#It's not the same. He's not the same. Call them by the same name and people will know what you mean...

[neoheros]

the miya household is always the go-to household for all kinds of celebrations alike. you name it: birthdays, anniversaries, friday night dinners – check, check, check.

atsumu has always grown up in a home where his mom would host the parties for all her grown-up friends, and he’d always be the type of teenager to hide away in his room until the last of the guests finally leave.

it was a silly thing to do looking back on it now, but that was the old miya household.

in the new miya household (population: you and your husband), the two of you can’t just hide away in your broom closet until the last of the guests leave — it is your apartment after all.

at first, it was the big things: msby jackal’s celebration of their first tournament win (where hinata broke a window because he claims bokuto pushed him into it) or akaashi’s job promotion party (where the champagne bottle was so unfortunately aimed that when the corkscrew came flying, it hit the other non-broken window).

two broken windows later, it eventually died down to the little things: small get-togethers, a friend too intoxicated to drive needing a place to stay, or one of your favorites: friday night dinners.

“we’re home!”

there’s the sound of shuffling keys and shoes being taken off at the doorway, rustling of brown paper bags and footsteps.

you pop your head out from the kitchen and it isn’t a surprise at all to you when you see all four of your best friends (one being your husband) standing by your door way, all adorned with cheeky smiles and chinese takeout.

you call to them, “coats here, everybody!”

hinata goes over to you first, still as sweet as ever, and gives you a tight embrace (the same one he gives you every friday night), and you take his coat with a light smile on your face.

bokuto gives you his coat next, paired with an embrace of his own, your smile widens as you immediately recognize the coat you bought him for christmas last year, well and taken care of.

sakusa isn’t wearing a coat or a jacket tonight but still, he approaches you next to the coat stand anyway, and he embraces you just for seeing you again tonight, saying “thank you for having us”.

when you married atsumu, you didn’t realize you weren’t only marrying into his family, but his friends as well.

“you guys just missed samu, he dropped by for a weekly restock.” you tell them, pointing to the plastic bag on the table filled to the brim with the onigiri you’ve learned to love so much.

shoyo plops down on his usual spot on the sofa, “man, i wish onigiri miya personally delivered to my house too.”

“not to mention free of charge.” you add – proud.

he sinks deeper into his seat, “that’s just not fair.”

you seat farthest from tv, on the edge of the table and by the armrest, a seat empty next to yours as you wait for your husband.

“sorry sho,” you shrug, not sorry at all, smug smile on your face and you say, “it’s simply the perks of having the owner of onigiri miya as your brother.”

“that is such a lie.” atsumu rolls his eyes, and he takes his assigned seat next to you, hand immediately finding yours once he gets close enough. “i am also his brother — twin, even! — and i do not get half as much the perks you get.”

“well.” sakusa sits across from you, “i can understand that.”

and bokuto, in between sakusa and hinata, nods, “yep.”

“i can’t believe i’m getting bullied in my own damn home.” atsumu grumbles, and he stabs his broccoli on his plate with a fork.

you tease him, “you can’t?”

the rest of the evening feels warm. the windows are open to let in the fresh air of the streets of japan, the hustling and bustling of the bypassers outside your apartment building easily drowned out by the warm conversation shared in the warm flat.

( “no more hoisin sauce?” bokuto asks, digging around the stack of empty paperbags, fork in his mouth as he talks.

sakusa replies, barely looking up from the movie on the tv set, “sorry, finished it.”

and bokuto says, casually, “i’ll bring some over tomorrow. you guys need a restock anyway.” )

the five of you, sat down on the living room in front of the television, sharing mindlessly stories about your day, laughter and insults and compliments shared as food is passed around.

atsumu takes the red peppers from your dish as you laugh at something hinata says, he remembers - always - red peppers make you sneeze, so it goes unsaid that he takes them.

he does this so often that sometimes he doesn’t even realize it. he does this so often that he’s probably done it over a hundred times by now — like it’s part of him, like a habit.

you take some of your chow mein and place it on his plate, he doesn’t ask you for any, but you give him some anyway. you don’t even look at him as you do so, like it’s completely second nature for your hand to give him some of his favorite noodles and you don’t even have to think about it — like it’s part of you, like a habit.

“so, what time’s the game tomorrow?” you ask, and suddenly he’s out of his thoughts and back on the living room couch.

hinata looks to you, excited, “are you coming? it’s been so long since you last came to watch us.”

“well, depends on the time,” you tell them, “i’ve got a study group tomorrow in the morning.”

“study group?”

“i know right,” your shoulders fall, “our gen chem professor had us divided into study groups so we could easily catch up on her lessons.”

atsumu shrugs, “so? ditch ‘em.”

“i wish.” you sigh, “they’re the kind of people i just know wouldn’t have let me sit with them at the lunch table in high school.”

“oh, i know those people.” shoyo shakes his head, “had those people everywhere i went in junior high.”

you look at atsumu, “but you probably could have sat with them, you’ve got an aura like that — like you could be cool — but you’re not.”

that makes him roll his eyes, “who’s not cool? i am the coolest one in this table — and for yer information, i wouldn’t sit at any table ya weren’t welcome at.”

(sakusa nods at you, and bokuto says, “same here!” and hinata says, “me too!”)

“matter of fact,” you husband, offended at your doubt for him, continues, “i would flip that goddamn table.”

(and sakusa nods again, and bokuto says, “yup!” and hinata says, “definitely!)

your face feels warm, and you feel stupid for even bringing it up.

“you guys are silly.” you’re not as loud as earlier, but still, you say, “thanks.” and you bite back a smile.

“so…” shoyo grins at you, “ditch ‘em?”

“ditch ‘em!” bokuto repeats.

and for a second all of you look at sakusa, his turn to speak apparently, and he sighs, defeated, shoulders falling and he relents, and says, “fine. ditch ‘em.”

the three other guys cheer loudly and you roll your eyes.

“well, that makes four of us.” atsumu tells you, proud, “you’re outnumbered, honey.”

“fine.” you’re defeated, “i’ll ditch ‘em and come watch you guys play.” and the table erupts in cheers again, and you feel your heart become so full.

atsumu kisses your cheek and you swat him away.

“i’ll text natsu that you’re coming, she’s been pestering me over and over again when you’ll come next,” shoyo tells you, bright smile on his face.

bokuto nods, “i gotta tell akaashi too, maybe we can get everyone there like a reunion or something!”

and this makes you laugh, because, “you guys are acting like i haven’t come to watch you guys play in forever.”

and sakusa tells you, “it has been forever.”

“well, i guess a reunion or something would be kinda nice? we can have everyone come back here, bring out a few drinks.” you think out loud, relenting to the pleas of your oldest friends, and you can’t hold back a smile even if you wanted to.

“if anyone breaks a goddamn window in my home, everyone is getting charged the repair bill.”

the night ends quicker than you want it to, suddenly it’s 10 pm and the warm night starts to get colder.

“thank you for dinner, miyas.” bokuto tells you, grinning ear to ear as you walk him to the doorway, a barrage of shoes laid out on the floor, reminding you what a full house you have tonight.

you hand him his coat and his hat, and he embraces you tightly, one that you will never not return.

hinata comes up to you next, “thank you for dinner and please please please come tomorrow.”

“yes sho, i will be there.” you tell him lightly, and he embraces you as well (the same one he gives you every friday night).

the last to come up to you is sakusa, his hands already in his pockets, eyes tired and all. he doesn’t have a coat or a jacket, but he comes up to you anyway.

“thank you for having us.” he tells you, like he always does, and he gives you a short kiss on your right temple, like he always does, “it’s good to see you.”

you pat his arm, “you say that every friday night, omi.”

“what? no kiss for me?” atsumu calls from the side, arms crossed over his chest.

and sakusa replies, eyes narrowing, “never.”

(they have this conversation every single friday night.)

and just like that, all three of your guests for the night have left, leaving behind only two pairs of shoes left by the doorway — yours and your husband’s.

atsumu makes his way to you, his arms finding your waist immediately as he pulls you into his embrace, hugging you like it’s all he’s ever done correctly.

the apartment is quiet now with just you and him, and he loves this as much as he loves you.

“finally,” he tells you, smiling wantonly, “just us two.”

you smile back at him, “we have so many kids.”

and he nods, “even more tomorrow.”

your apartment, your home, it isn’t anything impressive, really. it’s not big or expensive or fancy, but for some reason, it’s always been the go-to place for everyone to have drinks at, for dinners to be shared, for windows to be broken.

“you really okay with that? the reunion thing here?” your husband asks you, his tone gentle, “its okay if you’re not, we can just cancel on ‘em. have the night to ourselves.”

you raise a brow, teasing, “and do what exactly?”

atsumu gives you a knowing grin, “i’ve got a list in mind.”

you laugh, “i bet you do.”

he comes closer to your face, “i can cross one off on it right now.”

and he kisses you then, the same way he does every single day of his life, the same way he plans to for a million years more.

you feel his smile melting into his kisses.

then he pulls away, smiling at you, voice gentle, cheeks pink, and heart full, “thank you for dinner, miya.”

you laugh again, and with the same amount of gentleness, you say back, “thank you for dinner, miya.”

atsumu knows you could never be unloved by him — you are too tangled in his mind, in his soul that you might as well take his heart entirely — it’s already full of you anyway, it has been since the day he’s met you.

“and no, we are not cancelling on them.” you tell him, pulling away, “i miss our friends and i know you do too.”

he tells you, “fine.” and he pulls you back in, nose close to yours, wide grin on his face as he takes you.

he wants to kiss you again, but to be fair, he wants to do that all of the time.

you give him a smile, “i’ll let you cross another thing off that list of yours if you do the dishes.”

and he groans, “you know omi already did them.”

“man, we have got to get lazier friends.”

“well, we can always call that study group of yours.”

(the two of you say friends, but it feels a whole lot more like family.)

together you and atsumu create a home filled with flowers, kindness, cozy pillows, and loud music. in your halls there is rest, good sex, good sleep, books, and dancing. there is space to be you, there is space to be him, there is space to be be the two of you, and there is love, there is love, there is love.

[abbotjack]

˚. ྀིྀི୧❤︎୨ ྀིྀི.˚ We know Jack writes letters.

They're the kind Robby can’t read all the way through without stepping outside to gather himself. The kind that cut clean and simple, because Jack doesn’t waste words—he means them.

So when he falls in love, of course he writes.

He works nights. You work days. It wasn’t supposed to be a big deal—just a few missed dinners, a couple uneven weekends. But two years in, it’s become a rhythm neither of you like but both of you have learned how to survive. You brush your teeth while he’s lacing up his boots. He lets the microwave run too long reheating the dinner you left him. The sheets are always warm, but it’s rare you’re both in them at the same time.

You see him in fragments.

A half-empty beer left by the sink. His stethoscope on the kitchen chair. The smell of soap and hospital antiseptic lingering in the bathroom when you step out of the shower. Sometimes, if you’re lucky, you catch him in the doorway before you head out and he gets home—eyes heavy, jaw dark with stubble, scrubs wrinkled. He kisses your forehead like he’s apologizing for the hours he missed.

But then there are the letters.

Tucked in the pocket of your coat. Folded into your planner between work notes and receipts. Once, wedged between the pages of the book you keep meaning to finish, like he knew you’d open it eventually.

They’re never long—just a paragraph or two, scribbled on the back of supply sheets or crumpled chart printouts, whatever scrap he could grab between calls. The handwriting is always the same: rushed, uneven, slanted like he was writing too fast to second-guess himself. He never rewrites them. Never polishes a word. And at the bottom, always that quiet little “—J,” like he’s hesitant to leave too much of himself behind.

“Didn’t sleep today. Kept thinking about the way you were breathing last night, arm over your face like you were shielding yourself from something. I should’ve held you. I’m sorry I didn’t.”

“No letter tonight. Just wanted to leave a note saying I need to be near you. Wake me when you get in. Please.”

“You said something in the mirror yesterday—something about looking tired. I didn’t say anything then, but: You are beautiful. Even when you forget. Especially then.”

“There’s a receipt in your car from our favorite place. You went without me. I’m not mad. Just—next time, bring back fries. Or lie better.”

“You leave your rings on the counter and every time I see them, I think, ‘she came home.’ I don’t think you know how much that matters to me.”

“The plant you named after me is dying. Water it. Or don’t. I get it. But if it survives, I’ll take it as a sign you still love me.”

“You left the light on. Again. Which should annoy me. It doesn’t. The apartment feels like you were just here. Sometimes that’s all I need.”

“Tried to be quiet when I left. Still knocked over the shampoo bottle. Sorry. You flinched but didn’t wake up. I whispered goodbye anyway. It felt wrong not to.”

“You made the grocery list and wrote ‘Jack’s weird yogurt’ like I don’t have a brand. You’re lucky you’re pretty.”

"Tonight was rough. Lost one. Didn’t want to bring it home with me, but I needed to tell you I love you anyway."

“You were talking in your sleep again. Said something about stealing a goat. If I come home and there’s a goat in the yard, I’m not asking questions. I’ll just name it.”

“You asked me last night if I’d still love you if I was a worm. I said no. You hit me with a pillow. I’ve revised my answer.”

“You bought four new throw pillows. We now have eleven pillows on a three-seat couch. I have nowhere to sit. I love you anyway.”

“You said you felt off today. Didn’t tell me what that meant. Just curled up under the blanket and didn’t talk much. I stayed quiet too. I just wanted you to know I noticed.”

“You made the bed this morning. I know you were late. You didn’t do it for you. You did it for me. I love you.”

You keep them all. Pressed flat in a shoebox under your bed, like tiny pieces of him that can’t fade with time. Some of them still smell like antiseptic and worn leather and faint traces of his cologne. Sometimes you reread them when the loneliness sneaks in, when the hours between seeing him stretch too long.

And the thing is—he never asks if you read them. He doesn’t bring them up. It’s not about the response. It’s not even about being heard.

It’s about leaving something behind.

A thread. A trace. A heartbeat in your drawer when he can’t be in your bed.

Because Jack Abbot may not say I love you in the hallway or across a crowded kitchen—but he’ll write it. Every damn time.

And he knows you’ll find it when you need it most.

[lynbels]

JAKE WHEN HES JEALOUS AND HE LEAVES A BUNCH OF MARKS ON YOU PUHLEASEEE 🙏🙏

let me in (20cm deeper) - sjy

pairing: jake x reader

synopsis: He wasn’t supposed to care—but one jealous glance, one reckless FaceTime call mid-thrust, and now he’s fucking you like he needs the whole world to know you’re his. ✉️ 2144wc - tw ‼️ jealousy, possessiveness, oral (f receiving), rough sex, marking, face sitting, name kink, phone sex, humiliation, choking (light), degradation, creampie, overstimulation, praise kink, dom!jake

💌 mark me up and I’ll show up to uni the next day without a doubt 😵 pookie I love ur reqs sm send more 😘

He wasn’t supposed to care. That was the rule—his own rule. The one he made the first night he kissed you with too much tongue and not enough thought, when the two of you stumbled into your bedroom half-laughing, half-buzzed, and fully aware that this couldn’t mean anything. You were friends. Good friends. He liked your company, liked your voice when you read texts aloud with dumb impressions, liked how you made taking vitamins feel like a shared inside joke instead of a self-imposed regimen. But that was all it was supposed to be.

Until it wasn’t.

It started with something stupid—an Instagram story, of all things. Jake had opened his phone during a water break at the gym, wiping sweat from his brow with the hem of his shirt when he saw it. A boomerang. You. Smiling. Head tilted toward someone else. A guy. The caption was harmless—he’s so funny lol—but Jake felt his throat tighten.

He made it through the rest of his workout on autopilot, pushing harder than usual, muscles screaming for rest while his thoughts spiraled. You weren’t even doing anything wrong. You weren’t his. He wasn’t yours. But the image played over and over again in his head: you laughing like that at someone else’s jokes, leaning into their shoulder, letting them have the version of you Jake thought was just his for a little while.

And then you texted.

come over later?

i got wine and that ice cream u like 😋

Jake stared at your message for a full five minutes, heart thudding hard against his chest. His first instinct was to say no, to pull back and cool off, to remind himself of his stupid rules about boundaries and keeping things clean. But then he remembered your smile in that photo, how open and easy it looked.

He texted back.

be there in 15

He didn’t take his usual post-gym ginseng shot. Didn’t do his skincare. Didn’t even double-check his weekly checklist of personal goals.

Because suddenly, all Jake could think about was making sure you remembered exactly who you belonged to tonight.

You open the door barefoot and braless, wearing one of those oversized shirts that barely covers your thighs—probably on purpose. Jake knows you. You’re not oblivious. You know exactly what you do to him when you act like this: all casual and sweet and soft, like you’re not the same person who had their head on someone else’s shoulder earlier.

“Hey,” you say like nothing happened, already turning back toward the kitchen. “I opened the red. Wanna pour?”

He follows silently, eyes on the curve of your legs as you walk. There’s music playing—something soft and lazy—and he realizes it’s the kind of song people play on dates. Candlelight flickers on the counter. You always keep it cozy when he comes over, but tonight it feels too intentional. Too romantic.

He wonders if the other guy saw you like this.

Jake doesn’t say much as you hand him a glass of wine. He doesn’t joke around like he usually does. He just leans against the counter, swirling the drink, pretending not to watch the way you sip yours with a slight smirk.

“So,” you start, licking a drop of wine from your lip, “what’s with the face? You look like you benched your personal best and didn’t get praised for it.”

His jaw ticks. “Saw your story.”

Your brows lift. “What, the one with Yena’s party?”

Jake hums, gaze dropping to your bare thighs. “Yeah. That one.”

You lean a little closer, head tilting. “He’s just a friend, Jake. You jealous or something?”

There it is. The spark. The dangerous one.

Jake sets his wine down with a quiet clink. “No,” he lies, voice low and clipped. “Just curious why he’s got you laughing like that. I don’t remember you looking that happy the last time I made you come.”

The air thickens. Your smile falters for half a second, like you weren’t expecting him to be that blunt. Then it returns—slow, calculated. You set your wine down too, stepping between his legs where he leans against the counter.

“You could fix that,” you whisper. “If you want.”

Jake stares at you for a long, long moment. Every disciplined bone in his body screams at him to slow down, to play it cool, to not let you see how tightly he’s wound. But you’re close now. Too close. And your skin smells like warm sugar and sin.

And in this moment, with your mouth inches from his and your thigh brushing his jeans—Jake doesn’t want to be responsible. He just wants you wrecked and shaking, begging for the man you almost forgot was yours.

Jake doesn’t kiss you gently. He crashes into you like a dam finally bursting, months of restraint swept away in one hard press of his mouth. His hands find your waist, then your hips, then the backs of your thighs as he lifts you onto the counter like you weigh nothing. The wine glasses clink behind you, forgotten. Your shirt rides up, and Jake’s lips never leave yours—just grow hungrier, messier, more desperate.

“You drive me insane,” he murmurs against your skin, trailing kisses down your neck, biting harder with each inch. “Walking around like this… smiling like that… for someone else.”

Your breath catches when his teeth graze the base of your neck. “He didn’t even—”

“Don’t care,” Jake growls, already sucking a bruise into the hollow of your throat. “You’re mine when I’m here. You get that?”

You nod, already breathless, already aching. His hands slip beneath your shirt—warm, rough, and intent—and you gasp when he pulls it over your head in one smooth motion. He doesn’t give you time to feel shy. Doesn’t even pause.

Instead, his mouth is everywhere at once—on your collarbone, between your breasts, down your stomach. Each kiss is matched with a mark. Sharp nips that bloom into bruises. His tongue soothes them after, but it’s all part of the same rhythm: claim, soothe, repeat.

“Jake,” you whimper, squirming as he pulls your thighs apart with an easy grip. “You’re being—”

“Thorough,” he finishes, looking up at you from between your legs, eyes dark with jealousy and heat. “You let someone else make you laugh. I’m gonna remind you who makes you scream.”

And then his mouth is on you. Hot, focused, relentless. You grab at his hair, already trembling from how fast he has you unraveling—but he doesn’t stop. His grip tightens on your hips when you try to close your thighs. He growls against you when you arch your back. And when your voice cracks on his name, he moans like he’s starving for the sound.

By the time he pulls away, your thighs are shaking, your breath ragged. His chin glistens and his shirt is wrinkled from how hard you clung to him. And you’re already marked—neck, chest, thighs. Painted in him.

Your legs are still shaking when he stands back up, hands splayed on your thighs, eyes dark and heavy-lidded as they rake over your flushed skin. You expect him to kiss you again, but he doesn’t—not right away. Instead, he just looks at you for a second. Really looks. Like he’s memorizing the sight of you—lips parted, chest rising, already marked all over with proof of him. Then he breathes out hard and reaches down to undo his belt.

The sound of it slipping through the loops is enough to make your stomach flutter.

“You’re not going anywhere,” he mutters, tugging his jeans and boxers down just enough, his cock already hard and leaking. “Not until I’m done.”

You barely have time to nod before he’s pulling you to the edge of the counter, lining himself up between your thighs. One hand grabs your waist—firm, possessive—the other wraps around the back of your neck, keeping your face close to his.

“Look at me,” he whispers, pushing in slow. “Every second of this.”

You cry out, hands flying to his shoulders, nails digging in as he stretches you. You’ve done this before—more than once—but it still knocks the air from your lungs. He’s thick, and he knows it, knows exactly how to make it burn just a little, how to pause halfway in so you feel every inch. Your walls flutter around him, body struggling to take it.

“Too much?” Jake’s voice is low but strained, jaw clenched as he waits. You nod and whimper, biting your lip, and he dips forward to kiss your temple, whispering, “You’ve got it. I’ve got you. You can take it.”

He pushes the rest of the way in and holds himself there, buried deep, letting you cling to him while your body adjusts. When you moan into his neck, hips twitching, Jake groans low in his throat.

“You feel so good like this,” he growls, voice roughened by restraint. “Tight… soft… mine.”

Then he starts to move—slow, deep thrusts that make the counter creak beneath you. His grip stays locked on your waist as he sets a pace that has your head falling back, cries tumbling from your lips with each push. The sound of skin meeting skin fills the kitchen, messy and raw, and Jake just keeps going—driving into you like he’s making a point.

“You don’t need anyone else,” he breathes into your ear. “I give you everything you need, don’t I?”

“Y-Yeah,” you gasp.

“Say it.”

“You do, Jake—fuck—only you.”

That pulls a growl from his chest. His mouth is back on your neck, tongue and teeth working over fresh skin, leaving new bruises over the ones that haven’t faded yet.

And when he comes—deep inside you, buried to the hilt—he doesn’t stop whispering your name like it’s a promise.

You’re already wrecked. Your cheek sticks to the counter, lips swollen from biting down on them, and your thighs shake every time Jake thrusts back into you. He hasn’t let up—not even a little—his cock buried deep, stretching you over and over with a punishing rhythm that’s more about proving something than just pleasure. And it’s working. You’re dripping. Whimpering. Ruined.

Then you feel the shift. Jake leans forward, still fucking into you, and you hear the soft beep of your phone unlocking.

“What are you doing?” you manage to whisper, voice broken, barely hanging on.

He doesn’t answer. Doesn’t have to. Because a second later, the FaceTime ring starts, loud and clear, vibrating right on the counter next to your face.

Your eyes snap open. “Jake, no—”

“Too late,” he grits, one hand curling around your hip, the other holding the phone up high enough to show everything. “He wanted your attention, didn’t he? Let’s give it to him.”

The screen flashes—connected.

And there he is. The guy from the night before. Confused, then wide-eyed, horrified.

Jake doesn’t stop thrusting. In fact, he slows down just a little, dragging each movement out, your slickness obscene in the quiet between the heavy sound of skin and your shaky moans.

“She’s a little busy right now,” Jake says, voice low and smug. “Thought you’d want to see what that laugh of hers really sounds like when it’s real.”

The guy stammers. “What the fuck—“

“Say hi, baby,” Jake murmurs, grabbing your jaw and angling your face toward the screen.

You don’t speak, but the moan that spills from your lips as he hits your spot again—that says enough.

Jake tilts the phone lower, angling it to show your trembling legs, the marks he’s left all over your skin, the way your body clings to him with every thrust. “You watching? You get it now?”

You swear you see him end the call out of panic—or maybe disgust. Either way, Jake tosses the phone aside the second the screen goes dark. His hand is back on your hip in a flash, grip brutal now as he fucks into you harder.

“Mine,” he growls. “All fucking mine.”

And this time when you cum, it’s not from his hands or his mouth or even his words.

It’s the thrill of being seen.

You wake up slow, your limbs heavy and sore, skin warm under the covers. The sunlight leaking in through the blinds feels too bright, too real, like it has no business touching a body that still belongs to the night before.

Your throat’s dry, your thighs ache, and every small movement reminds you of exactly where his hands were—how many times he pulled you apart and put you back together. You shift with a soft whimper, the soreness between your legs blooming deeper, and instinctively tug the blanket tighter around your chest.

That’s when you see it.

The marks.

Everywhere.

Faint bruises along your hips, scattered bites on your thighs, faded red fingerprints at your waist. There’s one on your collarbone, dark and angry, shaped like his mouth. And on your inner thigh, dangerously close to somewhere far more sensitive, his name. Sloppily written in deep purple hickeys.

You press your legs together and bite your lip, heart stuttering as the memory floods in—Jake’s voice, low and angry; his pace, rough and punishing; the look on his face when he hung up that FaceTime call like he had won something.

Because he had.

You hear him before you see him—soft footsteps, the clink of something ceramic. And then the door creaks open.

Jake steps in with messy hair, sleepy eyes, and a mug in each hand. He’s wearing only sweats, slung low on his hips, and his chest still has faint scratch marks from your nails. When he sees you awake, he grins—sleepy, soft, like he didn’t completely ruin you just a few hours ago.

“Mornin’,” he says, offering a mug. “You’re gonna need water too. You passed out right after…”

You take the drink without answering, eyes still locked on the hickeys.

He notices.

Jake sets his mug down, comes to sit on the edge of the bed, fingers brushing over your thigh. “Sorry,” he murmurs, sounding not sorry at all. “Got a little carried away.”

You glare at him half-heartedly. “You FaceTimed him.”

His smirk is immediate. “And he answered.”

You groan, covering your face. “Jake.”

“Hey,” he says gently, prying your hands away. His thumb grazes your cheek. “He needed to see it. I needed him to see it.”

You don’t respond. You don’t need to. Because when Jake leans down and kisses the mark on your neck like it’s sacred—when his lips brush over bruised skin like he’s trying to apologize without saying the words—you realize something else:

It’s not just about jealousy.

It’s about you.

You, and how he’s terrified of losing what you are—even if it means making the whole damn world watch him prove it.

wanna read my longer ffs? Check out @shy9-29 || prompt list request

[lavilavs]

୨୧ ── Stream with me!

› Pairings: Bruce Wayne, Dick Grayson, Jason Todd, Tim Drake, Damian Wayne x Streamer!Wife!Reader

› Scenario: What more could a wife who streams want other than streaming with her husband? Nothing! Maybe. It depends. But in this universe—best believe that it is all you've ever wanted! What does your husband think about it, though?

› Notes: English is not my first language + Reblogs and likes are very appreciated! + almost 6k words that's why it took me days to write TT + Cringe and unhinged alert + big poo and goobert stole the show

Bruce Wayne

Bruce lets out a deep sigh as he watches you set up before starting the stream. A warm smile adorns his face, but he's still reluctant to show up as a guest. Just why did someone suggest a wife and husband bonding time in your streams? You were overjoyed that you ended up calling him in the middle of your stream to ask him about it.

Bruce excused himself and let an executive continue the briefing. His gruff voice sounded soft when he called your name, asking why you suddenly called—not even the slightest bit of annoyance in his voice at the fact you called during a meeting.

"Honey, look at the picture I sent!" He questions what could possibly have his wife over the moon. With the monitor in his lens, the picture popped in front of him. It was a 5 dollar donation from UnkissedBrick that said—in all caps—

"MAKE A STREAM WITH YOUR HUSBAND AND MY LIFE IS YOURS !!!$%5@5@"

It started a spark within the community that they were BEGGING you to make it come true. 

A stream to make money, have fun, and be with your husband at the same time? Of course you'd agree. Best believe that Bruce had no way out of this, you barely asked anything from him—would he have the heart to decline a simple request such as this?

No! And that's why he's here sitting beside you, wearing your adorable, pink headphones. It was something entirely new in his life. Never, and I mean never, has Bruce imagined he'll be wearing this godforsaken headphone for millions to see. The only thing stopping him from taking it off was obviously you—his wife.

"Wow! Thank you all so much for coming to see this stream. There's a lot more of you today."

Bruce snaps his head in your direction, giving him a clear view of how you marveled at the screens in front of you. A thought slips into his mind, whispering thoughts that made him worry about you. 

A lot more today? 

How many more were there than usual?

He'll let anything happen, just not this. Stealing the light from you is a scenario he didn't want to occur in this very video. It's your stream, it's your channel—not his. His blood pressure spikes at the thoughts flooding his head. And yet, you didn't seem to mind, you're just thanking them.

Bruce looked at the rapid comments piling up on the screen, amazed by the speed of people commenting. Nothing's too quick for his eyes, though. Who do you take him for? He reads every single one. Despite his worries, it was drastically different from what he thought. Your fanbase was literally fighting the viewers who only came for him.

BigPoo: Coming here ONLY for the husband is soooo embarrassing

isayholAcomosta: Scram your asses outta here man

IAMBatman: LMAOO IMAGINE WATCHING FOR BRUCE WAYNE

InstantoPreggo: either support her (and him ig) or face the consequences of my 16-inch-thick, fat, JUICY HUMONGOUS D!LD0 UP YOUR ASS.

Bruce had to flinch himself away from the monitor after reading that last comment. 

He looks at you with disbelief. So this is what you were laughing at... To be fair, it is rather amusing, to say the least. The look on his face makes you laugh even more now that you've spared some time to actually look at your husband's worry corner beside you.

The chat stops when you scold them to support both of you, also instructing the mods to delete any negative comments about Bruce. Which is odd since you remember telling them to do so beforehand.

"Don't worry about them, honey. Let's just have fun."

The kiss you give on his cheek eases Bruce, his bigger hands take yours to caress it in a comforting way. But really, we know it was for him. A deep sigh escapes his lips, knowing he has nothing to worry about anymore aside from getting through this stream with you.

You've noticed him being quiet again. He should try focusing on the game you're playing so he could see how fun it is. You told him to have fun, and Bruce is trying, believe me. 

Bruce folds his arms and directs his attention to the monitor where you're playing some kind of simulator game about supermarkets. The store layout is nice, though it looks cramped, the prices are lower than the market price, the other products are understocked, and the bills were due in-game. 

"Honey, are you playing this right?" 

"Am I not?"

He's spent years managing businesses, come on. Bruce is shrewd. And seeing his dear wife fail at this supermarket simulator, no can do. He's just lucky this game is right up his alley. You let go of the keyboard and mouse unattended to listen to his suggestions. 

What was hotter than the fact that there's a hot man explaining business tactics to you? Correct, he's your husband! And a smart husband is a hot husband.

Bruce was so concerned with his strategies that he suddenly went on autopilot and grabbed the controls to show you instead of using words. You stifle a laugh behind your hand. When did he learn all those controls? He wasn't just moping around beside you, and he actually was paying attention? You might just want to request another wedding again.

His only intention was to show you how you were supposed to manage the shop. Bruce demonstrated that perfectly. So why is he still in control? His mind wants to let go. And letting go would mean he'll have to leave playing this game. The escaped chuckles from you reached his ears. With a tentative glance and muted rosy cheeks, it was like he was asking permission to keep playing.

"Go on, dear. I'll just watch you play." You mean it. Watching Bruce play a game was more enjoyable than playing, he understands it more anyways. You don't think your heart will ever feel cold when you look at him. Not ever while you're still breathing and alive to keep on loving him.

Your eyes narrow with every part of Bruce that your eyes land on. A subconscious gulp was made when you took notice of the few strands of hair that hung on top of his forehead, the way veins would pop in his forearms with a few movements when he used the keyboard and mouse, and the musky scent of his cologne that perked your senses up—you'd wonder to yourself why you didn't have at least one child with him already.

The overflowing amount of comments in the corner of your eye catches your attention. You scoot closer to read it.

Tin-a-pie: Miss ma'am is so DOWNBAD

Big Poo: "Eaaasy white chocolate"  AHH TYPE SHIIT

MMONEYY: Bruce Wayne's gonna melt 

Goobert: ON EVERYBODY'S SOUL WE ALL WANT TO BE IN BETWEEN THEM

You snort, hitting Bruce's shoulder repeatedly. The man loses focus on his game, amusement in his eyes as you stood up to sit on his lap. He catches you in his arms, holding your shaking body in amusement. Guess he didn't have to excessively worry, after all—spending time and making you happy is his priority today.

"Are you happy, my love?" Bruce pressed his forehead against yours. His forearms had a grip on your waist that felt so secure and warm that even if you melted, you'd still be in his arms.

"Very. Thank you, Bruce." Oh, how your laughter gets his heart kicking and running.

The chat floods once again with teaseful comments. Too many for you to read without getting blown by another. Not that it matters, your husband is too busy being pampered in your kisses.

Bruce's phone vibrates nonstop in his pocket. You fished it out for him and opened it to see Dick's face with an image attached to it.

I hope Mom doesn't mind the new sticker I added to the chat. Tell her I told the other mods about it. ;]

Bruce was in the middle of questioning what his first son said only to be caught off guard with you abruptly shifting your body weight against him, laughing uncontrollably. The chat was spamming a photo of Bruce from earlier when he was so focused on the supermarket simulator game.

"I didn't look like that, did I?" He stares at you deadpan, making you laugh harder.

Dick Grayson

Is this even your stream at all? How was he acting like close friends to your viewers after a few minutes? You stare at your husband dumbfounded. Although you know that Dick has a charming aura and personality, you didn't expect it to leak through the screen and into their hearts within minutes of knowing him!

When you asked Dick if he wanted to do a stream with you, he basically almost leaped with joy. Just almost—because he suddenly hugged you before he could jump up into space from the ecstasy of his dear, loving wife if he wanted to do a gaming video with you.

Actually, Dick has always wanted to. The thought of having millions see how loved you are in his arms—OH THE SEROTONIN—Dick can't wait to do so. He just waited and waited and waited—until you finally invited him.

You can't actually hide your jealousy well about the fact that he's paying more attention to the chat than you.

Goobert: I suddenly feel like a mistress caught in the act with how the missus is looking from behind you

Big Poo: NAH HE'S OUR HUSBAND NOW

TheAMAZINGpie: She's so jealous LMAOOO tease her more

Good thing Dick was staring intently at the chat, he couldn't see your secretive middle finger you're flashing at the viewers. He laughs and takes a quick glance at you over his shoulder, then back to the chat. A scoff of disbelief leaves your mouth. Those snitches!

"Yes, chat, these are the true colors of my wife. She's more barbaric when it's just us two here." The playful tone has you pinching his sides. Dick laughs and flinches away from your hand.

"See? She keeps on hurting me."

"Quit the baby voice, Dick, oh my God! Eww." 

You gag at your husband, earning yet another heartfelt laugh. It was hard to pretend you were annoyed when everything felt so warm and natural. Dick is lucky he's your husband, or else you would've strangled him out of annoyance by now.

"Horror games are overrated, let's play simple ones." He pouts at you.

"What do you suggest then?"

And that's how you found yourself playing dress-up games at the old girl games website, where you can find all of the low-quality yet nostalgic games for girls in the world. You both competed in a game where the game picks who made the better outfit.

Imagine the look of disbelief in your face when he keeps winning 5 times in a row—5 times! Dick has got to be cheating, because in no way Dick Grayson has more fashion sense than you, right? Fight him, girl!

"You are so cheating, babe! How are you the winner every round?"

Dick raised his arms in a smug way, shrugging you off to annoy you. "Ah, the loser is barking. Face it, babe. I'm better." He blows you a kiss that you playfully shooed away, pinching your nose after. Dick gasps at your action, fighting the urge to laugh and just play along.

"Still can't beat me, honey."

"Pick another game. You'll taste defeat, Grayson."

"Whatever you say, Mrs. Grayson."

That's a blow to your pride. Imagine getting flustered in the middle of your bickering. Now you let a smug grin slip on your husband's face. Girl, you better stand on business cause you are losing FACE to your viewers right now.

5 girl go games later and you're still somehow losing to Dick. It feels like your sex has been reversed because what the hell? Maybe you are a man... at heart. How are you losing to a full grown man who—mind you—suggested that you play these games! Dick might be playing these at night when you're asleep.

It was a cooking game this time. You both need to beat each other with higher scores and more satisfied customers, obviously. It was just a mystery how he still wins when you both clearly see the big, colorful letters in bold saying that the dish you prepared was perfect—and he still wins!?

"That's it! I'm convinced you are cheating." You point a finger at him.

"It's just a matter of skill, hun." He smirks at you.

The last resort—your faithful, loyal, loving chat will support you on your accusations, right? Oh no, that smile on your face was wiped when you saw an ongoing poll on the stream. Scratch what you used to describe your chat, they are being the total opposite right now.

Overthrow the queen and appoint Dickie as the new ruler!

It's worst enough that it was 99% over 1%. You look at the camera with a death stare, in disbelief that your dear fans would overthrow you like this. Is it because Dick was more charming and had a larger ass than you? Okay, maybe keep that last thought to yourself because they cannot see the down half of your bodies.

And an annoying donation comes in the heat of the moment...

Daywalk donated 5$  

I'm looking at the most breathtaking, marvelous, amazing, pretty, kind, majestic, beautiful, attractive, sexy, hot, and gorjus (idk how to spell) right now and oh—I didn't realize you were here, sweetheart

Dick was giggling uncontrollably beside you with his phone in his hands. You saw the stream on his screen split seconds before he hid it beside him where you can't reach it. Did he really think you wouldn't notice it was him with this shitty ass username?

"Really, Dick? Daywalk? That's the best you could come up with?" You bury your face in your hand, imitating a facepalm to hide your laughter. You hate how he can easily make you laugh with the stupidest things.

"I am a fan of Nightwing, Babe. He has such good hair, good facial features, and that goddamn juicy ass of his. Have you seen his—"

"Dick."

"Okay, okay, sheesh, God forbid a man uplift his fellow man." He raised his hands in mock defeat. Backing away from that look of yours.

Dick Grayson is audacious. Partly one of the reasons why you married this man. 

You gave up, rolled your eyes, and just gave him a kiss to shut him up.

Jason Todd

"Oh come on, baby, you know you're happy to be here." 

You snicker at the scowl on his face. Jason looked like he wanted to drop a smoke bomb to escape the stream, but of course he wouldn't! What you said is true—he is ecstatic to be here. He refused your offer several times before caving in... and just a little secret, he just wanted to see how bad you want him to be in one.

In fact, he had the stream planned out already. In the span of the 3 days where you begged him to stream with you, Jason used it as a time to search for games to play, imagine scenarios, and other cute stuff that he wants to make happen today.

First things first, seem tough enough to place boundaries through his stare and seem friendly enough to joke around with him. Check. The chat was respectful to Jason and some joked around that this looked like Doomguy and Isabelle looking relationship.

"Oh please, it's more switched. This guy's a baby." Jason's eyes widen when you pull his chair to ruffle on his hair like a little kid. He glares up at you. Okay—maybe, this is tolerable, it has a loving effect to the viewers. Yes, this is fine. 

"Jason, don't bob your head like that onto my boob." You snort and push his head away. Ah, he thought he was nodding inside his head.

Big Poo: He's kinda weird... I like him

Goobert: We accept weird big guy and queen dynamics

Ignoring that small weird display of his, it's time for phase 2—urge you to play horror games of his choice. He didn't binge watch couples playing horror games last night just for you to play other games. A mischievous grin is fighting it's way to make itself appear on his lips. Jason expects you to get scared, cling to him, and show off the muscles he spent the few days toning. 

And as if he wasn't toned enough, Jason plans to show that this muscles of his won't be just for show if they decided to mug you in the streets while he's around. Anyone who's watching this stream would be a warning for parasocial freaks who'll try something with you.

"How about we play this one, babe?" He points at the game he searched up.

With a look of disbelief, you could only sigh at your husband's antics. He couldn't have been more obvious than this. The longer reps of his biceps workouts? Yeah, he's definitely planning something to show it off.

You sigh, and start the game up. The chat snitches on him smiling widely behind you as the game starts. It quickly disappears when you turn around, then reappears when you don't look. He gives the chat a playful motion of slicing his neck then points at the camera with a finger placed on his lips.

With a discreet glance behind you, there, you saw your husband doing a face that could kill that's accompanied by creepy giggles. In all of the years you've been together, not once could a sight like this ever cross your mind. Why is he having internet beef with your viewers?

Does he also think you can't see him through your stream view at your other monitor? You also stare at the gummy smile on your face, still having no resistance in finding everything he does as cute.

Heck, even if he snapped someone's neck in front of you with a sassy remark after, you'll still find it cute. Fucked up, yes, but hey, it's not like you haven't had body counts of your own in your other line of work.

Jason lets out an amused scoff at your unwavering focus to navigate through the dark cellar. There hasn't been a single jumpscare since you started. But because of his horror game video marathon, he's got every single one memorized. 

It'll take some time before the first one. In the meanwhile, he knows what to do to get you to warm up for the big scare.

His hands snakes itself downward, right past his own chair. You were focused on getting out of the sealed room that the chat's warnings fell to deaf ears... or eyes. Jason inches his chair closer to yours, carefully, so that his chair won't bump into yours.

An annoying habit of his that once made his teeth bleed from your punch. He waits until you're about to turn around a corner to strike—Jason bolts your body with an abrupt push on your shoulder. "Boo!"

The most he got from you was a loud curse and your middle finger in the middle of his face.

"Jason—We agreed on never doing that again. Fuck you, honestly." You glare at him through the monitor, not wasting another second to look back at the game. Your ears perk at the loud laugh that seeps through your headphones. 

"Oh please, you're not too much of a pussy to get scared from that, aren't you?" 

"Is that a challenge?" 

Jason waits for suspense, waiting until he knows you're almost near the first jumpscare of the game to throw you off. His hands once again find the liberty to make you jolt, making you lose focus and lightly smack your husband beside you.

Once you get back to the game, a horrifying figure appears on the screen, taking almost all of the pixels it offers. You flinch back and shield your eyes away the moment Jason tries to cover you from the screen.

It all happened suddenly. But it was if time moved slower for Jason.

One minute he was about to hug you.

The next, your fist connects with his face.

Jason didn't budge but hell—your punch still hurts as when you first met!

"You promised to never punch me again!" Jason whines.

Another promise was broken. As if Jason didn't break his earlier? He's sure his jaw also is. With a grimace and a guilty heart, you caressed his face softly. It was your way of apologizing. Oh well, it's both of your faults so let's just get back to gaming.

Big Poo: Leave Doomguy and Isabelle, bro. They're Mr. and Mrs. Smith at this point

Goobert: They're both tryna survive from each other

So what if Jason's plans failed? His jaw is aching—that's fine! He still has other ways... A plan B if you will. As long as his biceps will have a spotlight. He asks you, sweetly, if he could play instead. Jason smirks triumphantly as he knows you can't resist his weirdly adorable, beaten-up face.

He was actually doing so well for someone who's allegedly never saw or played this game before. Jason passed through each trial with flying colors.

When another jumpscare had shown itself, you were suprised to see your husband inch his shoulder closer to the monitor.

"Not flexin! But look at these chills man." He's definitely flexing.

The chat goes crazy! Comments pile up regarding your 'done-with-the-bullshit-face' at the back and mostly about Jason's muscles. He yaps about the non existent chills on his biceps that the chat eats up.

Big Poo: HOLY MOTHER OF GOD—PLEASE HEADLOCK ME

Goobert: I was unfamiliar with your game, Jason. Forgive me (pls flex more)

TheCrowbar: The crowbar approves of this marriage.

"We already are married, bud. If you wanted to say no, you could've done so 4 years ago." Jason rolls his eyes at the comment.

Yeah, he's definitely not warning everyone with that sass.

Tim Drake

"How is everyone mistaking me as your brother?"

Tim glares the chat through the screen. Evidently pissed at the teasing comments towards him. They knew who he was. How could they not? You always mention him and even introduced him at the start of the stream.

He gently grabs your left hand, raising it to show your matching rings.

Big Poo: AWWW! Such a cute sibling promise rings

Goobert: He loves his sister so much. ackk its so cute!!1!!

You try your best not to laugh. It might set Tim off and make him leave without creating any content. Despite wanting to see him get teased and pissed, you had to stop the chat with a few words.

"That's enough teasing my husband, guys. He doesn't like it." But you do. Your viewers seem to caught on your interest from the way you smile and stare at him earlier. Thankfully, they play along at the moment.

"What game do you guys want to see us play?"

Ah, you shouldn't have asked them. Your husband is a geek for video games! He's better than you at every game you guys play. He was more a tower defense, strategic, and board games type of guy. Doesn't make him any less of a weak player when it comes to games like Nekket, Super Smash Sis, though.

You drag Tim along with you to read some comments. He's impressed at the rapid comment speed your viewers have. Can you read a lot from this on a daily basis? There's a lot of unhinged comments slipping through his eyes too.

"Horror games? That sounds good."

What!

Tim snaps his eyes beside you, wide with surprise.

Before you could even ask for his opinion, your husband was already shaking his head sideways. He even had his arms crossed to match with his disagreement towards the suggestion. Tim does not want horror games this late at night. Absolutely not. Not inside this household when he's around.

He knows you're questioning him. But Tim can't tell you he watched the new horror movie you've been getting him to watch with you—alone. In his defense, he didn't want you to waste money on another shitty movie like last time, so, he scavenged alone to determine if it is as good as they say.

This is the result of his little secret mission from you. It's not his fault he hasn't recovered! You didn't see how terrifying it was for yourself... and not that he plans on letting you know.

Your viewers feed on his terror, already laughing to themselves behind their screens. Tim is just unlucky that you have wealthy viewers ready to make an offer you both can't resist. Like what do you mean two people named Big Poo and Goobert paid $10,000 each just for Tim to play?

And that's how the unlucky Timothy Drake found himself hiding behind your frame, occasionally peeking behind your hair to see how his wife is doing.

Everytime you turn into a corner, flashes of that horrible face appear in front of him. God, why are the lights turned off in your room? He doesn't even want to stand up to turn it on. He's aware he's a grown man, but God forbid a man like him can't get scared.

He takes a peek at the comments at the side.

HoelessRomantic: You shouldn't go there if I were you...

Tin-a-pie: GIRL DON'T

Goobert: You're purposely going there to scare baby bro

Baby bro?! This Goobert did not just say that. It felt like all his fear went away. He pushed himself away from your back. You weren't kidding that saying anymore brother jokes will tick him off.

"You may have beaten me at suggestions, but you won't defeat me in terms of winning over my wife!" He scowls at the monitor, taking you and your viewers aback. "I'm looking at you, Goobert... This is a threat." He smiles maniacally.

Tim sweetly smiles at you. One of the things you can't resist.

"Okay... okay.. calm down, Baby. What game do you want?"

"Oh trust me, you'll love it, honey." Tim presses a kiss on your forehead as he takes control.

You love Tim.

You know him well enough considering he's your husband for 4 years now.

But you guess you didn't know him well enough to expect him to suddenly exit the game and pull out a whole ass board game between you guys. Was it sitting there unnoticed the whole time? No matter, you recognized it to be one of his favorite board games.

He excitedly sets it up on the desk for the chat to see. A smug grin on his face to show off his pre-ordered game with freebies. Tim's so excited to share a game he's mastered.

"I bet you kids don't know this. Back in my days, this was the bomb." He proudly boasts.

Big Poo: Bro pulled out his last resort

Goobert: He had to gain back some aura obv

MMONEYY: Are you sure he gained some?

Ignoring their comments, Tim starts on the basics on how to play the game. Here comes the hardest part in being his wife—listening to his long, heartfelt explanation of Dungeons and Reptiles for the second time.

Nonetheless, you were blessed to hear his voice chip at every detail of the game. To see how the love of your life's eyes gleam to share facts to the viewers you tell about Tim everyday. They knew he was a nerd from your stories—but to see and hear it real time is something else.

Tim looked like a grandparent telling stories of his youth. The stories that seemed boring, but you can't help but listen in to. Although the comments complained that it was boring, and he's like an old man, the viewer count didn't decrease. 

They all listened intently with you. Do they see the vision on why you fell in love with Tim? Definitely.

Big Poo: All in vote of Tim being promoted to Husband, say aye.

Goobert: AYEEE

HoelessRomantic: Aye.

Tin-a-pie: Aye!!!

and a million others more.

"Oh so now I'm officially seen as the husband?" Tim laughs, stopping his yap about the game. He gives you a warm look and pulls you towards him. "I guess it's better than being the little brother, babe." He kisses you passionately while covering your eyes to raise his ring finger alone to the chat.

Tim must have the last laugh after all that teasing.

Damian Wayne

Damian has never been this clingy before. Is it because he's finally out in the open with you for millions to watch behind the safety of their screens? He doesn't know—only that he needs to make sure you're his only.

You can see how red his ears are on the monitor, his body boiling at the simple, cute gesture of having you in his lap while you introduced yourself and him to your viewers. This isn't PDA, he knows you're both technically alone in your shared room. 

Still, he isn't used to it. He's been in the spotlight several times, sure—he's Damian Wayne, hello! Son of Bruce Wayne? You get my point, but, he hasn't really been out with you to the media except the time you got married. Damian's more of a private, but not secret type of guy, you know? 

It wasn't difficult to make him agree. With a simple kiss, doe eyes, and a sweet smile, Damian would say yes without a thought!

Oh, but your chat was the mischievous type. One look at Damian and they all knew he was a guy who'd go boom for his lady. And what type of Boom you may ask? Well...

Big Poo: She is NOT going anywhere blud, calm dowwwnnnnn

Goobert: Acting like a damn dog who doesn't want to share the tree he peed on in 2025 is crazy

HoelessRomantic: Let OUR wife go you madman

"Our wife?" He growls, glaring at the camera. Damian would've stood up from his seat if you weren't on his lap. 

He had ignored the first two comments above that, choosing to focus on a comment about his wife. Like—that's his wife! Not hard to understand. He had everything to prove it. Pictures of your wedding day, legal certificates, your wedding rings, and a lot more!

Instead, he snaps his head to the side, acting like he was looking at a physical body to scan up and down with a warning glare. Possessive and explosive... The chat likes that. They'll have the night of their lives dedicated to set Damian off.

"They're normally like that. Don't mind them, Honey." 

He would've let it pass, and listened to your coo. And yet you let him hear you use the word, normally. Normally—as in, you listen to these goofs call you their wife? He doesn't want that. He'll create online beef for you.

And so it began, the chat and Damian's cold war.

The purpose of gaming is gone. Only Damian's sassy remarks and the viewers saying flirty stuff to get on his nerves becomes the content and entertainment. So much for the games you thought you were gonna play today.

But this? You'd pay to watch the whole day. Judging by that smug smirk on your husband's lips, he's aware that they were just teasing him. What can you say... after being with a wife who ragebaits for fun can train you into tolerating bullshit.

And what's a good way to tolerate bullshit? Fight it with your own bullshit, of course. And laughs—to show that he and you are joking. We're trying not to get banned here. So much for the millions of followers if it all ended because of his unhinged comments.

Big Poo: Pull up on roblox right now old geezer or lose husband rights to the whole chat

Goobert: OOOOOH SHITS GOING DOWN

HoelessRomantic: Millions of games and you choose roblox

Tin-a-pie: Imagine losing husband rights to a roblox game...

As soon as you read the chat's algorithm, you shake your head no at Damian. He shouldn't pick a fight over a game he doesn't know. 

It was too late though.

"Challenge accepted." Damian points at the camera. 

Hold on—his smugness falters. You raise a brow over the abrupt change of mood.

"Babe, do you have a roblox account?" He was so adamant in that petty challenge, it was hard to say no at this point. "You better win, loser."

"Do I look like one?" If he has the energy to roll his eyes at you, he might have the energy to kick butt on a game.

You're still appalled that it's roblox of all games. How old was this Big Poo viewer of yours to pick this one specifically? You sure hope it's not a 15 year old... or worse, they could be in the single digits! Oh God, where are this kid's parents?

"In what game will we settle this, Big Poo?" 

Big Poo: Tower of hell :>

Goobert: I honestly thought you'd pick murder mystery 

Big Poo: Let the old man get a taste of the... OBBY MASTERRR

Hey, hey—is this even your stream anymore or Big Poo and Goobert's private chats?

Tower of hell isn't hard. You've played it before. It was just a matter of skill to climb the tower. Damian listens intently to your instructions while waiting for the game to load where Big Poo's avatar was waiting.

"Listen, Dami, just jump over the glowing blocks and shiftlock when needed, okay? You got this, dear!" 

Damian pats on his lips repeatedly until you figure out his motions. With a sigh and a chuckle, you move closer to give him a peck—just a peck! But your beloved had other plans. He pulls you by your hand and smashes his lips against yours. Your quick reflexes immediately covered the camera.

"I can't fathom how I'm in need of a kiss over a lego game."

"Me too. I feel so stupid."

You both laugh, parting away from each other when Big Poo starts to countdown in game.

It was going so well! Damian was in the lead. He's actually pretty good with obbies even if he's a noob. Mind you, he had no practice before the match. Did his training in life transfer to your roblox avatar right now? How is he moving and advancing so fast.

The chat goes crazy with a notable presence—Goobert. The poor guy was screaming their bestfriend's name so bad. They almost looked like a desperate wife wishing their soldier husband to come back home safely.

The whole chat was amazed to see Damian—a noob—winning. And he knows he is.

Goobert: USE THE SECRET WEAPON HERMANO

Damian arrives at the last platform. You marvel at the close gap between him and Big Poo. He's actually gonna win this stupid roblox bet? But what—why did Damian suddenly stop? Don't tell me he's about to—

He types fast in-game, a smug smirk on his face as he watches Big Poo's avatar inch closer to his. In just a few thumbs away, Damian sends his message.

Husband rights defended! ;p

And it was silent—the time went slow. The crowd was astounded when Big Poo suddenly had a stick with a hand at the end. It happened in slow motion. Especially for Damian who worked his way up to the top. 

No matter how fast his reflexes are... it wasn't the same with the wifi.

As your roblox character fell, Damian looked dead in the camera.

"Big Poo..." 

Uh oh

"I BETTER NOT SEE YOU HERE IN GOTHAM OR ELSE I WILL—"

The stream has ended.

extra scene!

In another universe...

In the timeline of Young Justice...

Jaime and Bart were laughing their asses off. Each had their own unique device that hasn't been seen by humankind other than them. It's a mystery how they even got it. Well, it was just on the table... so, it won't hurt to touch, right?

They've both been at it all day long. Lucky for them to have the day off, honestly. Or else they would've missed this multidimensional device that shows different universes. Never in their life would they see 5 of the batfamily like that.

Although 1 of them is unfamilliar, and the second Robin has changed so much.

In a span of 18 hours, all they did was watch the streams.

"How'd you even come up with Big Poo, Ese?"

"You don't wanna know what happened yesterday." Bart snickers. "Well, how about you, Goobert?"

"Don't ask me, it was Scarab's idea."

They both went silent—reminiscing the streams they just watched.

"Do you think M'gann will notice the missing $20,000 from the funds?"

"Don't worry about M'gann, worry about—"

"What $20,000?" Tim's voice springs behind them.

Great.

It just had to be the Robin who the $20,000 went to in another universe.

They better explain well or else they'll be in an interrogation room with the whole Bat Family listening in.

[inknopewetrust]

Soak

Summary: Jack knows how to cure the remnants of a difficult day.

[Jack Abbot x Doc!Fem!Reader] [WC: 3.8k]

Warnings: 18+!, themes of The Pitt and ED happenings, established relationship (married), non-sexual bathing, heavy angst, Jack is a romantic through and through and a total wife guy, mentions of therapy and trauma related to work.

You thought you’d long forgotten what it felt like to be loved—to be in love.

That intangible feeling of knowing that the nervousness of devotion meant something further omitted itself, taking residence in catacombs of empty recollections. It was amassing eons of ashes without realizing how quickly time had passed because sorrow strikes with a heavy hand.

The simplistic goodness of love became harder to grasp when the abandonment grief stole from it. Love. To be loved, or love, sounded so… childish. Or the need for it, rather, that boiled inside of you like the most warranted reward you could not catch in the palm of your hand. It slipped through, time and again, at the sake of someone or something else you’d never saddle up to. Perhaps love was of importance and priority rather than devotion and emotion. It all hung the same way in the end.

It’s the ghosts that manifest when the whiplash fades away who spur periodic devastation.

When you met with ghosts, it was hard to recall what they had looked like before. Time was a cruel fiend. It masked the memories that had once been placed upon pedestals and marred them with a grisly sheen. Yet when moments of great pain cement themselves to torture you for years, it’s far too easy to remember the lasts compared to the firsts.

But time struck you with a thunderous arrow.

Cracking across the sky for your ears only, it lodged itself in your chest and forced laborious breaths to steady a foundation unearthed by fate. Today had just been “one of those days.”

The kind where you forget that love cocooned around you. Where against devastation, a healer sat in the mist.

The department riddled itself with the calling of a executioner. Perhaps at your hands, according to some of the distraught families that passed through the halls of the ED. But you knew deep down it wasn’t any fault of your own. You tried. You tried so hard to save them. However, when a MVA comes crashing through with three carloads of victims and little hope for recovery, the grim reaper sits in the shadows waiting for the right time of emergence.

And then his scythe cuts the sound of a monitor going flat. The sound never escapes you.

The sound, and the words of the families consumed by grief, also linger far longer when the shift doesn’t seem to end. One turns into two, then three, and so forth until the relief of the day shift greets desolation with a kind smile and knowing statement of “rough night?”

But it’s not enough to make the horror disappear completely. You hear it when you transfer your charts to Collins, in the turn of your lock against your locker. You see their empty eyes behind your lids as they closed at the first sight of sun after twelve long hours. And you feel their hand going lax in yours when Jack’s crosses the center console to try and say “I’m here.”

Yet it doesn’t ground you in the way he had hoped it would. The silence calcifies at a stop light seven blocks from home.

If the radio hadn’t been lowly playing a pop tune, you would have heard the sounds of your blood pumping through your veins. The shallow breathing of chaos; a tense worry growing in your chest that the world was unraveling too quickly.

Jack’s thumb grazed the back of your hand.

“What are you thinking for breakfast?”

You didn’t hear him. Lost in that endless swirl. His voice was gone into an abyss.

“Hey.” Jack moved your hand gently. He said your name as you blinked, clearing away the fog.

“Sorry,” you said sheepishly. “I was… what did you say?”

Jack dismissed your apology. “It was bad day. You don’t need to apologize.”

His hand in yours filled an empty cavern. It filled up like liquid in a jar and made your heart ache at your ignorance. Jack didn’t do anything. He was here. He was trying to comfort you. The bad days didn’t cancel out the good ones and Jack too carried with him the scars of a past he would much rather forget.

But the sun rose again on another day and no matter what, you just had to keep going.

“Do you want to talk about it?” The light still hadn’t changed.

“Not really,” you admitted. “But I’ll probably make an appointment to talk to someone about it.”

Jack nodded knowingly, thumb drawing comforting lines along the back of your hand. The light changed to green and for a moment, you were appreciative that his focus transitioned back to the road.

“That’s good.” Was all he said.

You wet your lips in anticipation of speaking more but the words halted in your throat. Breathing in shakily, your free hand ran fingers over your forehead. Jack squeezed the one he held.

“It’s ok,” he said so softly you could barely hear him over the spin of the tires against asphalt.

It’s ok. Not “you’re going to be ok” or the “situation that is completely not normal is ok” but the “it’s ok” not to be whole. That the cracks under your skin were natural after trauma. Your chin trembled as you became overwhelmed by the agony stored inside of you.

Jack hated that he couldn’t do anything more to soothe the hurt. Because when you loved someone with every fiber of your existence, the pain they carried fused with your own.

Love encompassed something larger, abstruse. It was a feeling buried deep inside of you that only awakened at the moment of greatest necessity and Jack always seemed to let that emotion bloom. It unfurled in the palm of his hand and he held tight on to it knowing what time could do if he was not careful. Jack was cautious. He walked a fine line between giving too much and never giving enough but he tried—and that’s all he was asking of you now. Try. Breathe. Breathe.

And when the tears fell four blocks from home, he let you cry in the car. He forgot about breakfast, about how nice sleep would be in a few hours.

Jack didn’t shush you. He didn’t push you to wrap up your emotional plea for the sake of the car parking in the garage. He turned off the engine and pressed the garage door closed with the remote which further shut away the world beyond.

It was just you and him and your sorrow.

You weren’t sure how much time had passed. Five minutes, ten… but the tears did end like they always did. They dried up and left you empty again.

“I just don’t know,” you started when you felt sturdy enough to talk, “how many more kids I can see die on my table.”

Suddenly, you hated being a pediatric physician. You hated that all of the kids that came into the ED found themselves in a room with painted animals and some of them saw their joyous faces and others never had the chance. You hated that parents blamed you for ending a life that had barely begun and you couldn’t fathom understanding an ounce of why they always seemed to place the blame on you.

You tried. You tried and wasn’t that enough?

“It’s their little fucking hands. Their little fingers and toes and eyes that have the life sucked out of them and I’m the last one they see.”

Jack listened. He didn’t push.

“And the parents today,” you groaned at the thought; sucking in a wet, unattractive noise to clear your senses. He loved you enough not to care.

“God… I’ve never wanted to quit until today.”

“Today was a bad day,” he repeated.

“Today was an awful day,” you corrected.

“You’re going to carry it with you forever.” You knew his intrusive stare was targeting your face but ignored it. “You’ll never forget the ones who don’t get to see tomorrow.”

“I keep thinking,” you shook your head a little with a self-deprecating laugh, “about how I, we, get to go home after a family’s world is changed so drastically. And I pretend that nothing happened and that it’s normal to see this every other day and pretend that when I close my eyes, I don’t see them every time.”

“No one’s asking you to pretend,” Jack reminded you. He didn’t. He just coped differently.

“But I don’t know how to function otherwise, Jack. I can’t separate them anymore and I don’t know how to get back on track.”

“You said you were going to talk to someone, yeah?” He moved his head to catch your attention and those dark, hazel eyes bore into you deeply. He needed that confirmation—that you were listening and understanding him.

“Yeah,” you nodded.

“Then it’s not your job yet. Okay?” He looked at you expectantly. “It’s not your job yet. It’s not going to change without help but until you get that help, talk to someone who knows how to help you, then what more can you do than breathe? I am here, baby. I will always be here.”

You had stacked the tasks. Heal, heal, heal. Find a solution, be “normal”, and find something else to hide your time with while the struggle remained.

Jack brought you back to earth. Back from the endless orbit and to the ground where he could be the one to help for what little hours of peace you were granted.

He brought your hand to his lips and kissed your knuckles, then the dorsal and your wrist before turning it over and pressing into your palm repeatedly. Back and forth, back and fort, soothingly.

“Just breathe for me, alright?” He mimicked a slow intake of air before exhaling. Jack nodded at you to copy and you did. Once, then twice, and another.

“That’s it,” he encouraged.

You breathed in, then out. Over and over until that tremble of your hands ceased enough that it wasn’t the only thing he felt. Jack pressed the pressure points until your hand was pliable and unfurled with tension.

Focusing your attention, you looked out into the garage through the windshield and looked at the streaking wet remnants of water lingering behind. You hadn’t even noticed it on the way home.

“It rained?”

“Snowed,” Jack said.

“Badly?”

“Don’t worry,” Jack’s voice gained levity. You saw a flicker of a twinkle pass by his gaze when you looked toward him now. “You have the precipitation levels beat today.”

“I’m basically a prune at this point, I suppose.”

“Eh.” He let go of your hand and unbuckled his seat. “You’re a pretty prune then. The most beautiful prune I’ve ever seen.”

You shook your head at him, letting your seatbelt come undone too. “You don’t have to flatter me because you feel bad.”

“I will flatter as I please,” Jack scoffed. “You’re mine and I will compliment even if you’ve pruned the most prune-y you’ve ever pruned.”

Like routine and an attempt to lessen the burden of grief, both of you exited the vehicle and opened the doors to the back seats where your bags stored themselves on the way home. As you met Jack’s eyes across the space, he had both bags gripped in his hands.

“Jack,” you lamented.

“Go inside,” he nearly ordered. “Go change and I’ll meet you in a second.”

You sighed, holding onto the door as if it supported all of your weight.

“I can carry my own bag.”

“I know.”

“Then let me?”

He pondered it for a brief second before disagreeing. “I’ve got it.”

“J—“

“Are we really going to argue over a bag?” He asked. “Go,” he motioned to the entrance to the house via the garage. “I’ll put these away and then I’ll come find you.”

Jack wasn’t going to take the objections stored like ammunition. His stubbornness had faults but good intentions in the moment.

“Fine,” you faltered. “Alright.”

“Good.”

As you lingered a moment longer, the tiredness of it all washed over you quickly. You shut the door and felt a relief take hold upon crossing the threshold into your house. It smelled like the two of you, it felt like the both of you. It calmed when endless cycle of catatonic winters brought forth a dome of doom.

The car door closed with a beep not long after. Jack deposited the bags in the mud room along with his badge that lay in a tray beside the door. He place it atop yours and paused at the pink tint that faded into the white letters of your “doctor” plate.

It carried home. It always did.

The echos of home held sounds of you. And while his hearing wasn’t what it was twenty years ago because of the lingering legacy of service, he still knew what was you and what the ringing was. The sound of the lights going on in the bathroom that left a small hum burn through the room—you. The sounds of shoes clattering to the floor and a drawer opening in the dresser of the bedroom—you.

His life was filled with the symphony of you and even on the darkest of days, he listened to nothing but.

You felt the water run over your fingertips from the faucet. Warm and greeting, it was a luxury of the morning.

The house you had learned to love was a concession made of you both. A sanctuary of space; somewhere to heal and to love and to rest that met the untraditional needs of a unconventional household. The bathroom was one of those places. The vanity stretched across one wall with a golden, warm lighting cascading across its speckled white marble and a Spanish cedar wood beneath it.

It was spacious and accommodating. But as you looked up into the mirror and at your reflection marred from the day, your eyes caught the tub, seldom used, in the background. The porcelain often sat dry—an inconvenience because of its deep edges and lack of grip. Even in your own pampering you avoided it as habit from Jack’s own difficulties using it.

But he had insisted on it years ago. He said that you’d use it one day and yet, still, the days were far and few between.

It caught your eye now, however.

You thought about what it would be like to fill it up and see the steam roll off the top of the water in swirls. The tendrils reaching and floating to the ceiling quietly while your back would rest upon the smooth, cold ceramic.

“The pipes might be rusty.”

Jack’s voice bit through the stream of water coming from the faucet and your eyes darted to the doorway.

He stood leaning against the frame with his arms crossed at his chest. Peering at you with knowing eyes, you half-figured he knew every thought that passed through your mind at any given moment. You turned off the sink.

“I’ll just take a shower.”

“Why?” His brow furrowed. “We have a tub for a reason.”

“Yeah but it’s—“

“A really nice, expensive, tub.”

“And really excessively tall.”

“It’s a soaker.” Jack walked into the bathroom and pulled a towel from a cabinet adjacent to the shower. “They’re supposed to be big.”

You watched him moved about. “If this was another day, I would have made a joke about that.”

“I can’t wait to hear it when a better day comes.”

It was his turn to turn on a faucet—the tub. He knew you liked the water “boiling” so he turned it hot enough to warrant a longer bath. He opened up the shower door and pulled out the stool from inside of it and place it beside the tub and sat down.

“What are you doing?” You pivoted to rest against the vanity while he sat there in his dirty scrubs.

“I’m waiting for you,” he said frankly. “Come on, take off your clothes.”

He saw the way your shoulder’s sagged as your body began to take the brunt of mental pain. You challenged him to change his mind with one look but he wasn’t going to budge. The stubbornness of Abbot men ran deep within his blood.

This is what love was.

He held out his hand from his place on the stool and beckoned. You breathed in, and then out, just as you had in the car. And his hand enveloped yours once more.

“You know,” Jack started lowly, “it’s not a bad thing when someone wants to take care of you.”

His hands traveled to your hips and lifted your scrub top slowly. His touch melted warmly into the skin of your stomach and around the sides of your waist while his legs parted and brought you to stand closer. You loved the feel of his hands on your body. Not now for pleasure, but to know that he was there. He’d always be there if you let him.

“And somedays, all I want to do is make sure you’re ok. So when you’re not, I want to take care of you.”

Therapy was doing wonders for his communication.

“It’s a pity this doesn’t have a door,” you motioned down to the tub as it began to fill near the halfway line.

“Like those old fuckers have?” He looked at you with a joking offense. “I’m gray, not a hundred.”

“You know what I mean.” You knocked his shoulder with your fist. He rocked back then toward you in return. His hands pulled at your top and you helped usher it over your head.

“I would rather not be alone.”

“I’ll be right here,” his eyes laid heavy into yours.

“What if I help you?” You proposition as his grip moved to your pants. He slid them down slowly. “I can help you too. We’ve never tried it.”

“Because I’d rather not end up a patient with a description of ‘one-footed man who ate shit trying to get into a tub not made for him.’ It just doesn’t seem… right.”

You unclipped your bra and handed it to him. He put it on top the pile growing in his lap of your clothes. Instead of ogling you further, as you removed your panties and then your socks, he turned to the edge of the tub and poured soap in. Jack stirred it with his hand as the warm water radiated up his arm and the bubbles began to form around it.

Your hand found his shoulder as you tried to carefully maneuver into the tub without incident. Jack’s other hand shot out, guiding the small of your back into the water.

“Are you sure?”

The softness in your sad eyes poured into his heart. He sighed, admiring the way the bubbles hid you from view as you pulled your knees to your chest and rested your head on them.

“It’s kind of lonely in here.”

“Baby,” he let out a small chuckle. “You really want me in there?”

You nodded. The hand he had left in the water retreated and crumpled your clothes into a ball. While he was still preparing his protest, he caught the back of his shirts behind his neck and slipped them off gracefully.

“I might die for real this time.” Only people who faced actual death could joke about that.

“Well then I really don’t know what I’d do with myself,” you turned and watched as he stood to remove his pants.

“Waiting for a show?” His hands paused at the scrub ties.

“I like looking at my husband. Can’t a woman admire a handsome man?”

His lips curved into a smirk. There was a way you always distracted yourself from the flood and it was through him. Jack knew it, because he had been guilty of it too. But there was nothing telling him that when he reached the edge of the tub and you rose with your body dripping with soapy water and helping him the best you could into it, that you were trying to have sex to forget about it all.

It wasn’t healthy, for either of you, to fall into that habit.

Without incident, he slipped into the position behind you and you settled back down between his legs and for the first time, Jack was appreciative of the purchase. It was relaxing and it was peaceful.

You moved the soap bubbles between your hands in front of you as his arms rested on the sides. As he relaxed, he knew that if his eyes were to close for an extended period of time, he’d be out like a light. But you kept the water moving. Mildly lapping with every listless sway of your hand and the cupping of bubbles to be brought back down to the water.

After a few minutes the sounds ceased and though he had closed his eyes, he sensed the way you shuffled back against him and carefully, as if not to spook him, leaned backwards against his chest.

And suddenly, you were at peace.

Love floated into the spaces left cracked from the day. It caressed your arms and folded over your shoulders to hold you tightly together and feel each other in a moment of quiet reflection. A tidal wave breeched your shores again. Jack felt your body trying to ignore it. Tears slipping through your closed eyes as he nudged his head to an angle that now rested against yours.

“Just because we can’t save everyone doesn’t mean we are any less deserving of a good life,” he whispered into your ear.

Your hand cleared itself of soap underneath the water and drew back up to the side of his face, gliding across his features to leave a trail of wet and back to his hair where the strands were still damp.

“I love you so much.”

A beat.

“I love you,” you breathed.

“You are a good doctor, a great doctor,” Jack affirmed. “One day or twenty of them don’t decide you’re not.”

You thought you’d long forgotten what it felt like to be loved—to be in love.

Yet that thought was easily forgettable now.

A/N: jack abbot has been eating at my brain for weeks like a parasite and i needed to write for him so badly - also not proofed yet so don’t assassinate me

[thepencilnerd]

hello!! i have an angsty request >:3

in the past dr robby and reader were in a relationship but as life changed they decided to separate. reason why reader broke it off with robby was because she was getting sicker and she didn’t want to burden him years later reader comes into the er in bad shape (chronicle ill) he never knew she was this sick until years after they drifted apart and maybe some fluff at the end

babes you know i LIVE FOR THE ANGST <33

warnings: depictions of chronic illness wc: 1.9k

The ER was buzzing—monitors beeping, the sharp scent of antiseptic hanging in the air, footsteps echoing against linoleum. Robby barely noticed any of it.

He’d just finished dealing with a combative overdose in Bay 5 when Dana called out to him, holding a chart.

"Room Three," she said, a little too gently. "Chronic case. Looks like heart failure. She's not doing great."

He grabbed the clipboard without a second thought. Then stopped cold.

Your name stared up at him in clean block letters.

And his world tipped sideways.

It was as though someone had sucker-punched the air out of his lungs. Four years. Four years of wondering. Of half-written texts. Unanswered calls. A full voicemail inbox, all of them from him. Of dreaming about your laugh and waking up angry in tears. Frustrated at himself. At you. Four years of pretending he didn’t still check your name in the hospital system every once in a while.

And now—now you were here.

Collapsed lungs. Oxygen saturation low. Congestive Heart Failure. Decompensated.

You were dying, and you hadn’t said a word.

The curtain around your bed was drawn, but he pushed through without knocking, hands trembling.

And there you were.

Pale. Eyes sunken. Lips tinged gray-blue despite the oxygen mask over your mouth. You were bundled in hospital blankets, shivering slightly, your hand lax around the call button.

Your eyes opened slowly, drawn by the sound of footsteps.

You saw him—and blinked, like you weren’t sure if he was real.

A choked sigh. You pulled off the mask just enough to speak. "Hey, stranger."

It wrecked him. The rasp in your voice. The half-smile you offered like this was just a casual run-in, like you weren’t hooked up to machines that were keeping you alive. 

He moved closer, too fast. "What the hell, Y/N?"

"Nice to see you too," you murmured, voice dry.

"Don’t," he said sharply, chart forgotten in his hand.

You looked away. "I didn’t plan to be here, Michael."

He ran a hand through his hair, pacing once before kneeling beside the bed. "Heart failure? You’re in advanced decomp. Jesus—why didn’t you fucking tell me? Why didn’t you call?"

You didn’t answer.

"You left," he said, voice quieter now but still shaking. 

He held your hand instantly, cradling it like it was instinct. His hands felt the same—warm, steady, familiar. Like no time had passed at all.

You swallowed hard, throat bobbing. "I didn’t want you to watch me fall apart."

He blinked. "You think I wouldn’t have stayed?"

"I know you would have," you whispered. "That’s what scared me. You would’ve put everything on hold. Your fellowship. Your life. Your chance to be more than just a caretaker for someone who—" You broke off, breath catching. "Someone who was only going to get worse."

Robby’s other hand came to rest on your arm—warm, solid, familiar. Your body leaned toward the touch before your mind could argue.

"You think I wouldn’t choose you? You really think I wouldn’t have wanted to walk through this with you?"

Tears stung your eyes. "It wasn’t fair to ask."

"You didn’t ask. You just left." His voice cracked at the end.

A long silence stretched between you, thick with everything unsaid.

He squeezed your hand tighter. His thumb brushed against your knuckles, grounding you.

"I never stopped loving you," he said quietly.

Your fingers curled around his. You felt like hell, like your body was a failing house, caving in on itself—but his touch reminded you that some parts of you still worked. Still remembered.

"I’m sorry," you whispered. "For not telling you. For walking away before you had the chance to make that choice."

Robby leaned in, forehead nearly touching yours. "I’m making it now," he breathed.

Your eyelids feel heavy, and suddenly you're back in that cramped apartment with the peeling tile and the humming radiator—the place you used to call home.

It had been raining that night. Heavy and loud against the windows. You remember how the lamplight painted long shadows across the floor, how your suitcase sat half-zipped by the door.

You remember the way Robby looked at you when he walked in from his shift—wet scrubs, messy hair, exhaustion hanging from his shoulders.

But the second he saw your face, he knew.

"You’re leaving," he said.

You nodded. You couldn’t meet his eyes.

He didn’t yell. Didn’t beg. He just stood there, breathing too quietly, like even that hurt.

"I thought we were okay," he said after a minute. "Are we not okay?"

You tried to smile, but it cracked at the edges. "I’ve been… having more episodes. Dizziness. Shortness of breath. My cardiologist says it’s progressing faster than they expected."

Robby blinked. "Okay. Then we fight it. We adjust the meds. We—"

"No," you said, cutting him off too fast. "You adjust. You take care of me. You cancel your interviews, you stay up all night researching when you should be out living your life. And then one day when you wake up next to someone who can’t even walk up a hill without needing to sit down? What then, Michael? I’m not doing that to you."

His expression twisted. "So instead, you choose to leave me? Without giving me a choice?"

Tears welled in your eyes, but you blinked them back. "I’m trying to give you a future. One that doesn’t revolve around watching me wither away in front of you."

"I don’t want a future without you."

You shook your head. "That’s what I couldn’t live with."

He crossed the room, grabbed your wrist—gentle, but desperate. "You don’t get to make this decision for both of us."

You leaned in, let your forehead rest against his. Memorized the warmth of his breath, the way his fingers trembled where they held you.

"I love you," you said. "But I need you to remember me like this. Young and alive. Not dying in a hospital bed."

"No."

"Michael—"

"No," he said again, voice cracking. "God, please. Don’t do this."

His voice broke and kept breaking. He sank down to his knees like his body couldn't hold the grief. Tears spilled fast, falling unchecked down his cheeks, and he reached for you—arms wrapping around your waist, face pressed against your stomach. A sob tore out of him, raw and guttural.

"Stay," he whispered. Then louder, more desperate: "Please—please, let me stay. Let me help you. I’ll do anything, Y/N. I’ll give you everything I have. Just don’t walk away from me. Please."

You fell with him, threading your shaking fingers into his hair, holding him close. He felt like a storm in your arms—chaotic, trembling, terrified.

"I know you would," you whispered, breaking. "That’s the problem."

You closed your eyes, voice barely audible. "You’d give everything for me. And it kills me. Because I love you too much to let you."

You kissed him one last time—slow, aching, full of everything you couldn’t say. His hand slipped into your hair, holding you like he could stop the unraveling.

When you finally pulled away, his eyes were red, lips parted like he still couldn’t believe you were really leaving. You rested your hand on his cheek for a second longer—just one more breath, one more heartbeat—before stepping back.

Neither of you spoke.

You picked up your bag. Turned toward the door. Didn’t look back.

—

Later, when the oxygen helped and your vitals stabilized and they moved you upstairs, you didn’t expect him to stay.

But hours passed.

And he did.

You opened your eyes sometime after 3 a.m. to find him sitting in the chair next to your bed, fingers still laced with yours.

You were the first to speak. "You’re not on shift anymore."

"Doesn’t matter."

"You could’ve gone home. Slept in your own bed."

He glanced at you, then looked back down at your joined hands. "I think I’ve spent enough nights in the wrong bed."

Your breath caught.

"You don't have to—"

"I know," he said, cutting you off, voice softer now. "This isn’t about having to do anything." He moved closer and brushed a kiss against your forehead, lingering. "This is about not losing you again."

You turned your face away, voice breaking. "Don’t say things like that."

"Why not?" he asked. "You think I don’t mean them?"

"I know you do," you said quietly. "And that’s what terrifies me."

His brow furrowed. "Y/N—"

"I don’t deserve this," you said, barely louder than a whisper. "I don’t deserve you. I lied to you. I pushed you away. I chose to disappear. And you’re still here, willing to throw everything away just to sit beside me while I—" You cut yourself off, tears welling. "I don’t want you wasting your life loving someone who might not even have much of one left."

Robby cupped your face in both hands, gently, like you might shatter if he held too tightly. "I’m not wasting anything. You’re the one thing I’ve ever been sure about."

You couldn’t stop the tears this time. "I don’t want to be your burden."

He leaned closer until his forehead pressed against yours. "You’re not. You never were and you never will be. Let me be here. Please."

His thumb brushed away a tear. "Let me love you."

You gave in then. Let yourself fall forward, into his arms. He wrapped himself around you instantly, warm and steady, holding you like you were something sacred. Your body fit against his like muscle memory, like no time had passed.

He smelled the same. That subtle mix of soap, sweat, and something inherently him—clean and grounding. Your nose pressed into the crook of his neck, and it hit you like a wave.

And you felt the same to him. Fragile, yes, but still familiar. Still his.

His arms tightened around you, one hand splayed between your shoulder blades, the other stroking the back of your head. You buried your face in his shoulder, clung to his shirt, and let yourself cry.

He didn’t try to stop it.

Didn’t let go.

And when the tears slowed, and you felt his lips press gently against your temple, you breathed in the quiet between you. His scent. His presence. His promise.

"I missed you," you whispered.

"I never stopped thinking about you," he murmured. "Not for a second."

You pulled back just far enough to look at him—really look. He looked tired, yes, but soft around the edges now. Open. Hopeful.

You touched his cheek. "Okay," you sniffled. "You can stay."

The way he smiled at you then—soft and disbelieving—felt like sunlight after a long winter.

He kissed your knuckles. Then your brow. Then the tip of your nose.

Then, slower, more reverent—he kissed your cheek. The corner of your mouth. And finally, your lips. It was soft, tentative, but steady. Like he needed you to feel it. Like he’d been holding it in for years.

You melted into it, a shaky laugh breaking through your tears.

"We’ll take it one breath at a time," he whispered against your lips.

You nodded, forehead resting against his. For a while, you just breathed together—quiet and close. His thumb traced slow, lazy circles against the back of your hand.

"Tell me when you’re tired," he murmured.

"I’m always tired," you whispered, a soft smile tugging at the edge of your mouth.

"I’ll be tired with you."

He shifted, carefully, until he was half-tucked into the bed beside you, mindful of your lines and monitors. You leaned into him, head on his chest, and let his heartbeat calm your own.

"I love you," you murmured into the fabric of his shirt.

His hand found yours beneath the blanket, fingers curling tight. "And I love you—more than anything."

You smiled against him, small and real. "Even now?"

"Always."

And in that quiet hospital room, tangled together and half-lit by morning, you let those words hold you—finally, fully—with nothing left to hide and everything to bare.

[artficlly]

read between the lines [one-shot]

college marvel au frat!jock!bucky x cheerleader!reader tutoring bucky barnes was already distracting enough, but leaving your diary in his room? that is a whole new problem.

Warnings: fluff, so much fluff, tutoring, first kiss, college au, vague panic from reader, idk it's just kinda fun and cute :), no use of y/n, lmk if i've missed anything

Word Count: 2.5k

A/N: hi this was for a request! so so cute, i wrote this so fast i didn't even think i would have it ready to post so quickly. idk anything about cheerleading or how college works in america, so forgive me. inspired by that willow song! sorry for any typos - not proof read.

main masterlist

I’ve been tutoring Bucky.

Well, James, technically. But he goes by Bucky. Says it’s a childhood nickname and it just stuck, and honestly? That’s kind of adorable. Like, who clings to a nickname that hard? Even the professors call him that, which should be cringe, but somehow it’s not? It just suits him. I literally don’t think I could call him James even if I tried. ‘Bucky’ feels right. It sounds warm. Familiar. Stupidly charming.

Ugh. Anyway.

He’s in one of those frats I usually stay far away from. The kind that smells like cheap beer and Axe body spray. Always yelling, always playing music way too loud, always shirtless for no reason. I swore I’d never waste my time on a guy like that. I really thought he was gonna be a cocky, arrogant douche when I first got assigned to tutor him.

But he’s not. Like… at all?

He’s actually really nice. Like, unfairly nice. That casual kind of nice that makes you forget you’re supposed to be annoyed. He remembers stuff I say. Not the big stuff, the tiny stuff. Like how I chew my pen when I’m stressed, or how I like lemon Gatorade for cheerleading practice. And yesterday he brought me those sour gummy worms I mentioned ONE time. Just handed them over all casual like, ‘Thought you might want a little sugar after practice.’ Who does that?? Like… stop. That’s not fair.

But of course, he’s like that with everyone. That’s the worst part. He’s charming in this totally effortless way. Looks at you like you’re the most interesting person alive and then turns around and does the exact same thing to someone else. How am I supposed to know what’s real?

And GOD. He’s hot. Like, it’s actually rude. He laughs and it does something to me. Like full-on makes my brain stop working. And his ARMS?? Every time he pushes his sleeves up to his elbows I lose one year off my life. For real. It’s like he’s doing it on purpose. (I mean, he’s not, but like… what if he is???) Sometimes I forget what I’m even explaining because he’s just sitting there smiling at me with those eyes and that stupid little smirk and suddenly I’m thinking about kissing him instead of confidence intervals. It’s not okay.

He’s on the football team. Scholarship guy. Big deal. Girls are obsessed with him. I’ve literally heard people talk about him in the locker room like he’s a celebrity. And me? I’m just… I don’t know. I’m me. I cheer and I study and I try not to let my GPA fall apart and I pretend I’m not crushing on someone completely out of my league.

So no. I’m not gonna say anything.

Because maybe I did catch him looking at me the other day when I tied my hair up. Maybe he does stay a little longer when we’re done. Maybe he leans in a little closer than necessary. But maybe I’m imagining it. Maybe I want it too bad and I’m just reading into everything. I don’t want to be that girl. I don’t want to get hurt.

So I’m gonna do what I’m supposed to do. Help him pass stats. Smile when he brings me candy. Laugh at his dumb jokes. Pretend like my heart doesn’t skip a beat every time he says my name.

I’m just going to help him pass stats. That’s all this is. Right? God, I’m so dumb.

—

You were fucked. Well and truly screwed.

You couldn’t even focus during practice. Missed counts, off-beat claps, a completely botched dismount that nearly took you and the poor girl spotting you both out in one go. Natasha pulled you aside with that look—the one that said she was two seconds away from losing it—and muttered something about getting your shit together because the big game was in a week and this wasn’t the time to be spacing out.

But how were you supposed to focus? Your diary was missing.

Your actual, physical, spiral-bound diary filled with every unfiltered thought you’d been too scared to say out loud. The same one where you’d spent the last four pages gushing about Bucky freaking Barnes like some sad, delusional teenage cliché. You didn’t even want to think about what you wrote last night, something about his arms and the way he smiles and how you swore he looked at you differently when you tied your hair up. It was humiliating.

You never should’ve taken it out of your room. You knew it was a bad idea. But Yelena had been on one of her ‘I’m bored and nosy’ benders, and the last time you left anything out, she’d read your old poetry journal and quoted it back to you at breakfast. You weren’t about to risk that again. So, like a total idiot, you shoved your diary in your bag before heading to class, thinking you’d keep it safe with you.

The entire day had been chaos. You barely managed to scarf down lunch between lectures, and by the time your 3 p.m. class let out, you were already sprinting across campus to make it to Bucky’s place for tutoring. Not that you actually got much tutoring done. You never did, not when he looked at you with that stupid, easy grin, or leaned back in his chair like he owned the air around him. One second you were going over statistical formulas, and the next you were talking about childhood pets and favourite movies, laughing like you hadn’t just been drowning in assignments ten minutes earlier. Time always slipped away around him. You ended up bolting to cheer practice.

It wasn’t until hours later, back in your dorm with your bag dumped upside down on the floor, that you realised your diary was missing. Your diary. 

You’d spent a solid hour panicking, then a full thirty minutes rummaging through the lost and found at the campus security office, practically elbow-deep in a box of mismatched gloves and cracked phone cases. The guy behind the desk eventually looked up from his screen, where he was rather obviously playing solitaire, and told you with the energy of someone who very much did not care that maybe it hadn’t been handed in.

You wanted to scream.

Now your most personal, most mortifying thoughts were just out there. Floating around. God only knew where or with who. And sure, maybe whoever found it wouldn’t read it. Maybe they’d be a decent human being and just turn it in without flipping through. But let’s be honest, if you found a diary with someone’s deepest secrets in it, you’d probably peek too.

You were going to be sick. Actually sick. And not because Natasha had you running suicides again like she was training you for the NFL, but because your life might genuinely be over. Because if he found it? What if you left it in his room? What if Bucky read even one word of what you wrote?

You didn’t even want to finish that thought.

No, you literally couldn’t even finish that thought because, as Natasha finally called for the end of the session and the team began their warm-down stretches, swapping tired smiles and gulping down water, you saw him.

Bucky.

Standing at the edge of the field in that stupid grey hoodie, sleeves pushed up, all smug and handsome like he hadn’t just shown up to ruin your entire existence. He had that lazy, charming smile on his face, the one that made people trust him too fast, the one that made you trust him too fast, and in his hand?

Glittery blue cover. Spiral binding. Your diary.

You were going to throw up. No, genuinely, you could feel your stomach lurch. This was it. This was how you died. Not in a blaze of glory or during a botched basket toss, but here, sweaty, humiliated, and on the verge of a nervous breakdown in the middle of the goddamn football field.

You didn’t even think. You just stormed over before anyone else could notice, grabbing his arm and dragging him behind the bleachers like it was a crime scene. Which it kind of was. A crime against your dignity.

Bucky didn’t protest. He followed easily, letting you pull him along like it was some sort of game. Of course he did. And of course, he was smiling the whole time, like you hadn’t just gone into cardiac arrest ten feet away.

Your heart was pounding so hard you could barely speak. It rattled in your chest like a warning, like it knew this moment was about to go down in your personal hall of shame.

“Where…how…why do you have that?” you hissed, snatching at the diary, but he held it just out of reach, still annoyingly calm.

He raised a brow, like you’d just asked him what two plus two was. “You left it at my place. After tutoring. You were in a rush, remember?”

No. No, no, no, no, no. Of course, it had been his place. Of course.

“I—I didn’t mean to, I wasn’t thinking, I just—” You were spiralling, words tumbling out too fast, too breathless, and your fingers were twitching like you might just snatch the book and sprint across campus. “Did you…Did you read it?”

A beat. He didn’t answer right away. Just looked at you.

And then, God, he smiled. Not the cocky one, not the football-star grin. This one was softer. Slower. Dangerous.

Your stomach dropped.

“I read enough,” he said.

You froze.

Your ears rang. Your mouth went dry. Your body just stopped.

“Enough?” you echoed, voice cracking halfway through. “Enough of what? Enough to—oh my God.”

You turned away instinctively, hand over your mouth like that could somehow keep your soul from escaping your body. Because what did that mean? What was ‘enough?’ Enough to ruin your life? Enough to laugh about it with his frat brothers? Enough to tell every girl on campus that the cheerleader who couldn’t even stick a full-out had a crush on him?

You didn’t even realise you were pacing until Bucky gently caught your wrist.

“Hey. Relax,” he said, and his voice was way too steady for someone holding the social equivalent of a loaded weapon.

You yanked your arm back like his touch burned. “Relax? Bucky, that was private. It’s literally a diary! It’s not for reading, it's for… spiralling in silence!”

He tilted his head a little, watching you carefully, and if he was offended by your panic, he didn’t show it. “You left it on my bed. Open.”

You groaned and covered your face with both hands. “Please. Just kill me. Right here. Hide the body under the bleachers. I’m serious.”

Bucky chuckled—chuckled, like this was some kind of joke—and stepped closer. You could feel his presence even before you lowered your hands again. 

“Why didn’t you just say something?” he asked, quiet now. “If you felt that way.”

Your eyes snapped to his. “Because I didn’t know if it meant anything! You’re nice to everyone. You flirt like it’s a reflex. You remember everyone’s drink orders, compliment their outfits, hold doors and say all the right things. I thought I was just another person you were… nice to.”

He didn’t answer your panicked rambling right away. Just looked at you for a long moment.

“Yeah, I’m nice to people. Doesn’t mean I feel the same way I feel about you.”

Your heart dropped straight into your stomach.

“What?” you whispered, hating how small your voice sounded.

He held your gaze, completely serious now.

“Like I wanna kiss you every time you chew that damn pen cap. Like, I think about you even when I’m supposed to be studying. Like I can’t focus when you’re talking ‘cause all I do is stare at your damn lips.” He paused, and something almost like a laugh broke out of him, soft and self-conscious. “Like I’ve been trying to find a not-creepy way to tell you I like you since the second tutoring started, but you were always so focused and cool and out of my league.”

That last part made your head spin.

“Out of your league?” you repeated, eyes wide.

He smirked, stepping just a bit closer, lowering his voice. “Have you seen yourself? You’re smart, you’re so pretty it’s ridiculous, and you’ve got this whole thing where you act like you don’t know you’re the coolest girl on campus. Of course, I was nervous.”

You blinked at him. “Bucky… are you flirting with me behind the bleachers while holding my diary hostage?”

He grinned. “Maybe. Depends. Is it working?”

You tried to snatch the diary out of his hand, but he was faster, effortlessly holding it just out of reach like it weighed nothing.

“God, I hate you,” you muttered through gritted teeth, bouncing up on your toes in a desperate attempt to grab it. All it earned you was the embarrassing realisation that you were now fully pressed against his chest, warm, broad, and stupidly solid.

“You really don’t, at least not according to this—” he said, low and smug.

“Bucky!” you warned, trying to reach again, but he shifted it higher.

“Give. It. Back,” you hissed, practically climbing him at this point.

“I will,” he said, eyes flicking down to your mouth in a way that made your stomach twist and your breath catch. “But only if you let me kiss you first.”

Your brain short-circuited. Completely and entirely. The words took a second to process. His voice had dropped, softer now, more serious, like he wasn’t just messing with you anymore.

You looked up at him, heart thudding so loudly against your ribs you swore he could hear it. His eyes searched yours, and for once, he didn’t look like the effortlessly confident guy everyone knew. He looked… nervous like he was the one waiting to be rejected.

“…Fine,” you whispered, the word barely making it past your lips, but your smile gave you away. It was impossible to hide, giddy and crooked and ridiculous.

And then he kissed you.

He bent his head and closed the gap like he’d been waiting weeks for it—maybe he had. His mouth was warm and sure against yours, one arm still holding the diary hostage, the other dropping to your waist, pulling you in like he couldn’t help himself. You kissed him back without thinking, without doubting, like maybe this was the answer you’d been afraid to ask for all along.

When you finally broke apart, breathless and blinking at each other like idiots, he handed over the diary with a grin.

“Okay,” you whispered, still a little breathless. “That was… good.”

“Just good?” He smirked.

You rolled your eyes, cheeks burning. “Don’t push it.”

He laughed softly, thumb still brushing your cheek. “So… does this mean I get to keep seeing you after stats is over? Or do I have to fail on purpose to keep you around?”

“You wouldn’t dare.”

“You’re right. You’d probably kill me.”

“More like definitely.”

There was a beat of silence, the kind that didn’t feel awkward. He looked at you like he already knew what you were thinking. And for once, you didn’t feel like running from it.

You were so, so screwed.

But maybe… in the best way possible.

[betty-fran]

SNW is probably the last thing I want to watch, and there are many reasons for that (but, yes, this is the main one).

Commenting on something you haven't watched isn't the best idea, but even from what I've seen, I have a lot of questions for the creators of the series. And probably the most important one, who are these people and how will they become the people we saw in TOS in just a few years? And why do all the actors look like they've stepped out of either a Netflix relationship show you'll never watch, or a passing cop show where everyone's hot, but you don't remember any of the characters?

Spock. Okay, why does this guy keep calling himself that? Why did he take his shirt off? Why did he kiss that blonde? Oh, he screams, and cries, and hugs. He seems more emotional and tactile than I am, and I usually scare introverts...

Chapel. She's really cute, honestly, the only thing I liked about SNW, even though she still has nothing to do with the original Star Trek. And she reminds me of Kirk, especially AOS Kirk, especially AOS Kirk from so many fanfics where he's more funny than an asshole. Honestly, guys, it's the 21st century, but for S and K, the authors are ready to write any love story, even a homosexual one, but they won't be given a chance to be together.

Jim. Oh, I've seen him somewhere before, and no, it wasn't in TOS. And why is he older than Shatner when he played Kirk, if it's a prequel? And I read that this Kirk has a better relationship with salad, is that true?

A pretty woman with a strange name, a relative of Khan, is having an affair with Kirk. Oh, this is starting to sound like The Rings of Power.

Number One. Finally has a name (and it's actually good) and looks like she just returned from a space flight with Katy Perry. I'd rather not think that she's my favorite female TOS character because it makes me sad.

Pike. Well, he's always been a difficult read - he's not talked about much in TOD, and even less so in AOS, and given his history he has this archetypal hero-from-legend vibe, which makes him a little less personal and more like a tapestry of a knight, which isn't great for a series where he's a lead protagonist. I don't know how SNW handles this story-wise, but visually, it doesn't. I'm actually really old-fashioned, but I'm really sad how the idea of ​​true beauty has changed, and how artificial it seems now.

(just bring them back! it was a real cinema!)

Through Star Trek, it's actually good to follow how the world is changing, because each of the Star Trek series actually reflects the time in which it was filmed. I've read the opinion that SNW captured the spirit of the old Star Trek quite and, well, I can only take their word for it. But watching TOS now, I can say that it's unlikely that anyone today can truly capture its spirit, and when someone can, it will be the day of a utopian future for cinema. From what I've seen, SNW really only conveys well the stagnation in which modern cinema finds itself, which has long been trying to please everyone at the same time and is therefore unable to express any specific self-sufficient thought.

star trek used to be about gays in space

now they just make Spock kiss women

[kxsagi]

got this idea cuz I was comparing sae and Rin to my friends who don't watch bllk loll

reader who's around the itoshi brothers a lot and accidentally mixes up their names at times and sometimes when she isn't looking at them or she's talking to them from another room she'll even mix up their voices 😭

lowk my dad does this w me and my siblings LMFAO

“𝐰𝐡𝐨’𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐢𝐭𝐨𝐬𝐡𝐢?”

a/n: i want to make out with sae

(art credits go to Jhong_Dai on X)

it’s not even your fault. really. they’re both monotone. they both sigh like the world annoys them. they both say your name like you just crashed their car. and sometimes, just sometimes, you’re not looking and they sound exactly the same. 

“rin, pass me the charger?” 

“i’m sae.” 

“… okay, but are you gonna pass it or not?” 

you don’t even flinch anymore. you just accept the wrong name like it’s your god-given right to be mildly incorrect 60% of the time. and it pisses off a particular itoshi. 

rin scowls. “do you not hear the difference?” 

“well yeah, i do now. you sound more like you're ready to fight someone, and sae sounds like he just woke up from a nap he didn't want to take.” 

“that’s literally just being awake.” 

but when you're not in the same room, that’s when things get dicey. 

once, you told sae from the kitchen, “rin, can you check the oven?” 

and sae, older brother sae, peeked inside and said, “yeah, it’s done.” 

and you thanked him like that was normal. it wasn’t until rin came home later that night and asked what you baked that it hit you. you stared at him. “wait… that wasn’t you earlier?” 

rin blinked. “i haven’t been home all day.” 

“… oh.” 

“… did you confuse us again.” 

“… maybe.” 

“… again?” 

you don’t even try to defend yourself anymore. “look, you guys have the same DNA or whatever, maybe my brain just can’t distinguish premium itoshi stock.” 

rin looks like he’s about to walk into traffic. sae, from the couch, just smirks without looking up from his phone. 

“it’s okay,” he says, “you’re not the first one to be confused. rin used to think he was me, too.” 

“i didn’t.” 

“you wore my uniform with my name tag for a week in middle school.” 

“it was black. they’re all black.” 

“you thought you were me.” 

sometimes you think you’re just being dramatic. but then they both walk into the room in black shirts, with the same resting judgmental face, the same little flick of hair falling across their forehead, and you have to mentally roll the dice. 

“sae?” 

“wrong.” 

“rin?” 

“still wrong.” 

“what? ... okay, but one of you has to answer.” 

"you could just turn around and look." 

“no. this is a test now.” 

the worst is when they use it against you. like today. one of them called from the hallway: “hey, can you come here for a sec?” 

you shout back, “who’s ‘you’?” 

“me.” 

“who’s me?!” 

“your favorite itoshi.” 

you freeze. because honestly? that doesn’t help at all. they both say that with the same exact sarcasm. 

rin walks in first, holding a water bottle. “did you come when i called or when sae called?” 

“wait, so you called me?” 

sae trails in a second later. “i didn’t say anything.” 

“then why did i hear–” 

they both smirk. they planned this. they planned this to gaslight you and it worked. 

“i hate you both,” you mumble. 

rin tosses you the bottle. “love you too.” 

sae ruffles your hair as he walks by. “learn our voices before you embarrass yourself in public.” 

you grumble something under your breath, and rin hears it. 

“what was that?” 

“… nothing, sae.” 

rin stares at you. “i will throw this bottle.” 

you grin. “do it, sae.” 

© 𝐤𝐱𝐬𝐚𝐠𝐢

[manicpixiedreamkira]

halfway home

megumi x reader, college!au, no curses!au, roommates to friends to lovers, aged up, drinking, reader is described as small/smaller than megumi (i also imagine him taller here, since he’s older—like 6’1/6’2), mentions of family trauma, smut, size kink if you squint, hair pulling kink (megumi), unprotected piv, oral (f receiving), use of pet names, tattooed!megumi, pierced!megumi—he has a dick piercing (amongst others), dirty talking, aftercare, not beta'd

w.c: 11,973

The apartment wasn’t perfect. It was a third-floor walk-up in an aging building that creaked in winter and trapped heat in summer, the kind of place where the shower knobs had to be turned just right or they screamed like a dying kettle. But the rent was doable, the location close to campus, and it had a living room with enough space for a couch and a secondhand TV. In Tokyo? That was gold.

You didn’t meet Megumi Fushiguro until move-in day.

He was leaning in the doorway of his bedroom—tall, lean, arms crossed over a plain black hoodie, quiet and unreadable as he watched you struggle with your suitcase. His hair was spiked in a wild way, eyes dark and watchful. 

Piercings caught the soft hallway light: one on his lip, another through his nostril, and a small silver barbell through the arch of his brow. The glint was striking against his otherwise quiet demeanor. He didn’t say much, but his presence was loud. Subtle tattoos peeked out from the cuffs of his sleeves: dark ink winding down his forearms, curling all the way up to his wrists, geometric and elegant and sharp like him.

You thought, he looks like he broods for fun.

"You're Y/N?" he asked. His voice was low, calm. Like someone used to listening more than speaking.

You adjusted your backpack and offered a small smile trying not to sound winded from dragging your suitcase up three flights. “That’s me. You must be Megumi.”

His nod was a half-inhale of air, barely perceptible.

“Or can I call you Megs?”

That got a reaction—barely. The tiniest twitch of one brow, a flicker of something behind his eyes. Not annoyed, exactly. Just surprised. He looked at you a moment longer, then said, “You can try.”

Then—barely, but there—it was: the corner of his lip twitched, a breath of a smirk.

That was how it began.

—

Megumi wasn’t what you expected in a roommate.

You figured you’d be living with someone a little messy, maybe overly talkative, maybe glued to their desk and headphones. Instead, you got him—quiet, precise, hard to read but oddly present. He moved through the space like he didn’t want to disturb it, always barefoot, always hoodie-clad, always with a subtle awareness of his surroundings.

He didn’t offer much at first—just glances, half-smiles, low murmurs when you crossed paths. But the silences weren’t uncomfortable. He was the kind of quiet that filled a room without trying. The kind that noticed. If you left dishes in the sink, they were washed and drying the next day. He also never said anything when you forgot to take your laundry out—but you always found your things quietly moved, never scolded, just handled.

When you fell asleep on the couch during finals week, you woke up with a blanket over your legs. He kept to himself, but you never felt like he was avoiding you. If anything, it felt like he was learning you—quietly, carefully.

You didn’t see much of his body—he lived in layers, in oversized hoodies and dark clothes—but sometimes you’d catch flashes. Ink just barely peeking from the cuff of his sleeve when he reached up to grab something from a cabinet. A whisper of a tattoo above his collarbone when he leaned forward over the sink, hair damp from a late shower. 

He never mentioned them. You never asked.

The only reason you knew the extent of them was because you saw it one day by accident, when he walked out of the bathroom with a towel slung low on his hips after a past midnight shower at the same time you were on your way back to your room from the kitchen, glass of water in hand. His chest and back were covered in ink, intricate and striking, with one long line of script that curved over his ribs. It was all you were able to glimpse in the dark.

There was an unspoken rhythm to your cohabitation. You weren’t friends, not yet, but something about him made it feel like you could be. He listened. He looked at you like he was actually seeing you—not scanning or assessing, but seeing. The kind of quiet that doesn’t demand attention, but makes you want to give it anyway.

Shared coffee in the morning. Brief conversations in the hallway. Laughs here and there when you teased him about how his hair looked post-shower. You started calling him Megs more often, just to see that subtle eye roll he gave you.

Over time, it became normal.

One night, you got home late, exhausted, and found him sitting on the couch, long legs stretched out, scrolling on his phone. You plopped down next to him with a groan, your arm brushing his.

"You good?" he asked without looking up.

"Dead. But alive."

"That makes no sense."

You cracked a smile. “Neither does living with a guy who only wears black and never makes noise. You're like a ghost.”

That got him. He let out a quiet laugh—just a breath, but it made your heart stutter.

Then there was the night you couldn’t sleep.

It was past one in the morning when it happened.

You’d been tossing in bed for nearly an hour, mind buzzing with thoughts you couldn’t pin down. Too much homework, too little rest, the vague sense of loneliness that clung to the early hours of the morning. So you gave in, padded into the kitchen in your oversized sleep shirt and socks, and went for a glass of water.

The light was already on.

Megumi sat at the kitchen table, a mug in one hand, the other resting against his temple as he stared down at a notebook filled with scribbled notes and highlighted lines. His black hair was tousled, softer without product, and his hoodie was nowhere in sight—just a dark tank top that revealed the sweep of tattoos down both arms, inked patterns wrapping like smoke and feathers from shoulder to wrist.

You froze for half a second.

Not because of the tattoos—though they were undeniably beautiful—but because this was the most open he’d looked since you moved in. Bare. Human.

He glanced up when he heard you.

“Couldn’t sleep?” he asked, voice quieter than usual.

You shook your head and crossed the kitchen to grab a glass. “Brain’s too loud.”

He hummed in agreement, a small sound deep in his throat. “Yeah. I get that.” That was the most personal thing he’d ever said to you.

You hesitated, then slid into the seat across from him, curling your fingers around your glass. He didn’t seem surprised. If anything, he looked like he expected it.

“What’re you studying?” you asked, tilting your head toward his notes.

He hesitated, then pushed them a little closer so you could read. “Social psychology. It’s a gen ed, but… not terrible.”

You smiled faintly. “It suits you.”

He quirked a brow.

“You’re always observing. Like some quiet, mysterious people-watcher.”

One corner of his lips twitched—the one with the silver ring. “You think I’m mysterious?”

“I think you like people more than you admit,” you said, surprising even yourself. “You just don’t trust them easily.”

His eyes flicked up to yours, and for a moment, something passed between you—soft, fleeting. A current you didn’t know how to name yet.

He leaned back in his chair, letting the silence stretch.

“You’re… different,” he said finally. “Not in a bad way.”

“Thanks?” you laughed, a little unsure.

“You don’t hide. Most people do.”

The honesty in his voice made you look away, a strange warmth blooming in your chest. You took a slow sip of water, then whispered, “I try not to. Hiding never really helped me.”

His gaze lingered on you—curious, almost gentle.

“I notice that about you,” he murmured. “It’s rare.”

You didn’t say anything after that. You didn’t need to. The silence between you wasn’t uncomfortable. It was something else—something easy.

You sat there for a while, just drinking water and listening to the hum of the fridge, Megumi’s notes open between you, the scent of his tea filling the kitchen. You were tired, but you didn’t want to go back to bed just yet.

It felt like a beginning.

Not of something explosive or sudden.

But of something quiet and steady, like a new current under the surface.

Something you both felt, even if you didn’t have the words for it yet.

After that night in the kitchen, things shifted—just a little. Nothing obvious, nothing anyone else would have picked up on. But you felt it.

He started leaving the kitchen light on when he stayed up late, like he expected you to wander in again.

And you did.

Some nights, you found him reading or scribbling in a worn journal with ink stains on his fingers. Other nights, he was doing absolutely nothing—just sitting in the dark, hoodie draped over the back of the chair, tattoos visible in the low light, the ring on his lip catching the glow from the streetlamp outside.

He didn’t say much. Neither did you. But he made space for you in the quiet.

You learned things about him in fragments.

That he liked his coffee bitter, almost punishingly so.

That he hated loud music but loved the sound of thunderstorms.

That he had an older sister he didn’t talk about much—but when he did, his voice changed. Softer. Guarded.

That the tattoo over his ribs was a quote from a book he read at sixteen, one that stuck with him even when everything else didn’t.

He wasn’t easy to get close to, but he wasn’t cold either. Just careful. Like someone who’d had to build his own walls brick by brick, and wasn’t sure what would happen if they came down.

But with you, cracks started to show.

It began in the small, almost invisible ways.

Like when he made too much miso soup and slid a bowl toward you without a word.

Or when you were late for class and likely to leave without eating breakfast, only to find a neatly wrapped sandwich waiting for you next to your bag. No notes, just the sandwich.

Or when you were curled up on the couch after a long day, and he sat beside you, close enough that your shoulders touched. He didn’t pull away. Neither did you.

One evening, you passed by his door and heard music—something low and melancholy, plucked guitar strings and a haunting voice.

You stood there for a second, listening.

He opened the door before you could knock.

“Didn’t mean to eavesdrop,” you said softly, already backing up.

He didn’t look annoyed. Just blinked slowly. “You can come in.”

His room was… him. Sparse but warm. Textbooks stacked on the desk, a small record player in the corner, a half-finished charcoal sketch on the wall above his bed—black lines trailing the shape of a figure, mid-movement. You recognized the patterns in the drawing: the same ones inked into his arms and back.

“You drew that?”

He nodded. “It’s… old. I haven’t had time to finish it.”

“It’s beautiful,” you said, without thinking.

He didn’t respond right away. Just looked at you. Really looked at you. Like he was searching for something under your skin.

“You ever let anyone in like this?” you asked, gently.

His voice was quiet. “Not really.”

And that was it. Not a confession, not a declaration. Just a truth, placed in your hands like something breakable.

—

You started studying together sometimes, though neither of you ever officially suggested it.

Megumi would pull up a chair beside you at the dining table, flipping through his textbooks, his hoodie sleeves pushed up past his elbows. You sat cross-legged beside him, highlighting too much and chewing pens, your laptop blinking lazily between tabs.

Once, during midterms, you passed out right there at the table.

You woke up under a blanket, your notes stacked neatly beside you, and an unopened bottle of water set where your head had been. His handwriting was on a sticky note.

You drooled on your chem notes. I didn’t judge. – M

You kept the note.

—

Sometimes, you wondered how he saw you.

You were short next to him, almost comically so, your frame curvy yet small, half-drowning in the hoodies you stole from where he forgot them in the kitchen. You were louder, more expressive, and—let’s be honest—more chaotic. Your side of the living room was a mess of throw blankets and mismatched socks, while his was neatly kept, symmetrical.

But he didn’t seem to mind your presence. If anything, he gravitated toward it.

He started lingering in the living room longer when you were there.

Started offering to pick up food when you were too tired to cook.

Started asking quiet things like, “Did you eat today?” or “You okay?” with a kind of earnestness that made your heart ache.

One rainy Saturday, you both ended up on the couch watching a movie neither of you cared about. The storm rolled outside, wind howling against the glass. You were wrapped in a thick blanket, tucked into the corner of the couch, and Megumi was stretched out beside you, socked feet barely touching yours under the covers.

You didn’t talk much. Just sat in the hush between thunderclaps, the kind of silence that felt like trust.

At one point, you felt him shift.

Then—hesitantly—he let his head rest against the back of the couch, tilted slightly in your direction.

Not on your shoulder. Not quite.

But close.

Close enough that you felt his warmth, his calm, his quiet hum of presence.

You didn’t move.

Didn’t breathe too loud.

And in that moment, something inside you softened.

Not because it was romantic. Not yet.

But because it was safe.

Because it was him.

—

You started noticing it in the quiet.

How his presence changed the shape of your space. How the silence that used to make your apartment feel cold now felt alive when he was there—like the two of you were filling it together, without ever needing to speak.

He’d begun doing this thing.

When he walked past the couch and you were there, curled up reading or scrolling on your phone, he’d rest his hand lightly on the back of it. Not for long. Just a second, fingers ghosting over the fabric. It was casual—almost thoughtless—but you felt it every time. The warmth of him. The comfort.

And when he sat down next to you now, he sat close. Shoulder to shoulder. Knee to thigh. He never said anything about it, and neither did you. It was just… natural.

But you both knew it hadn’t always been like that.

One afternoon, you came home to find him asleep on the couch, textbooks open on his chest, one arm draped across his face. You hesitated for a second—then walked over quietly, knelt beside him, and gently closed his book.

He didn’t wake. Just murmured something half-dreamed and rolled onto his side.

You noticed it again then, half-exposed under the hem of his shirt.

The ink that covered his ribs.

You didn’t stare, but you couldn’t look away either. You wanted to know what it said. Why he chose it. What it meant to him.

You wanted to ask. Not because you were curious.

Because you were starting to care.

—

You cooked together more often now.

At first it was practical—splitting groceries, saving time—but it became something else. A soft ritual. A kind of choreography you both eased into without thinking. You’d play music low from your phone, swaying around each other in the kitchen like two orbiting stars, never colliding, always just close enough. He always took over the knife work—his movements clean and practiced—while you handled seasoning and taste testing. You started wearing one of his hoodies half the time—because you were always cold, and he never seemed to mind.

One night, you were baking—well, trying to—and you accidentally knocked over the bag of flour. A whole puff of white exploded into the air and rained down across the counter like a soft, slow-motion snowstorm.

“Shit,” you gasped, hands halfway out like that could somehow stop it.

Megumi blinked at the mess, then at you, brushing his fingers across his now powdery hoodie. “Seriously?”

“I’ll clean it up, I swear—”

Before you could move, he reached down, scooped a small handful of flour, and gently patted it to the side of your cheek.

You froze. “Megs.”

He tilted his head. “You’re in the splash zone.”

“That’s not a thing—!”

But you were already laughing, lobbing a pinch of flour toward him. It hit his hoodie and left a ghost-white smudge. His mouth curled into a smirk—crooked and rare.

“You’re gonna regret that.”

“I regret nothing.”

Soon, flour was everywhere. On the counter. On your–his–sweatshirt. In your hair, even smeared across your cheekbones. He had it streaked across one of his eyebrows and down the side of his neck. You both leaned over the counter, breathless and trying to catch your breath, cheeks flushed from laughter.

“Kitchen’s a crime scene,” he muttered, surveying the mess.

“All your fault,” you shot back, grinning. “You look like a failed pastry,” you wheezed, looking him up and down.

He gave you one of those rare, unguarded smiles—the kind that curved more on one side than the other and softened the hard edges of his face. “And you look like you lost a fight with a Pillsbury can,” he shot back, brushing a bit of powder from your temple.

His fingers lingered for a second. Not long.

But long enough.

You looked at him. And in that beat, something softened. The kitchen was dim. The apartment quiet except for the hum of the fridge and the wind tapping at the window. His face was so close.

Still amused, still light-hearted—but there was a shift underneath.

He broke the quiet first.

“I used to hate shared spaces,” he said, voice low.

“Why?”

He hesitated. “Everything felt temporary. Like I was just… passing through.”

You leaned a little on the counter, matching his softness but your chest tightened. “I get that.”

He glanced at you. “Not just physical spaces. People too.”

That hit somewhere deep. You knew the feeling.

“Like you never really belonged to any of it,” you murmured. “Not fully.”

He gave the smallest nod.

And then, after a long pause his gaze flicked to yours. “But this—” he gestured vaguely to the kitchen, the chaos, you “—doesn’t feel like I’m passing through.”

You watched him, heart suddenly loud in your chest.

There was a pause.

Then—his voice, softer than ever—“I’m not sure if this is home,” he said. “But it’s… closer than I’ve ever been. Maybe… halfway there.”

Your breath caught. Your voice was barely a whisper when you said, “Halfway home.”

He looked at you then—really looked. Not surprised. Just steady.

Like he’d been thinking it too.

And he nodded.

Like that meant something.

Like you meant something.

—

Later that week, it happened.

The kind of night where it all cracked open.

You’d gotten into it with your mom again. One of those calls where every word felt like a scratch. The kind where the conversation starts with “How are you?” and ends with you curled up at the kitchen table, staring at your untouched tea.

You weren’t crying.

But your eyes were glassy and your hands were trembling, and that was worse somehow.

You didn’t hear him come in. Just felt his presence. He said your name softly.

You looked up, trying to laugh it off. “It’s stupid.”

He crouched beside you. “It’s not.”

And just like that, something inside you cracked.

He didn’t ask for details. Didn’t push. He just opened his arms, and you leaned into him like it was instinct.

He held you for a long time. One hand on your back, the other cupping the back of your head, slow and grounding. You could feel the warmth of him, the steady rise and fall of his chest. The low hum in his throat when he murmured, “I’ve got you.”

And you believed it.

Not because he said it like a promise.

But because he said it like a fact.

And that was what scared you most.

Because maybe you’d never had that before.

Maybe this wasn’t home yet.

But god, it felt like the map.

—

The shift came quietly.

Like a door slowly swinging open, not creaking. Like the breath before a kiss—not the kiss itself. You couldn’t name the moment it happened, but suddenly, everything meant more.

Every glance. Every brush of fingers. Every silence.

He started standing closer. His hand would rest on your lower back as he passed behind you. When you handed him something, your fingers would touch, and neither of you would pull away right away.

Not anymore.

One night, he walked in while you were on the couch reading, legs tucked under you in a pair of old gym shorts and one of his hoodies. You didn’t realize you’d stolen that one, too. It still smelled faintly like him—like cedar and fresh laundry and something you couldn’t name but always noticed.

His eyes landed on you, lingering just a beat too long.

“You’re always stealing my clothes,” he said.

You shrugged, not looking up from your book. “You’re always leaving them on the kitchen chair. Finders keepers.”

A pause. Then: “That one’s my favorite.”

You looked up. “Yeah?”

He scratched at his eyebrow ring, like he hadn’t meant to say it out loud. “It’s the softest.” 

You held his gaze a moment longer than you should have. “I’ll give it back.”

His voice was low. “I didn’t say I wanted it back.”

Something buzzed under your skin.

You looked down at the page and didn’t read a single word.

But you didn’t give back the hoodie either.

—

The next time you were both home on a rainy Saturday, you found yourselves in the same place again—doing nothing. Not even pretending to be productive. Just existing, in parallel, like it was the most natural thing in the world.

You were sitting on the floor against the couch with your laptop, browsing through Pinterest, earbuds in. He was stretched out on the cushions behind you, hood up, sketchbook balanced on his stomach.

He did that sometimes—drew when he thought you weren’t looking. He never let you see the pages, but you’d catch glimpses of bold ink lines and intricate forms. Once, when he fell asleep with the book open, you saw the edge of a figure. Shoulders. The curve of a hip. The shape of someone sleeping, maybe.

You’d wanted to ask if it was you.

You didn’t.

But the idea stayed in your chest like a warm stone.

You’d both been quieter that day. Not uncomfortable—just still. The kind of still that sinks into your bones. You didn’t realize how much time had passed until your stomach growled, embarrassingly loud.

Megumi looked up from his sketchbook. “Was that you?”

You groaned, stretching your arms. “I think I’m dying. Feed me or I’ll haunt this apartment forever.”

He closed the book and stood. “Cursed with your ghost sounds about right.”

You stuck your tongue out at him. “You’d miss me.”

He looked at you like he wanted to say something—but didn’t. Instead, he held out a hand.

You blinked at it.

“Come on,” he said. “I’ll cook.”

He made ramen.

Not the instant kind. Actual noodles in a pot, soft-boiled egg, scallions, seasoned broth. The whole thing. He didn’t talk much while he cooked—he rarely did—but you liked watching him. His hands were precise. His movements efficient. He tasted the broth with a spoon, made a face, added more chili oil.

You leaned back against the counter, arms folded, watching steam rise from the pot.

“You’ve done this before,” you said.

He nodded. “My sister taught me.” He stirred the broth slowly. “She liked her ramen so spicy it’d make your eyes water.”

You smiled a little at that. “Is that what you’re going for?”

“Kind of a tribute.” He glanced over at you. “Haven’t made it like this in a while.”

He said it like he wasn’t sure if that was a good thing or a bad one.

He stirred a bit more, then lowered the heat. “I used to make it like this for her when she had rough days. Just… figured I’d try it again.”

There was something careful in the way he said it. Like the memory was fragile, even now.

You hesitated. “Are you two close?”

A pause.

“We were,” he said. “She’s… not around much anymore.”

You nodded, not pushing. The air between you had settled, softened.

When you sat down at the table and he handed you the bowl, it was with quieter hands.

“You’re a domestic goddess, Megs,” you said, voice lighter.

He smirked. “Eat before I take it back.”

Halfway through the bowl, you found yourself glancing at him again. The curve of his brow, the line of his jaw. Something soft had gathered behind his eyes since that moment by the stove.

And maybe it was the warmth of the soup, or the weight of the story he hadn’t told—but you braved the question.

“Do you…” You paused, lowering your spoon.

His chopsticks stilled in the bowl.

You hesitated. “Do you miss it? Home?”

He didn’t answer right away.

You added quickly, “Sorry, that was—kind of personal. You don’t have to—”

“It’s okay,” he said. Then: “Not really.”

You nodded, gently. Let him go on.

“Never felt like a real place to miss,” he said, quietly. “Just somewhere I waited to grow out of.”

Your chest ached at that. You both chewed in silence for a few moments.

“I think that’s why I like it here,” he added, softer now. “Not just this place.” he clarified.

He looked at you.

“The way you let me take up space. Without asking.”

Your breath caught.

You wanted to say something. Me too. Or You do the same for me. Or I notice every time you leave a hoodie on the chair just so I’ll steal it.

But you didn’t say anything.

Instead, you reached for your drink. Your hand brushed his on the table.

And this time, neither of you moved.

—

It was later that night—closer to midnight—when you caught each other in the hallway. Both of you on the way to the kitchen. You paused at the same time, facing each other across the short stretch of hardwood.

He looked… soft. Sleepy. His hoodie had slipped halfway off one shoulder, revealing the edge of a tattoo, curling down from his collarbone. You couldn’t see the whole thing, but it was intricate. Sharp lines and dark shading, disappearing beneath the fabric.

You tilted your head. “What’s that one?”

He glanced down at where your eyes had landed, then shrugged the hoodie back into place. “Just something I drew once. Got it done last year.”

“You draw your own ink?”

He nodded.

You stepped closer. “Can I see?”

He hesitated, eyes catching yours.

Then, slowly, he pulled the hoodie down again, off his shoulder this time.

The tattoo started on his chest and curled up across his collarbone, snaking toward his shoulder. Sharp black lines softened with curves—some kind of wolf motif, maybe—but abstract, not literal.

You lifted a hand before you even thought about it. “Can I…?”

He nodded.

You ran your fingers lightly along the ink, careful not to press too hard. His skin was warm. The tattoo was beautiful. Intimate in a way that made your breath go shallow.

You didn’t say anything.

Neither did he.

But something changed in that silence.

You felt it in the air. Thick. Tense. Waiting.

He caught your wrist gently, not to stop you—just to hold it. His thumb brushed your pulse point.

You looked up.

And he looked down.

And for the first time, neither of you looked away.

—

It was Friday night. Cold, damp, and strangely quiet. The kind of night where campus emptied out and everyone either went home or drank their way through the ache of the week.

You didn’t feel like going anywhere. Megumi hadn’t planned to either.

So you both stayed in.

It started, like most of your nights lately, in the kitchen.

He was standing at the stove, stirring something with minimal enthusiasm—a boxed mac and cheese situation that smelled better than it probably should’ve. He had the hood of his dark sweatshirt pulled down, sleeves shoved halfway to his elbows, exposing the black ink winding up one arm. You still hadn’t seen all of it, just pieces. An arrow across his bicep, a wolf’s skull peeking out above his elbow. Sharp lines and precise shading. It suited him.

He caught you looking. Didn’t say anything—just arched one brow.

You rolled your eyes and reached for the fridge. “Don’t flatter yourself, Megs.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“Your face said it.”

“I was born with this face,” he said, deadpan.

“Tragic.”

He snorted.

It started with the wine.

You found it in the back of the fridge on a night that didn’t seem to want anything except quiet—behind some sad lettuce and an expired packet of tofu. Plum wine, half-forgotten since the start of the semester and slightly sticky at the neck. 

You held up the bottle like it was a prize. “Look what I found.”

The cork crumbled a little when you opened it, which made Megumi raise an eyebrow. His piercing catching the light. 

He squinted at it. “That’s definitely off.”

“It’s wine, Megs. It doesn’t go off.”

“That’s not how chemistry works.”

“I don’t see mold.” You shrugged, pouring it into two mismatched mugs. “Then we’re good.”

He accepted his cup with only a small shake of his head that said if we die, it’s your fault and leaned against the opposite counter. Hoodie sleeves still shoved to his elbows, collar stretched a little too wide. You could see the black edge of a tattoo on his chest where the fabric fell just off-center. Just a glimpse—no more than that—but you couldn’t help looking.

It wouldn't be the first time.

The ink curled like smoke over his collarbone, disappearing down where you didn’t dare let your thoughts follow.

He caught your eyes and didn’t look away.

You took a too-fast sip of wine.

Dinner was low-effort comfort. The kind of meal you made when the day had taken too much out of you to pretend to care. You ate side by side at the little kitchen table, laughing over half-drunken stories you probably wouldn’t have shared otherwise, bare feet brushing accidentally (and then not-so-accidentally) under the bench. The hum of the overhead light filled the silence between conversation. Soft things. Easy. Familiar. It had started to feel like that a lot lately.

After the food was gone and the bottle was mostly empty, you lingered with your chins propped on your hands across the table from each other, your legs stretched lazily under his.

“So,” he said, voice low, “what’s your terrible movie pick tonight?”

“Bold of you to assume I’m the one with bad taste.”

“You think The Mummy is high art.”

“It is.”

“I rest my case.”

By the time the bottle was gone, you were both buzzed.

Lightheaded. Warm.

But not enough.

“Hey,” you said, nudging him with your socked foot under the table. “Let’s go to Lawson.”

He didn’t look up from his phone. “No.”

“Come on. We need beer. Or chu-hi. Or… whatever looks the worst.”

“We have classes Monday.” 

“It’s Friday.” 

“And it’s raining.”

You tilted your head at him with exaggerated innocence. “Are you scared of getting wet?”

He gave you a flat look.

You kept going. “You, a grown man, covered in tattoos, pierced like a delinquent, scared of a drizzle?”

He sighed. “You’re annoying.”

“You love it.”

Another long pause.

Then, deadpan: “Get your shoes.”

—

You came back with two bags.

You bought cans based solely on the labels—one with a polar bear in a Hawaiian shirt, one bright pink with hearts, and one that claimed to taste like salted plum and regret.

Megumi made fun of your choices the entire walk home.

He carried both bags anyway.

You were already laughing as you pushed yourself up the stairs and into to your shared apartment, padding barefoot toward the living room. The rain had turned your hair damp, your sleeves cold at the cuffs. You both peeled off the soggy layers and he followed you suit behind, hoodie left behind on the chair. His t-shirt clung to his chest in a way that made it difficult not to stare. The fabric stretched slightly around his arms, where more tattoos snaked up from the elbow, curling in black ink over pale skin.

After dumping everything onto the coffee table, you put on a hoodie that was draped over the armrest—his favorite one—and collapsed onto the couch with a blanket, letting it drape over both of you. He sat close—closer than necessary, and yet you didn’t move away.

He smelled like clean cotton and soap and something warmer beneath. Maybe the wine. Maybe just him.

The first can was awful.

So was the second.

By the third, you were both half-laying down, legs tangled, and laughing at a stupid movie you didn’t even recognize. Some terrible action comedy with bad dialogue and worse CGI. You didn’t remember the name. You didn’t care. You were warm from the booze and warmer from his knee resting next to yours.

By the time you opened the fourth can, your head was buzzing. Somewhere in the middle, he shifted slightly and slouched deeper into the couch, resting one arm behind you. Not around you. Not touching. Just there.

The distance between you disappeared in degrees.

First, when your shoulders bumped and didn’t pull away.

Then, when your leg rested fully against his beneath the blanket.

Now your legs were draped over his now, his hand resting absently on your shin.

The warmth between you wasn’t new.

But tonight it felt… uncontained.

You watched him as he tilted his can back, the curve of his throat, the glint of his lip ring under the flicker of the TV.

You’d always known he was attractive. But being this close—this comfortable—was starting to feel dangerous.

“You always watch movies like this?” you asked, voice small, eyes back on the screen.

“Like what?”

“Quiet. Tense. Judgy.”

“I’m not judging.”

“No?” you chuckled, then, when you looked up at him—and found he was already watching you.

You held the gaze longer than you meant to.

His mouth parted just slightly. His lip piercing glinted.

You dropped your eyes.

“I’m watching.” he said. 

He wasn’t talking about the movie. You knew that. He knew you knew.

The air between you felt different now—thicker. Not uncomfortable. Not bad. Just tight. Like something was waiting to break open.

“You know you’re hard to read, right?” you said softly, gaze determined to focus on the movie once more.

His head turned slightly. “You’ve told me.”

“I mean it.”

“I’m not trying to be.”

“I know.” You paused. “You just… you never say what you’re thinking.”

There was a long moment before he replied. “Neither do you.”

You glanced at him. Your skin felt too tight.

Your voice dropped. “If I did… would you listen?”

He looked at you then. Really looked.

“I always listen to you,” he said.

You shifted a little to face him better. He didn’t move.

Your voices stayed low. Muted. Like you were both afraid to disturb something too fragile to name.

“Why do you look at me like that?” you asked.

He studied you for a beat too long.

Then: “I think you know.”

The moment swelled, heat under your ribs. Your chest tightened. You licked your lips. His eyes followed the motion.

He was looking at your mouth now.

You didn’t look away. It wasn’t intentional at first.

Until it was.

Until you shifted a little and his fingers slid higher up your shin. Not high enough to be obvious, but enough that you felt it. Enough that your breath caught.

“You’re drunk,” you whispered.

He gave the smallest shake of his head. “No.”

“Tipsy, then.”

He didn’t answer. Just leaned in, slow and careful.

And then, softly—too softly to brace yourself for it—his lips touched yours.

It was barely a kiss.

Barely pressure.

Just warmth.

Just a breath.

But then it deepened—his hand on the side of your neck, the plush drag of his lower lip catching yours. You felt the cool flick of his lip ring before his tongue brushed yours, and that made your breath catch.

There was metal there, too—a piercing. You could feel it. Smooth, hard, unexpected. The weight of it against your tongue sent a flicker of heat down your spine. You let out a sound you didn’t mean to, soft and startled against his mouth.

The kiss became deeper. Your hands found his shirt, fisting the fabric. You whimpered softly against his mouth. He groaned—quiet, rough.

And then—

He froze.

Pulled back.

You blinked up at him, dazed.

His breath was heavy, lips kiss-bitten, pupils wide.

His hand was still on your neck, thumb ghosting over your jaw like he hadn’t meant to stop.

You were stunned. Dazed. Wanting.

But then—

He pulled his hand back, dragging it down over his face.

“No,” he said, voice rough now. “Shit. We shouldn’t.”

You blinked at him, breath shaking. “Why?”

“You had wine.”

“So did you.”

“That’s the point,” he said, shaking his head.

He closed his eyes for a second, like he was trying to center himself.

 “I don’t want it to be… I don’t want this to happen because we’re tipsy and bored.”

You swallowed.

You were still staring at him. Still thinking about the way he’d kissed you. About the weight of his mouth and the heat of his body.

But then—he exhaled, slower this time.

“I want you,” he said. “But I want it to be real. Not like this.”

The room was spinning slowly.

You didn’t argue.

Because even in your tipsy haze, you knew he was right.

Your chest was a tangle of nerves and something softer—something that twisted beneath your ribs in a way that was almost painful.

You nodded.

Quietly. Gently.

And he nodded, too.

He exhaled and leaned his forehead against yours for a moment before he pulled back completely, gently tugging the blanket higher between you.

Still close.

Still touching.

But not crossing that line again.

Not yet.

The air was suddenly tighter. Not hostile. Not uncertain. Just pressurized. Like one wrong breath would push you into the next thing—and maybe that scared you more than you expected.

You looked down at your lap. “This is stupid, right?”

“What is?”

“This…” You gestured vaguely between you. “Us.”

A pause.

“No,” he said. “It’s not.”

You glanced back at him.

And this time, you saw it clearly. The want.

Not loud. Not burning. Just real.

Settled there in the blue of his eyes like it had always been.

Your voice was barely a whisper. “Then what is it?”

His hand moved—slowly—toward your knee. A light touch. Just his fingers resting there, warm and steady.

“I don’t know yet,” he said. “But I’m not in a rush to name it.”

Your throat went tight.

You could’ve kissed him.

Right there, in the flickering glow of the shitty movie and the soft scratch of his calloused fingers brushing circles on your skin.

But you didn’t.

Not yet.

Because for the first time, you understood what this was.

It wasn’t a moment waiting to break open.

It was one waiting to settle.

You turned back to the screen. The movie was still playing, somewhere behind all of it. Some explosion. A line of terrible dialogue.

Neither of you were watching.

And still—

He stayed beside you.

Still close.

Still warm.

Still waiting.

Eventually, you fell asleep there—legs tangled, cheeks flushed, his hand still resting lightly on your knee like a promise he wasn’t ready to break.

Not until it mattered.

Not until it was real.

And somewhere deep down, you knew—

Whatever this was…

It had already changed.

You weren’t just roommates.

You weren’t just friends.

You were something else now.

Maybe you’d always been on the way here.

Maybe you’d always been halfway home.

—

The next morning wasn’t awkward.

It should’ve been, probably. You’d fallen asleep on the couch tangled around each other after making out like two teenagers with bad impulse control, and yet—

When you woke up, his arm was still around your waist, your cheek pressed to his chest, and neither of you moved right away.

His heart beat under your ear, steady and slow.

You didn’t speak. Just breathed in the quiet.

Eventually, he shifted a little and looked down at you, hair a soft mess, voice rasped from sleep.

“You drooled on me.”

You rolled your eyes, but smiled.

“You kissed me,” you whispered, as if to counter.

He blinked at that, unreadable for a beat, then:

“Yeah. I did.”

And for the first with this new glint in your eyes, you let yourself fully smile at him.

—

Nothing broke after that.

That was the strange part.

You thought the tension might shatter into something awkward or forced. You thought he might avoid you, or pretend it didn’t happen.

But Megumi didn’t run.

He made pancakes instead.

Real ones, too—from scratch. With eggs and milk and a drizzle of vanilla that you knew he didn’t own until that very morning.

You didn’t ask where he went to get it. Just sat on the counter watching him whisk, the sleeves of his hoodie pushed back, tattoos ink-dark across his arms. There was one on his inner wrist you hadn’t seen before—clean lines, a small lotus. You stared longer than you meant to.

He caught your gaze, but didn’t comment.

Instead, he asked, “You want coffee?”

You nodded. “With milk and sugar.”

“Figures.”

“Judgy.”

“Just accurate.”

You didn’t talk about the kiss.

But it hovered.

In the way he moved around you in the kitchen. In the way his eyes lingered on your mouth longer than before. In the way his hand brushed your lower back when he passed behind you.

It didn’t feel like it wasn’t being talked about.

It felt like it was still happening.

Slowly.

Carefully.

You had to go to work that afternoon, and so did he, but you lingered too long before leaving. Your backpack half-zipped. Your shoes still untied.

“I’ll see you later,” you said, standing near the door.

“Yeah,” he said, and his voice was quiet again. Thoughtful.

Then, softer: “Be safe, princess.”

You didn’t answer.

Just looked back at him once before closing the door behind you, heart skittering like a secret you weren’t ready to say out loud.

—

You didn’t kiss again for three days.

But the days felt different.

He texted more.

Sent you dumb memes during lectures and followed up with “you better be paying attention” when you took too long to reply.

He cooked twice. Once with too much salt, and once with enough effort that it felt like more than just a favor.

On the fourth night, it rained again.

This time you didn’t even ask—you both just ended up on the couch, the blanket between you again, knees pressed close, a movie you weren’t watching on in the background.

This time, it was you who turned to him first.

“Do you ever think about it?” you asked.

He glanced down at you. “About what?”

“This. Us.”

He didn’t look away.

“Yeah,” he said.

You nodded.

Your throat was tight.

“I’ve never had this before,” you admitted, voice small. “Whatever this is. With someone.”

His brows pulled together a little. “Something safe?”

You hesitated.

“Something that feels like… home,” you said. “But not the kind you leave.”

His mouth parted slightly, surprised. And maybe—

Maybe a little bit moved.

“That’s what I was trying to say,” he murmured. “When I said that before. Halfway home.”

You looked up at him.

“You’re the first place that felt like one.”

Silence stretched.

Warm. Solid. Real.

And then, slowly, he leaned down, and this time—this time when his mouth met yours, you weren’t drunk. You weren’t trying to avoid the edge.

You stepped into it.

The kiss was different.

Not rushed. Not frantic.

Just full of everything you hadn’t said yet.

He kissed you like he meant to stay. Like he’d wanted to for longer than he’d admit. Like it was the start of something new, not the ruin of something comfortable.

You broke it first, breath shaky, and looked up at him.

“You still sure?”

His thumb traced your cheek. “Yeah.”

You nodded once, then leaned back in—and this time, the kiss didn’t stop.

Not when your hands found the back of his neck.

Not when his settled at your hips.

And not when the blanket slipped off your shoulders and the rest of the world went quiet except for the sound of two people finally letting go of the tension they’d carried for months.

His mouth was warm. Open. Slow.

You weren’t drunk this time. Not even tipsy. You could feel everything—his breath, the pressure of his hands, the flicker of his tongue ring sliding against yours, cool at first, then hot, wet, dizzying.

You moaned into him without meaning to.

The kiss became deeper, languid and unhurried, like neither of you wanted it to end. His hand slid up your side, not groping, not urgent—just there, deliberate, like he was mapping the shape of you, reminding himself it was real.

You tugged at his hoodie, fists curled in the fabric, and when your fingers slipped up into his hair, he groaned. Low, throaty, unexpectedly desperate.

You froze.

Pulled back just enough to look at him, breath shallow.

“What—”

His eyes were heavy-lidded, dark and shining, his lip ring catching the light as he swallowed.

“Do that again,” he murmured.

You blinked. “Your hair?”

He nodded once. Barely.

So you did.

Fingers buried deep, nails scraping lightly at his scalp.

He moaned, jaw going slack, and something in your chest fluttered.

You grinned. “Holy shit. That’s your thing, huh?”

“Don’t start,” he muttered, flushing slightly, though his hips had pressed forward like a tell. “You’ll abuse it.”

You tugged again, a little firmer.

He cursed softly. “Fuck. Princess.”

It hit low. Tight. A pulse between your legs you hadn’t fully acknowledged until then.

“You like that?” you whispered, mouth brushing his.

His lips curved—barely.

“You have no idea.”

You kissed him again.

Hungrier this time. Messier. The kind of kiss you felt all the way to your spine.

Somewhere in the middle of it, he pulled you onto his lap. His hands found your thighs and dragged you closer, legs parting over his hips like it was the most natural thing in the world. You were in loose shorts and an old cotton sleep top, and he was still in that damn hoodie—black, oversized, hiding everything but the heat of his body under your hands.

You broke the kiss just long enough to gasp, head tilting back, the fabric of his hoodie catching on your fingertips as you gripped the hem.

“Take it off,” you whispered.

He didn’t answer. Just stared at you as he pulled it over his head.

And then—

Fuck.

You’d seen bits and glimpses of his tattoos before. Knew they were there. A flicker when sleeves rolled up, the shadow along his back when he walked past shirtless after a shower.

But this close? With your hands on him?

They were everywhere.

Ink swept over his chest, his shoulders, down his arms—clean black linework, fine and sharp, a contrast to the way his skin felt. Warm. Soft, where it wasn’t hard muscle.

And on his ribs—just under the curve of his left pectoral—a line in black script:

you don’t have to be whole to be loved.

You reached for it before you could stop yourself, fingers brushing the edge of the lettering.

He flinched—barely, but enough.

“I like this one,” you said softly. “It’s true.”

He didn’t speak. Just looked at you like you’d stripped him naked with that single sentence.

Maybe you had.

Your hands slid down, brushing the line of his waist, and you felt the way his breath hitched.

“Take me to bed, Megs.”

He exhaled slowly. “You sure?”

You nodded.

He stood without hesitation.

You were light in his arms, legs locked around his waist. Not princess-style—cradled, close and tight, your center pressed to the thick, hard line of him beneath his sweats.

Your heartbeat was a storm in your throat.

His mouth found your neck as he pushed the door to his room open with his shoulder, and you gasped when his teeth grazed your skin.

“You’re shaking,” he murmured.

“I want you,” you said. “That’s all.”

His voice dropped lower. “You’ll have me, pretty girl.”

And then he laid you down—slowly, like you were something to be unwrapped.

The room was quiet except for breathing. Your shirt was the first to go—peeled up and over, leaving you bare. No bra. No modesty. Just flushed skin and peaked nipples, chest rising and falling fast under his gaze.

He froze.

“Fuck, baby,” he breathed. “You’re so fucking pretty.”

You couldn’t help it—you arched into him.

He kissed down your throat. Over your collarbone. Took his time getting to your chest, his mouth hot and wet when it wrapped around a nipple. Tongue ring dragging just enough to make you gasp.

“Megs—”

His hand slid down your stomach, rougher now, and then under your waistband.

“You’re soaked,” he growled. “All this from just kissing?”

“Hair pulling,” you teased, gasping when he pressed two fingers against you, slow circles. “You’ve got a thing for it.”

“Princess,” he warned, then—smirked.

He tugged your shorts and panties down with too much ease. And for a moment, he just looked at you.

Eyes dark. Face flushed. Breathing shallow.

“You sure?” he asked again, quieter now. “Because once I go down on you, I’m not stopping.”

Your heart stuttered.

“I’m sure.”

His mouth curved. Wicked.

“Good girl.”

Megumi slid to his knees at the edge of the bed, dragging your legs over his shoulders like he had every intention of devouring you.

He looked up from between them—eyes dark, mouth already wet from kissing you stupid.

“You gonna keep looking at me like that?” he murmured, voice thick.

Your throat was dry. “Like what?”

“Like you’re trying to memorize me.” his thumbs pressed into your inner thighs, spreading you wider. “You don’t need to. I’m not going anywhere.”

And then—

He kissed you.

There.

Warm, slow, filthy.

Tongue soft at first, just a wet glide over your clit, before he added pressure. His barbell on his tongue rolled against you—a new texture, a new spark—and your hips bucked in surprise.

“Oh my God—”

He laughed into you. That tongue piercing? It wasn’t just a decoration. It was a fucking weapon.

He took his time. All of it. Flattening his tongue, then curling it up, then circling—soft, then firm, then teasing. Every motion was practiced, patient, like he liked this, like he was learning you by feel and sound alone—to the way you whined and breathed and fisted the sheets.

And when you buried your fingers in his hair, tugging instinctively—

He groaned.

Low and rough, deep in his chest.

So you did it again. A little harder.

He moaned.

Then he pulled back just enough to speak, mouth glistening, voice wrecked.

“You trying to kill me, pretty girl?”

“I didn’t think you’d like it that much,” you breathed.

“Now you know.”

His mouth slammed back down.

Sloppier now, his mouth messier, wetter. Your thighs started to tremble. Your breath hitched with every suck, every pass the pink muscle. It was too much and still not enough, and when you clenched on his tongue, he growled—a real sound, needy, low in his throat.

His hands gripped your thighs tighter, fingertips pressing into the soft part of you. He sucked your clit into his mouth and rolled the barbell across it—and your hips snapped, needy, desperate.

He gave you one last, deliberate lick, then kissed your thigh—open-mouthed, tongue dragging.

“Fuck,” he muttered. “Look at you.”

You were dripping. Ruined.

But he wasn't done.

“You taste fucking amazing, pretty girl.”

His name slipped out of your mouth like a prayer. “Megs—”

“Could stay down here all night,” he rasped. “You’d let me, wouldn’t you?”

You were panting. “Megumi—please—”

He didn’t answer. He was already moving again.

Faster. Deeper. Rougher.

The wet glide of his tongue, the flick of the piercing. The suction. The rhythm. You were unraveling, fast and helpless, no thoughts except more, more, more.

And then he slid two fingers inside—crooked just right—and sucked hard at the same time, tongue flicking and curling and sucking until your back arched off the bed, until you gasped his name and shattered into his mouth, thighs clamped around his head, shaking, soaked, ruined.

He loved it.

You came with a sharp cry, back arching off the bed, thighs trembling. His name on your lips, broken. Your fingers tightened in his hair, hips grinding against his mouth.

He didn’t stop. Just slowed, licking you through it, moaning quietly like he couldn’t get enough.

You felt him groan into your cunt, like he was trying to memorize your taste, like he couldn’t help it.

Your hand stayed tangled in his hair, but weaker now, your muscles gone soft and boneless and slick with sweat. When he finally pulled back, his chin was wet, his pupils blown wide. He kissed your thigh, then your hip, then up your belly, slow and reverent, until he hovered over you again.

“You okay?” he asked, quieter now.

You nodded, dazed. “Yeah.”

He kissed your cheek, then your jaw. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” you repeated, breathless. “That was—holy shit.”

He smirked.

“Come here,” you murmured, tugging him down, your legs around his waist again.

He leaned down slowly, settling over you, weight braced on one forearm as the other slid behind your head. His hoodie was already off, forgotten somewhere between the couch cushions. The ink across his chest and arms glowed dark in the low light—sweeping blackwork, linework down his ribs.

And below, he was already naked.

He must’ve kicked off his sweats when you weren’t looking—silent and practiced. His cock hung heavy between you, thick and flushed and so pretty it knocked the breath out of your chest.

You reached between you, slow, curious—fingers wrapping around him.

And you felt it.

Not just the heat, the weight—but something… hard. Not just him—though he was hard, thick and heavy and pressed against your thigh—but something else. Something smooth and firm under the ridge, something…metal.

Your brows twitched, just slightly.

His breath hitched. You looked up at him, question rising.

“You—?” you started.

His jaw tightened. He looked almost…shy.

“…Megs?”

He hesitated.

You palmed him curiously and he twitched.

“There’s—” You looked up at him. “Are you pierced?”

His breath caught.

You stared at him, lips parted. “You have a dick piercing?”

“…Yeah.”

You blinked.

You glanced down again to get a better look, thumb brushing over the spot carefully. Holy fuck.

Thick. Long. Pierced.

The barbell of the piercing gleamed, curved through the head, metal catching the light.

You swallowed. “What kind?”

He looked like he was seriously debating lying, but finally said, low:

“Apadravya.”

Your mouth dropped open.

“Jesus Christ.”

He groaned. “Don’t say it like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like you’re about to make a life-altering decision.”

You bit your lip. “How long have you had it?”

“Since I was eighteen.”

Your brows shot up. “That’s early. Why?”

His cheeks actually turned a little pink.

“You ever do something stupid just to feel like your body was yours?”

You paused.

Then nodded. “Yeah. I have.”

His hand found your face, brushing your cheek with his thumb.

“I didn’t do it for anyone else. Didn’t think anyone would ever see it.” He laughed quietly. “Definitely didn’t think it’d make someone look at me the way you’re looking at me right now.”

You stared up at him.

“You mean like I want to push onto the mattress and ride you until I forget my name?”

“Exactly like that,” he rasped.

He kissed you again—deep, tongue curling past your lips—you felt the tongue piercing once more—familiar now—as your mouths moved in tandem.

 “You okay?” he asked, quiet now. “You don’t have to—”

“I’m okay,” you whispered. “More than okay.”

You reached down, wrapping your hand around him and giving it a soft squeeze.

He hissed through his teeth.

“Princess—”

You leaned in and kissed his neck, just below his ear. “Let me look at you.”

He let you.

And you did. You traced every tattoo, every line of his body—ink across his shoulders, ribs, chest, a stretch of fine black lines and text that ended in the soft skin above his hips. 

“Tell me if you want me to stop,” he said. “Anytime.”

You looked up at him, cheeks flushed, heart pounding.

“I don’t want you to stop.”

You wrapped your legs around him again, slower this time.

And he rocked into you, still outside, just the pressure of him against your slickness making your whole body pulse.

He groaned.

“You’re gonna take all of me, baby.”

You gasped. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” he said, bending to kiss you again. “I’ll make it fit.”

Your brain melted.

But he didn’t rush it. He never rushed.

He ran his hands over your body like he was savoring it—inch by inch, breath by breath. Worshipping it. And when you were whiny and squirming beneath him, he took a step back, eyes full of dark heat.

“You’re perfect.”

You grinned, breathless. “Then come here and fuck me already.”

He groaned.

And then slapped your ass—just once.

You gasped.

He smirked.

“Get ready, pretty girl.”

You could feel the weight of him above you—his forearms braced on either side of your head, body flushed against yours, skin warm and buzzing. His cock pressed heavy against your stomach, thick and hard and aching.

You reached down again, wrapping your hand around him, and this time he groaned against your mouth, voice low and helpless.

“Fuck, baby…”

You rolled your thumb under the head, slow. Felt the bar again—the piercing. It shifted slightly under your grip, smooth and hard. You were soaked already, throbbing. The idea of how it would feel inside you—

“Need you to lie back for me,” he said roughly, nuzzling into your neck, kissing your jaw. “Just like that. Legs up—good girl.”

You didn’t correct the pet name. Couldn’t.

He moved back slightly, sitting on his heels between your thighs. His hands slid over your hips and up—slow and reverent—just warm skin and heavy breath and the sharp, hot sweep of his eyes as they roamed.

“Fucking hell,” he whispered.

You flushed, hands fidgeting at your sides. But then he leaned down—kissed your sternum, your breast, circled your nipple with his tongue, then sucked, sharp and wet—and you forgot how to think.

“You’re so goddamn beautiful, princess,” he murmured, voice gravel. “You drive me fucking crazy.”

He kissed down your ribs, slow and wandering. You felt his lips pause, then press again—right under your breast, where he sucked the skin a bit harder.

You ran your fingers through his hair, dragging them gently at the roots.

He groaned again. “You have to stop doing that.”

“Why?” you asked innocently.

“You’re gonna find out,” he said, and grinned. “Keep doing it and you’ll see.”

You did.

When he lowered himself again, kissed between your thighs, and licked—deep this time, slower, intentional—you curled your fingers in his hair, tugging, and he moaned so loud it vibrated through you.

He looked wrecked when he pulled up. Flushed, pupils blown, lips wet.

“You like that?” you asked, giggling breathlessly.

“I fucking love that,” he growled.

He kissed you again, slow and hungry.

Then he lifted your hips—just like that—hands under your thighs, hauling you into him, legs wrapping naturally around his waist. You gasped, fingers clinging to his shoulders.

“Megs—”

“You okay?”

You nodded, flushed and dizzy.

You reached down, guiding him, and paused.

“Wait,” you whispered, breath catching. “You—do you have—”

He reached toward the drawer, then hesitated. “You on the pill?”

“Yeah.”

His jaw ticked. “Clean?”

“Yes.”

“Me too.”

Still, he waited. “You sure?”

You wrapped your arms around his neck, pulled him down, and kissed him.

“Yes.”

He pushed in slowly—so slowly it made your breath hitch, your spine arch, your hands grasp for something to hold onto.

The stretch made you gasp—hot, overwhelming. You could feel the piercing slide in, the way it dragged against your walls, made your whole body twitch.

“Holy shit,” you whimpered.

Megumi groaned, deep in his chest. “Yeah, that’s it. Fuck—feels so good, baby.”

You tightened around him and he shuddered.

“You feel so tight, so warm—shit—this pussy’s perfect—”

His words sent a jolt through you, heat pooling low in your belly.

He rocked into you, slow and deep, and you felt everything.

Every vein, every inch, every press of steel and flesh and heat.

His hips ground into yours, angling just right. The piercing nudged something devastating inside you, and your whole body jerked.

“Megs—”

He kissed you hard, messy. His hands were everywhere—your thighs, your waist, your tits. And when you clawed at his back, he grinned.

“Go ahead,” he breathed, “mark me up. I don’t care.”

You dragged your nails down his spine, and he growled.

And then—crack—

His hand landed a slap to your ass.

Not rough. But firm. Possessive.

You gasped.

He kissed your cheek. “Too much?”

“No,” you whispered, dazed. “Not enough.”

He laughed—low and dangerous.

And he fucked you harder. He fucked you like he meant it—like he was unraveling, like the sound of your voice did something to him he couldn’t take back. His rhythm stayed steady, devastating, but there was an edge now. A roughness. Desperation behind every thrust, like he was chasing something just out of reach.

Every thrust felt deliberate—slow but powerful, like he needed you to feel all of him. Like he wanted to carve himself into your memory with each push of his hips. His forehead pressed against yours, breath ragged, eyes half-lidded as he watched every expression flicker across your face.

You felt everything. Every inch of him. The head of his cock, that piercing, kept catching right there—just inside—sending shocks through your whole body. You moaned, loud, unrestrained, and he groaned in response, burying his face in your neck like he needed to ground himself.

“God, baby, you feel—fuck, I can’t—” he gasped. “You’re gonna make me lose it.”

The room spun, heat thick around you, sweat-slicked skin sliding against his as he drove into you, harder, deeper. Your legs were locked around him, thighs trembling, and you couldn’t stop moaning—couldn’t stop saying his name like a prayer.

“Megumi—God—please—”

His breath hitched. “I know, baby, I know. You feel so good—fuck—you’re taking me so well.”

You whimpered—your whole body on fire, nerves lit up. You could feel the piercing with every roll of his hips, dragging along your walls, stroking something almost too much. Too sharp. Too good.

“That’s it, pretty girl,” he murmured, voice thick. “Taking me so fucking well.”

“F-Fuck, Megs—” your voice caught, high and trembling.

He kissed the corner of your mouth, sweet and messy, then pulled back just enough to look at you—really look at you.

“You okay, baby?”

You nodded, eyes wide, lips parted. “Yeah—God, yeah—just…”

He smiled, soft and wrecked. “I know. I know, baby. You’re doing so good.”

His thumb slipped between your bodies, found your clit with practiced ease—two fingers rubbing slow, deliberate circles as his cock dragged deep. Slow. Cruel. Perfect.

You cried out, hips jerking.

“Shh,” he whispered. “It’s okay. Just let it happen, princess. Let me take care of you.”

You clenched around him, helpless, and he groaned—deep in his chest, like he could feel it everywhere.

“You feel that?” he breathed, leaning in to kiss your throat. “That little flutter—fuck—you’re close, huh?”

And then, as his cock pushed in again, deeper than before, he shifted his weight and brought one hand down to your lower stomach.

He pressed gently—right there, just above your pelvis—and you gasped.

“Right here,” he said, voice dark with wonder. “You feel me, princess? That’s me. All the way inside.”

Your eyes fluttered shut, heat rushing through your veins like fire. The pressure of his hand paired with the drag of the piercing made your whole body twitch.

“Megs—”

He smirked against your neck, breath hot. “I know, baby. I know it’s a lot. You’re taking it so well.”

He kissed your jaw, slow and sweet. “I want you to cum for me,” he whispered. “Right here. While I’m inside you. Wanna feel this perfect pussy squeeze around me.”

Your breath caught in your throat, your body coiling tighter with every stroke.

“You can do it, baby,” he coaxed, voice low and soothing. “You’re already so close. Just let go.”

And you did.

The orgasm hit hard—white-hot, overwhelming. Your body locked up, then shattered all at once. You cried out, back arching, nails digging into his shoulders. The wave of it crashed over you again and again, endless, dizzying.

“Fuck, that’s it,” he groaned, thrusting deeper. “You’re so fucking tight when you cum—gonna make me—shit—”

His rhythm faltered, turned rougher, messier, as he lost control.

“Pretty girl—shit—gonna cum, baby, gonna—”

“Cum inside me,” you whispered, lips brushing his ear. “Please, Megs.”

He moaned—loud and wrecked—and buried himself to the hilt.

You felt everything. The heat, the pulse, the way his whole body locked down as he came. His mouth pressed to your throat, hands gripping your waist like he was afraid you’d slip away.

He stayed there, buried inside you, panting against your skin. You could feel his heart hammering in his chest, the sweat on his back, the way his fingers stayed tangled in your hair.

Then he lifted his head, kissed you—slow and raw, lips dragging over yours like he didn’t want the moment to end.

“You’re unreal,” he whispered. “You’re so fucking beautiful, baby. You don’t even know.”

You touched his face, thumb stroking under his eye, and he leaned into it—like it hurt not to. Like he needed it more than air.

The moment stretched—bodies tangled, breath shared, your walls still fluttering around his softening cock.

And he was still inside you.

Still holding you like a lifeline.

Like he didn’t know where he ended and you began.

None of you moved at all, really—just stayed there, his weight heavy but comforting, his breath fanning against your cheek. One arm curled around your waist, holding you close, like the aftershocks were still rolling through him too.

You exhaled slowly, boneless, your fingers still tangled in his hair.

“Megs…”

He hummed, low in his throat. Kissed your temple, your cheekbone, then your mouth—soft and slow, like he had all the time in the world.

“You okay?” he asked.

You nodded, flushed and hazy. “Yeah. Just… can’t feel my legs.”

He gave a breathless little laugh, nuzzling into your neck. “That might be the hottest thing you’ve ever said to me.”

You smiled—tired and full.

After a moment, he eased back, still buried inside you, his hand brushing your cheek. His expression was unreadable—something caught between awe and disbelief and maybe something a little softer.

“You’re really something, you know that?” he said quietly.

You blinked up at him. “You make it sound like I just saved your life or something.”

His smile crooked. “Feels kind of like you did.”

That silenced you—for a beat too long.

He caught it, of course. Looked a little sheepish. “Sorry. That was probably too much.”

“No…” You reached up, fingers brushing his jaw. “I just didn’t expect you to say something like that.”

“Yeah,” he muttered. “Neither did I.”

He kissed you again before you could say anything else—gentle this time, like he needed the feel of you more than the words.

Then he pulled out carefully, slow and warm and messy, and you both winced a little.

“Shit—sorry,” he whispered, kissing your shoulder. “Let me get you cleaned up.”

He disappeared into the bathroom for a moment, returning with a warm, damp towel and one of his shirts. You stayed sprawled on the sheets, utterly wrecked, and let him tend to you.

His touch was careful. Reverent.

He cleaned you up with soft little apologies under his breath, then helped you into his shirt—big and worn and smelling like him—and tucked you back into bed before crawling in beside you.

You turned toward him automatically, curling into the warmth of his body. His arm wrapped around you like muscle memory, hand stroking slowly up and down your back.

Neither of you said anything for a while.

The room was quiet, save for the soft rustle of sheets and your breathing syncing up again.

Eventually, you mumbled, “We’re definitely gonna have to talk about this tomorrow.”

“Yeah,” he murmured, brushing his lips over your forehead. “But not now.”

“No?”

“Mm-mm.” His fingers traced lazy patterns against your spine. “Right now, I just wanna hold my girl.”

You froze—just for a second.

Then smiled, into his chest.

He felt it, and pulled you closer.

—

When you woke up, the light was soft—barely morning.

You were warm.

Your limbs tangled with his under the sheets, skin to skin. Megumi was still asleep, mouth slack, lashes casting shadows on his cheeks, hair sticking up in every direction. 

His arm was heavy across your waist, hand curled against your stomach like it belonged there.

You could feel him breathing—slow and steady. Completely relaxed in a way you’d never seen before.

You blinked at him. Wondered, for a moment, if last night had actually happened.

But then you shifted, and your body answered for you—sore in places you hadn’t used in a while, hips aching, thighs a little raw.

And you could still feel the ghost of him inside you.

Heat crept across your cheeks.

You tried to move without waking him, carefully peeling the blanket back.

No such luck.

His eyes cracked open—barely.

“Where you goin’?” voice rough and sleep-heavy.

“Bathroom,” you whispered.

He hummed, eyes falling shut again. But his hand slid lower—resting just above your thigh, possessive even half-asleep.

You disappeared for a minute, returned to find him still sprawled across the bed, one arm flung over your side like a claim.

When you climbed back in, he rolled toward you, dragging you against him without hesitation.

You yelped—softly. “Jesus, Megs.”

“Mmm.” He buried his face in your neck. “You smell like me.”

You froze.

Then laughed—quiet, breathless. “You’re such a menace.”

He grinned against your skin. “You like it.”

You did.

You didn’t say it.

His hand skimmed under your borrowed shirt, fingers tracing lazy lines along your hip.

“Still good?” he asked softly.

“Yeah,” you said. “Sore, but good.”

He pulled back just enough to look at you.

His expression was unreadable again—sleepy, but serious beneath it. That focus of his, like he was seeing straight through you.

“You sure?”

You nodded, heart thudding. “Yeah.”

A beat of silence.

Then: “We should talk about it.”

“Yeah,” you said. “I know.”

Another pause. His thumb brushed the side of your thigh.

“But not yet?”

You smiled. “Not yet.”

He kissed you then—soft, like a promise.

And you let yourself melt into it, let the morning wrap around you like warmth, like quiet, like something new.

Something that didn’t feel temporary.

© MANICPIXIEDREAMKIRA - do not repost, translate, plagiarise or claim any of my works as your own.

[hauntedhokage]

𝖾𝖺𝗋𝗅𝗒 𝗆𝗈𝗋𝗇𝗂𝗇𝗀

Dante/F!Reader

word count: 1k

warnings: somno & dry humping

He was cute when he slept. 

Eyes closed and body still, Dante was the picture of peace. Mostly your peace, since he was much easier to deal with when he was asleep. 

No winking or eyebrow wagging in your direction, no objectifying or snarky comment inviting your hand to smack the smirk off his face. But even as he slept, the pervert still had a handful of your ass to keep you close.

“Just bein’ protective, baby,” was such a stupid excuse but you let him get away with it because that stupid little smirk was impossible to deny. You also would not deny yourself how nice it felt to be held onto and savored by a man like him. A good man, through all his flaws and vices he had twice as many virtues and you did care for him through it all just as deeply as he cared for you. 

This was why you let him sleep. There was always another client, another demon, another problem, but right now he needed the rest more than he needed the additional work — and he knew that.

The semi poking at your thigh pulls your focus from his sleeping face, and your hand carefully travels down the planes of his solid torso down to the waistband of his briefs. A groan tumbles through his parted lips when your hand slides over the growing bulge but your movements don’t falter, as the end result would be the same whether or not he woke up — this was Dante, after all. 

A squeeze and he shifts but doesn’t wake up, not even when you try to free yourself from the arm keeping you pressed to his side. The handful of ass was not getting released, so you have to make do with what you’ve got. 

Your leg hooks over his hip, bringing your still covered mound to rest against his bulge. Later you’d get him to rail you through another mattress, right now you just wanted him to get off without having to do anything. You opt for a slow roll of your hips to truly test the depth of Dante’s sleep, and are satisfied when he doesn’t falter in his breathing. No movement, no reaction, just continued peaceful slumber — which was exactly what you wanted. 

His cock grows harder with every roll against it, a couple mumbles and groans tumbling from those pretty parted lips. The split that he went to bed with had healed nicely in the last few hours, and that has you smiling as your thumb traces over his bottom lip. 

“Baby.” His low grumble is quieted by your lips meeting his, coaxing your still dreaming lover into as effective of a kiss that you can manage. The hand holding you grips tighter, his fingertips digging into the plush of your ass to keep you closer as his own hips roll into yours. His dreams were obviously sweet, a mumble of your name against your lips proving that he was dreaming of you, making your chest swell and panties dampen with the way his voice sent a shiver down your spine. 

“Dante,” you whisper, bringing your hand up to push the thick white hair out of his face. There’s a tick in his jaw, his lip trembling as if he was trying to fight a smile, and you know you’ve caught him. “You can stop faking.”

The grin breaks through, one blue eye cracking open to assess your mood as he says “Was only fakin’ for a minute.” 

“But since you’re up you can finish yourself off, right?”

The answer comes with Dante rolling you onto your back so he could settle properly between your legs. You bring your legs up and around his waist, your arms following suit around his shoulders to keep him as close as possible while he humps into you with little pants being exchanged between you until he seals them off with a lazy kiss. It’s sloppy, teeth and tongue clashing but unbothered as you lose yourselves in each other during this early morning affair.

A string of saliva keeps your lips connected to his when he pulls away, broken only by his heavy pants as he tries to prolong his end. But you didn’t want him to try to last, uninterested in any show of bravado that usually came out of the demon hunter you called a lover – you just wanted to take care of him after he spent the night taking care of the rest of the world. 

“C’mon Dante,” you coo, your voice a soft whisper in his ear that sends a shiver down his spine. “Cum for me.”

“Not very gentlemanly of me, honey.”

“Didn’t ask for a gentleman,” you retort, licking your lips with a smirk of your own as he lets out a huff. “I told you to cum.”

He doesn’t seem to accept your reassurance, and you know being given an order did some conflicting things to his cock and his attitude – but you also know what he needed and were determined to give it to him without delay. Your hands move from over his shoulders, up his neck until they’re holding his face to keep his attention on you. Those bright blue eyes seemed to glow with his desire, his hands gripping your thighs tighter to keep you in place and gain some fraction of control over the situation despite the fact that he knew you had it. 

“Make a mess, babe, you deserve it.”

His head drops into your bosom, kissing the skin exposed by your tank top. His groans of pleasure are first muffled by your skin, only to be further drowned out by your pained yelp when he bites into your breast as he releases into his briefs.

“Baby, princess, darling,” he mumbles, looking up at you through white lashes as he kisses around the mark he’d left. “I’ll take care of you later, promise.”

And you know he’s good for it, Dante was always good for it. 

[marvelstoriesepic]

Eyes made of Starlight

Pairing: Prince!Bucky x Maid!Reader (Cinderella Au)

Summary: You are drawn into a royal masquerade by a mysterious woman with a magical mask.

Word Count: 1.8k

Warnings: Classism (social hierarchy themes); self-worth struggles; fantasy themes (fairy godmother, spells, illusions); power dynamics; magical disguise

Author’s Note: Oh how I loved writing the magical Cinderella vibe!! This amazing request also comes from my lovely darling!! I hope you'll enjoy this as well, beloved ♡

2k Drabble Challenge Masterlist | Masterlist

The palace walls groan with music. Light spills through stained glass. You can hear the laughter of women who never had to scrub anything in their lives.

You have no reason to be here.

You have no right to be here.

The gown does not belong to you.

The mask does not belong to you.

This moment does definitely not belong to you.

You shouldn’t be here. Not walking under crystal chandeliers, not between silk-slick gowns and heels carved from heaven. Not with perfume-laced air choking your lungs or golden music playing with your ribs. Your hands are calloused. Your eyes are too wide. You walk as if waiting to be punished.

Because you will be.

You are nothing but a maid in this place. One of many. A slip of a girl with sore fingers and silent steps, always in the background, always apologizing.

You had ash on your hands just this sunrise. Streaked across your apron. Tangled in your lashes.

You had scrubbed the same hallway twice - once out of duty, once out of nerves.

You are not meant to be here among those royals, and yet you are.

The mask that sits on your face is not just a disguise. It’s an enchantment. Deep green velvet shaped like leaves, spun with gold threads that glow when the light hits just right. You remember the exhilaration you felt when you held it in your hands after it was placed on your bed. Remember the woman who you believe put it there.

No one speaks to her. No one trusts her. They call her strange, witchy, always lingering too long in the shadows of the garden wall, half-swallowed by ivy and moonlight. She has been a part of the place longer than anyone seems to remember, sweeping corners no one else would touch, talking to birds like they can answer her.

Everyone avoids her.

They say she curses the cooks and sings to the moon and never ages a day past forty.

But you have spoken to her. Brought her bread once, tucked it into a cloth napkin with a wildflower and an apology. Timidly waved at her when you saw her standing cloaked in midnight-colored shawls that fluttered like wings.

And one night ago it was just there. The mask. Lying under your sheets, ready to be worn. You don’t know why you actually decided to do it. You never would have. It’s not a decision you would even consider. But somehow, you pulled on that mask and were suddenly dressed in a gown more worthy than your life.

You are trembling now, standing at the edge of the ballroom. The candlelight plays games with your shadow. You can feel your heartbeat tap-tap-tapping against your ribs.

The clock chimes nine.

The doors open wider and the crowd shifts.

You saw him once.

The prince.

You were delivering lines for another maid who either quit or vanished or both. And on your new route, you saw him at the end of the corridor, coming closer with each step. He had been dressed in navy and silver, his hair pulled back and his expression unreadable.

You tripped and dropped the stack of sheets in your panic, not expecting to just encounter the real prince on a simple delivery. Not as a simple maid. You hated yourself for being in his way.

And when the sheets met the floor, you didn’t breathe.

Just watched the crown prince himself bent - bent - to help pick them up.

Just watched him smile at you and ask if you were alright.

As if he wasn’t a prince and you weren’t made of floor polish and forgotten names.

You didn’t stop thinking about it since. Didn’t stop thinking about him since.

You don’t even recall if you even answered him or kept staring all while blushing so hard your skin stung.

All you are able to recall is that he had eyes like storms and a mouth made for poetry, and something about him - something in the way he looked at you, not through you - unraveled your spine.

That was weeks ago.

And now he is here.

And you are too.

He enters without fanfare, without guards, without his title dragging at his heel. He wears deep blue tonight, with black embroidery shaped like curling vines across his shoulders. His dark hair is loose, falling just below his ears.

He is beautiful. But in a way fire is beautiful. Dangerous and too bright to look at for long.

He stands there like a painting brought to life.

He scans the room and stops suddenly.

On you.

Eyes lock.

Breath caught.

Your heart drops out of your chest and slams into the floor.

He is staring. Not at the dress. Not at the mask. Not at your lips or your waist or your trembling fingers.

He’s staring at your eyes.

As if he is trying to place them in the sky.

And then he is moving. Descending the stairs slowly as if the floor belongs to him and he is offering it to you.

The crowd parts for him.

People turn to watch. Whispers start.

You want to run.

You want to melt.

You want to rewind the world and be a maid again and never take that mask from that strange woman and never come here.

You clutch the sides of your gown, panic boiling in your chest. You could run. You have to run. He can’t know.

But he’s already there and you are not moving.

“Don’t go,” he speaks and his voice is velvet.

He is standing in front of you now, impossibly close, all shadows and silver eyes staring straight into yours.

Deliberately, and without taking his eyes off of yours, he offers his hand.

“Dance with me,” he says. “Please.” His voice is deep. Genuine. A request.

A prince should not talk to a maid this way. You are sure he wouldn’t if he knew who you were.

But a maid also cannot say no to a prince.

So you take his hand with shaking fingers and the second you touch him, you are pulled into his arms, into his chest. The music swells around you as if it were meant for this.

You dance like the world has forgotten gravity.

His touch is light and guiding. One hand presses against your back, the other is intertwined with yours. He doesn’t say anything about the tiny nicks in your palm you got while hanging linens out to dry and forgetting the rose bushes behind.

Never in your life have you danced before.

Never in your life have you felt the proximity of a dance partner or the sequence of the steps to the music.

Your mind doesn’t know but somehow your body does. Your body moves as though it’s been waiting its whole life to be near him. To dance this dance with him.

Perhaps that too has something to do with the mask.

Music rises. Time bleeds away. It feels like flying. It feels like burning.

He looks at you. Doesn’t stop looking at you. And you wonder if he sees past the magic. If he sees the girl who cleans his windows and folds his sheets. The girl who dropped them in front of him and stammered out an apology so awkward she wanted to dissolve on the spot.

Your breath is suspended like the stars outside the palace windows. His hand rests against your back, the pressure just enough to keep you guided, not enough to push. The thumb of his other hand moves in slow circles over your skin and you find yourself staring at it.

His head tilts down to you.

“You keep looking away,” he observes slowly, calmly.

You look up and his gaze is already waiting for yours. “Excuse me?”

“Your eyes,” he adds, voice gentle. Quiet. “You keep hiding them.”

He leans in even closer. You hold your breath. Your steps falter.

“The most important part of dancing,” he states quietly. “is eye contact.” His eyes don’t leave yours. “Everything else follows if you don’t look away.”

You feel the breath of his words against your skin and it makes you hot.

He is not teasing. Not amused. Not quite serious either, but sincere. Thoughtful. As if this moment means something to him too. As if it’s not just your heart fighting its way out of your chest.

You swallow. “Why is that?”

He pulls you closer, shifting his grip. His voice drops even softer. “If you don’t look at your partner, you cannot read them. You cannot anticipate the next step. Cannot be ready to catch them if they fall.” Something passes through his expression.

A beat. His gaze dips to your mouth. Your chin. Back to your eyes.

“And people fall.”

The words land inside of you immediately and you feel them spark a fire that heats up your neck.

You blink a few times, snapping your gaze away from him only to have his hand leave your back to turn your head in its right position - looking at him. His thumb brushes your jawline before he pulls away and settles right at your back again.

As if nothing happened.

You force yourself to nod. Careful. Like if you move too fast the spell will shatter and you will wake up barefoot in the laundry quarters with soot on your face.

He watches you some more. The way your eyes move over his face. The way your brow is twitching. The way your breath is uneven.

You almost stumble. He steadies you effortlessly as if he’d known it would happen.

“Try again,” he encourages gently. “Just look at me.”

You meet his eyes again. Fully. The ballroom fades. The velvet and glass and gossip melt. The crowd around you spins in their own perfect orbit but this is something slower. Something more important.

He leans in another time, breath ghosting your cheek. His voice is a whisper.

“Do you think I could ever forget your eyes, hm?”

Your heart drops alongside your stomach.

The clock chimes midnight.

One.

Two.

Three.

You stumble back. Out of his hold. Out of his arms. Out of his orbit.

The mask is growing warm. Too warm. Your vision flickers. Your dress begins to dull, like color draining from a dream.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper, voice breaking, rushed. “I have to-”

And you turn.

“Wait-” he almost shouts, desperate, confused. “Please tell me your name-”

But you are gone.

Glass slippers skim the marble. Tears burn behind your eyes and make it hard to see. The mask slips from your face as you disappear into the night, heart hammering loud enough to break open the stars.

[lovetommyactually]

this is a mess, written directly into the tumblr app lmao, but it wouldn’t leave my head so here... have it. post 8x15, cw: grief, canon mcd

It was past midnight. Maybe closer to two. That hollow hour where the city curled into itself—too late for night, too early for morning—and even the birds hadn’t begun to stir.

He sat slouched on the couch, shoulders caved in, like he could fold himself small enough to disappear. The beer in his hand—fourth? fifth?—had gone warm, but he held it anyway. The TV played something pointless, volume low, just enough to fill the room with something that wasn’t silence.

Not that it helped. The real noise was in his head.

Bobby’s voice hadn’t left him. “You’ll be okay, Buck. They’re gonna need you.” Said like it was simple. Like Buck’s world didn’t collapse on itself. He’d replayed that moment so many times it burned behind his eyes. all He could think was—how do you stay standing when the person who kept you grounded is the one who’s gone?

Maddie’s voice followed after, soft, pleading, “You don’t have to be okay right now, Buck. You just have to let yourself feel it.”

But he didn’t want to. Couldn’t. Because feeling it meant naming it. And naming it meant breaking apart.

Too much.

Everyone felt like they were slipping, like the world had tilted and no one knew how to catch their balance again. Buck didn’t either. So he didn’t try. He sat. He drank. He told himself he was fine. Numb was easier. Numb was safe.

But even that was starting to splinter at the edges.

So he stayed still. Let it all swirl inside—grief, guilt, confusion, anger—tangled so tightly he couldn’t tell one from the other. He didn’t cry. Didn’t scream—not again, not yet—He just sat there, breathing in static and beer fumes, whispering the same thing over and over in his mind,

Tomorrow. Tomorrow I’ll try again.

Tomorrow he’d be better. He’d hold it together. He’d be who Bobby believed he could be. Tomorrow, he’d show up for everyone again.

But tonight—tonight he just needed to hold it together long enough to survive the quiet.

Too much. Too loud.

Until a knock shattered it.

Not loud—just enough to cut through the fog.

He blinked slowly toward the door. Didn’t move.

Another knock. This one didn’t ask. It forced him to get up.

“…Tommy?”

Tommy stood there, jacket zipped, windblown, eyes soft, worried.

“Hi,” he said, breathless. “Thank god… I tried calling you, Evan. A lot. You weren’t answering.”

Buck stared. Not surprised. Not upset. Just… tired. He looked at Tommy like one might look at a dream they’d almost forgotten.

All he could think was how badly he wanted to crawl inside Tommy’s ribs and stay there—where it was warm and safe and beating.

But he didn’t say that.

He didn’t say anything.

He just stepped back, left the door open, and leaned against the back of the couch.

Tommy lingered a moment before asking, careful, “Can I come in?”

Buck shrugged, eyes flicking away. Voice too thin to use.

Tommy stepped in, shut the door behind him, and slowly made his way to Buck’s side. His gaze fell to the cluster of beer bottles on the table. He didn’t comment.

Instead, he asked, “How are you doing?”

That made Buck laugh—a hollow, breathless thing. “How am I supposed to answer that?” he muttered, barely above a whisper.

Tommy nodded, didn’t press, but stayed near.

Buck gave more shrugs. One for every question.

“Have you eaten anything?”

Shrug.

“Are you sleeping at all?”

Shrug.

“Did you even talk to anyone today?”

Another shrug. He didn’t even bother pretending to think about it.

Buck didn’t look at him. Just let the words hang in the thick air between them, one hand tightening around the neck of his beer like it was the only thing keeping him upright.

Tommy exhaled slowly, like he was trying to hold something in—something fragile and fraying.

“I gave you time,” he said softly. “Told myself maybe you needed space. But, Evan…” He stepped closer, just a little. “It’s been days. You weren’t answering anyone. I-I had to come.”

Tommy’s next breath was sharper. Pushed to the edge of fear. “Will you answer me instead of just shrugging everything away?”

Buck’s jaw twitched. He looked up at Tommy like the question was too sharp to forgive.

“Why?” His voice cracked, low and bitter. “What do you want me to say?”

He gestured vaguely—at the room, the bottles, maybe even himself.

“Of course I’m not okay. But I’ll get over it, right? That’s what people do. They move on.” He shook his head. “What do you expect from me, Tommy?”

Tommy’s hand half-lifted, like he was going to reach for him. Then dropped.

“I want you to talk to me. I’m trying, Evan. I’ve been trying to reach you, and you keep running.”

Buck scoffed. Bit down the anger rising under his skin. That sting blooming behind his eyes wasn’t anger—it was something worse.

“…Ironic, huh?”

Tommy didn’t flinch. Didn’t smile.

“Evan... I’m worried.”

That. That broke something.

“No…” Buck said, shaking his head, almost childlike.

Buck slid down the couch, spine curling, breath hitching—like the act of staying upright had finally become too much. He pressed the heels of his palms into his eyes, like he could shove the feeling back in before it escaped.

Tommy followed him, kneeling, close but not touching.

Waiting.

“No…” he whispered, barely audible. “I have to be strong. They need me.”

Tommy moved closer, voice low and warm. “Sweetheart, you are strong. That doesn’t mean you don’t get to feel things.”

Buck shook his head, sharp and frantic. “No, Tommy. No. If I…” His breath hitched again. “If I let myself—i-if I feel this, I won’t be strong. I won’t be anything.”

He looked up at Tommy then, glassy-eyed and terrified. Not of what had happened. Of what was still inside him, waiting to be felt.

Tommy's expression broke. He reached out, just to offer.

“Oh, Evan,” he said, voice catching. “You will be. I swear to you, you will be. But right now? At this moment? I don’t need you to be strong. You don’t have to hold it all alone. You can let go if you need to. I’m here. I’m right here.”

There was a long silence. One that stretched between them, breathless and trembling. Like Buck had seen some kind of opening—like he wanted to step through it.

But instead, he squeezed his eyes shut again. Tighter. As if doing so might stop everything from spilling out.

“No…”

And then, finally, like it cost him everything

“I can’t,” Buck whispered. “If I lean on you… if I let myself break… and you leave—if you leave me—I won’t be able to pull myself back together.”

Tommy’s breath hitched.

Buck’s eyes were shining now, glassy and unfocused. “You show up, and I’m so thankful—so damn grateful… but Tommy—” His voice broke around the name. “I need someone to stay.”

His voice cracked then, thin and trembling, every syllable held together by the last thread of his strength.

Tommy reached out, hand resting gently on Buck’s arm.

“I won’t leave.”

Buck looked at him, disbelief painted in every line of his face.

“Yeah?” he asked, so quietly, like he barely dared to hope.

“I promise you, Evan,” Tommy said, firm, no hesitation. “If you let me, if you allow me to stay, I promise I will never leave.”

Buck wanted to believe him. God, he wanted to. He needed it.

But he shook his head, squeezed his eyes shut like the hope itself was too much.

Tommy’s hand stayed firm.

“Evan… I never made promises before. Not to you” He swallowed. “But I’m making one now.”

And maybe it was that—the honesty. The raw, trembling truth in Tommy’s voice. The fact of it.

Maybe Buck believed him.

Because he didn’t answer. Didn’t move.

His fingers loosened around the bottle without realizing it. The beer slipped from his hand, hit the floor with a soft thud, and tipped—its contents spilling, seeping slowly into the rug.

But Buck didn’t look down.

A tear slipped down his cheek. Just one. Quiet. Unnoticed, maybe even by him.

Tommy saw it.

He moved gently, carefully—like he was stepping into a space sacred and fragile—and slid closer. Then, without a word, he reached out and pulled Buck into him.

Buck didn’t resist.

Didn’t hesitate.

The second Tommy’s arms wrapped around him, Buck collapsed.

Head pressed against Tommy’s chest, arms wrapping around his neck, fingers clutching at his shirt like a lifeline. His breath caught—hitched—and then shuddered out of him in one long, broken exhale.

Tommy could feel Buck’s heartbeat—too fast, too loud—pressed against his chest. Like even Buck’s body wanted it out, didn’t know how to hold this much pain.

And then another breath.

And then he cried.

No sobs. No wails. Just quiet, shaking grief—like something finally cracked open and couldn’t be closed again.

Tommy held him tighter, one hand moving slowly up his back, the other cradling the nape of his neck.

“I’ve got you,” he whispered, voice breaking with him. “I’ve got you, sweetheart. I’m not going anywhere.”

That’s what undid him.

Buck's fingers clenched tighter in Tommy’s shirt as the words tore out of him—small and cracked and soaked in pain.

“He told me I’ll be okay, Tommy…” His voice trembled, catching on each syllable. “I’m not. I’m not okay. I never will be.”

His body shook with the force of it, like admitting it made everything real.

Like the grief had finally found its voice—and it came out sounding like him.

Tommy didn’t speak right away. He just tightened his hold, one hand steady against the back of Buck’s head, the other splayed between his shoulder blades, grounding him.

“You will be,” he murmured, barely above a breath. “Maybe not tonight, maybe not tomorrow… but you will be, Evan. I promise you.”

Buck shook his head, a broken, desperate motion, forehead still pressed against Tommy’s chest.

“I didn’t even say goodbye. I didn’t say anything.”

“He knew, Evan,” he whispered. “I promise you—he knew.”

Tommy closed his eyes for a second, like the weight of it hit him too.

But his arms never loosened.

Tommy tightened his grip slightly, one hand smoothing up Buck’s back in slow, steady strokes.

“And you still can. Whenever you’re ready... he’ll still hear you.”

But Buck was past hearing reason.

He tried again, but nothing came out except noise. Raw, aching noise. Grief in its purest, most helpless form.

His breath hitched hard, a sob catching mid-throat before it forced its way out—ugly and sharp.

“I c-can’t—” he gasped, and then the words stopped working.

And still, Tommy held him.

He pulled Buck tighter, cradling the back of his head, rocking him just slightly—not enough to soothe, just enough to stay.

“I’ve got you,” he whispered again, over and over now, like a mantra. “I’ve got you. I’ve got you. I’m here.”

Eventually, Buck went quieter. The sobs thinned to uneven breathing, but his lips kept moving—mumbling something, soft and broken, over and over.

Tommy leaned in, trying to hear. Couldn’t. His brows drew together.

“Evan?” he whispered, pulling back just a little, just enough to see his face.

Buck’s face was wet, flushed, crumpled with the kind of pain that didn’t know how to hide itself anymore. His eyes barely opened.

“Stay,” he said, voice hoarse, barely there. “Stay tonight and tomorrow, and just… stay, Tommy. Please.”

Tommy didn’t answer with words.

Buck curled in closer, folding into the space between Tommy’s legs, cheek pressed against his chest, body trembling but held.

He leaned in and pressed a soft kiss to the birthmark above Buck’s eye, tender and reverent.

Then he pulled him back into his arms.

The floor beneath them was hard. Unforgiving. And Tommy didn’t move.

He kissed Buck’s hair. Then again. And again.

Soft. Reassuring. Steady.

“I’m not going anywhere, Evan.”

[windixie]

500 days of you ── .✦ spiderman! gojo x reader ch. 1

pairing . academic rivals spiderman! gojo x reader

summary ⊹ ࣪ ˖ being at the top of your class for the past few years has not been a problem for you at all, that is until he transfers in, stealing away your spot with his genius intellect and annoyingly good 4.5 gpa, better than your 4.0, all while wearing that stupid grin you just want to punch off. what's worse is he also happens to be the cities hero, in who you fall in love with, unknowing to who was under the blue mask.

warnings ˎˊ˗ college au, academic rivals to lovers, eventual smut, gojo is a pervert, panty

stealing, dry humping, a bit of angst, hurt/comfort, sexual harassment, toxic relationship with family, unhealthy diet, fluff, set in new york like any other spiderman, female reader, p in v, oral, reader is a virgin, violence, gojo is full of himself, webs used.. inappropriately.

playlist ⟢ 500 days of you

wc . 5.4k

a/n . yes the title is based on 500 days of summer i was watching it while writing ..

500 days is all you have left until you graduate. according to your calendar that you have self made, placed neatly beside your bed so you could cross each day as it passes with your pink highlighter, you have exactly two years. today, december 20, marks your first day of long awaited winter break in which you desperately needed after enduring what you believe was the worlds hardest final exam for your humanized and social science class.

your roommate has decided to take this time to go visit her family back at her hometown, to spend a few days with her family wrapped in a comforting warm and cozy atmosphere alongside whatever her family provides. but you chose to stay behind, not that you had anymore exams to finish up or anything, but because going back to see your family, if you could even call them one, wasn't even an option. your relationship with them wasn't abusive or anything, just strained, always putting your brother's needs before yours. that's part why you picked the farthest college you could away from them, an entire different timezone.

you wouldn't call it running away, because that implies fear, you'd just call it more of a extraction. a nice and peaceful separation. sure, they reach out once in a while, but you always come up with excuses on the spot to end the call early. they barely knew that much about you, hell, they didn't even know which college you were going to even your plan in majoring in physics until a month before you left.

nyu is a beautiful campus, not traditional in any way, it bleeds right into the city. any spot there would be perfect to study, and well you didn't have anything to do for the next two weeks so a little studying before the next semester even starts. so with that you made your way over to your locker which was a brief fifteen minute walk away from your dorm.

you don't mind the walk, no rush, no crowds. the usual buzz of students chirping has died down. its not a eerily type of quiet, its peaceful. the faint sound of your footsteps echoed throughout the almost empty hallway. reaching your neatly decorated locker, you opened it unaware of the person right next to you, the door swung right into them.

"shit-"

your eyes widened as you saw the persons books fall right out their hands.

"oh my god im so sorry! I didn't see you there!" you immediately crouched down to pick of the several textbooks, most of them being physics for semester two. it wouldn't be a surprise if the owner of these books would be in the same class as you. "its alright" the mysterious person chuckled as they took away the books from your hands.

your eyes widened as they landed on them. or him, actually. he had beautiful bright blue eyes that for sure held every secret of the ocean, and snowy white hair that resembled the snow that was falling right outside. you couldn't even get a word out.

"im Satoru." he said, waiting for you to give your name to him.

"right.. right. I mean- im y/n." you stumbled across your words. he gave you a crooked smile, almost naturally as he saw you stutter. his hands now itched onto his heavy physics books, tilting his head as he studied you. "you have any idea where mr. thompson's class is?" his smooth voice asked. mr. thompson. thats the name of your physics teacher.

"yeah! yeah he's my physics teacher!" that came out a bit more excited than you intended it to. "yeah? mind being an angel and leading me to it?"

you laughed softly, hoping the light pink tint on your cheeks weren't noticed by him. oh but they were. the awkward tension melted right away. "of course."

he didn't mind the blush, and the way his smile widened told you that he definitely noticed your blushing, but he didn't say anything about it, instead allowing you to show him the way around the campus. he fell into step beside you recalling how you as well had this course. "so.." he broke the silence, "you actually understand physics are you just one of those people who pretend to know what you're doing?"

you shook your head laughing a bit as your gaze fell down to your shoes against the pavement. "no, no I understand. im majoring in it so I kind of have to. but it honestly depends on the day, sometimes I feel like the textbook is gaslighting me" now it was his turn to let out a laugh. and it sounded genuine. "thats great. back at my old uni, people were only there for the credits or whatever. no one was really as passionate as I am." you gaze shifted to him. "oh, which school did you transfer from?"

"colombia university."

"is the lack of people taking physics seriously the reason for your transfer?" you asked half jokingly, but you wouldn't be surprised if that actually was the reason, you knew some people like that.

he sucked in a soft breath, eyes flickering from your figure to look forward. "no I just.. wanted a different environment I guess." there was a bit of hesitation in his voice, but you didn't push it. after all you just met this boy not even five minutes ago. you both finally reached mr. thompson's classroom, his door slightly ajar. "he should be in here.. he always is., im convinced he lives in there"

he hummed looking into the classroom, catching a glimpse of the bald headed man hunched over a stack of papers before looking down at you. "thank you, y/n. I hope we see each other in uh two weeks?" the way he said your name sent your butterflies on a rollercoaster.

"yeah.. yeah I hope so too." you said quietly which earned a sweet smile from him before he walked in to talk about whatever he needed to with the professor. with one final look at the door you turned, only to remember you didn't even grab your books, let alone close your locker which was the whole point you came out of your dorm. you quickly rushed back with the thought of the new student lingering in the back of your mind.

── .✦

in the blink of an eye, the break was over, and the dreadful second semester rolled right around the corner. the traumatizing sound of your alarm that was set at 7 on the dot woke you up for your 9 am physics class, slicing through the silence and especially your slumber.

you groaned, clicking repeatedly at your phone to shut the ear piercing sound off. for a second, you considered skipping. but you knew mr. thompson doesn't play no games, and neither did that syllabus. so you dragged yourself out of your bed, limbs heavy, and mind still foggy as you began to miss the warmth provided by your bed. the sky outside was still that dusty gray, soft flakes falling right out of it.

after making yourself a cup of coffee, you brushed out your hair to be somewhat socially acceptable. you were the top student of the school either way, you had to be presentable at all times. you threw on a jacket and a cute pair of pants before making your way out of your dorm, holding envy for your roommate for not having a morning class.

by the time you reached the lecture hall, well your body because your soul was still trapped in between your blankets, you noticed that you werent there first one there like always. your eyes landed on him.

satoru.

he was seated right there at the front of the class, his posture was excellent, back straight, shoulders relaxed, giving you another reason to like about him. his eyes were trained on his phone, with his earbuds blasting whatever he was listening to in his ears. but they shifted as you walked in, and when your eyes met, a soft smile appeared on his pink tinted lips making your chest feel just a little too full.

maybe the second semester didn't seem so dreadful at all.

"hey.." he took out an earbud out of his ear as you approached, sliding in the seat right next to him. "hi" you replied, placing your bag next to you. "glad we're in this class together. haven't really met anyone else since we talked."

"that so? not even your roommate?" you unconsciously fixed your hair to try and maybe woo him with your beauty. "oh actually i'm living in an apartment" your hand stopped playing with your hair.

"an apartment? in New York? the school is already bleeding us dry.. what are you, rich or something?"

that earned a chuckle from him, a quiet one that made your stomach flip. "yeah.. sure." he had a grin on his face, making you question if it was a joke or not. you both watched as more seats filled up with new and old students. but everyone was eventually startled when mr. thomspon walked in and slammed a textbook onto his desk.

"well I'd like to say im disappointed from last semesters final exam results." he began, a hint of amusement in his voice, "but id be lying."

a beat of silence.

"im proud to say that everyone passed." a relieved sigh escaped almost everyones mouths, echoing across the room. "and of course, ms. l/n, miss goody two shoes," you placed a hand on your chest in mock offense making satoru sniffle a laugh next to you. "you got the highest mark, like every year." he grumbled. "im starting to think you're just here to make everyone else feel bad about their grades."

"only slightly." you muttered under your breath, loud enough for satoru to hear. he turned a bit towards you. "lets see how long you stay up there, miss top of the class, until I snatch your spot."

you stared at him while he turned back to face the front. he was just joking right? I mean no one could steal away your spot. no one has for the past two years, and no one will. right?

── .✦

oh but you were wrong. oh so so so wrong.

this boy wasn't your new friend. he was your rival, like his whole existence was to take away everything you've worked hard for. he wasn't your soon to be charming lab partner or the cute guy you'd hang out with at a local cafe after class.

he was your academic nemesis.

it didn't hit you right away. not until the first quiz given to the class was passed back in which you got a 97% on. but once you saw a fucking 100% on satoru's paper circled in a horrid red ink, thats when it hit you. and the cherry on top was when mr. thompson grinned and leaned down to whisper, "looks like you've got competition." you stared at satoru like he had just murdered your family, not that you minded, but in a way he murdered your entire existence.

he looked at the paper, like he didn't even care that he passed, because to him this was normal. he caught your expression and was confused to see that the usual soft look on your pretty face was now replaced with pure wrath.

this wasn't just 480 days of school anymore.

this was war.

every time you raised your hand to answer a question, it was always outshined by satorus. damn him and his longer limbs. and every time, the professor would call on him.

every. single. time.

you even considered this being sexist. then satoru would answer correctly, of course. damn mr. thompson for finding this whole rivalry hilarious. like if your whole identity as "the smart one" wasn't practically being lit on fire in front of everyone right now. you felt the shift, and you heard the whispers of you being out throned. and what made this whole situation worse was that stupid charm that he offered you with, "im glad to be in physics with you." a lie.

a damn lie.

and you couldn't help but hate him for it every day, every higher mark, every time he got called on, and every time he smiled at you in the mornings or in the hallways thinking you two were still friends.

it didn't help that everyone practically loved him. girls slipped their numbers to him every other day, even undergraduates which you found disgusting. he did everything so effortless while you stayed up until 2 am re-reading lessons, burning through notebooks, killing your pens, and even pulling all nighters like kay chung for important upcoming exams, mistreating your body with more caffeine than you could handle to try and claw your way back up the top.

until eventually you burnt out.

you ignored every 'hello' coming from him or any stupid joke he'd come up with, you settled on a different seat away from him not having the guts to stare at him be better than you for another second. not while he thrived and you crumbled.

and it was like you were back at home, always being seen as the second option right after your brother. a man. of course the second you feel like you are finally worthy of something, someone has to take it away from you. but why now? why after two years in which you spent trying to escape that feeling, was everything going downhill? you weren't even sure if he was even aware of the harm he was causing you mentally and physically.

that he was undoing you without even trying.

but he did notice. he noticed how you stopped talking to him, saying hello or laughing at his jokes or even avoiding his gaze like if it would burn your eyes if you made eye contact, and it hurt because you were practically his only friend other than a boy he met in his calculus class. suguru geto, aka his 'man in the chair.' he always alarmed satoru discreetly whenever there was a bank robbery happening down the street. because not only was satoru now holding the title of the top student of nyu, but he was also the hero of manhattan.

"spiderman makes an unwanted appearance again last night," the news reporter said with her voice being more sharper than the bold lettering on the headline scrolling beneath her, "at a secluded alley near the 'sunny time up' bar, involving a man attempting to steal one of the employee's vehicle."

click.

"when will this vigilante wake up and realize that this job is for law enforcement"

click.

"he's a danger to the people of manhattan! this isn't a comic book, he's interfering with police work!"

every time you clicked on the remote to change channels, spiderman was everywhere. for someone the people claim to hate, he sure is the talk of the week.

"dude is like time square on new years.." you mumbled mostly to yourself.

"my father hates him." your roommate, wendy's father is the head of the police department. he's always complaining about he boy who hides away behind the blue mask, claiming that he is causing more trouble in the busy city. you gave a dry laugh. "your father hates everyone, including me" she sat on your bed next to you, holding a bag of chips in her hand which she offered you.

"I dont see why it's such a big deal. he does more than the police has done in the past five years. he's like what? our age? from what I have heard he is definitely not beyond his twenties." you stared at the video of him swinging across buildings, the sharp blue color of his suit making it hard to lose sight of him.

the color reminded you of satoru's eyes.

your mood suddenly shifted as you thought of him, your appetite was long gone as your stomach twisted in disgust. "how are you holding up with the whole academic rivalry thing."

"shut up." you grumbled.

"I feel like it's one sided, well from what i've heard from you." wendy's voice was quiet, but her words stung. because deep down, you have told yourself the same thing.

"its like he doesn't even try." you dragged your hand across your face as you stared at the textbooks on your desk before they shifted to the calendar right above it. 455 more days.

454 more days.

453 more days.

452 more days.

451 more days.

450 more days.

another school week has passed by. another week of avoiding his intense stare across the lecture hall. another week of hearing him laugh with that black haired boy that had way too many piercings on his face. another week of debating if anything was even worth it anymore.

you looked back up to your calendar, staring at that number written beneath the date. 450 more days until graduation! you got this! how many more days until everything will stop feeling so heavy.

how many more until you stopped caring.

but its like you couldn't even catch a break. your negative thoughts were interrupted by the vibration of your phone. you slowly dragged it out your back pocket before looking down at the called id.

mom.

you couldn't answer. not with your voice cracking or tears falling. you couldn't let them know that you were struggling the same way you were all your childhood and you especially couldn't give them that sense of pride in the way you were burning out. how could you tell them the pressure didn't go away but it only shifted from different mouths in different places. you couldn't handle hearing, "I told you so."

'just stay in state, I dont see why you have to move all the way to the other side of the world. you won't be able to handle it like your brother.'

'your brother stayed here in the same state, why can't you do the same? he visits us regularly!..'

shaking away the echoes of your parents voices, you watched the slow rise and fall of wendy's chest, and you quietly zipped up your jacket before sneaking out. fresh air was what you needed right now. it hit you like a reset button- the kind that clears your head. not caring where your feet took you, you made your way through the city.

the night was still alive, buildings lit up, parties at every corner you looked at, and other people walking as well. it did feel refreshing. until you heard it. a sharp, disgusting wolf whistle behind you. it was low and mocking. the city is big, its bound to have horrible beings. your steps didn't stop, your stomach twisted and you felt sick.

"hey where are you goin' sweetheart? you look delicious." the slurred voice behind you said. you didn't even have to look back to know what kind of man it was. your pace quickened, trying to reach a store or anything that had some sort of crowd. but the footsteps behind you didn't stop, they matched your speed and quickened.

this was exactly what your brother warned you about. being in such. huge city will only be more dangerous. you felt your throat drying up and you looked down at your shadows, seeing the mans hand reach for you. but before even his fingers could brush against you, a blur of blue and white appeared. there was a soft thud, a groan, then silence.

you slowly turned.

"hey," spiderman said calmly shooting a web right on the strangers face. "she's not interested." the man stumbled back, letting out a muffled yelp, fear overthrowing whatever he was on. he didn't even budge. your heart was still racing as you took in his muscular figure. and then he turned to face you. ".. now what are you doing outside at night, hm?" his voice shifted into a much softer one, like he was talking to a kid. you wanted to talk but you couldn't get a word out as you felt the heaviness in your throat as well as the weight you've been carrying from the past few months.

the way he stood was so familiar. "im sorry.." is all you could get out, you soft voice quivered which immediately sent his senses off. "hey, hey its alright why are you apologizing?" his large hands cupped your cheeks. despite them being gloved, they were warm and comforting. his thumbs swept under your eyes wiping away any incoming tears. "why are you apologizing?"

"I dont know.." you answered honestly. but the ache of not being enough was resurfacing. he let out a quiet breath at your answer. "thats okay.. you dont have to explain." his hands didn't move away from your face, in fact you found yourself leaning into his touch.

"let me take you home." he whispered. "..I live at the nyu dorms"

he nodded before dropping his hands to grab the back of your knees without any warning, picking you up, wrapping your legs around his waist. "hold on baby, okay?" your tired mind couldn't even process the pet name before allowing your arms to wrap around his neck, placing your head in the crook of it as well.

without another word, he laughed upward, shooting a web into the sky. the loud roaring of the wind as you both swung across building from building deafened your ears. gravity tugged at your stomach with every sharp dip and rise. you unknowingly shook in his hold, the hand that was holding you rubbed your back before settling to cupping the side of your thigh, dangerously close to your ass. "its okay, I got you."

his hand and feet stuck to the side of the dormitory building. "which dorm is yours angel?"

angel

that pet name reminded you of satoru. why is it that the smallest things reminded you of him? why does your mind insist in continuing to think about him. "... that one." you pointed to the window just two floors up and to the side, in which he crawled to, tightening his hold your plush thigh. he carefully slid the window open, crawling in.

"we're here.." he could barely get out before the soft click of a lamp lit up the room, revealing wendy who was staring at the both of you, holding onto each other rather intimately. your arms were still wrapped around his neck while his leg was pressed right in between yours, in the middle of placing you down.

your eyes widened as you stared back at wendy. "you're awake.." you whispered.

"you're with spiderman.." she stated the obvious. you and him were quiet, the silence louder than you wanted it to as you backed away from him. "I wake up to see you missing, assuming you probably went out to party, only to see you grinding on spider mans leg? oh my dad would hate you even more right now" the masked vigilante cleared his throat, his hand was still placed on your waist, not wanting to completely let go of you yet.

"I should.. get going." he murmured, before looking at you, not wendy. and behind the mask, you swore that for whatever reason he didn't want to leave.

"oh.. yeah uhm thank you, have I thanked you yet? whatever just.. thanks for everything." you stammered, scratching the back of your neck. with one final lingering squeeze on your waist, he pulled away. "any time." he then turned back to wendy. "can you tell your dad to stop trying to tase me?"

"nope." she furrowed her eyebrows.

"..worth a shot. take good care of your friend for me yeah?" he asked before leaving through the window, allowing the city to take him back. wendy's head sharply turned to look at you.

"what..?"

she blinked, once and twice and thrice. "you've got a lot of explaining to do." she grinned.

── .✦

"you just come back from patrolling?" suguru asked as his fingers moved quickly on his controller letting out a few curse words when his opponent did damage on him. "yeah.." satoru closed the window behind him, tugging off his mask letting his white locks spread out, making him look like a model. he threw it on his bed, making his was deeper into his apartment. "you can't just use my pc whenever you want to man." he grumbled as he watched suguru get a victory royale.

"hey, if im helping you out on your little 'hero' shit, I can play whenever the hell I want."

satoru undressed, pulling up some grey sweatpants, but staying shirtless. scars adorned his torso and chest. "guess who I ran into."

"uhh that crazy police guy that tried tasing you."

satoru shivered at the memory. "no thank god. it was y/n." suguru clicked off the game turning his full attention to his friend. "the chick you like?" the blue eyed boy nodded. "saved her from some drunk shit, took everything in me not to kill that bastard after seeing her cry."

"what happened then?"

"took her back to her dorm.. met her roommate as well. turns out she's the daughter of the head of the police department. anyways, y/n looks horrible.. like there's something going on with her."

"yeah its you. you stole away her spot of top student." suguru reminded him. "I didn't mean to!" satoru defended himself.

"her friend for sure is going to spread around the fact that she saw y/n with spiderman. talk to her about it." satoru thought about it. if he asked you if everything was okay with you after last night, maybe you'll start talking to him again.

one thing about wendy is that she can't keep anything to herself. suguru was right, your encounter with spiderman spread like wildfire. like full blown social media wildfire. your name was brought up in multiple group chats, tweets, even those dumb confession accounts on instagram.

"SPIDERMANS GOT A GIRLFRIEND LMFAOOO"

"yall hear y/n slept with spiderman?"

"what do they call baby spiders?"

you were speeding past everyone, heart racing like you were in a heist movie making your way to your next class before you were stopped. "hey.." the familiar voice cut through the air. satoru. "heard what happened last night.. everything okay?" he asked, noticing how thin your wrists were.

was this another one of his acts? "yeah.." you mumbled. "everything fine." you tried brushing it off but he wasn't having it. he raised an eyebrow before his hand placed right on your waist, the same spot spider mans hand was on. "talk to me. you ghosted me weeks ago.. did I say something or do something?"

dont act so innocent, you thought. of course he did something. "physics is just,, stressing me out I guess." which was partially true. his eyes travelled down your face, looking at your lips before his tongue darted out to lick his. "let me help you then."

despite the hatred you held for your rival, you missed him. sure you only talked a few times, but you missed talking to him, his dumb jokes and his dorky smile. "..okay" you agreed. "maybe later this week." and for the first time in what felt like forever, your chest felt light.

── .✦

your classes were finally over. with your bag placed over your shoulder, you made your way outside after deciding to pick up some sweet treats for both you and wendy, who you were still kind of annoyed at for spreading around your encounter with spiderman. you reached the warm welcoming bakery, picking out whatever looked delicious, chocolate cover croissants, blueberry muffins, and a few cream puffs before making your way to check out. the second you stepped out, the rain decided to make an appearance. one that you weren't prepared for.

you clutched onto the bag full of treats.

"you again?" the voice came from above you. you looked up, moving your dripping wet hair to get a closer look. there he was, perched upside down from a streetlight. "..here to save me from the rain?" you asked half jokingly. he hummed, flipping down to land right in front of you. "of course baby. wouldn't want you to get sick.."

his arms wrapped around your waist before shooting a web straight up the roof of the bakery, pulling you both off the ground. you let out a little yelp holding onto both him and the pastry bag. seconds later you both were outside the window of your dorm, before he effortlessly opened it up placing you on your bed. your shirt rose up a little exposing your cute little spiderman boxers.

"is that me?" he asked tracing the waistband that had his heroine name in bold letters. your breath hitched. you completely forgot about those, or even buying them let alone wearing them today. both you and wendy went shopping a couple days back, going into the kids section and jokingly buying each a pair of spiderman undies.

'hey you should wear these to thank him.' she snorted

'eat shit.'

your hand shot out to push his away, chuckling nervously. "okay thats enough.." but he was faster, he grabbed your wrist forcing it to be on your mattress before his other gloved hand tugged up his mask enough to expose his mouth. his jawline was sharp, and those pink lips.. your eyes widened as you looked up at him. "ah.. spiderman?" he brought said hand up to his mouth, his teeth pulling off his glove before spitting it out somewhere else.

"nah.. let me see this." he pulled up your shirt, showing off your midriff, as well as pulling your pants down to your knees. "mm yeah thats me alright.." you felt your heart pounding in your ears. his tongue darted out to lick your stomach.

"spider-man..!" you gasped. he looked up at you, wanting to savor this moment. as if he wanted to memorize this exact version of you.

"never thought I'd be someones fashion statement." he moaned as he saw the wet patch starting to form. his thumb placed itself right on it. "this alright..?" he wanted you bad, but he also wanted you to be okay with this. you nodded looking up at him with a look that just drove him crazy.

his rubbing continued before he pulled away pulling down just the lower half of his suit. "its hard as hell to hide my dick in this shit." he grumbled.

oh.

oh.

he was huge. like really, really big and heavy, it couldn't even stand up correctly. he fisted his cock a few times, watching his pre- cum ooze out before placing it right on your clothed cunt. you wrapped your legs around his torso, bringing him closer in. "thats it." he groaned slowly rocking into you. your body shook with every hump of his hips, the wet patch in your spidey briefs grew bigger. his hands traveled throughout your body, hot and rough as two fingers found their way into your mouth, forcing you to lick them. "good girl, get them nice and wet for me baby."

his voice was low and dripping with arousal. he brought his head closer to your face. you whimpered softly as your hands tugged at his suit, your legs that were still wrapped around him trembled. "wearing these and you expect me not to ruin you?" he moaned as he dipped a finger into the pouch that every boxer had, feeling how much you wanted him. the two fingers that were toying with your tongue left with a loud pop before his lips found yours in a sweet but messy kiss.

just before he could release his hot seed onto you, there was a knock at the door.

"y/nnnn! let me in I forgot my keys!" damn wendy. spiderman sighed pecking your lips one more time before he pulled back, sliding down his mask. he reached for the glove he threw away as well as his lower part of his suit. "ill be taking these as well.." he murmured ripping off your briefs, which had you cringing at the sound, exposing your cunt to the cold air. "ill see you around okay, darling? thank you for this, such an angel."

and with that he left. leaving you with no release and nothing covering your lower half.

"y/n!" wendy knocked again.

"coming!"

oh you wish you were.

ending note . hope you all enjoyed chapter 1 !!

[katharkness]

When I did evening classes at Bible College, there was a module on...I forget what the name was, but it was the literary history of the Bible. It covered who wrote what down when, how the books were chosen, a lot about translations. This was back in 2018, so I'm a little hazy on a fair few of the details. And obviously, there's the bias that we believe the Bible (as we currently have it, barring translation issues) is the infallible Word of God, revealed and preserved by his guidance. If you don't believe that, then you're going to be looking at all this slightly differently, but it would be disingenious to not acknowledge that this bias is present.

I don't particularly want to discuss the formation of what's now called the Old Testament, partly because I don't remember that bit terribly well, partly because it brings up certain issues regarding the relationship between Judaism and Christianity that I don't really want to get into in mixed company.

The formation of the New Testament I do remember more clearly. Remember, the men who compiled the NT in its current structure had the same bias we Evangelicals have now: that God revealed his Word to mortal men, led them to write it down, led others to recognise God's work in the writings, and therefore to teach and preserve it as such. The phrase we use is "God-breathed", but given I've been around churches since I was conceived, I'm not sure I can quite translate that. It's like...God expressed it out of himself into the world? I'm not sure. But that's what the men compiling the NT were doing, identifying what was God-breathed.

For some time there was no compiled canon of...I'll say the NT, but considering it didn't exist, it's not quite like that, but it's faster to type. There was no consistent, coherent, widely-recognised canon, until the 300s AD, although that recognition in the 300s was the result of over a century of different scholars working and discussing and trying to work out what should and shouldn't be included. Why did it take so long, and what started that process? In the 140s, the heretic Marcion published his own canon, which consisted of a modified version of one of the gospels, some of Paul's letters, and absolutely none of what's now the Old Testament. I won't go into the Marcion heresies, you can look them up if you want, but they were very, very counter to what the Church had been teaching since...frankly, since John the Baptist annouced Jesus' arrival. It was after Marcion published his canon that the Church realised they needed to compile an official list of canon, and thus began working on what of the who knows how many writings floating around at that time were the God-breathed ones.

There were three basic principles. First, it must have apostolic virtue - that is, it must have been written or endorsed by an apostle. Obviously, Paul wrote his letters, he was travelled and worked with Luke (who wrote one of the gospels and the book of Acts) for some time, and he's also associated with the letter to the Hebrews, although I'm a little unsure of the connection there. John the Evangelist wrote his gospel, three letters, and Revelation. Matthew, he was one of the Twelve. The gospel of Mark is believed to have been Peter's account of events told to Mark, and Mark also travelled and worked with Paul at various points. And the letters by James and Jude were written by Jesus' brothers (half- or step-, depending on exactly what you believe about Mary). Second, there must be consistency. That's consistency with the OT, and consistency with each other. So the Gospel of Judas, which apparently tells a different tale? Even if it was contemporary, if it didn't match other accounts, it would be discarded as false. And this is a process secular historians use when examining accounts of secular events; if five people say it happened like this, and the sixth says it happened like that, the likely conclusion is the sixth person was wrong or lying. Obviously in the case of the NT, this applies to theology and not just history, but you get how it works. The third principle is that the books, letters, accounts, must have been recognised as divinely inspired and taught and preserved as such. The idea behind this one might be a little nebulous; the belief is that God wants us to have his word, and so guides people into recognising it. If God wants to tell us something, there's no point in him telling it to a man who dies before he can tell anyone else or right it down, for example. Obviously, this principle does require quite a bit of faith - but it also means that, for Evangelicals at least, we believe there cannot be any more Bible, and that even if we find other writings that are consistent with Biblical writings and can be proved to have apostolic virtue - for example, Paul mentions at the end of Colossians that he wrote a letter to the Laodiceans and he wanted the two churches to swap letters, but that letter is lost - it would not have Biblical authority, because at the time when it mattered, the Spirit did not move men to recognise or preserve it.

As I said, chunks of that are absolutely matters of faith. If you don't believe in Jesus, I can't expect you to believe the Spirit was working to guide the men of the third century to pick out the right letters and gospels. But the men who did it, they believed that's what they were doing.

So. Did the Church suppress writings that disagreed with them? Yes they did. But they did it because they believed (and us Evangelicals today still believe) that those writings were misinformation.

Oh, to clarify one point. I keep refering to Evangelicals because that's the Christain philosphy I subscribe to, other philosophies have different attitudes to the Bible. I'm not saying other Christians don't believe these things, I'm saying I can't speak for them.

People on this website will really mock anti-vaxxers and flat earthers for ignoring scientists and getting their alternative facts from facebook, and then turn around and insist they know more history than historians and more archaeology than archaeologists because they read an unsourced tumblr post once

[enwoso]

blood, not bond | alessia russo x child!reader

-> based on this request

grumpy masterlist | leah is in it but she kind of pops in and out of it - more focused on: harrison, alessia and lovie.

at seventeen, you had gotten used to the strange rhythm of your relationship with, your dad, harrison.

once every four or five weeks maybe longer if life got in the way, you'd meet up with him. lunch or a quick shop around town, maybe both if you were lucky.

he'd always ask you about school, about your football commenting on the fact that he managed to watch your match on a stream like it meant something to you, or if you were still writing in that journal you'd started in year nine.

it wasn't uncomfortable, wasn't bad either. it just wasn't what people imagined when they heard the word 'dad'.

because really you didn't have a 'dad'. you had an alessia and a leah. they were your parents. your constants.

harrison well, he was.. something else? a figure which floated in and out your life with well meaning eyes and clumsy attempts to connect.

this time you were spending a rare saturday with harrison. but it wasn't in a 'cherished' kind of way, more like it was an obligation.

you didn't hate seeing your dad, sometimes on the rare occasion you'd actually enjoy yourself but most of the time were just.. odd. scheduled. like fitting a phone call in with a stranger into a diary full of people who actually knew you.

this one had started like the others: brunch at the cafe that he liked, shopping afterward if he remembered that you needed new trainers or a jacket. a few attempts at small talk — 'is school going okay?', how's football? scored any crackers yet?', 'how's your mum?'

the day had been fine, until it wasn't.

"so," harrison started, halfway through his eggs benedict. "louis and lily would love to meet you one day."

you blinked, pausing mid-forkful of your pancakes, "who?"

he just smiled like it was a name you should recognise, "your younger brother and sister. i've told them about you, there always asking when they're going to meet you."

your fork hovered still in mid-air, your mouth going dry. "you.. you have kids?"

"yeah, i do" he said as if it was nothing and that it should have been common knowledge to you. "well, you knew about zoey—"

"i knew you had a girlfriend when i was like eleven, you posted her once and then never mentioned her again."

he frowned, "louis is five and lily is three. and the only reason i didn't tell you sooner is cause i didn't want to throw too much at you all at once, but they've been asking about you for a while — especially louis, he's a big football and arsenal fan"

you didn't respond, just looked down. you now suddenly hyper-aware of the clink of cutlery around the cafe, the swirl of the cream in your coffee cup. your appetite vanished.

the rest of the day passes in awkward silences and occasional comments which you couldn't force yourself to reply too. he asked if you liked a jacket, you shrugged. asked about football, you said 'great'

finally, when he pulled up outside your house, home, he put the car in park but didn't turn off the engine.

"i'm serious, y/n" he said, hand still on the steering wheel like he might need to grip it to keep the conversation from drifting. "think about it please, they'd love to meet you."

you nodded slowly, "we'll see." it came out small, flat. a placeholder for all the thing you didn't know how to say.

you slipped out the car muttering a 'thank you' but before he could say more, you were heading up the driveway with quick steps and slipping through your front door like a ghost.

the front door creaked with the same familiar cream it always did. leah was in the kitchen, stirring something in a pan which you knew she'd of been instructed to do by your mum. music drifting through the hallway, quiet but calm.

"hey, angel. you good?" leah called out, you nodded again, tossed your shoes by the door, alessia bundling down the stairs as she ruffled your hair a warm smile on her lips.

"lovie! how was your day?" she asked as she leant against the banister, you knowing she wouldn't drop it until you said something.

"fine" you said, dropping your bag by the stairs.

"did you go for food?" alessia asked, her eyebrows raising at your short answers and the way you were behaving.

"yeah." you hummed, one foot on the bottom step waiting for your exit to go straight to your room.

"you want tea?"

"i'm good." you didn't wait for more. just walked straight up to you room and closed the door with a quiet click.

leaving your mum at the bottom of the stairs, her being slightly confused at your quiet behaviour, usually you'd come home with a story or maybe at least complaining about your dad asking you a question about something you hadn't done since you were ten.

but today, nothing. silence. but alessia knew better than to push. you'd tell her eventually.

—

alessia waited. she didn't follow after you. didn't push. she never did. she left you in your room while her and leah ate tea together. a slight look of concern on leah's face when alessia told her to leave you when she asked if she should call you down for dinner.

but a few hours later, after you had spent most of the evening buried in your duvet with your headphones on, alessia knocked softly and poked her head in.

leah had taken the dog out. the house was still, humming only with the low buzz of the boiler and the occasional car passing outside.

"can i come in?" you shrugged glancing up at your mum as she poked her head through the door.  you were sat cross-legged, staring blankly at your phone screen. alessia walked in, sat on the edge of the bed like she always had since you were small.

"so how was today? with your dad."

alessia looked at the way your face changed at then mention of it. she could tell something was off. not just because you were quiet, but the way you moved as if your skin didn't quite fit right. your shoulders were tight, tense.

"hey" alessia said gently. "you okay?"

your eyes stayed on your phone screen, you having been doom scrolling for the past few hours trying to get rid of your thoughts however it was probably making them worse.

your jaw clenched once. then again. then— "he told me he has another family."

alessia's heart thudded, a pout forming over her lips, "lovie.."

"i have siblings," you snapped, you voice sharp. "siblings, mum. five and three. and tells me like it's some lovely fun little surprise over brunch!"

alessia's face dropped, she knew about harrison moving on with zoey, in a way she was delighted it had meant he wouldn't keep sticking his nose in her relationship with leah and she knew about louis.

not because she found out from harrison himself first (no surprise there) but, from one of harrison's friends she bumped into while doing a late shop one afternoon. harrison then telling her a few days later, alessia urging him to tell you but he promised he would when the time was right.

"wow. i-i didn't know about the three-year-old. just louis but that was years ago."

"you knew!?" your voice hitched as you head snapped to look at your mum. hurt blooming behind your eyes.

"i knew about louis and yeah we both knew about zoey, but i didn't know they'd had another child." alessia explained, her voice calm, too calm for your liking. with the way your chest felt like it was about to explode.

"and what? you didn't think to tell me?" you snapped, your voice dripping with bitterness but also hurt.

alessia took a slow breath, "it wasn't my place to say anything. at the end of the day lovie, he is your dad. it should've come from him."

your eyes flashed. "oh, come on. that's such a cop-out."

"no, i didn't mean it like that."

"then how did you mean it?" your voice rose, frustration starting to build. "cause right now it sounds a lot like you just didn't want to deal with it. just like he didn't either."

alessia flinched but she didn't move her eyes hardening. "hey, no, don't put me in the same category as him, lovie. i've been here. every day. for every meltdown, for every match, for every homework crisis."

you started pacing back and forth in your room. "yeah, you have. you've been here. and he's been off playing happy families with some other kids. buying them toys, tucking them into bed, going to their school plays, their out of school clubs—"

"you don't know that."

"i don't have to!" you nearly shouted. "cause i can guess. cause i know what it looks like when someone doesn't show up, and he's had plenty of practice."

alessia took a careful step forward wanting to try and help calm you down before you did something silly. "you're allowed to be upset. you're allowed to be angry."

"well, good. because i am." you said, voice cracking with each word. "he shows up once a month, if that, buys me lunch, asks me about school like he knows me, and then drops this on me like it's something i should be excited about."

you stop pacing and turned to your mum, eyes shining with unshed tears. "he said they want to meet me. that they know all about me. like i'm just some story that their dad tells sometimes at bedtime. like i'm not even a real person."

alessia's heart broke a little more with each word. "he should've told you a long time ago. but he also should have done a lot differently then he did when you were growing up."

your voice shook as you sniffled. "i spent years thinking i did something wrong. that i wasn't enough. that i was the problem. that if i'd been better—quieter, smarter, easier—maybe he'd have stayed, maybe he'd of made more of an effort to get to know me. and now i find out he did stay. just not for me."

"oh, lovie..."

"he just replaced me, mum. he left you, and then he replaced me. like i didn't even mean anything."

and that was it—the dam broke. your legs gave way as you collapsed onto the side of your bed, and the tears came hard, your chest heaving with the weight of everything you'd been holding in for years.

alessia was beside you in an instant, pulling you close, her arms wrapping tightly around you like a shield. alessia didn't speak right away. just held you. let you sob.

"i don't want to meet them," you whispered eventually, voice hoarse as tears still streamed down your face.

"you don't have to," your mum murmured against you. "you don't owe him anything. this isn't your responsibility."

"he said they'd love to meet me," you scoffed bitterly. "but they don't know me. i'm just a name. some girl he sees sometimes. i'm not part of his family. not really."

alessia pulled back just enough to look you in the eye. "then let's make something very clear—you do have a family. me. mama. this house. your many, many aunties. your friends. the people who show up. that's your family."

you nodded, barely. your hands clutched the hem of your mum's jumper.

"do you think it makes me a bad person for not wanting to see them?" you asked softly, slight hiccup coming from your lips.

"no," alessia said without a beat of hesitation. "it makes you honest. and human. and hurting. and that's perfectly okay."

your mum stood, slow and careful, like you might shatter if she moved too fast. "your allowed to be angry."

"i don't even know what i am." your hands were trembling now. "i'm not mad he has a family. i'm mad i'm not part of it. that i never was. that he never gave me the chance. that he never loved me, not properly."

flash— age four: harrison meeting you for the first time after walking away after alessia had told him she was pregnant. bringing a little teddy bear like it could fill four years of nothing.  you didn't even remember it—but you remember your mum's face when the door had closed again.

flash— age nine: he missed your school plays. said he had work, but you saw the tagged picture later on. a dinner. smiling. a different world.

flash— age twelve: he missed your birthday. fourteen: he never messaged to say congratulations on your first start for the england youth team.

flash — age sixteen: he said he'd take you out for dinner after your exams, you sat waiting for hours - he didn't even bother to call and cancel.

instead it was just a pattern of promises that never really included you.

alessia took a slow step closer as she knelt down in front of you, you sat looking at your hands in your lap. "you don't have to figure this all out today, lovie."

"i don't want to meet them," you said, voice still hoarse but still sharp. "i don't want to play happy families with strangers. i don't want to pretend i've ever been more than a once-a-month reminder for him."

alessia arms wrapped around you like muscle memory, strong and warm and safe. "and that's okay, you don't have to do anything you don't want to. you have us. you always have and always will, that's never going to change."

you pressed your face into her mum's shoulder in front of you, letting the tears come again, now that you weren't pretending to be okay.

the front door opened. leah's voice floated in, as she called out, the sound of the dogs collar echoing as it shook itself in the hallway. "i'm backk!"

alessia looked over the top of your head, eyes soft as she whispered. "we'll get there. i've got you."

she stroked your hair gently as you curled into her side, exhausted and broken but safe. it wasn't fixed. not yet. and maybe wouldn't be for a while. but you had what mattered most. you had home.