me like I’m a reason to try.

[Y/N] sat at her usual library desk on the third floor, half-buried in open tabs and cold tea. Around her, the quiet hum of printers and whispered groupwork buzzed like static. The final line of her paper glowed back at her on the screen, blinking cursor waiting for a decision.

The title:

“Youth in Power: The Transition from Representation to Responsibility in Local Governance — A Case Study”

She had removed the name two drafts ago. There was no “Sophia D. Laforteza” anywhere now. Just:

“A three-term municipal councilor in a semi-rural municipality in Hilaga province, who began her public service as a youth leader through the Sangguniang Kabataan.”

The paper focused on youth in government — what happens when they grow up, when they trade campus organizing for committee work, when idealism slowly gives way to strategy.

[Y/N] had framed it well, her adviser said. The interviews were thoughtful. The insight, mature. It was one of the stronger submissions from her class, and the university had chosen to publish it in their Governance and Policy Undergraduate Research Spotlight — a platform frequented by development workers, LGU consultants, and faculty in the metro.

She hadn’t told Sophia.

Not because she wanted to hide it. Not really.

Just… because she wasn’t sure what Sophia would see in it.

And maybe, because she wasn’t ready to know.

She scrolled back to one paragraph near the end. The one that still made her nervous to read.

“When young leaders ascend into institutional power, they are often forced to navigate the space between intention and compromise. While many enter governance with a strong sense of advocacy, particularly in health, education, or local transparency, the weight of dynastic alliances and majority blocs often pushes them to choose silence.

This silence is not always betrayal. Sometimes, it is survival. But when survival becomes a pattern, and when strategic neutrality becomes the norm, young leaders risk becoming gatekeepers of the very systems they once challenged. Their story is not one of failure — but of quiet resignation.”

She hit upload. A soft congratulatory banner appeared on the screen: “Your work has been accepted for publication.”

[Y/N] stared at it. Her heart didn’t swell the way she thought it would.

Instead, she imagined what Sophia might feel. If she read it. When she reads it.

Then she shut the laptop.

It was Lara who sent the link.

They were halfway through a late-night dinner in the Laforteza kitchen — leftover adobo, too much garlic rice, Lara fresh from clinic duty and still in scrubs.

“Guess who made UP’s research spotlight?” Lara said, chewing.

Sophia looked up from her phone. “Should I guess or are you going to tell me?”

Lara slid her phone across the table. “You. Sort of.”

Sophia raised an eyebrow, clicked the link.

The title was generic. No names in the abstract. But by the second paragraph, she knew.

“…a young woman elected as SK Chair before turning sixteen, later serving three consecutive terms in municipal office. She authored health legislation addressing prescription accessibility in rural barangays…”

Sophia didn’t scroll with her usual efficiency. She read slowly. Carefully. Each sentence like a step through wet cement.

There was no bitterness in the writing. No betrayal. It wasn’t an exposé. It was sharp. Thoughtful. Painful in the way honest things always are.

But it was her.

It was undeniably her.

And it was written by a girl who used to look at her like she wanted to understand everything inside her — and now wrote like she’d already decided what was there.

“The councilor in this case study demonstrated early promise in youth leadership and municipal health reform. However, her later political choices — including alignment with traditional power blocs and public neutrality on contentious local issues — suggest a shift toward procedural loyalty over participatory disruption. Whether this was a matter of strategy, fatigue, or disillusionment remains unclear.

Perhaps what matters more is the silence itself — and how that silence speaks louder than any ordinance passed.”

Sophia blinked hard.

She’d known the paper would be published eventually. That was part of the agreement from the start. She had even offered it — “You can use anything I say, just send me a final copy.”

But that was before everything changed.

She hadn’t received a final copy.

And now that she had the published one, she didn’t know what to do with it.

Lara watched her from across the table. “You okay?”

Sophia pushed the phone back, eyes unreadable. “She was always going to be a better writer than a politician.”

Lara raised a brow. “You mean sharper?”

“I mean braver.”

Sophia stood up and walked to the sink, rinsing her glass like it needed disinfecting. Behind her, Lara said gently:

“You knew this wouldn’t be kind.”

“I didn’t expect it to be cruel.”

“It’s not cruel,” Lara said. “It’s honest. She left out your name.”

Sophia nodded. “Yeah. But not her disappointment.”

She dried the glass, placed it upside down in the rack.

And for the first time in weeks, she felt something settle. Not anger. Not betrayal.

Just the cold, clear ache of someone who’s been seen too clearly — and no longer knows what to say back.

The paper had been public for a week. Still, no word from Sophia.

[Y/N] didn’t expect one. Not really.

She buried herself in deliverables and deadlines, finished the last of her NGO fieldwork, and stayed too long at the university library even when she was back in the capital. It was easier than waiting. Easier than checking Facebook to see if Sophia had posted anything.

Then came the provincial youth governance forum. Just a routine academic panel, [Y/N] thought. Nothing personal.

Until someone said:

“You’re the UP girl, right?”

She turned.

Standing beside her was Councilor Gabriel Bascon — taller than she’d expected, crisp white barong sleeves rolled up to his elbows, an easy confidence in his posture. He wasn’t smiling, but he looked curious.

[Y/N] nodded, caught off guard. “Yes…?”

“I read your paper.” He didn’t pause. “You threaded the needle — critique with tact. That’s rare.”

She hesitated. “I wasn’t trying to start anything.”

“You didn’t,” Gabriel said. “But you definitely stirred something. That’s more useful.”

She raised an eyebrow, trying not to smile. “Was that a compliment?”

“From me?” He gave a slight shrug. “Yeah. It was.”

Before she could reply, he added: “You thinking about staying in Hilaga after you graduate?”

“I haven’t really planned that far.”

“Well, if you do — my team’s always open to people who ask the right kind of questions.” Then, as an afterthought, he added with a half-smirk, “Even if they make some people nervous.”

She laughed. “I’ll think about it.”

What neither of them noticed — or pretended not to — was Sophia Laforteza, who had arrived minutes ago and stood by the side entrance, watching the exchange unfold across the room.

She recognized Gabriel immediately — they’d worked together on joint health initiatives, shared more than one frustration over budget allocations and party politics. He was sharp, fearless, and consistently politically independent.

He was also the kind of person Sophia pretended to be in press releases — progressive, anti-corruption, uncompromising. And unlike her, he didn’t have to trade silence for favors.

She watched as he spoke to [Y/N] — calm, interested, direct. [Y/N] leaned in slightly when she responded. Not flirting, but focused. Open.

Sophia looked away before [Y/N] saw her.

When Gabriel eventually walked past her on his way to the panel table, he nodded. “Councilor.”

“Bascon,” she said, flatly.

He paused. “That your UP girl?”

She didn’t blink. “It’s her case study.”

Gabriel’s brows lifted, just enough. “Figures. Smart pick.”

Sophia turned back toward the stage. “Let’s just hope she knows which parts to keep fictional.”

He didn’t press it. Just gave her a low hum of amusement and walked off.

But Sophia’s hands were still cold as she found her seat.

Of course he noticed her. Of course he offered her a space. And of course she smiled back like she’d earned it.

He gets to be the one who doesn’t bend. And now she might follow him instead.

The forum began.

Sophia sat in perfect posture behind her nameplate, face composed, words rehearsed.

[Y/N] took notes from her spot in the back — but her eyes, occasionally, drifted to Sophia.

And Sophia? She didn’t look back once.

Not because she wasn’t thinking about her.

But because she was.

[Y/N] wasn’t even listening to the speaker anymore.

Her pen had stopped moving a while ago, the notes in her lap now a half-page of underlines and open brackets. Across the conference hall, panelists took their seats. She caught Gabriel Bascon walking toward the front — sharp, clean lines, sleeves still rolled like he didn’t believe in full formality.

But then, someone else followed.

Sophia.

[Y/N] felt it immediately — the small jolt in her chest. Like a dropped pin. Like something shifted even though no one had moved yet.

Sophia looked composed, every strand of hair in place this time, a blazer fitted neatly over a pale blouse. She didn’t wear pink — or red — just soft beige and black. Neutral. Safe. Except there was something careful about her still. Like armor.

[Y/N] straightened in her seat instinctively. She hadn’t seen Sophia in weeks — not since the health caravan. Not since the silence began.

Gabriel passed by Sophia at the base of the stage.

He said something.

Sophia replied.

Whatever it was, it made Gabriel smirk — just slightly — before taking his seat beside her. She didn’t smile back.

[Y/N] couldn’t hear it. She could only watch it.

That was somehow worse.

She told herself it didn’t matter. Gabriel was older, confident, respected. They probably worked together before. It was normal.

Still.

Why did Sophia answer him like that? Why did she look… cold, then unreadable? And why didn’t she look at me?

[Y/N]’s chest tightened. She forced herself to lower her gaze, scribbled something in her notes. Then, casually — or what she hoped passed as casually — she looked up again.

Sophia’s eyes were scanning the crowd.

They passed over [Y/N]’s row.

And kept moving.

Not a flicker. Not a pause.

[Y/N]’s fingers clenched around her pen.

She didn’t expect a wave. Not even a smile. But… nothing?

She glanced back toward the front.

Gabriel leaned toward Sophia again to say something — something funny this time, maybe. His mouth twitched. Her head turned slightly in reply, enough to signal familiarity. Maybe closeness.

[Y/N] looked away completely.

Let her talk to him.

Let her build something safe and sensible and practical — whatever the hell they both are.

But the thought didn’t make her feel better.

Later, when the forum ended, Gabriel passed by [Y/N] again. Gave her a polite nod. A “Good to see you here.”

She smiled politely. “You too.”

But she couldn’t shake the feeling that something had shifted — not between her and Gabriel, but between her and Sophia.

Not in a dramatic, explosive way.

Just a subtle, bone-deep ache of knowing that someone she used to orbit might be rotating away from her now.

She packed her things quickly. Didn’t stay for snacks. Didn’t look back.

And Sophia?

She watched her leave.

Pretended she didn’t.

main | next

[poppitron360]

- Once again, I’ve found that writing my thoughts down as I go is the best way to organise them, like the text form of a reaction video.

- Idk why, but I’ve always headcanoned Leo as a good sewer. I feel like Esperanza would’ve taught him all kinds of handiwork, not necessarily just the traditionally more masculine ones. Plus, there’s extra angst of him needing to mend broken clothes in order to survive between foster homes.

- “He absolutely couldn’t be serious right now. He couldn’t. He’d shatter if he tried” I wanna put my fist through a fucking wall.

- I need a fluffy oneshot of the Lost Trio at a fair trying to beat the rigged machines more than I need my own kidney, I think.

- I was reading about Leo talking about his fire powers being his burden and my cat was probably thinking “why is this bitch screaming into their mattress and then repeatedly muttering the words “I’m fine” while rocking backwards and forwards?”

- Tbh that was me throughout the whole funeral scene.

- Okay, I’m a bit busy with art fight and other projects, but the image of Festus’ fire backlit against the silhouette of a crying Leo, holding Jason’s shroud is fanart I NEED to see, probably by a much more skilled artist, and would also be a great front cover in a fantasy realm where there is a paperback version of this fic. The symbolism! The imagery! Leo is about to embark on a dangerous quest all because of his love for Jason and his grief of losing him- they’re shrouded in fire like doomed lovers, Leo unable to move while Jason is reduced to nothing more than a sheet of fabric. Leo just sitting there and letting the fire consume him. Just arghhhh.

- The fact that canonically Festus felt affected by Jason’s death and grieved for him too fills my heart with so much warmth and sadness. Hurting my favourite human characters is one thing. Hurting their animal sidekick (mechanical or not) is so much worse.

- It may be that I unironically enjoy terrible jokes, but “I’m not a mourning person” had me in stitches.

- Something’s up with that box under the bed and I know it. I know it’s gonna be the catalyst for all this. It keeps showing up. It’s sus.

- “One where Jason was present for […] his wedding.” Yeah I know enough about the expanded lore of this universe to confirm Jason’s definitely gonna be present for his wedding LOL.

- And Leo talking about their kids in a platonic way at first but I’m sure will become in a different way later. The fact that this is something he’s fantasising about even now? Ugh.

- You’ve lured me in with this almost-fluffy moment of Leo thinking about his future with Jason and immediately hit me with “Leo dreamed of fire.” I’ve read enough fanfiction to know that this next scene is NOT gonna go well.

- WAIT THIS IS THE SCENE WITH THE PARKING GARAGE? I REMEMBER THIS FROM THE ASK GAME MONTHS AGO!! THIS IS THE MOST EXCITED I HAVE EVER BEEN ABOUT A PARKING GARAGE EVER.

- That’s actually saying something. I genuinely enjoy just existing in liminal spaces like underground car parks and empty hotel corridors. I do, in fact, regularly get excited about parking garages. But this is still, the MOST excited I’ve been about one, at least in a long time.

- I’ve always tried to write Leo with it in mind that his biggest fear is losing control and hurting others with his powers like he did his mom. My interpretation of this nightmare is that it’s a reflection of that, plus the fact that he is blaming himself for Jason’s death and Piper’s grief. I do wanna know, though- why a parking garage? Is that something from the books that I’ve forgotten about or something significant to Leo? Or is it just that liminal spaces are designed to be creepy? Or that dreams are sometimes completely random?

- Also, is this a trademark Demigod Dream full of prophetic symbolism or is this just Leo’s regular old trauma, grief, and guilt? Is Leo gonna worry that it might be a prophecy confirming his fears, although it isn’t actually?

- I am curious to know how the Plot will progress from here, although I’m pretty sure I’m right about the box of Jason’s old stuff.

- I’m trying (And failing) to read a chapter per night until I’m caught up, so I’ll be back tomorrow or perhaps next week to read chapter 4!

The choiceless hope in grief (chapter three)

They waited until nighttime to hold the funeral, both because Jason had liked looking at the stars and because that posed less opportunity for the neighbors to wonder why the strange family that had just moved here was burning tie-dye bedsheets in the yard in the middle of the day. Tristan didn’t ask exactly what it was they were doing. After a few weeks with them, he was probably used to their antics. It was a nice night—not too warm, but also not super cold. The sky was clear and beautiful. Leo’s heart was too heavy to enjoy any of it. With a gulp, he walked up to the unlit campfire, spreading the bedsheet across it with Piper. They had to keep it partially folded so it fit into their makeshift fire pit—the purpose of this wasn’t to accidentally burn down half of Tahlequah. Piper let go of the shroud and stepped back, nodding to him. Leo gulped. Right. He was supposed to light the shroud on fire.  If the deceased didn’t have a partner, it was camp tradition for their closest friend to do final honors. Despite all of Leo’s faults, that was him. Besides, he was the one with the fire powers. He was the obvious choice. This was supposed to be his job, and his burden.  He couldn’t bring himself to do it.

Rating: Teen and Up

Chapter Word Count: 3.6k

CW: Themes of grief. (This is a funeral chapter, so, that should perhaps be obvious, lol) First | < Prev | Next >

———

Chapter 3: Festus torches a bedsheet

Leo and Piper picked out a simple white bedsheet to use for the shroud. It wasn’t fancy, but it was easily available and they made the most of it.

They tie-dyed it, both of them ending up with splotches of purple and orange all over their arms and clothes in the process.

Once the bedsheet was dry, they spent a whole afternoon stitching—and, quite frankly, doing a terrible job. They were both utter garbage at it. Hopefully, “it’s the thought that counts” still applied with dead best friends.

There was something kind of comforting about just sitting with Piper, working in silence on different ends of the same piece of fabric. In knowing that, if nothing else, Leo could at least do this for her.

“Jason would have loved this,” Piper sniffled when they inspected the final product.

“You think so?” Leo asked, building up to an entirely misplaced joke so he didn’t split open right there. “Personally, I’m not sure. He was such a stickler for rules, he might be offended that his shroud doesn’t meet demigod funeral regulations.”

“Shut up. You know he would have loved this,” Piper repeated, voice quavering terribly as they folded the shroud into a more compact form so they’d be able to carry it outside with ease later.

They couldn’t do a full funeral pyre—Piper’s backyard didn’t have the space, and they didn’t have the materials—but they’d built a campfire, and that would have to be enough.

Jason had already gotten a proper hero’s funeral. This wouldn’t be that. It wasn’t supposed to be.

“Pretty sure I poked myself with my needle and bled on the bedsheet at one point. If we end up summoning Jason and/or a random demon by accident, that’s totally my bad,” Leo warned, because he absolutely couldn’t be serious right now. He couldn’t. He’d shatter if he tried.

It wasn’t closure, but Leo still felt a bittersweet satisfaction when he looked at the finished product.

It was tradition to represent the godly parent with the shroud. They’d decided to say fuck that. 

Jason’s shroud was a mess of orange and purple dye. It had symbols stitched all over it, but none for anyone’s godly parent.

It had Piper’s dagger and a small flame for Leo so the three of them could be together one last time. 

The rest was just memories. A mess of stitches that was only recognizable as a bird’s eye view of the Grand Canyon if you had a particularly vivid imagination. A cartoonish taco and marshmallows and twin video game controllers. The Superman logo. A meteorite among a sky full of stars.

And, Leo’s final contribution: a terrible likeness of a ridiculous wolf plushie from the time they’d dragged Jason out of camp to go to a fair after he’d mentioned he’d never been. Despite the fact that it was his first time, Jason had somehow been the only one of them who’d actually managed to get a prize out of one of the terribly rigged claw machines. He hadn’t even cheated! There was truly no justice in the universe.

If Leo closed his eyes, he could still hear the way Jason had laughed that afternoon, his eyes sparkling and his usually neat hair a disheveled mess from all the rides Leo and Piper had made him try. They hadn’t let him live the wolf plushie down their whole ride back—they’d jokingly dubbed it his son and repeatedly asked him to name it. Jason had rolled his eyes at them and then promptly given the plushie up for adoption to one of the younger campers when they’d gotten back to camp, despite their horrified protests about how he couldn’t do that to his child.

Leo wasn’t sure whether to laugh or cry when he remembered it now.

Above all, this shroud was a tribute to Jason. Not to the version of him that most people had known, either. It wasn’t a tribute to Jason, the hero of Olympus, or Jason, the son of Jupiter and champion of Juno. 

Because sure, Jason may have been all of those things, too, but most of all, he’d been their friend. The guy who’d stayed awake with Leo in the sewer and tried to cheer him up. The guy who’d spent all night on the roof of his cabin with Piper, recreating a memory Hera had made up and making it theirs. Who was kind and just the right amount of goofy and had learned to loosen up and laugh at their antics. Who believed in the people he loved even more fiercely than he believed in the deities he’d been raised to worship.

This version of Jason had never been for the gods. This version of Jason was just for them.

~~~~

They waited until nighttime to hold the funeral, both because Jason had liked looking at the stars and because that posed less opportunity for the neighbors to wonder why the strange family that had just moved here was burning tie-dye bedsheets in the yard in the middle of the day.

Tristan didn’t ask exactly what it was they were doing. After a few weeks with them, he was probably used to their antics.

It was a nice night—not too warm, but also not super cold. The sky was clear and beautiful. Leo’s heart was too heavy to enjoy any of it.

With a gulp, he walked up to the unlit campfire, spreading the bedsheet across it with Piper. They had to keep it partially folded so it fit into their makeshift fire pit—the purpose of this wasn’t to accidentally burn down half of Tahlequah.

Piper let go of the shroud and stepped back, nodding to him.

Leo gulped. Right. He was supposed to light the shroud on fire. 

If the deceased didn’t have a partner, it was camp tradition for their closest friend to do final honors. Despite all of Leo’s faults, that was him. 

Besides, he was the one with the fire powers. He was the obvious choice.

This was supposed to be his job, and his burden. 

He couldn’t bring himself to do it. He held the fabric in his hands, all those memories of everything Jason had been, and he couldn’t do it. The lump in his throat felt bowling-ball sized, and he could hardly see what he was doing through the veil of tears that just wouldn’t stop.

Even after everything he’d told himself and promised Piper, he just couldn’t bring himself to close the lid on Jason’s figurative coffin. He wasn’t ready to say goodbye.

He wasn’t sure he’d ever be ready.

Leo didn't have to light the shroud on fire.

They’d let Festus come out of suitcase form for the evening, because it was only right that he also got to attend the funeral, weird looks from neighbors at the tiny plane flying back and forth above the house be damned. When Leo stood frozen in place with his hand on the shroud and couldn’t bring himself to light it, Festus creaked in sympathy, giving him another moment before promptly torching both Leo and the shroud. 

Leo didn’t have much capacity for focusing right now, so his clothes got a little singed, but he didn’t care. The fire felt familiar and weirdly soothing against his skin.

Festus creaked sadly, and Leo wiped at his own eyes with burning fingers, which was without danger for him but would have caused most other people to go blind in an instant.

“Thanks, buddy,” he said weakly, genuinely grateful for the warmth even though the night wasn’t super cold and he was technically dressed for the weather. He knew this was Festus being affectionate with him. It was Festus being affectionate with Jason, too. In a way, Leo was glad all three of them had gotten to be a part of this.

He kept his other hand on the burning sheet for another moment, afraid letting go would mean losing Jason all over again. It was a stupid thought. Jason wasn’t even actually here.

Finally, he wrapped his arms around himself and stepped back, sobbing quietly.

He was supposed to say a few words. That was how most funerals went—not just Camp Half-Blood ones. He’d actually wanted to come up with something to say, but every time he’d tried to focus on it, the pain got too intense for him to handle.

“I can’t do this,” he said quietly, the flames draining out of his body from the sheer intensity of the cold, raw grief. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

He wasn’t even sure if he was apologizing to Piper for not being able to do any of the things he’d promised, or apologizing to Jason for disappearing and failing to cheat fate and getting him killed.

Whatever the case, he didn’t think he deserved either of their forgiveness.

Piper stepped forward and took his hand, squeezing it gently. Telling him it was okay, even when Leo knew it wasn’t. Even when it felt like he was failing both of them all over again.

“Jason, you were maybe the bravest, kindest person I knew,” she began, her voice quavering. Her hand shook in Leo’s—her whole body was trembling—but unlike Leo, she kept talking despite her tears. She’d always been stronger than him. “You did everything to protect the people you loved, up until the end. I wish you’d told me about the stupid prophecy sooner. I wish you didn’t always make yourself carry everything alone. I just- we both loved you a whole bunch, okay? I just need you to know that.”

“Why did you always have to play the fucking hero?” Leo cursed, squeezing Piper’s fingers a little too tightly. He could barely form the words. To no one’s surprise, the burning shroud didn’t answer. “This isn’t fair.”

“It never is,” Piper said in a quiet, broken voice. She pulled Leo to her chest. “We shouldn’t have to just accept this after everything we’ve been through. But as mad as it makes me, that’s all we can do.”

Something burned in Leo, then—a tiny, glimmering spark of grief and anger and despair, screaming that this couldn’t just be it. There had to be something they could do. He wouldn’t just accept this was how things had to be.

“I miss Jason. I just want him back,” he said, trying to pretend that was something that could happen, and not the same desperate wish of a crying eight year old that refused to be pulled away from his mother’s tombstone because she couldn’t be gone. She just couldn’t be.

Half the reason he’d kept everyone at arm’s length for so long was he’d never wanted to feel loss like that again. But here he was—feeling just as small and helpless as he had back then.

“Yeah, I know.” Piper was still trembling against him. His shirt was wet with her tears. “Me too.”

Gods, Leo couldn’t do this. He couldn’t keep talking about this. He couldn’t keep thinking about this. He couldn’t keep Jason’s stupid face out of his head for ten seconds and at this rate, he was sure he was going to lose it.

“I hate funerals,” Leo sobbed into Piper’s shoulder. “I’m just not a mourning person.”

It was a completely stupid thing to say. For some reason, it helped, though.

“Did you just make a pun?” Piper half-laughed, half-sobbed, looking at him in startled disbelief. “And it wasn’t even a very good pun. It’s literally the middle of the night.”

“Fuck off, I’m grieving. Actually funny Leo will be back in five to seven business days,” Leo said, clenching his trembling fingers into her shirt. “Besides, Jason liked my shitty puns.”

“Yeah, he did.” Piper sniffled. “Thank you for doing this with me. I couldn’t have done it without you.”

“Don’t do that. Don’t thank me. The last time I should have been there, I wasn’t.” Leo was trembling so hard that he genuinely thought he might have shaken himself to bits if she hadn’t been holding onto him. “Besides, I kind of failed massively at everything you asked me to do, so-”

“I don’t care,” Piper interrupted, hugging him so fiercely that it knocked the air right out of Leo’s lungs. He wouldn’t have had it any other way. “I’m just glad you’re here.”

For the longest time, they just stayed there, sitting in the grass, holding each other until the flames died and all that remained was the pitch-black night.  ~~~~

Leo spent half the night numbly staring up at the ceiling. He had been right. The funeral hadn’t helped him. All it had done was cause him to cry himself into a pounding headache. 

He’d done it for Piper’s sake—and looking at her sleeping face that was almost peaceful, he was glad he had—but unpacking all the emotions he’d tried so desperately to lock up had still left Leo feeling like shit.

He felt like someone had taken him apart and put him back together all wrong, conveniently forgetting to put some components back in at all. Every part of him that had belonged to Jason had been violently ripped out, and now Leo was left with a bunch of sparking cables.

None of this was right. Nothing would ever be right again. 

Jason was dead. He’d been larger than life, and now he was gone, just like that. Even after weeks of living with that reality, it still felt completely surreal. Time should have stood still. The whole world should have stopped spinning to mourn a loss like that. But it didn’t. The world just kept turning, completely unmoved by Leo’s grief. Life continued. And all that was left of Jason were memories, an empty dorm room and a single box of belongings that was collecting dust under Piper’s bed.

All Leo could do now was mourn the six months he’d lost, and every single memory they’d never get to make. 

Worse, maybe, was the fact that he had to mourn a future he’d started to take for granted—one where Jason was present for all of his birthdays, and his wedding, and the opening of the machine shop Leo had dreamed of since he was a kid. One where they were the kind of lame adults who had barbecue night once a week and spent a lot of time reminiscing about all the bizarre shit they’d gone through as teenagers. One where Leo got to corrupt a little blond kid into being his troublemaker accomplice, and a girl with dark curls sat on Jason’s shoulders, making a mess of his hair. One where they got to grow up and grow old alongside each other.

Leo had no idea how he was supposed to face a future without Jason. Every fiber of his being ached, but despite the pain, he wasn’t sure any of this would ever feel real.

Leo hadn’t imagined any sort of future for himself in a very long time. He’d spent years just trying to make it through the day. Anything beyond surviving had been a minor concern.

But then he’d met Jason and Piper, and he’d foolishly allowed himself to dream.

And now here he was, staring at the ceiling, mourning a world that would never exist.

~~~~

Leo dreamed of fire.

This in and of itself was not unusual. He was a demigod son of Hephaestus. Dreams of fire to him were about as shocking as Percy eating blue food or Annabeth designing a building that utterly defied the laws of physics. 

Leo’s first thought was that this was a call from his dad, who was sick of his moping and wanted to offer helpful, comforting insight like “this is why machines are superior to demigods. You can’t just rebuild demigods when they die.”

He wondered if there was a way to hang up on a godly parent. Man, he really needed to figure out how to cancel this crappy dream vision plan he’d been automatically opted into. That was what he got for never reading the demigod terms and conditions.

But it wasn’t his dad. He’d been in Hephaestus’ workshop often enough that he could recognize it on sight, and that wasn’t what this place was.

Leo looked around, confused. He was in what looked like a standard underground parking garage. 

Except, unlike what Leo assumed to be the norm for underground parking garages, this one was both completely empty and had a raging fire tornado in the middle of it. 

Despite the fact that Leo was standing decently far away, the air felt uncomfortably warm—and if he, who was usually completely unbothered by flames of any kind, could tell, that meant it had to be scorching hot.

It was the kind of heat he’d only felt twice in his life. Once when he’d blown himself and Gaia to bits, and once when he’d been eight years old.

Leo shivered. He could feel his whole body trembling, everything in him trying desperately not to remember.

“What the hell is this?” he yelled into the empty parking garage.

The parking garage didn’t have the decency to answer.

Except it suddenly wasn’t empty. 

There were figures crouching behind the columns. Most of them were blurry, more shapes than people Leo could recognize.

But one of them…

“Piper?” he asked breathlessly. She was right in his line of sight, halfway across the empty car park, pressed closely to one of the columns.

Piper didn’t look up. Her gaze was fixated on the swirling cone of fire. Flames rolled outwards from the storm’s center in waves. They collided with the columns, including the one Leo was standing behind. The column provided some protection from the fire, but didn’t help much with the heat. 

“Piper!” Leo repeated, louder this time. Panic gripped his heart. If he could tell it was hot, how painful did it have to be for her?

He had to get to her. He had to make sure she was okay.

It was a frustratingly slow process. Leo kept having to duck behind columns to dodge the fire. Usually, he wouldn’t have bothered, fire-resistant as he was, but this was the kind of heat even Leo wasn’t brave enough to mess with.

The final blast of fire before Leo got to her left Piper’s hair and one of her sleeves singed.

“Pipes?” he asked when he kneeled down beside her, his voice small. “Are you okay?”

She did look up, then, but she was looking past Leo like he was invisible.

He looked her over frantically. Her face was a mask of pain. Her arms… Leo gulped. Piper had been burnt, and badly. 

Leo couldn’t be burnt like that, but he knew it must’ve hurt like hell. He had no idea how Piper was even staying upright.

“Come on, we have to get you out of here,” he said, but it was hopeless. She didn’t seem to hear him.

More fire rolled past the column they were crouched behind and Piper winced at the heat, but she just stayed right there like she was pinned in place. She wasn’t running. Why the hell wasn’t she running?

Instead, she unslung something from her back—was that a blowpipe?—and aimed it right at the fire tornado.

“What, are you planning to knock the fire unconscious?” Leo asked, exasperated. Piper still didn’t seem to even notice he was there. She just poked her head out from the semi-safety of the column and took aim at the fiery cone, with no regards for how hurt she already was and how much worse it would get if whatever was controlling the fire got more pissed off. “We have to go!” 

Leo wasn’t thinking. He just knew instinctively that if he didn’t get her away from the firestorm, Piper wouldn’t make it.

He grabbed for her arm in blind desperation, pulling her back into cover.

Piper screamed in agony, dropping her weapon and clutching at the spot he’d touched. She curled into herself with a terrible whimper. 

Leo pulled away in horror. In his panic, he’d forgotten about the burns on her arms.

“I’m so sorry. I- I was just trying-” he said, his voice breaking. He’d gotten Jason killed, and now he’d hurt Piper. What kind of awful friend was he? “I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

“But you did,” Piper bit out, furious. It wasn’t her voice. There was something resentful and ancient about it. “Look at you. The little demigod who defeated Gaia. Do you truly believe you can save your friend? Whose flames do you think caused these burns?”

The scene shifted. Piper was running. The parking garage behind her had exploded into a wall of fire that was rapidly catching up to her—nipping at Piper’s heels, then enveloping her. She screamed as the flames swallowed her whole.

Leo was screaming too. He tried to reach out, to find her in the flames, but he couldn’t move. He could only watch as she disappeared in the wall of heat and smoke.

Suddenly, it was Leo at the center of the firestorm, flames pushing outwards from his supernova center.

He tried to rein his powers in, but they wouldn’t listen. The more he tried to control them, the more fiercely they pushed back, rolling outwards, swallowing everything in their path.

Leo was eight and the machine shop came down around him. He was sixteen and the sky was on fire. 

He was almost seventeen and everything he’d ever loved continued to be swallowed by the inferno of his dumpster fire life.“You are a child of flame,” the voice that wasn’t Piper’s taunted at the back of his head. “Anything you touch, you burn.”

———

Notes:

I’ve always had several grievances with how Jason’s death was handled, and one of the main ones was the fact that his arc was about finding his place between two camps that he both felt like he belonged to, only to have his arc end with him dying and getting a Camp Jupiter Funeral with zero of his CHB friends (or his sister) present. Yeah, no. We are not doing that. We cannot have the point of Jason’s arc be “he is of both camps” only to reduce him back to just Roman in death and for half of his friends to not even be given proper space to mourn him. Let him be of both camps!! That was the entire point! Grrr.

Anyway, obviously Leo and Piper are the specific focus of this fic, but since they were also Jason’s strongest ties to CHB, it makes sense to have them do the honors.

There’s some personal bits in here, specifically Leo’s thoughts on a future he always just assumed Jason would be a part of. I had a loved one pass away a few months ago, and it’s really strange to come to terms with the realization of how much of the future you’d taken for granted. And suddenly all that’s left is this mental image of an empty chair that you always thought they’d fill.

My relationship with that person was completely different than Leo’s was with Jason, but that feeling remains vaguely the same.

On a (slightly less? Potentially more?) depressing note, the plot is starting to kick in a little bit there at the end! Not fast—partially because I wanted to avoid messing with the ending of ToA too much, meaning the majority of this fic takes place after Tower of Nero—but some stuff certainly is going on here ;)

I would loveee to hear if anyone has thoughts on that last bit. I considered giving some extra context since what that scene is won’t be equally obvious to all readers, but I decided I may actually just wait and see if someone in the comment section draws the right conclusion :)

Tag List: @poppitron360 @bookIshpolythist @lilyfrey @lady-silkwing @intenebrisobscurat @manygeese @ann-rex

[fingertipsmp3]

The good news is my smart typewriter arrived, the bad news is its battery is deceased

[tojisteddy]

Tojis way of getting you to dream land was to give you a biiiiig dose of his fat cock.

It was a long day full of chores, walking around looking for the dumbbells he’d wanted, Toji just about cursing out the owner (if you squinted) because they tried to play him. And one thing was for certain, Toji wasn’t the one or the two. All while you ate away at the burger and milkshakes you got next door. (Toji enjoying the burger in the car whilst he complained about the little incident, ‘fuck that’s good baby’ ‘isn’t it? It’s a new spot.’)

Then after that, you had to grocery store, including arguing with Toji over which meats to get because all he wanted was pork and beef, great debate if he should change the dogs food, the never ending line because you couldn’t get in 15 items or less.

Then driving home, putting everything away, getting dinner started, shower, a much needed relaxing bath and, eating and now you were here.

Wide awake, watching some episode of Bad Girls Club (the og show from Oxygen). Toji had went to bed, and you gave him a ‘okay’ before turning down the tv not to disturb him.

Then circled back to he living room when you didnt follow him.

His eyebrows furrowed, he looks down at you he’s fully under the kotatsu, looking like a little muffin bundled up, “What are you doing?”

“What’d’you mean?”

“We’re supposed to sleep together.” Had you turned into Toji’s living, breathing, body pillow? Yes. He’d told you that. Which is why he had you on a schedule, you both got eight hours of rest that actually felt like eight hours that way.

“I’m comin, just give me ten minutes.”

Fine, whatever, ten minutes wouldn’t hurt the man. He got in bed, drifting in and out of sleep, waiting patiently for you to climb in his arms just as you usually did. But he’d felt off, he’d opened his eyes to the alarm clock that read ‘1:04’ and didn’t feel your weight on the bed.

He huffed, rolling himself out of bed and to the living room, irritated now because you should’ve been with him two hours ago.

“The fuck are you doing?”

Your eyes widened like a deer caught in headlights, you made yourself comfortable in the living room. Had a glass of milk, some oreos as you watched what was now reruns of Americas Next Top Model. It wasn’t that you were entraced in the show, you’d seen it before. Jaslene Gonzalez was gonna win season 8. You just couldn’t get your eyes to close. You tried turning the tv off and closing your eyes an hour ago and got nothing. Maybe a snack would help, which led you here.

You shrugged sipping the last of the milk and wiping your mouth, “can’t sleep.”

So you decided to torture your exhausted spouse instead?

Toji would force sleep down your throat if he had to.

The glass that was once on the table had now rolled onto the carpet (not breaking thank god). Repeated ‘mmph’ coming from your mouth with every harsh thrust of Toji’s leaking length gave you under the kotatsu. Toji was giving you the pounding of your life.

“Tojii,” you mewled, tapping his thigh, “ ‘s too much! I-I’ll go to sleep now!”

Toji snickered in your ear, grabbing your neck from behind and giving it a nice squeeze, “No, no, noooo, baby this is exactly what you needed. Keep those pretty eyes open and those legs straight f’me or we’ll be stayin up allll night.”

You moaned in annoyance, eyes rolling and gripping at the carpet. His balls getting wet from your sobbing cunt. Toji turned your head, just enough to fit your mouths together, sloppily intertwining your tongues and pulling away with a ‘smack.’

He groaned, “There you go mama, arch it a little more for me.”

“Oh fuck,” you were smacked upside the head with your orgasm right when he hit your spot, pink walls convulse around his cock. His hips moved faster.

You felt Toji shiver, quickly pulling out and cumming on your back, “Shiiiit, that’s my girl. Gooood job baby.”

You were out like a light, hushed snores leaking your slightly agape mouth. The bigger man hummed in satisfaction. Nothing his dick couldn’t solve.

“Nighty night sweet cheeks.”

a/n: i can never write some short shit, I always gotta set up plot, I’m irked. Anyway, toji drought kinda over!!

latest post masterlist more casual!toji

[obxsummer]

leave me again ii // rafe cameron

pairing: rafe cameron x routledge!reader (she/her), ex!jj maybank x reader

summary: you left the cut with nowhere to go. it’s rafe cameron that finds you and shows you the life you deserved to live

warnings: sorry jj lovers, that man does not get our girl back so sad jj and probably ooc rafe but i love it when that man is soft

navigation || part one

--

Six months.

It had been six months since any of the Pogues had seen you. No social media, no sight of you around town, no letters. Nothing.

The past six months left you to do a lot of reevaluations. You’d walked aimlessly after the group had left for the dive with nothing but your backpack and phone, no destination in mind. Until you found one.

“Lost or something?”

“Fuck off, Rafe,” Your response was instant as you continued to walk without sparing him a look. The car shifted into a different gear, you guessed by the noise, before Rafe was hopping out to approach you.

“Are you okay?” When you didn’t answer, he moved in closer and grabbed your shoulder before turning you to face him. “Hey, hey. What’s wrong?”

You stared at him with the knowledge that you probably looked like a mess with the tear streaks across your cheeks. While Rafe had a lot of issues with your friends and brother, he usually stayed clear of you. Whether that was because you were close with Sarah, or what, you didn't know.

Twisting your fingers together, you dropped your gaze as tears started to build again. “You ever watch someone you love choose someone else over you, every single time?”

The question felt like a punch in the gut to Rafe. He had. His whole life he watched his dad choose Sarah. Watched his mom choose another family over him. Watched Wheezie choose another sibling over him.

“Get in, I’ve got somewhere to take you.”

Six months ago, you hopped in Rafe Cameron’s Range Rover and left The Cut behind. You didn’t question the decision, knowing you’d worry about everyone else before taking care of yourself, and that clearly didn’t work in the past. You felt horribly guilty about leaving John B with no indication whether you were okay or not, but you knew if one of them found out, JJ would be busting down the door to Rafe’s bedroom before you had a chance to say no. 

While you weren’t sure what the original intentions had been, Rafe was so different with you after bringing you back to his new house. One he’d bought after selling Tannyhill, free from the haunting of his father and the screams that echoed off the walls, he had turned it into a safe space for himself and anyone he invited in.

Things blossomed quickly and you realized the Rafe in front of you was not the bully, coke-head addict you’d once known. He was such a gentle person, and so much more attentive to you than JJ had ever been. Whether it was making you breakfast in bed before you left for the day, or prepping a warm (actually warm, like hot water you’d hadn’t had in forever) candle lit bath, or popping an expensive bottle of wine just for you to taste, he was there in ways nobody had been. You were his girl, his only girl, and you never once had to question that.

Rafe had even invited you to sit in on his investment meetings and he was slowly pulling your name into his business so you’d have a professional background to grow into. You were steadily becoming an educated little couple in his home, something he was so proud and grateful for. He had someone to lean on for advice and give him fresh eyes on new projects with no judgment or fear of anger. The two of you soaked up your bubble of peace for as long as you could before shit hit the fan. 

Little did you know, on the other side of the island with your brother, there had been absolutely no peace. John B and JJ barely spoke, everything ending in an argument when they did. Pope was sick of playing mediator, and Kie had more of less shut down out of guilt. Sarah was still searching for you, but you’d gone ghost. Cleo was treading lightly with the knowledge that everything would explode eventually. 

So, they did what they could, and dove into treasure hunting. When JJ pulled the amulet out of his pocket in the back of the Twinkie, John B’s emotions were mixed. Sure, he was stoked that he’d found the object the group was looking for, but he wished you were here. It was your birthday, and John B was inches away from losing his shit without you.

“Dude, are you okay?” Pope asked as the group stood in the office area of the house, trying to find more information on the amulet’s inscription.

John B tossed the heavy object on the desk in frustration. “No, I’m not okay! We can find decades old treasure like it’s the easiest thing ever, but we can’t find jack shit about my sister? That’s bullshit, Pope. And you know it.”

Pope knew things would be sensitive today. Even JJ woke up grouchy, which John B told him was deserved since he caused your absence in the first place. The lack of your presence weighed heavy on the group, so Pope suggested going to visit one of your favorite beach spots. 

Little did he know what he was getting himself into.

--

“Rafe!” The house was filled with your laughter as Rafe twirled you in the kitchen lighting, your favorite song playing from the interactive speaker on the counter. The two of you had spent the day together, visiting the country club for lunch before Rafe took you shopping for something to wear tonight.

“C’mon, sweetheart. Lemme love on you, it’s your birthday” He mumbled as he pressed soft kisses into your neck, hands squeezing your hips teasingly. The soft fabric of the dress he’d picked out covered your frame, the color matching your skin perfectly. 

You hummed in content, fingers holding his biceps tightly as if your knees would give out any second. “You loved on me a lot this morning.”

“Can’t help it.” Rafe’s thumb traced your bottom lip before he kissed you softly. “You make it so easy.”

The two of you got lost in each other for a few more moments, soaking up the quiet as the orange sunset started casting through the windows. Today had been the best day you’d had in so long and you were so grateful of Rafe for giving you so much patience and love.

It had taken time for you to adjust to this kind of life. You walked in here with three outfits to your name, a busted cell phone, and a stuffed animal John B won you at the town festival as kids. And Rafe embraced every bit of it, let you keep your Pogue pieces while building you a life around it that was filled with items you needed but would never ask for, all while loving you so gently.

You climbed out of his car (technically the one he’d bought you but you refused to acknowledge that), and stepped down into the soft sand below. This was your spot, the spot you came to whenever you needed to clear your head or take a moment alone. You’d shared it with Rafe shortly after everything changed, and now, it was a shared spot that you both considered special.

Rafe moved around the car to grab your hand and guide you toward the area he had organized for the two of you. A small white table had been set up with your favorite snacks and two glasses of wine, surrounded by the fluffiest blanket and pillows you’d seen. 

“Did you do this?” You squeezed his hand tighter, tears in your eyes at how sweet and thoughtful the gesture was. Your jaw dropped as the two of you walked closer; everything was thought out down to the tiny forks you loved so much being there to pick up the appetizers. 

“Course I did, baby.” Rafe kissed your temple softly and grabbed one of the glasses to hand to you before taking hold of his own. You clinked your glass against his, leaning up on your tiptoes to kiss him deeply in appreciation.

And then everything went to shit.

“What the fuck?”

Rafe’s hand tightened against your lower back, both of you looking over to see the handful of figures standing a few feet away. Your heart went to your throat went you made eye contact with your brother, whose hand was wrapped in Sarah’s. JJ stood behind him along with Kiara, Pope, and Cleo, all of them looking at you expectantly.

“Shit,” You whispered and took a step back from Rafe, eyes meeting his in dread. His expression had hardened at the sight of JJ, all the anger rushing back when he thought about how you’d been treated in the relationship, how unfair everything had been. You clocked the frustration in his gaze and placed your fingers on his cheek to redirect his focus back to you. “Don’t. I’ll handle it.”

Rafe’s jaw ticked but he didn’t argue as you slipped your wine glass back into his hand and left his side to approach the group standing in front of you. You weren’t even worried about JJ or Kie, you were worried about John B more than anything.

“Hi,” The greeting was so quiet you almost didn’t hear yourself. How do you talk to people you disappeared on six months ago?

John B’s only response was to pull you into the tightest hug he had ever given. You stumbled with the force of his body colliding with you before regaining your balance and returning the embrace. 

“You’re okay,” He repeated the words to himself as if convincing his mind that they were true before stepping back and holding your cheeks in his hands. The smile on his face was huge, and you were so so confused. “Holy shit.”

“Hi,” You laughed quietly, placing your hands on top of his. “I’m so sorry.”

John B shook his head, his thumb brushing the random tear from your cheek. “Don’t be sorry. I told you to take a break, yeah? And you did.”

You glanced back to where Rafe was surprisingly conversing with Sarah with no anger in sight. The pit in your stomach slowly disappeared as you took them in and turned your attention back to John B. “I um… there’s a lot to catch you up on, and I want to tell you. I wanna tell you all of it, JB, but-”

“And I wanna hear it,” He reassured softly. “But someone put a lot of effort into your night and I don’t wanna steal any of it.”

You were so goddamn grateful for your brother. Pulling John B into another hug, you spared the look over his shoulder to see Kiara stomping away from the beach. You tried to keep a smirk off your face but it definitely made its way through. 

Stepping back from John B, you shared hugs with Cleo and Pope, promising that you would see them soon before you were face to face with the reason you made it here in the first place. JJ looked rough. His hair was chaotic, arms thinner than you remembered, and he just looked tired.

“I don’t want your apology,” You spoke as he opened his mouth. “And it looks like you have a girlfriend to go find anyway.”

“She’s not my girlfriend,” JJ replied quickly as he stared at you. “Not anymore.”

You pulled your lips in and shrugged. “Okay. I’ll see you around, JJ.”

He reached a hand out toward you when you moved to walk away. You paused just out of his reach and looked back. “For what it’s worth, I am sorry.”

You nodded. “I know. I should be thanking you actually, because if you had said it back to me that day, I wouldn’t have found something so much better.”

And with that, you walked away from JJ and the empty promises he had always given, walked away straight into the arms of someone who would give you the world and more, if you just so much as asked.

--

navigation 

[vaginalvr]

Okokokokok so I’ve been thinking for a while about this idea but reader and Spencer are like hook up buddies or in a relationship in secret. During sex reader leaves a ton of scratches on Spencer and the team finds out about them via those scratches. Can be as filthy or clean as you would like

Mwah 💋

if you insist ����😋😋

a/n got a little carried away and didn’t do my hw but worth it!!

cw: Secret relationship, unprotected sex (fictional), rough/possessive sex, scratching, dirty talk, mild public embarrassment, team teasing, aftercare

You were so wrong.

The first time it happened—an accidental blur of passion in a hotel room two cases ago—you told yourself it’d be just the once. A stress release. A moment of weakness. But now, three months in, you’re tangled in his sheets again, nails digging into his back as he fucks into you with such intense purpose that your voice is barely working.

“Spence—fuck—harder,” you gasp, legs locked around his waist.

He obliges with a low grunt, the sound rough and possessive, driving his hips deeper until the headboard slams the wall. His hands grip your hips, fingers bruising your skin as he fucks you like he owns you.

“You like this?” he pants, lips brushing the shell of your ear. “You like when I make you scream my name?”

“Yes—god, yes—don’t stop—”

He doesn’t. In fact, he drags your hips up just enough to hit that devastating angle, and you keen so loud he has to kiss you to muffle the sound. Your nails scrape down his back in sheer reflex, leaving raised red trails in their wake. He hisses into your mouth but keeps going, chasing your high with relentless determination.

“You’re gonna make me come,” you cry out, one hand fisting in his hair, the other clawing at his shoulder. “Fuck—Spencer—”

“Let go for me, sweetheart,” he rasps. “Want to feel you come all over me.”

The orgasm rips through you, a blinding shockwave that has your body arching and trembling under his. You moan his name, over and over, nails digging deeper as if anchoring yourself to him. Spencer groans, losing his rhythm just enough for you to feel him start to unravel.

“God, I’m gonna—shit—” His hips stutter. “Fuck, you feel so good.”

He spills inside you with a shudder, gripping your waist like he’ll never let go.

⸻

The room is quiet now, save for your breathing.

You lie tangled in Spencer’s sheets, skin still prickling from the aftershocks. He rests his forehead against your shoulder, breath hot, damp curls clinging to his forehead.

“I think I actually blacked out for a second,” you mumble, making him laugh quietly against your skin.

“I noticed,” he murmurs. “You left…a lot of evidence.”

You glance at his back. Red lines. Welts. Some might turn into bruises.

“Oh, shit.”

Spencer looks far too pleased. “Don’t apologize. I liked it.”

You sigh and flop back onto the bed. “Yeah, but… we work with profilers. How are we supposed to hide that?”

“We’ll be careful,” he says, nuzzling your neck. “We always are.”

⸻

You are not, in fact, careful.

The next morning is a disaster waiting to happen.

You’d barely finished dressing in Spencer’s guest bathroom when you noticed the time. You hadn’t planned to spend the night, but the sex was too good—and now you’re both late.

The plan: Arrive separately. Pretend everything’s normal. Keep your hands to yourselves. Easy.

The reality: You both show up at the same time, with suspiciously matching yawns and Spencer looking like he lost a fight with a cat in the dark.

“Morning,” Morgan says, sipping his coffee. “Rough night, Pretty Boy?”

Spencer blinks. “Uh. What?”

JJ, walking in, freezes mid-step. “Oh my God.”

You turn, panic prickling under your skin.

“What?” Spencer says, confused—until JJ points to his neck.

“Spencer,” she says slowly, clearly trying not to laugh, “you have scratches. A lot of them.”

Morgan leans closer, raising an eyebrow. “Damn, someone got wild. Who knew the genius had it in him?”

Rossi walks in, glances at Spencer’s neck, and just smirks. “Looks like someone had a good night.”

You want to melt into the floor.

Spencer, poor thing, goes beet red. “I—it’s not—They’re not—It’s—”

Emily strolls by, pausing long enough to inspect his collarbone. “Jesus, Reid. Was this a date or an exorcism?”

“Okay,” you blurt out, desperate to redirect, “can we maybe not turn this into an interrogation?”

“Ohhh.” Emily turns to you, grinning wickedly. “Getting defensive, are we?”

You open your mouth—then promptly close it.

Silence.

Morgan’s eyes narrow as he looks between the two of you. “Wait a minute…”

“Don’t,” Spencer warns.

“You two?” JJ says, wide-eyed. “No. No way.”

“Way,” Emily says, delighted. “That makes so much sense.”

Morgan lets out a loud laugh. “Reid! You dog! And here I thought you were all about statistics and chess nights.”

“He is,” you mutter, cheeks burning. “He just also happens to be really fucking good in bed.”

The room explodes.

JJ gasps. Rossi chuckles into his coffee. Garcia, walking in late, hears that last part and squeals loud enough to make Hotch look up from his office.

And then, of course, he walks out.

You both freeze.

Hotch surveys the scene with the quiet menace of a man used to chaos. “Is there a reason everyone’s yelling about Spencer’s sex life?”

Your heart drops into your shoes.

Rossi, ever the chaos instigator, shrugs. “It’s come to our attention that Dr. Reid has a secret admirer. Or maybe not so secret, considering the claw marks.”

Spencer groans. You cover your face.

Hotch raises a brow and looks at Spencer, then you.

“You’re both adults,” he says flatly. “Just… try to be discreet. And if either of you show up covered in hickeys again, I’m filing a wellness report.”

He turns and walks back into his office like he didn’t just casually approve your sex life.

⸻

The teasing doesn’t stop for a week.

Spencer can’t so much as yawn without someone winking at him. You can’t drink from a water bottle without Morgan muttering, “Gotta stay hydrated after all that cardio, huh?”

But despite the embarrassment, you can’t stop thinking about that night. Or the way Spencer looked afterward—flushed, breathless, marked.

Yours.

So the next time you end up in bed together, you don’t hold back.

You kiss him hard, fingers raking down his chest. He pulls you close, and his voice is rough in your ear.

“Go ahead,” he whispers. “Mark me again.”

And you do.

Because the secret’s out—and he’s yours.

[antiwhores]

(Dubcon at first)

Alpha!Bakugou in rut whispering “‘M sorry” to you, the Omega who wants nothing to do with him, as he dry humps you from behind.

He knows its wrong but he just cant stop his hips from rutting into your ass. He’s always been attracted to you, beyond normally. That’s probably why he bullied you in middle school. He just couldn’t handle the fact that he’d go crazy over your scent.

That had been years ago but he still thought about you.

He saw you at a coffee shop one day and immediately recognized your smell. It was almost like he was destined to be with you again.

You, however, were less than pleased. As soon as you made eye contact with him he winced at how your scent changed. It went from a calm, delicious scent to a scared sour.

You practically ran out of the door.

He couldn’t let you get away. He had been thinking about you since the day he graduated middle school. No way was he about to loose this opportunity to rekindle the relationship with HIS omega… well, soon to be his.

“Wait y/n!”

The sound of your name caught you so off guard you tripped on your own feet into the grass. He never said your name, it was always a mean nickname. You hadn’t even thought that he knew it.

You started to shake, “Leave me alone!”

He put his hands up beside his head, “I’m not gonna hurt you. I just wanted to talk.”

As you sat there, fisting the grass, he apologized. He told you about how he wanted to show you that he had changed. He wanted to be friends.

But you wouldn’t have any of that. Even though it was middle school, it was still traumatizing to this day.

You got up, brushing off the grass as you told him that you could never be friends. You told him off for everything that he did to you. He stood there and took it.

After that day, you started to see actual effort from him. Somehow, he found out your address. It was probably in some documents that can be accessed by pro hero’s.

He started sending flowers to your house. Food during lunch either at home or at work. He would show up randomly at different times to talk to you. He would even pay for your groceries. He dropped them off at your door before ringing the doorbell and walking away.

At first, you didn’t trust it at all. No way was the man that bullied you trying to court you into befriending him. But after a while your guard started to come down.

You would engage in conversation the tiniest bit instead of sitting in silence with him when he’d come sit at any table he found you at. You would even look him in the eyes when he spoke.

Everything was going well until his rut.

He was supposed to go home immediately after he felt the first heat wave surge through his body. Unfortunately, a villain decided to attack on his way back. And it also just so happens that you were on the scene.

He almost killed the villain for even being around you. The rut wasn’t letting him think clearly. All he could think was “protect mine.” He only stopped hitting the poor dude when you yelled his name.

He didn’t even realize the guy had passed out.

Bakugou looked sickly. His face red, sweaty and strained. He was breathing so heavily he was getting light headed. You could tell something was wrong. But you were ignorant to the fact it was his rut. Pro hero’s were required by law to use scent blockers. You couldn’t even smell his rut.

You took him to your house to help him since it wasn’t too far away.

As soon as he entered, his semi-hard cock went fully rock hard. He was trying to control himself on the way here. He barely managed to. But being surrounded by your scent, he couldn’t take it anymore.

He snatched off his scent blockers and in a quick movement he had you pinned against the wall.

He was humping you, fully clothed, before he even comprehended that he moved.

He wanted to cry, it hurt so bad. This small bit of relief felt heavenly.

“Bakugou? What are you-“

You had to shut your mouth when a moan came out of his. You knew that if you spoke any longer you’d have let out one of your own.

“‘M sorry, I cant-“

He groaned at a particularly hard jerk of his hips against your ass.

“‘M sorry…”

As he humped you from behind, your knees weakened. He was the only one holding you up. You were falling into a heat of your own from his scent.

“Fuck, ‘m sorry. Im ruining-“

He couldn’t even speak in full sentences without moaning into your neck.

“‘M almost done… Just- fuck… let me…”

He started to grind against you harder and faster. You couldn’t breathe, all you could inhale was him. Your mind went foggy, you could hear your own moans mixing with his. Even without the stimulation you felt so fucking good.

He stopped grinding against you as he came. He pushed himself hard against your heated body as he dug his nails into your hips.

His orgasm was strong. Leg shaking, eyes rolling back strong. He came ropes in his pants before he slumped against you.

You both fell to the ground, heavily breathing.

His mind temporarily cleared enough to know that he fucked up.

He was trying to cook up a worthy apology before he was interrupted by your voice.

You reached for his belt as you spoke,

“Take it off.”

[i-am-hungry-24-7]

[Ghost crashed into a car before he parked ours] - Mafia!TF141*F!Reader

Summary: You sigh when it's the fifth time someone fights in your poor tea shop this month. You just open it two months ago, in an area ruled by mafia called '141'. Maybe you should find their boss and give them money or what to stop the bullshit keeps happening in your shop. (well, here they come)

Mafia!TF141*F!Reader

Chapter 1 Chapter 2

To your surprise, Kyle, or Gaz – the model-like man introduced himself as – is such a considerate person with a nice sense of humor, at least compared to Soap or Ghost. 

That day you trapped yourself in the predicament with John, he seemed to sense your embarrassment, hence he just handed his boss a backup shirt without making fun of you like his boss, so you have a lot of time for the man. 

Like now, he’s sitting and sharing a plate of biscuits with you, enjoying a tranquil tea time accompanied by the pleasant smell of Earl Grey.

“You don’t have jobs to do today?” You raise your cup and ask, before taking another sip and watch Kyle finish his bite and reply.

 “Ghost’s in charge of dealing with the enemy today.” 

“Ehmm, okay” You refuse to figure out what ‘dealing’ means “What about others?"

"I killed mine yesterday.” 

Okay, you truly don’t mean this, but let’s just end this topic and move on. With a few biscuits down to your stomach, brainwashing yourself to forget what you heard seconds before with the sweetness, and buying you some time to come up with a better subject, you open your mouth again.

“Every time one of you comes here, you just scare all my customers away.”

“Isn’t that better?” 

“I need customers to earn money, Kyle.”

“You have us to pay you.” He points at the badge pasted on your wall. Of course, you’re not the one who put it on, you rather read the military smut out in front of all British than do it, but if you try to take it off, Soap will put a new one back, so in the end you just compromised and let him claim your shop publicly.

“This place isn’t only served for you guys.”

“It isn’t?” 

Is it possible to refute when Kyle flashes you a smile that you almost get blind and start wondering if he can replace himself as your lights and save you the electricity bill? Maybe counting this as one of Kyle’s humor will be better than explaining. All required is to ignore the evil glints in his majestic brown eyes while he questions you.

But even though Kyle said he doesn’t have work today, he doesn’t stay long after he finishes his tea.

“Gotta head back to help the boss.” He grins as he turns the knob and waves you goodbye.

What’s weird is that   after Kyle leaves your shop, customers start flooding back. Many of them are familiars of the shop, as you’re sure they’re 141’s lackeys too.

You remember them see you as one of the henchmen… Although they're not as afraid as when they first visit the shop because of your hospitable attitude, you can still sense the attentiveness in their demeanor.

No matter what, you’re going to figure out what’s  actually  happening.

“Hey, you.” You walk to one of the minions' sides. “Mind to tell me about why you guys always disappear when Gaz or Ghost or others come here?”

“We…” The guy’s eyes avert, shooting his friend a glance for help “It’s just a coincidence.”

“Coincidence?” Raising your eyebrow, you lower your voice to make it  menacing 

“It  really  is, ma’am, nothing to bother with the Sirs.”

“Show me, they must have sent some messages to inform you guys, right? Let me take a look, or I will…” You will what?  Actually,  you have no idea what you can do to these guys that can lift you  up  and throw you into a trash bin like a shot “Wait a second.”

Quickly running back to your kitchen, you come back with your most intimidating weapon – 

“Or I will hit you with my pan!” You wiggle your arm as a threat.

“…” 

They don’t look scared of the pan for a tiny bit. Wait, you should take your kitchen knife instead, who the fuck will pick a pan? You idiot.

yet to your satisfaction, they still fish out their phone and let you have it, and you don’t waste any time as you open the texting app.

‘Announcement: Boss will arrive at the tea shop in 10 minutes, clear the shop immediately.’

So they  really  are scaring your customers off. Give the phone back to the poor guy with pity in your eyes, you bring him a few more biscuits.

You’re strolling through the aisles in the shop. You’re out of flour and sugar, and every Wednesday the groceries are on sale. You never miss these chances to build up savings.

What a nice shopping trip. Quiet, leisure, just enjoying your own time, picking up different brands of cereal and calculating which is cheaper like a competent broken adult. Things never go wrong when you’re alone.

“Hey lass!”

Well, you’re kidding, things go south too quickly. The voice’s too familiar. It must be a hallucination.

“Lass? Bonnie?”

 Don’t look back, keep walking. It’s not the detergent man with a stupid chicken crest yelling at you.

“HEY!” A hand pats you on your shoulder and makes you jump. Sighing internally and prey there won’t be any trouble caused by the man, you turn around and face him.

“Oh, Soap, Hi.” Shit, looks like you just can’t have a break from these men. “I didn’t hear you.”

“Even though the nan outside tells me te shut the fok up?”

“Yes.” you shamelessly admit, pro tip to confront people without shame “Why are you here by the way, Soap?”

“Oh, we’re in need of some things, so Ghost pulled off during our way home.”

You take a glimpse at his basket. A rope, a roll of duct tape, and a knife. 

They must be going on a picnic. Yes, don’t overthink. The rope is for securing the tent, the duct tape is for concealing the holes on it. Knife? they surely will need it when cutting apples.

The image of Ghost slaughtering… peeling apple you mean, with Soap and Gaz playing red light green light and John napping in the tent is so vivid in your mind that you need to restrain the laugh with a clear of your throat before you grunt in affirmation and restart your steps.

With Soap depriving you of your last respite, you choose to grab what you need and head to the counter. All you want is to get home, have a nice shower, and lie on the bed reading the new fic you found last night.

“Do ye need help?” He watches you shove the products in your bag, but 5 huge cartons of milk are too heavy for your weak limbs, you can feel your arms trembling under your attempt.

“It’s okay, my car’s near the door. I can carry this myself.” Again, cheekiness works every time. You don’t care about strangers staring at you struggling with the bag and exit the supermarket in a crab way, as long as it can bring you back into peace faster, and you almost tear up when you see your car, the white of it is like the lighthouse in the atramentous night.

Hey, but you don’t remember your car has a goddamn huge dent at its boot.

“Oh yeah, forgot to tell ye. Ghost crashed into a car before he parked ours, and he’s contemplating whether he should kidnap the driver when they come back and make them shut up, or just kill them.” Soap looks at you stopping in despair as he recognizes what you’re looking at. “So it’s your car aye?”

You don’t answer him, you just watch Ghost materialize from the Shadow beside your car and give you a nod.

Fuck your life.

a/n: ty for reading :D have a nice day/night!

Car -1, Peaceful night -1

tag list :D - @blackhawkfanatic @nexthyperfix @danielle143 @goodbyegh0st @reaperxxxxzz @kaoyamamegami @imyprice @cod-z @poppingaround @live-for-fluff @masterstr0ke @mall0ww

[forlix]

𝘀𝘂𝗯𝘁𝗲𝘅𝘁・l.f.

— in which you forget that your hot housemate follows you on twitter.

𝘄𝗼𝗿𝗱𝘀・1.1k 𝗽𝗮𝗶𝗿𝗶𝗻𝗴・roommate!felix x gn!streamer!reader 𝗴𝗲𝗻𝗿𝗲𝘀・fluff, flirting, kind of an smau, implied friends to lovers, humor if u count jeongin being a piece of shit

𝗮/𝗻・saw this tweet the other day and it was so painfully lix coded that i knew i had to write something asap. contains a tiny bit of gaming jargon but is hopefully comprehensible. ENJOY ♡

y/n ꒰ᐢ. .ᐢ꒱₊˚⊹ @ y/nxx

if someone brings you fresh cut fruit to your table when you're gaming, they either like LIKE you or it's your mom

11:23 A.M.・Oct. 2023・220.2K Views

bokkie 🐣 liked your post.

“My tweet?”

You read aloud the newest text in your chatroom, and your face brightens when you remember the one in question.

“Oh, about the fruit—no, it’s so true though. And I love my mom, don't get me wrong, but I have an inkling she did it to guilt trip me." You change your posture and adopt your best motherly tone of voice. "‘This is your tenth consecutive hour wasting your young adulthood in front of that damn screen. I am now going to hand deliver apple slices straight to your mouth.’ That kind of vibe, y'know?"

A slew of messages follows your anecdote, but it is a comment from one of your moderators that catches your eye first:

je0ng1n: what about the other option tho 👀

You groan at the sight of his username. “Man, why are you always here? Don't you have a job?"

je0ng1n: i’m on break je0ng1n: taking a dump je0ng1n: ungrateful bitch

You brandish a middle finger to the camera. “Hope the dump sucks."

je0ng1n: HEY je0ng1n: don’t even joke about that :(

An involuntary cackle precedes your next words. “If you’re actually wondering, though, the only person who’s brought me fruit while I’m playing video games is indeed my mother. Heartbreaking, I know.”

At this, the steady flow of messages morphs into a gallery of depressed cat emoticons; your audience never fails to impress you with their way with words.

“But if someone other than your disappointed parent is bringing you fruit,” you go on, “they might as well get on one knee in the process, honestly. That's such an adorable, loving thing to do.”

Suddenly, the words MATCH FOUND splash across your monitor, and you move your cursor to accept the game invite—only to be met with a pop-up window and a familiar error sound that grates on your ears like screeching tires.

You know how this story ends: the lights in your mouse go dark, and you look on in dejected silence.

je0ng1n: LMFAOOOOO je0ng1n: bro’s mouse definitely just exploded again

“You guessed it," you sigh. “Hang tight for a sec, guys."

Half an hour ago, you could’ve sworn you heard sneakers being kicked off, a set of keys falling against plastic. Now, you pull one side of your headphones off and roll your chair a few feet backward, calling through your half-open door: “Lix, are you home?”

You pick up on a soft clunk that sounds like metal hitting wood—the cutting board, maybe?—and then your housemate's low, accented answer bounces off the walls of your shared hallway.

“Yeah, you alright?”

“The mouse,” you say helplessly.

“Ah.” It’s not the first time you’ve summoned him for this. “Be right there.”

A few seconds later, you remember to tack on a hurried disclaimer: “I’m live, by the way!”

“I know.”

This brings a bashful smile to your face, though the expression quickly turns to one of pure dismay when you return to your desk and witness the disastrous state of your chat.

Felix has become a regular guest on your stream by now, always popping in to show you a TikTok or ask for your opinion on a new pair of jeans or simply give your camera an awkward wave—but he may as well own your channel with how completely and unequivocally he has captured the hearts of your viewers. They’re convinced he’s the sexiest person to ever grace the earth, with his chiseled features and coffee-colored eyes; with a grin that could set entire estates on fire and a voice that could scrape the nadir of the Grand Canyon.

Do you agree? Absolutely.

Do you have any intention of voicing this sentiment, so long as you’re splitting rent with him? Absolutely the hell not.

Another of Jeongin’s messages—GET ME HIS NUMBER OR I GET VIOLENT—inspires you to minimize the stream window before Felix gets here. It’s for the best.

A few moments later, the door opens, and the air shifts inside your room. A hand comes to rest on the top of your head; a familiar silhouette appears in your periphery. There is a fond grin plastered across your face and a bright greeting sitting readily on the tip of your tongue.

But then, Felix places a plate of freshly cut fruit in the empty space to the left of your keyboard—here, he hums, the sound falling against the shell of your ear like a drop of melted chocolate. And the gears of your brain grind to a complete stop.

There is no further acknowledgment; no supplementary explanation for what he's just done. He simply picks up your mouse and gets to work.

The words of your tweet swim dizzyingly before your eyes, not unlike those halos of stars and birds that revolve around disoriented cartoon characters. And you’re suddenly, achingly aware of your roommate's arm nudging against yours as he tinkers away; of the aromas of vanilla and laundry detergent that always come with his proximity; of the heat that’s risen to your face, and the plethora of questions that have surfaced to your mind.

A soft huff of laughter follows a gentle utterance of your name, and you snap out of your trance. Felix’s eyes are glinting with amusement when you meet them.

“It’s been recalibrated,” he says, handing back your mouse. “Just give it a few minutes.”

Your fingertips brush over his palm when you accept the object, and even this blink of contact has your heart performing an elaborate hopscotch routine across the plane of your chest.

It’s either your mom, or…

“Thank you,” you mumble, finally retrieving your larynx from the bottom of the Atlantic.

“Anytime,” Felix returns, and you know he means it. “You need a duo, by the way?"

“Yes, please.”

He gives you a warm smile at this, and there’s a hint of something else—something new—in the curve of his lips. “Give me two.” And he’s gone as quickly as he'd come.

You will never know how Felix slips his phone out of his pocket the second he emerges from your room, his pulse hounding his ears as he turns a nervous gaze upon his screen.

There is now a supersonic blur of messages saturating your chatroom, a colorful cacophony of moving emotes and capital letters, but he is focused wholly on the person in front of the camera and how you slowly lift a hand to your mouth, deathly silent despite your every viewer demanding your comment on the matter, your sanguine cheeks visible even through the gaps of your fingers.

That is all he needs to know.

Felix sinks into the leather of his gaming chair and bends to power on his computer. Only after a deep breath blows past his lips does his smile start to stretch into a grin, every bit as embarrassed as it is relieved.

je0ng1n: no way je0ng1n: no fucking way je0ng1n: my heart fluttered je0ng1n: wtf je0ng1n: how’d you pull HIM??

y/nxx has removed je0ng1n as a moderator of this channel.

𝗹𝗶𝗸𝗲𝗱 𝘁𝗵𝗶𝘀 𝘄𝗼𝗿𝗸? please consider reblogging, commenting, or sending me an ask to let me know; or, read my other works here. thanks so much for the support ♡

© 𝗳𝗼𝗿𝗹𝗶𝘅 (est. 090323) · all works are pieces of original writing and all characters and relationships are purely fictional. please do not repost or reuse for any reason.

[esotericbluntbaby]

the consequences of radio silence

hamzahthefantastic x reader

description: after the reader sees another girl as a threat in her relationship, she distances herself from hamzah as a form of protection, not realizing that it's not as simple as going silent.

mentions: angst, past infidelity in an ex relationship, miscommunication/lack of communication, argument, she/her pronouns, sfw! (unless you guys want a part two lol)

i highly recommend listening to lover, you should come over by jeff buckley. i was listening to it while writing this lol.

---

you never realized how the language of eye contact can be louder than the words that you speak until hamzah showed you. however, the journey of getting to the point of a certain understanding was full of turmoil.

three days ago, you and your boyfriend attended a close friend's house party. though you guys didn't share your apartment on the lease, his shoes were almost always placed outside next to yours and he had his own toothbrush shared in the wooden cup you thrifted together. the apartment, though cozy and radiating with warmth, began to feel stuffy after staying home for a solid week. therefore, hamzah and you decided to put on some other clothes, specifically ones that were less worn out than the sweatpants and t-shirts you marinated in, and go out.

the party was stereotypical and naive, personified as a teenage girl smoking a cigarette and getting drunk on both the music and alcohol that consumed her. it was sweaty, combatting the body heat that your home radiated with its own personal foil of bodies almost stuck together like gummies on a hot day. laughter and house music echoed throughout the beige, poster-covered walls of the one-story house; a typical college scene was held in the eyes of hamzah and you.

your friend greeted the both of you, giving you both an intro to the festivities around you. the bar was, quite obviously, the table with all the alcohol and red solo cups stacked upon one another. somewhere in the corner was beer pong, surrounded by copy and paste frat boys being each others yes men, next to the kitchen with finger foods and party favors. with all the chaos happening in the house, you and hamzah decided to stick together.

until, you decided to use the restroom and came back to the sight of hamzah getting his arm playfully hit by another girl, both smiling and seemingly enjoying each other's presence. she was pretty: the kind of girl that people writes songs about, the kind of girl that only needs mascara and lip gloss to be pretty, the kind of girl that your ex cheated on you with. you watched from afar, memories of infidelity from your past relationship floating around your brain. you were not new to the concept of toxicity in relationships; in fact, before you met hamzah, it was all you were used to.

you convinced yourself that he would never do that to you. he is not the man who hurt you, actually, he proved that he isn't; it's why you became his girlfriend, in the first place. you know him. you don't know a lot of people, but gazing into his eyes makes everything fall into place. hamzah was the epitome of perfection in your eyes, possibly, even more. you now know why you've spent your life yearning to be loved; he was there now, not only loving you, but knowing you as well. he prides himself in his adoration for his girlfriend. there would be no reason for him to cheat.

however, you felt a rock being thrown to the walls of your heart from the veins inside when you saw her whisper in his ear, and watched him chuckle at whatever she said to him. that smile he gave her; the same smile he would give you whenever you'd say something stupid that would make him laugh. his teeth, the ones that you would compliment him for since the imperfections in it suits him, is now visible in a genuine smile for another woman.

you stared at him from afar trying to convince yourself that he wasn't like anyone else you've loved and lost; that he would never be like those who created a shell of who you once were and the ghost of complete trust in most relationships. however, with each small gesture, touch, and laughter, you began to doubt yourself.

so, you shut down as your mind became your own personal prison. you were in a state where you escaped from your body, being locked in a cage where the walls wrote the promises that were broken by other people, using your own blood to write each lie, taunting you and teasing you with false hope. each lie repeated in your head until hamzah called you over, motioning with his hand in a motion waving towards him.

"are you alright?" he asked you, putting his hand on your shoulder, enveloping you in a side hug as the woman's grin turned straight and cold.

you nodded, "yeah, i'm fine."

"i want you to meet maeve, an old friend of mine from, like, high school, i believe?"

you opened your mouth to greet her, to which she interrupts you, "actually, middle school. i go waaaay back with this guy, isn't that right hamzah?"

he nodded, smiling, "yeah, it's been how long now?"

maeve scoffs and nudges his arm again, "years. genuine years. i've missed you!"

you cough, clearly uncomfortable by the scene in front of you. yet, a part of you didn't want to seem weak for feeling so upset. guilt started to rise from your stomach, extending to your throat. how could you think that your boyfriend would cheat on you like that? but, then again, you also contradict yourself in your own head; why wouldn't he?

"are you sure you're okay?" your boyfriend asks you, a look of genuine worry in his eyes.

"yeah, i'm fine."

-

an hour passed by, an uncomfortable lack of conversation coming out of your mouth. you were always the talker as hamzah listened to you. you never realized that he would be a talker to another woman as you took the role of listener. you decided to leave them alone, going with a couple friends of yours to the basement; your heart couldn't take the painful flashbacks and concern. going back up from the basement, you hesitated on looking at them. however, he appeared behind you and hugged you from behind, resting his head on the top of your scalp. it was weird; this was the first time you didn't want to be touched by him, compared to a full two years of yearning for his fingertips interlocking with yours. finally, he said his goodbyes to those he knew at the party as you did too.

the car ride was quiet: the kind of quiet after a certain loss. you saw his gaze in the corner of your eye, glancing at you, as your eyes were trained on the dark road ahead of you. almost reading your emotion, he placed his hand on your thigh. you knew his intentions of comforting you, however, the image of maeve and him wouldn't leave your head as the movement of the car remained steady.

"what's up?"

you snapped out of your trance, confused, "hm?"

he reached a stoplight and looked at you, "you're quiet. normally, you'd be telling me about all the tea you heard of at the party and we'd be talking mad shit. something's wrong. did something happen while you were in the bathroom? i swear to god if something happened-"

"no, hamzah," your voice got quiet, "nothing happened."

the last thing you wanted to be was overbearing; maybe the lack of communication is bad, however, you couldn't help it. you shattered, once. someone dropped you and the shell of your old self shattered. you spent all this time, picking up all the pieces off of the floor and gluing yourself back together. you were not going to let him drop you and leave you for yourself to clean up as if you were the maid of your own house.

"baby, you can talk to me," the car started again.

your voice shook, "please, just drop it, i'm fine."

"but you're obviously not! you're so quiet, you haven't spoken a word besides yes and no ever since we got in the car. talk to me," he pulled up into the designated parking to your apartment and gently grabbed your face with both of his hands, forcing eye contact within the space of both of you.

you teared up, a moment of weakness breaking, "please go home. i just need space."

his eyebrows furrowed a look of confusion, hurt, sadness, anguish; genuinely any negative emotion in the book of empathy. yet, he let you go.

"please, please text me if you need something. i love you, i don't know what's going on, but i'm here. i promise you," he reassured as he kissed your forehead.

you got out of the car and quickly walked off, vanishing into the interior of your apartment complex.

--

three days have passed since the party. hamzah offered to come over to talk the day after, leaving text messages for you to read.

hamzah! <3 :)

11:45 am | baby

11:45 am | can we talk?

11:45 am | pls

11:46 am | tell me what's wrong pls

11:46 am | can i come over?

1:06 pm | i won't come over unless you give me permission. i can't force you to do anything. but pls at least send me a text if ur okay.

1:06 pm | i lvoe you

1:07 pm | love*

3:02 pm | please baby respond i'm worried

3:02 pm | if someone did something while you were in the bathroom, you could tell me i promise i won't do anything to them i'll be there to support you

3:06 pm | just talk to me i'm here

5:23 pm | i love you a lot

5:23 pm | i hope you know that

5:23 pm | i've been pretty bored without u

5:24 pm | martin is currently over

5:24 pm | he's ranting about mandy which is kinda horrible timing for the state we're in rn

5:24 pm | i'm thinking of u when he talks about how in love he is with her

5:24 pm | i wanna marry you one day the way that he's gonna propose to her soon

5:54 pm | me and martin are gonna get tacos

5:54 pm | so if u want some i can drop some off

5:55 pm | so js let me know

6:24 pm | i got 4 carne asada tacos martin literally got 7 wtf

6:24 pm | ok i kinda wish i got 7 this shits mad good

7:30 pm | i got u flowers

7:30 pm | and the chips u like from that one fancy ass grocery store like 40 minutes away

7:31 pm | i forced martin to drive me there to get you them since ik u like them a lot

7:31 pm | i also got u some mangos

7:31 pm | it was buy 3 get 2 free

7:42 pm | i'm still worried about you

7:42 pm | i was hoping my text messages would distract you from how ur feeling rn which is hwy i even told u abt the deal on the mangos

7:42 pm | so in case u thought i was js updating u on my day bc i stopped caring

7:42 pm | its not that

7:42 pm | in fact i dont think i could ever stop caring abt u

7:42 pm | i love u so much

9:51 pm | it's been a full day

9:51 pm | i'm sorry but i'm kind of upset at u

9:51 pm | why did u ghost me the whole day

9:51 pm | not even one text?

10:20 pm | really?

10:20 pm | still?

10:20 pm | what happened to talking things out?

10:21 pm | or do we js not do that anymore in this relationship lol

12:01 am | i didnt mean that im so sorry i didnt mean that at all that was so passive aggressive im sorry

12:01 am | im just worried about u thats all im really fucking worried

12:01 am | i just wantu to be okay

12:01 am | i want to talk to u

12:01 am | i want to hold u

12:01 am | i want to kiss u

12:01 am | i want things to be okau

12:01 am | i want u to say something insanely sarcastic and i want to roll my eyes at how stupid it was

12:01 am | i want to see u laugh

12:01 am | fuck please please just fucking text me please baby please

12:01 am | i'll do anything

2:23 am | am i burdening you

2:23 am | do you think i'm annoying you

2:23 am | i'm sorry i wasn't thinking about how all of my texts could make u feel i was just worried and i wanted u to know that i love and care abt u

2:23 am | if ur asleep rn i hope you're sleeping well

2:23 am | i cant rly sleep rn

2:24 am | i dont think i can sleep without u tbh ive been sleeping with u for how long now its been so long since i havent slept w u

4:55 am | still awake

4:55 am | i'll do anything for u to feel happy and okay again

4:55 am | i'd even eat shitty coleslaw again

4:55 am | insane amounts of it

4:55 am | only for u

your heart hurt with every customized ping of hamzah's texts. by the end of the day, you didn't know if silence was a good thing or not on your behalf. you stopped talking to protect yourself, however, seeing the boy you love the most hurt possibly even more than the reason you were distancing yourself. however, you were in too deep of this cycle of self-despair, loathing, and pity all mixed into one.

the next day, it was radio silence on both of your ends. the silence was almost deafening, being amplified by the pit you feel in both your heart and stomach. you missed him. you looked at your shared photo album of you two together, reminiscing on the memories you shared. the aquarium where you two took an edible each and got absolutely blasted underneath the underwater tunnel. the bowling alley where you joked around about getting the ick as he overexaggerated his movements. the lodge where you two made a shitty snowman and shared a hot cocoa. you scrolled all the way up to the mountaintop he took you when you guys were still friends, the city skyline visible in the background. you swiped; it was now your first kiss displayed on the screen in front of you. by now, your eyes became opened dams, water flooding out of them. you went to bed, tears staining your eyes.

on the third day, you both still didn't reach out. you were waiting for him to inevitably break up with you for not being able to talk. you felt horrible; you felt cowardly for not simply telling him how you feel and what was bothering you. you believed you were such a terrible, terrible girlfriend. until, the doorbell rang.

it was him; in front of you with puffy eyes, a black hoodie with sweatpants, and tear-stained cheeks, holding flowers and a reusable trader joes bag filled with mangoes and chips.

"can i come in?"

--

the bag sat on your dining room table, the flowers put into a blue tinted vase. the two of you sat on the couch, inches apart. you don't recall the last time you were on the cough not interlocked in some sense, like your hands or your legs or your arms. it's silent. both of you are exchanging glances, almost as if you were strangers, never daring to lock eyes at the same time. you were about to speak, until he did it for you.

"did you find someone else at the party?"

you were stunned, "what?"

he sighed, "you said nothing happened in the bathroom. i was scared someone touched you or something. but you said that nothing happened in there."

you nodded.

"are you lying to me? did you find someone else? did you.. did you cheat on me at that party?" he asked you.

suddenly, all the emotions you felt became too overwhelming.

you looked at him with a face of disbelief and stood up from the couch, "are you serious? you're asking me that?"

he sighed, standing up as well, "i'm not trying to make you angry, i promise. i'm asking because you just suddenly stopped talking and i'm so confused."

"so your first instinct was to accuse me of cheating."

his facial expression mirrored yours, "i'm sorry?" he said sarcastically, "what do you mean 'first?' my first instinct was to text you and make sure you were okay! fuck, i literally texted you so much. what did i get? nothing. i got nothing for three days. you left me for three days and you're telling me that my first instinct was to just argue with you?" he scolded.

"no, i'm saying that you think i cheated on you. that's so fucking rich, hamzah."

frustration bubbled into the conversation, "what are you even talking about?"

you went silent, avoiding eye contact.

he continues, "see! this is what i mean! you just shut down. you have to talk to me. staying absolutely quiet doesn't do shit; it just fucking worries the shit out of me and it makes everything fucking worse. just talk!"

you looked at the floor, trying to hold back tears.

"please. fucking please just tell me what's wrong. what happened? do you not trust me anymore?" he asks, still looking at you with a facial expression of frustration.

still nothing from you; you stared.

hamzah crouches down at eye level, gently grabbing your face and mimicking his actions from the car ride home from the party, "please. i'll get on my knees and beg if i have to."

you stared at him as he waited. the frustration in his face suddenly turned into patience. you knew that he knew you; you knew that he understood you. suddenly, looking into your eyes, things began to make sense once more for hamzah. he nodded, a symbol of his understanding towards you. looking into his eyes, you realized how much he's been yearning for you for the past three days. you noticed the eyebags, visibly protruding from underneath his eyes. you saw it all: the lack of sleep, the hurt you caused him, the pain that you induced. you noticed the way he looked at you in that moment; he didn't want to hurt you.

you whispered, "hamzah, i'm scared."

his voice matched the volume of yours, "i'm here, baby. sit down. tell me what's wrong."

you sat with him, still inches apart, voice still quiet, "i was scared at the party."

"why?"

you sighed shakily and stumbled upon your words, "i saw you smiling with her. you know how i've been cheated on. i tried my best to just tell myself you'd never do that. but i guess the more i saw you guys smiling and laughing and her touching your arm and whispering in your ear- everything just didn't make sense. then, the way she talked to you and basically just ignored me made me feel so weird and like i knew you would never do that to me, i know that you would never cheat, but what if you did? then what- do i just break and fall apart and pick myself up again? would it just be this cycle of me getting hurt?"

guilt, mixed with understanding and remorse was plastered onto his features.

you continued, "so, i stopped talking. i guess i just convinced myself that you would hurt me the way that my ex hurt me, as well. i thought, this way, you could hurt me the least if you were going to hurt me."

he moved closer, bringing your head into the crevice of his neck. hamzah went through the stages of grief: denial, anger, bargaining, and depression. this was the acceptance he was finally waiting for. he stroked your hair as you rested on his shoulder, your whole body weight moving onto his. you felt his lips on your forehead, pecking once with adoration and love laced into it. you stayed like that for about five minutes without him saying anything.

"baby, the goal is to not hurt you at all."

you moved off his shoulder and looked at him.

"i noticed her too. i didn't like the way she treated you. when you left to go with aisha and faye, i told her that you were my girlfriend. she tried to get closer to me- told me that you wouldn't have to know. y'know what i did?"

you looked at him with fear and paranoia, "what?"

"i told her to fuck off. i left her. i blocked her on instagram, too. then, i went to look for you and you were already there at the top of the stairs. i was going to tell you about what she did, but you seemed upset already so i was going to wait. then, when you started being really quiet, i thought someone did something to you in the bathroom, so maeve flirting with me was the least of my worries."

"really?"

he moved your legs onto his lap, cradling you with his arms and holding eye contact.

"y'know, you're the first girl i've ever taken seriously. i just remember our first kiss. in the parking lot on lovers point. you thought it was just a coincidence that i took you there- that it was just some random spot i knew of."

you asked, "was it not?"

"i spent two days making pros and cons lists of different places to take you. i chose this place because the day before we were going to go out, you mentioned how you wanted to see the city's skyline. then i kissed you and it was like everything i've ever gone through- every struggle, every ounce of pain, every misfortune i've been through- it was like all of it was worth it. because i'm alive and because it led me to you."

culpability entered your soul, "i'm sorry."

he grabbed you by the cheek once more and kissed you on the lips. it was soft, a whisper or an essence of all the love he's given you and all the love he's felt for you. it was a kiss opposite of desperation; he was no longer desperate because he knew he had you, and vice versa.

"you have to talk to me."

"i will, i promise. i don't know what i was thinking. i'm sorry for hurting you and i'm sorry for ghosting you."

"i'm sorry if i seemed friendly with maeve. she means absolutely jackshit to me. i genuinely do not give a fuck about her. and i'm sorry for getting angry in our texts. i didn't mean it."

"i forgive you."

he kissed you once more, this one longer than the last. your lips intertwined within each other, as well as aspects of the overall soul and body of the relationship. when he pulled away, he took a couple of seconds to just stare.

"what?" you asked him.

he pecked your cheek, "i just missed seeing you. i just wanted to take it all in."

"y'know what i missed?"

"hm?"

you smirked, "the chips from lorenzo's."

he gasped dramatically, "wow. not me? the love of your life? the best boyfriend you've ever had? your other half? i'm offended. i'm so offended, in fact, i'm mad at you."

"i mean, my very loving and caring and sweet boyfriend got them for me," you joked, "you're mad at me again? what will i do?"

he rolled his eyes before his lips met yours, "i was never mad at you. i just missed you."

"corny," you teased.

he sighs, playfully with sarcasm laced into it.

you kissed his cheek, "are we okay?"

"we're okay, baby. we always will be, i promise."

--

authors note!

hi guys wow my first fanfic on this account. this might be a little dramatic so apologies if it's a little horribly written but oh well. i hope u guys like this. also i think i opened my requests so u guys can now request things! hooray!

[thebluediner]

Reader is tipsy/on the verge of drunk and sings r&b love songs to Billie. Billie being blushy and giggly while falling more in love with reader

a/n: oh my gosh YESSSSSSSS I hope you enjoy it

TIPSY AND IN LOVE WITH YOU

you and billie were invited to a friend's party celebrating their latest achievement in their career. as the loving friends you were you both attended, bringing gifts along with some congratulatory words for them.

you and billie stuck together for the first couple of minutes kind of feeling the vibe of the party first. one of her arms was wrapped around your waist pulling you closer to her. gosh you loved when she did that. you loved being close to her in general so it helped that your love languages were physical language. your eyes would wander to her face mindlessly starring with a smile on your face and when she would catch it she'd start blushing and hidding herself on the nape of your neck. gosh she was so cute.

when the party was packed and in full blast you both separated willingly finding your friend groups . as much as you were each other's best friends you weren't in the same group and that was okay because you need to have your own space outside of each other ,though you wouldn't mind having just her.

there was people in the middle of the room dancing to throwback pop and rnb songs the dj set out for you. nobody even batted an eye to the fact your friend brought over an actual dj over to his house but just enjoyed it as best as they could.

your friends had a couple rounds of drinks way before you joined them so about the time you came in you had to catch up, and to catch up you absolutely did. in a span of ten minutes you had already five shots in your system.

you aren't a light weight so all they did was get you slightly drunk, tipsy at best. you danced around your friends like you were still in college and screamed at every song that came up because they hitted you with an extreme case of nostalgia.

another scream escaped your mouth when your song came on. your eyes went wide searching for billie around the room and when you finally caught them hers were already on you ,like she knew how'd you would react to it.

she was sitting down her knees up to her chest leaning on the wall with her friends besides her but her attention was on you. you mouthed how she should come over to dance with you but with a shy smile she shook her head declining. she should've known better though you never took no as an answer especially when it came to jamming at parties.

you tried to walk towards her as best as you could because your walk showed you were on the verge of being drunk. billie watched you come closer and closer her heart beating faster the closer you got because to be honest she couldn't believe you were real, you were so hot. then again ,she did take an edible from her friend minutes ago so justifiably you appeared more enticing to her than ever.

when you reached her you bent down to her eye level meeting her with a pout , a manipulative pout. your hand reached out not even asking because you weren't giving her an option you wanted her with you.

"baby please" you whined when she hesitated and that was all it took for her to stand up. she took your hand looking down at the feel of your warm palms smilling to herself.

"ahhh! I fucking love you " you said in excitement before your hands intertwined pulling her through the crowd. when you turned to look at her the spark you both felt was there and it was electric .suddenly the mood shifted when you could finally enjoy the song with billie. you gave her a mischievous look paired with a smirk and billie swore she has never been this inlove with someone.

" baby you're tipsy " billie tries to tell you this like she wasn't also under the influence but the words flew over your head. all you could focus on was singing the lyrics of the song pointing over at her. you eyes focused on her with you hips swaying like you were performing for her regardless of the people in the room. you were all about her in that moment and she loved it

billie felt like she was being serenaded but in a goofy and sexy way .your hands wrapped around her shoulders leaning on her body grinding on her while she struggled with her face being stained with a pink blush.

you were chaotic , silly and so adorable with the words you sang out loud emphasising them to her. you arms would grab her own hands and guide to them to your waist letting her know you wanted to fell her on you.

god billie knew you were tipsy but you were so sexy and adorable right now she couldn't say anything but try and contain her little giggles at your actions.

to her you weren't just drunk singing the words, you meant them. the song expressed the love you have for your partner along with the gratitude you feel towards them for what they add to your life and so she listened no matter how messy the came out she was just happy they were for her. her blue eyes raked over figure watching you with a foolish grin.

you sang the words with your chest while you were glued to billie while she kept you close like she wanted to figure a way to get you inside her skin that very moment.

she appreciated these silly moments. the type of moments where she'd be able to tell them on your wedding and to your kids. you were in your own bubble and didn't notice the people around you but unfortunately they noticed the both of y'all and they were cheesing hard. you couldn't blame them, they were basically witnessing the spark they helped ignite come alive because technically they were the ones that brought y'all together.

when the song ended you pulled away slightly looking in her eyes and god were they tinted red and that made you giggle a little bit. billie's who was genuinely in a daze over your beauty was looking at your lips glossed lips with no shame. you somehow mirrored her actions and leaned in capturing her lips in a kiss with no hesitation. your hands rested on the back of her neck pulling her closer wanting the kiss to last forever because the way her lips felt was so heavenly you didn't understand the science behind it but you sure did like it a lot.

"I love so much more than you realise princess " billie muttered once the kiss ended and was faced with your darkish brown eyes maling you grin.

"Ofcourse I realise baby I love you till the fucking black thing out there "you said challenging her before planting a kiss on her pink lips again.

"And now I'm reminded how drunk you are" she huffs after you steal another kiss smilling like a damn fool.

"I'm not drunk, I'm not! I'm tipsy at best " you defended yourself before pulling her in a hug again.

"And you're high " you mutter seconds later making her laugh under your embrace feeling her body shake in her expression of joy.

[sugardollcurse]

HIIIII HI!!!

I had the sweetest idea that I think you’ll like (if you haven’t done it already!!)

But imagine, the boys teaching you how to play an instrument….and it’s all like cute n stuff..

You could like do all of em or just one of em whatever you feel like doing! :3

𝑏𝑒𝑎𝑡𝑙𝑒𝑠 𝑡𝑒𝑎𝑐ℎ𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑦𝑜𝑢 𝑖𝑛𝑠𝑡𝑟𝑢𝑚𝑒𝑛𝑡𝑠

𐙚 note ; I LOVE THIS IDEA!! i’ll do all four ‘cause you deserve nothing less xoxo

𓆩🕊️ john 𓆪

“If I knew you’d look that good fumblin’ with strings, I’d have broken that guitar weeks ago.”

John insists on teaching you guitar, and it’s his guitar. Like, his actual one.

He passes it to you like he’s lending you a limb and then stares like he expects miracles.

The second you mess up, he makes a face. “Oh, bloody hell, that was tragic.”

“I’m learning!”

“So was I when I was fourteen.”

But then he snickers and ruffles your hair and says, “Nah, go on. S’cute when you try.”

He doesn’t teach the traditional way. He doesn’t name chords or use sheet music. He just shows you where to put your fingers and makes you copy him until it sounds right.

“Like that. Yeah, yeah, no, that’s it, well, nearly. You’re stranglin’ it a bit. Be gentle, not like you’re wringin’ its neck.”

Has no patience for slow practice, but infinite patience for you.

He’ll groan and whine and tell you you’re hopeless, but never actually walks away. He likes being needed too much!!

When you strum something that even vaguely resembles a song, he gasps dramatically. “Oh my God, you've done it! Call the press!”

He plays behind you sometimes, arms over your shoulders, hands guiding yours. “Like this,” he murmurs in your ear. You’re not sure if you’re blushing or just overheating from the proximity.

When you get frustrated, he gets very weirdly earnest. “Hey. Don’t get pissy. You’re not s’posed to be good straightaway. S’bout the trying. Y’look good when you’re all concentrated.”

Eventually you manage to play something passable. He pulls out a harmonica and starts jamming along. “Look at us. Fuckin’ Lennon-McCartney and you.”

“Thanks.”

“S’a compliment.”

“Barely.”

“I’m kissin’ you now, shut up.”

𓆩🕊️ paul 𓆪

“Don’t worry, sweetheart. You’ll get it. And if not… I’ll just keep makin’ you try.”

Paul chooses bass for you. Not guitar, not piano. Bass. “S’sexier,” he says, not bothering to explain, and then just watches your hands fumble with the neck like he’s witnessing a private performance.

He’s leaning on the wall with one arm folded and one leg bent, looking at you like he’s waiting for your soul to rise out of your body.

Every time you hit a wrong note, he doesn’t correct you, he smiles.

“No, no, not like that,” he says, stepping forward to adjust your grip. His hands are warm. His fingers wrap around yours, fixing the placement.

“There. That’s it. You feel the string hummin’ there? Like it wants to behave now?”

You make eye contact and he just stares, all eyebrows and soft lips.

He says you’ve got good rhythm, “even if your hands are thick as pudding.” He says this while kissing your fingertips, so the insult doesn’t land, and you let him get away with it.

Teaches you by making you play along to his tracks. He pulls out a demo tape and points:

“You hear that part? That’s me. Now you do it.” You’re like “Paul, that’s you,” and he says, “Right. So do it better.”

He’ll play along with you, but only after watching you squirm for a bit. His fingers fly over his own bass, barely watching, showing off. You scowl. He grins. “Jealous?”

After a while he stops coaching and just watches you play. Sometimes closes his eyes.

When you get a riff right, he grabs you like he can’t help it, arms around your waist, face in your neck. “Knew you had it in you,” he murmurs, and you feel the words settle right between your ribs.

𓆩🕊️ george 𓆪

“You don’t have to impress me. But if you keep practicing like that, you might.”

George wants to teach you lead guitar. Because he’s a snob and wants to show off.

“You hold it well,” he says, biting the inside of his cheek like that’s all he has to say.

His lessons are meticulous. He’ll correct your posture, your finger placement, your vibe.

You get all flustered and mess up, and he just sighs and leans over you, his long fingers slowly repositioning yours. “No, here. Not there. You feel the difference?”

He shows you scales first, then little licks. You ask if he’s ever gonna teach you a full song. “Not ‘til your fingers stop squeakin’ like a broken window.”

He won’t admit it, but he loves watching your hands learn!

He watches you all the time, pretending he’s focused on the guitar, but no, he’s looking at you.

Occasionally you’ll hit a note just right, and he’ll nod once. “There. That’s what I’m talkin’ about.” You’ll glow.

When you’re discouraged, he turns more serious. “It’s hard. Took me a while. You’re doing good. Don’t stop.”

On rare days, he brings out one of his acoustic guitars and teaches you fingerpicking. “It’s worth it.” He plays something haunting and gorgeous and then hands it to you like, “Here. Your turn.” You try. You fail. He just chuckles and says, “We’ll get there.”

Once, when you’re particularly pouty, he kisses your knuckles and murmurs, “You’re not terrible. Yet.”

𓆩🕊️ ringo 𓆪

“It’s not about being perfect, y’know. It’s about making a mess and still finding the beat.”

Ringo doesn’t even ask. You mention once that you think drums are cool, and the next thing you know, he’s hauling out his practice kit and beaming.

“Sit,” he says. You sit. The throne squeaks under you. “Hold the sticks like this.”

His hands are surprisingly firm when he corrects your grip. “Like snakes. Don’t strangle ‘em. Just let ‘em breathe.”

You think you’re doing great until he taps your shoulder. “You’re off.”

“Off what?”

“Everything.”

But he’s never cruel! He just grins at your frustration and says, “Try again. You’re gettin’ it.”

He claps along to help you find the rhythm. Sometimes hums a bassline. Sometimes drums on his thighs. You realize pretty quick that he feels music in his bones.

If you mess up too bad, he tickles you. “That’s what you get for rushin’ the hi-hat.”

He teaches you little fills and cheers every time you don’t fuck them up. “There they are! Told you you had soul in ya.”

When you finally manage to sync up a full rhythm, he stands and does a ridiculous little dance. Wow. Weird.

“Don’t laugh,” he says. “That was celebratory. We’re makin’ art here.”

He’ll never let you quit. If you get down on yourself, he just shrugs. “So? We’ll try tomorrow. And the day after that. I’ve got time.”

taglist: @sharksausages, @wavvytin, @wimpyvamps, @finallyforgotten, @lennongirlieee, @silly-lil-lee, @alanangels, @wisepainterprince, @emz2092

[stoop-fairy]

“tough luck” — op81

summary — joe won’t be missed, you’re glad to see him go!

fc & cw — laufey. idk how i feel about the written part.. uhm, no joe shade that man is fiiiine. for the plot, bewitched was release in december 2024 and u met oscar in february! also i got kinda lazy in the end so ignore that.. there’s only so much i can do with a limit of pics 💔 & let’s imagine joe isn’t 28 pls

liked by yoursister, alex_albon, taylorswift and 782,629 others

yourinsta so excited to say that bewitched is now yours!!!! will do a little listen party later tonight, stay tuned 🤍

see comments

yoursister proudest proud of all prouds!!!!

user7 joe hasn’t liked her posts since 3 weeks ago.. fuck that men

user18 im literally crying what did u put in promise????? ugh

yourinsta fairy dust & broken trust 👼

user27 she’s achieving another milestone and joe can’t even congratulate her??? she’s been to most of his games since they started dating and he’s barely there for her shows, talk about a bad boyfriend :/

taylorswift SO proud 🥹 and so good too

user14 this girl is holding onto that men so hard it’s embarrassing LMAOO he doesn’t want you anymore

you stopped asking him to come.

it started with little things, shows he said he’d try to make it to, songs he said he’d heard. he never did. you clapped for him on the sidelines, smiled through press, wore his jersey, posted him on your stories every time even if he lost.

you called again, hoping that for once he’d actually show up, but instead he said, “I’ll try, but you know how it is.”

you did know. and you were done pretending it didn’t hurt.

so you showed up at his place, the same day your album had dropped.

he opened the door and confusion immediately became evident on his face, “hey, babe what are you—” you cut him off immediately, pushing past him to walk to his living room, the one you knew so well.

“let’s break up” as soon as the words left your mouth, joe furrowed his brows as if your words weren’t the consequences of his own decisions. “i think it’s very obvious that this relationship, if we can even call it that, has hit a wall”

he shook his head, kneeling down in front of where you were sitting on his couch. he tried taking your hands on his but you immediately pulled them back “what do you mean? i think we’re okay”

“what?” you asked in pure disbelief. ‘okay’ you were not okay, hell you weren’t even something at this point “joe you barely show up for me, and it’s honestly getting tiring. i’ve been chasing you around like a lost puppy and i’m tired of that! every single one of your fans thinks that, and they make it very clear but you never stand up for me!”

after that, you left his apartment feeling relieved, as if some weight had been lifted off of your shoulders.

but still, the silence felt heavier than his words ever did.

no footsteps behind you, no ‘wait’, no ‘don’t go.’

just nothing.

you sat alone in your car for a while, fingers curled tight around the steering wheel, watching the city move like none of it mattered.

your album had dropped that morning.

your name was trending.

your voice was everywhere.

but the one person who should’ve heard it, didn’t even press play.

liked by landonorris, yourinsta and 206,890 others

oscarpiastri today was a good day

see comments

user62 OSCAR IS A YN FAN????

landonorris 👍

mclaren you bewitched us

yourinsta i see you have good taste

oscarpiastri what can i say? i’m a man of culture

user78 didn’t oscar only listen to house music???

user29 he might wanna impress her..

liked by oscarpiastri, landonorris, alex_albon and 539,620 others

yourinsta it’s been a good good week 🧡

see comments

user18 we need a tour please asap im begging

user14 now that she broke up with joe she’s gonna move to the next man that pays the smallest attention to her lol

oscarpiastri good number

yourinsta what if i liked 4 more?

oscarpiastri absofuckinglutely not

yoursister guess who’s who

user9 sometimes i forget theres two of them..

user75 AHHHH YN + OSCAR

user26 is this soft launching or hard launching..?

user88 the only thing that’ll be launching is your ass if you make them uncomfortable and they stop being friends

user26 girl calm down they’re grown ass people they won’t stop talking just because of a comment lol

lilymhe sweet sweet angel girl 👼

yourinsta baby love 💕

liked by oscarpiastri, yoursister and 762,902 more

yourinsta it is with great pleasure that i let you guys know that the bewitched tour starts in just 1 month, can’t believe it. go to the ticketmaster website for info on your dates and more 🤍

see comments

user90 my wallet will be in fact crying but it’ll be soooo worth it!!!

user20 no argentina dates.. i see how it is 💔

oscarpiastri miss worldwide

yourinsta that’s me! 🌎

user27 i wonder if oscar will be in any of the shows..

user69 probably when she’s in austria, the austrian gp is just some days after!

liked by oscarpiastri and 719,730 others

yourinsta today, for the very first time, i performed my song ‘tough luck’ now out in all streaming services! hope you guys enjoy listening to it as much as i enjoyed writing it

see comments

yoursister the shady shade you just shood

yourinsta whatever the fuck that means 🔥

oscarpiastri just listened to it on all platforms available yup

yourinsta thank you mr pastry i am very hungry and i need the money ☺️

user68 the joe shade.. i love her

user70 oscar and her have to be dating, he’s been on a lot of her shows even if it’s race week .. mans in love fr

user52 unlike.. others

landonorris what do i get for streaming?

yoursister a cookie in the shape of a fish

landonorris stay the fuck away from me.

liked by yourinsta, yoursister and 288,629 others

oscarpiastri yet another good weekend, see you soon silverstone.

see comments

user78 so he’s just not gonna acknowledge the fact that he kissed yn as soon as he saw her???

user70 I KNEW THEY WERE TOGETHER.

yourinsta 🧡

landonorris papayita

liked by yourinsta and 720,739 others

oscarpiastri she’s currently selling out venues and somehow still manages to send me good morning texts, voice notes, and bad airport selfies (she looks amazing in all of them)

she deserves everything good this life has to offer, and then some.

if you ever get the chance to see her live, do it.

if you ever get the chance to love her, don’t waste it.

see comments

yourinsta who knew you were soft

landonorris didn’t realize this was a fan account

yoursister proud of you both 🧡

user76 he said “you fumbled, joe” without saying it

user1 so we weren’t delusional

user72 “if you ever get the chance to love her, don’t waste it” JAIL.

user47 sir this is a public platform.

yourinsta don’t know what id do without you, i love you 🧡

oscarpiastri i love you more 🧡

yourinsta i will eat you up mr pastry

[jareaufiles]

PRECISION IN HEELS — a.cabot x female reader

⸝⸝ PREMISE: You’re just trying to drop off the new kitchen plans and get the hell out. Alex Cabot, your most infuriatingly high-maintenance client, has other ideas — ones that end with you fucking her senseless on her marble countertop.

⸝⸝ WARNINGS: client!alex | builder!reader | reader is pissed off | alex gets manhandled | oral sex | rough sex | hair pulling | biting | scissoring/grinding | mentions of sweat | mention of alex having a trimmed bush | dirty talk | aftercare

⸝⸝ WORD COUNT: 4.3K

You’d spent the entire damn day on another job site—dust in your lungs, sun burning your neck, your hands still stinging from catching a splinter earlier. All you wanted was to swing by her place, drop the updated kitchen plans on the counter, explain a few things, and leave.

But of course, Alex fucking Cabot couldn’t just let anything be easy. The second you stepped through the door of her sleek, modern brownstone, the scent of her perfume hit you like a punch to the throat: clean, floral, and expensive. Just like her. The woman was precision in heels, always composed, always poised. And completely infuriating.

She’d been a nightmare client from the start. Always changing things. “Actually, I want the backsplash to run higher.” “Can we recess the lighting a little more?” “I don’t like the way the island divides the space—let’s shift it six inches.”

Six inches. Like she understood what that meant in the real world. You were starting to think she just liked hearing her own voice in charge, watching you adjust to her whims. She insisted on late-night walkthroughs—had to see how the space felt after dark, she claimed—but half the time it just felt like an excuse to hover behind you while you worked, glass of scotch in one hand, eyes locked on your arms and back like you were another one of her cases she was preparing to dissect.

You still remembered one night in particular. Two weeks ago. Past midnight. The house silent except for the hum of the fridge and the low crackle of ice in her glass. You’d been kneeling on the floor, measuring where the custom cabinetry would land, pencil behind your ear, t-shirt clinging to your skin in the summer heat. You’d felt her watching you then, too—close enough to catch the faint hitch in her breath when you leaned forward, the fabric stretching tight across your back.

“Do you always work this late?” she’d asked, voice softer than usual. Not sharp. Not condescending. Almost…curious.

You didn’t look up. Didn’t give her the satisfaction. “Do you always drink this late?”

A pause. Then a quiet laugh, the sound like breaking glass. “Occupational hazard.”

It should’ve ended there. Should’ve stayed professional, like it always did. But you’d stood to mark the wall studs and she was suddenly right there, a little too close, the heat of her body a phantom against yours.

You’d turned your head, intending to tell her to back off—but your eyes caught on the way the low light hit her face, softening the sharp edges, the way her blouse was unbuttoned one more than usual, collarbone bare, mouth stained dark from the scotch. She looked…dangerous. And you’d felt it then. That pulse of something reckless, sharp, and hot between you.

Neither of you spoke.

You’d held her gaze too long. Long enough for the air to thicken, for your pulse to hammer at your throat. Long enough for her to wet her bottom lip, like she was about to say something she shouldn’t.

Then your phone had buzzed. Some late-night crew text. You’d muttered something about an early start, grabbed your stuff, and left before either of you did something you couldn’t take back.

But it’d been hanging between you ever since. Tighter each time you showed up, worse every time she found a reason to stand too close, to linger too long.

And tonight was no different.

You were bent over the marble countertop, laying out the updated blueprints, when you heard it—those slow, calculated footsteps behind you, the faintest click of her heels on tile. You didn’t even need to look up to know she was doing that thing again where she was standing way too close, breathing down your neck like she was about to purr another change order into your ear.

You gritted your teeth. "Here we go again."

“Is that the final layout?” she asked, low, almost lazy, like she wasn’t the one who’d changed it three times already.

You didn’t turn around. “Yeah. Unless you’ve suddenly decided you want the sink in the ceiling.”

Her laugh was quiet and sharp. “Not yet.”

And then you felt it—her breath right by your ear, her fingers barely grazing the edge of the paper like she owned the damn counter, owned you. It pissed you off how good she smelled. How her voice was smooth and unbothered, how she always made you feel like the help—even when her eyes lingered too long on the way your shirt clung to your back, or how your tool belt sat on your hips.

What pissed you off more was that you let it get to you. You’d caught yourself staring more than once. At the way her pencil skirts hugged her ass, the elegant sweep of her neck, how she always spoke in commands, never suggestions. It made something coil hot and tight in your gut, even as she got under your skin.

Tonight, though, something in you snapped.

Maybe it was the way she brushed past you, like she was claiming space she didn’t earn. Or maybe it was just the heat, the long day, and the knowledge that she thought she was the one pulling all the strings. Either way, you acted before you could think.

You turned around, grabbed her waist, and lifted her clean off the floor like she weighed nothing.

Her eyes widened just for a second as you placed her firmly on the cold marble countertop, right where the blueprints had been. Her skirt hiked up just slightly as her heels knocked against the cabinets. She blinked at you, lips parted, like her brain hadn’t quite caught up to her body.

“Do you ever shut up?” you asked, standing between her knees, crowding her space for once.

That calm, condescending mask she always wore faltered. “Excuse me...”

“No,” you cut her off, voice low, rough. “You don’t get to stand behind me, breathing down my neck like you’re in charge of everything. Not tonight.”

She opened her mouth again, maybe to protest or maybe not, but it didn’t matter. You leaned in close enough to feel her chest brush yours. Close enough to see her pupils dilate, her breath hitch.

She looked like she wanted to say something. Maybe tell you to stop, maybe tell you to keep going but instead she just stared, lips trembling like she couldn’t decide whether to kiss you or kill you.

She didn’t say a word when your hand slid up her thigh, fingers brushing dangerously close to the edge of lace. Didn’t protest when you pulled her in by the hips until she was pressed against you, heat meeting heat, tension thick enough to choke on.

Alex Cabot liked control. Lived for it. But right now? Right now, she was learning exactly what it felt like to lose it.

And God, she liked it.

Goddamn, you’d waited long enough. You were so sick of her smug little smirks, the way she wielded her words like weapons, always keeping you at arm’s length while staring like she wanted to swallow you whole. And tonight? Tonight she didn’t get to stay safe behind those sharp suits and clipped orders.

Your hands gripped her thighs, shoving that tight little pencil skirt higher, dragging the expensive fabric up and over her hips until it bunched at her waist.

She made a sharp, startled sound in the back of her throat, something between a gasp and a protest — but fuck if she didn’t lift her hips to help you, just a little. Just enough to make you smirk.

"Yeah, that’s what I thought," you muttered, fingers splaying against the soft skin of her thighs. God, she was warm. And under that icy courtroom glare, she was shaking.

“I swear to God—”

“No,” you cut her off again, leaning in close, your lips brushing the shell of her ear. “You don’t swear. You beg. And you’re gonna.”

Before she could open that sharp, perfect mouth, you kissed her — hard, teeth knocking, your palm cradling her jaw as you swallowed the sound she made.

She tasted like scotch and expensive lipstick and something beneath it that was pure Alex Cabot, rich and heady and dangerous. You bit her bottom lip, tugged it between your teeth until she gasped, and then you were on her throat.

She arched against you when your mouth latched onto the slender column of her neck, teeth scraping, lips sucking hard enough to leave a mark and that made you grin against her skin.

The delicate, high-maintenance district attorney, marked up like she belonged to you. Her fingers clutched at your shoulders, nails digging through your t-shirt, the sharp little sound she made when you bit down again pure fucking sin.

“God, you piss me off,” you growled against her skin, your hand sliding between her legs, pressing your palm against the damp heat of her panties. Lace, of course. You rubbed slow, cruel circles over the soaked fabric, grinning when her hips jerked against your hand.

“I—I should fire you,” she stammered, but her voice cracked right down the middle, wrecked and breathless.

“You’re not firing shit, Cabot. You’re gonna sit there and take it.”

You pressed harder, feeling how wet she already was, the heat of her seeping through the lace. Her legs trembled against your sides, her breath ragged now, chest heaving against the buttons of her blouse.

“Say it,” you murmured against her throat, your fingers keeping up their steady, relentless pace. “Say you want me.”

“Fuck—” she choked out, eyes fluttering shut as her head tipped back against the cabinets. “I want—God, I want your fingers inside me.”

“Good girl.”

You grabbed the waistband of those drenched panties and ripped them clean off, the delicate fabric giving way with a satisfying tear. She made a startled noise, half outrage, half arousal — but you were already bringing the ruined scrap to your nose, inhaling deep.

“Jesus,” you muttered, the scent of her thick and intoxicating. Musky, sweet, and unmistakably hers. You shoved the ruined lace into your sports bra under your t-shirt, letting it sit against your skin like a trophy, then dragged your gaze down.

Her pussy was perfect. Plush lips slick with wetness, glistening in the low light, the soft swell of her trimmed blonde bush catching the shine. It made you groan.

“Look at you,” you murmured, running your fingers through the short, soft hair, watching the way it glistened under your touch. She shivered hard, a helpless little sound slipping from her throat when you dragged those same damp fingers up to palm her tits over her blouse, feeling the hard points of her nipples against your palm.

Her back arched, pressing into your hand. “God—please—”

You knelt between her thighs, spreading her open with your hands, inhaling the scent of her cunt like it was the only thing you needed in the world. Rich, salty-sweet, pure fucking power.

Then you dove in.

Your tongue flattened against her, licking one long, slow stripe from the bottom of her pussy to the aching bundle of nerves at the top. She cried out, head banging back against the cabinets, thighs trembling around your shoulders.

“Jesus Christ,” she gasped, voice gone wrecked and desperate.

You wrapped your lips around her clit, sucking hard, your fingers sliding into her heat without warning — two, then three, the slick stretch of her walls clenching tight around you. She was so fucking wet, so hot, her cunt pulling at your fingers like she was trying to keep them inside.

“God, Alex,” you groaned against her, your mouth lapping greedily, your fingers working deep, curling just right to drag another broken, choked sound from her lips.

Her hands fisted in your hair, tugging you closer, grinding against your face shamelessly now. “Don’t stop,” she gasped. “Fucking don’t you dare stop...”

You weren’t planning to. Not until you dragged every last ounce of control out of her, until the high-and-mighty Alex Cabot came undone on your tongue.

And from the way her hips were starting to buck, the frantic little sounds breaking from her throat, you were getting damn close.

You could feel it building in her — the way her thighs clenched tighter around your head, those long legs trembling against your shoulders. Her breath had gone ragged, sharp little gasps punched out of her chest, every one higher, thinner, like she was barely hanging on.

You fucking loved it. Loved having her like this, wrecked and desperate, nothing like the immaculate, untouchable ice queen she paraded around town.

Her pussy was a mess now, slick and swollen, your fingers moving deep inside her, crooking just right to drag over that spot that made her whole body jerk. You sucked her clit harder, rolling it with your tongue, and the taste of her — Christ, the taste — salty, sweet, thick and musky, like the best kind of sin, coating your tongue as you fucked your mouth against her.

“F-fuck, fuck, I—” she stammered, and you felt it then, the way her cunt started fluttering around your fingers, her hips trying to grind down against your face and pull away at the same time.

“Yeah, that’s it, baby,” you growled against her soaked pussy, the sound of it wet, obscene. “Fucking come for me.”

And she did.

It hit her hard — her whole body tensing like a wire pulled too tight before it snapped, a hoarse, half-choked cry tearing from her throat. “Oh, god — fuck, yes — fuck yes, right there—!”

Her thighs clamped around your head, her hands pulling your hair so tight it stung, grinding her pussy against your mouth as her orgasm tore through her. You felt her gush against your tongue, hot and thick, coating your chin, the sharp tang of it filling your mouth.

It was fucking perfect: messy and raw, nothing like the polished, practiced woman she pretended to be.

You kept working her through it, tongue flicking over her clit, fingers buried deep until she was whining, body twitching, hips jerking like it was too much.

“Jesusfuck, I can’t—” she gasped, trying to pull away, but you didn’t let her. Not yet.

You groaned against her pussy, licking up every drop of slick she gave you, savoring the taste of her as she shuddered through aftershocks, those perfect, desperate little sounds spilling from her lips. God, she was so pretty like this.

Flushed, breathless, her blonde hair falling loose from its clip, pupils blown wide as she stared down at you like she couldn’t believe what you’d just done to her.

You pulled your fingers out slow, watching them glisten in the low light, then sucked them into your mouth, licking them clean as you held her gaze.

“Tastes even better than you smell,” you muttered, voice rough and thick with it, and the flush on her cheeks deepened, lips trembling like she wanted to say something — maybe thank you, maybe order you to do it again. Either way, you weren’t done with her yet.

Not even close.

Alex was still catching her breath when you rose up from between her thighs, your face slick with her, your mouth aching from how hard you'd worked her over. Her chest was heaving, the flush on her skin climbing high up her neck, her hair a beautiful fucking mess.

But her eyes — Jesus, those sharp, cutting blue eyes — they didn’t look so cold now. They were heavy, soft in a way you’d never seen before, pupils blown so wide they swallowed the color.

She reached for you without thinking, curling her fingers around the front of your work shirt and tugging you in, like she needed to feel your weight against her, needed to remind herself she wasn’t dreaming.

You let her. Let her pull you in close, her hands roaming over your shoulders, down your arms, fingertips tracing the hard lines of muscle built from years of hauling lumber, lifting beams, crawling through crawl spaces, and gripping a hammer. She didn’t hide how much she liked it either — her touch lingered, nails scraping gently down your bicep, across your ribs, down to the sharp V of your hips where your belt still hung heavy.

“Fucking Christ,” she muttered, almost to herself, her palms flattening against your stomach, mapping out every ridge like she could memorize you through touch alone.

“You’re a piece of work, Cabot,” you growled, before slamming your mouth to hers. It was rough, messy. No room for finesse. You wanted to claim her, wanted to leave her aching with it. And she kissed you back just as filthy, pulling your bottom lip between her teeth and biting down hard enough to sting.

Then you did what you’d wanted to do for months.

Grabbed both sides of her expensive, delicate blouse and yanked. Buttons went flying across the floor, the sound sharp in the quiet kitchen, leaving silk gaping open to reveal bare skin and a lacy black bra barely containing her tits.

She broke the kiss with a gasp, scowling even though her pupils were still blown and her lips were swollen as hell. “That was a designer piece, you animal.”

“Cry about it,” you shot back, breathless, and stepped back just long enough to peel off your own clothes. No grace to it. You tugged your shirt off over your head, toed off your boots, yanked your pants and underwear down in one go. Sweat-slick skin catching in spots, dirt from the job site smudged along your thighs, but you didn’t give a shit.

You caught the way her gaze dragged over you — the sharp hitch in her breath when she saw you naked for the first time. The way her eyes lingered on your thighs, your stomach, the curve of your breasts, before she reached behind her to undo her bra and toss it aside like she couldn’t be fucking bothered to care anymore. Sitting there on the counter, legs still open, hair wild, face flushed, and completely bare.

She was obscene.

And perfect.

You climbed onto the counter with her, shoving the blueprints aside with your knee, until you were straddling her, pushing her down onto her back. The cool marble under her and your body over her, grinding against her like you could fuse your skin to hers.

Her head tipped back with a low, needy sound when your lips found her throat again, biting down hard just below her jaw, leaving a dark, messy mark she’d have to cover in court tomorrow. You dragged your tongue over it, kissed the spot like an apology you didn’t mean.

You rocked your hips down, your soaked pussy sliding against hers — hot, wet, and so fucking good. The friction of it made both of you moan, her nails digging into your back as you ground down harder.

“God, fuck,” Alex breathed, her voice wrecked, her back arching up into you. “Don’t stop...”

You pulled back just enough to adjust, grabbing her thigh and hitching it higher over your hip, your other leg sliding between hers as you shifted into a better angle. The slick, filthy sound of your pussies dragging against each other made both of you groan.

Alex’s gaze dropped between your bodies, hungry and unguarded, watching as you spread your legs wider and your folds parted — glistening, swollen, absolutely dripping from how wrecked you already were for her.

“Goddamn,” she breathed, voice thick and raspy. Her lips curved into that slow, dangerous smirk she wore in court when she knew she had someone beat. “You’ve got a pretty pussy.”

The way she said it like she was admiring something expensive, like she’d won it, made your cunt throb. You grinned down at her, grinding your hips forward so your clit slid perfectly against hers, the friction already fucking electric.

“Yeah?” you rasped, leaning down to kiss her, biting at her lower lip. “You’re about to find out how good it feels too.”

Alex didn’t answer. Didn’t need to. She grabbed your hips, pulled you in tighter, and then leaned up to catch your breast in her mouth, sucking hard, teeth scraping over your nipple. You let out a sharp, filthy moan, arching into her, loving the sting, the heat of her mouth on your skin.

“That’s it, Cabot,” you growled, threading your fingers through her blonde hair, holding her there as you started grinding harder. The slick slide of your pussies, the way your clits kept bumping, catching, sending shocks through both of you — it was pure fucking madness. The sound of it, wet and dirty, filled the kitchen.

“You feel that?” you panted, moving your hips in tight, desperate circles, watching her face, watching how it contorted in pleasure. “Feel how wet you are for me? Jesus, you’re soaked. Fucking knew you’d be like this under all that ice.”

Alex let out a ragged, half-choked moan, her lips gliding from your breast to your throat, panting against your skin. “Don’t stop,” she hissed. “God, don’t you fucking stop --”

“Not going anywhere,” you growled, fucking your hips down harder, grinding against her clit just the way she needed. “You’re gonna come for me like this, Alex. Wanna feel you shake. Wanna watch you fall the fuck apart while I’m on top of you.”

Her hands clawed at your back, her head tipping against the marble as you fucked her through it, the wet slap of your pussies echoing between you. The friction was insane, every pass over your clits making you see stars, your thighs trembling with the effort.

“Fucking Christ.” you gasped, feeling yourself teeter on the edge.

And then she was there too, you could feel it — the way her legs tightened around you, the desperate little sounds tearing out of her throat, her body arching up, chasing it.

“That’s it, baby,” you grunted, not letting up. “Come with me. Come on my pussy, Cabot. Fucking come.”

Her whole body locked up, a high, broken cry punching from her throat as her pussy jerked against yours, her orgasm slamming into her so hard it dragged you right over the edge with her. Your clit spasmed, cunt clenching, grinding through it until you were both a shaking, gasping mess, clinging to each other like you might fucking drown.

The marble was slick with it, your thighs aching, sweat sticking your skin together, but neither of you moved. Just lay there, breathing hard, your lips pressed to her pulse, still feeling the aftershocks twitch through your cunt.

“Goddamn,” you muttered against her throat. “Best fucking job site visit I’ve ever had.”

You slumped down beside her on the counter, both of you still catching your breath, skin slick with sweat, the smell of sex hanging thick in the air. Your body was aching in the best way — thighs trembling, hips sore, lips swollen from how hard you’d kissed her. You let your head tip back against the cabinets, staring up at the ceiling while your chest heaved.

And without a word, Alex shifted closer, curling into your side like it was the most natural thing in the world. Her fingers traced aimless, lazy shapes over your stomach, and she pressed a soft, lingering kiss to your shoulder. Another to your collarbone. Then your jaw. And finally your lips — slow, tender, like she wasn’t the same fucking menace who’d been clawing at you minutes ago.

You let her. Even turned into it, your hand finding the back of her neck, holding her there for a second longer than necessary. There was something about the way she fit against you like this, warm and undone and soft in a way you’d never seen from her before, that made it hard to remember why she pissed you off so much in the first place.

But you still smirked against her lips. “You’re a goddamn menace, you know that?”

She huffed a breath of laughter, shaking her head like she was too tired to argue, and you sighed, hauling yourself off the counter. Your legs threatened to give for a second, but you steadied, then turned back to her.

“C’mere, high-maintenance,” you muttered, and without waiting for permission, scooped her up in your arms, bridal style. Her eyes widened, a surprised laugh spilling out of her.

“Where the hell are you taking me?” she asked, arms hooking around your neck.

“Bathroom,” you grunted, adjusting her in your arms. “Gonna get you cleaned up, and you can return the favor. Can’t have you smelling like a goddamn construction site. Or me.”

She hummed, nuzzling against your throat like she didn’t have a single objection to the plan.

You carried her to the bathroom, setting her down on the cool tile before grabbing a cloth and running warm water. The whole thing was quiet — domestic, almost. You cleaned her up with a gentleness that surprised even you, her skin flushed and her hair mussed, looking more real than you’d ever seen her. She did the same for you, a small, contented smile tugging at her lips the whole time.

Afterward, you leaned against the sink, running a hand through your hair and grabbing your shirt from the floor. “Alright, I should go,” you muttered, already steeling yourself for tomorrow’s bullshit. “Got an early start—”

“No,” she blurted, and you blinked down at her.

Alex, the woman who never let anyone see her sweat, was pouting. Straight up pouting, a soft little whine in her voice as she stepped closer. “Stay. Just—stay, okay?” she mumbled, not even bothering to hide how needy she sounded.

You stared at her, one brow raised, watching the way her fingers fidgeted at her sides like she wasn’t sure she was allowed to ask.

And fuck it, because maybe you were too tired, too wrung out, or maybe it was the look in her eyes. Either way, you sighed, tossed your shirt back down, and tugged her into you.

“Fine,” you muttered against her hair, lips brushing her temple. “But you’re making me coffee in the morning.”

“Deal,” she whispered, already pulling you toward the bedroom.

[azulhood]

It all started because of a school project, technically two projects, while it wasn't a world ending threat they set of a change reaction that lead to startling discoveries.

Mr Lancer had given the class the task of looking through their pasts and finding an life changing event that helped shape them into the person that were today and writing about that event.

It was a ten page essay (they were allowed to go over that limit) the more details the better and if you had something from that event to show (such as photos or keepsakes or really anything) you were awarded extra credit.

Danny's choice of event was the school field trip to a nearby museum he went on when he was seven, the space exhibit they had was what sparked his love for the stars and kick-started his dreams of being an astronaut.

It wasn't like he had any other choice (he doubted mister Lancer would accept 'my death' as a good life changing event)

He knew that he had photos of the field trip somewhere with all the other photos taken throughout his life, he just had to find them.

And after digging through thousands of boxes and piles of discarded inventions he handled with care (in case they blew up) he found them tucked inside an old photo album covered in green stains that sat on top of a bookshelf.

Opening the book caused all the pictures to fall into his lap, it seems like his parents didn't get around to actually adding them to the book, Danny resigned himself to spending the rest of his day shifting through old photos.

It wasn't all bad though, he found pictures of when Sam still had blonde hair and wore pink and of that time Tucker wrote an 'I love you' on his parents cars with their keys and many other embarrassing photos.

A treasure trove of blackmail material.

He finally found the picture he was looking for.

All of the kids who are now students of Casper high stood in front of an old building each proudly holding up something they bought in the gift shop (Danny had bought a book on planets that had long ago fallen apart)

It was a normal photo.

And yet, something seemed off.

Sam and Tucker were there with him in between them, Dash was there too.

Along with Kwan, Mikey, Paulina, Valerie, and all the others.

And yet, something was missing.

Then it hit him.

Wes wasn't there.

Danny could've sworn that he had been on that trip, but the more he thought about it the less he was sure.

He couldn't actually remember Wes being there and Danny remembered nearly everything about that trip.

'Maybe he was sick or something?' It was the most logical thing he could think of to explain the other absence, that and his parents not wanting him to go for some reason.

Mystery solved he pushed it to the back of his mind , he had an essay to finish.

Still, it stuck with him.

-----------------------------

The next school project Lencer gave them was one with assigned partners.

Danny got Wes who, despite not being Sam or Tucker, was leagues better then Dash and he'd take that as a win.

Wes had insisted on studying at his house so he could, and Danny quotes "Keep an eye on you Fenton"

Danny could practically feel the hidden cameras burning a hole into him while he stood in front of the Weston's door, waiting for him to go ghost for whatever reason.

Jokes on him though, Danny asked all the ghosts to leave him along for this month with the promise of giving them a head start the next time they caused trouble, so really Wes was just wasting his time.

"This way." Wes said already heading inside without caring if Danny followed.

Being the first time he had ever been in Wes's home Danny looked at everything and anything.

It was a fairly normal home, not like Danny's which had an anti-ghost defense system or Sam's super rich house.

But more like Tuckers

One of the things that drew his attention was the pictures that lined the walls.

There were so many.

Some with Wes and his mom, some with just him, some with just his mom, and some with people Danny didn't recognise.

But there were no baby photos.

The only pictures Danny could find of a young Wes seemed to be from when he was eight? Nine?

And nothing before.

'Maybe they were put away in storage' Danny guessed, but it still made his brain itch.

He remembered looking at old school photos and not finding any sign of a young Wes at all, he didn't even remember Wes coming to school any time before the year Danny turned eight.

And in a small town where everyone knew everyone that really wasn't possible.

'Maybe they moved here and lost a lot of stuff' Which would explain a lot, well no harm in asking. "Did you loss a lot when you moved here?"

Wes stopped walking and turned around to give him a look that asked if he was insane. "I've lived here my whole life, Fenton."

Danny froze, that couldn't be right, he'd remember that.

Something was wrong.

---------------------------------

Tim Drake sat in front of the bat computer as the rest of his family patrolled.

He had one monitor displaying the other bats locations while all the other monitors were used to show him files, or rather the lack there of.

Wayne Enterprises had tournaments held for schools and the prize was an all express paid trip to Gotham and tour of WE and surrounding areas, Tim could think of way better prizes that weren't visiting the crime capital of the world but that wasn't the point.

What was the point was that every time there was a winner Tim preformed a routine background check on students and staff (and by routine he means learn their whole live story) just in case anyone happened to be trained assassins set to kill one of them, stranger things have happened.

Wes Weston was one such student whose background Tim had to check.

And he found nothing.

Sure, there were hospital and school documents from age eight and upwards, but other then that nothing.

There was no birth certificate, no evidence of him attending daycare, nothing.

It was as if Wes did not exist before he was eight years old.

And perhaps the most interesting thing.

Amy Weston was listed as Wes's biological mother, DNA even said as much, and yet Amy's medical file said that she had never been pregnant and also had no siblings that could've been Wes's parent.

And yet Wes existed, appearing one day as if he had always been there.

Was it cloning? Aliens? Magic? A changeling? Someone creating false information to hide the truth?

It was a mystery, and mysteries had always been Tim's Kryptonite.

[ambrozjas]

hiiii could i request sfw sleeping w/ dallas or just relaxing w him in bed 😛

“can you, like, crank your body temperature lower? you’re like a fuckin’ furnace.” a thick new york accent hit your ears, an accent that could belong to someone no other than dallas winston. despite his snarky comments and jabs, he had you snug against his side with an arm wrapped around you and his head turned to the side, his one act of compliance. he knew you hated when he blew smoke in your face.

“i’m not a robot, dal.” you stated calmly, your eyes still closed as you didn’t feel him stiffen under you. if he really had a problem with it, he would’ve shoved you off a while ago.

he simply huffed. you hummed as it got quiet for a bit, the only noise radiating off of the small television in the front of your room as it played an old recording of ‘the andy griffith show’, which dallas only sat through because you liked it so much.

even though he had claimed to hate the show, it never failed to have him sat in front of the tv with his eyes glued to the screen. he claimed it was because, “there’s nothin’ to do ‘round here” but you knew dally. that was just a ruse, another way of accepting a part of you into his life slowly but surely, breaking down the walls he had so carefully placed after sylvia had penetrated them with her unfaithful behavior.

dallas always had an itch, an itch he could never scratch. he wasn’t sure what for or how this itch developed. all he knew was that he needed to scratch it. one way to look at it is; just like someone who couldn’t put sunscreen on their back, dallas could never reach this itch. no matter how much he smoked or stole or got thrown in the cooler, he could never scratch it.

dally could also never shut up.

“at least change this thing? i can’t stand watching—“

you groaned and flipped over out of his grasp, covering your ears and returning back to your fetal position as he chuckled. dallas liked making you tick. it was like a dog cocking its head at a strange noise, he watched you with intense eyes as he studied your facial expressions. dal always took mental notes, even if you didn’t think he did.

dallas leaned back against the assortment of pillows you had displayed on your bed, eyes still glued to you and a smile still evident on his face. maybe you could scratch this itch that dallas always craves to scratch, maybe you can complete the empty space that remained in him. maybe he’d actually give you a chance, he thought.

˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥ stip because why do i always add these metaphors that don’t maje sense in my writng

kiss kiss ˗ˏˋ꒰ 🍒 ꒱