#and anyway sometimes it is just Not That Deep

[mrs-kmikaelson]

The Truth²

Pairing: Aaron Hotchner x reader Summary: Aaron had always valued the truth above all else. But sometimes the truth isn't enough. Warnings: home invasion, murder (self-defence), cm-typical cases, references to foyet arc and haley's death, aaron was mean, grovelling, complicated relationships, lots of angst Words: 4.7K

Masterlist | Part 1

a/n: omg, i'm so sorry for leaving you all hanging! i genuinely forgot ab this with exams and everything. but thank you so much for all the love! it means the world. lmk if you want a part 3!

Do you swear to tell the whole truth and nothing but the truth?

"Hotch."

Aaron looked from the papers haphazardly placed across the table, seeing Morgan standing in the threshold. "Yes?"

Derek nodded his head outward. "Garcia's on the line. We've got a lead."

He was up before Derek could finish his sentence, following him out of the makeshift office and into the conference room where the rest of the team sat. 

"Go ahead, babygirl."

Garcia's voice crackled to life from the receiver on the table. "Okay, so after some deep, deep sleuthing, I have found that the victims do all indeed have something in common. Each of them has been involved in a court case, specifically domestic disputes, that kind of thing. Andrew Sykes was a character witness in a rape trial, Maya Zhao the plaintiff in another, and Carson Williams the accused. The only reason Carson's name didn't come up immediately is because his record was expunged—he was a minor at the time."

Emily raised her hand into the air, her eyebrows scrunching together. "Wait, wait, wait. So the unsub is targeting just random people who've been involved in rape cases?"

Reid tilted his head. "Garcia, what was the outcome of each case?"

"Um..." she paused, her keyboard clacking. "The first case with Sykes was dismissed, Maya's rapist was found guily, and Carson was found... not guilty."

"Guys, what if the unsub doesn't just choose his targets because they're involved? What if he's choosing them because he thinks they're lying?"

JJ raised a brow. "Lying about the crime?"

"Yes! What if that's the link? Not because of the lives they lead but the choices they made?"

"That would explain the overkill," Rossi added. "If the unsub believes the victims are disingenuous, ruining people's lives, then that may be his justification for taking them."

Hotch nodded, going over the details in his head before he agreed. "We're ready to give the profile. Thank you, Garcia."

"You got it." A click resounded, signalling the call was over. Similarly, everyone cleared the room, slowly filtering out. 

Emily was the last one in the room, appearing to be grabbing her files before setting them down on the table once everyone was gone. "Hotch."

He stopped turning halfway through, turning to give her his attention. While he expected curiosity on her face, what he didn't expect was the pure inquisitiveness, if not interrogation, that he saw.

"What's going on with Y/N?" 

He had to stop himself from intaking a breath, but he knew even that was futile. Emily was nothing if not a great profiler, and she had taken to profiling him very well. When he saw the curiosity on her face start to resemble accusation, he knew that he gave something away, anyway.

Before he could even think of anything to say, she continued, "She hasn't been to work in days. She says she's sick, but... you haven't called her once to check in on her. And normally you call her all the time when she's in perfect health." She tilted her head in a way that felt like a challenge and then repeated herself. "What's going on?"

Hotch's first instinct was to defend himself, even though Emily didn't know anything about what happened. He could explain it, but then what would he say? That he told you that you weren't Jack's mother? That he called you an accessory? That he was cruel?

He implied that you weren't a member of this team. But the way Emily was searching for information told him otherwise.

This wasn't a case. He couldn't lay out all the facts and present it to jury. And he couldn't coldly tear you down like you were a defendant in need of prosecution.

But you did, his mind echoed. You already did that.

He wished he didn't.

He stopped avoiding Emily's eyes, and he told the best truth he could tell at that moment. "We got into an argument," No, he berated you. "and we haven't spoken since. I've been... trying to give her space."

Emily looked as though she were mentally calculating what he could've said to warrant so much space. But if he told the full truth, the honest truth, then she would know that he created a distance between you that he didn't know how to bridge.

"Hotch—" she paused like she was debating whether or not to speak her mind. "Don't take this the wrong way, because I'm saying this with the utmost respect. But you have a great thing with a great person." She let her words soak in before delivering the final blow. "Don't mess it up."

Hotch didn't need to respond to that, and Emily didn't need to say anything else, leaving the room right after. He already messed up a marriage, and she knew that. She was there when he received the divorce papers. So were you. Yet you let him fall in love with you anyway, and you loved him back with everything you had.

But at that moment, he felt like he didn't deserve any of it.

— 

Standing in the police station's bullpen, Aaron's fingers hovered over his keyboard, twitching with uncertainty. He didn't know what to type.

He was good with words. He sent people to prison with compelling arguments. He co-wrote the textbook on hostage negotiation. He didn't need Reid's lexicon to know he was good with words. But maybe it would help with knowing what to say to you.

There were too many things to apologize for, and not enough variations of the word sorry to account for any of it. Sorry didn't hold enough weight.

But it was all he could think of that was acceptable to say over text, and Emily was right: he couldn't afford to mess this up.

So he started typing, starting with an absolute truth before he said anything else.

I love yo— 

Garcia's contact filled his screen, interrupting his message. He sighed, and then immediately felt guilty about it. He had three victims and the potential for more. The case had to be his focus, not his wrongdoings, no matter how wrong they were.

He accepted the call, pressing the phone to his ear and getting straight to the point. "Have you found anyone in connection with the three court cases?

"No! Well, yes, but no, that's not what I'm calling about. Sir—" Garcia cut herself off with something that sounded like a sob.

Hotch furrowed his brows. "Garcia?"

"Hotch. Some— something happened." Garcia took a deep breath. "It's Y/N."

Hotch felt his world stop. All time and reason and logic ceased to exist. All he could hear were Penelope's words, playing on a loop like a broken record he never wanted to hear.

It's Y/N. 

Just like that, the earth started spinning again, making bile rise in the back of his throat. "What happened?"

From the corner of his eye, he could just barely see the team looking up at him. He couldn't really pay attention to it.

When the silence went on too long, he repeated himself. Sharply. "Garcia. What happened?"

"There— there was a break-in at— at your house." Hotch's heart dropped to the bottom of his stomach. No. No, no, no— "Jack is fine, he's completely unharmed, but Y/N—" Garcia's sobbing cut her off once more.

"Where is she?"

"Bethesda, at Suburban Hospital."

"I'm on my way there right now." Hotch immediately hung up. When he looked up, he found expectant faces staring back at him.

Rossi broke the silence. "Aaron?"

Hotch didn't waste another second. "My house was broken into. Y/N's been—" He didn't even know. He wasn't sure if he wanted to know. "Y/N's in the hospital. I need to leave."

Everyone was quick to rise to their feet. "What?" Morgan's voice cut through the air. "Hotch, we can't just stay here. This is Y/N we're talking about."

Hotch had completely forgotten about the case, but it was brought right back to his mind. "No, you have to. This is still an active case—"

"Your house was broken into. You don't call that an active case?"

"It is. But we can't all leave. Garcia has another update, call her back and find out what it was." He didn't stay any longer than that, leaving the room without another word.

He stormed past officers gazing at him curiously. He couldn't bring himself to care about any of it.

He threw open the door to the SUV, the keys nearly falling out of his hands for how badly they were shaking.

You aren't needed.

"Aaron!"

Hotch wouldn't have heard the calling of his own name if the car door hadn't opened, startling him. He looked over, seeing Rossi get in the passenger seat.

"Dave—"

Rossi appeased, "It's alright. I left Morgan in charge. Told the others to update me and I'd update them. Now, let's go."

If Hotch had the will or the energy to argue, he would've. But all he could think about was you. The same you he callously tore down without care for your feelings. The same you who said yes without thinking twice when he proposed. The same you who could be in any condition right now, not knowing how much he loved you.

So, he just nodded. He started the car, squeezing the wheel so hard his knuckles turned white to stop his hands from shaking, praying that you were okay.

He prayed that you knew the truth. Unsent messages and unsaid words. 

I love you.

—

When Aaron got some of his wits back, he realized he had to call Garcia. It was stupid to sit on the jet without knowing how you were.

You were shot. While protecting his son.

Your son.

Sharp words echoed through his head, words he knew would cut deep and said them anyway. Now you were the one bleeding in an operating room while he was still hours away, and the distance between you had never been so large.

You are not his mother!

"Aaron."

Hotch looked up, finding Rossi staring at him with concern swirling in his eyes. Whatever he was going to say to comfort him wouldn't work. This wasn't something Hotch could be consoled over.

"She's going to okay," Dave reassured. He looked like he truly believed it, but Aaron knew the importance in not making promises you couldn't keep. "She shot the guy back—put a bullet right between his eyes. Whose influence do you think she got that from?"

Aaron sighed. He taught you how to shoot a gun. But he may as well have been the one to pull the trigger. "It's my fault, Dave. If I had never left her there—"

"She still would've gone home, Aaron."

"No, you don't understand. I left her." Aaron met his eyes, even though Rossi's figure started to blur. "I left her, and I—" he cut himself off, swallowing harshly.

He couldn't even believe that he said it. Before this, he couldn't have imagined a world where he said any of it.

You were his world. You and Jack were his family. But he made you feel like you weren't part of it at all.

Dave cocked his head. "Something happened between you two," he stated. Not a question.

Aaron swallowed a second time. "Yes."

He almost thought Rossi would ask him what happened, but he did the opposite. He only sighed. "Look, Aaron. I don't know what happened between you, or what you said that has you ruminating so deeply. But whatever happened, you have to know that it is not your fault that this happened to her."

"Dave—"

Rossi waved his hands in the air. "No, I don't really care for whatever illogical, self-deprecating argument you have right now. She wouldn't, either." He sat up straighter in the seat across from him, leaning forward. "What you need to think about right now is the fact that she's okay. That is what you need to believe. She shot this asshole, and we'll figure out who he is as soon as we touch down. You can apologize later. But she is okay, Aaron."

Were you, though? Even if you were physically okay—which he had no way of knowing—were you okay mentally? What about your relationship?

Another lifetime ago, Hotch could remember a relationship with a wife who grew to resent him. The image of her body sprawled across the ground was etched into his memory.

He closed his eyes, and when he reopened them, he was blinking tears away. "This has happened before, Dave."

Rossi didn't have any real response. Quietly, he said, "I know." He remembered just as well as Aaron, just as well as everyone else.

No one had ever forgotten.

— 

By the time Hotch and Rossi got to the hospital, it was already dark out. Rossi insisted that he be the one to drive. Hotch was getting out of the car before it'd even fully stopped.

Garcia already told him what floor to go to. She was there when he came running out of the elevator.

She quickly stood up. "Sir—"

"How is she?" He was out of breath.

"I-I don't know. She's still in the OR. They— they've been in there a while, but no one has been out to update me yet— oh, God. Oh, God, I hope she's okay."

Hotch ran a hand through his hair. You were still in surgery. He didn't know what that meant.

He couldn't think about it. If he thought about it, then—

"Jack?"

"Oh! Yes, um, he's with Jessica. They were here but I told them to head home. I'm so sorry, I didn't even think— of course, you would want to see him. I can—"

"No, that's okay," he assured, even though it looked more like he was assuring himself. "He should be in a place that's familiar to him right now." Oh, his poor boy. His poor, sweet boy had seen enough blood to last a lifetime. Hotch couldn't help but think that Jack already lost a mother once; he couldn't lose one again.

You are not his mother.

He released a shaky breath, then tried to school his expression. "Okay, what do we know about the unsub?"

Garcia's eyes widened. "Everything! I have him dead to rights, Sir." Without reading from a screen, she recited, "Forensics ID'd him as Joshua Lawrence—"

Hotch cut her off, recognition flashing in his brain. "Lawrence?"

"Yes, Sir. Lawrence was the unsub in a murder case you prosecuted back in '94. Went to prison for life after being charged with second degree murder of his girlfriend when he was 16. He was just released on good behaviour 2 days ago."

The pit in Hotch's stomach deepened. His voice was grave. "And so he wanted to punish me by going after my family."

Penelope winced, not for the first time since their conversation started. "Yes, Sir. And he's dead now." For some reason, that didn't make Hotch feel all that better. His family was still paying for his sins. Jobs he had. Deals he didn't take.

Do you swear to tell the whole truth and nothing but the truth?

"For Y/N Y/L/N?"

Both Aaron and Penelope turned around in quick speed. A doctor in blue scrubs stood before them, a scrub cap still sitting atop her head. Aaron stopped breathing. He barely even noticed Rossi coming to stand beside him.

But he was the head of the BAU, and he could spot the doctor's cool expression a mile away. So the weight on his chest felt lighter before she even said a word.

"I'm Dr. Reyes. Ms. Y/L/N is stable. We removed the bullet, and she should make a full recovery. There were some complications during surgery. The bullet knicked a major artery, but we were able to replace the area with a graft. She is incredibly lucky," she emphasized. "If the police hadn't been called at the time they were, the outcome could have been entirely different."

Aaron let out a breath of relief while Rossi asked the questions he didn't have the mind to ask. "How long will she be in recovery?"

"I'd like to monitor her here for about a week," Reyes replied. "She's resting right now in room 305, but I can allow one of you in there."

Finally, Aaron could speak. "Thank you, Dr. Reyes." He couldn't truly put his appreciation into words.

Reyes nodded, and then she turned and walked away. Rossi and Garcia immediately turned back to him. "Well? What are you waiting for? Go see her," the former urged.

Hotch hesitated, much unlike the man his team was used to and much unlike the man he was used to. He masked it with careful redirection. Turning to Garcia, he asked, "Where are we with the case?"

The blonde was wiping mascara from beneath her eyes, looking confused for half a second before realization dawned on her. "Oh, um, the case has been solved, Sir. Stenographer Albert Brown was the culprit; Morgan et al. pursued him just an hour ago. They should be wrapping up at the station now."

Hotch nodded. "Good."

Tiredly, she added, "Would've found him sooner if we'd made the connection between the cases earlier. Y/N/N had a hard time with that one record since it was expunged and all—"

Hotch's brows furrowed. "Y/N? She hasn't been to work."

Garcia's glasses suddenly fell back to her nose, her eyes widening in a way that told them both she'd said more than she meant to. "Right," she whispered. "Right, she hasn't. Except— she has. She comes in right after dropping off Jack and leaves when it's time to pick him up." 

Despite the way the words rapidly tumbled out of her mouth, Aaron understood every word. You were still coming into work. Doing the job without receiving any credit for it. Even after what he said to you. Not only that, but you were staying with Jack like it was your top priority, even though you were working.

If Aaron hadn't felt sick before, he surely felt sick now.

Rossi was looking at him like he was a ticking time bomb set to explode, Garcia bracing herself for the impact. 

Hotch cleared his throat. "I'm going to see her now," he informed them. Neither of them said another thing as he walked in your direction.

But deep down, he didn't feel like he deserve to see you at all.

—

When you opened your eyes, the first thing you did was close them again. The light was too much, and your eyelids felt as though they were being weighed down.

The dull throbbing in your abdomen made you open your eyes again, looking down to see your body covered in a hospital gown atop a hospital bed. For a second, you were confused, until the memories hit you like a train.

Doorknob. Gun. Man. Blood.

You took in a sharp breath, which made the pain worse. As if the noise had triggered it, movement started to your left.

You turned your head, seeing a man in a suit sitting in the chair beside your bed. Light streamed in from the curtains, highlighting his brown hair. And although you couldn't see his face right away, you only knew one man who would sleep in an uncomfortable chair in a suit.

Aaron.

He rubbed at his eyes, and you deduced that he must've been there for a while. When his eyes were no longer obscured by his hands, they locked with yours. You watched them soften in real time. 

Quietly, he said, "Hi."

Your heart squeezed. "Hi—" your voice broke into a cough. Aaron was quick to grab the water at the side table, guiding the straw into your mouth. The water felt cool travelling down your throat, but you couldn't stop the way your face warmed.

Aaron put the water back when you signalled you were done, and then he stood there awkwardly. Under different circumstances, you would've found it cute. But how could soft eyes and gestures mean anything to you when you could still remember the hardened scowl on his face before he left?

You don't know how long the silence lasted before he spoke. "Y/N—"

"Can I see Jack?" You didn't mean to cut him off, not really, but it was instinctual. You didn't know what Aaron was going to say, but you knew you didn't want to hear it yet.

Aaron's shoulders deflated, but he didn't say anything in protest. "Yes, of course." He nodded—to you or himself, you weren't sure. "I'll go call Jessica now."

Aaron left the room, phone in hand. As soon as he was out of the room, you sighed to yourself. At the sight of your engagement ring glinting in the light, you screwed your eyes shut once more.

Not a mother. Not a team-member.

Were you still a fiancé?

—

"Y/N!"

At the sight of a blonde flurry of hair rushing your way, you smiled wider than you'd smiled in days. You laughed, despite the fact that it made your stomach hurt. "Jackers."

Jack rushed the side of your bed, only stopped by his father's voice. "Easy, Jack." The smile on your face faltered slightly at the sound, glancing at Aaron standing in the doorway. His eyes were fixed on his son. "Remember what we said, okay? Y/N's been hurt, so you have to be gentle." He glanced at you momentarily during the explanation, looking strained. 

"Yes, Daddy. I know." After his confirmation, Jack's attention was back on you, concern colouring his features. "Are you okay, Y/N?"

You softened at the serious look on his face. Aaron used to joke that he was all Haley, but that look was purely him. "Yes, I'm fine, buddy," you lied. "Don't worry about me."

Jack didn't look like he believed you. You didn't blame him. "Are you sure? There was a lot of blood."

You took a deep breath. In your peripheral vision, you could see Aaron take a step forward, but you collected yourself before he could say anything. "I know. And I'm really sorry you had to see that." You blinked away the tears welling in your eyes. "You did very good, Jack. Listening to me and calling the police."

Jack's grin stretched from ear to ear. "I did?" he echoed.

You nodded, smiling back at him. "You did. Thank you."

"I'm just glad you're okay, Mommy." Your breath hitched, but Jack looked none the wiser. If you dared to glance at Aaron, you would see him in the same speechless state. As if he didn't just turn your world upside down, Jack followed up, "Can I come lay with you?"

This time, Aaron intervened. "Jack—"

"Of course, sweetheart. You can come sit right here." You moved over on the bed, ignoring the ache altogether. And for the first time since Jack entered the room, you looked directly at Aaron, silently asking him with your eyes to help him onto the bed.

The cautious look in his eyes told you he disagreed with you, but he still walked over and helped Jack up, anyway, carefully placing him on the bed. You immediately wrapped your arm around him as he settled into your side. The feeling calmed you down more than the morphine pumping through your veins.

Jack yawned, prompting you to ask, "Do you want a bedtime story?" He nodded fervently, despite whining that he was 'too old' for that now, causing you to giggle. Running a hand through his hair, you started, "Okay. Once upon a time, there was a princess, hiding away in a tower. You see, it wasn't safe outside. Someone had captured the sun and made it so dark outside that she couldn't leave. So she waited, and waited, and waited for the day the sun would return. And one day, her saviour came. A knight arrived, and he courageously fought the sun thief. He was scared, too, but he was brave enough to do what was right. And so, the next day, the princess watched the sun rise for the first time after so much darkness." Your voice lowered as Jack's eyes fluttered closed. "She thanked the knight for bringing her light back to her, and everyone in the land lived happily ever after."

You caressed Jack's hair as he fell asleep, smiling at the sight, even as your eyes burned. You didn't know if this story would have the happily ever after you wanted it to.

Aaron's voice penetrated the silence, reminding you that he was there. "I told the team to come back tomorrow once you've gotten more rest." He was quiet, mindful of Jack.

"That's good," you responded.

"They were really worried about you." Pause. "I was really worried about you."

You sighed. "Aaron—"

"I'm sorry." He sat down in the chair beside you, desperately trying to meet your eyes. "I was spiteful and purposelessly cruel. I had no right to be angry, and I should not have said any of the things I did."

When you finally met his eyes, a tear fell down your cheek. "But you said them."

"I didn't mean them," he disputed, begging you to believe him. "Everything I said was untrue."

"No." A humourless chuckle left you. "I'm an accessory. Garcia doesn't need me to excel at her job, and the BAU certainly doesn't need me for anything she can't already do." Aaron opened his mouth to protest, but you continued, more tears falling from your eyes. "And I'm not Jack's mother. He's tired, and he slipped earlier, but that doesn't make me his mom."

"Y/N—"

"But Aaron," your voice cracked. "Even though I am not Jack's mother, he is my son. And you have to know that."

"Y/N." Aaron reached out for your left hand, engulfing it in both of his. If your eyes weren't so blurry, you would've seen the tears in his eyes, too. "You have raised Jack for over half of his life. You are his mother. I wouldn't take that from either of you. I'm sorry for ever implying otherwise. And I'm sorry for implying that you weren't a part of the team. Garcia told me how you linked the victims together while only being there 6 hours out of the day. You are the reason that case was just solved. You are an integral member of the BAU, and I took that for granted."

"No, Hotch, you don't get it." Hurt flashed across his face at the name, but you held your resolve. "You didn't just imply that I wasn't a part of the team. You implied that we weren't a team, and that is what killed me inside." You ripped your hand from his, but it didn't escape either of you that you then used your other hand to wipe away your tears.

Aaron swallowed, letting his hand fall to the mattress. "We are a team. You're the love of my life." Even he could hear how he was grasping at straws.

Lightly, you shook your head, staring back at him with a pitiful smile. Pity for him. Pity for yourself. "You didn't make me feel that way."

A sense of inevitability settled over the room. Aaron's gaze was drawn to the ring on your finger before he looked back up at you. "I will spend the rest of my life proving it to you if you let me," he promised. You both understood it for what it was: a plea.

"I know." No tears fell this time, despite the lump lodged in your throat. Just above a whisper, you put forward, "Just give me time, okay?"

Aaron didn't respond immediately, but you could see the shift in his eyes. Not quite the look of a man who lost, but not quite the look of a man who won. 

"Okay," he whispered back. 

You thanked him, going back to caressing Jack's hair. The silence was less loud now, punctuated by the truth.

Your story with Aaron didn't start with Once Upon a Time. And it didn't end with Happily Ever After.

But you ended with the truth. And that's all you asked of him.

taglist: @hotchnerave @cantbecreative @holmesry @amber97 @queenofvelaris @midnghtprentiss @deeninadream @michasia24 @donttrustlove @sjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjj @allysunny @jessjessmarvelandhp @burkayyy @mrsxyz480 @loki101 @athanasia-day @mischiefmanaged71 @beardedhotchner @doe-eyed-diva @witchcraftandwit @diabolichii @vivs30 @burrithorr @racoonkitty @gemininormouzz @wallowingselfpity @singlepringle4you @pillkits @alice07ea @storiesbynova @mmmunson @rannifer @dedicatedfangirl2001 @catchmeupimgettingoutofhere @jencole214 @ssa-danhotchner @kcch-ns @cultish-corner @fckgrier @aasmalfoy @cocopuff213 @axionn @ponyosmom35 @phaedrashafiq @planetsnshit @laufeysvalentine @anthropsych @thatkidofwarandpeace @cassiesversion @person-005 @wilmalovegood @leclercprettyeyes @esw1012 @lafrone @elliewhite-123 @avada-kedavra-bitch-187 @rethasavedlives @anninhaaagomes16 @doyoulovemenough @yousigned-upforthis @msfreedom @vhkdncu2ei8997 @berrywoods1245 @nessjo @wh0rezs @messageforthesmallestman @thecutestaaakawaii @starrynightsil @redama @batmanunicorns523 @spideyreid @sillymuffintrashflap @bennetbreakdown @girl-who-loves-books @onedgirl10 @fallen-angels2213 @aaaaau @notsochillnerd @swag13r @rousethemouse @cumuluscranium @maximoffwitch @youunravemerblgs @tearykth @sexlapis @guilty-cheese @rauspberries @kaetastic @dakotapaigelove @softtdaisy @fanfareofafangirl @love-dray @elyjellybelly @rivaiken @softlyspencer @chill-out-imqueen-persephone @spideystar @siampie @ssa-writerminds @kouibin

additional a/n: thank u all for ur kind words! i basically tagged u if u commented or reblogged (tysm for supporting!). lmk if you'd like to be removed from the taglist for this series! also, many of ur tags aren't working, and i don't know why! they're underlined on my screen, but when i leave edit mode, half the tags aren't working anymore. if anyone has any insight, pls let me know.

[rotagnus]

pick a pile; general...extended. [messages and more!!]

this doesn't have a specific theme other than i'll try to channel things u need to here, as well as whatever the cards say. it's quite possible that the piles will all focus on different themes, so choose wisely!!! credits to @selysie for the dividers.

pile 1; teacup. pile 2; pink rose. pile 3; glasses girl.

pile 1.

i feel like this pile is full of loners. many of you are very talkative and can be the friendliest people ever...but by yourself? you dwell in your insecurities, although sometimes the darker aspects of life give you peace. i think that the universe wants you to turn your solitude into something sweeter. you use it as a defense mechanism because that makes it something controlled. it's not sadness that comes randomly; if you're in it all the time, and you choose that, it's predictable. in your opinion it won't fracture your life more. the problem is that you guys can change your life so easily, and guess what? other bad things will happen anyway. you guys will only actually get out of solitude if you choose to save yourself. i know that many of you do actually crave deep relationships, you crave the stability provided by one. you want to have things, to have people, and for them to be just yours, or at least mainly yours. this is a pattern that will take you guys a while to learn. for some, weeks. for some, months. years. but you all have it in you to pass this by. this solitude that you never get out of is what makes your insecurities appear worse. you cannot keep breaking yourself just because you want to avoid others breaking you, honey. you guys may have grown up alone and seen everyone fly by you, while you stayed stuck on people, places, long-after they were gone. but your avoidance of true love, true people, is what makes you ache deep inside. you guys are some of the most hopeful people i know, despite what you put yourselves through. and listen, you have a darn good sense of what life can be like if you let go of that vision that you stick so deeply into yourself as a dagger. this genuineness that you crave is out there, sweetheart. it's out there and it's coming. some of you deal with imposter syndrome and you truly have a detachment from your own life and accomplishments, and you always give credit to other people but never yourself. you find countless ways to ebb away this emptiness, but the truth is that you can heal, bit by bit. give yourself the same sweetness and love you want from other people. give it. many will read this then completely forget what i said, but right now, i want you to wrap your arms around yourself and tell yourself that you will make it out, and that you love yourself. yeah it sounds corny, but you have to do these steps in order to genuinely move forward. you want this thin line of such raw moments in your life, and honey, those aren't always beautiful. people come from pain, people come from breakage and those people are always the ones that either carve lives full of softness and lullabies or the most bitter lines that end in doom. you are powerful, and you have so much love to give. first, give it to yourself. ask your guides for it. sit with your feelings instead of creating a controlled environment in order to mask this feeling of pain.

pile 2.

ooouu so offers are coming in. let me read more into this. recently a lot of you have finished something. many have finished stories with people and are now in this little in-between space, which is boring and honestly for those of you with good intuition scary, because you know that the next phase is gonna be SOMETHING. many of you have your eyes set on greatness; you will not settle for less. and perhaps, sometime not too long ago, it felt like you had it all. like those sequences in movies where a person is so deeply in love, and then it all breaks away. you guys do see the beauty in things that are not so conventionally seen as that. you are very honest with your words, too. you create a stable world for other people, and you're always working hard (partially to not think about things when there's nothing to do ahahaa...not so funny). anyways, let's see what u got ahead of ya, sweetheart. okay so the world popped out, and i interpret this is many new opportunities, not something that's necessarily set in stone. this will be a time in which you try to kill anything that reminds you of your past; you'll look at it and see all of the ridges and scars that were caused by painful experiences, and many of you will attempt to wash this away by changing up your surroundings or your physical appearance. people may tell you that you've changed. another important thing for you to know is that in this period of your life you cannot let others decide what is going to be in your own story. this is something that is up to YOU and the universe, however if you nod and let others decide what happens, the universe is gonna give you exactly that until you realize that others may not always want the best for you. many of you are innocent and hold a certain naivete that makes you let others in again and again after they disrespected you, after one moment of peace, even though the rest of your relationship was a storm. many of you struggle with boundaries, but really, the universe uses your boundaries as paths of elimination for things that are below you. the moment you realize that you deserve better is the moment that better things are available to you. you cannot keep falling into old patterns. many of you are the type of person to be like 'ohh i crave a situationship' and you believe that's all you're good for but in reality you want a deep relationship focused on honesty, vulnerability, and genuine love. stop saying things you don't mean and believing that you're only good enough for shit. we all know that's not true!! deep down, you have this sense of greatness. you know that you're destined for peace and love, so stop exposing yourself to areas of pain because you think that you deserve it, or because you feel bad for a person. you guys are genuine, loving people, but people can take advantage of that in this world. never doubt ur beauty and your spark. much love, pile 2.

pile 3.

okay okay so great era is coming in for you! similar to pile 2 so you may wanna go check that out. you guys are my firecrackers. i can tell that people love you already. i think that your ability to just be so vulnerable with people makes them reallyyy fall in love with you (platonically and romantically). you're unique and everyone can see that. don't dull your spark. OKAY SO LETS SEE WHAT ELSEE. yahh so you're giving. you got full cups and you're always pouring into other people and hobbies...many people do take advantage of that. while some of the messages in other piles called for them to connect w others, with this pile it's more important for you to focus on yourself. of course you'll meet people in this era of your life, but i think that while that's going, you're going to get a more bountiful harvest by taking care of yourself. i am so sorry to say this but a lot of you need to realize you are the SHYTTT. you are so unbelievably cool and awesome and whatever standards you're trying to reach may be impossible because you're literally already awesome. yeah, you may stick out like a sore thumb. you may be expressive and bubbly and some will see you as 'annoying'. but...you're literally you for a reason. you carry this beauty with you that people reminisce on for YEARS, sweetheart. YEARS. you're missed everywhere you leave, and you're like a good song. many of you struggle in this world; maybe neurodivergent or just felt like you're different, your whole life. you didn't come here to have it easy. you came to have it REAL. to experience ups and downs! you really do view life as a privilege and you will be rewarded for that and your persistence IMMENSELY. you don't back down, you don't give up! but you really do need to view yourself as ALL THAT because that's what you are. and i'm sorry if some shitheads ruined that for you, but you ARE SOOO amazing, and there will be all that love for you out there. this is a journey that doesn't end here, pile 3. don't give up. you haven't felt everything you will yet, and you've met SOO little people in the grand scheme of things. strangers, lovers, children, whatever that's out there...most of it hasn't come to you. it's okay to mourn what has left you or is leaving you. but keep your chin up. the best is ahead, and i'm not saying this because it'll get me more clicks on this platform. you may be sad now but that ain't for long. you guys are going to get everything you ever wanted as long as you realize that the center of your life should be YOU, not a hobby, not another person, not other people. this is your life and it's important that you see it that way, that you live vicariously through YOURSELF and not others. it's okay to feel so deeply. it's okay to cry easily and love easily and spend time thinking and missing things and people. it's a sign that your heart and soul are big. that's a good thing. don't give up on yourself.

[syluses]

HEART WANTS WHAT IT WANTS

𓍯𓂃 PART THREE (3) of the stepdad! sylus x reader series

(3) LOVE ON THE BRAIN

𓍯𓂃 CONTENT: stepdad! sylus therefore step/pseudocest, eventual smut, nsfw, dubcon, slowburn, yandere undertones, all characters are 18+ (mc is presently 23; sylus is in early forties), possessive & yandere behaviors, age difference, daddy kink, unreliable narrator, drinking, non-evol au, modern au, lowkey enemies to lovers, lots of (sexual) tension, loss of virginity, emotional breakdowns, some angst, some fluff, a lil bit of everything; tags will be added as story progresses— but know the story is relatively triggering

𓍯𓂃 SIDENOTE: hi guys sorry for the wait :,) this one’s a lil bit of a slower chapter imo but it’s still super important to the story. the next part or two might also be a lil ‘slow’ by some definition, but it’ll build onto itself do not fear. shoutout to the anon who gave me that song rec btw bc i was listening to it throughout writing this chapter 🫰 amazing taste. anyway without further ado.…. please enjoy :,) ALSO thank u sm for the support thus far!! i’m so happy yall seem to be liking it!! 🥹 if there’s any typos no there ain’t; i might come back to edit a lil later :,) [art credit: @/chimmyming on twitter/X]

He comes like a flashbang into your life.

And to preface this: you get it, alright? that your mother misses your late father, she’s not doing half as well as she used to be and she technically can be considered single, open for the dating market. This is a trying time for you both. God as your witness, you’ve been slipping down the slope while she’s been putting her nose to the grindstone; there’s no shortage of struggle for you both since your dad died- but finally, it’s settling in for her.

The loneliness.

The need for something- someone- more.

And you somewhat bitterly suppose you just don’t qualify, do you?

It was an inevitable thing.

Away from the metaphorical sand you buried your head in, deep down, you knew it was only a matter of time before a new man walked into her life- some actually half-decent, upstanding suitor- and flipped your world off its feet.

It wasn’t a maybe. Not a what if, either.

It was a when.

…Call it naivety on your end or just sheer stupidity, though, your sixteen-year-old brain having a lapse in judgement, but for whatever reason, you didn’t think that when would come.

You prayed against it. Childish or not, whether it can be considered a secret little attempt to sabotage your mother’s possible, budding relationships you had no proof of but suspected all the same (you recognize her perfume; not the rich cologne lingering on her blouse when she finally comes back from work)- you’d hoped she’d keep off from it, anyway.

From, you know,…

The whole ‘falling in love’ thing…

You’re not so deluded to believe it’s infidelity, her quietly seeking out another man outside of your father whole years after he’s passed (anyhow, you’re sure the legal side of it, the paperwork, doesn’t hold up the same), but that doesn’t ease the blow that is the idea of it.

Sure. He’s gone. That much is clear to you…The days pass- weeks, two years- and it’s almost like your life has reached a stopover, waiting for him to come back. I mean, sometimes, it’s almost like he was never even there.

…But at night, when darkness comes with its unbroken silence, you lie there and your heart thinks of him. Wherever you remember him, it hurts.

And yeah, maybe your mother seems growingly eager to leave your father behind… to truly make him a thing of the past even in memory- the final thing you have left of him. But you’re not so chummy with the silent suggestion of joining her there.

You don’t want that ‘when’ to come. Desperately, you don’t.

Oh, but it does.

Out of the blue like a comet from the sky, blindsiding you.

Swinging through the door, chuckling at something she’s said over her shoulder, you think, but the amusement on his face is almost too bare, too shadowed, to tell from where you sit.

You jolt in your chair.

The microwave, droning on, beeps, signaling your frozen dinner’s finally thawed out. But while it draws the attention of your drunken mother- otherwise distracted by the stranger she leads inside your little apartment- your growling stomach becomes the furthest thing from your mind in the moment.

Apparently, the stranger— tall, broad-shouldered, all suave with his sidepart and tailored leather jacket draped behind him like a cape— couldn’t care less for what’s cooking, either.

He doesn’t take his shoes off.

For that, you’re grateful, observing him with a reasonable sum of doubt as he lingers by the entry: It means he doesn’t have plans to stay long.

Which is good, because if he did, you think with a morsel of unease, your brow slowly creasing, you might’ve had to consider grabbing the broom and brushing him out.

The con is that he does wipe them off on the mat, though. Evidently, he plans to step deeper in.

His eyes, a ruby red, sharp as a hawk tracking prey, find yours from where you sit at the table, caught unawares as you scramble to hide your bare legs under your shirt, and he raises a subtle, curious brow at the observation.

“Oh,” he cocks his head, the front door- your front door- clicking behind him as he swiftly fixes his slight surprise into a cool, inscrutable mask.

“What a surprise. Your daughter, I presume?”

Distantly, in your head, a warning bell chimes.

…O-Or maybe it’s just the microwave, but—

Your mom turns it off, “Oh, honey,” in lieu of a greeting, she says, giggling as she walks over and sets her purse down on the tiny, round table you sit at.

Her work blouse is at least intact: you’ll give her that much. But her shift ended four hours ago and by the looks of it, she’s forgotten that promise to stop by the store on her way home- clearly occupied with something else- and in any case, you can’t really say the same for the stranger…

Dapper as he is— what with his perfect posture and urban get-up, the image of dashingly handsome, debonair, imposing (yet somehow just a touch weathered, too, however that may fit)- just to list a few traits off the bat— his top buttons are undone.

His hair, a natural silver all the way through, is almost imperceptibly disheveled. And maybe those things could be reasoned for or go unnoticed- to the untrained eye, they would- but you’re a little too paranoid, on alert as this asshole saunters into your house like it’s his, to miss the outlying factors.

The most damning of them all:

The wine-red smear of lipstick on his neck, only half concealed by his collar.

Your heart shudders in your chest.

And this is scary, this is nerve-wracking, yes, suddenly being force-fed the reason behind all the late nights your mother spent out, the whiffs of man on her clothes and the inexplicably giddy mood she’s been in lately- oh, it’s a million negative adjectives all packed in one- but when he strides forward, confident like you wouldn’t believe, and extends a hand for you to shake-?

You wonder if it’s fury, rising above anything else, that broils in your gut and makes accepting it an all but impossible task.

“Sylus,” he purrs as introduction.

And to be honest, that’s what this feels like in the most grandiose, pervasive of ways: the bad guy being introduced.

It’s true that you caught fragments of him: the vestigial notes of bergamot and vanilla that follow after your mother like some ghostly haunting; the odd lifts in her mood as of late; the phonecalls she gets at night that she always dismisses, but not without a thick swallow and a darting look your way before letting it ring— hell, you’ve even heard whispers within her friend circle of some dishy man dropping by her work building, nonchalant with a bouquet of flowers in tow—

Actually being face-to-face with him, literal inches apart, is freshly alarming.

Meeting him is something cinematic and new. Like a chord in the soundtrack dips; a note lowering to introduce the villain as one of the keys shake.

And perhaps comparing the scene, this man, to a movie isn’t so bad a coping mechanism, because yes, as the surround-sound kicks in and he’s all you can hear- that rich voice of velvet and bass to boot- the room going dark as you tunnel in on him before you— it feels like none of it is even real.

The kitchen blurs. The tiles on the wall smearing into one another, fuzzing together in a way that doesn’t resemble the home you know.

Bergamot, subtle but carrying a little bit of a punch, floods your system and inundates you. Vanilla lays the base for it, as sweet-smelling as nectar.

It settles in your lungs like congestion.

Truffle wrap. Marble and stone. The banister: meant to be sturdy.

It is.

He must be within the same age pool as your mom, yet when his penetrating stare briefly shifts over to her (if you didn’t know any better, amused at your reluctance to accept him)- and he grins that damned grin— he looks young again.

You’re actually almost fooled into believing he’s a gentleman.

There’s nothing… inherently wrong with him, you suppose. But none of that, him seeming apparently decent, matters- not when you’d already decided you’d stay loyal to your dad no matter what. N-Not when-

Not when something is wailing in your subconscious, parting cars in its path. Like a siren in the night shaking you awake to tell you something is terribly, terribly wrong. A wildfire. A disaster.

You quietly wonder if being in places he doesn’t belong gives him a confidence boost, or if he’s just impossibly tone deaf to the environment as it whispers in his ear, ‘you shouldn’t be here.’

All the while, something- mystical in nature, almost, like an angel or devil on your shoulder (it could be either)- is whispering to you, too.

Faintly, that voice in your head, deathly-quiet, says stop. Stop this. Nip it in the bud before it—

This is overwhelming. All of it.

You’re mortified and unsure of yourself; a mite betrayed, even, as you toss a cursory glance to your mom who watches on with a look of both expectance and worry, chewing away at her bottom lip.

It’s a little humorous, the faint concern made ten times more obvious in her half drunken state, as she puts herself on standby.

You can’t help but wonder what face you’re making now. If it’s one of shock, anger, or fear. Or an ugly amalgamation of the three— that’s possible, too.

Truthfully, you’re just as hard pressed to distinguish what you’re feeling: unsure of your next reaction. If anything, you might appreciate if she chooses to step forward and help you figure out just what the hell is happening, whether that means by extraction or a gentle hand on your shoulder to help steady you as he tells you his name.

Two minutes ago, you were waiting for your frozen dinner to thaw (really just a block of something half edible, but with the milk gone, you can’t make your routine cereal), thinking you were in the clear to lounge around with panties and a baggy shirt with your mother out God knows where. Now, you’re looking dead-on at what is perhaps your worst nightmare as the kitchen, not so comfortable anymore, fizzles to nothingness around you.

From this close, he’s… Leonine, that’s a pretty good word for him. As elegant and cocksure, relaxed, as a king of nature.

He doesn’t worry about what he will eat tomorrow: his sheer presence is dominating enough to have it served on a silver platter for him. Something about him just tells you so.

But he’s… beautiful in a way, too, you’ll concede that much (and only that much). Said with the best of intents, he reminds you of some prized thing from an antique shop, lacquered and pretty but weathered all the same.

You can’t imagine all the zeroes on his price tag, but he’s definitely an expensive thing. Part of you wonders what the hell he’s doing with your mother: you don’t come from wealth, so if he has any desire to romance her, it’s not for material gain.

…An admittedly endearing revelation. But it doesn’t quite placate you.

You can see the slight scruff of his chin, the faint wrinkles settling into his angular features. The harsh fluorescence of your kitchen isn’t the most flattering of lights, but he fairs surprisingly well under it regardless.

It’s obvious he takes good care of himself. And it’s also clear to you that he knows his worth- but considering the air of snugness around him, and your flowering dislike for him, you can’t help but wonder if he overestimates it.

The guy is a complete fucking stranger. You know him about as far as you can throw him.

A few beats of silence pass on. Each more unbearable than the last as you wordlessly drink the stranger in, his brow lifting with what you can only assume to be the stirrings of a challenge as he waits for you to take his much larger hand in yours.

Your uncertain gaze- made wide at the unwanted suddenness of it all- flits down to that hand. Despite the many jewels and glittering things that adorn his long, svelte fingers, though, there’s a lack of a wedding ring.

You allow yourself to deflate just a tiny bit at the observation.

It’s good to know he doesn’t have a wife and kids waiting at home for him, you sarcastically guess, while your mom guns for him as they sit unawares.

Still. You don’t know this man. You don’t- you don’t know what he’s doing with your mother (but don’t you?).

And he’s…

Perhaps draconian, actually, is the best descriptor.

Parting your lips in a silent breath, trying and failing to provide a simple hello to the guest or your nervous mother to the side, spectating it all, you’re at a bit of a loss for words when your subconscious realizes it’s presented with the quiet comparison of an animal or a devil for the guy— and no in between.

Sweetie, hey- Are… Are you able to talk? It’s… Important.

I… have some news. Not the good kind. Find somewhere to sit down and breathe.

…Breathe, you remind yourself. Yes. Just…

Just breathe.

Yet, his cologne- that citrusy spritz he wears like a coat, a smell you’re so unexplainably sensitive to for some reason, with its treacly vanilla undertones- is all you can breathe.

“Honey,” a thin, yet encouraging voice, your mom’s, calls out, and then her hand does settle on your shoulder as she sidles up to your chair hesitantly. “Say hi to him?”

You blink, lashes fluttering.

…And his stupid hand is still there, outstretched and waiting.

✦

You’ll give him credit for this:

Sylus, at the first opportunity to ditch his bratty, seething stepdaughter after his wife- his only real obligation to her- passes— doesn’t take it.

He had every chance to kick you to the curb now that your mother’s out of the picture. And to be honest, he has every reason, every right, to give you the boot. You’ve only been a complete bitch to him for the last seven years you’ve known him. Not to the point of ball-breaking, not quite, you were only a teenager after all, but it wasn’t extremely far off from that either.

Sylus, by his own volition, stays.

Moreover, he invites you into his home. And yes, you know it’s technically yours, too, but the circumstances of your filling out the rest of your youth under his roof weren’t the prettiest, and you weren’t the most… pleasant of persons to be around. Let alone live with.

Yet every stolen, curious glance he takes of you and the gentle, half smirks in passing- brushing your shoulder like it’s the most casual thing ever, like you never left- is a reminder in its own that this is your place, too. Whether you believe it or not is irrelevant.

If your stepfather’s aim is to reassure you, it’s working.

Slowly but surely.

Four days into the visit, you let go of much of your resistance and let yourself simply… breathe.

The past is the past, and, capable of rational thought, you’d do well to leave it behind. Let bygones be bygones and forgive both yourself and the people around you for former hurts of former times.

It’s called maturing, you quietly decide at the door one early morning, having been all but hauled out of bed, bidding the twins adieu as they hover at the porch.

This little resolve you let bud in your heart and grow is what compels you to wrap your arms around them when they hug you, embracing them back as Kieran mopes in your ear and Luke reminds it’s only for a few days.

It’s not as much to comfort you as it is to comfort himself and his brother.

You’re well aware of this, but keep quiet on the matter; you’re too sleepy to be in the mood to tease him for it, but mentally pocket it for a later time anyway.

Occupying any sort of space with the twins guarantees that you’ll need a decent deck of comebacks on standby. You’ve been adding to yours.

This short business trip of theirs isn’t some long, drawn-out pilgrimage taken to distant lands, despite their theatrics- it’s not even obligatory- but you know very well how eager the boys are to please their father, and if working a few days at one of the subsidiary companies to better the career he gave them will make him preen, then they’ll do it. Gladly.

You wouldn’t call either of them homebodies, per se… but wherever their father is, so is their heart. It’s only natural they’d want to make him proud. You know that.

You understand why they’re going, you do…

It’s just…

Over Luke’s shoulder, your eyes meet Sylus’s only briefly, but a second is all you need to read his emotions.

Propped against the threshold with folded arms and a spark of amusement that’s only slightly obvious, he watches them sandwich you in a big hug.

If it hasn’t been made clear yet— yes, they’ll miss you.

“Oh, so dramatic,” their father comments, not with any shortage of entertainment. You think if he could, he would’ve prepared a bowl of popcorn for this- but while he’s certainly tickled by the sight, there’s something else in his stare as he divvies it between you three, gathered in a tangle of arms and suitcases, that he won’t admit aloud.

Pride, maybe…?

Satisfaction?

Or… Content. That’s the closest word.

You hope Sylus doesn’t see the slight fluster left on you by his flippant remark. Untucking your chin from one of the boys’ shoulders as you stand upright and pat their backs respectively.

“A-Alright, boys, that’s enough.”

“Say it back,” Luke chirps, “say you’ll miss us!”

Sighing, you roll your eyes. “I just said I did-“

“But do it louder! We’ll be gone for three whole days!”

“Yeah! Don’t you love us, sis?! Will you really just stand there unaffected as we turn our backs and go?”

If unaffected means arms crossed, shivering in freezing temperatures with the faintest of frowns on your face, some inner piece of you experiencing a quiet, unanticipated ache at their departure, then yes- by all means, you’re unaffected.

You purse your lips, snipping back with only half the bite, “If you keep pushing it, I’ll email the firm specifically and tell them to keep you dummies there for longer.”

A deep, languid chuckle answers back; like a slowed song with reverb, it hits differently.

Considering your newfound efforts to squash the beef between you both- even if it was only one-sided- you don’t ignore him out of bitterness, but the slight unease is still something you can’t quite shake, so you momentarily survey the porch below (anything but him, stood somewhere behind you), and sniff.

I mean, it’s reasonable to be a little awkward, isn’t it…? You’ve spent all your adult years clinging onto the straws of a grudge your teenage self kept for him- and back then, you were only fiercer, more vocal, in your stance taken against your new stepfamily.

So yeah, while it’s safe to say the worst of that metaphorical storm has blown over, the debris is still absolutely there: the ruined bits you have to cautiously step across and just- try to overlook.

Too low for anyone to hear, you softly sigh.

Just as you determined to make peace with him, though, you tranquilly think to yourself, you’ll too learn how to navigate the aftermath of that silently-signed treaty.

Of course, that awkward feeling in the air, not powerful enough to take precedence in your mind, but niggling all the same, is only temporary.

Two weeks.

“Geez, sis,” Kieran snickers, Luke grinning ear to ear at your other side, the duo forming a flank, “someone woke up on the wrong side of bed, huh?”

“You’ll be late, you two,” a lilting voice from behind chimes in, effectively putting an end to the antics.

You don’t bother looking behind, but the twins’ focus shifts over your head before they slump their backs and sigh, conceding.

Hmph. Theatrical as always.

“Yeah, yeah, we got it, dad! We’re going!”

Rewrapping your robe, you offer a longanimous exhale when Kieran’s lanky arm unfurls from you, the boys finally stepping away for the car. The thin cotton does little to ward off the December cold, its roots digging bone-deep within seconds of lingering on the porch, and underneath it, your tanktop and panties offer not an iota of warmth, either- but you weren’t about to wave them goodbye half-naked, so the robe does its part to cover you.

Within a few minutes, you’ll be curled up in your bed anyway, allowed to revisit the sleep you’d been so rudely pulled from.

Piling into the car, they holler to you, and with a smile you can’t quite fight off, you shake your head at them all the while.

The engine grumbles to life. The idiots they are, they give it a few gratuitous revs (to impress you? God only knows their end goal) and then the gate is opening for them as they peel off.

Dummies.

And then it’s just you and him.

You and Sylus.

You and… your stepfather.

A hand, broad and big but warm- oh so reluctant- places itself on your shoulder, circling the blade reassuringly with its thumb. To your immense surprise, you manage to keep from flinching beneath it, but just barely.

Still. If that’s not progress, you don’t know what is.

With an only somewhat visible shiver, you turn around and face him as he shifts sideways to the door, his chin trained your way as he offers a slight, deliberate smirk. Something like encouragement is used as its subtext.

His hand leaves as quickly as it came, slipping away. Its imprint of warmth slowly fades, too.

He opens the door wide, gesturing with a nonchalant little nod, “Ready to go in?” In flannel pajamas, bare foot, he doesn’t even shiver.

Vacillating, you spare one last look behind you, out to the courtyard with its sprawling, greyed lawn and erected fences, and watch the stillness. It’s a sight worthy of your admiration.

A flurry— the first of the season— begins to fall.

You breathe out. A cloud of white whisks from your lips and blends into nothingness. It’s pretty in the way that it doesn’t last for long.

And it’s freezing but it’s… strange. How this one cold winter develops this way of thawing you out.

Returning to the man in front of you, waiting patiently, you nod, dipping your head on the way past him. Bundling yourself tighter. “Yeah.”

✦

Not long after midday, you’re a fraction through one of your new books- but you decide to put it down.

It’s for a couple different reasons. One of them being that it’s not gotten good yet- the plot moving at a snail’s speed, the protagonist not interesting enough to even remember the name of- and you figure the chapter you’re closing out on now is a good breaking point. The main one, though, is that you’re awfully bored and this house, despite holding not the best of memories, has lots to offer.

When it comes to fun— exploring its labyrinthine rooms, utilizing its many services and amenities (like a personal chef, for instance, or a home theater and gym)— there’s no shortage of things to do.

It’s just with an ounce of unease that you realize those fun opportunities, however, are only half the appeal without the twins.

Annoying, troublesome, experts at exaggeration and being thorns in your side— yes, they’re all of that and then some. But if we’re listing all their shining traits right now, then for the record, ‘fun’ must be one of them.

And yeah, okay, their absence is starting to kick in just a little bit. But it’s not a big deal. I mean, what’s it matter if they’re gone for a few days? You’ll blink and it’ll be over.

They’ll be back. You’ll greet them at the door after they veer into the driveway, waiting there just as you did when waving them goodbye, and Sylus will be chuckling behind you in that rich, unruffled way he does as they herd you inside and divulge their journey.

Heaving a sigh, you toss your book aside on the dormer window and relocate to your bed.

You belly flop on it before rolling on your back to stare at the ceiling.

For only a moment, you close your eyes and let yourself be barraged by the thoughts you’d been blocking out; the unique responsibilities and aches.

You intake an unsteady, deep breath and attempt to manage them all one at a time— but they don’t stand in single-file, eager to attack you from every angle all at once.

The dress for the funeral…

Looking through your mother’s old things…

And then everything that comes afterward of that, too. Whatever that might entail.

As ambivalent as the future may seem, an abstract thing veiled behind fog and uncertainty, you ruefully suppose not wanting it to come won’t stop it from doing just that.

And then of course, there’s the whole booking your flight thing… leaving this place for, if you’re being realistic, probably the last fucking time and then—

Have you even asked Sylus who’s giving the eulogy?

“No,” you mumble before rolling on your stomach again, legs and arms splayed on the bed like a starfish.

God help you. Half of you is expecting for the twins, just as irksome as they are entertaining, to come bursting through your door at any moment and save you from the woes of having nothing to do. To be fair, sitting around and doing absolutely nothing is better than some things- like work, namely (you don’t want to imagine the stack of papers that’s building on your desk during your leave)- but as you quietly ponder the week and a half ahead, you start to worry it’ll be uneventful from start to finish.

Well, as uneventful that a trip begotten by a funeral can be, anyway.

Maybe it’s being wishful- sickeningly optimistic in a situation with no one silver lining- but you’d like to hope you can at least squeeze out some enjoyment during your stay.

As sheepish as you are to admit it, the twins were a staple in that halfbaked idea.

But now they’re gone. For three days. And God only knows why it was so simple a decision for them to make, leaving you behind when right now, realistically speaking, your little screwed up family should be huddling together now more than ever, but—

(‘Why was it simple?’ Well, why do you think…? Because you’ve been so coldly pushing them away and they finally took the hint and-)

You get up and leave your room, traipsing down the hallway. You can’t find it in you to care, right now, about who you might bump into while the house is left to two people and a whole lot of ice.

Sylus is probably in his study, anyway. Assuming he even is in the home right now, but with the long laundry list of errands and contractual deals that require his flowery, hasty signature to be secured, you doubt he spends too much of his time here on weekdays.

As you walk through the stretching halls, you trace the walls with a finger, bored.

You’re stopped in your tracks by a picture- just one of the many lavish decorations- and tilt your head up to stare at it in its entirety.

It’s a big thing; a large, elaborate wooden frame without dust.

Five portraits stare back at you. But you- squished between the cheerful twins, stood before your mother and stepfather who join in a kiss behind your head, smiling lips smushed together as he holds back her veil- don’t don the same delighted expression.

Maybe it’s immature of you, but as the lingering, subtle whisps of something citrusy waft by, you do offer a slight huff of amusement at the image. It’s just so comically awful, nailed to the wall in a frame so stupidly opulent it’s like some boast against poor people— a should-be perfect wedding photo marred by the bitterness oozing off the stepdaughter.

Alright, to be fair, you’re not outright scowling or anything, but the smile you plaster on is so clearly fake it’s hard not to laugh at it—

“She looked like you, you know.”

You must jump five feet into the air.

He adds, raising one wryly amused brow, “Somewhat.”

Startled, you turn to find him staring not at the picture he presumably references- but you.

Your brow furrows slightly, and then he does glance over to the frame as you hover your hand over your heart, clutching your invisible pearls in a moment of deja vu.

A soft sigh. Is this how you’ll be seeing him now…? Every time you happen to bump into your stepfather- evidently not the best at evading him- does it mean you’ll be caught off guard as he stands there, unbothered, before apologizing?

Except, this time he doesn’t. He’s content pretending not to notice your shudder- your fear of him. Ruby-red hues drifting off as his jaw imperceptibly tightens.

Murmuring under his breath as he surveys the illustration almost quizzically, “But wasn’t… quite you.”

Ah, right- the wedding photo. Your mother. You resemble her— That’s what he’s getting at here.

“Y-Yeah…” You mumble back. You don’t have much to offer him, but it’s better than ignoring him: the thing you recently decided you wouldn’t be doing on this trip.

Slowly, you close your mouth. You do a quick once-over of him, and then look back towards the hanging memory.

There’s a certain silence that occurs between you both, then. Simultaneous to it- is a weight dropping in your heart, slowly descending the longer you reminisce on the familiar woman’s profile.

Not only has the stepdaughter’s scornful face been immortalized, but so has your dead mother’s.

It’s in a moment of weakness, perhaps, that you reach out to trail her jaw, pondering the past as it sweeps you up in its nostalgic current.

Your mind is less focused on acting cool and indifferent in front of your stepfather and more on the parent that has been ripped away from you- now stood before you in an intricate frame along a dark wall. So maybe later you might regret showing your belly to him, but right now, you really can’t find it in you to care.

You told yourself the past is the past.

Now, all there’s left to do is commit.

“She looked… so happy,” you’re surprised to realize the voice filling your ears is your own, gravelly from disuse, barely audible. Part of you debates feeling embarrassed, but quickly erases the idea because you don’t think your stepfather would have any real intent to ridicule you, least of all right now.

Your younger self has always been fairly good at believing everyone around you is a sworn enemy, out to get you behind your back, but your stepfather is…

Family, a little voice in the back of your head supplies. And you’re puzzled at the lack of backlash it receives this time around.

You start to wonder if he’s heard, the quiet sprawling for just a touch too long, self-consciousness a breath away as something, his attention, you think, bores into the back of your head, but then he hums and you’re at ease again.

“She was so happy,” he agrees. “We both were.”

Sylus, from the corner of his eye, watches.

Some gear turns in the very back of your skull and begs to ask the question of just what he’s doing here right now; the master bedroom- now his alone, you realize with an unbidden squeeze of your heart- is on the other wing of the house. During the daytime, he’s typically downstairs, anyway.

But you suppose that’s besides the point.

Your eyes flutter down, and then your hand follows. Ghosting along the photo in one sweeping motion before you turn just halfway to face him.

You’re making headway on squashing your beef with him, oh definitely, but there’s a sort of intimacy that comes with standing front-to-front, and right now, you think that’d be overwhelming and weird for the both of you.

He’s not… used to you being exactly nice to him, anyway, or open. Or agreeable. Or- or anything, really. For your teen years, you erected a wall in between you both and actively refused to let anyone scale it— and after you moved out, you weren’t so hellbent on keeping him away, sure, not half as immature and bratty as you had been, but the distance was absolutely still there. Just quieter.

No longer screamed, but rather implied.

For a while, you’d even wondered if he’d agreed upon it. If he threw in the metaphorical towel on building a relationship with you; defeated and exasperated. But you guess he’s a multimillionaire for a reason— it requires dogged ambition- drive- to reach those heights, after all— and you’ve sometimes wondered if meeting Sylus was like an immovable object going head to head with an unstoppable force.

For your part, you’re not so used to this, either. Kind of giving into this… paternal subtext to your nonexistent connection.

It’s odd. New, as it creeps in on you, slowly dialing up the temperature. Though the way it plants its seed is too gradual to make you want to dig it out from the dirt right away.

It’s a foreign thing, yes— when your eyes meet his, an inscrutable, glittering red, and a ribbon of warmth unfurls in your aching chest as you quietly realize he’s there for you, that in this tragedy, you’re not alone— but it’s not… bad, per se.

Not like you’d always imagined it’d be, anyway.

I mean, back then you didn’t even want to imagine it, but now—

Two weeks, your nagging subconscious reminds, and then you’ll be gone. Your… family (the pest-like, ever plotting twins; Sylus, even, the persistent but gentle stepfather you’d kept on hold indefinitely) will become just a speck in the distance as it grows behind you. And then….

And then you’ll be alone. And that was what you wanted, wasn’t it?

But maybe if you had just- not been so fucking stubborn and bent on making a point to your mother, if you had just visited a little more, then maybe by some stretch of inagination you could’ve done something to-

Your soul sinks in your chest. The feeling of regret, terrible and distinct, rips you a new one as you try not to wilt in the silence. But Sylus’s eyes are warm, softening into a pass of concern as he drops his folded arms.

Business-oriented, arrogant, competitive, bound and determined. You and the world have seen each of those facets of him, but the gentler side is one that the latter doesn’t own access to.

When Sylus’s fingers twitch, his arm nearly reaching out to you as he visibly vacillates, you feel a strange flash of endearment towards him.

Your mother saw this side of him all the time, you inwardly consider. Because that’s who he reserved it most for.

Sylus assigned things to one of two categories: his family, and then everything else.

And you- you infuriating, lovely little dragon of a daughter- fell to the former.

There’s all kinds of uncertainty swirling in his eyes, but he settles for a soft clear of his throat, looking you over. The gloss in your stare, the one that hangs over your lashes and refuses to fall as if permanently suspended there, makes him open his mouth, but before he can say anything, you undercut his words.

“What are you doing here?”

You ask. Not in a demanding way: you’re just eager to distract you both from your impending waterworks.

You wonder if he knows; what’s running through his head as you stand there and fidget with the hem of your shirt, rapidly blinking to keep the tears at bay. You don’t remember giving them permission to come, but here they are, knocking.

His brow raises by the faintest tick, and then he smiles an easy, slight smile. Dipping his hands in his pockets to rest.

“The twins forgot something on their journey, it seems. They texted me to grab it for them. So,” he says, giving a loose shrug with one shoulder, looking down the hallway past you, tone as mocking yet sincere as ever, “Here I am, letting myself be treated like some poor… errand boy.”

“Oh.”

Poor is… certainly not the word you’d select for him, but…

He finishes, eyes catching yours in a second of boldness, “I’ll mail it out to the firm. They’ll receive it no later than this evening.”

You give a small nod, looking down to his chest because it offers a convenient escape to his penetrating, sharp stare, and frankly, if you’re getting emotional at some old picture on the wall- then you need the respite.

You rub your forearm, “Well, I’ll just be going now.”

“Where to?” A tiny twitch of his lip tells you he spoke too soon. His chest swells out. Your eyes jump to his.

“If you need a car, you can use any of the ones in the garage,” he remedies. You blanche. “Just point, and I’ll give you the keys-“

“Oh, no, no, no,” you chuckle suddenly, shaking your head. Sylus pauses, quirking one brow as he tilts his chin by a fraction, interest and maybe even a little bit of mirth reshaping his face at your change in demeanor.

“I didn’t mean I was going out,” you quickly add, “Realistically, I probably would’ve just went downstairs and ate something... Or brought a snack out to the sunroom.”

He frowns. “The sunroom might be a bit cold, though.”

“I know. I- I just wanna see how it looks after all this time.”

To your surprise, Sylus lets out a smooth, somewhat short chuckle. At your confusion, he elaborates, “This place is still the same, Kitten,” he chides in a harmless, rather loving tone, “All that’s different is that you’re here.”

…And that this time around, your mother isn’t.

Yet Sylus, as if clueless to the glaring elephant in the room, smirks and doesn’t mention it. And truthfully, you’re grateful for that. Just- you have your questions, those little segments of his short account over the phone that you want to pick apart and scrutinize- but all of that is for later. An indefinite later... Right now is too soon.

You’re hardly keeping your feelings in check as is: you don’t need to pile further revelations of your mother’s death onto the plate. In any case, as much as a gritty, inward part of you would like to know every scrap of information possible- at the end of the day, it’d be unnecessary.

Your mother died the way she did. And all attempts or methods of probing for more context, you fear, would only do more harm than good.

“I guess it still feels the same,” you mumble out an agreement, peering down the corridor towards the stairs, his figure standing tall and unruffled to your side. “All the decorations are the same.”

“Exactly,” he hums, “and the sunroom is no different. You wouldn’t want to… catch a cold on your vacation, would you?”

Vacation is a funny word for it, but you won’t shoot him for being optimistic. You’d honestly benefit from following his example.

You snort softly, sheepishly looking down, “I won’t catch a cold. It can’t be that bad. Besides,” you lift your chin, meeting his gaze- wholly transfixed on you, a glimmering, fascinated red- “Back at my apartment, the AC and heating is usually broken, so… I’m used to arctic temperatures.”

You try to joke, but he doesn’t laugh at it. In fact, his lighthearted smirk ebbs into a thin line as he parts his mouth and furrows his brow at you. Your breath hitches slightly.

The tears that had been beading at your eyes are gone, but now a sense of uncertainty replaces them in your chest.

He unstuffs his hands from either of his pockets. “That’s nothing to brag about,” he croaks.

Your lashes flutter, ears perking under his uneven timber. You… don’t often hear that voice come from him.

He swiftly recorrects himself, saying in a lighter but just as firm tone, “You should take care of yourself. Have you… been well, by the way? How is it back at your old place?” Sylus lowly ventures, before one half of his mouth quirks up playfully.

He leans his back against the wall, localizing his attention fully to you. Not paying the smallest of glances to the large, idyllic photo you stand in front of.

“I wonder,” he starts, “What a day in the life looks like in your shoes.”

A beat of silence passes. In that time, you realize it’s not just a spoken fragment of his thoughts, but a question. You answer accordingly.

Not without a look down the hall, though, silently wishing to exit the conversation as it begins to drag on.

The sunroom, for as cold as it’s advertised, sounds better and better.

You don’t quite laugh, but by some standard it might be considered one. “Well, it’s not really anything interesting. Obviously, it’s not as glamorous as like, you guys here,” you say, “but I’m fine where I am.”

Physically, fine. Although, the level of content you hold inwardly is a bit of a different story.

You’ll keep that on its shelf. Right now, it’s better where it is: in the dark; in the quiet.

Safe with you.

Sylus simply says, “You… shouldn’t settle for less,” impossibly careful with his choice of words, albeit you don’t fully know why.

“I-I’m not,” you jump to justify. You have a growing inkling that this conversation is going nowhere, and you don’t exactly like small talk, so you aim to wrap this up.

“I work hard at my job, but-“

But what? you still don’t wanna die in a cubicle during your mundane 9-5 job? Hmph. Yeah, get in line behind literally everyone else.

Not everybody has the same luxury that Sylus does, though: he’ll die without regrets, knowing he secured riches for his next thousand generations, but you can’t really say the same. That is… assuming you branch off from the Qins and separate yourself from that golden heritage. Which-

You are. You will. These two weeks will either fly by or slug by, but it doesn’t change the fact that you’ll be bidding the boys farewell one last time.

You’ll do the right, reasonable thing, excuse yourself from the metaphorical table that is your stepfamily (who, if you’re being honest, are probably done with you deep down but are too nice- sympathetic in this dark time- to say something), and go back home. To that shitty, cramped apartment with its broken utilities and cracks in the ceiling. To that cubicle; to all the paperwork on your desk amounting to a miniature Tower of Babel.

You’ll go back to the loneliness and uncertainty.

Yet it will just be even colder, then. Knowing that palatial house on the hills, once a backup plan of sorts- a final failsafe if your humble little life you’d been trying to make for yourself collapsed- is no longer an option.

Because the one precious thread tying you to it—

Snapped.

“I work hard at my job,” you try anew, inexplicably having trouble meeting his eyes. “I always strive for better, just- I know how to be content with what I have, you know?”

It’s not meant as a jab towards him, you swear it’s not, albeit your way of going about it could use a little bit of work. Considering you’ve been making all sorts of revolutionary improvements on this trip, though, you don’t think adjusting your tone should be too big of an issue.

At any rate- you’re not about to start this big discussion with your stepfather on career paths and how satisfied you are with yours, though, and that’s where this seems to be headed.

You gesture down the hall with a shoulder and smile if only to be polite.

“But anyway, I think I’ll-“

“You know,” Sylus starts, glancing up to you expectantly, and it’s only right then that you realize he’d been looking at the floor- or, more accurately, your legs- while mulling over something, silent. His words are measured, slow; his hues more obsidian than ruby in the dimly-lit corridor. The vibrant twinkle of scarlet is still there, but a shadow pours over his brow. His slight crow’s feet can be spotted.

He’s pushing forty one now, but it’s strange- how you look at him and don’t notice the age. He’s as virile and manly as ever. In his prime, you’d say.

Silently, you wonder in a breath if all men are like wine in the way that they age, or if your stepfather was a result of a fluke.

I mean, you’re aware that he takes good care of himself. Those boxing sessions he does on the side in the home gym certainly do their part to keep him physically afloat, and his chef only uses ingredients of the highest quality— but still…

It’s not wrong to make the comment that he’s a bit of a genetic jewel.

You remind yourself to tune back into his words, straightening your spine slightly.

Yes, you can acknowledge- in absolutely no weird way, mind you- that your stepfather is an attractive guy. There’s no science to it: he just… is. Your mother certainty knew it; all her gossiping friends, too. You’re not so taken by an old grudge to pretend Sylus’s charm isn’t universal.

“Don’t… take this the wrong way, I don’t mean to be pushy,” he drawls, the image of casual. There’s a wisp of hesitance in his eyes, though. You don’t miss it. “But if you ever want to try your hand at my company,” he leaves the suggestion open-ended, although there’s nothing you need further clarity on.

You laugh nervously, ignoring the inward part of you that perks a little at the offer.

“Ah, no, I… already have a job back at my place. And I think the commute would be a nightmare,” A commute is a bit of an understatement— if you were to hop aboard your stepfather’s panel, you’d actually have to move back out to Linkon or, perhaps more conveniently, just live out of your old bedroom already here.

But for so many reasons, working for Sylus just… isn’t a great idea.

Besides- he’s just being nice to you, anyway. The four of you are in a hard time right now.

You’ve never gotten along well with Sylus, sure, and he’s well-acquainted with your abrasive exterior, but he’s never been half as immature as your younger self in regards to sympathy, so of course he’s trying to make you feel better— you’re his veritable stepdaughter, after all. There’s not many better ways to do that than to offer you an extremely lucrative job that he knows you’ll ultimately decline— meaning he’ll take no loss.

He’s just being polite… Which makes you a smidgen more uncomfortable to acknowledge your bumpy past with him. Here he is with the twins, flying you out and making efforts to comfort you in his own roundabout way after his wife’s died- no doubt dealing with that loss as well- and you’re still trying to fully commit to ‘new beginnings’ and all.

He’s just a man at the end of the day, you realize right then, a pang of guilt fattening your heart. He fell in love with your mother; so much so that he was willing to put up with her insufferable, brat of a child for years on end.

And you were- well, for lack of a better word you were a bitch.

And yeah there’s a million justifications you can make for it, but the point of the matter right now is that you feel bad. You feel like such an intruder, a nuisance, a burden now weighing on his, Luke’s, and Kieran’s shoulders, and-

Sylus shrugs like there’s nothing on them. Glances down to rub his forefinger and thumb together. Dripping nonchalance right from the pores.

“Suit yourself.” He says smoothly, taking your rejection no different than a duck would with water off its wings. “But Sweetie,” he states, eyes clashing with yours as if to add emphasis to whatever he’ll say, “The opportunity will always be up in the air for you. Do you understand?”

Oh, the emphasis is there, alright.

You swallow. “O-Okay.”

“See you, then.”

And then he’s breezing past before you can even clumsily dismiss yourself. Tall and broad and gone.

His heady cologne remains in a subtle draft and then that, too, disappears.

R-Right, you blink, sighing out a big breath you didn’t realize you were holding all along.

The sunroom.

✦

His large hand, extended like an offering, slightly falters when he understands you don’t have a lick of desire to shake it.

Maybe you’re a bit hangry, yes, and you’ll admit that probably does no favors for your current mood as this ridiculous scene unfolds before you- but all these emotions that bud inside you now, flowering no different than weeds, entangling themselves as they expand- are very much valid and real.

You’re still positively pissed and confused and above all, hurt that she’s been going behind your back and flirting around without so much as telling you.

See, of course you had your ideas and creeping little doubts— it was hard not to what with the way her schedule was warping in front of your eyes, how she seemed just a pinch happier than usual, giddy, almost— but being faced with the truth of it all in its real, physical form is a different matter entirely.

And-

And how she could do this to you? after- after what happened with your father?

Well, you just don’t fucking know.

But she’s doing it to you right now, anxiously peering at you from your side, and she’s smiling.

A beat of silence occurs, loud and tedious.

His hand stays out, dangling like a modifier, and it’s like the sumptuous asshole knows you’ll change your mind and backtrack or something: as if that’s all he’s used to, people parting like the Red Sea and bowing for him without question.

…Audacious: you’ll admit that much. But you’ll give him no more credit than that, as kind of backhanded as it is.

Time slows. In reality, no more than two seconds must’ve passed, but as the eyes of your mother drill into your profile both in a mash of expectance and worry, and your heart lodges in your throat, it feels like you’re stuck in a time capsule.

You’ve been standing here too long. This enigmatic, admittedly dashing stranger (Sylus, your mind- seemingly having shut off in the moment to lend your senses full control- helpfully contributes) has been in your home too long and—

Mentally, you scold yourself for visibly balking. You steel yourself against him and school your expression.

This is your house.

He won’t make you feel like an outsider in it.

The silver-haired man, with the scruff on his chin and the punch of whiskey underlining his fancy-shmancy cologne, with his sharp red eyes, drops his hand back to his side and actually laughs at your blatant rejection of him.

“Very hospitable, I see. I like that,” he tosses behind his broad shoulder to your somewhat mortified mother as he, egregiously enough, goes to take his shoes off at the door, a hand in his pocket. “Your kid is as bold as you are, honey.”

Honey?

…Honey?

You grow a mite afraid in that moment, internally struggling to pinpoint just what degree of involvement this awful yet handsome guy has with your mother.

How deep into this little… fling of theirs are they, anyway?

She opens her mouth, looks at you, then closes it. Blustering out a laughing apology, she leaves your side and flutters over to him. You don’t know if you’re thankful for the reprieve, the momentary alone time to your own thoughts, or unbelievably hurt as you watch her take his jacket and hang it in the coat closet, happy to do it despite the turmoil hidden beneath all her inebriated twirling.

On the inside, your world is fracturing down the middle, drifting apart steadily like the planes of Pangaea— but this stupid awful guy just shrugs out a kink in his neck, turning back to your mother (who’s only slightly embraced on your account) to swoop down and thank her with a peck to the lips.

The rest of your weak appetite for microwaved dinner flies out the window.

And in your undies and that old beloved tee of your late father’s, you take the chance while they’re distracted to hop off the chair and fly up the steps.

For everyone’s sake, you hope the guy— Sylus, your mind so helpfully provides as you sob into your pillows— is only temporary.

♡ tags: @leftpoetrymoon @valhalla-soulstealer @gingybimby @crowsandapples @novthirty @mcdepressed290 @jadeloverxd @satansdaughter123 @blitziwitch @luminaaaz @eialovescats @noliniodeaes @dramaticalsachan @loudhologramturtle @softiepeachess @reni502 @datfangirl @lilyalone @thatsbunnysmind @lioria @floooring @babyx91 @rosie279 @calistaxoxo24 @kingheinrey @msturi2u @theplaid-wearingmoose @blueseachelle @themonotonysyndrome @crazyartist0001-blog @librarydame @deathlycrow @whdhjfjvjvjfjdhsj @terriblesoup @floofycookie @sdlyoongi @hikaakox @melba1982 @crimsonsylus @miuangel @ravynstreasure @corvo-core ✦ ask to be added to the taglist! just make sure you have an age in your bio (17+) ✨ hopefully i got everyone down lol :,)

[brookghaib-blog]

Almost Loved - IV

Pairing: Robert ‘Bob’ Reynolds x reader

Summary: Four months of dates, gave Y/N hope that she found the one after hopeless years, Bob looks in love, treats beautiful. There's one step that looks like it's coming. Until Bob breaks it off with her. Encountering each other a year and an half later. What happened ?

Word count: 7,3k

--

Bob hadn’t stopped searching.

Not after seeing her in that grocery store aisle. Not after watching her run from him like he was something cruel. Something venomous. Not after Serena’s glare—sharp enough to slice open his chest—and definitely not after the sleepless nights that followed, where he lay in his cot at the Watchtower with her name echoing through his thoughts like a ghost he couldn’t exorcize.

He’d ruined everything.

But even if she never wanted to see him again, even if she screamed in his face and told him she hated him, he just wanted—needed—to see her one more time. Just one more time. He told himself it was just to apologize. Just to explain. Just to say goodbye properly, even if she didn’t owe him the time of day.

It started with him walking blocks around the neighborhood where the market was. He kept hoping maybe she lived nearby. Maybe she was just walking home, or grabbing coffee, or picking up dry cleaning—anything that would bring her into his line of sight again.

Days passed. Nothing.

He sat in cafes longer than any sane person would. Tried bookstores. Rooftop bars. Vintage markets on the weekends. Coffee spots with house plants and sad jazz playing on vinyl—places he remembered she liked in Florida. Places that felt like her. Warm and soft and kind.

Nothing.

Bob would return to the Watchtower most nights with sore feet and raw hope. And each night, he’d open his notes app, just in case he got lucky. Just in case he could jot down what he’d say if he saw her.

It always started the same.

"Hi. I'm sorry."

But after that, the words collapsed into dust. What could he say? That he had been so deep in addiction, he didn’t even trust himself around her anymore? That every time she held him, he felt both loved and unworthy? That he’d convinced himself that walking away would protect her—even when it tore him to pieces?

He thought about texting Serena. Or even Yelena again—maybe she’d found something, anything. But after Serena’s reaction, after the way her eyes had narrowed with so much fury, like he wasn’t even worth speaking to, he didn’t dare.

Instead, he’d started writing. Tiny pieces of her etched into scraps of paper, coffee receipts, his palm sometimes. He wrote down the way she used to hum while pouring her coffee. The way her head tilted when she was reading and completely immersed. The smell of her shampoo on his pillow. The sound of her laughter when he told the dumbest joke and it still landed.

All those tiny things that made a person real—and now felt impossibly far away.

He kept searching.

One day, while walking past a library tucked into a quiet street, he paused. It had vines curling up the stone and a wooden sign that swayed in the breeze. It looked like the kind of place Y/N would fall in love with.

He stepped inside, scanning the aisles like a ghost searching for a memory.

She wasn’t there.

But he stood still for a long time anyway, hand resting on the spine of a book she would’ve picked. Something poetic. Something sad. Maybe she wasn’t in New York for books or coffee or parties or exploration at all. Maybe she was here for work. School. Something he never asked about. Because back then, he was too busy hiding everything about himself.

He never asked what she wanted to be.

And that thought hit him like a truck.

How much he never got to know.

The last time they spoke, really spoke, was the night she’d kissed his forehead and told him she believed in him.

And he repaid her with silence. With a block. With a void.

She had looked at him like he was the sun.

And he had convinced himself he was the eclipse.

He ran from her. And now he didn’t even know where to look anymore.

Still, he kept walking. Past bakeries and bookstores and the kinds of flower shops she would’ve dragged him into just to smell the peonies. Every time he saw a scarf that looked like hers, or a shape of her in a crowd, his heart would thud painfully against his ribs.

Every woman with soft eyes and tired shoulders felt like her. And none of them were.

And yet…

He kept hoping.

Because he needed to see her one more time. Just once.

Even if she only gave him a single second. Even if she looked through him like he was a ghost.

He would take it.

He would take anything.

--

They had been walking for hours.

Another Sunday slipping through the cracks of Bob’s tired fingers—another day swallowed whole by the noise and endless streets of New York City. It had rained that morning, and the sidewalks were still damp, reflecting the sky like mirrors. The weight of failure clung to Bob’s shoulders like a soaked coat.

Yelena walked a few steps ahead of him, scanning every face they passed. She was still hopeful, still talking, still asking questions. But Bob’s pace had slowed. He kept looking at the ground, like maybe she'd appear there in a reflection or footprint.

"Come on," Yelena said gently, tossing him a look over her shoulder. “We’ll try the upper side next.”

Bob sighed, stuffing his cold hands into his coat pockets. “She’s not up there, either.”

“You don’t know that,” she replied, nudging him. “We haven’t even tried half the neighborhoods yet.”

Bob shook his head, jaw tightening. “Yelena… she’s gone. She left Florida. Left me. She probably found someone else. Someone who isn’t a disaster.”

Yelena stopped walking, standing in front of him. “Don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

“Quit when it’s hard.” Her voice dropped lower. “She didn’t quit on you, Bob. You left her. You walked away.”

He winced. She wasn’t wrong.

“I just…” Bob swallowed, his voice hoarse. “I didn’t want her to watch me kill myself slowly. And I was. Back then, I didn’t care if I woke up the next morning.”

Yelena’s face softened.

“She looked at me like I was something good. And every time I used, it felt like I was spitting on that. I didn’t want her to see me fall apart.”

He leaned against the edge of a brick wall near a deli, staring across the street without really seeing it.

“I thought if I could just look at her one more time—just once—I could explain. Or apologize. Or I don’t know… get closure. But now? Now I think I just wanted to see if she was okay. If she was happier without me. Because part of me…” He hesitated. “Part of me thinks she moved here to be with someone else. That maybe she found what she deserved.”

Yelena folded her arms. “Do you think she would’ve run from you at the store if she was so happy?”

That shut him up.

“She looked at you like she’d seen a ghost, Bob,” Yelena continued, gentler now. “Not like someone who’s over you.”

He glanced away.

Yelena kept pressing, thoughtful. “You said she liked books. Art. Thai food. That little bakery with the painted walls. You said she used to paint when she was anxious.”

“Yeah,” Bob said quietly, a smile flickering and dying on his face. “She used to come home with paint under her nails. She’d say she blacked out for hours doing landscapes or trying to recreate old family photos. She had this thing for recreating old photos in color…”

“And places?” Yelena asked. “What kind of places did she love? Where did she go when she wanted to be alone?”

Bob blinked. “That could be anywhere.”

Yelena frowned. “Come on. Something that made her happy. Something that was hers.”

Bob thought for a moment, raking a hand through his hair.

“Well, she loved skating.”

Yelena looked up. “Like ice skating?”

“Yeah. She was good. Like… really good. She used to dream about going pro. But money was always tight growing up, and she didn’t have the connections, so it never happened. She gave it up… but every winter, every time there was an open rink, she’d go. Even alone. She said the cold air made her feel weightless. Free. She loved the way it made time stop.”

Yelena’s eyes lit up.

Bob noticed. “What?”

“Why the hell haven’t we been looking at skating rinks?”

He blinked. “I don’t—”

“She’s someone who holds onto things. Old dreams. Old love. She’s sentimental.” Yelena snapped her fingers. “It’s winter. It’s Sunday. She’s not at home. And she’s sad. Where would you go if you were trying to find a piece of yourself again?”

Bob’s stomach tightened.

The rink.

Maybe she would be there, just skating in circles, trying to outrun the noise in her head.

“Let’s go,” Yelena said, already walking again. “There are at least four rinks within twenty blocks. We’ll start with the biggest one.”

Bob hesitated.

His heart was pounding now. Hope was dangerous.

But he started moving anyway.

At the first rink, she wasn’t there. Just kids with red noses and giggling parents trying to balance on skates.

The second was a smaller indoor one. Couples. Teenagers. No one with soft hair and lonely eyes.

The third was closed.

Yelena cursed in Russian under her breath.

They walked quietly to the fourth.

The sun was setting. The air colder. Bob’s stomach ached, nerves twisting through him like barbed wire.

“What if we don’t find her?” he asked softly.

Yelena looked at him.

“Then we try again next weekend.”

--

The rink was nearly empty.

It was late—past the hour when families came to laugh and fall together, past the time when teenagers came to flirt and skate clumsily under string lights. Now, it was just a scattering of people: a couple holding hands near the center, two friends taking selfies by the sideboards, a father showing his little girl how to glide.

And her.

Bob stopped walking the moment he saw her.

She was alone in the center, weaving through slow, careful turns, arms curved in practiced precision. Her body moved like muscle memory—graceful, sharp, elegant. She wore all black: a tight-fitting jumpsuit that hugged her frame, hair pulled back into a bun, face glowing with the heat of focus. Headphones covered her ears, and whatever music she was listening to seemed to be pulling her into another world entirely.

A world he wasn’t part of.

Yelena, beside him, stopped too. She looked at Bob and saw the way his face changed—how something in his chest cracked, right there in front of her. Without a word, she nudged him gently toward the stands.

He obeyed.

Bob took a seat on the second row, cold metal under him. He didn’t notice. His eyes were glued to the ice.

To her.

She skated in circles, sometimes faster, sometimes slow—spinning once, catching herself, correcting. She didn’t notice them at all. She was deep in it—whatever rhythm, whatever pain, whatever escape she’d come here to find, it had swallowed her whole.

Bob watched her with the ache of someone who used to know that body. Who used to trace the line of her back as she curled into sleep. Who used to kiss the spot on her shoulder where the freckles started. Who used to come home to her, used to make her laugh, used to believe he had all the time in the world.

Now she was just… skating.

Free. Untouchable. Like a memory too beautiful to hold.

His throat tightened. His eyes burned.

“I used to watch her do this,” he whispered to Yelena, not taking his eyes off the rink. “Back in Florida, whenever it got cold enough for the seasonal rink, she’d go. Alone. She said the ice was the only place her body didn’t feel heavy. Like she didn’t have to carry anything.”

Yelena was quiet beside him.

Bob let out a breath.

“She told me once she felt like she was made for it. That if life had been fair, if she hadn’t been through everything she had, she would’ve been a skater. A real one. Olympic-level. But… she never had the chance. So she skated alone. In empty rinks. Like this.”

Another tear slipped down his cheek.

He pressed his palms into his eyes, trying to pull himself back together. Trying not to fall apart.

Yelena placed a silent hand on his arm.

Bob looked up again, and she was still there—gliding, spinning. Completely unaware.

“She looks okay,” he murmured.

“She looks alone,” Yelena corrected.

Bob’s stomach twisted. “Do you think she’s happy?”

“I think she’s trying to be,” she said softly. “Just like you.”

He nodded, lips pressed tight.

Then—almost like it was part of the music only she could hear—Y/N slowed. Her body eased into a graceful stop. She exhaled, pushing a hand through the top of her bun to wipe sweat from her temple. She turned, breathing heavily, taking in the now mostly empty rink with a kind of detachment. The kind of glance people give a room when they aren’t really expecting to find anything in it.

But then her eyes met his.

Bob froze.

Everything else in the rink—the lights, the cold, the chatter of skates on ice—disappeared.

Her eyes widened. Her lips parted just slightly.

She ripped her headphones off.

She didn’t move at first. Didn’t speak. Just stood there, skates rooted, like the ice had locked her in place.

He stood up slowly, not knowing what to do with his hands. They trembled at his sides.

Her expression was unreadable—shock, disbelief, maybe even fear. Her chest rose and fell fast from the exertion of skating, or maybe from the way her heart was racing.

Bob tried to breathe.

He had rehearsed this in his head a thousand times.

But now? Now there were no words.

Only her.

The girl he left behind. The girl he loved.

The girl who looked at him now like a ghost had walked into her sanctuary and shattered the quiet peace she had fought tooth and nail to build.

Her hand flew to her chest.

And then she turned.

She skated off the ice as fast as she could.

Bob panicked. “Y/N—!”

She grabbed her coat, not bothering to untie her skates, slipping off into the locker area.

Bob moved instinctively. But Yelena grabbed his arm.

“Give her a second,” she said gently. “Just a second.”

He stood there, heart thudding, hands shaking.

Was this it? Had he just ruined the one place she had left that felt like hers?

“I just needed to see her,” Bob whispered.

--

Y/N staggered into the locker room, the skates clattering awkwardly on the rubber floor beneath her feet. Her breath came in sharp, uneven gasps as she collapsed against the wall, back pressed hard to the cool tile.

Her heart was racing.

Her fingers clawed at the zipper of her jacket, pulling it halfway down before she stopped. Her eyes were burning. Her throat was tight.

She had seen him.

Bob.

After everything—after nights spent crying on the kitchen floor, after burning every picture, after the endless therapy sessions and bitter silences and “I’m fine” lies—he just showed up. Just like that.

Her knees buckled, and she slid down the wall until she was sitting on the floor, pulling her knees to her chest, arms locked around them. Her forehead rested there, her breath still ragged, like she’d just skated for her life and lost.

She wanted to scream.

She wanted to run back out there and hit him. Or kiss him. Or beg him to explain why he left. All of it. But she stayed where she was, paralyzed between rage and longing, spiraling like the blade of her skate.

She didn’t hear him at first—not until his quiet footsteps echoed through the tiled room.

She looked up.

And there he was.

Bob stood in the doorway of the women's locker room, tall, nervous, small in a way he never looked before. The kind of small that came from shame, not size. He wasn’t wearing a suit or his usual jacket—just a hoodie, the sleeves pushed halfway up his forearms. He looked older, somehow. Softer. A little broken around the edges.

“I know I shouldn’t be in here,” he said quietly, voice barely above a whisper. “But I… I couldn’t leave.”

Y/N didn’t say anything. Her throat clenched.

“I saw you out there, and—I didn’t know if I’d ever see you again,” he continued, stepping further in, cautious like he might scare her off.

She stayed curled up on the floor, eyes locked on him with a look that could melt concrete. He didn’t flinch. He deserved that.

“I didn’t plan this,” he said. “I didn’t even know you were in New York. But when I saw you in that grocery store a few weeks ago, I—I couldn’t stop thinking about it. About you.”

He swallowed, hands trembling at his sides.

“I messed up, Y/N. I messed up everything.”

She finally spoke, her voice sharp and raw. “No shit.”

Bob nodded, absorbing the venom like he expected it. Maybe even needed it.

“I owe you more than an apology,” he said. “But that’s all I have right now. I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry.”

Her eyes filled with tears. “You left me, Bob. No explanation. No warning. You just… disappeared.”

He took a shaky step closer, hands out like he was trying not to startle her. “I know.”

“You broke me,” she hissed, the tears finally spilling over. “You made me believe I was finally safe. That someone could love me without taking something from me. And then you took everything.”

Bob’s lip trembled. “I was using. Heavily. I was spiraling and lying and hiding it from you because I didn’t want you to see me like that. I couldn’t hold a job. I was stealing. I was close to doing things I can’t even speak aloud. And you… you were clean. You were trying. You were building something. I felt like a stain on your life.”

“You were my life,” she whispered.

Bob’s breath caught.

Y/N wiped her face with the sleeve of her jacket. “I thought I did something wrong. I stayed on that couch for hours, waiting for a call or a message—anything. I thought maybe you got hurt, maybe something happened. But no. You just blocked me. Like I was nothing.”

“You were never nothing,” he said immediately. “You were the only good thing I ever had. But I didn’t think I deserved you. I didn’t think I ever would.”

Y/N stood up slowly, arms still wrapped around herself, skates making her posture unsteady. “You don’t get to decide that. You don’t get to take me from me.”

He didn’t speak. He just nodded again, eyes brimming with pain.

“I spent months trying to rebuild myself,” she said. “And you know what made it worse? I didn’t even get to hate you properly. I missed you. I still miss you. Even after all of it.”

“I missed you too,” Bob whispered. “Every second. Every day. I kept telling myself I was doing the right thing. That you were better off. But I was lying.”

He took another step closer.

“I got clean,” he said. “I’ve been clean for a while now. I’m not who I was. I don’t expect you to forgive me. I don’t even know why I’m here, other than… I couldn’t go one more day not telling you how sorry I am. Not telling you I never stopped loving you.”

Y/N’s voice cracked. “Do you think that makes it better?”

“No,” he said. “But I hope it means something.”

She looked at him—really looked at him—for the first time in years. He was different. Older. Sober. Tired. But the eyes were the same. The mouth that had kissed every inch of her skin. The hands that used to hold her like a lifeline.

And she was still angry. Still shattered.

But she was also still in love.

She didn’t know what to say.

So she just asked, softly: “Why now?”

Bob stepped closer, now just feet away.

“Because you were the only thing in my life I ever got right. And I couldn’t let you be the one thing I also gave up on.”

She closed her eyes, tears spilling again.

And then, slowly, she leaned forward and let her forehead rest against his chest.

He didn’t move. Just breathed her in, one hand hovering near her back like he was scared to touch her, like he was scared she’d disappear if he held too tight.

“I don’t know what this means,” she whispered.

“Me neither,” he whispered back. “But I’m here. I’m really here.”

She let herself cry there—silent, trembling, wrapped in the scent of the man she had loved and lost.

They stayed there in silence for a long time—Y/N pressed against Bob’s chest, his heartbeat thudding softly beneath her ear like it was trying to speak the words he hadn’t yet said. She wasn’t sure how long she let herself rest there, taking in the familiarity of him, the warmth she hadn’t felt in so long. But then the silence grew heavy. And the questions, the ones that had lived rent-free in her chest for over a year, started clawing their way out.

She stepped back.

He looked at her—worried, gentle, waiting.

Y/N’s voice cracked, her words hushed but sharp: “Why didn’t you tell me, Bob?”

His mouth parted slightly, but no sound came. She pressed on.

“You were using. Fine. I didn’t know. I get that. But why didn’t you tell me? Why did I have to find out from someone else?”

He looked down at the ground, swallowing hard.

“Because I was ashamed,” he said. “Because I thought if you knew, you’d see me differently. You’d look at me like I was broken. Like everyone else always had.”

“I never saw you like that,” she snapped. “You were the one good thing in my life too. And you didn’t trust me enough to let me in?”

“It wasn’t about trust,” he said, eyes rising to meet hers, pleading. “It was about me. I couldn’t face it. I couldn’t face what I was becoming. I was spiraling, Y/N. Lying, stealing, taking pills just to function. I looked in the mirror and didn’t see someone you could love. I saw someone who was going to ruin you.”

Her jaw clenched. “But you did ruin me, Bob. Just in a different way.”

He looked shattered, like her words had physically knocked the wind out of him.

“I was fighting so hard to stay sober,” she said. “For you. For us. I thought we were building something—something real. You could’ve told me the truth. I wouldn’t have run.”

Bob’s hands balled into fists at his sides. “I know. I know that now. But I didn’t back then. I wasn’t sober. I wasn’t rational. I was drowning. And I thought if I held onto you any longer, I’d drag you down with me.”

“And now?” Her voice was quieter now, rawer. “Why are you here now, after all this time? Why didn’t you call before? Why not when you got clean? Why not when you moved to New York—”

Bob flinched.

She stared at him. “You moved to New York, and you never once tried to find me?”

“I didn’t think you’d want to see me,” he admitted, voice hoarse. “After what I did. I figured… you were better off. And then I saw you again, and—God, Y/N, I panicked. I wasn’t ready.”

“And you’re ready now?” she asked, her arms folding tightly around herself. “Now that I’ve spent a year trying to glue myself back together without you? Now that I’m almost okay?”

Bob’s eyes were red now. His breathing uneven. “I don’t know if I’m ready. But I know I can’t keep pretending like you don’t exist. Like I didn’t leave the best thing that ever happened to me because I was a coward.”

Y/N turned away from him, biting down on the inside of her cheek.

“I needed you,” she whispered. “Back then, I needed you. And you left. Without even giving me the chance to fight for you.”

Bob stepped forward, slowly, like every inch hurt. “I know. And I’ll never forgive myself for that.”

She stayed facing the wall, still trembling. “You don’t get to walk back into my life like nothing happened.”

“I’m not asking to.”

“Then why are you here, Bob?”

His voice cracked. “Because I still love you.”

She closed her eyes. A single tear slipped down her cheek.

“I still love you,” he repeated. “And maybe I don’t deserve to say that. Maybe I never will. But I had to try. I had to see you again. I had to look in your eyes one more time and tell you what I should’ve said a year ago.”

She turned around, slow and shaky, her eyes red and wet and tired.

“You should’ve said, ‘I need help.’ Not, ‘Goodbye.’”

Bob’s shoulders sank like a weight had been dropped on him. “I know.”

They stood there, staring at each other across the space that still separated them—close enough to touch, but far enough that everything unsaid echoed in the air between them.

“I don’t know what happens now,” she whispered.

“Me neither,” he said. “But I’ll wait. However long it takes. If all I can be is someone who reminds you that you were loved, I’ll take that.”

She didn’t answer.

--

Y/N sat curled up on the couch, blanket over her legs, a mug of untouched tea in her hands. The late evening sun filtered through the curtains, casting golden lines across her face — but her eyes were glassy, far away. She’d told Serena everything. Every word Bob said. Every tear. Every tremble in his voice. Every I still love you that shattered her to her core.

And now, silence.

Serena sat beside her, one leg tucked under the other, still trying to process it all.

“So,” Serena finally said, her voice gentle, “he really said all that?”

Y/N nodded slowly, eyes still fixed on the tea she hadn’t sipped.

Serena let out a low whistle. “Damn.”

“I know.”

“I mean… I didn’t even know the man could be that honest.”

Y/N gave a weak, humorless smile. “Me neither.”

Serena sat back against the cushion, arms crossed loosely, eyes on her best friend. “So. What now?”

Y/N blinked. “I don’t know.”

“Do you want him back?”

“I don’t know.”

Serena tilted her head. “Y/N…”

“I don’t know,” she said, louder this time. Her hands trembled around the mug. “Part of me wants to scream at him until my throat goes raw. For leaving. For lying. For making me think I did something wrong. But then—” she swallowed thickly, “then there’s this other part that… that wants to forgive him. That wants to believe he meant it. That he’s really changed.”

Serena stayed quiet, giving her space.

“I mean, he’s sober now,” Y/N murmured. “He looked better. He sounded like himself. The version of him I fell in love with. But I don’t know if that’s real. Or if I’m just projecting the version I want to see again.”

Serena’s voice was soft. “Y/N, you don’t owe him anything.”

“I know.”

“You don’t have to set yourself on fire just because he found his match again.”

Y/N let out a sharp exhale, and the tears finally spilled.

“It’s not that simple,” she whispered. “I loved him. God, I loved him. I still do. And yeah, I didn’t know what he was going through, but how could I have? He didn’t let me in. He made that choice for both of us. He walked away and took the closure with him.”

Serena’s eyes softened. “And now he’s handing it back to you?”

Y/N shook her head. “Now he’s giving me more questions. Now I’m stuck between forgiving him or protecting myself. Do I trust that this new version of him is going to stay? Or do I walk away and spend the rest of my life wondering what might’ve happened if I’d just said yes?”

Serena placed a hand over hers. “You don’t have to decide tonight.”

“But it feels like I do,” Y/N whispered. “Because I know Bob. I know how much shame he carries. If I don’t reach out soon, he’ll think I’m done. And maybe I should be done. But then I think of him standing there, crying, saying he still loved me and—God, Serena—it’s like my heart is screaming.”

Her voice broke. “But I’m tired of breaking first. I’m tired of loving people who leave. And if I let him back in and he walks away again… I don’t think I could survive that.”

Serena squeezed her hand, her eyes damp too. “Then don’t do it for him. Do it for you. Whatever choice brings you peace.”

Y/N stared ahead, jaw tight, heart thudding.

“I don’t know what peace looks like anymore.”

“It’ll come,” Serena whispered. “Maybe not tonight. But soon.”

Y/N closed her eyes and leaned her head against Serena’s shoulder, tears still slipping quietly down her cheeks.

The silence lingered between them for a few minutes, broken only by the soft ticking of the kitchen clock and the occasional clink of Y/N’s spoon against her mug. Serena kept watching her, fingers absentmindedly fiddling with the edge of the throw blanket covering their legs.

Then, with a slow grin tugging at the corner of her lips, she said, “Hey… do you remember that night out in Florida? When we all went to that shitty karaoke bar on the beach?”

Y/N blinked and looked up, her brows furrowed.

Serena smirked. “You were wearing that red sundress, the one that made Bob forget how to function. I swear, the man looked like he had just been tasered.”

Y/N let out a breathy laugh, lips twitching. “Oh my God, yes. He walked into a pole.”

Serena snorted. “Deadass. We were all watching that bachelorette party doing shots, and Bob just… bam. Forehead to metal. And then pretended he meant to lean on it.”

Y/N giggled despite herself, eyes gleaming with the shimmer of past joy and fresh sadness. “And then he tried to sing that Elton John song, remember? Your Song. His voice cracked halfway through, but he kept going, looking right at me.”

“Yeah,” Serena said softly, “and you were crying. Right there. Happy tears. I remember because I had to pretend I had sand in my eye just so I wouldn’t ruin the moment.”

Y/N smiled, but it was tinted with grief. “It was the first time I thought, ‘Maybe I’m going to marry this man.’”

Serena’s expression sobered too. She reached over, brushing a strand of hair from Y/N’s face gently. “Look… I hated seeing you like that after he left. I hated that he broke your heart so completely. I won’t pretend I don’t still kind of want to punch him for it.”

Y/N gave her a weak smile. “Fair.”

“But,” Serena went on, her voice low and sincere, “that night, that version of Bob—the one who looked at you like the rest of the world disappeared? The one who memorized your coffee order and stood outside with your keys when you locked yourself out in the rain?” She paused. “That Bob was real too.”

Y/N’s throat tightened.

Serena sighed. “And I don’t know what he went through. Addiction is dark. Ugly. But if what he told you is true… if he’s really better now… if he meant all that? Then maybe… just maybe… you and him still have something real.”

Y/N stayed quiet for a long time, staring down at her hands in her lap.

“It’s just,” she whispered, “how do I know he won’t break me again?”

“You don’t,” Serena admitted gently. “But the fact that you still care so much? That means something. And I’d rather you be honest about still loving him than spend your whole life pretending you’re over it.”

Y/N nodded slowly, her voice breaking. “I hate that he still makes my heart feel like this. That no matter how much it hurt… it never really stopped loving him.”

Serena pulled her into a side hug. “I know. But maybe that’s not weakness. Maybe that’s just… love. The real kind. The messy, painful, beautiful kind.”

“And if he is the love of my life?” Y/N asked, eyes glossy. “How fair is it to be too scared to find out?”

--

The night air was cold but not harsh, a breeze skimming off the bay and lifting strands of Y/N’s hair as she stood near the railing, watching the water move under the moonlight. Her hands were in the pockets of her coat, and her heart was thudding harder than she thought it would. It had been almost two hours since she texted him.

Just five words.

“Can we talk? By the bay.”

She hadn’t expected a reply. Maybe he wouldn’t come. Maybe she’d stand here alone all night long, foolish and aching, blaming herself for even hoping again. But something inside her had shifted — maybe it was Serena’s voice echoing in her ear, or maybe it was her own heart, whispering that there were still things left unsaid. Still threads uncut.

A shuffle of footsteps behind her made her body freeze.

Then, slowly, she turned.

And there he was.

Bob.

Standing just a few feet away, hands in his jacket pockets, beanie pulled over his curls, blue eyes heavy and uncertain but unmistakably emotional. As soon as their eyes met, something passed between them — something old and broken and tender and still breathing.

“…Hey,” he said, voice low and rough.

Y/N nodded. “Hey.”

He took a step closer, not touching her, just looking. Studying her like she might disappear if he blinked. “I didn’t know if you’d ever… want to see me again.”

“I didn’t know either,” she admitted quietly, her voice trembling. “But I do.”

He swallowed hard. “I’ve thought about this. A thousand times. What I’d say. What you’d say. I played it over and over in my head like it would make it hurt less.”

“Did it?” she asked.

He shook his head. “No.”

There was a long pause between them, broken only by the sound of the water and a distant ship horn. Bob looked at her, eyes glossy. “I’m sorry,” he whispered. “For leaving. For not saying goodbye. For making you think it was your fault.”

Tears welled in her eyes. “I thought I wasn’t enough.”

“You were everything,” he said, voice cracking. “That was the problem. You were everything I wanted and didn’t think I deserved. I was ashamed. And scared. And instead of being honest with you, I just… I ran.”

Y/N stepped closer now, breath fogging in the cold. “You don’t get to decide what you deserve. You could’ve told me. You should have trusted me.”

“I know,” he whispered, guilt rolling off him like a wave.

Her eyes searched his. “I had to pick up all the pieces alone, Bob. I cried on the floor for weeks. I screamed into pillows. I hated you. I still…” She paused. “Some days, I don’t know if I hate you or miss you more.”

Bob’s face twisted in pain. “I miss you every day. I wanted to get clean for you… but I had to want it for me too. And I do now. I’m not perfect, but I’m clean. I go to meetings. I work. I try. Every day.”

Y/N looked at him, something softer in her gaze now. “Why’d you come tonight?”

He took a shaky breath. “Because I’d rather stand here and have you scream at me, throw something at me, anything—than keep wondering if you’ll ever forgive me.”

“I don’t know if I can,” she said honestly, voice cracking.

“I understand,” he whispered.

She looked away, at the water, at the skyline in the distance.

And then, after a long moment, she asked, “Do you still love me?”

Bob stepped closer, almost afraid to breathe. “Yes. I never stopped.”

Y/N turned to him again, tears slipping down her cheeks. “Then… show me. Show me you’ve changed. Show me you’re not going to disappear again.”

Bob nodded slowly, his hand reaching for hers — tentative, almost reverent. When their fingers touched, it felt like a live wire connecting them again, years of distance melting in a single spark.

“I’m here,” he said softly. “And I’m not going anywhere.”

Y/N looked at their joined hands, then up at him.

“…Okay,” she whispered. “Let’s see what’s left of us.”

They were quiet for a long while after Bob’s hand found hers. Neither of them dared to move much, afraid the moment might collapse if they shifted too quickly. There was something sacred about it — the silence, the air between them, the rawness of just being there, together again.

Y/N let out a breath that had been caught in her chest for what felt like a year and a half.

“I’ve thought about this too, you know,” she said, her voice softer now, more vulnerable. “Not just the apology, or the reasons why… but what would happen if we ever saw each other again.”

Bob’s thumb moved gently across her hand. “And what did you think?”

She gave a breathy, ironic laugh. “That I’d scream at you. Throw a drink in your face. That I’d feel powerful… or indifferent. But I don’t.”

“What do you feel?” he asked, barely above a whisper.

“Everything,” she admitted. “Grief. Anger. Love. All jumbled up. I feel like I never got to mourn us properly, because you just vanished.”

Bob’s head dropped slightly, eyes filled with guilt. “I deserve that.”

“But,” she continued gently, tugging his hand just a bit, “I also feel like maybe… maybe we get a do-over.”

His brows lifted slightly, surprised. Hope flickered in his eyes, so raw it almost hurt to see.

“You mean…?”

“I mean,” Y/N said carefully, “not pretending the past didn’t happen. But also not rushing into it like we’re picking up where we left off. Because we’re not the same people anymore. I’m not the same girl who waited for you at that coffee shop in Florida. And you’re not the same man who ran away.”

Bob blinked, heart in his throat. “So what do we do?”

“We start over,” she said softly, firmly. “We take it slow. We talk. We really talk. We ask the dumb questions we never asked. We go for coffee, or walks, or movies, or whatever normal people do when they’re figuring each other out.”

He nodded, not trusting his voice just yet. His chest was tight, but not from fear — from the fragile, growing weight of hope.

“And if we fall in love again,” she said, her voice trembling now, “we do it right this time. With boundaries. With honesty. With all the parts of us exposed. No secrets. No hiding.”

Bob’s eyes were wet again. “You’d want to fall in love with me again?”

She gave him a tiny, wistful smile. “I never really stopped. I just… packed it away somewhere dark so it wouldn’t hurt.”

He laughed — a broken, breathy sound. “God, I was so stupid. I lost everything because I was too afraid to let you see me when I was at my worst.”

“You were sick,” she reminded him gently. “You didn’t know how to let yourself be loved. But maybe now you can learn.”

Bob looked at her like she was the sun rising again after the longest, blackest night. He leaned forward, forehead against hers, just breathing her in.

“I’ll learn,” he whispered. “I promise I’ll learn.”

--

They sat on the stone edge of the bay, the city lights flickering off the water like a secret neither of them wanted to say out loud. It was late. Quiet. The kind of quiet that makes everything feel like it might be okay, just for a moment.

Y/N had her arms wrapped around her knees, chin resting on them as she looked out at the slow, rhythmic waves. Bob was next to her, a bit hunched, nervously peeling back the foil on a burrito he’d grabbed from a food truck behind them.

They weren’t saying much. But they were there. Together. Breathing the same air again.

“This is nice,” Y/N said softly, voice barely above a whisper. “Feels like something from before.”

Bob nodded, then took a bite of the burrito. A messy, overfilled mess of something-too-hot with way too much sauce.

She glanced over at him, and for a second, she smiled. Not the full, glowing kind she used to give him — but a small one. Careful.

“Still ordering food that’s way too big for your mouth, I see.”

He looked at her, mouth full, eyes wide with guilt. “I panicked,” he said after a swallow. “I asked the guy for whatever he liked best and now I’m holding a food truck’s entire inventory.”

Y/N snorted. “You’re gonna drop it.”

“No I won’t.”

“You always drop food when you try to eat and talk at the same time.”

“I do not—”

And just as he lifted the burrito for another bite… a seagull screeched.

Y/N saw it first.

“Oh my god,” she gasped. “Bob.”

“What?”

She pointed. “Behind you.”

Bob turned — too late.

The bird descended like a demon on wings, smacking straight into him and snatching the burrito right out of his hands in a blur of feathers, foil, and absolute chaos.

“WHAT THE—HEY!!” Bob shouted, stumbling back as salsa dripped down his shirt. “ARE YOU KIDDING ME?!”

Y/N broke into full-blown laughter. Not polite laughter. Not restrained laughter.

It was ugly, wheezing, nearly-crying laughter.

Bob just stood there in stunned silence, staring after the bird like it had just ruined his entire career. “That thing was huge! That’s not a seagull. That’s a government drone! That’s a federal bird!”

“Bob—!” she gasped between fits, holding her stomach.

He turned to her, dead serious. “You saw that, right? That was attempted manslaughter. That was aggravated burrito theft.”

She laughed even harder, wiping her eyes. “You’re so dramatic.”

He grumbled, looking down at his sauce-covered shirt. “Great. Amazing. I haven’t even seen you in a year and a half and this is what I bring to the table. Literal bird bait.”

Y/N, still giggling, looked at him — really looked at him. Disheveled, embarrassed, and covered in sour cream.

And something tugged deep in her chest.

Because despite everything — despite the heartache, the silence, the questions — this was him. Still the same man who once fell off a park bench while trying to kiss her goodnight. The same one who used to eat ice cream with his eyes closed like it was a religious experience. The one who called her just to hear her talk about her day.

“I missed this,” she said suddenly, her voice quieter now. Sincere.

He looked at her, startled.

“This part of you,” she added. “The part that’s… weird. And funny. And honest. I didn’t realize how much I missed it until just now.”

Bob was silent for a moment, like he didn’t know where to store her words inside him.

Then: “I’ve missed everything about you.”

She looked back out at the water, her smile fading a little. “So why did you leave me like that?”

His throat tightened. “Because I was a dumbass and I couldn't possibly deserve even a hair from you.”

“I would have restart my whole life to make you alive again.”

A pause.

“I know,” he whispered. “And I’ll never forgive myself for it.”

She reached into the bag beside them and pulled out the second burrito.

Without a word, she held it out to him.

He blinked.

“…This one doesn’t have shrimp, does it?”

She smirked. “You’ll have to take your chances, bird boy.”

[chimielie]

You've gotten kind of obsessed with Suna's voice.

You don't know how because you so often hate the actual content of his words. He's monotone, often, so you have to really focus in to hear the nuances of it. The chuckle in the back of his throat when he's laughing at someone to their face, the dip when someone annoys him, the slight pitch up when he says something outrageous just to make you start shouting.

His voice is mellow and deep, not so bassy that it's grating, not so quiet that you ever have to ask him to repeat himself. He doesn't ramble and doesn't stumble over his words; if he speaks, he's self-assured and says only what he needs to say. If you unfocus your eyes and let whatever bullshit he's saying fade out and just listen to the rolling sound of it, you could almost imagine...

You refuse to finish that thought.

Still, it keeps leaking into your life in ways that aren't ideal. You try not to show preference when conversing with your friends, but your head snaps toward him whenever he says something, no matter how intently you'd been listening before. You start asking him to repeat himself even when you heard him perfectly clearly because you liked his inflection (or more often, lack thereof) on a particular word, the roundness of a certain syllable. He obliges so easily you start to wonder if he knows.

It's even coming up in your dreams. Nothing too explicit, not that your waking self knows of, anyway—you just wake up, suddenly missing the weight of a hand on your waist and the warmth of lips against the shell of your ear. Only one or two sentences will stay with you: sometimes lacking context, like "I missed this," this forever a mystery to you, or impossible phrases, like "I missed you."

Suna is a friend. A friend of a friend that you think is kind of annoying. You're not sure why you walk around with false echoes of him—him confessing to you in your head.

He's funny, sure, but too often mean. He always looks like he's thinking of a joke about you, one he doesn't even mind saying to your face because he doesn't expect you to get it. He's vitamin D deficient, he didn't know how to do his laundry until way too late in life, and he keeps inviting you over to watch weird experimental films.

You go, but only because you enjoy arguing with him about the meaning of it all and somehow the argument never quite finishes. "We'll finish this next time," he says, and you keep coming back like a lab rat for rage-hormone-laced sugar water. He used to invite the rest of your friends, but they stopped attending one by one until it was just you and him, whisper-shouting at each other at 2 a.m. because his hand touched yours in the popcorn bucket and you reflexively grabbed it and then bit him. And all the time, he has that stupid half-smile on his face, like he knows something you don't, like everything you say to him is a joke.

You're there now, your requisite fist-fight over the popcorn over and vacuumed up already, some 60s Soviet film playing on his TV. Somehow, after the violent intermission had wrapped up, he'd maneuvered you down so that your head was in his lap, petting you every time you started making unpredictable movements in a way that managed to make you go limp. It was unfair and made it much harder to win arguments without utilizing physical force.

"It's kind of obtuse if you don't know anything about the filmmaker," he's saying.

"That's the point," you say, his hand stroking across your forehead and making your eyes flutter closed. "You're telling me you make me watch this artistic shit and you want it to be linear?"

"You're not even watching," Suna laughs. "I don't want it to be linear, I'm just curious how much the average person knew about his biography back in the day."

"Mmf," you say. His other hand is on your shoulder now, gently applying pressure, working out some of the kinks having to put up with him has put there. "Annoying guy. Annoy me all the time."

"Do I?" He says. "You look pretty relaxed. You gonna fall asleep on me, huh?"

"It was an order, get it right," you grumble. "Not gonna fall asleep. Just keep talking."

"Anything you want," he says, "I knew you liked my voice."

You'd fight him about it, but you're so comfortable. It'd be like letting him win to disturb your peace right now, so you just listen to him neg you and then narrate the screen for your closed eyes, your breathing slowing and getting deeper. You'll wake in the morning not remembering coming to bed, a hand on your waist you remember without ever experiencing, a sharp chin you hadn't known to imagine digging into the crook of your neck.

He'll say something and be smug and obnoxious to the core, maybe (maybe!) awakening something in you even worse than it was with his morning voice.

When he tells you "we didn't finish last night," his lips tilting subtly in a motion that shouts out loud to you, "I thought you'd want to stay and get the last word in," you'll laugh without meaning to.

There's so much to disagree about in the world; you'll have to stay a long time before you've covered all of it. Thank heavens you have the spirit to battle it out till the bitter end.

[dfinchr]

forget her

the things f1 drivers kept doing or kept holding onto after you left

oscar piastri never openly appreciated your taste in music. it wasn’t really his thing, and you knew that you had different tastes— which is why the two of you never sat down to listen together. but after the breakup?

he couldn’t bring himself to delete your playlist.

so now, every time he misses you, his fingers instinctively hover over the “play” button. he remembers the melodies not because you ever forced him to listen, but because they used to drift through the apartment — when you sang under your breath, when you turned the volume up just a little too loud while working.

everyone thinks he’s moved on. they’ve helped him clear out the photos, pack away your things. they think he doesn’t miss you at all.

but the truth is, for weeks now, the only thing he hears is you.

you were always there for lewis. before the championships, before everything — you were there. so even if he wanted to, lewis hamilton can’t escape you. when he watches old races, the camera catches you. wherever he goes, you’re there. of course you are — you were everything to him.

and now, suddenly, you’re gone.

the house is empty (filled only with the furniture you “suggested” and the ghost of your memories). every corner is haunted by a moment you shared. that’s why lewis keeps finding himself watching race replays, pausing at the exact milliseconds when the camera turns to you — or those old clips where you’re holding his hand at some event.

and these days, all he can really do is talk about you to his nieces and nephews.

lando used to love when you asked for his opinion on your outfits — it was like his own little fashion show, starring his favorite model (that’s you, of course). sometimes he’d even hand you a box with something he bought, just to watch your reaction. your laughter, your excitement… it always made him smile without meaning to.

and sometimes, when he was lying around doing nothing, you’d ask what he thought of what you were wearing — not that it mattered much. lando always thought everything looked good on you anyway.

and now, even though you’re not together anymore, he still finds himself wanting to buy things you’d like. last week, he remembered at the checkout line. the other day, he caught himself searching for your size.

so yeah.

he really misses you, much more than anything.

max was a broken man. his whole life, there had always been an expectation placed on him — and somewhere along the way, he began to believe that if he didn’t win, he wouldn’t be loved enough.

but when he felt your love — raw, unfiltered, unconditional — it was like being inside a dream.

a kiss on the corner of his mouth in the morning, short phone calls during lunch, random little videos you sent when he was away. sometimes it was you struggling with something technical for hours.

sometimes it was explicit. well — mostly explicit, let’s be honest but the theme was always the same: “i miss you.”

max would watch those videos at least twice. every time. he memorized every tiny detail — each little smile, every expression on your face, every time you mispronounced a word or stumbled over your tongue — until he could replay it in his head like a film.

max was addicted to you. how could he live without you? you made him forget. but like i said — max was a broken man.

and in the end, he broke you too.

every dream ends. especially the ones you fall too deep into — the ones that leave your head spinning when you finally wake up, too dizzy to stand.

max didn’t delete the videos. so every time you whispered “i miss you,”

he whispers right back: “me too. i miss you so fucking much.”

charles was always tense after races. stressed, unhappy, hopeless. but he never wanted to talk about it — and you knew that better than anyone. so after races, you didn’t talk. you just laid there together, wrapped in each other.

especially at night, when the weight of it all pressed on his chest and his thoughts slowly drifted back toward the paddock, even while you were still asleep. he didn’t like waking you, it made him feel selfish. so he’d hold you as gently as he could.

he’d breathe in the scent of your hair, and somehow, your shampoo would send signals to his brain: “breathe. let it go.”

charles doesn’t sleep much anymore. he tried hugging leo. he tried hugging the sweatshirt you somehow left behind. he even tried holding onto a pillow. but it’s not the same.

not even close.

so every night, he just lies there, quietly wishing you were still beside him.

kimi antonelli never had time for school. mercedes kept dragging him from one place to another, weekend after weekend, so of course he kept falling behind in class.

no one really blamed him when he didn’t know the answer to something — the kid was out there overtaking grown men twice his size.

but you —

you were like an angel sent from heaven.

you always made study notes for him.

and whenever kimi felt guilty about it, you’d tell him it helped you learn too, just to ease his mind.

reading through them together, adding your little comments and extra facts — it became his favorite part of the day.

somehow, studying was… fun? but with you !sometimes you’d draw tiny hearts on the edge of the paper.

and now, while preparing for finals, kimi keeps finding those old notes — the ones with your handwriting and those silly little hearts — and when he looks at the blank pages of the ones he’s writing alone now,

he just feels

empty ?

you didn’t know how to skip stones.

daniel used to tease you about it,

“it’s not funny, daniel!”

you’d say — eyebrows slightly furrowed, pretending to be annoyed (and trying not to laugh).

and danny would swear you were the most beautiful woman in the world when you looked at him like that.

whenever you were near water — an ocean, a lake, a pond, even just a puddle — daniel would show off, skipping stones like a pro.

his real goal wasn’t impressing you.

he just wanted to make you jealous, then laugh when your stone sank immediately.

you two used to go on evening walks, too. and even though daniel always argued he had time for you — you were too gentle to risk tiring him out or distracting him when he was busy. and that’s exactly why he fell for you.

now, daniel has all the time in the world. and all he does is go on evening walks and skip stones.

you were always doodling.

on empty pages, on printed ones, on your own hands — even on kimi’s arm.

you never really knew whether he didn’t complain because he actually liked it,

or just because he was kimi just quiet like always.

you were right about one thing though — he did like it.

not the drawings themselves,but the way your face looked when you made them — that tiny smile, that quiet focus.

kimi was a quiet man. he never found the words to tell you how much he loved you, not until it was too late. he still has tattoos on his arms now.

but without your little sketches, none of them look quite right.

when you were dating carlos, he suddenly had what he thought was a brilliant idea —

he got your initials printed, tiny and subtle, on the side of his helmet.

that way, he could carry you with him into every race. like you’d never left his mind at all. it became his little good luck charm.

before every start, he’d check to make sure the initials were still there — only then would he put the helmet on.

when he first showed you, you blushed, couldn’t hide your smile.

he remembers that moment every time he looks at those letters now —and for a second, it’s like he’s looking right at you.

even on his new helmets, if you look closely at the left side, you’ll still find your initials, small and quietly tucked away.

you’re not by his side anymore, and maybe the car’s not fast enough, but somehow, he still finds a reason to hope in those letters.

your letters.

a/n : if you would like a pt2 just lemme know and uhm this is an apology for “definitely, maybe” cause i’m still fixing it 😔 sorry and i hope you’ll like it 💗

edit : i changed some of the pictures cause they were so shit 💔🥀

[wonsfav]

hiiii!!! is there a chance you can write a one-shot about any member that has a fixation with bulge kink hehe

i was thinking about heeseung or jake, even sunoo because i feel that although he could be sub, he might have that fixation, but any member you want hehe

For sure!! I haven't written a lot of bulge kink content before but I'll do my best. ~

lee heeseung ☼ nsfw content (mdni) ☼ bulge kink!heeseung

It wasn't like it took a whole lot to get Heeseung excited when it came to sex. He wasn't opposed to many things other than a few that genuinely threw him off a tad bit - but, like everyone else, he did have his favorites.

He seemed to love putting you in so many different positions; Folding you in half against the bedsheets until your knees pressed at your shoulders, your eyes teary with the stretch and drag of his cock against your pretty pink walls; Pressing his weight above you while you curled up on your side, tugging a thigh over his shoulder so he had a clear view of you still and could see the way you gasped as his tip prodded and kissed at your folds; Even taking you against the bathroom counter with your hips pressed into the edge of the polished marble. He'd press his forearm over your collarbone to make your back arch, your weight leaning away from him in a way that made his mouth water as he kissed over every inch of exposed skin.

These positions - They were fine, they were nice - They allowed him to fuck you so deep it made you cry sometimes, so of course he liked them. But the true reason he was so obsessed with folding you up underneath him or making you stretch your back as far as possible wasn't just because of the feeling -

No; It allowed him to see just how deep he hit inside of your gummy walls clenching around him and sucking him in.

"Shit - Look at that, pretty girl."

Holding your hips as close to him as possible so he can look down and lift you a little higher, angling his hips so his cock created a soft bulge beneath your tummy every time he pushed into you harder. Pushing you to arch your back while you face him so his eyes can drag down and catch a glimpse of it all over again.

"God, fuck. Feels like 'm gonna break you in half."

It always leaves him breathless, his jaw slack as hair clings to his forehead in a thin layer of sweat. The only downside is how quickly he comes after a few pumps while watching his cock prod and press at your guts - Knowing he's burying his cock in you as much as possible just does something to him.

That's not too much of a hinderance, though - Him coming quick after he sees it the first time.

Not like you'll only be going one round, anyways.

[vividly-vermillion]

✴︎ ACTIONS SPEAK LOUDER THAN WORDS

જ⁀➴ How they show their love without saying "I love you"

ﾉ characters: Luocha, Dan Heng, Sunday, Blade, Aventurine, Boothill

ﾉ reader: genderneutral

ﾉ wc: ~220 each

ﾉ cw: nothing. Just sickenly sweet fluff

ﾉ note: stepping into new territory with this one... please be kind to me 🥹 || TAGLIST

જ⁀➴ Luocha: His love is in care that shouldn't feel this tender.

Luocha's affection is clinical at first glance; steady hands, calm eyes, always knowing where it hurts and how to fix it. He touches you like he touches everyone. Gently. Methodically. Yet, with you it lingers. Just long enough to be noticed, long enough to make your breath catch.

He doesn't say he loves you. That would be too vulnerable for a man that walks through life with death in tow. But he's always there - when you fall asleep in strange places, you wake with a cloak tucked around your shoulders. He knows when you're lying about being fine and never calls you out, simply tending to your pain anyways, wordless and patient.

His eyes watch you when in quiet moments, when the world isn't looking, and there's silence in them that feels reverent. As if he's trying to memorize you, studying your smile like a sacred text. You catch him sometimes and he just smiles softly. No excuses, no retreat.

He would never say it, but when his gloved hand brushes yours and he doesn't pull away… There's no need for him to.

જ⁀➴ Dan Heng: His love is a quiet constancy.

Dan Heng loves you in silence, in presence, in the silence between words. Not this cold silence - never with you. It's the kind that hums with comfort, one that lets you exist without pressure. You know that he's not a man of grand declarations, but you find his love in his reliability. In the way he always waits for you after missions, in how he always saves you the last bit of your favorite dish.

He won't say that he loves you. Those words are too fragile of a thing, too precious to risk with breath. But he shows it in how he lets his guard down around you. You've seen him sleep, head tilted tilted against you in a short moment of peace. You've heard the softness in his voice when he says your name, as if it's a poem he's memorized.

He listens, really listens. Remembers things you forgot you shared. Offers you his favorite books without being asked - marked with notes he'd never let anyone else see.

He won't say the words but when your hand finds his in the silence of the archives, he will hold yours too - fingers trembling just a little… and that's when you'll know.

જ⁀➴ Sunday: His love is the art of knowing you inside out

Sunday's love is an orchestra without conductor. Chaotic, beautiful and layers upon layers. He won't say he loves you, no, that would be too easy. Instead, he sends you strange gifts; a constellation named after an inside joke. A message scribbled in in code only you know how to read. He tests if you're paying attention, and you always are.

He hides his affection in riddles, in stories and offhand comments that linger like perfume. But he watches your reaction like a hawk, hungry for every flicker of surprise or joy. You catch him sometimes, when he thinks that you're not looking - his expression is bare, unmasked and softer than it has any right to be.

He lets you see parts of him that others don't. The loneliness buried deep beneath the brilliance. The exhaustion after a long day of being a puppet master. He doesn't ask for comfort but he leans into your touch like he's scared that it will vanish.

You mean something to him and you know it. When things go wrong, when chaos surges and pieces fall, you're the one he protects without question. No games, just pure instinct.

And in that moment, he's honest. Not with words, but with you.

જ⁀➴ Blade: His love is like reluctant gravity.

Blade doesn't say the word love. he resents it, fears it - hates the way it tethers him to something soft when all he knows is ruin. But somehow, you're the only thing he doesn't destroy. The only one he doesn't push away, not completely at least.

He shows you his love in broken pieces. In the way his rage stills when you touch him. In the way he stares at you like you're something that he can't understand. Something warm, impossible - alive. He won't speak tenderly, not often. But his body always finds yours in battle, circling and watching. He won't ever let harm reach you, even if it means taking the blow himself.

You find offerings at your door after the hardest days - unlabeled things that he thinks you could like. Though he would never admit they're from him, but they're so unmistakably are. And when you wake from a nightmare, he's already there. Not holding you, but he's there, as if part of him knew.

He doesn't know how to be gentle, but when you touch him, he doesn't flinch anymore.

And if you ever asked, really asked, he wouldn't say the words you long to hear. But his silence would speak louder than anything else.

Because he stayed, for you. That's the loudest "I love you" he knows.

જ⁀➴ Aventurine: His love is like risk and reward.

Aventurine never says he loves you. That'd be too easy, too transparent - and where's the fun in that? No, he'd rather let you wonder. Keep you guessing. Push the odds and see if you'll call his bluff. But beneath the playful smirks and glittering bravado, he's the kind of man who never gambles with the things he truly values.

And you? He doesn't risk you. Not really.

He buys you ridiculous gifts, expensive and excessive. But each one of them is chosen with eerie precision, like he's been keeping notes on your passing whims. He'll tease you mercilessly if you catch on. "What can I say? I'm a man of refined taste," he purrs, though the real tell is in his eyes - watching you light up with that rare softness he can't name without cracking open his chest.

He flirts with everyone, but he lingers with you. Draws out conversations just to hear the way you talk when you forget to be guarded. He tells you things that he shouldn't - things that aren't part of the game. And when the world gets too serious, he sharpens.

You've seen it once, Aventurine without that mask. He didn't say anything - Just took your hand, steady and firm, and made sure you got out of there safe. No commentary, no price for his service.

You don't even need him to say the words. Because when you're with him, the odds always lean in your favor.

જ⁀➴ Boothill: His love his in his loyalty.

Boothill doesn't say too much, and when he does, it sure isn't "I love you". Words simply don't hold the weight that actions do, not in his world. If he likes you, you'll know. If he loves you, you'll feel it in your bones before you'll ever hear it in his voice.

He shows it in the way he walks on the outside of the road when you're together. In the way he doesn't let you carry the heavy things, even if you say that you can. In how his hand always twitches towards his holster when someone looks at you wrong - not because he's jealous, but because you're his, and that means something.

He talks about you like you're a legend, even when you're standing right there. Not in flowery language, just in facts. Simple, honest admiration like he's cataloguing all the reasons why you're better than anyone he's ever known.

Boothill carves his love into habits. He fixes things before you have to ask. Offers you his coat without saying a word. When you're tired, he lets you rest against him like it's the most natural thing in the world.

And maybe, one day, you'll catch him staring at you like he's memorizing every inch. He'll tip his hat down to hide it and grumble something under his breath.

But when the silence stretches too long, he'll mutter, "Ain't goin' nowhere, sugar." And that's his way of saying it.

Forever, if you'll have him.

[jjmeii]

♡ — biker! toji that picks you up from your shifts at the sketchy bar on the outskirts of town because your stubborn ass refuses to quit and let him provide for you. he makes it a point to introduce himself to every single fucker in that shithole, and lets the scars and massive built do the rest of the talking.

and the gun. polished. loaded. in plain sight.

the first time he flashes it at the poor regular that’s been waiting for a turn with you, you roll your eyes and tell him to cut it out. “i can take care of myself.”

to which your overly smug boyfriend responds with a cock of his brow, a tilt of his head and a very poignant, very attractive slow crossing of his muscular arms.

“yeah? ‘s that so, sweetheart?”

the mocking tone of his deep voice leaves your cunt soaked, thighs rubbing together, desperate for friction. but you refuse to back down. and he refuses to give in to the notion his protection is not needed. because if you don’t need him? if he’s not able to take care of you the only way he knows how—violently, physically, life on the line—what does he have left?

he’s never been the emotional type, has no fuckin’ clue how to get close to you if it’s not in between your thighs, buried to the hilt in your warm, contracting pussy. he doesn’t know how to be anyway else for you, too stuck in his own ways, too old to change now.

what he’s trying to say—he cares. too fucking much. which, in his line of work, is reckless and unheard of and will most likely get him killed.

and it’s fine. he’s made his peace with death a long time ago.

so, please; let him be big and scary. if he dies, might as well leave someone behind that knows his name. that’s seen him.

♡ — biker! toji who smokes like a chimney waiting for you to get off. that makes sure you wear your helmet and zips your jacket all the way up, a well-versed routine, making sure your hair doesn’t get caught in the zipper in the most nonchalant way, following the gesture with a bruising grip on your thigh once you’re curved around his broad back, arms locking around his waist.

“no fuckin’ games tonight, menace. behave.”

riding with you always makes his dick hard. it’s the way you’re shifting against him, your hands tight on his torso at first, pretend-careful but then trailing, always fucking trailing, driving him insane, thoughts spiraling, damning. toji’s got his hands full with you.

you’re a goddamned brat that’s constantly testing his patience, his limits, and you know this. you hate being told what to do, except when he has your face shoved in a mattress, stuffing your misbehaving hole full of cock, reducing you into a sobbing, blubbering mess. it’s the only way you’ll listen. the only fucking way.

tonight’s no exception. he knew when he smelled alcohol on you. “who the fuck let you drink on the clock?”

“just a couple birthday shots. no big deal. i’m fine,” but you’re palming his growing erection and dry humping the expensive leather of his bike.

toji grips the handle bars tighter, knuckles whitening, and curses under his breath, all the blood flowing away from his thinking head. you smell fucking delectable, panties no doubt drenched, cunt aching, tits pressed up against the muscle on his back and those damned fingers unbuckling, eager, hungry, so fucking hungry, and he’s missed you, it’s been days, he’s been busy—

“careful before you do something you regret, baby.”

“what could i possibly regret from this?” his girl wants a challenge.

he chuckles, a million different ways he could bent your tight little body flashing through his mind. you’re so naive sometimes. you think he won’t push.

oh, but that’s what he loves doing the most.

the roads leading home are dark, the area desolate aside from the occasional car, and toji’s not about to be fucked with without returning the favor. a quick lick should do it with you. just enough to put you in your place before he can properly have his way with you.

he stops the bike on the shoulder, heavy boots coming down for balance and taps your knee twice. you whine but comply, unmounting, helmet off to reveal a flushed face and a mischievous glint in your pretty eyes.

towering over you even while seated, toji studies the way you’re trying to appear unaffected, and fingers the short hem of your dress, bringing you closer. you bite your lip, the silence thick with sexual tension.

he cups your mound in one swift, blunt motion. wet. of course. his cock twitches, tongue swiping over dry lips, preparing.

you grind on his hand and he loses it.

“‘s that how you’re gonna fuckin’ be? huh?” he shoots up from his place on the bike, kicking the stand down, and lifts you up onto the seat, hold possessive but steady, reprimanding yet safe, as he kneels in front of you a mad man, lifting the fabric separating him and your naughty fucking pussy, pulling down the pathetic excuse of lace and bow covering what’s his and diving right into where you need him most.

where he wants most to be. when you cry out he knows he made the right call. slurping the tiny bundle of nerves right into his mouth, he attacks your clit with a fervor bordering painful, jaw digging in just the right way right above your pulsing empty hole, making you jerk forward, fingers digging into his dark hair and pulling.

“so—goddamn—impatient,” his words vibrate into your pussy and cause your head to fall back in ecstasy, knee locking behind his head, keeping him in place, bringing him closer, closer, your hips bucking forward, riding his face, mind of their own. “fuck me.”

“please,” you moan out, high off the mental picture of your monstrous boyfriend eating you out on the highway, where anybody could see. “yes, yes, yes—”

his forearms come over your hips, and dip underneath, thick fingers digging into your ass as he dives deeper into your sex, tongue flattening in between your folds, lapping your juices, lewd sounds that make your stomach clench, your hole ache.

“wanna fuck you,” he mumbles, dropping wet kisses on the insides of your legs, before you feel fingers plunge deep inside you unannounced, in and out in and out, fast. “wanna fuck this pretty pussy. you gon’ let me, baby?”

he looks up at your through thick lashes, face glistening from your slick, and you can do nothing but nod, desperate, already turning in his hands, already itching for his cock to pistol into you and make you come again and again.

it’s exactly what he does. brutally, bruising. it’s always exactly how he gives it to you. buried to the hilt. so deep you swear you feel the tip of his long, fat cock in your belly, bullying your insides, rearranging them.

toji cums inside every time, then digs right back in between your slick pussy lips, licking you clean. tasting his desire on you. tasting yours.

“damn you,” he says hoarsely, forehead resting momentarily on the inside of your thigh, catching his breath. “every time i think i’m teaching you a lesson—you fuck me up, sweetheart. you.fuck.me.up.

“‘m the one learning. can’t live without this pussy. fuckin’ love it. wanna marry it.”

[beaviu]

wrong table, right person .𖥔 ݁ ˖𓂃.☘︎ ݁˖ — sjy

⋆˚꩜｡ 004 :: siri play into you by ari

ʚଓ m.list — prev — next

synopsis . ❀ ݁ ˖ yn finally agrees to a blind date to finally shut her bffs up about her tragic dating life. Dressed to impress but armed with zero expectations, she arrives at a café, scans the room, and sits across from a guy who checks every box: handsome yet cute, and surprisingly sarcastic in a way that keeps her on her toes. Only one problem: he’s not her date. Jake, a schools heartthrob laying low not to be caught by his fan girls, is just trying to enjoy a quiet cup of coffee when a stranger slides into the seat across from him and starts talking like they know each other. Intrigued — and a little bored — he plays along. What starts as a mistaken identity turns into a full-blown accidental date. And when yn finally realizes her mixup… she walks away mortified. But Jake? He can’t stop thinking about her. Now he’s determined to find her again — without revealing who he really is. As fate (or nosy mutual friends) brings them back together, their story becomes anything but accidental. Because sometimes, love finds you at the wrong table — at exactly the right time.

As yn takes a deep breath to compose herself, she opens the bathroom door and steps out, still feeling a wave of nerves after learning the truth.

“H-Hey,” she says, her voice slightly shaky.

“Hey, everything okay?” Jake asks, clearly concerned, his brows furrowed.

“Yeah, I—one of my friends ended up in the hospital... drank too much,” she replies, hoping the lie comes off as believable.

“In the middle of the day?” he asks, confused.

“Yeah, um... I have to go, but it was nice meeting you,” she says quickly shooting him a warm smile, turning to leave. But just before she walks away, she steals a glance at him—and is caught off guard.

His features are striking: that golden retriever smile he gives out of sympathy, and those eyes—warm, sincere, full of genuine concern and his smooth, flawless skin highlights a delicate nose and strong jawline, blending strength and softness in a striking harmony.

Something stirs in her chest, an unfamiliar flutter. Butterflies...?

She blinks, trying to shake off the feeling, but it lingers—soft and persistent, like the echo of a song you can’t quite forget.

Jake shifts slightly, rubbing the back of his neck. “I hope your friend’s okay,” he says, his voice low, sincere. “If you need anything... or just someone to talk to—”

“I’ll be fine,” yn cuts in, a little too quickly, trying to shield herself with distance. She doesn’t want to stay, but at the same time... she doesn’t really want to go either. Not yet.

He nods slowly, clearly sensing there’s more going on than she’s letting on, but choosing not to push. “Take care, alright?”

She gives a small nod, offering a forced yet warm smile before turning away. Her footsteps feel heavy, but her heart feels... lighter? No, confused. That was it—confused.

Once outside, the cool air hits her and she exhales sharply, pressing her fingers to her temple. What the hell just happened?

But Jake’s face lingers in her mind—those eyes, that smile. And something else, too. Something she couldn’t quite name yet, but it scared her in a way that didn’t feel entirely bad.

`✦ ˑ ִֶ 𓂃⊹ `✦ ˑ ִֶ 𓂃⊹ `✦ ˑ ִֶ 𓂃⊹ `✦ ˑ ִֶ 𓂃⊹ `✦ ˑ ִֶ 𓂃⊹ `✦ ˑ ִֶ 𓂃⊹ `✦ ˑ ִֶ 𓂃⊹ `✦ ˑ ִֶ 𓂃

⋆˚𝜗𝜚˚⋆ authors note — two chapters in a dayyyyy lessgooooooo 😛😛✌️✌️✌️ anyways taglist is always open for anyone who wants to join

⋆˚𝜗𝜚˚⋆ taglist — @astrobebba @rikchic @zoe1love @t1iqaa @enhanoa @yuyita-rosier @smolderingoasislegion @synamon @blvengene @urfavmelaninatedgeminii @cupidmiyu @naevisringring @swiftcityy @luhvletters @sumzysworld @w3willris3 @skepvids @enhastolemyheart @kimuranirisi @rairaiblog @teenagecheesecakereview @kuroosluthoe @firstclassjaylee @kiromiix @firstclassjaylee @splzq @yenienha @aernx @jakeznii @berryzoo @haechsworld

[cainetarot]

PICK A CARD: Assumptions about u?

⚠️MY READINGS ARE EXTREMELY ACCURATE, TAKE IT WELL AS IT RESONATES, MY BLOG CHANNEL DO NOT SUPPORT SUGARCOATING STRICTLY ⚠️

PILE 1

Dreamer? Deep in either u posses child like energy or ya'll just too stubborn sometimes.

U gotta be someone who doesn't open up too quickly. U OBSERVE.

Might have gone through a big breakdown lately ⚡

And now? Now ur being seen and ur rising from the rubble with receipts, confidence, and a fresh game plan! •ᴗ•

U have OUTGROWN ur past, emotionally and mentally.

⋆. 𐙚 ˚ Someone underestimated u when u were quiet or broke

⋆. 𐙚 ˚ People think ur cold or hard to READ 🔮

⋆. 𐙚 ˚ One particular person, who’s either watching from afar or has unfinished emotional business with u 🤔

⋆. 𐙚 ˚ Someone is silently watching u succeed and feeling like they missed their chance ( THEY DON'T DESERVE U ANYWAY)

⋆. 𐙚 ˚ Someone feels like u know exactly what’s going on without them saying a word and that SPOOKS them 😂

⋆. 𐙚 ˚ Someone is afraid that now UR too far out of reach, and levelled the heck up ✨

Lmaoo the song!? UNEXPECTED 💀

˙✧˖°📷 ༘ ⋆｡˚Assumptions from that one person? ˙✧˖°📷 ༘ ⋆｡˚

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PILE 2

Damnn...do u listen to music a lot? Cuz I got attacked by so many songs at once 💀💀

Or maybe people think ur a music FREAK.

Ur showing up as someone strategic, independent, and slightly intimidating •ᴗ•

U had ur illusions shattered, maybe someone lied, or ur dreams turned out to be just glitter.

But now? U HAVE GOT FOCUSED ⌖

U have gone from confusion → clarity → control.

U give “don’t mess with me” vibes, but deep down, u want love that feels like home again. DONT U?

⋆. 𐙚 ˚ Someone thought they had options, and now they have regret.

⋆. 𐙚 ˚ People are watching u become stronger, bolder, and more respected (It’s lowkey intimidating them)

⋆. 𐙚 ˚ Someone feels like ur now in “boss mode”

⋆. 𐙚 ˚ Someone is scared u already moved on, they be replaying ur laughs, ur memories!

⋆. 𐙚 ˚ One person just don’t know how to reach u without looking weak. 

‧₊ ᵎᵎ 🍒 ⋅ ˚✮ What's next in love for u? ‧₊ ᵎᵎ 🍒 ⋅ ˚✮

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PILE 3

Might have recently faced some kind of ending or disappointment.

U might be going through a major personal transformation, a real life phoenix moment ﾒ૦ﾒ૦💋

Ur energy is becoming lighter, faster, more visible, and reclaiming authority and ur POWER!

⋆. 𐙚 ˚ Someone thought u will stay the same. (They didn’t expect u to rise from the ashes like that)

⋆. 𐙚 ˚ Someone still fantasizes about u 😳

I heard the word "right timing"

"I pick my poison and it's u" WHAAAT? what are ya'll even upto? 😭

⋆. 𐙚 ˚ Someone is now facing their karma for what they did or didn’t do 

. 𐙚 ˚ Someone is lowkey PANICKING cuz ur moving fast babe 😋

. 𐙚 ˚ Someone might message u soon but ur new energy is intimidating.

U ARE glowing, confident, and emotionally unavailable to BS NOW

⋆｡‧˚ʚ🍓ɞ˚‧｡⋆ Who's coming in ur life next? ⋆｡‧˚ʚ🍓ɞ˚‧｡⋆

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PILE 4

HEARTBREAK? Dawg even the song 💀

U have walked away from something that hurt deeply...but it didn’t valued u back.

So u chose U 🫵

I remember crying over this song, u might have even cried too.

But ur moving forward rapidly now, even if u sometimes feel emotionally blocked.

U disconnected from what no longer grows u and that’s ur biggest WIN 🔥

. 𐙚 ˚ That one person who knows they lost u, CAN'T FORGET U

. 𐙚 ˚ Someone watched u walk away, maybe silently, and didn’t realise how final it was until they saw u thriving 🐻ིྀ

. 𐙚 ˚ Someone regrets not collaborating, supporting, or choosing u.

Now? UR IN UR BOSS ERA! 𝟏𝟏:𝟏𝟏

. 𐙚 ˚ Someone may try messaging u impulsively, but deep down they know they’ve lost their place in ur life.

(As soon as i switched to pile 4 there was a huge shift in energy ngl)

Want me to reveal exactly what's going on with this

"SOMEONE"?

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[yvaineseleneposts]

When it rains

Requested: no

Pairing: Jack Hughes x reader

Words: 1k

Warning(s): none

Jack Hughes didn’t usually go to bookstores. Not because he didn’t like them, he did. Quietly. Secretly. But life had got so loud in the past few years that it felt like he had forgotten how to enjoy anything that wasn’t game tape, protein shakes, or a plane ride to somewhere new.

But there was something about this one, tucked into a corner of Montclair, small but curated like someone actually cared, that pulled him in on a slow Tuesday afternoon. Hoodie up, sunglasses on. Anonymous enough, he hoped. He didn’t expect anyone to talk to him. That was kind of the point. So when the girl behind the counter looked up and said, “You look like the kind of guy who buys poetry and pretends not to read it,” he blinked.

She didn’t know who he was. Or if she did, she didn’t care.

“I—uh, I wasn’t pretending,” he said, already fumbling.

She grinned. “Relax. I think it’s cool. Most guys come in here looking confused and leave with a coffee-stained paperback of Bukowski.”

Jack laughed, scratching the back of his neck. “Okay, I was going to buy Bukowski. But now I feel like I need to prove I have range.”

She slid a copy of Ocean Vuong’s Night Sky with Exit Wounds across the counter without a word.

When he left the store twenty minutes later, the book was in his hand, and her name, written in small, looping handwriting on a post-it note, was in his pocket.

He didn’t go back for ten days. He told himself he was busy. Practice. Travel. Life. But the truth was simpler: he didn’t want to seem obvious. When he did return, she didn’t act surprised.

“Back for more sad poetry?” she asked.

“Back for something,” he said, then immediately wished he’d picked different words.

She didn’t flinch. Just raised an eyebrow and said, “Let me guess — something that makes you feel smart but not too sad?”

“Sure,” Jack replied. “Something that makes me look like I have emotions but still, like, emotionally repress them.”

She laughed, and he remembered the sound more than anything he read that night.

The third time, he stayed longer. She was shelving returns when he wandered in, but she waved him toward the front.

“There’s coffee in the back,” she said. “Not good coffee. But warm.”

He took it, sipped it, winced. She smirked.

They talked about nothing for a while, her favourite books, his favourite cities (he didn’t say he’d played in most of them), the weird quiet that settles in on rainy afternoons.

He didn’t flirt. She didn’t either. But their words started to circle something softer. Not a crush. Not yet. Just that rare kind of comfort that sneaks up on you.

Before he left, she said, “You always come in when it rains.”

Jack glanced outside. “I guess I like quiet places when the world’s loud.”

She tilted her head, almost smiling. “Yeah. Me too.”

They didn’t exchange numbers until the fifth visit.

Not because they were playing games, but because it hadn’t felt necessary. The bookstore became their middle ground no label, no pressure. Just a place to be.

But that day, something felt different.

“I’ve got to close early tomorrow,” she said, fiddling with a receipt. “My cousin’s getting married. Which is weird, because she’s my age, and I still eat cereal for dinner.”

Jack smiled. “What kind of cereal?”

“Froot Loops. Obviously.”

He laughed, then hesitated. “Do you... want to text me? If you ever want to talk about cereal, I mean.”

She didn’t hesitate. She slid her phone across the counter. “Only if you promise not to send me hockey memes.”

“No promises,” he said, already typing.

They texted more than he expected. Not all day. Not always deep. But enough.

A photo of the sky from the rink. A blurry cat she saw on the pavement. A quote from a book he didn’t understand but said he liked anyway.

Jack started showing up more. Sometimes with coffee, sometimes with no reason at all. The bookstore always smelled like paper and cinnamon tea. He liked that.

She never asked about hockey. He never brought it up.

Until one day, she was watching the news on her break and froze.

“That’s you,” she said, eyes wide. “That’s literally you on the screen.”

Jack looked sheepish. “Yeah. Sorry.”

She stared for a second. “You didn’t think that might be relevant information?”

“I liked being just a guy who likes poetry,” he said. “Not someone people yell at in airports.”

She didn’t say anything right away. Then she leaned across the counter and whispered, “You’re still that guy. You just happen to be really fast on skates.”

It changed after that, but not in a bad way.

They still texted. Still talked books and bad coffee. But she started watching his games quietly, alone, never live tweeting like fans do. Just watching.

When he’d play well, she’d send one line: You looked like you.

When he didn’t, she’d still text: Still your best fan. Still Froot Loops for dinner.

It grounded him in ways he didn’t know he needed.

One night, she closed the store late. He offered to walk her home. It was cold, that kind of pre-winter chill that bites at your cheeks.

They didn’t talk much. But halfway down the block, she slipped her hand into his.

“Your hand’s freezing,” he said.

“Your hoodie is thin,” she shot back.

“Do you want it?”

She stopped walking. Looked at him, really looked.

And then, quietly, “I want you to kiss me.”

He did. No flash. No music. Just the soft crunch of snow underfoot and the sound of her breath catching in the space between them.

Jack Hughes didn’t usually go to bookstores. But now, every time it rained — or didn’t — he found himself there. Sometimes they talked. Sometimes they didn’t. But every time, she looked at him like he was just Jack, not a highlight reel, not a jersey, not a headline. And somehow, that was the thing he’d always needed most.

[strawwbyy]

۶ৎ Material Girl ۶ৎ

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚ TAGS: Porn with some plot, f!reader, kinda rough, messing around on the job, not proofread.

Being in Hell was very nice, you were able to live comfortably without working thanks to all the devils' kindness. However, after sometime, being showered with everything started becoming slightly boring. Strangely, it felt as though you were wasting your time in some way. So, you decided to get a small job to keep yourself busy when you had nothing to do. What's the harm?

After thinking about some options, you decided to settle for a bartender job. Gehenna was full of bars after all, and the job wasn't too hard. Plus, you had the chance to run into the devils you knew best who often visited pubs, for example, Satan. It didn't take long for you to get hired. The first bar owner you talked to was practically jumping at the idea of having you as an employee. It'd be great for bussiness, but also because he liked you, like every other devil.

The first day, you walked in a bit nervous. Your shift started at midnight, but you came in early to get ready without too many people around. You talked to the owner, and he handed you your uniform in a silk bag. You didn't really think you were gonna use one, and now you feel a bit silly for taking so long planning your outfit, but alas. You walked into the changing room, opened the bag, and your breath hitched for a moment. The uniform was… scandalous. It gave a bit of an office siren vibe, with a tight button-up shirt (lacking enough buttons to not cover your cleavage) and a short, tight pencil skirt that hugged your thighs and ass perfectly (how did this guy even know your size?). The outfit you picked for yourself included sheer dark stockings, so you decided to leave those in for a bit more seduction. You were nervous, yeah, but that didn't mean you were gonna chicken out!

Once you were dressed, you took a deep breath and walked out to the bar. Your heart was beating fast at first, but after half an hour of chit-chatting with demons and serving simple drinks, you were feeling refreshed and locked in. The demons that visited were surprised and eager, their eyes sparkling with joy once they noticed you on the other side of the bar. Unbeknownst to you, they all seemed to agree to ask you for easy to make drinks, making the job be pretty much a breeze. Halfway through your shift, you noticed two familiar faces walk into the bar: Sitri and Satan.

You had decided to skip over your little time-spending adventure when Satan asked what you were doing that day, and the owner of the bar didn't announce that you were working that day to avoid overwhelming you with too many customers, so imagine the surprise on his face when he saw you. Sitri smiled, kind as always, and sat down in front of you, greeting you. Satan followed, sitting besides him and just… staring. Hard. You felt yourself shake a bit, his gaze being more intense than usual. Was he mad? No, that can't be. There's no reason for him to be angry over this, right?

You decide to ignore him for now. It was nice to have company anyways, he was probably just surprised. So, you focused on talking to Sitri as you served him a cold drink, laughing together with the other devils who joined into your conversation.

An hour went by. Your shift was nearing it's end, and Satan was still like that. He wasn't sulking, he was laughing along with the other devils and throwing some silly comment here and there, but his eyes never left you. Ocasionally you had to turn your back to them and focuse on the other people walking into the pub, running back and forth to the back to get more drinks, snacks or add-ons when they ran out. Your mind was occupied, you really didn't want to focus too much on Satans strange attitude.

With how distracted you were, you didn't notice the way Satans red eyes narrowed, darkening into a deep red whenever you turned around and swayed your hips to the beat of the jazz blasting from the bar's speakers, the tight pencil skirt clinging to your ass like you were teasing him on purpose, or the way his jaw tightened whenever you leaned down to get something from under the bar, your boobs peaking out through the deep cleavage of your dress shirt. You looked wonderful, ready and sultry for him in your slutty uniform, your features more beautiful than usual under the lights and shadows of the dimly lit pub.

Another hour goes by, and you start saying goodbye to everyone. Almost all the customers are gone, except for Satan and Sitri, and some other devils who are far too drunk to know what time it is. You're a bit worried, but the owner said he'll take care of them. Finally being alone with your usual circle, you grab a chair to bring to your side of the bar and sit with Satan and Sitri. You stretch and sigh, and Sitri clears his throat and blushes when your breasts jiggle slightly. You're more calm now that your shift is almost done and you can unwind, but you really can't relax when Satans eyes are even more piercing than when he first came in. He's got a hand on the bar, tapping his fingers against the wood in a fast pace, and he's got both you and Sitri a bit tense with how heavy his presence is right now. After looking at you a bit more, taking in how seductive you look, Sitri excuses himself and steps out of the bar, and with the owner occupied with the drunkards outside, now it's only you and Satan.

So, you're sat awkwardly with your hands in your lap, avoiding his eyes. Now that you're alone, you feel a bit shy and overwhelmed by him. He's being more intense than usual, but it's even worse because he's not talking at all. He just creepily stares into your soul, and now without distractions you're picking up on how he stares at other places as well, shamelessly so. You start to feel your body heat up slightly, your nervousness giving way to that familiar warmthness that you feel around Satan when it's only the two of you. You look at him for a second, and you feel yourself burn and melt under his firey expression. His frows furrowed, lips sealed tight and shaking upwards like a dogs, and his red eyes almost glowy under the light, darkened with something primal. You feel a sudden tingle between your legs, and before your thighs can press against each other with need, you blink and get up. You can't be doing this sort of stuff in the job! Especially not on your first ever shift. So, you excuse yourself for a moment, and rush to the back of the bar to breathe and calm yourself down.

You grip onto a table on the staff-only area, sighing and cursing yourself out for being like this. But, it's fine. You managed to run from the temptations of the flesh. The rich, muscular, pale flesh sitting on the bar, clearly wanting and filled with desire... Your thoughts get mixed up again. You curse yourself out once more, but you're not alone with yourself for long.

You don't even hear the loud screeching of the old door before you feel two big, cold hands grab at your hips. You yelp in surprise, straightening up and hitting the back of your head against Satans firm chest. You look up at him, and you see him already looking down at you with a hungry expression. He looks better than before, his eyes still burning with desire, but he's smiling now. A big, playful smirk that shows off his sharp fangs. His hands paw roughly at the pudge in your waist and hips. "Walking around in this fuckin' outfit... Showing off to everyone, you doin' this on purpose?" He growls in your ear, his voice lower than usual and raspy with impatience. One of his hands moves to grab a fistful of your ass, squeezing it roughly through the pencil skirt, lifting it slightly in the process. The other one enters your shirt through the cleavage, ripping the buttons open in a single movement to free your tits to the cold air inside the staff room. Your nipples perk up from the hot and cold feeling of the night breeze biting into your skin and the growing arousal from within your body, and Satan chuckles at the sight. He roughly turns you around, grabbing you and placing you on the table. "You've been teasin' me all night with this slutty skirt. You think I didn't notice how you moved your pretty ass around for me?" …Alright, maaybe the complete ditzy innocent act from before wasn't true. Maaaybe you were swinging your hips more than before Satan walked into the bar. Just Maaaybe you didn't have to bend down so much to reach for the lemon slices under the bar. But, he doesn't have to know that (he already does). But, that's not important anymore. Whatever embarrassment you could've felt from being caught in your little act washed away instantly when Satan grabbed onto your perky nipples, pulling and squeezing to hear your moans. You tried to hold back the sounds, you really did. You're already doing this at work, the least you could do was try to keep a speck of decorum and be silent, but keeping your noises in was getting trickier the more Satan touched you. You felt yourself drip through the lace of your panties, your thighs sticky as they pressed together when Satan slipped a free hand between your legs to play with your pussy. You let out shaky sighs and muffled whimpers, biting your lip to the point of almost bleeding. Satan chuckled at this, kissing you harshly and slipping his tongue into your mouth, eating up your moans and biting your lip to lick at the cherry red blood.

You felt like you were gonna cum just from Satan playing with you like this. One of his hands continued to play with your sensitive chest, while the other pulled your panties down. He looked at you dead in the eyes, giving the wet patch a lick. You felt your whole body ring with electricity at his lewdness, overwhelmed with arousal. Satan couldn't be more happy seeing your expression, needy and pathetic just like he liked. He slipped his fingers in your gooey pussy, playing around with the wetness and you felt your ears burn at the loud squelching coming from between your legs. Your moans started to slip more shamelessly as you forget the situation you're in, your head filled with nothing but Satan, your orgasm building up. He slips two fingers into your pussy, sliding them inside with ease from how wet you were. Your thighs shook shamelessly, your eyes crossing as he started attacking your most sensitive spot with the curling of his thick fingers. You whimper, your tits shaking along with your entire body and Satan feels he could cum just from the sight of you being so debauched. Drool slipping from your mouth, your eyes unfocused and your entire face flushed, nipples perky and red, your thighs shaking and of course, your pussy pulsating and glistening under his rough touch, sweet syrup dripping from it non-stop. He growls low, speeding up his movements to see you come undone. You gasp, your thighs closing in on his hand, your hips riding upwards to chase the friction of his fingers against your insides, and before you know it you're throwing your head back with a loud moan, cumming abruptly. Your jaw opens, more drool oozing out. Your brain is pretty much fried already, the only thing that your eyes can see is the shiny white of his hair and his glowing red eyes, the sight blurry behind tears of pleasure.

Satan isn't done, though. He takes his fingers out slowly, parting your thighs with his other hand to admire the sight of a string of gooey cum stick to them, breaking off when he lifts them to lick it off. He groans at the taste, slapping your thigh to bring you back to reality. You moan at this, blinking the tears away to see him better, your thighs parting subconsciously for him. He makes quick work of his belt, fumbling with it for a bit before pulling his pants down to free his hard cock. He gives it a few pumps, hissing from how sensitive he is by now, before slapping the tip against your clit. You whimper and yelp, your hips shaking and leaning away from the overstimulation. Satan chuckles, grabbing your waist roughly and yanking your lower body towards him. You slip, falling onto the table. You lay there, breathing heavily and looking down at Satans dick as he starts to enter you. You moan, hissing at the stretch, but he doesn't give you much time to relax before he picks up the pace.

You really, really can't hold your sounds in now even if you wanted. They're being practically punched out of you by Satan, as he drives his cock in and out of you at a quick pace instantly. He groans and moans low, looking at the way your tits shake along with his thrusts and taking in your fucked-out expression, eyes crossed and tears brimming at the corners. He grabs your thighs harshly, leaning down to take one of your breasts into his mouth, swirling his tongue around it before giving it a playful bite. In your daze, you groan, cursing him out for biting you. He laughs, smirking like a maniac, a true demon. He slaps your thigh, making you yelp at the deafening sound. If anyone were to pass by the staff room, they would hear the sounds of Satan spanking you, slobbering on your tits, and of course the nasty wet sounds of your pussy gushing around his dick and the skin slapping against skin when he thrusts in and out of you. Your fingers curl, legs stretching towards his shoulders as you moan, cumming for a second time, your moans turning into high-pitched screams because he just won't stop.

It seems you're in for some extra hours.

Strawby here :3 i wanted to write something for gehenna. i know its kinda random but i hope you like it this new apothecary diaries theme i did got me feeling like shakespare. anyways, enjoy!

[rosenclaws]

Replacement || Logan Howlett x Reader

summary: Being with Logan is a dream but when the girl who is basically his daughter seems to hate you, it makes things pretty difficult.

warnings: angst, arguments, fluff, comfort, jubilee is kinda mean, a little suggestive at the end.

a/n: okay so idk if i like how this turned out but ive been on a wolverine jubilee kick so fuck it. I live for dad Logan and I just needed more

Logan liked to say he didn't care about anything. He didn't care about the team he would protect with his life or the kids that made him smile. All he cared about was beer and cigars. But everyone could see he was a liar. Deep down the man cared a lot about this little life he had created. Whether he wants to admit it or not the X-Men were very important to him.

Especially Jubilee. She was a young mutant who was quite literally a firecracker. The explosive powers that came from her fingertips were flashy and fun but were not to be taken lightly. Ever since they met they shared a special bond. He had become somewhat of a mentor to her.

For a long time she was the only one who he held that special spot for. Until you came along. Or that's what people would tell you anyways. You thought it was absolutely adorable. To see that soft side of Logan it's what made you fall in love with him, among other things.

You met him while he was away from the mansion. Logan had gone off alone again. The mansion life is nice but sometimes it became too overwhelming. So he hopped on his bike and left. Leaving only a letter to explain where he went. He drove for a while until he had to stop for gas. That's where he met you.

You worked at some 24 hour diner near by and man were you as sweet as the pie you served. You were kind and funny and you made Logan feel like more than just a mutant or an X-Men. He loves them he really does but they know what he is. They don't have any high expectations for the man. But you, you thought he was everything. Handsome, sweet, a little mysterious. He found himself stuck to this town. He got onto his bike but he just couldn't leave.

Back in New York he felt suffocated sometimes but you made it easy to breathe. You built a small life for a while. He helped around and did odd jobs for money while you let him stay with you. He kissed you a week after moving to that town and he knew once his lips touched yours he could never go back.

Eventually he got a message from Charles. They needed him. So he asked you to come with him. It was a big ask but fuck, you loved the man and he loved you.

So you packed up everything and followed him to New York. You and Logan were happy, really happy. There's just one problem. Jubilee seems to hate your guts. He had told you about the mansion and the people in it. His friends. You couldn't wait to meet them all.

When you first arrived Jubilee was the first person to greet the two of you. She jumped into Logan's arms, talking animatedly about all that he missed. Then she saw you and she went quiet, asking who you were in a not so friendly tone. Your nerves went haywire as she stared. She wasn't outright mean but it was clear she wasn't happy you're here. Soon the others arrived and they were nice but you couldn't shake that stomach twisting feeling.

At first you thought she was just wary of you because you were new. You understood the kind of life a lot of these kids had before finding peace at the mansion. So you tried to introduce yourself but she blew you off. It hurt a little but you didn't take it personally. She is a teenager after all. But then you started dating Logan and things took a turn for the worse. She was always interrupting or doing something to drive the two of you apart.

Like one night you and Logan were in the kitchen. He had you leaning against the wall, trapped by his very fit body. He leaned in for a kiss and suddenly a bright spark flew right in between you. You jumped apart and saw Jubilee giggling by the door. Stuff like that would happen a lot. Or she would call for Logan's help whenever the two of you got time alone. If you asked he would tell her no but you always told him it was okay.

You didn't want to make Jubilee more upset or come between them. At first you thought these were all just silly pranks or bad timing but as they kept happening it became incredibly obvious she was doing this on purpose. You just wanted her to like you, or at least not hate you. The strained relationship between you and her was starting to effect your relationship and you wish it didn't.

"Hey Jubilee can we talk?" You asked nervously as you saw the girl sitting in the living room.

"I was wondering if maybe you wanted to go to the movies this weekend? There's this cheesy action comedy movie out that I thought you'd like." She looks up at you and just shrugs.

"No thanks."

"Oh that's okay, maybe another time?" You say, slightly disappointed that another attempt at getting to know her failed.

"Yeah maybe never." She mumbles under her breath.

You try not to get frustrated. She's just a kid. She doesn't have to like you. But you want to make things right, apologize even if you don't know what you did wrong.

"Jubilee, I know you don't like me and I just want to know what I can do to fix it." You tell her. You're desperate at this point.

"It's nothing. Just leave me alone." She rolls her eyes and you feel another wave of annoyance hit you.

"Please, I'm really trying. We don't have to be best friends but you're important to Logan and so am I so we just-"

Jubilee stands up, her face twisting into anger as she interrupts you.

"God can't you take a hint? I don't want to know you. You came into our home and you walk around like you own the fucking place!" She shouts.

"I didn't mean to I'm sorry." You try and apologize but she doesn't listen.

"We don't need you here. We're a family and you're just an outsider." Her fingertips start to tingle as her powers start to spark.

"Just do us all a favor and leave!" A blast comes from her fingers aimed right at you.

You shield your face and brace for the pain, but it never comes. You open your eyes to see Logan standing in front of you. He took the full force, his shirt burned through but his skin was already healing.

"You alright?" He asks and you nod wordlessly.

"Jubilee!" He growls. She looks guilty, she didn't mean to do that.

"I..." She starts but her voice fades.

"Go. I'll deal with you later." She looks to you, opening her mouth but doesn't say anything.

She just takes off outside. Running far away without another word. Logan is furious. He's noticed her acting out lately but he just thought it was typical teenage bullshit. But this is more than that.

"I don't know what the hell has gotten into her." He turns back to you. It's clear as day what you have to do. She'll never accept you being here.

"I think I should go."

"If you need space I can meet you in our room later." He reaches out but you step back, shaking your head.

"No I mean I should leave. Leave the mansion." Logan furrows his brows in confusion.

"What? Why?" You almost laugh at that.

"Clearly I'm not wanted here. So it's just better if we go our separate ways alright?" It's breaking your damn heart to say this. You don't want to leave but maybe Jubilee is right. You are an outsider. You aren't like them.

"She hates me Logan. She almost blasted my face off."

"It was an accident, she'd never hurt an innocent person." Logan says and you just sigh. You're not mad he's defending her. He's in an impossible situation.

"I love you Logan but this is your home. This is your family. Jubilee is your family. I just don't think I fit here."

"Don't go, don't run from me." Logan grabs your wrist gently, his eyes pleading for you to stay.

"I can't lose you." He whispers. It almost makes you stay. Almost.

But you think about everything. What you've put up with and the possible future. If you stay Logan and Jubilee will grow apart because of you. That girl is like his daughter. She needs him. She's just a kid. You lean in and kiss his cheek, a sad look on your face as you slip your wrist out of his grip. His hand falls to his side limply. You turn your back and walk towards your room.

"I'm sorry Logan." You whisper but you know he can hear you. It's too much, it's just better this way.

Jubilee really didn't mean to let her powers get out of control like that. She wouldn't ever hurt you like that on purpose. Her outburst...it's complicated. She sits on the grass with her knees against her chest. She watches the wind blow the dandelions back and forth. She knows she's in the wrong but she can't seem to admit it. She's protecting her life, her family. She hears footsteps approach and she braces for the scolding of a lifetime.

It's Logan. She doesn't even have to turn around to know. His shadow covers her from the sun as he gets closer. He walks around until he's right in front of her. She stares at his boots, refusing to look up at him.

"You wanna tell me what that was about?"

"It was an accident." She mumbles softly. Guilt clawing inside of her.

"I know it was, but I heard what you said." Logan knows there's something eating at her, he just doesn't know what. Or how to fix it. But enough is enough. He sits down in front of her, crossing his legs he leans back.

"I can sit out here all day Jubs, you need to talk to me." Logan tilts his head as Jubilee starts to pick at the grass. Fuck.

"I'd never hurt them, I was just so angry and I..."

"Angry bout what?" Logan pushes. He can see the gears turning in her head. He knows the most how difficult it can be to open up, to dig deep into the anger. It's easy to be angry but it's harder to understand why.

For the first time Jubilee looks up at Logan, expecting an angry pissed off look he reserves for when he's really mad. But instead it's soft. It's concern and worry. Tears well up in her eyes as she finally has to face the truth. It's always been unspoken between them. Just how much they mean to each other.

Logan wasn't a sappy emotional man and Jubilee was an outgoing teenager who liked to pretend her past didn't hurt as much as it did.

"I was scared." She whispers, tucking her legs closer to her body.

"Scared of what?" Logan asks.

"Scared that you were going to be taken away from me." She admits. Logan was the father figure she never had. She was special to him. He was softer with her, kinder. She could ask for almost anything and he'd cave even if he complained the whole time. She trusted him with her life. So seeing someone else seemingly fill that role hurt. She was jealous and scared and upset. So she lashed out, believing that if she could drive you away then everything would go back to normal.

"You left me Logan." She remembers how hurt she was when he left. Not even a goodbye just some lousy note.

She waited for him to come back, acting like she wasn't affected by his disappearance but she was. So when he finally did come home she was so happy. But then she saw you and realized he wasn't alone.

"The X-men are my family but...you mean a lot to me Logan and when you came back you brought someone new and I was afraid that meant you were going to forget about me." She buries her face into her knees.

It was so childish but she couldn't help it. She missed Logan and now someone new came along and stole him away. Were you the reason he was gone for so long? The resentment just built and built.

"Hey, look at me." Logan says softly. He gently grabs her face and tilts her head up.

Jubilee means more to him than she'll ever know. The protective nature he feels over her can really only be described as paternal. He won't admit it but she is like his daughter. Man look at him, he never thought he'd have this life. That he'd have a family. But he does and you know, it's pretty damn great.

"I could never replace you kid, ever." He wipes away a tear and sits next to her. He wraps an arm around her and she leans against his shoulder.

"You mean a lot to me too. Even if you're annoying and loud and make me watch stupid internet videos." She giggles and Logan smiles.

"Were you happy? When you went away." She asks and Logan nods.

"Yeah I was, but that doesn't mean I didn't miss you too kid." A wave of guilt crashes over Jubilee as she thinks about all the things she'd done to lash out. You were nice, really nice and she couldn't even give you a chance. She was so wrapped up in her own feelings she didn't even care how happy you made Logan.

"I feel so stupid, god I really messed up didn't I." Jubilee groans as she looks at Logan.

"Yeah, you did kid. But it's nothing an apology and effort can't fix." Logan says, though he's not completely convinced. Jubilee studies his face for a moment before getting up and running back to the mansion without another word.

"Hey! Where are you going?!" Logan calls after her but she ignores him. She has to make this right.

You're almost all packed when the door bursts open.

"Logan please don't make this harder than it has to be," You beg as you turn around, expecting the man you love to be standing there. To your surprise it's Jubilee. She's slightly out of breath as she leans against the door.

"Man I need to get back in the danger room." She huffs. She spots your clothes folded in a suitcase and starts to panic.

"Are you leaving?"

"Don't worry, I'll be out of your life soon." You tell her.

"No!" She blurts out which takes you by surprise.

"I'm sorry. I'm really really sorry. I was afraid and jealous and I took it out on you and I'm sorry." She apologizes. Afraid that she went too far, that she was going to drive away someone who made Logan happy.

"I felt replaced and I got bitter and I just wanted Logan back but I really fucked up."

"Thank you, for the apology Jubilee," You say gently.

"I really appreciate it, but maybe it's for the best that I leave." You're not sure what to do now.

"I'd never try to replace you. Logan needs you more than he needs me." You say and she frowns.

"That's not true. I lashed out because I was afraid I'd lose him and I didn't mean anything I said. You make him so happy. You're so kind to all of us. You don't judge us. Please don't punish him for my mistakes." This was a big moment for Jubilee.

To take this kind of responsibility and be so vulnerable to someone she doesn't really know. But it's her way to trying to show you she means it.

"I..." You hesitate.

"Let me make this right. We can go to that movie if it's still on the table?" She pleads and man her puppy dog eyes really are magic. No wonder Logan can never say no.

"Okay. I'll stay."

"Thank you!" She reaches out to hug you but stops, realizing you might not be her biggest fan right now. But you open your arms and welcome her into a hug.

"I want you to know that I could never replace you. Logan will always have a special place in his heart for you that no one can ever touch." You tell her. She hugs you a little tighter. You look up and see Logan leaning against the door.

"No fireworks this time?" Logan says, his voice gentle.

"Not this time." You reply.

Jubilee pulls away and walks over to Logan. Hugging him too. He grunts and pretends to be annoyed but he wraps his arms around her tight.

"Don't think you aren't in trouble for earlier by the way." He whispers in her ear and she sheepishly laughs.

"Go down to the lab. I'm sure Hank has plenty of work for you to do allll week." She groans and stomps off to the lab, mumbling under her breath.

"I heard that!" Logan yells and she turns to stick her tongue out at him.

"Teenagers." He says with a roll of his eyes.

"You are such a dad." You say with a laugh. He smiles just hearing that sound.

"You still leaving?" He asks and you shake your head.

"No. I'm not."

"Good." Logan grabs your waist and pulls you into a heated kiss. You tug at his shirt and groan when he nips at your bottom lip.

"Looks like we finally have some real alone time." He hums as he kicks the door closed.

"Yeah we do, I think you owe me a date night." Logan just grins.

"I'll buy you dinner but how about we skip to the good part right now."

[xocxyo]

𝕿𝕳𝕰 𝕴𝕯𝕺𝕷 - THE IDOL

𝔖𝔲𝔪𝔪𝔞𝔯𝔶: Attraction is never just chemistry. Sometimes it’s a trap—and you’ve learned how to use it. Y/n is the kind of person who doesn’t need to speak loudly to be noticed. A subtle manipulator, a look that reads more than it should, a presence that confuses. But everything changes when a name starts to echo: Megan Skiendiel. Chaotic, talented, and as unattainable as she is dangerous. There’s something else going on inside Megan’s head, a mess so deep that she doesn’t believe it can be fixed. And for the first time in a long time, you don’t feel in control…not entirely.

𝔚𝔞𝔯𝔫𝔦𝔫𝔤𝔰: Idol!Megan x Uncertain!g!p!Y/n, psychological tension, power play, mystery and emotional fragility, intimate atmosphere, subtle references to fame, trauma, manipulation and desire, two emotionally broken characters, mention of drugs, alcohol, weapons, sex, swearing

𝔞/𝔫: I know I haven't been around for a LONG time, so first of all I really want to apologize to everyone. There's no reason for my disappearance, I've always been here, just lacking creativity, so this time I'm really going to take a break, I promise!! Anyway, I decided to bring you something more elaborate since I've been away for so long. I changed a few things on my profile, so I don't even know if you remember me…

ℭ𝔥𝔞𝔯𝔭𝔱𝔢𝔯𝔰:

00 | Characters

01 | The Lure

02 | Im a freak

03 | Devil’s Paradise

04 | ?

05 | Take Me Back

06 | Get it

07 | Jealous guy

More coming…

[foxlorests]

𝐈𝐃𝐄𝐀𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓𝐒

CHAPTER FOUR: NEW YEAR'S EVE JINGLE

♫⋆｡♪ PAIR: Harry Castillo x Younger!Original Female Character

♫⋆｡♪ WC: 4.6k

♫⋆｡♪ CHAPTER TAGS: Age Difference, Love Confessions, Makeout session, FLUFF, Slow Burn, Yearning, Smut (in later chapters), Mutual Pining, Soulmates, Romcom Vibes, Domestic Harry Castillo, Billionaire Harry, Harry learning how to fall in love the human way, Nervous harry castillo, Emotional vulnerability, materialists movie reference, Warning: Harry's surgery mentioned!

♫⋆｡♪ CHAPTER SUMMARY: Harry can't stay away and find reasons to meet her.

AO3 | Wattpad | Spotify Playlist | Youtube Music Playlist

Harry was being stupid, really. He knew it. But that didn’t stop the spiral.

It had been four days. Four days since she had closed the door with a kiss half on his mouth and a joke that echoed louder than it should have. Four days since he'd walked away with her still lingering on his skin, her name tucked into his phone, her voice lodged somewhere between his chest and his throat. He hadn't called. She hadn't either. And it was driving him slowly, clinically mad.

He kept inventing reasons to look at his phone—checking the time, checking work emails he’d already read, opening the weather app to see if it might snow again. Sometimes he scrolled through her contact just to stare at the photo she’d insisted on taking of herself—mid-laugh, blurry, too close. He’d saved it anyway. Anything that made it feel like he wasn’t just waiting. Like he wasn’t just thirty-something hours deep into pretending he wasn’t thinking about her constantly.

He had dreamt about her once. Or maybe not dreamt. He wasn’t sure he’d even slept.

By day five, the yearning turned to worry. Maybe he’d misread it. Maybe she was young enough that the kiss had been a flicker, not a fire. Maybe she was busy. Or maybe she was smart enough to see the difference between flirtation and something real—and smart enough to walk away before it became the latter.

Only Emma noticed. She always noticed.

“Your calendar’s been open to the same week for three days,” she said flatly, not looking up from her screen. “You keep refreshing it like it’s going to change itself.”

Harry looked over his coffee. “I’m just thinking.”

“You’re brooding,” she corrected. “Brooding is thinking with worse posture.”

He sighed.

Emma stopped typing. That alone was concerning.

“You didn’t call her?”

He shook his head.

“May I ask why?”

He hesitated. Then, softly, honestly: “She’s young, Emma.”

She nodded once. Professional, composed. “And you’re not?”

“I’m almost fifty.”

“She’s not twelve, Harry.”

He blinked.

“She’s twenty-seven, an adult,” Emma added, not at all sheepish. ”A Juilliard graduate. Runs a studio. Composed for orchestras. I think she can handle her own choices.”

“It’s not just about her. I don’t want to seem too…” He trailed off.

“Desperate?” she offered.

“Eager,” he corrected.

Emma turned back to her screen. “Well, if it helps, you’re already both.”

⊹

The call came on the thirty-first of December.

Harry was at a New Year’s gathering with people he barely tolerated—partners, old colleagues, men with ties too loud and drinks too expensive. It was a chance for rich people to show off their family and put on a face— saying stuff like “my wife, the stock broker”, or “my son, the architect.” It helped him sometimes, to know which businesses are worth investing in. Other times, however, it served as a distraction from his life. Distraction from the fact his family never gathered for the holidays except for Christmas dinner, distraction from his empty social life, or distraction from a certain blonde. Emma was there too, perched beside him, paid generously to endure the evening under the title of executive assistant. It wasn’t her scene, but she blended in effortlessly. That’s what made her good at her job.

The sun hadn’t set yet. The sky outside the restaurant windows was gold and soft, too gentle for the city’s usual brand of endings.

Harry felt his phone buzz in his jacket pocket. Unknown number, but his personal line. He didn’t think—just picked it up, half-hoping for a voice he knew wouldn’t be there.

“Mr Castillo?” a man said.

“Yes?”

“Uh—this is weird. I’m one of Catherine’s friends. You gave me your card? After the concert?”

He straightened slightly. “Right. Yes. Is something wrong?”

“We, um… we haven’t heard from her since Christmas. It’s almost New Year's. Someone is looking for her. She didn’t show up to anything, didn’t answer calls, or texts. She’s not with you, is she? Or with her family or anything?”

A pause.

“No. Have you checked her apartment?”

“Yeah. No answer. I’m sure it’s nothing—just figured I’d try the card.”

“Thanks for letting me know,” Harry said quietly, already standing.

The man hung up.

Emma looked up at him immediately. “What is it?”

He explained—simply, directly. She watched him carefully, her expression shifting from concern to focus.

“Call her,” she said.

“She hasn’t—”

“Harry. Just call her.”

He did.

Once. Then again. By the third ring of the third try, she picked up.

“Hello?” Her voice.

“Catherine?” he said, too quickly. “Are you okay?”

“Uh, yeah. What’s wrong?”

“You haven’t answered anyone in days.”

She was silent.

“Where are you right now?”

A beat.

“…Central Park. It’s nothing serious, Harry, really—”

He closed his eyes. “Send me your location.”

“Why?”

“Just send it.”

She did.

He turned to Emma. “Can you get something delivered to the penthouse? Soup. Something hot. And go home after that. You’ve done more than enough tonight.”

She gave a curt nod. “I’ll make sure it’s waiting for her.”

“I’ll triple your bonus.”

“I already assumed.”

⊹

The city was loud with early celebrations, cabs honking like they were late to something important. His driver was quick, thankfully. But then there’s the actual crowd of central park on new years. He ignored it all, weaving through the crowds, eyes flicking to his phone every few steps. The little blue dot pulsed somewhere near the east.

He didn’t know what he expected, exactly. Maybe she’d be curled on a bench, crying softly, hands trembling from a breakdown no one saw coming. Maybe he could finally be someone’s knight—just once. He could have held her, calmed her, wrapped his coat around her shoulders like in some film. A quiet rescue.

But Catherine looked fine.

He found her near the Conservatory Water, sitting perfectly still while laughing through her teeth. An older woman with bright orange hair and oversized earrings was painting her. A folding easel was propped on the pavement, pastels strewn across the ground like candy.

Catherine spotted him. She smiled and waved him over, as if they’d planned to meet all along.

“Harry!”

He approached slowly, unsure whether to feel relieved or ridiculous.

The painter glanced up from her canvas, squinting. “Who’s this? Your dad?”

Harry blinked. Catherine didn’t.

“My antique,” she said sweetly. “Do you mind painting us together? I’ll pay you double.”

The painter shrugged. “Yeah, yeah, no problem.”

Harry stood behind the easel, still winded. Catherine shifted slightly to make room beside her, patting the bench without looking at him.

He sat.

And hated how much he liked the way her shoulder brushed his.

“You’re gonna tell me why you’re ignoring your calls?” Harry asked, voice low, not unkind.

“Oo, grumpy boyfriend,” the painter chirped, not looking up as she dabbed something bright onto the canvas. She wiggled her eyebrows suggestively.

Harry shot her a look that didn’t need translation.

Catherine nudged him gently with her shoulder, smiling. “I didn’t ignore your call, did I?”

“No,” he said, measured. “But your friend sounded really worried. They went to your apartment. Said you weren’t there. Should I be worried? They had to be pretty desperate to call me.”

“They’re just being dramatic,” she said, as if that explained everything. Harry didn’t buy it. But before he could press, she offered more, unprompted.

“My ex-boyfriend is looking for me,” she said lightly. “I think they’re trying to set me up with him again for New Year’s.”

“Oh.” His voice was flat. Too flat.

“Yeah. We share mutual friends, you see. And no one really knows what happened when we broke up. So I guess they’re hoping we’d eventually get back together—”

“You don’t have to explain,” he said, cutting her off with more grace than he felt. “I get it.”

She glanced at him, but didn’t argue. The painter muttered something approving about “the tension” and moved on to blending shadows.

After a while, Catherine tilted her head. “Why are you dressed so nice? Dinner date?”

“No. New Year’s dinner. Colleagues. Networking.” He paused. “Not important.”

The finished painting was beautiful.

Catherine, with her honey-blonde hair tucked behind one ear, sat like she'd been plucked out of some movie—head tilted slightly, half-smile curling like she was seconds from laughing. Harry looked... older. That was inevitable. Lines around his eyes, the slight exhaustion carved into the corners of his mouth. But he does look happy. It helped when Catherine said without thought how handsome he was in the painting. Together, they looked…sweet. Familiar. Almost like a couple who’d done this a dozen times. Almost like they belonged in the same portrait.

Catherine loved it. Harry wouldn’t admit, but he loved it too. She tried to hand the canvas over to him, insisting it was a gift. He said no— in truth, he wanted it. She said yes—in truth she wanted it too. She said he could keep it and hang it somewhere absurd, like above the toilet. He threatened to frame it in gold.

The painter watched them with a grin, already pulling another sheet from her pad. Harry tipped her, quietly and too much, while Catherine looped her arm through his without asking.

They walked through the park, the cold gentling under layers of scarves and breath. The light was beginning to dim—early winter dusk settling over the trees.

Catherine made a passing comment about how the snow always looked like unfinished sheet music on the branches. Harry said he never understood winter until he was old enough to drink through it.

She said, at one point, “I didn’t want to be around people who wanted things from me tonight.”

He didn’t answer right away. Just nodded, watching her breath curl in the cold.

Then, a pause.

“What about your disease?”

“My what?”

“Your fear of missing out,” he said, completely serious.

Catherine chuckled, stopping in front of a vendor selling warm bread out of a cart. “Ah, that.I already spent a few days with my friends for Christmas. I think that’s enough. Plus, when it comes to my ex-boyfriend, I’m thrilled to be missing everything.”

Harry watched her pay with crumpled bills. “Sounds like you really hate him.”

“Maybe.” She said it like a shrug, not a wound.

She handed him half of her bread without asking. They kept walking.

“You know what would be really great with this?” she said, tearing off a piece.

“What?”

“Soup.”

Harry smiled. Fate had a funny sense of humor. “Funny you said that, because I have soup back at my place.”

“Are you inviting me?”

“Yeah.”

She narrowed her eyes playfully. “Don’t you have somewhere to be? You’re dressed very well. You can’t spend New Year’s Eve with a lonely musician.”

“Sweetheart,” Harry said. “I’m an old unmarried man with no kids. The only party I was invited to is one where people drink too much champagne and talk about yield curves. And I left that gathering already.”

That seemed to work.

She didn’t argue, just nodded once, lips tugging into something small and fond. They stepped into the car. His driver barely had to ask—already peeling away from the curb as if he’d been hoping for this detour.

She mentioned how he always seemed to make her visit his penthouse. He laughed.

Somewhere between the park and Tribeca, Catherine looked down at her outfit—a white blouse, faintly wrinkled, paired with beat-up boots.

“What a waste,” she said, poking at Harry’s expensive cuff. “This beautiful suit, and I’m showing up to soup night like it’s a band rehearsal.”

Harry looked at her, then smiled. He told her he didn’t mind. That he thought she looked beautiful.

Emma’s soup delivery needs to be reheated. The penthouse, though spacious and immaculate, felt different with Catherine in it again. Less like a showroom, more like a home. Or something brimming toward it.

Catherine slipped off her shoes, letting them clatter softly onto the marble. She padded toward the kitchen in her socks and blouse, hair coming loose from the clip she'd thrown it into earlier. She found his stool without asking, propped her elbows on the counter like she’d been here before. Like it was hers.

Harry, behind the stove, ladled the soup into bowls as if that were something he regularly did. It wasn’t. But she didn’t need to know that.

While he worked, Catherine wandered. She scanned his bookshelf with interest—not the ones by the fireplace, filled with the usual curated titles, but the smaller one by the hallway, half-hidden and poorly organized. She plucked out a novel with frayed pages and raised an eyebrow at the name in the jacket. “You dog-eared this one,” she called softly, amused.

He said nothing. Only turned slightly to watch her from behind the ladle.

Then she drifted to the record shelf. She crouched, flipped through spines with one finger, and pulled out something old—jazz, a little scratchy, heavy on the piano. She placed it on the player, and the first few notes trickled in, soft and low. The room sighed into it.

“Aw. You bought my records,” she said when she found hers. “And you put it right at the front too.”

Harry winced. He was planning on hiding that. He didn’t want to seem too obsessed with her— buying her records in bulk and listening to it while praying to god she calls him eventually.

He tried to look nonchalant, like him owning her records was just the act of a friend supporting another friend. “Put it on the player,” he said.

“No, thank you. I listened to it too much,” she said, letting the jazz fill the room.

By the time she returned to the kitchen, he’d placed the bowls on the counter. She blew on her spoon. Then she took a bite, exhaled, and gave him a pleased hum. Harry didn’t eat right away. He just watched her for a second too long—her knees tucked into the stool, her dimple showing when she smiled, her hair curling slightly at the edges from the cold.

“This tastes better than Jim’s,” she said after the third spoon.

They moved to the couch after the soup was done, bowls half-finished on the counter. Neither of them said it, but there was something sacred in not cleaning up right away. Jazz still played, low and dreamy, brushing the walls like it knew it was meant to stay in the background.

Catherine curled her legs beneath her, Harry leaned into the opposite corner, the stretch of couch between them gradually closing—not by design, but by the way two tired bodies shift toward warmth. They talked, not about anything in particular. Her studio, his worst board meeting. A street musician she liked. The way New York smelled like burnt pretzels and smoke this time of year.

They drank wine, and after the second glass, Catherine started becoming more talkative—looser at the edges, giggly in the way that made him watch her more closely. 

She told him about her family. Her sister Jane, the serious one, the type to organize vacations six months in advance, and sharp features that looked nothing like hers. Her brother Chester, who dropped out of university twice before owning a business. And her parents—retired, finally. Still living in the same house she grew up in, still calling her with the same landline number.

When he asked why she didn’t fly home for the holidays, she shrugged. The concert was too close to Christmas, and sleep deprivation on long-haul flights wasn’t worth the guilt. She said she didn’t mind. They video-called. They sent pictures of food. Her sister sent her an entire roast duck recipe annotated with handwritten notes. It wasn’t distance that made her sad, she said. It was missing the jokes at the table. The smell of the hallway. The way her father cut oranges with too much confidence.

He said her family should’ve come here instead.

She smiled at him for that. Softly. “Maybe next year,” she said.

In return, he told her about Peter. How his brother once got into a fistfight in high school for him. How their mother referred to Harry as “the bossy one” and Peter as “the funny one.” Catherine laughed at that.

He told her about the rest of the Castillos. The obligatory Christmas dinner. The unspoken pressure. The empty rituals. His uncle who measured affection in watch brands and donations. His father’s absence didn’t feel like grief anymore, just a silence that never entirely left the room.

He told her about college. How his friends now worked in hedge funds or VC firms and called themselves “leaders” and “important people”. How most of them were married to women who he could never tell apart, whose name he could never remember. Catherine smiled when he said that. She then told him a trick for remembering names, how he needed to say names out loud and preferably to the person so his brain could associate it with a face.

At one point, she asked if he missed anyone. From back then.

“No,” he said. Then thought about it, and amended, “Not in the way that counts. We kept in touch for reunions and weddings. That’s it.”

Then, somewhere between another sip of wine and the drop in conversation, she asked if he could cut her bangs.

It was a joke at first, half-drunken curiosity. But when he tried to call someone, she insisted no one would come. Not even if he paid well. Not even if he doubled the rate. This was New York. It was too late. Everyone had lives. Everyone but them, apparently. She had already found scissors.

“I’ve done it before,” she said.

But Harry didn’t really like the look of those scissors in her hands, so close to her eyes. So he put the wine down, took the scissors from her hand and said, “Sit.”

And when Harry Castillo did something, he did it seriously—whether in the form of finalizing a merger, courting women he knew he couldn’t love and wouldn’t love him back, or apparently, cutting bangs. He pulled up the high stool from the bar, propped her on it, tilted her chin under the light like a stylist about to make a statement. She said his mother was right for calling him bossy.

“My forehead is huge,” she mumbled.

“It’s not,” he said simply.

“It is. Jane’s smaller, with perfect proportions. My mom always said I had a soft face.”

“You’re perfect.”

She didn’t argue. But she didn’t look up either. He combed her fringe forward with careful fingers, and she talked as he worked. Told him how her sister Jane used to model, how her brother also had a big forehead.

“Chester and I looked more like my dad. Round face,” She smirked to herself. “My mom once told me she had to push for hours just to get me out. Like I was stuck or something. I found out years later I was a C-section baby.”

She laughed quietly. A snort and a shrug.

Harry only smiled at her reaction but he didn't laugh with her. He thought that was a bit cruel of her mother. 

Harry told her about his leg surgery with Peter, how most of it felt like a bonding experience because they were stuck with each other for months. Something they hadn’t done since they were kids. It was funny how he gave that information to her easily. She asked if it hurt, and if it was worth it, he said it was definitely worth it, and it hurt like hell.

He didn’t know why it was so easy to say that. Maybe because her voice was soft. Maybe because she wasn’t looking at him too hard. Or maybe because, somehow, she’d become the kind of person he wanted to give things to. Truth, most of all.

He could blame the wine. Catherine was clearly tipsy—laughing at her own jokes, confusing words, and blinking too slowly. But Harry? Harry could drink three more glasses and still carry out a merger. It wasn’t the wine.

He’d say the same things if he were sober.

He tilted her chin slightly and brushed the last strands into place. Stepped back.

“There,” he said.

She blinked at the small mirror she held. Then beamed. “It’s perfect. I love it.”

She touched the fringe, pushing it aside, then letting it fall again. Harry said nothing, but something in his chest swelled. She hopped down from the chair and kissed his cheek.

Somewhere along the way, their conversation slowed into silence, and their shoulders tilted toward one another. It was expected. He was old. She was sleep deprived from practicing for months. At some point, heads rested side by side, and eventually, without anyone deciding to, they fell asleep on the couch.

⊹

It was around one in the morning when Catherine stirred, blinking slowly, nudging his arm. 

“Harry, we missed New Years,” she whispered. “It’s freezing. Do you have socks?”

He rubbed his eyes. “Socks?”

“My feet are cold,” she said.

He pushed himself up and shuffled down the hall, voice still scratchy from sleep. “Alright, alright. I think I’ve got a warm pair somewhere. Sorry, I fell asleep. You can move to my bed.”

He didn’t hear her get up and follow him.

He was rummaging through a drawer in the walk-in closet, trying to find a sock that would fit her. He had big feet so it might take a while.

Suddenly, she said, quietly—

“Is that my…”

He turned, confused, then saw her reaching toward the back of the closet, fingers brushing over it.

Her coat.

The one from the bookstore all those years ago. Still soft, still warm, folded too neatly to be accidental.

Harry’s sleep vanished in a blink. “Shit,” he said under his breath. “I didn’t mean for you to see that.”

Catherine didn’t say anything right away. She just held the coat. Looked at it like it was something new, something precious, and then looked at him.

They stood facing each other, quiet and unsure. His hands still half in the sock drawer, her arms around the coat like she wasn’t sure what to say.

Her cheeks flushed—not a dramatic kind of blush, but something soft and pink, rising like warmth from the chest. It caught him off guard.

Harry walked towards her. Their eyes met and they both froze.

He didn’t know what to say either.

Should he play it down? Say he meant to return it, that he didn’t want to throw it out? A lie so thin it wouldn’t last the second it left his mouth. Or should he tell the truth—that five years ago, in the middle of a storm, she handed him her coat without hesitation, and for a man who’d spent most of his life buying affection in the form of favors and dinners and signatures, that single gesture felt like being seen. That he was longing for someone to care for him, for someone to give him a coat when it’s raining, or a smile when he was feeling down. That it felt like hope. Like a borrowed lifeline. Like being chosen. Like the world had offered him proof that someone could care for him without asking for anything in return.

But he didn’t say that either. He stood there, holding a pair of socks he’d long forgotten about, and looked at her holding the coat like it still carried something important.

Catherine looked up at him, straight into his eyes, unwavering. Tired, yes, but clear in a way that startled him. She didn’t blink much. She almost never did when things got serious.

“I didn’t want to assume—” she started, then stopped. Her voice was softer now, gentler. “You called me kid when we met. I thought…”

Her blush deepened.

Harry opened his mouth, but nothing came out. He was too much of a coward to fill the silence.

Catherine shifted slightly, her fingers brushing the hem of the coat like it steadied her. “I don’t want to sound like a pathetic girl,” she said, eyes not leaving his, “But even then, I was… I was hoping…I don’t want to get my hopes up but—”

He leaned in before she could finish the sentence.

Not dramatically. Not like a man crashing through a moment. Just a step closer, just enough. Close enough to smell the faint citrus in her hair, to see the tired blush still blooming on her cheeks. His hand found hers—gentle, not asking, just present. And when he kissed her, it was quiet. Slow.

She kissed him back.

Their tongues danced, their teeth touched. There was no rush to it. Just something soft and real—warmth passed between them like a long-held breath finally exhaled.

He kissed her again, this time deeper, until she leaned into him completely. Her arms around his neck, her legs curling gently around his waist, until the weight of her body settled against his like it belonged there. He carried her to the bedroom, her laughter a quiet exhale against his neck.

He sat at the edge of the bed with her still in his arms, on his lap, both of them catching their breath.

Then her forehead pressed lightly to his.

God.

He could’ve drowned in it—the smell of her skin, the heat of her thigh beneath his palm, the way her lips stayed parted, dazed, like she was still savoring the taste of him. There were things about her that weren’t fair. The way her blouse slid slightly off one shoulder. The shape of her waist in his hands.

He wanted her. That was the plainest truth. He was hard as hell. His body made no effort to hide it. But it wasn’t just lust—not anymore. Not the way it used to be, with women who treated intimacy like a contract: clearly defined, mutually beneficial, and quick. He used to be like that too— fuck like he did business. Like it was a game, like closing a deal. The kind where he felt obligated to perform, to give something and receive something.

This wasn’t that. Not even close.

Catherine’s eyes, red and tired, blinked up at him like she was asking for something simpler. Slower. Her lips were warm against his neck, but her shoulders sagged with sleep. She just needed to be held.

And he—he was willing to wait. However long it took. He didn’t care.

He kissed her again, on the cheek this time. Then the forehead. Then the jaw. He laid her gently down, pulling the blankets over them both. He remembered her words from earlier in the day.

“I want you badly, sweetheart. But you need rest,” he whispered, brushing her hair back. “You don’t have to give me anything.”

She hummed something he didn’t catch, already half-asleep. There was some fear lingering in his mind, afraid she would forget or deny what happened. She was drunk. It was a possibility. But that thought didn’t linger long, because she snuggled up to him, taking his hand and putting it on her curves. He obliged, wrapped his hand around her until they were in bed like spoons nestled together

Harry ignored the ache in his chest. The ache everywhere else, especially on his crotch. He pulled her closer instead, his breath steadying against the back of her neck. The warmth of her body against his. Her coat still folded on the chair, forgotten.

And sometime after she fell asleep, so did he

A/N: Updates every weekend. Next update will have more word count and some smut. Support is appreciated xoxo