#and eventually ends up sleeping in the bed too

[pandapetals]

sunlight & sawdust

epilogue

previous chapter

summary: For two years, Joel Miller has done nothing but scowl at you from across the room, barely tolerating your warmth, your kindness, and your ever-present sunshine. And for two years, you’ve told yourself his gruffness doesn’t bother you—that his clipped words and cold stares don’t matter.But then, out of nowhere, he offers to fix the damaged floor in your flower shop.For free.Suddenly, the man who could barely stand to look at you is showing up every day, fixing things that don’t need fixing, sharing quiet lunches, and—most shocking of all—getting along with Ellie, your daughter, who has never warmed up to anyone as quickly as she has to him.

pairing: joel miller x fem!single mom reader - no outbreak/au

content warnings: slight reader description, no y/n used, grumpy joel, grumpy x sunshine trope, ellie is reader's daughter, reader is a single mom, tommy being a meddler, reader is friends with tommy, au setting in Austin, joel is a carpenter, reader owns a flower shop, fluff, angst, and eventual smut, joel is bad at feelings, sarah mentioned

a/n: divider by @saradika-graphics. Alright, well. I’m crying because this is the end. I am so grateful for all the love and support.

Two months later…

Life had settled into something easy, something Joel never thought he’d have again.

It was in the small moments that snuck up on him when he wasn’t looking.

Stopping by your flower shop on his lunch breaks—not because he needed anything, but just to see you. To sit with you, sharing sandwiches wrapped in paper, listening to you talk about your day while he worked through a cup of coffee. Sometimes, Ellie would be there, her little feet swinging from the counter as she carefully arranged flowers, pausing only to ask Joel if dinosaurs would’ve liked flowers, too.

Joel never had an answer, but Ellie would always supply one, giggling as she made up some wild story about T-Rexes sniffing roses.

Most evenings, he’d end up at your place, easing into the rhythm of your life like he’d always been there.

Ellie had a habit of finding him the second he walked through the door, dragging him to the couch with a book already in hand.

She had favorites, of course—books about dinosaurs or space. Joel had read them all a dozen times over, but every time she looked up at him, wide-eyed, hanging onto every word, he’d start from the beginning like it was brand new.

More often than not, she’d fall asleep right there, tucked into his side, small fingers curled into his shirt. And every time, without fail, you’d appear in the doorway, arms crossed, a soft smile on your face.

"You spoil her, you know," you’d tease in a whisper, watching as he carefully shifted, lifting Ellie into his arms and carrying her to bed.

Joel would smirk, brushing a piece of hair from Ellie’s face as she settled into her pillow. "Ain’t spoilin’ her if she deserves it."

Then, it would be just the two of you, curling up in bed, his body solid and warm against yours.

You had a habit of playing with his hair, running soft fingers over his skin, and tracing patterns over his chest until his breath evened out. Then, he drifted to sleep with you safely tucked against him.

Sometimes, he’d wake in the middle of the night, feeling the gentle weight of your arm draped over him, the steady rise and fall of your breath.

Sometimes, that old familiar ache crept in—the guilt, the shadow of before. The thought was that maybe he didn’t deserve this, but then, he’d see you in the morning light, hair messy, eyes soft with sleep as you handed him a cup of coffee with a knowing smile.

Or he’d hear Ellie giggling as she ran through the house, telling him some nonsense story, looking at him like she’d known him her whole life.

And that ache, that gnawing feeling—it was replaced by something else.

By the echo of Sarah’s voice in the back of his mind.

It’s okay, Dad. You deserve to be happy.

So Joel believed it.

He hadn’t planned on letting himself have this. Hadn’t planned on getting too close, but then there was you and Ellie. You both ran to him without hesitation, seeking comfort, trusting him in a way he hadn’t felt in years. You had opened your life up to him, let him in, given him a place to belong again, and Joel couldn’t shut himself off.

Not when you had been so unwaveringly open with him. Not when Ellie beamed at him like he hung the damn moon, curling up at his side like it was the safest place in the world. Not when you looked at him like he mattered.

One night, as you lay together in bed, the soft glow of the bedside lamp casting golden light across the room, you had turned to him, voice barely above a whisper.

“I was scared.”

Joel had frowned, shifting to face you fully, his hand instinctively reaching for yours.

You blinked quickly, your lashes wet, a sad smile tugging at your lips. "When I first had Ellie. When it was just me, I was terrified of being a single mom. Of screwing her up. Of not being enough."

Joel felt his chest tighten, his heart ache at the raw honesty in your voice.

You swallowed, your fingers gripping his a little tighter. “I never thought I’d have this. Have you.”

Joel exhaled sharply, his grip on you firm but gentle, grounding. The vulnerability in your eyes and the quiet confession of fear wrecked him because he knew that feeling.

He knew what it was to worry that you weren’t enough.

He reached for you, pulling you against him and holding you close. His lips pressed a slow, lingering kiss on your forehead.

"I got you, sweetheart," he murmured against your skin. "You ain't gotta be scared anymore."

Your breath hitched, and Joel felt the way you melted into him and trusted him to hold not just your body but your heart.

His arms tightened around you like some part of him knew he needed to hold on, like if he let go, you might slip right through his fingers.

You exhaled softly, your voice barely above a whisper. "It’s like we were made for each other."

Joel went still. The words wrecked him. More than when you’d first told him you loved him. More than anything else you’d ever said. Because you meant it.

His hand kept moving against your back, slow, steady circles, grounding himself as the weight of that realization settled deep in his chest.

He needed you. Ellie. This life and the thought of ever losing it. His heart clenched, a sharp, quiet panic threading through his ribs.

It scared him—more than he’d ever admit.

Then you shifted against him, pressing your face into the crook of his neck and letting out a small, contented sigh. Your fingers traced absent-minded shapes against his chest, warm and familiar, like you belonged there, like you always had.

Suddenly, the fear didn’t seem so big.

Joel let out a slow breath, pressing a kiss to the top of your head, his lips lingering there.

"Yeah, sweetheart," he murmured, voice rough with tenderness. “We were.”

____________

You had been with Joel for a few months, though it felt like forever. Life had a way of slipping into place so naturally, so effortlessly, with him that you barely remembered what it had been like before.

Everything was simple.

It was not always easy—because nothing with Joel came easy—but simple in the way that mattered. The way he made space for you in his life. The way you fit into it, like you had always belonged there.

But Joel still had his moments.

The nights he’d go quiet, his eyes distant, walls creeping back up before he realized he was doing it. Old habits were hard to break.

You knew that. So you didn’t push. Didn’t demand. Didn’t pry open the doors, he wasn’t ready to unlock. You just waited.

And slowly, he let you in.

You had been to Joel’s house a handful of times, but you had never stayed the night. Not because you didn’t want to, but because it was easier for Joel to stay at your place.

That was where Ellie’s books were stacked in a crooked pile by the couch, where her favorite stuffed giraffe sat waiting for her on her pillow.

That was where she felt safe, and Joel would never take that from her.

However, tonight was different.

Your mother had come into town and, much to your surprise, offered to watch Ellie for the night. You had hesitated at first—because as much as you wanted a night alone with Joel, it was hard to leave Ellie behind—but the opportunity was too good to pass up.

So here you were, standing on Joel’s front porch, a bottle of whiskey in one hand and his favorite western film in the other.

His brows lifted when he opened the door, amusement flickering in his deep brown eyes.

“Darlin’,” he drawled, leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed. “Ain’t I supposed to be spoilin’ you?”

You gave him a pointed look before brushing past him into the house. “Don’t start, handsome. My mom’s in town, and I wanted to see you.”

You paused just long enough to let the words settle before adding something softer and more honest. “I missed you.”

Joel shut the door behind you, following you into the living room with slow, deliberate steps. “We just saw each other yesterday,” he teased, though there was a warmth in his voice, in the way his lips quirked up like he liked hearing it.

You rolled your eyes, but before you could respond, his arms wrapped around your waist from behind, pulling you flush against him. His body was warm, solid, and when he dipped his head, his lips skimmed the edge of your jaw.

“Missed me that much, huh?”

You exhaled a laugh, tilting your head slightly to give him better access. “You really wanna act like you didn’t miss me, too?”

Joel huffed, his breath hot against your skin. “Didn’t say that.”

“Mm-hmm.” You smirked, glancing at him over your shoulder. “Just admit it, Miller. You were lonely without me.”

Joel turned you in his arms, his eyes darkening just a bit as he studied you. “That's what you wanna hear?”

Your heart fluttered.

His hands slid lower, settling on the small of your back as he leaned in. His voice dropped to a slow, rough whisper. “Yeah, I missed you, too.”

"I figured so," you murmured, your fingers trailing along the bridge of his nose, then down to his jaw, memorizing every rough edge and smooth plane.

Joel's eyes fluttered closed momentarily, his expression softening under your touch. But when he opened them again, something knowing was in them, like he could already tell where your thoughts were headed.

"Sweetheart," he said, voice low, a hint of a warning in it. "Don't start all that."

You grinned, tilting your head as your fingers slid into his hair, nails grazing lightly against his scalp. "Start what?"

Joel huffed, the ghost of a smirk tugging at his lips. "You know what."

Feigning innocence, you pressed closer, standing on your toes to brush your lips against his. "I just missed you, that’s all."

Joel let out a low chuckle, his hands tightening at your waist for a fleeting second like he was tempted—before he pulled back, shaking his head.

“Darlin’, if you wanna eat sometime tonight, we should start cookin’ before you go distractin’ me with those lips.”

You groaned dramatically, letting your forehead fall against his chest. “Ugh, Joel, c’mon. I came over here with whiskey and a movie, and you’re making me wait?”

His chest rumbled with laughter. “Ain’t makin’ you do nothin’.”

You lifted your head, narrowing your eyes at him playfully. “Fine,” you relented, sighing like it was the biggest inconvenience in the world. “We’ll cook first. Then you can make it up to me.”

Joel chuckled, brushing a kiss against your forehead before stepping back and nodding toward the kitchen. “Atta girl. Now, you gonna help me, or you just gonna sit back and look pretty?”

You shot him a grin. “Can’t I do both?”

He shook his head, smirking as he grabbed your hand and pulled you toward the kitchen.

____________

The movie dragged on. It was a slow, dusty western that Joel was entirely absorbed in, but you? Not so much.

Your attention drifted, first to his lack of home decor—plain walls, minimal furniture, everything practical, nothing decorative. The most personal thing in the whole place was a coffee ring stain on his side table.

Then your focus shifted to something far more interesting. Him.

God, he was handsome even though he didn’t seem to think so. Even though he always scoffed whenever you told him. That dark brown hair, the streaks of silver at his temples. The firm curve of his jaw, the way his broad shoulders stretched against his worn-out t-shirt. And his eyes—those eyes—warm and deep, like aged whiskey, catching the flickering glow of the TV.

“You’re starin’, darlin’,” Joel muttered, not looking away from the screen.

You smirked, shifting closer to him on the couch, pulling your legs up to curl beside you. “Maybe I just like what I see.”

He let out a low grunt, still watching the screen. “Movie’s on, sweetheart.”

“I noticed,” you teased, resting your chin on his shoulder, deliberately pressing closer so he could feel your warmth against him. “But this is so boring.”

Joel exhaled a quiet chuckle, shaking his head. “Boring? This is a classic.”

“Hate to break it to you, handsome, but it’s just a bunch of cowboys staring at each other dramatically.”

“That’s called tension.”

“That’s called bad pacing,” you countered, letting your lips brush against his neck, just enough to make his breath hitch. “Know what’s not boring, though?”

Joel turned his head slightly, finally meeting your gaze. His eyes were darker now, his jaw tense like he was fighting the pull of you. “What’s that?”

You swung a leg over his lap, straddling him with a playful smirk. “This.”

Joel let out a slow, controlled exhale, his hands automatically finding your hips. “Now, darlin’, I thought we were watchin’ a movie.”

Your fingers toyed with the collar of his shirt, dragging along the exposed skin of his chest. “I changed my mind.”

Joel swallowed hard, his grip tightening just a little. “That right?”

You leaned in, lips barely brushing his, your voice dropping to a whisper. “Mhm. I think we should find something else to do.”

Joel’s smirk deepened as he traced his thumbs slowly over your hips. “You know, sweetheart, you’re makin’ me think you only came over here to get laid.”

You smiled against his lips, your fingers skimming up the nape of his neck, toying with the curls there. “Maybe I did,” you murmured, teasingly kissing his jaw. “Can you blame me?”

Joel sucked in a slow breath through his nose, his grip tightening.

“Don’t tell me you’re not into it,” you continued, shifting slightly in his lap, feeling the proof that he definitely was. “Because I can just—” You started to move off him, feigning innocence.

Joel didn’t let you get far. His hands clamped down on your hips, keeping you firmly in place. “Oh, no you don’t,” he rasped, voice dropping to that low, rough drawl that sent shivers down your spine. “I’m just tryin’ to be a gentleman, honey. But if I had it my way, you wouldn’t have made it through the door without me takin’ you on the floor.”

Heat flared in your stomach; your thighs squeezed around him. “That so?”

Joel tilted his head, his lips ghosting over yours, teasing, torturously slow. “Mhm. Think about it, darlin’. Door barely closed behind you, and I’d have you up against it—” His hands slid lower, gripping the backs of your thighs, pressing you closer until there was no space left between you. “Dress bunched up, legs wrapped around me—”

A quiet gasp slipped from your lips as he rolled his hips up into yours, slow but firm, dragging friction exactly where you needed it.

“Or maybe the couch,” he continued, voice like gravel, his mouth skimming along your jaw, down your throat. “Could’ve had you right here, ride me slow while that goddamn movie plays in the background.”

Your nails dug into his shoulders. “Joel.”

He hummed in satisfaction at your voice's breathlessness and how you were already unraveling just from his words.

He leaned back slightly, dragging his lips just out of reach, the hint of a smirk still playing at them.

“Still wanna tease me about my movies, darlin’?”

You grinned, brushing your nose against Joel’s, your lips barely grazing his. “I’ll always tease, handsome.”

Joel huffed out a low chuckle, shaking his head, but his hands told a different story—gripping your ass with a firm squeeze that had you gasping. A squeal of surprise slipped from you before he swallowed it with a kiss, deep and possessive.

“Maybe I oughta teach you some damn manners,” he murmured against your lips, voice thick with amusement but there was a roughness beneath it, a promise.

A delicious shiver ran down your spine. His words sent a spark straight between your thighs.

“Wait—” You barely had time to catch your breath before Joel’s hands gripped your hips, flipping you effortlessly onto your back. You landed against the couch with a soft thud, blinking up at him, breathless, dazed.

He didn’t waste a second. His mouth was on you before you could form another word, trailing slow, open-mouthed kisses down your neck, sucking gently at the sensitive skin just below your ear.

“Still feel like teasin’?” he drawled, voice rough as his lips traveled lower, over the neckline of your dress.

You exhaled sharply, arching into him. “Maybe,” you whispered, just to push his buttons.

Joel groaned, shaking his head like you were impossible, but the way his hands started working your dress higher, gathering the fabric in deliberate strokes, told you he was more than happy to take on the challenge.

He pushed the material up past your thighs, his fingers tracing feather-light over the tops of your stockings, before dipping lower, to where you were already warm and aching for him.

A pleased hum rumbled in his chest as he hooked his fingers under the band of your underwear, dragging them down inch by agonizing inch. “Damn, sweetheart,” he murmured, pulling his knuckles along the inside of your thigh. “Already so wet for me?”

Heat flared in your cheeks, but you refused to look away, to let the weight of his gaze fluster you. “Told you I missed you,” you teased, voice barely above a whisper.

Joel exhaled sharply through his nose, something dark flickering behind his eyes, before he leaned in close, his lips brushing the shell of your ear.

“Then let me make up for lost time.”

With a swift tug, Joel pulled your underwear down your legs and tossed them behind him, not giving a damn where they landed. His rough hands gripped your thighs, spreading them wide, exposing every slick inch of you to his hungry gaze.

A deep groan rumbled in his chest, his dark eyes locked onto you like you were the only thing that mattered. He dragged his bottom lip between his teeth, his breath heavy and uneven. “Look at you,” he muttered, voice thick with want. “So damn pretty, honey.”

The warmth of his breath against your bare skin sent a shiver rippling through you. Your head fell back against the couch, anticipation building so fast it made you dizzy.

“Joel,” you whined, lifting your hips slightly, searching for friction, for relief. “Please.”

He hummed in amusement, his hands pressing firmly against your thighs to hold you still. “Always so needy for me, huh?” He leaned in, his nose grazing your inner thigh, his lips brushing featherlight over your skin, making you squirm. “You don’t gotta beg, sweetheart. I’ll always give you what you need.”

Then, finally, his mouth was on you.

A sharp gasp tore from your lips as he wrapped them around your clit, sucking gently, teasing you with deliberate flicks of his tongue. A strangled moan followed, your fingers flying to his hair, tangling in the thick strands as heat coiled tight in your belly.

Joel groaned against you, the sound vibrating through every inch of your body. He licked into you, slow at first, savoring every little twitch, every desperate noise that spilled from your lips.

“Fuck,” he murmured between strokes of his tongue, voice rough, wrecked. “Tastes so goddamn sweet.”

Your body arched, chasing more, needing more, but Joel kept you pinned, entirely at his mercy. “Patience, darlin’,” he drawled, his fingers digging into your thighs. “Ain’t lettin’ you go till I’ve had my fill.”

Your moans filled the dimly lit room, each one sweeter than the last as your fingers twisted in Joel’s hair, tugging desperately. You knew he loved this—loved tasting you, loved wrecking you with nothing but his mouth and hands until you were trembling beneath him.

His tongue dragged slow and purposeful over your clit before he sealed his lips around it, sucking just hard enough to make your whole body jolt. A broken cry left your throat, your hips lifting, but Joel’s hands pressed you right back down, keeping you exactly where he wanted you.

“That’s it, honey,” he rasped against you, the heat of his breath making you shudder. “Take it. Let me hear you.”

He slipped two thick fingers inside you, the stretch making your breath hitch, your walls clenching around him. He worked you open, pumping them slow, curling just right, his lips never leaving your clit.

Your back arched off the couch, your thighs trembling around his head. “Oh, yes—fuck, Joel.”

He groaned at the way you said his name, the deep vibration shooting straight through you. His free hand slid up your stomach, splaying against your hip, holding you steady as he sped up, fucking you with his fingers while his tongue teased mercilessly.

You tugged harder at his hair, your legs threatening to snap shut around his head, but Joel only growled, his grip tightening. “Ain’t goin’ nowhere, sweetheart,” he muttered, voice thick with hunger. “Not till I feel you come all over my tongue.”

Your orgasm crashed over you like a tidal wave, your body shaking beneath Joel as he lapped up every drop of your release. You gasped, a sharp cry escaping as your walls pulsed around his fingers, pleasure rolling through you in waves. But Joel didn’t stop.

He groaned into you, the sound low and rough, his tongue still flicking against your clit, his fingers still thrusting deep. Your body twitched, overstimulated, but he held you down, keeping you spread open for him.

“Joel—fuck, I—” You whimpered, tugging at his hair, trying to pull him away.

His grip on your thighs only tightened. “Just one more, gorgeous,” he murmured, the heat of his breath making you shudder. “Be a good girl for me.”

A helpless moan slipped from your lips as his fingers curled just right inside you, dragging against that perfect spot. He knew your body too well now—knew exactly how to push you past your limits. He flattened his tongue against your clit, sucking softly before flicking it just how you liked, coaxing you right back up to the edge.

Your breath hitched. Your thighs trembled. That unbearable pressure coiled in your belly all over again, impossibly fast.

“That’s it,” Joel rasped, voice dripping with pride as he felt your walls clench around his fingers. “Knew you had another one in you.”

A sharp cry tore from your throat as pleasure hit you again, your back arching off the couch. Your fingers twisted tighter in his hair, your whole body tensing before you shattered, your second orgasm ripping through you just as fiercely as the first.

Joel groaned against you, drinking in your pleasure like a man starved, only pulling away when you whimpered, your body spent and trembling beneath him.

He pressed slow, lazy kisses to the inside of your thigh, his voice thick with satisfaction. “There you go. That’s my good girl.”

You sighed, boneless against the couch, a lazy, satisfied smile curling on your lips. “God, I don’t see how you’re so skilled.”

Joel smirked, wiping the corner of his mouth with his thumb before licking it clean. “God’s got nothin’ to do with it, sweetheart.”

You huffed a laugh, rolling your eyes as you swatted at his bicep. “Smartass.”

Joel caught your wrist before you could pull away, his grip firm but warm. “Mm, that's the thanks I get?” He leaned in, brushing his lips over yours, teasing but not quite kissing you yet. “Ain’t exactly fair, considerin’ I just had you fallin’ apart for me twice.”

Heat flushed through you again, but you refused to let him have the upper hand. You ran your fingers down his chest, feeling the steady rise and fall of his breath, the way his muscles tensed slightly under your touch. “Guess I’ll just have to return the favor, then,” you murmured, tilting your head, eyes flicking up to his with a challenge.

Joel’s smirk faltered briefly, his pupils darkening as he exhaled through his nose. “Now, darlin’, I was fixin’ to let you rest for a minute.”

You traced lazy circles over his stomach, slipping lower. “Who said I needed a break?”

His jaw ticked, his grip on your wrist tightening for a moment before he let out a low chuckle, shaking his head. “You really are somethin’ else.”

“And you love it,” you quipped, grinning.

Joel sighed, feigning exasperation, but his smile gave him away. “Yeah, I do.” Then, in one swift move, he had you pinned beneath him again, his mouth finally capturing yours in a slow, deep kiss. “Now, how ‘bout you put that smart mouth to good use, huh?”

____________

The morning light filtered through the blinds, casting soft golden streaks across the bed. Joel slept soundly beside you, his arm draped over your waist, his breath slow and deep against your shoulder. He wasn’t a morning person—you had learned that early on. It took at least two cups of coffee and a solid ten minutes of grumbling before he was fully functional.

You smiled, taking a quiet moment just to admire him—the crease between his brows even in sleep, the way his lips were slightly parted, the warmth of his arm that, even now, instinctively tightened around you when you shifted.

Carefully, you eased out from under his arm, moving slowly so as not to wake him. You reached for the first thing you could find—Joel’s shirt from the night before—and slipped it on, the fabric draping over you like a second skin. Your underwear was kicked somewhere near the bed, so you stepped into them before padding out of the room, deciding you’d make him coffee. Maybe breakfast, if he had anything besides whiskey and canned soup in his pantry.

As you passed down the hall, one door caught your attention. It was cracked open just slightly.

Joel’s woodworking room.

He had shown it to you once in passing, never making a big deal, just a brief mention that he liked to carve. But you had seen how his hands lingered over his work and his voice softened when he spoke about it.

Pushing the door open a little more, you stepped inside. The scent of sawdust and varnish filled the space, and in the morning light, you could see the careful work he had put into the small figures on his workbench. Tiny animals, wooden stars, even a couple of intricate, half-finished pieces you couldn’t quite identify.

Your fingers traced over one of them, a small giraffe.

Ellie loved giraffes. A warm ache spread through your chest. Joel would never say it out loud, but he had made this for her.

As you glanced around, your eyes landed on a small set of drawers tucked into the corner of the room. You hesitated before pulling one open, half-expecting to find spare tools or scraps of wood. Instead, your breath hitched.

Photographs.

Some were newer—pictures of Ellie, a couple of you, and her at the shop that you hadn’t even known Joel had taken. But beneath those, slightly worn and curling at the edges, were older photos.

Sarah.

Your fingers hovered over one of the pictures, Joel grinning beside a teenage girl with warm brown eyes and the biggest smile. Another of her sitting on his shoulders, arms stretched out like she was flying. There was one of just her alone, a birthday cake in front of her, candles mid-flicker as she beamed at the camera.

Your chest tightened.

You had heard stories of Sarah and knew she had been Joel’s entire world before everything fell apart. He didn’t talk about her often, and you never pushed. But seeing these now—this quiet, tucked-away part of his life—made something in your throat tighten.

Your fingers traced over the edges of the photographs one last time before carefully placing them back, your heart still tight in your chest. But just as you started to close the drawer, something else caught your eye.

Ellie’s drawing.

The crayon-streaked paper stood out amongst the neatly stacked items, its colors vibrant against the worn wood. You picked it up gently, recognizing Ellie’s messy handwriting scrawled in the corner: “Thank you, Mr. Joel.”

A smile tugged at your lips.

The drawing was from months ago—before you and Joel had even started dating, back when he had stubbornly insisted on helping you fix the broken floorboards in your shop. You had protested, of course, but he had just grumbled something about "not lettin’ you break your damn neck" and got to work.

Joel had kept this?

Your chest ached at the thought. Ellie’s version of him was a near-perfect representation—the slightly messy hair, the ever-present green flannel, the scowl that somehow still held warmth.

You placed the drawing down carefully, but your gaze landed on something else beneath it as you did.

A book. No, the journal you had given Joel for his birthday.

You had thought it was a terrible gift at the time. The man was a walking barricade of emotions, locked up so tight it was a miracle he ever let anything slip through. He had been opening up more since you started dating, but you had never expected him actually to use the journal.

Your fingers hesitated over the leather cover, your pulse quickening.

This was private. You were already pushing boundaries by being here and going through things that Joel probably didn’t even realize you were seeing. You should put it back and walk away.

And yet…

Your hands moved before your mind could catch up.

The journal flipped open somewhere in the middle, and your breath caught in your throat—something pink, delicate, pressed between the pages.

A tulip.

Your tulip.

Tears pricked at your eyes as you carefully picked up the journal, running your fingers over the petals. It had been months, so long that you had almost forgotten. You had worn the flower in your hair that day at the diner. Ellie had insisted on it, and you had forgotten about it.

Joel had noticed.

He had always noticed.

Even back then—before the first kiss, before the quiet nights curled up in bed together, before you realized you loved him—Joel had already cared.

More than you had ever known.

You swallowed hard, pressing the flower gently back into place, closing the journal with the same care as if it were something sacred.

Softly, you closed the drawer, momentarily pressing your hand against the wood before leaving downstairs. The house was still, the early morning light filtering through the windows in golden slants. You moved on autopilot, filling the coffee pot, as the rich scent slowly filled the kitchen. You leaned against the counter, your mind still stuck on the quiet revelations from Joel’s woodworking room.

He had always cared.

Even before you had realized it and fallen so hopelessly in love with him, he had already been there—watching, noticing, keeping little pieces of you tucked away like treasures.

The thought sent a deep warmth through your chest.

When you reentered the bedroom, Joel stirred lightly, his arm stretching across the sheets, blindly reaching for you. His brows furrowed when his hand met nothing but empty space.

A soft smile tugged at your lips as you crawled back into bed, pressing against his warmth. A contented hum rumbled deep in his chest as he instinctively wrapped his arms around you, his grip tightening like he wouldn’t let you slip away again.

“Where’d you go?” His voice was thick with sleep, low and gravelly, the sound curling in your stomach.

You ran your fingers through his hair, kissing his forehead softly. “Just making sure you had coffee.”

A small grunt left him, but you caught how his lips twitched at the corners.

“Mm. You’re too good to me, darlin’.”

Your heart swelled—partly at his words, but mainly at the overwhelming realization that this man had always been yours, even before you knew it.

You curled closer, pressing a lingering kiss to his temple. “I love you so damn much,” you whispered, voice barely above a breath.

Joel’s eyes fluttered open at that, deep brown meeting yours, hazy with sleep but sharp with something knowing. “I love you, too, sweetheart.” His voice was soft, certain, and unwavering. He studied you momentarily, his thumb stroking absent-minded circles against your hip. “What’s goin’ on in that pretty head of yours?”

You shook your head, tracing his jawline with your fingertip. “I mean it,” you murmured, voice heavier now. “I love you.”

Joel exhaled through his nose, his expression shifting into something impossibly tender. He reached up, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear before letting his palm rest against your cheek.

“I know you do,” he said softly. “Just like I love you.”

You swallowed against the lump forming in your throat. He looked at you like you had given him something sacred, like you were something sacred.

Joel let out a small huff, shifting so he was propped up on one elbow. “Y’know…” He hesitated for a beat, a little smirk playing at his lips. “Been meanin’ to show you somethin’.”

You arched a brow, curiosity flickering in your chest. “Oh?”

Joel nodded toward the window, rubbing a slow hand down your back. “Out in the backyard. Was waitin’ for ‘em to bloom first, but… guess I could give you an early look.”

Your brows furrowed, but you allowed him to pull you from the bed, watching as he slipped his arms into his flannel before guiding you downstairs and out the back door.

The morning air was crisp, the soft hum of birds filling the quiet as Joel led you across the yard, right to a small patch of freshly turned soil near the fence.

Tulips.

Your breath hitched as you crouched down, fingertips hovering over the delicate petals just beginning to bloom—the same soft pink as the one you wore in your hair that day so many months ago.

You turned back to Joel, your heart lodged somewhere in your throat. He stood there, hands in his pockets, watching you with a quiet anticipation, like he wasn’t sure what you’d say.

“You grew these for me?” Your voice was barely above a whisper.

Joel shifted slightly on his feet, giving a slight nod. “Figured you got enough flowers at the shop,” he muttered. “But, uh… wanted you to have some here too.”

Emotion swelled in your chest so fast it nearly knocked the breath from your lungs.

You surged forward, throwing your arms around him, burying your face against his shoulder. Joel stumbled back a step before his arms wrapped around you, holding you just as tightly.

“Joel,” you choked out.

“I know, sweetheart,” he murmured against your hair. “I know.”

And he did.

He had always known.

[clownprincesshq]

i don’t know who i am anymore pt 1

"You've got the costume. You've got the power. You're Spider-Woman. Act like it."🕷🕸️

Main!Mark Grayson x Spider-Woman! Reader

warnings: smut, some angst, fluff, yay flashback time!!!

w/c: 13.7k

a/n: this chapter isn't really crucial to plot I left it in because I promised there would be more fluff n smut

The alarm goes off with a grating buzz that jerks you out of sleep like it’s mad at you for daring to rest. You groan and fumble for the snooze button, missing it the first time and smacking your phone halfway off your nightstand. Smooth. You let your hand hang off the edge of the bed for a second, listening to the quiet of the house. It’s always quiet in the mornings. Too quiet. Like the world’s still deciding if it wants to wake up yet. And if the world’s not ready, why should you be?

You stare up at the ceiling for a moment. Another day. Another eight hours of trying to keep your head down and pretend that the names don’t stick. You’re not exactly counting the days until senior year, but you’d be lying if you said you weren’t looking forward to the finish line. You just have to survive the rest of junior year first.

Eventually, you drag yourself out of bed. The floor’s freezing, and your hoodie from yesterday is crumpled on the chair, sleeves twisted, one cuff damp like it brushed something it shouldn’t have. You don’t remember how it ended up like that. Doesn’t matter. You grab your toothbrush and shuffle to the bathroom, blinking blearily at your own reflection. Your hair’s a mess. There's a weird crease on your cheek from your pillow. You look like someone who stayed up until 2 a.m. finishing a paper she should’ve started three days ago. Because you did.

By the time you get dressed, you’ve pulled on an oversized sweater that used to be gray but now kind of looks like it’s lived through the Dust Bowl. It's safe. Comfortable. You tug the sleeves down over your hands and hope they make you invisible enough to slide through the day.

Downstairs, the kitchen smells like toast and cinnamon. Aunt May is already at the stove, wearing her fluffy pink robe and humming something low and old-timey under her breath. She’s got her “Good Morning Sunshine” mug in one hand and a spatula in the other, flipping something that might’ve once been pancakes.

“Mornin’, sweetheart,” she calls over her shoulder when she hears you step in. “Sleep okay?”

You nod, already making a beeline for the coffee pot. “Yeah. Kinda.”

She glances at you. “That your ‘kinda’ voice or your ‘please don’t ask me anything else’ voice?”

You give her a tired smile. “Little bit of both.”

She clicks her tongue affectionately and turns back to her pancake carnage. “There’s peanut butter on the counter and jam in the fridge. Go wild.”

You grab both. “Oh yeah, this is definitely the rational choice.”

“That’s my girl,” she says, sliding a plate toward you.

You sit, spreading peanut butter on toast with all the enthusiasm of someone about to face a firing squad. May moves around the kitchen like she always does like she’s in charge of the weather in this house. Her presence fills every quiet space.

She doesn’t say anything for a minute, but you can feel her looking at you. Eventually, she breaks the silence with a soft, careful voice. “Everything alright at school?”

Your stomach tenses. You keep your eyes on your toast, trying to act casual. “Yeah. Why?”

She tilts her head. “You’ve been quiet. Quieter than usual, I mean. And I noticed your hoodie yesterday. It looked like someone yanked on it pretty hard.”

You freeze. Just for a second. “Oh. Yeah, that was just... the locker door caught it.”

“Mm-hmm.” She takes a sip of her coffee. “And what about the coffee stain on your bag? Looked like someone poured it on you, not like it just... slipped.”

You sigh, shoulders sagging a little. You really thought you were hiding it better.

“May-”

“Is someone giving you trouble?”

“It’s not a big deal.”

She sets her mug down and walks over to lean against the counter. Her gaze is steady, not pushy, just... worried. “Honey. You don’t have to minimize it. If someone’s bullying you-”

“They’re not bullying,” you cut in, not looking at her. “It’s just stupid stuff. Flash being Flash.”

Her expression tightens. “What kind of ‘stupid stuff’?”

“Um… he, like, calls me names and laughs at me in the hallway. And last week he, uh… took my Seance Dog comic and started reading it out loud. In front of everyone.”

May’s jaw clenches. “You tell anyone?”

You shake your head. “It’s not worth it. The teachers don’t really do anything. They act like it’s just normal guy behavior or whatever.”

“That is not normal,” she says, and there’s steel in her voice now. “It’s cruel. He’s humiliating you.”

You offer a weak shrug. “It’s fine. I can handle it.”

She softens again, stepping forward and placing a warm hand on your shoulder. “Sweetheart, I know you’re tough. But that doesn’t mean you should have to be.”

There’s something in your throat now. Tight and hot. You just nod, because if you say anything, it’ll break.

And then, like a scene change in a movie, the low rumble of a sleek engine hums up outside. You both turn toward the window. There it is. The glossy black car pulling up like it just rolled off a commercial shoot. Windows tinted. Paint polished within an inch of its life.

Harry Osborn.

Right on time.

“Guess that’s my ride,” you mumble, standing a little too fast.

May raises a brow. “He’s chauffeuring you now?”

“It’s not a big deal,” you mutter, grabbing your bag. “He passes by anyway.”

“Mmhmm,” she says, clearly skeptical. “Harry’s a good boy. I’ve always liked him. You two have been thick as thieves since you were little. Just don’t forget to make room for other people too, sweetheart. It’s good to have more than one person in your corner.

You stop, backpack halfway on. “I know. He’s never made me feel like I had to be anyone else.”

“Tell me if anything else happens.” She tucks a strand of hair behind your ear, and her hand lingers on your cheek. “You’re special. You don’t need to change to fit in. Especially not for anyone who makes you feel small.”

You nod, throat dry. “I’ll be fine.”

You step outside, the cold biting through your sleeves. The car door pops open with a soft click and Harry leans over the console with a grin. He’s wearing sunglasses, despite the overcast sky, and his hair looks like it was styled by angels.

“Get in, loser,” he jokes. “Your chariot to misery has arrived.”

You laugh under your breath and slide into the passenger seat. “You know you’re insufferable, right?”

“Oh, absolutely,” he says, throwing the car into drive with one smooth motion. “It’s part of my charm.”

The car smells like money and overpriced cologne. Not in a bad way. In a Harry kind of way. The kind of way that makes you feel like maybe you don’t totally stick out like a sore thumb.

“Rough morning?” he asks, glancing sideways at you.

You nod, staring out the window. “Flash was doing his thing again.”

Harry sighs. “Want me to say something?”

“No,” you say quickly. “Seriously. I appreciate it, but... I need to handle it on my own.”

“Alright,” he says after a pause. “But if he lays a finger on you, I’m bringing the limo next time. Park it right in his locker.”

You smile, just a little. “You don’t have a limo.”

“Yet.”

You glance at him. His jaw’s a little tight. He’s trying to play it cool, but you know he’s ready to go full Osborn if you gave the word. He always has been. Since kindergarten, when he gave you half his peanut butter sandwich because yours got stepped on.

“Thanks,” you say, voice quiet.

“For what?”

“For picking me up.”

Harry shrugs like it’s nothing. “Always will.”

And you believe him.

Even if you don’t believe a lot these days, you believe that.

His infamous Rolls Royce pulls into the school parking lot smooth and silent, the type of quiet that turns heads not because it’s spectacular, but because it’s out of place. Too slick for Manhattan. Too pricey to blend in. But Harry doesn’t appear to notice. Or care. He keeps one hand on the wheel, eyes straining slightly at the bleak morning light like he already wants the day over with.

You’re in the passenger seat, gripping your backpack on your lap, watching your breath fog up the glass. You don’t want to go in. You never do. But today it’s worse. Something about the weight in your chest. The way your stomach’s already tight and you haven’t even gotten out of the car yet.

“You okay?” Harry asks, voice subdued.

You nod, though you don’t look at him. “Yeah. Just tired.”

He hums, unconvinced. “You always say that.”

“I’m always tired.”

He twists the keys, and the engine turns off. The air between you goes motionless. He doesn’t push. Doesn’t ask the way other people might. He just sits there for a bit like he’s waiting for you to catch up to yourself.

“I’m walking with you,” he offers.

You gaze at him. “You always walk with me.”

“Right,” he replies, a half-smile developing. “Just reminding you I’m not planning on stopping anytime soon.”

You exhale, shoulders drooping a little. “Thanks.”

The two of you stroll out into the cool morning air. The chill reaches you fast, wind nibbling at your ears and sneaking past the worn sleeves of your sweatshirt. You slide your hands inside your pockets. Harry doesn’t say anything. Just walks a bit slower, like he’s giving you time.

You’re nearly to the main entrance when you hear it.

“You guys are like a package deal, huh? Can’t say I missed the daily nerd parade.”

You freeze.

It’s like muscle memory. The second Flash Thompson’s voice strikes your ears, your whole body reacts, stomach tensing, breath catching, pulse surging.

He’s leaning up against one of the pillars at the front steps, arms crossed, a smirk already pasted on his face like it lives there. His tiny group, his girlfriend Liz and that boy from the lacrosse team you’ve never bothered to learn the name of, snicker behind him like background noise.

You don’t turn around. You don’t react. You’ve learnt it’s best not to. But Harry does. He stops walking. Slowly turns around.

Flash smirks, swaggering just enough for his friends to catch it.

“Didn’t know you were still dragging her around, Osborn. Thought even you would’ve upgraded by now.”

Harry doesn’t even glance up. “Didn’t know you still had teeth. Thought I took care of that in eighth grade.”

Flash’s grin falters for half a second. “You always this bitter, or is that just for me?” he throws back.

Harry finally looks at him, calm, steady, and annoyingly unbothered. “Just for you. Everyone else has the decency to stop peaking in freshman year.”

That throws Flash for a beat. But he heals swiftly.

“Relax,” he adds, waving in your way. “I’m just saying what everyone’s thinking. Four-Eyes here has been cosplaying as a walking encyclopedia since freshman year. Thought she’d be used to it by now.”

It’s hardly the worst he’s said. Not even close. But somehow it still lands. Right in your stomach. You gaze at the sidewalk. But Harry takes a step ahead. Not threatening. Not dramatic. 

“She's not hurting anyone. She's never spoken a damn word to you unless it was about returning your group project notes since you failed history class.”

Flash frowns.

“She’s everything you wish you were,” Harry goes on, voice calm but forceful. “And that pisses you off, doesn’t it? That no matter how loud you are, she’s still better. So you do what you always do, talk shit and hope no one notices how fucking pathetic that is.”

Flash straightens like he would say anything further, but Harry walks away before he can. His voice is flat as he mutters, “Let’s go,” and softly places his hand on your back, pulling you toward the doors.

You don’t look back. But you feel eyes on you the whole way.

The instant you’re inside, the cacophony of the corridor hits like a wall. Lockers smashing. Conversations overlapping. Shoes creaking against tile. You keep going, Harry alongside you, quiet.

Finally, you remark, “You didn’t have to do that.”

“I know,” he says. “But I wanted to.”

You bite your lip. “It just... makes it worse, sometimes. When people think I can’t fight my own battles.”

He glances at you. “You can. That’s not why I stepped in.”

You don’t answer. Just slam your locker open a little too forcefully and start ripping out your books like they mistreated you.

Harry leans against the locker next to yours, hands still in his coat pockets. “He’s only brave when he knows he won’t get hit back. Real tough guy.”

You keep your eyes forward. “I’m not falling apart y’know.”

Harry gives a small shrug. “Didn’t say you were. Just saying he’s not exactly brave for picking the easy targets.”

You both hear it at the same time, Amber’s chuckle. Loud. Confident. The type of sound that’s designed to be heard.

You don’t mean to look. But you do. And there they are.

Mark Grayson and Amber Bennett, standing together just across the hall. She’s placed her hand on his shoulder, and he’s chuckling at something she said. It seems easy. Like it always does. Like something from a teen drama where the universe makes sense.

You swiftly turn back to your locker. Harry observes you.

“You like him,” he adds gently.

You don’t answer right away. “It doesn’t matter.”

“He smiled at you last week.”

“It was a hallway smile, Harry. People smile in the hallway.”

He studies Mark for a beat, then glances back at you. “He smiled like he meant it.”

You give him a worn expression. “He’s with Amber.”

“And?”

“She’s... her. And I’m me.”

Harry’s silent for a long second. Then he says, “I don’t know what that’s supposed to mean.”

“It means people like him go for people like her.” You shove a notepad inside your bag. “Not girls who read comics in the library during lunch.”

Harry moves, like he wants to say something else but isn’t sure whether he should. Eventually, he just adds, You’re better than you think. Like, by a lot.”

You gaze at him. He’s not smiling. Not teasing. He means it. And suddenly, like it’s choreographed, Mark glances over. His eyes connect with yours. He pauses. And he smiles. Not a fast, courteous glimpse. A genuine one. Soft. Quiet. Familiar. Like he remembers you. Like he sees you. Your chest does something bizarre. Warm and agonizing all at once.

Then Amber says something, and Mark turns back to her, and the moment’s done. You blink, attempting to assemble the fragments of whatever that was.

Harry talks again. “That wasn’t nothing.”

“I don’t even know what that was.”

He offers you a slight, knowing shrug. “It was something.”

The bell sounds overhead, harsh and too loud, disturbing whatever bizarre dream-space you were standing in. You both start going toward class. He doesn’t press. Just walks with you like he usually does. And for a second, just one, you think maybe that’s what counts more than anything Mark could say. Because Harry’s still here. Not for show. Not for sympathy. Just... here.

You make it to class without speaking anything else, only the sound of your shoes echoing along the tiled corridors. The two of you part up at the corner near the language wing, and you catch the way Harry looks back, just for a second, before entering into his own room.

You get into your seat at the back of the classroom just before the second bell sounds.

Mr. Langford is already making notes on the board. He doesn’t recognize anyone’s arrival. He doesn’t need to, he knows none of you are going to speak beyond a whisper until called on, and even then, only under duress. His whole class is a plodding march through great literature, and right now, you're halfway through The Great Gatsby, which you adore more than you care to admit.

You take your notebook out. You don’t open it yet. You’re still thinking about the look on Mark’s face. The smile. The way he’d held it for a second too long. It’s dumb. You shrug the notion out of your brain. He’s dating Amber. Everyone knows that. But he smiled. At you.

You tell yourself it doesn’t mean anything, but part of you is already keeping it. Pressing it like a withered flower between the pages of your brain.

The time drags. Your notes are nice, but you’re not really present. You keep staring at the clock. Every tick is a reminder that you’re going to have to go back out there. That the next class will bring more of the same, people pretending you’re not there, or worse, making sure you feel that you are.

When the bell eventually sounds, you’re the last one to rise up. You slip out into the hallway. It’s already filled again, bodies and bags and casual laughing that always seems louder when it’s not for you. You stick to the side, head down. It’s easier that way. Second period is Chemistry. You like Chemistry. It makes sense. It’s mathematics and logic and reactions that follow rules. Predictable. Safe.

You step in and Mark is there. Of course he is. Same seat, two rows over. He’s talking to someone, some guy from track, but when you walk in, his eyes shoot up. Just for a second. They land on you.

And there it is again. That look. He doesn’t smile this time, but he nods. Subtle. Like you’re in on something. You sit down and pretend your heart isn’t racing louder than your thoughts.

Class begins. You focus harder than normal. Take notes like your life relies on it. But the whole time, you can sense him. Not observing you, exactly, but aware of you. Like you’ve become a fixed spot on his radar and he continues checking to make sure you're still there.

When the bell sounds, you wait for most of the class to exit before gathering your belongings. You put your backpack over your shoulder and stroll into the hallway.

He’s waiting. Mark. He’s standing just to the side of the entrance like he’s tying his shoe, but he glances up as soon as you step out.

“Hey,” he says, voice low. “I liked your answer. In class. About the bonding energy thing.”

You blink. “Oh. Um. Thanks.”

“It made more sense than how he explained it.”

You chuckle quietly. “That’s... not a high bar.”

Mark grins. It’s tiny. Nervous. “Still. I dunno… you just have this way of explaining stuff that actually makes it make sense.”

You didn’t even think he’d been paying attention.

Before you can think out what to say next, Amber’s voice rips through the hall from behind him. “Mark!”

He looks over his shoulder.

Then back at you.

“Anyway, uh…just wanted to say that,” he mutters.

You nod. “Thanks.”

And suddenly he’s gone, strolling down the hall toward her like nothing happened. You’re left standing there, your brain short-circuiting in real time.

The remainder of the day is a haze. You survive history. You nod through French. You avoid eye contact in the lunchroom and eat at your customary table in the corner, where the noise is muted and your book keeps you company. You don’t see Flash again, which helps. You don’t see Mark either, which shouldn’t matter.

But it does.

By the time the last bell sounds, your brain is fried. You push past the masses and hurry toward your locker, eager to collect your belongings and disappear. Harry’s already waiting there.

He’s slumped against the wall beside your locker, arms crossed, bag thrown lazily over one shoulder. “There you are.”

You blink. “You waited?”

He shrugs. “Figured we’d walk out together.”

You start spinning your combination. “You didn’t have to.”

“Didn’t say I did.”

You glance over. He’s scrutinizing you, but not in a judgmental sense. Just... observing.

“You okay?” he says. “You’ve been quiet.”

“I’m always quiet.”

“Yeah,” he says. “But this is a different kind.”

You shut your locker and sigh. “Mark talked to me after Chem.”

Harry blinks. “Wait. What?”

“He said he liked the way I explained bonding energy.”

“That’s it?”

You nod.

Harry analyzes you for another beat. Then, gently, “And it meant something. Didn’t it.”

You don’t answer. You don’t have to. You both walk down the corridor toward the exit. The school’s quieter now, most of the students have spilled out onto the street, some loitering in front of the gym or huddling behind the bike racks.

Harry holds the door open for you without thinking. You step out, the air cooler now, the sun creeping lower behind the buildings.

“I know what it’s like,” Harry adds after a minute. “To want something and be afraid it’s going to disappear the second you reach for it.”

You gaze at him. He’s not looking at you. He’s looking forward, jaw clenched.

“It’s hard,” he continues. “Especially when you’re used to being ignored. Makes you doubt whether the moment ever happened at all.”

You stop walking. He does too.

You turn to face him. “You think I’m imagining it?”

He stares at you then. “No. I guess it terrified you.”

You exhale, breath fogging in front of you. “Yeah. Maybe.”

Harry transfers his weight. “He smiled at you again, didn’t he.”

You nod. “Not just a smile this time. He talked to me.”

“Then maybe it’s not nothing.”

You gaze down. “It feels like something.”

Harry’s voice sinks. “Then it is.”

He says that like it’s clear. Like the sky is blue. Like the sun will set. Like it’s just true. You stay there a minute longer, letting the stillness settle about you. For once, it’s not weighty. It’s warm. Comfortable.

And maybe, just maybe, you don’t feel so invisible anymore.

You don’t know why Mark Grayson starts sitting closer in Chemistry. He was always more of a back-row type. The sort of person who coasted through class with a smile and just enough involvement to prevent from being called on. He had that easy, casual appeal people either wanted to date or secretly disliked.

And for a time, he sat with Amber Bennett. They were a thing. Everyone knew it. Until, suddenly, they weren’t. There was no fight. No drama. No whispered hallway repercussions. They just... stopped sitting together. She stopped waiting for him outside of class. He stopped checking his phone between intervals like he was expecting her to text. They passed each other once in the cafeteria. Didn’t even make eye contact.

That’s when you noticed the shift.

You’ve never talked much to Mark. Not beyond polite conversation, class projects, the odd little moment, him giving you a paper you dropped, you lending him a pen during a quiz. But you’ve spotted him. It’s hard not to. He’s the type of boy who sparkles without trying to. Who takes up space without needing to talk.

But recently, he’s quieter. Not sad, precisely. Just... turned inward. And you can connect to it. So when he begins sitting a row closer in Chem, you don’t doubt it. When he peeks at your notes mid-lecture, you shift the page over a bit without saying anything.

Mark hangs back after class, kind of pretending to check something in his bag but clearly waiting for you again.

“Hey,” he says, stepping over like it’s no big deal but clearly trying. “You’re good at this chem stuff, right? Like, actually understand it?”

You glance at him, surprised. “I guess? Why?”

He shrugs, gives a lopsided smile. “Because I’m not. At all. And if I bomb one more quiz, I think my GPA’s gonna file a restraining order.”

You laugh, and he brightens a little.

You nod. “Yeah. I get that.”

He hesitates. “Would it be weird if I asked for help sometime?”

“Not weird.”

He exhales, apparently relieved. “Cool.”

It becomes a thing. Not formal. Not consistent. But a thing. He finds you in the library after school. No announcement. No plans. He just... turns up. You glance up from your notebook and raise an eyebrow.

He shrugs. “Didn’t want to go home yet.”

You don’t question it. You move your stuff to make room. He sits across from you and pulls out his Chemistry packet. And that’s how it starts.

Some days you study. Some days you don’t. Some days you speak about class, or ridiculous YouTube videos, or which teacher definitely needs a vacation. Other days he barely talks, and you both just sit there in the same silence , doing nothing at all.

And that’s alright. It’s never framed as anything more than that. Not a date. Not a secret. Just... a shared pause in an otherwise crazy week. You don’t know why he comes to you. But you don’t mind that he does.

One afternoon, he shows up to the library later than normal. His eyes are a touch red. Not like he’s been crying, just like he hasn’t slept.

He dumps his backpack on the floor and slumps onto the chair. “Hey.”

You glance up. “Rough day?”

“Something like that.”

You wait. He says nothing. Just stares at the edge of the table.

Then, out of nowhere. “You ever have those days where it all feels… weird? Like you’re there, but not really?”

You blink. You weren’t expecting that.

You nod, slowly. “Yeah. I have.”

He doesn’t say anything else. But he sits a bit straighter after that. You just think ‘He’s struggling with something.’ And that something hasn’t been called yet. And if he wants to talk about it, he will. Until then, you’re just... here.

One Thursday, he meets you outside class.

“Hey,” he says. “You doing anything after school?”

You pause. “No. Why?”

“Hey, there’s this place downtown, bookstore with a coffee shop in it. The comic section’s a disaster, total mess. Thought you might like it.”

You raise a brow. “You don’t know what I like.”

He grins. “You doodled Superman on your Chem notes last week.”

You flush. He grins wider.

“It’s not a date,” he adds hurriedly. “I just... didn’t want to go alone.”

You pretend your heart didn’t just do anything crazy.

“Okay,” you say. “Sure.”

It’s dusty and chaotic and comforting in that way that old shops often are. The shelves lean. The ceiling fan clicks overhead. The fragrance is coffee beans and cardboard and time.

You step in beside him. The clerk doesn’t glance up. You stroll toward the comics corner. It’s anarchy. Stacks of mismatched problems. Trade paperbacks from 10 years ago. A decrepit cardboard standee of Batman toppling over in the corner. He flips through a handful, bringing up one that seems like it escaped a flood.

“This is either cursed or a collectible.”

You snort. “Definitely both.”

He laughs. Really laughs. It’s the first time in weeks you’ve seen him do that. You end up getting tea. He gets the worst coffee of his life. You sit at the window, just watching the street as it grows dark.

“This place is weird,” he says.

“Yeah. I like it.”

You drink your tea. He taps his fingers on the table.

“Amber and I broke up.”

You blink. He doesn’t look at you when he says it.

“It wasn’t bad. Just... not right anymore.”

You nod. “Okay.”

“She wanted more from me. And I couldn’t give it to her.”

He glances up.

“I don’t really know what I want right now. But being here’s easier.”

You don’t say anything. You just nod. And he appears to breathe a bit easier after that. On the walk back, you brush shoulders. Not on purpose. But he doesn’t draw away. You don’t either.

And even though it’s not a date, even though no one says anything they shouldn’t, you find yourself staring at him a bit longer than normal. And thinking what it would be like if it was.

You weren’t expecting Mark Grayson’s house to seem so normal.

It’s a two-story in the midst of a quiet neighborhood, the type of property where the porch is usually swept but the paint on the door is chipped toward the bottom. The grass is uneven in areas. The windchimes clink quietly in the air. It smells vaguely like laundry venting through the walls and someone’s concept of a home-cooked dinner.

You’re early.

Well, on time. But you feel early.

You tighten the strap of your bag, checking your phone again for the address Mark gave you. The text had been brief.

> want to study at my house friday?

No extra words. No emoji. Just that. You said yes. You even offered to bring food. He answered within minutes.

 > please yes i just have lousy granola bars and expired ramen

You don’t know what you anticipated. But this? This feels… silent. More domestic than you expected it would be.

Before you can knock, the door opens.

Mark appears at the doorway in sweatpants and a hoodie with the sleeves pressed up to his elbows. His hair looks like it’s still recuperating from a towel-dry, and he’s barefoot.

“Hey,” he says. His voice is warm. Tired. A little astonished.

You hold out a bag of gummy worms and chips. “Figured I’d bring the essentials.”

He steps aside, smiling. “A true lifesaver. Come on in.”

Inside, the house seems lived-in. There are images on the walls, family holidays, school portraits, one of Mark on his dad’s shoulders laughing like he was made of sunlight. The kitchen smells like tomato sauce and warmed leftovers. You follow him into the tiny hallway and into the kitchen, where he dumps his backpack with a faint thud upon the table.

“We can study here if that’s cool,” he offers. “My room’s a mess. Unless you want to sit on a pile of clothes and ungraded math homework.”

You grin and sink into the chair across from him. “I’ll take the table.”

He sits down with a sigh and opens a notepad. “I warned you, though. I’m going fail this test unless you do some type of academic CPR.”

“I’ll get the paddles.”

He chuckles, and it’s the first real one you’ve heard from him in a while. You’re halfway through a question concerning redox reactions when a voice calls out from another room.

“Mark?”

He glances toward the hall. “Kitchen!”

A moment later, a woman steps in, groceries in one hand, keys in the other. She freezes when she sees you, eyebrows rising for a second before her expression relaxes.

“Oh. Hello. I didn’t know we had company.”

You start to stand, but she waves you off.

“I’m Debbie,” she adds, shifting the bag on her hip. “You must be the Chem tutor.”

You nod. “Yeah. Sorry for dropping in.”

“Oh, you’re his tutor? Great. Maybe now he’ll bring home a test I don’t have to squint at to find the passing grade.”

“Mom,” Mark mutters.

Debbie offers you a wink. “You’d be surprised how often that happens around here.”

A few minutes later, you hear footsteps again, heavier this time. Slower. Then, a fresh voice. Deep. Calm. Measured.

“Debbie?”

“In the kitchen,” she calls.

And then you see him. Mark’s dad. You’ve never met him before, yet something about the way he enters the room makes you straighten without thinking. He’s tall. Broad. The type of man that looks too enormous for the doorway he passes through.

He doesn’t smile. But he doesn’t scowl either. He merely glances at you. There’s a weight in his stare, quiet, but obvious. Mark stands. So do you.

“Dad, we’re in Chem together,” Mark says your name.

You offer your hand. “Hi. Nice to meet you.”

He takes it. His grasp is solid but not crushing. His hand is warm and calloused. His voice is lower than Mark’s, smooth and unhurried. “Nolan.”

You nod. Something about him makes your palms sweat. He lingers for just a second longer than he should. Then nods and steps back.

And just like that, he’s gone. You sit down carefully. Mark exhales like he’s been holding his breath.

“You okay?” he says.

You blink. “Yeah. Your dad’s just... intense.”

Mark huffs a weary chuckle. “Yeah. He’s... a lot.”

You don’t Sk what Nolan does for a living. You recall Mark suggesting something vague once about novels or anything to do with writing. You didn’t press then, and you don’t now.

But still, something about the way Nolan stared at you remained buried in your ribs. You get back to studying.

Mark is better at this than he lets on. He’s not failing. He’s just exhausted. Distracted. He remembers half of the formulas and just needs someone to keep him from talking himself out of the appropriate solution.

You help. He listens. Mark glances at you for a long moment. Then he nods. “Thanks.”

You stay for another hour.

When you finally rise, your back’s hurting and your brain’s fried. But you’ve worked through all the review questions, and Mark says he’s going to score at least a B this time.

You follow him back to the entrance hallway. As you slide your shoes on, Debbie joins you at the door with a Tupperware container.

“Leftovers,” she replies, placing it gently in your hands. “Don’t argue.”

You smile. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome anytime.”

Mark opens the door for you. You go onto the porch, and that’s when you hear the voice again.

“Heading out?”

You turn.

Nolan stands near the steps, arms folded across his chest. His gaze finds yours with precise accuracy.

“Yes,” you answer, trying not to sound apprehensive. “Thank you for having me.”

He nods once. “Smart people ask the right questions.”

You freeze.

Then he says, “He’s stronger when he’s challenged. You seem to hold him to a standard… that’s good. He needs that.”

You attempt to grin. “Thanks.”

His expression doesn’t change. Then he turns and disappears back down the hall. You stare at Mark.

He shrugs. “That’s his version of approval.”

“Cold,” you say.

He snorts. “Yeah.”

You say farewell and walk back to your house, the Tupperware warm in your hands and your thoughts full of too many things.

You don’t anticipate much from Monday.

Just the usual. Half-slept eyelids, a sore shoulder from a too-heavy backpack, the lingering taste of coffee that went cold before the first bell. You don’t anticipate clarity, or elegance, or anything that is easy.

But you surely don’t anticipate him.

“You know, I always figured you were book smart, but I didn’t think you were that easy.”

Flash Thompson’s voice slices through the corridor like a dagger. You cringe, not because of what he says, but because of how loud he makes sure it is. You’re halfway to your locker. You don’t turn. Not at first.

You know the tone. The way his voice lifts just enough to encourage an audience. It’s not curiosity. It’s spectacle. Flash has been like this since middle school, loud, arrogant, always surrounding individuals he believes can’t or won’t bite back.

You don’t engage. That’s always been your rule. But this time? This time it’s not just a jab.

“You and Grayson, huh?” Flash continues, sauntering into view like he owns the floor. “So that’s all it takes to get you worked up? He says some chemistry crap and suddenly you’re all flushed and ready to play lab partner with your legs open?”

He grins.

The group surrounding you doesn’t laugh, exactly, but a few of them pause. Linger. He sees it. Doubles down.

“Practice quiz was just foreplay, huh?” he says, leaning one elbow on the locker next to yours. “Bet you were drooling over more than formulas the second he took out his binder.”

You say nothing. But your fingers are gripped around the spine of your notebook. He notices. Of course he does.

“Hey, no judgment,” he adds, faux-innocent. “We’ve all had those days. A little homework. A little extra credit. A little physics lesson, if you catch my drift.”

A few kids chuckle now. Not because it’s humorous. Because he’s loud. Because no one wants to be the next target. Flash tilts his head.

“You're really aiming low though, aren’t you?” he adds, eyes narrowing just enough to make your skin crawl. “Grayson? Seriously? I figured you for someone with standards.”

You start to close your locker. Fast. Hard. But Flash keeps going.

“Then again,” he continues, a little closer now, voice lowering just enough to make it personal, “maybe you’re not as hard to get as you pretend to be.”

That’s when the second voice cuts in. Quiet. Level. Sharp as a scalpel.

“Say that again.”

You don’t turn. You already know who it is. Mark’s voice isn’t loud. It’s not furious. But the weight of it freezes everyone around you in their tracks.

Flash straightens, nearly laughs. “Grayson. Wow, you really have great timing.”

Mark moves ahead, slow and controlled. His strap is still hanging across his back. His hands are in his jacket pockets. He looks peaceful. Too calm. You know that look.

You’ve seen it once or twice, when someone at lunch kicked a platter at the janitor. When a freshman made a joke about Eve behind her back. Mark doesn’t get loud. He just looks straight at people. And they typically shut up.

Not Flash.

Flash grins like he’s unbeatable. “Look, man, if she didn’t want people talking, maybe she shouldn’t be walking around like she’s got secrets. First she’s all quiet, then suddenly she’s at your house. What else are people meant to think?”

Mark doesn’t blink.

“You’re not ‘people.’ You’re just loud.”

Flash’s grin falters. Mark steps closer. And when he talks, it’s lower than before.

“Say one more word about her, and we’re done talking.”

There’s no arrogance in his voice. Just certainty. Flash stiffens, suddenly aware of how many people had gone still around them. Someone murmurs your name. Another mutters Mark’s.

“You threatening me?” Flash asks.

Mark’s upper lip twitches. “You’re not getting a second warning.”

Flash steps back. Not far. But enough.

He attempts to sneer. “Come on. We’re just messing around.”

“No,” Mark responds. “You’re messing around. And no one’s laughing.”

He doesn’t look away. Doesn’t raise his voice. But everyone hears it. Flash glares. And then, eventually, he turns. Walks away. Quick. Too fast to be casual. Mark watches him leave. Then exhales. He turns to you.

“Sorry,” he murmurs, stroking the back of his neck. “I didn’t mean to, uh, make it a whole thing.”

You shake your head.

“No. That was... thank you.”

He offers a tiny nod. “He’s been a jerk for a while. Figured it was time someone said something.”

You bite your lip. “That was more than saying something.”

He shrugs. “He deserved it.”

You don’t disagree.

The remainder of the day goes in a haze. In Chemistry, Mark passes you a note. Not a dramatic one. Just a shred pulled from the corner of his worksheet.

> still on for thursday?

You scrawl back.

> if you bring food.

He writes.

> i’m starving. you bring food.

You repress a laugh. Later, as you gather up your things, he stays by the door. You fall in stride beside him without thinking.

“You good?” he says, sounding nonchalant now.

You gaze at him. “Yeah.”

He nods, like that’s all he needs. You go halfway down the hall before you halt.

“Mark?”

He glances at you, one brow arched.

You clear your throat. “You didn’t have to say anything. But... I’m happy you did.”

He grins. “Yeah, well. I’m not good at keeping quiet.”

You raise an eyebrow. “You’re literally always quiet in class.”

Mark smiles. “Exactly.”

And strangely, that makes perfect sense.

On Thursday, Mark opens the door barefoot, wearing a sweatshirt that definitely should’ve been retired a year ago and carrying a sleeve of Cheez-Its like it’s the most important thing he possesses.

“You’re early,” he adds, but there’s no bite to it.

“You said six.”

“I meant emotionally.”

You lift an eyebrow. “ I brought my notes. And gummy worms. That’s as emotionally accessible as I get.”

He grins, standing aside to let you enter. “Perfect. This way.”

The Grayson house smells like laundry detergent and something strangely Italian, tomato sauce again, maybe. You walk over a pair of sneakers at the entryway and follow Mark along the hallway to the kitchen, where a mound of opened mail and a set of mismatched tablecloths share room with an open binder and three broken pens.

He sweeps the pens away like he’s done this same gesture a hundred times.

“Alright,” he replies, dropping into a chair across from you. “Let’s save my GPA.”

You place your backpack down, unzip it, and bring out your folders. “Start with redox reactions?”

“Start with telling me what those are again.”

You blink.

“Kidding,” he says hastily. “Kinda.”

You toss him a pencil. “Then let’s go.”

You’re about half an hour into the study session when the temperature in the room shifts. It starts with the creak of the steps. Heavy footsteps. Not hurried, but thoughtful. Mark’s shoulders tense almost imperceptibly. Then a low, unhurried voice fills the area.

“She’s here… again?”

The voice isn’t loud, yet it lands like a pin in the midst of the table. You glance up.

Mark’s father strides into the kitchen like a shadow filling the doorway. He’s tall, taller than any man has a right to be, and wide through the chest and shoulders. Today, his sleeves are rolled to his elbows, his beard groomed, his gaze unfathomable.

He doesn’t look at you. He stares at Mark.

Mark, without glancing up from the notes in front of him, adds tightly, “Dad.”

Nolan lifts his hands like he’s innocent. “What? Just noticing.”

You clear your throat. “Hi, Mr. Grayson.”

Nolan stares at you then, nodding. “Evening.”

He doesn’t grin. Doesn’t frown either. He just... is. There’s a pause. Then he wanders toward the fridge, opens it, gets a water bottle, and pauses there a bit too long before heading out again. Mark lets out a sigh as soon as the door slams closed behind him.

“Sorry,” he mutters. “He’s... always like that.”

You glance toward the door. “Did I do something?”

“No. God—no,” he says quickly. “He’s just weird when I bring people home. You didn’t do anything.”

You return to your notes, but the tone has transformed. The air feels tighter. Mark doesn’t make as many jokes after that. He’s concentrated, keen, eyes flitting from formula to formula like he’s trying to escape whatever’s seething just beneath the surface.

You try not to let it get to you. But it does.

Later, Debbie comes down from upstairs, pulling her hair up and murmuring faintly to herself. She’s got a warmth to her that makes the place feel more like a home again.

“Spaghetti’s on the stove,” she says. “If either of you need a break.”

Mark perked up instantly. “Do I have to do anything for it?”

“Just pretend like you haven’t been living on instant ramen and cereal.”

He grins, already standing. “I make no promises.”

You follow him into the kitchen, and soon you're eating microwaved spaghetti over your open notes, the kitchen warmer now, the strain of earlier starting to disappear.

Debbie circles around a few minutes later, observes the gummy worms spread between your pages, and raises a brow.

“I see the study snacks have become actual meal replacements.”

“She said it was brain fuel,” Mark explains.

“I stand by that,” you murmur between a mouthful of noodles.

Debbie laughs. “Well, you’re welcome to stay for real dinner next time. Though I make no promises regarding nutrition.”

You depart shortly after nine, spaghetti container in hand and your folder packed a bit tighter than before. Mark takes you to the door, pulling the hood of his sweatshirt up against the cold.

“Hey,” he says as you approach the steps. “Thanks again. You’re seriously helping me not flunk this.”

“You’re welcome,” you remark, stepping down onto the porch.

Mark pauses at the doorway a second longer, then adds, “Text me when you get home?”

You nod. “I will.”

You’re halfway down the path when you hear another voice behind you.

“Hey.”

You turn. It’s Debbie. She’s walked out onto the porch, arms crossed against the chill, a soft grin on her face.

“I figured I’d walk you out,” she says. “Mark can’t be trusted to remember simple things like jackets.”

You smile. “He’s consistent, at least.”

She laughs then her voice softens. “Thank you for coming. And for helping him.”

You blink. “Oh, it’s nothing. I mean, I like chemistry.”

“I can tell,” she says. “It’s nice. Seeing him around someone who gets it.”

There’s a beat. Then another.

She adds, softly, “Don’t let his dad get to you.”

You gaze toward the home. “I didn’t mean to-”

“He’s not... unfriendly,” Debbie continues, picking her words carefully. “Just not good with company. Especially when it’s not expected.”

You nod slowly.

“He’s used to things being a certain way,” she continues. “Schedules. Routines. And when something changes, even something small, it throws him off.”

You don’t know what to say to that.

So you just provide a gentle, “Okay.”

Debbie studies you a minute more, then says, “It’s not about you.”

And somehow, that helps the tightness in your chest lessen just a little.

You smile. “Thanks.”

She returns it, then waves you off. “Get home safe.”

You go home beneath peaceful starlight and gentle streetlight, brain humming not with formulas, but with all that was nearly said.

You slip into a habit before you even know it.

Not everything at once. Not in some rom-com montage of coffee cups and falling leaves and gently blurred smiles over a shared textbook. It’s slower. Quieter. The type of pattern you don’t notice until you’re already inside it, like music playing under your skin.

Mondays and Thursdays become study nights. You don’t plan it. It just happens. He starts messaging you more. You start replying quicker. And somehow, every week, you find yourself back at the Graysons’ kitchen table, paper scattered between you, half-finished notes on ionic bonding and entropy, a shared bag of gummy worms laying half-eaten between your elbows.

You’re not sure when it stops being just about Chemistry.

Probably the third time you see him scribbling in the margins of your schoolwork. Stick figures in lab coats. A molecule shouting “HELP” in capital letters. One time, he sketches you wearing goggles and surrounded by flames, mumbling “I told you not to mix them.”

“You’re gonna get me killed in the Chem lab,” you warn him, holding the paper up.

“Not true,” Mark replies, flipping a page. “If we both go down, it’s technically a bonding experience.”

You throw a gummy worm at him. He catches it in his lips without glancing up.

His house never changes. It’s usually warm and lived-in, a touch messy around the edges. Debbie greets you every time with the same worn grin that indicates she’s seen too much and yet wants you to feel welcome.

Nolan doesn’t speak much.

Sometimes you hear him upstairs. Sometimes he passes past the kitchen and nods without speaking. But there’s always something in the air when he’s around. Not anger. Not tension. Just, expectation. Like every room he's in is a test.

Mark never reacts to it. Not openly. But you’ve observed how he gets silent as his dad's footsteps reach the landing. How his handwriting stiffens. How he stops cracking jokes till Nolan’s out of earshot.

You pretend not to notice. You think maybe that’s the right thing to do.

By week four, you’re used to his hoodie sleeves rolled halfway up his forearms, the way he chews his pencil while he’s thinking, the odd groan of exasperation when he gets something wrong that he should know.

“I swear I studied this,” he mutters one night, scrolling through his binder like it deceived him.

You glance at the question. “This is literally what we went over last time.”

“I know. I’m not saying I didn’t study. I’m saying the studying lied to me.”

You gaze at him.

Mark shrugs. “Textbooks have been out to get me since middle school.”

You huff a chuckle and start re-explaining the question.

He listens better now. Not only to you, but in class. You hear him actually address things now, still low-key, still playing it cool, but he’s trying.

You don’t say anything about that. But he sees you smiling once when he gets a question correct in Chem, and he doesn’t turn away.

There’s a week where you don’t come by because you’ve got a cold and your voice sounds like death.

He comes up at your locker with a package of lemon tea and a message written in the margins of an old worksheet.

‘hope ur not dead. drink this. if u fail chemistry i’m blaming ur immune system.’

You laugh so hard you have to lean on your locker. When you text him that night to say thanks, he just replies.

>i need u alive. not emotionally. academically.

You text back

> rude.

He sends a crying emoji and a photo of his notes with a large frowny emoticon painted on the page where he became confused about combustion responses.

> see what happens when u leave me unsupervised

It’s Thursday night when it happens.

You’re wrapping up your final practice quiz when you feel it, that little change in the air. The quiet that follows footsteps. You don’t hear them, not precisely. But you feel them.

Nolan arrives in the kitchen doorway.

He doesn’t speak right away. Just stares at the two of you, your open notebooks, your heads close together, the tangle of pens and scratch paper across the table. Mark doesn’t look up.

“She’s here again,” Nolan adds, not quite shocked.

Mark still doesn’t look up. “She is.”

Nolan lifts a brow. “You two seeing each other now?”

You gaze up, surprised. “What-?”

Mark doesn’t flinch. “No. We’re studying.”

Nolan hums. Not disapproving. Not amused. Just... noticing. Then he leaves. You see the door swing quietly behind him.

Mark finally exhales. “He thinks he’s subtle.”

You hesitate. “Did I make it weird?”

“No.” He glances at you. “If anyone did, it was him.”

You nod. But your heart’s thudding too strongly in your ears. You gaze down at your notes and circle the same number again.

Mark reaches over and nudges your elbow. “Hey.”

You gaze at him.

He’s frowning, soft, not serious. “Don’t let him make you feel out of place.”

You offer a feeble grin. “I just didn’t realize he thought I was around that much.”

Mark shrugs. “You’re not. We’re just the only ones who talk during dinner, so maybe it feels like more.”

He smiles at you. “Besides, I can only pass Chemistry if you’re here, so technically, your presence is a medical necessity.”

You laugh. It’s subtle, but real. Mark observes you for a second longer than required. Then, as usual, he looks away first. After dinner, Debbie finds you by the door as you’re putting on your jacket.

“I’m glad you’ve been around lately,” she replies quietly. “Mark doesn’t let a lot of people in.”

You hesitate, taken off-guard. “Oh. I didn’t realize.”

She grins. “You wouldn’t. That’s the thing.”

She adjusts a frame on the wall. “You make it easy for him.”

You gaze toward the stairs.

“He doesn’t talk about school much,” she says. “But I’ve noticed he’s been… lighter lately. Whatever you’re doing, it’s helping.”

You don’t know what to say to that. You don’t know if you’re meant to. So you nod. And Debbie pats your arm, like she understands.

“Get home safe, alright?”

“I will.”

“And thank you.”

When you arrive home, Mark texts you.

> so how’d i do

You reply.

> you got 4/5 right on the last quiz which implies u are now legally allowed to make 1 chemistry pun every session use it wisely 

His reply is quick.

> oh don’t worry i’m saving it for something explosive

You gaze at your phone. And you laugh till your stomach hurts.

It starts like every other late afternoon.

The bell rings. You groan. Your Chem notes are a catastrophe. You can’t find your pencil bag. Your brain’s still whirling from the pop quiz you’re almost convinced broke international law.

And your locker? Your locker is the last boss. You’re elbow-deep in stuff, pulling out old assignments and crammed files like you’re on an ancient excavation, when the inevitable comes.

Everything collapses. Not dramatically. Just enough to be bothersome.

A notepad strikes your sneaker and breaks open. Your lunch container from two days ago (you swear you were going to bring it home) topples onto its side. A stack of papers flutters down like confetti to the floor.

You sigh. Loudly. Stare at the commotion with the detached tiredness of someone two seconds from just walking away and never returning.

“Need help?” a voice says behind you.

You don’t even turn. “Only if you want to lose all respect for me in the next thirty seconds.”

A beat.

Then a voice, closer, familiar.

“I’m pretty sure that happened around the time I saw you try to take notes with a dried-out highlighter.”

You freeze.

Then gaze up.

Mark is lounging against the locker next to yours, arms crossed, face way too casual for how fast your heart just shot into your throat. His hoodie sleeves are pushed up to his elbows. His hair’s a touch disheveled. He’s smiling.

Too wide. Too deliberate. Like he’s attempting to act casual and failing at it.

“Hey,” he says again. “You doing something after school?”

You blink. Still half-bent into the debris of your locker, a wad of paper in one hand and your dignity pouring out the bottom.

Mark lifts an eyebrow. “You’re... frozen. Did I break you?”

You shake your head. “No—sorry. I just—what?”

He shrugs, attempting to play it off, but there’s a little shift in his stance. Like he’s trying not to hold his breath.

“Wanna get lunch with me after school?”

You stop moving. Totally. Completely.

You’re clutching a half-crushed notepad in one hand, a shattered pen in the other. You’re slumped at an angle that can only be characterized as terrible. And your brain, your wonderful, overworked brain, flatlines.

Mark observes you closely. Then clears his throat.

“Together,” he adds. “Like... as a date.”

You short-circuit. There is no other name for it. Your face warms up so rapidly it’s if someone set off a flare behind your eyes. You create a noise. It’s intended to be a word. It is not a word.

Mark, somehow, doesn’t bolt.

You look at him, really look at him, and he’s nervous. Still smiling, but softer now. The grin isn’t haughty. It’s optimistic. Hesitant, even. And it guts you a bit, how this guy who’s so brilliant at trying to be relaxed is plainly just as afraid as you are.

You clear your throat. Try to talk.

“Y-yeah,” you say, like someone flicked your language switch back on. “I mean. Yes. I love eating. And consuming. Things. Food.”

You want to drill a hole right through the flooring and into the Earth’s core. Mark stares. Then he laughs. Not a snort. Not a chuckle. A real laugh. Caught-off-guard, full-bodied, straight-from-the-stomach laughing that makes him lean against the locker a little like it physically hit him.

You die inside.

He straightens up, shaking his head. “That was great.”

“Please never repeat anything I just said.”

“Oh, absolutely not,” he adds, smirking. “I’m gonna remember that forever.”

You cover your face with the shattered notepad. “I hate myself.”

“You love food and consuming things. That’s amazing. I couldn’t have written that if I tried.”

You groan. “You’re a menace.”

Mark just grins at you. “Cool.”

You lower the notepad carefully.

“Cool?” you repeat.

He nods. “Cool that you said yes.”

Your chest does something silly and fluttery.

You nod, suddenly bashful. “Yeah. Cool.”

There’s a pause. Neither of you move. The corridor is nearly empty now, only the sound of a faraway locker slamming, a teacher's voice booming down the hall.

Mark rocks on his heels. “I’ll text you?”

You nod again, far too fast.

He looked down at the mess at your feet. “Should I—help?”

You manage a chuckle. “God, no. You’ll never recover from the trauma.”

“Alright,” he replies, moving back. “I’ll let you fight with your paper demon alone.”

You watch him depart, your whole body still heated with surprise.

He goes about halfway down the corridor before turning back and saying, “Bring your appetite, okay? For... consuming things.”

You groan. “Stop.”

He winks. Then he’s gone. You gaze into your locker like it could offer you answers. Like maybe, somewhere behind all that confusion, you’ll discover the version of yourself that knows how to talk to men without sounding like she swallowed a dictionary and forgot how verbs operate.

But you don’t. You find an old granola bar. And for the first time that day, you smile so big your cheeks hurt. Because Mark Grayson just asked you out. And you said yes. Terribly. Awkwardly. But still, yes.

And now you’re here.

Standing outside a tiny café with a vintage Coca-Cola sign and a crooked chalkboard that says “We toast everything except our customers!”

Mark’s already waiting.

He’s leaning against the side of the building, backpack slung over one shoulder, hoodie half-zipped like he didn’t even notice how good he looks. His hair’s a little messy, like he just was attacked by the wind, and when he sees you, he straightens up and smiles.

“Hey.”

Your mouth opens. Closes. You make a weird little jazz-hand wave that was not pre-approved by your nervous system. “Hi.”

He grins, like he saw it, like he’s decided not to make fun of you for it, but definitely logged it for later.

“You good?” he asks, stepping forward to open the door for you.

“Yep. I mean, no. I mean—I’m good. Fine. Average. Not dying.”

He laughs, holds the door open wider. “That’s comforting.”

The café is warm and cluttered, filled with little two-top tables and posters from old black-and-white movies you’ve never heard of. Someone’s playing acoustic covers of emo songs through a tinny speaker. It smells like toast and burnt sugar and coffee.

Mark picks a booth by the window. You sit across from him and try to make your legs look normal under the table.

“So,” he says, tapping the table with two fingers. “Grilled cheese. Important business.”

You snort. “I like that we’re pretending this is about cheese and not the fact that we’re hanging out alone in public and there’s a 90% chance I’m going to say something stupid.”

Mark leans back in the booth, arms crossed over his chest, smirking.

“Please. You say stupid things all the time. That’s kind of your thing.”

You narrow your eyes. “You’re so lucky you’re cute.”

“I know,” he says, grinning like it’s not the first time someone’s called him that and like he’s very aware you just accidentally did.

Your brain blue-screens for a second. You just open the menu just to hide your face.

The tickets arrive like magic, folded slightly, edges worn from being tucked in his hoodie pocket, handed off like a secret right after you finished eating.

“You remembered,” you reply, glancing at the movie logo written across them, your fingertips touching his.

Mark shrugs, his countenance that typical blend of youthful casual and something that lives deeper in his chest. “Of course I did. It’s you.”

After lunch, the theater was bustling. Opening night groups crowd every seat and area, bursting with enthusiasm. Cosplayers pose for pictures at the concession counter. Someone brought a handcrafted replica of the main character’s shield. The room smells like butter and happiness. Your heart races rapidly for causes that have nothing to do with coffee or grilled cheese anymore.

You find your seats, center row, excellent view. Mark flops into his chair like he’d been there a hundred times, instantly shoving popcorn into his mouth like he hadn’t eaten all day.

He glances over as the previews start. “You nervous?”

“About a movie?”

“No,” he responds. “About spending two hours next to someone who won’t shut up during action scenes.”

You elbow him. “You’re lucky I like you.”

The words tumble out before you could catch them. He blinks once. You blink twice.

But he just grins around another handful of popcorn. “Yeah,” he said. “I know.”

The lights darken. The movie starts. You forget about everything else.

Well, practically everything.

Halfway through, during the slow scene, the one when your favorite character finally says the thing they'd been holding back for three films, Mark moves in his seat. Just a bit.

He doesn't look at you at the start. Then he does.

“You know,” he adds, voice low, cautious not to disturb the full auditorium, “I don’t care about this stuff half as much as you do.”

Your lips open, but no words come. Not yet.

He keeps going. “But I’ve never had this much fun in a movie.”

You turn to him. The lights from the screen flash across his cheekbones, his lashes, the line of his mouth. You can feel the grin developing over your own lips.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

He gazes at the screen again, but not for long.

“I don’t know—just… the way you get into things. It’s cool. Kind of hard not to notice.”

You don’t laugh. Not this time.

Instead, you murmur, “I’m a huge dork.”

Mark’s gaze moves back to yours. “Yeah,” he agrees. “But you make me want to be a dork too.”

You don’t know what to say to that. You aren’t sure anything you say would come out correctly. So you smile instead, and the moment hangs there between you, suspended like the flicker of the projector beam overhead.

A minute passes. Then another.

You can hear the tension building back up in the film, music increasing, actors running, yelling. But you’re just half-listening. Your heartbeat is louder than the booms.

Mark shifts closer. Your fingertips brush against the armrest. And then that weight in your chest isn’t anxiety anymore, its gravity.

The kiss isn’t fireworks. It isn’t slow motion. It's simple. Mark leans in, and you meet him halfway, and his lips are warm and hesitant and genuine. You pause for just a second, because this is your first. And it’s Mark.

Your fingers grasp the edge of your hoodie, heart thudding. You can smell the salt of the popcorn, the faint whiff of the cologne he never wore enough of, the lingering sweetness of soda on his breath.

Then it was finished. And everything changed. You grin like a secret had finally been exposed. Neither of you utter a word. He clasps your hand in his, and you lay your head softly against his shoulder. The screen lights both of you up in bursts of gold and violet, action rushing forward like time hadn’t halted for you.

But it did. Just for a time. And as the credits play, and the audience begins to stir, and the lights creep slowly back into the room, your hand is still in his. And neither of you let go.

Outside, the theater goes silent. The post-show bustle is already diminishing, cosplayers posing beneath streetlamps, cars idle in the lot, people talking over favorite moments and final twists.

Mark escorts you toward the curb, your shoulders touching now and then. You feel weightless, like every stride is softer than it should be.

“That was amazing,” you remark.

He grins. “The movie?”

You pause, then shake your head. “All of it.”

Mark stops walking. You turn to face him.

He glances at you like he’s trying to memorize the curve of your smile.

“I meant it,” he adds gently. “I like this. I like being with you.”

Your throat goes dry. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

His hand squeezes yours. “You make everything feel less... complicated.”

You glance at him, heart thundering in your ears. “Even when I rant about side characters for twenty minutes?”

He grins. “Especially then.”

You laugh gently, and he leans in, brushing his lips on your temple. You aren’t sure how the night will end. Aren’t even sure what this was, what it means. But something started here. Something genuine. You’re not ready to go home.

You gaze at him. “You good?”

“Hm?” He glances over. “Yeah. Yeah, completely. I just…”

He trails off. Then clears his throat, like he’s trying to shake something loose.

You don’t press. Not yet. You’ve learned by now that Mark will talk when he’s ready, when he knows the words won’t come out all jumbled and sideways. And if they do, he’ll still mean every single one of them.

So you wait.

He lets out a breath, like he’s been holding it the entire movie.

“Okay,” he says. “Okay, I’m just gonna say it.”

You raise a brow. “Say what?”

He stops walking and turns to face you. Under the theater’s flickering sign, he looks… anxious. But also, focused. Determined in a way that makes your heart jump.

“I like you,” he says. “I mean—I really like you.”

You blink. “ Mark-”

“No, let me finish,” he adds, extending a hand. “I’ve been thinking about this since, like, the fourth week we started hanging out. Back when you helped me with Chem and I couldn’t figure out if you were a genius or just really patient.”

You snort gently. “I’m both.”

“I know,” he adds, beaming. “Which made things even worse, honestly. Because you were so calm about it. And you smiled at my dumb jokes, and you never made me feel like an idiot even when I was being one.”

You’re silent. Your heart is a jackhammer. You don’t interrupt.

Mark swallows. “I guess what I’m trying to say is—I want this. Us. Like, officially. You and me.”

And then, so quiet it scarcely registers.

“Will you be my girlfriend?”

The question hits like a weight. Not hefty. Not painful. Just… solid. Real. And horrifying in the greatest sense. You open your mouth. Then hesitate.

And before you can help it, the words are already out.

“What about Amber?”

Mark doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t shift. He just nods, like he anticipated that.

“Yeah, that’s fair,” he says. “We just… didn’t fit. I wanted it to work, but it felt like I was pretending. Like she needed me to be someone I’m not.”

You tilt your head, studying him.

“But you…?” he continues. “You actually get me. Even when I screw things up. You still call me out, but… you see me. For real.”

You feel your cheeks flush.

“I’m not trying to rebound,” he adds hastily. “I’m not looking for comfort. I just… like being around you. I feel like I can breathe.”

You look at him, this kid with unkempt hair, calloused hands, worn eyes, and the sweetest heart you’ve ever seen somebody hide under sarcasm. And suddenly, it’s not a question anymore. It’s the easiest response you’ve ever given.

You nod. “Yeah. I’ll be your girlfriend.”

Mark blinks. And then a grin spreads over his face so rapidly you’re scared his cheeks could split.

“Yeah?” he asks, like he needs to hear it again.

You laugh. “Yeah.”

He does this ridiculous little fist pump, then tries to cover it up like he didn’t just do that.

You study him with narrowed eyes. “Did you just-”

“No,” he says. “Shut up.”

“You totally did.”

“You imagined it.”

You shake your head, chuckling. “God, you’re such a dork.”

He grins wider. “Your dork.”

And the words, simple, funny, sweet, make your chest ache in the best way.

You gaze at the group again. A few people are still lingering, the rush of post-movie enthusiasm still strong in the air. But you feel far distant from it. Wrapped in a bubble of him. Of this.

Mark squeezes your hand. “So... what now?”

You put your head against his shoulder. “Now you walk me home like the gentleman you’re pretending to be.”

He scoffs. “Hey. I’m a total gentleman. I only made one bad joke during the entire movie.”

“One that you said out loud,” you point out. “I saw your face during the rooftop scene.”

Mark coughs dramatically. “No comment.”

You nudge him. “Come on, gentleman. Let’s go.”

The walk is slow. He doesn't rush it, and neither do you. At one point, he lets go of your hand just long enough to theatrically throw his jacket over your shoulders like it’s a cape.

“I dub you Lady of Post-Credit Analysis,” he says seriously.

You curtsy, deadpan. “I accept this burden.”

He snorts. “God, we’re annoying.”

“Disgustingly so,” you agree.

But neither of you stops smiling. When you reach your front door, he stands there with his hands buried in his pockets, wobbling slightly on his feet.

You think he might kiss you again. You hope he will. But instead, he just stares at you like he’s still not certain this isn’t a dream. And when he finally speaks, it’s gentle. Unassuming.

“I’m really glad you said yes.”

You lean in. Rest your forehead on his.

“Me too.”

His phone buzzes in his pocket. He doesn’t look at it. He remains right there. With you.

Just a boy who makes you laugh till you can’t breathe, who kissed you like it meant something, who asked if you’d be his, not because he had to, not because it was easy, but because he wanted to.

You smile. He smiles back. And the darkness wraps around you both like a secret you never want to give up.

It had been a couple weeks.

Just long enough for your classmates to start getting used to the idea that Mark Grayson was dating you. Long enough that the first wide-eyed looks and whispered comments had cooled into low-grade curiosity and the occasional side-eye in the cafeteria. But not long enough for Flash Thompson to quit running his mouth.

If anything, he’d become worse.

The more genuine it grew between you and Mark, the more often others saw him waiting for you at your locker, brushing your fingers in the corridor, sneaking little kisses behind the science building, the more Flash believed he had something to prove.

You’re elbow-deep in your locker, trying to find the pen you swore you’d tossed in your bag this morning, when you hear it.

“Damn,” Flash says behind you. “Grayson not glued to you for once?”

You don’t turn around. You know that tone. And more than that, you know that voice.

He keeps chatting, nonchalant as ever. “Didn’t think he was allowed to let you out unsupervised.”

You bite the inside of your cheek. You really, really don’t want to do this today. But Flash doesn’t need you to want it.

“I mean, maybe he figured it out,” he continues, voice lowering just enough that the kids around might not catch every word. “So he’s dating some girl who doesn’t even put out? What, you just stringing him along while he blue-balls through chemistry class?”

You freeze.

Flash chuckles behind you. “Yeah, that’s gotta be it. You’re all smiles and hand-holding and blushing like you’ve never even been kissed before. Mark’s probably pulling his hair out.”

You shut your locker, slowly. No slam. No theatrics. You turn to face him.

“Get away from me.”

He grins. “Relax. I’m just talking. Trying to find out what the hell Grayson sees in you. You’re not his type.”

You cross your arms. “You don’t know him.”

“I know guys like him,” Flash adds. “They don’t go for girls like you unless they think you’re easy or they feel sorry for you. Maybe both.”

Your throat gets constricted.

You keep your voice level. “You know what your problem is?”

Flash leans in. “Do tell.”

“You hate that he picked me. Not because I’m louder or hotter or whatever because I’m real. And he sees that. He’s not like you.”

Flash rolls his eyes. “Playing the long game, huh? You two waiting ‘til prom to finally get it in?”

You take a step forward. “I’d rather sleep with a trash can than let someone like you say another word to me.”

That stuns him for half a second. Then the grin comes back, sharper.

“You think you’re better than me?”

You stare him down. “I don’t think. I know.”

And that’s when the air changes. You don’t hear Mark walk up. You don’t need to. You sense him. Something in the atmosphere tightens. Like someone’s turned the volume down on everything but your own breathing.

Flash stares past you and all the blood drains from his face. Mark’s voice is calm. Too calm.

“Leave.”

Flash straightens. “What, you gonna cry about it? We’re just talking. I’m not touching her. I’m not doing anything.”

Mark doesn’t move. Doesn’t blink. His fists clench at his sides.

“Come on, man. Seriously? What, you think you’re scary now ‘cause you finally hit a growth spurt? I didn’t touch her, alright? Not like you even own her or anything.”

Mark moves. It’s fast. No hesitation.

He takes Flash by the front of his jacket, spins, and pushes him against the lockers with a force that makes the whole row tremble. The metal dents around Flash’s shoulders.

People stop. Conversations freeze. You can hear someone speaking behind you, but you’re not listening.

You’re watching Mark. Watching the way his jaw tightens. The way his hands tremble. The way he’s not shouting. He’s focused. Mark leans in, voice low.

“You think you can talk about her like that and just walk away?”

Flash squirms. “You’re freaking out, man-”

“You know what I’ve been trying so hard to do?” Mark says. “I’ve been trying to stay calm. Trying not to make it worse. But you open your mouth, and all I wanna do is put you through a wall. You think I like this? You think I want to be the guy who hits first? I don’t. I hate it. But right now, I’d hate walking away even more.

Flash pales. “Dude—seriously-”

Mark pushes harder. Not by much. But enough that Flash winces. Enough that everyone watching realizes just how horribly this may go if Mark quits holding back.

You step forward. “Mark.”

He doesn’t look at you. But he hears you. His breathing slows. Just a bit.

“I should hit you,” he says. “I want to. You don’t deserve to walk away after what you said. I’m deciding if I let you.”

Flash swallows hard. Mark lets go. Flash crumples to the floor. No one moves to help him. Mark turns around, still shaking a bit. His eyes locate yours instantaneously.

“You okay?” he says, and suddenly, he’s just Mark again.

You nod. “Yeah. Are you?”

He doesn’t answer. He just grabs your hand. And leads you away. The corridor is still bustling behind you when he takes you into the rear stairs. Somewhere calm. Somewhere out of sight. He sits on the bottom step, elbows on his knees, face in his hands.

You squat in front of him.

“Mark.”

He shakes his head. “I shouldn’t have lost it.”

“You didn’t.”

“I did. You saw it.”

You sit alongside him, knees touching. “I saw you not do something you really wanted to.”

He doesn’t talk.

“I saw you make a choice.”

He exhales gently.

“I almost didn’t. I didn’t even see anything. Just heard what he said and—my head went blank. Like I lost how to think.”

You don’t say anything. Just sit with him.

He finally glances at you. His eyes are bloodshot. Not from tears. From stress.

"Sometimes I’m just... angry.” he replies quietly. "Most days I can laugh it off. Let it slide.”

His jaw tightens. "Not today."

You lay your hand on his. “It’s okay.”

“No, it’s not. You shouldn’t have to deal with this. With me like this.”

“You think I don’t know who you are?”

Mark shakes his head. “You don’t.”

You meet his eyes. “Then tell me.”

He hesitates. Then sighs.

“I can’t. Not yet. But I will.”

You nod. “I’ll wait.”

His fingers curl around yours. And for the first time all day, you feel the strain leave his body, not all of it, but enough to allow him breathe.

“I was scared I was gonna hurt him,” he says.

“You didn’t.”

“But I could have. I wanted to.”

“You didn’t.”

He leans his forehead to yours.

"You make it easier to deal with everything." he murmurs.

You close your eyes.

“So let me.”

And you stay like that for a long time. Just breathing.

ִ ࣪✮🕷✮⋆˙

You gaze at your phone.

The words don’t make sense at first, Congratulations on Your Admission to Upstate University, but they’re there. Real. Centered on the screen like someone took the dream out of your mind and digitized it.

Your name is immediately beneath it. Not someone else’s. Yours. You reread the introductory paragraph three times. Then you scroll down and see it, bolded, highlighted, circled in your head even if not in the text.

‘Awarded: Full Academic Scholarship – Applied Sciences Program’

You don’t recall how your phone gets up across the room, or how your pillow ends up halfway off the bed. All you know is that your voice comes out as an incoherent squeak that develops into a scream. One loud, unfiltered, impossible-to-reel-back scream.

You launch yourself into a spin on your bed. You laugh so hard you can’t breathe. And then you do the only thing that makes sense.

You text Mark.

> DUDE

> I GOT IN UPSTATE U. SCIENCE SCHOLARSHIP.

> I’M GONNA VOMIT I’M SO EXCITED

The typing bubbles pop up instantly.

> WHAT WHAT BABE I GOT IN TOO WE’RE GOING WE’RE GOING TOGETHER SCREAMING

> I’M ACTUALLY SCREAMING

> LIKE RIGHT NOW

> MY MOM IS CONCERNED

> I’M CRYING

You snort. You snort so hard you choke, and then you’re sobbing too, because it’s just too much. You tap out a shaky reply.

> don’t make me emotional rn i’m still ugly crying and i haven’t brushed my hair

He calls instead.

“Hey,” he says, out of breath like he’s been running in place.

“Hi,” you say, wiping your eyes with your sleeve.

“You got in.”

“You got in too.”

“I know. This is so ridiculous. We both got in. To Upstate. You got in on a scholarship.”

You can hear the astonishment in his voice, like he’s seeing you all over again for the first time.

You chuckle, soft and surprised. “I was convinced I was gonna get ghosted.”

“Please. You’re a genius.”

“Mark.”

“No, seriously. You made your science fair project out of scraps and made half our class cry during your presentation. If anyone deserves a scholarship, it’s you.”

You slump onto your back, looking at the ceiling. “It’s really happening, huh?”

“It’s happening.”

You can hear the grin in his voice.

“We’re gonna get out,” he adds. “Like, really out.”

“No more cafeteria fights. No more sharing lockers with the smell of expired milk. No more Flash.”

He snorts. “Oh, thank God. I really didn’t want to punch anyone else.”

“You say that like you didn’t almost vaporize him last time.”

"What? I didn’t even hit him. I just... moved him. With force."

You laugh. “Moved. With the power of a freight train.”

He quiets. Then. “Hey.”

“Yeah?”

“I’m really proud of you.”

You pause. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” he says. “You never let yourself think you were good enough, but I always knew.”

Your heart catches. “Mark...”

"It wasn’t just the tutoring." A beat. "It was all of it. You stuck around when it would've been easier not to. Even when I disappeared, even when people talked. You stayed."

You blink swiftly. You sit up.

“You’ve been my anchor through all of this,” he says. “I didn’t even know I needed one. And now we get to keep going together.”

Your chest warms. It swells. And then, without thinking, without planning, you say it. “I love you.”

He freezes. You can sense it, even over the phone. But then he exhales. And says, “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

A beat of quiet. Then. “I love you too.”

You smile into the phone.

He laughs, giddy, breathless. “Holy shit, we’re those people now.”

“Gross.”

“So gross.”

“I’m gonna be insufferable.”

“I’m gonna print us matching sweatshirts.”

You groan. “Please don’t.”

“Too late. Mine already reads ‘Upstate U Girlfriend’ on it.”

“Mark.”

“It’s glitter vinyl.”

“You’re a menace.”

“You love me.”

You sigh theatrically. “Unfortunately, yes.”

He chuckles, and the sound relaxes something deep inside you.

And then he replies, softly, “You wanna come over later?”

You nod, even if he can’t see it. “Yeah.”

“Cool.”

You hang up, heart full.

Later that evening, you find yourself in his room, both of you stretched out on the floor, surrounded by empty candy wrappers, Coke cans, and future ambitions that yet feel too enormous to fit in one room.

He leans back in his chair, flipping through the packet lazily.

"No dorms for you?"

"Nah," you say. "Staying at May and Ben’s. Close enough to commute."

Mark raises an eyebrow, grinning. "Guess that means I’ll have to come up with new excuses to see you.”

You hurl a gummy bear at his head. He dodges. And then he sobers.

“I don’t wanna mess this up,” he adds.

You blink. “What?”

“This—us. College is a lot. New people, new everything. And I don’t wanna screw it up. I don’t want us to drift.”

You scoot closer. Rest your chin on his shoulder.

“We won’t,” you say. “Not if we keep showing up for each other.”

Mark nods. But you can see he’s still thinking about it. You observe him for a minute, his face inclined toward the ceiling like he’s trying to remember it before it changes.

And then you murmur, “We’re gonna be okay.”

He glances at you. You smile. And he smiles back.

“Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, we are.”

ִ ࣪✮🕷✮⋆˙

current taglist: @adeptusxia0 / @moonjellyfishie / @ladynoirx321 / @moraxussy / @saturnalya / @the-good-kooshe / @atomspidyr / @iansimpsforeveryone / @luvvcharxo / @jiyeons-closet / @weponxwrites / @xzmickeyzx / @heiankyonoeiyuukun / @edgycatx / @oxymorondemon / @bluerrie / @swtheartz / @maxi-ride / @nightmarewasteland / @hot15936 / @rotinginmybed / @deleted-1-800 / @thehumanradio17 / @mhrasm / @yzzaqczec / @pickledsoda / @qxuanii / @tr3nzit444s / @ketsuekiakane / @jiminie-08 / @thatwaspossesion / @xoyumiqls / @liliesclouds / @maki-ki / @wifeofmarkgrayson / @pixviee / @sugawoonie / @uselesstutor09 / @marinefreaakk / @monaekelis / @woodle-isbae / @simping4l1fe / @wasitforrevenge

[dinoandguitar]

hi hi! im new to ur blog and i fell so in love w ur mingyu newborn reaction and his reaction to his partners pregnancy! so cutee PLS. anywho i was wondering if i could request a similar one but with their baby being 2-3 years old?

"Bedtime it is”

Husband!KimMingyu x Afab!Reader

Genre: Pure Fluff!

Warnings: None! (Please let me know if I've missed something)

A/N: Hi! Thank you so much! Mingyu with his toddler is such a good idea, thank you so much for the request. No too sure if this came out that well though... Hoping you like it :)

(Pic is from Pinterest)

Masterlist

The front door clicks open with a soft thud just past 9:30 PM.

You glance up from the couch, blanket tugged around your legs, and your son Seojun curled beside you - refusing to sleep, despite the three bedtime stories and the bribe with milk and cookies. His tiny hand tightened on your sweatshirt, eyes flicking to the hallway like he sensed it, too.

And then…

“APPA!!” he shrieks, springing up with the energy only toddlers somehow can summon even past their bedtime. He bolts toward the door before Mingyu even steps fully inside.

Mingyu barely gets his shoes off before an armful of chubby limbs and fuzzy pajama sleeves slam into him.

“Whoa- hey there, buddy !” he laughs, dropping his work bag in the process, scooping the toddler up and holding him high above his head. “Were you waiting for me, baby?”

“I missed youuu!” Seojun yells, cheeks flushed, gripping his Appa’s face. “Mama said sleep, but I waited!”

You sigh, trailing behind them. “I tried. He wouldn’t even let me take him to bed.”

Mingyu gives you a sheepish grin over Seojun’s shoulder. “Sorry, babe. Work ran late.”

You lean in for a kiss-only to be interrupted by a tiny hand that squishes Mingyu’s cheek. “NO! No kiss Mama! Mine!”

Mingyu freezes. “Excuse me?” He turns dramatically toward Seojun, who’s now smugly hugging his neck. “Yours?”

Seojun nods, matter of factly. “Yes.”

You raise an eyebrow as Mingyu lets out an offended gasp. “Wow. I work hard all day to come home to my family and this is the thanks I get?”

Seojun sticks out his tongue. Mingyu glares playfully. “That’s it. Bedtime it is.” He smirked.

“Nooooo!”

It turns into chaos after that-Mingyu chasing Seojun around the living room, tossing him gently onto the couch, tickling him until giggles echo off the walls.

Later, You too end up on the couch while listening to your baby's dramatic reenactment of an episode from his favourite TV show.

Eventually, though, Seojun’s eyes get heavier. He crawls back toward you, climbing into your lap and letting out a tiny yawn.

Mingyu sits on the floor in front of you, hand on your knee, his other reaching to brush Seojun’s soft hair.

“Come here, both of you,” he says, voice quieter now, gentler.

You shift over and the three of you end up in a tangled pile on the couch-Seojun tucked between your bodies, his head on your chest, one hand still curled in Mingyu’s sleeve like he’s afraid he’ll leave again.

“I really missed you,” Mingyu murmurs to both of you, his lips pressing against your forehead. “Everything feels too quiet without you.”

You nod, resting your head on his shoulder. “He waited for you all evening.”

Mingyu kisses Seojun’s temple next. “Thanks for waiting, Buddy.”

There’s no reply-just the soft rhythm of Seojun’s breathing, steady now, tiny chest rising and falling against yours.

And for a moment, there’s no work, no deadlines- just this: the three of you wrapped up in each other, warm under the blanket, and the quiet kind of love that doesn't need words.

♡ ♡ ♡ ♡ ♡ ♡ ♡ ♡ ♡ ♡ ♡ ♡ ♡ ♡ ♡ ♡ ♡

A/N : Requests are open! Appreciate all your support 🫶🏾

[theodorenmyth]

hey!

could i please request a fic where theodore's sibling is dating mattheo and they want it to be a secret, but then everyone ends up finding out and they think theo's going to be angry/overprotective but he's really chill? and the pair are confused and a little offended by how unbothered he is?

i love reading your comedy fics because they always make me laugh!!

Secret Relationship

pairings ; Mattheo Riddle x GN!Reader

summary ; You and Mattheo Riddle secretly date behind your brother aka Theodore’s back, fearing his reaction. But when everyone finds out, Theodore is shockingly chill — leaving your chaotic friend group furious and dramatically disappointed by the lack of sibling rage.

A/N ; it's been so long since I uploaded 😭😭😭😭😭 I missed u all sm, AND ITS BEEN SO LONG SINCE I WROTE A MATTHEO FIC HELLO?! I've been on a Theodore streak I swear 😭 pls enjoy this comedic mess

Warnings ; none, just pure chaos

Word count ; 4.1k+

The night air curled around you in thin, biting tendrils, the wind sweeping through the Astronomy Tower and chilling your fingers where they gripped the stone ledge. The tower loomed above the castle, far removed from the warm flicker of torches and the comfortable murmur of the common rooms. Up here, the world felt suspended—like time had stopped and the stars were the only witnesses to your terrible, beautiful secret.

You were absolutely not supposed to be here.

"You’re shivering."

The voice, smooth and low, cut through the silence. You didn’t even need to look—you’d recognize that voice in your sleep. Mattheo Riddle stepped forward from the shadows with that familiar slouch, half-hooded eyes glinting with mischief and something gentler he’d never admit to. His black coat hung loosely from his shoulders, already halfway off as he reached out and draped it over yours.

The weight of it was immediate—warm, worn, and unmistakably his. It smelled like firewood, mint, and danger. A combination you had no business enjoying as much as you did.

"I'm not cold," you muttered, hugging the coat tighter around yourself despite the denial.

Mattheo arched a brow, unimpressed. "You're a terrible liar."

"No, I’m not."

"Yes, you are," he insisted, stepping closer, his grin growing with every step. "You always do that thing with your nose when you lie."

You blinked. “What thing?”

"That—" He pointed at you with a smirk as your nose instinctively scrunched. "Exactly that."

Your scowl deepened. “You’re infuriating.”

“I’ve been told.”

“And yet, here I am.”

He was fully in front of you now, close enough to steal your breath if you let him. His fingers grazed your waist like a question, an invitation. One you never could refuse.

"You could’ve stayed in bed like a reasonable person," he teased, voice dipped in velvet. "Instead, you came all the way up here just to see me."

"Don't flatter yourself," you muttered.

But he knew better.

And so did you.

Mattheo leaned in, his lips brushing yours, barely touching—just enough to set your nerves alight. "Say it."

"Say what?" you breathed, feigning innocence.

"That you missed me."

"I didn’t."

"Liar," he whispered against your mouth, and then he kissed you.

The world fell away.

His mouth on yours was rough and unrelenting, like he had waited too long and thought too much and wanted to erase the time you’d spent apart. You kissed him back with equal fervor, clutching his collar as if to tether yourself to the moment. The cold didn’t matter. The risk didn’t matter. All that mattered was the way his hands roamed your sides like he couldn’t decide where to hold you, like he wanted to touch everything at once.

He was infuriating and impulsive and impossible—but gods, he was yours.

Eventually, you pulled away, lips tingling and lungs begging for breath. He rested his forehead against yours, his grip on your waist still firm, possessive.

"This is reckless," you whispered, eyes half-lidded and drunk on him.

Mattheo didn’t even blink. "Reckless is snogging your best mate’s sibling in the Astronomy Tower at one in the morning while the entire school sleeps."

You groaned and thumped your head against his shoulder. "Don’t remind me."

"Just saying. We’ve already passed the point of no return, haven’t we?"

You didn't answer right away. Instead, you watched the stars—millions of them, quiet and distant and probably laughing at the mess you’d made of yourself. You should’ve stopped this weeks ago. You’d tried to stop. But Mattheo always had this way of pulling you back in, like gravity.

"This is insane," you murmured.

"Mm," he agreed. "And I love it."

You tilted your head to look at him. "You would."

Mattheo smiled, that crooked, charming sort of smile that spelled nothing but trouble. He reached up to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear with a gentleness that contradicted everything he usually projected.

"I like you like this," he said suddenly.

"Like what?"

"Defiant. Warm. Close." His voice dropped. "Mine."

Your breath hitched.

You hated how easily he could unravel you.

“You know my brother would murder you,” you said, only half-joking.

Mattheo’s expression didn’t change. “Yeah, well. That’s why he doesn’t know.”

“And if he finds out?”

His eyes darkened—not in fear, but in resolve. "Then we deal with it. Together."

Something in your chest tightened painfully. Mattheo Riddle was not known for making promises, but when he did, they meant something.

You tried to play it off, to lighten the moment. "Very noble of you. Might even make you look brave."

"I'm always brave," he deadpanned.

You laughed despite yourself and leaned up to kiss him again—softer this time, slower. Like a lullaby in the middle of a war.

Another set of footsteps—distant but undeniable—snapped you both out of it. Mattheo jerked away instantly, eyes sharp, scanning the stairwell below.

Your stomach dropped as you ducked behind one of the stone columns, barely breathing.

Please not a professor. Please not a prefect. Please not—

Silence.

The footsteps faded.

Mattheo let out a slow exhale. "That was way too close."

You nodded, pressing a hand over your pounding heart. “We need to stop doing this in public places.”

"Then invite me to your dorm."

"Absolutely not."

"The library?"

"Too exposed."

"Empty classroom?"

"Too cliché."

"Room of Requirement?"

You paused. "...Too convenient."

He gave a low laugh. “You’re impossible.”

“And yet, here you are.”

Mattheo leaned forward and kissed your cheek, just above your jaw. “Tomorrow night?”

You hesitated. You should say no. You meant to say no.

“…Fine. But somewhere safer.”

"Deal."

He squeezed your hand once before retreating back down the stairs with the grace of someone who’d done this a dozen times and would do it a dozen more.

You stayed a moment longer, the weight of his coat still wrapped around your shoulders and the ghost of his lips still on your mouth. The stars blinked silently overhead, their light cool and unjudging. You exhaled and turned to go, already thinking about tomorrow—and all the chaos it might bring.

You were in too deep.

And you didn’t care.

Rain was pouring against the windows like the sky itself was throwing a tantrum, Hogwarts cloaked in that damp, miserable grey that made everyone collectively more dramatic than usual. You trudged into the Great Hall, dragging your feet like a ghost of your former, snogged-out self. You spotted your friends instantly—because they were loud, nosy, and sitting in their usual spot, plotting world domination over croissants and coffee.

You slid into your seat next to Blaise with the elegance of a sleep-deprived troll and immediately reached for a slice of toast, praying today would be normal. No scandal. No drama. No accidental references to someone’s pine-scented hair or stupid smirking face or warm hands on your—

Mattheo Riddle plopped himself directly beside you.

Your toast froze mid-air.

“Oh, excellent,” he said, sounding obscenely cheerful for someone who hadn’t brushed his curls. “You got the good jam.”

He reached across your plate like a heathen and scooped up a glob of raspberry jam with his butter knife, smearing it messily on your toast like he was helping.

“I was going to eat that,” you deadpanned.

“And now you are, but with flavor,” he replied, looking far too pleased with himself.

Across the table, Lorenzo choked on his tea. Draco froze mid-butter-spread. Blaise leaned back slowly with a suspicious grin. Pansy squinted like she was trying to read the entire history of your existence from the look on your face. Astoria didn’t even look up—she just let out the most disappointed sigh in the history of human breathing.

You, a rational and responsible person, did the obvious thing.

You pretended absolutely nothing was happening.

Mattheo, who was clearly born to make everything worse, leaned in. “Are you going to eat that, or are you going to keep staring at me like you’re in love?”

You dropped your toast. Draco visibly gasped. Blaise bit his knuckle.

“Okay,” Lorenzo said slowly, dramatically. “I think we all need to pause and—what the hell is going on here?”

“Nothing,” you and Mattheo said in perfect harmony.

A collective suspicious silence fell over the group.

Pansy narrowed her eyes. “You’re sitting suspiciously close to each other.”

“Coincidence,” you said.

“He stole your toast.”

“Generous community breakfasting,” Mattheo supplied.

“You’re blushing,” Draco noted, pointing a butter knife at your face.

“It’s warm in here,” you snapped. “There’s body heat. Circulation. Weather.”

“You’re playing footsie,” Blaise added smugly.

“We are absolutely not playing footsie,” Mattheo said, jerking his leg away from yours so fast he kneed the underside of the table and nearly knocked over the entire jug of pumpkin juice.

“Okay,” Lorenzo muttered. “If this isn’t a secret relationship, then I am the ghost of Salazar Slytherin, here to reclaim his house from the deranged couple defiling it.”

You tried to glare. Really, you did. But Mattheo had crumbs on his lip, and his eyes were doing that annoyingly attractive sparkle thing, and your face betrayed you by melting.

“OH MY GOD,” Pansy screamed. “YOU’RE LITERALLY SO IN LOVE.”

“I am in denial,” you barked. “Which is very different.”

Blaise laughed so hard he nearly fell off the bench. “So, just to confirm—are you or are you not snogging this absolute chaos goblin in secret?”

“We’re not snogging,” Mattheo said quickly. “Why would we snog? Snogging is for people with… lips.”

“You have lips,” Draco said flatly.

“Debatable,” Mattheo replied, before turning to you with pleading eyes. “Help me.”

“Everyone is being very dramatic,” you announced. “Mattheo and I are friends. Acquaintances. Mortal enemies with occasional group project chemistry.”

“You left the Potions lab last Thursday with your tie undone and a hickey on your neck,” Astoria said without looking up.

“It was a mosquito! ” Mattheo cried. “They were everywhere.”

“In the Potions lab?” Blaise asked, blinking.

“...Yes,” you said weakly. “It was.. uhm.. infested.”

Pansy slammed her hands on the table. “HOW LONG HAS THIS BEEN GOING ON?”

“Five minutes,” you blurted. “No time at all. We’re still in the test trial phase.”

“Two months,” Mattheo mumbled at the same time.

You turned to him slowly, eyes wide. “What happened to denying everything?”

“I panicked!” he whispered. “You’re really bad at lying and it’s contagious!”

“Oh my god, it’s been TWO MONTHS?” Draco’s voice cracked like a choirboy’s. “And you didn’t tell us? We could’ve made popcorn!”

“I’m going to cry,” Pansy announced. “I feel betrayed. Emotionally compromised. Romantically offended.”

“You literally told me yesterday to snog someone or die lonely,” you muttered.

“I didn’t mean him! ”

Mattheo raised a hand. “Okay, now that’s just rude.”

“I SWEAR,” Pansy continued, “if Theodore finds out and kills you, I am not attending your funeral unless there’s drama and vengeance.”

You blinked. “Okay, but—what if he just doesn’t… find out?”

The table went still.

Pansy looked like she was about to burst into flames. “Okay. Someone get Theodore. He deserves to know that his sibling is dating—dating—Mattheo ‘bite me’ Riddle.”

You stiffened.

The entire table stilled.

Then, as if summoned by the devil himself, all heads turned in slow-motion toward the far end of the Slytherin table… where Theodore Nott sat, expression calm, buttering a scone with the serenity of a man who was either extremely zen or planning to murder someone using only a teaspoon.

You froze.

Mattheo froze.

Even Draco looked nervous.

“He doesn’t know,” you whispered.

“He definitely knows,” Astoria said calmly. “He’s buttering that scone with deadly precision. No one but assassins butter that neatly.”

Blaise leaned in, stage-whispering like a six-year-old gossip. “He’s holding the knife like he’s considering options.”

Pansy was practically vibrating. “I live for this. Theodore is going to explode. It’s going to be glorious. I want screaming. Threats. At least one table flip. I want to feel alive again!”

“Do not summon violence into this sacred breakfast,” you hissed.

Draco smirked. “Better tell Mattheo to run now while he still has all his limbs.”

Pansy stood up and immediately rolled up her sleeves. “I AM READY FOR THE DRAMA. BRING IT. DUEL AT DAWN. I’LL BE YOUR SECOND.”

Astoria grabbed her by the back of the cloak and yanked her down like she was restraining a feral cat. “Sit. Down. You’re not sword-fighting Theodore in the middle of breakfast.”

“Why not?” Pansy whined. “We live in a magical castle. This is the perfect place for sword-fighting!”

You and Mattheo exchanged a horrified glance.

“I think we just declared war,” he whispered.

You nodded. “Well. At least we’re dying pretty.”

If Mattheo Riddle had a Galleon for every time he thought, “this is how I die,” he could’ve funded a whole underground resistance, a few cursed artifacts, and still had enough left to buy you a shiny ring and a nice flat in Hogsmeade.

This time, though?

There would be no ring.

No flat.

No wedding.

Just his body launched into orbit by Theodore Nott’s inevitable, unstoppable rage.

You were standing in the corridor just outside the Great Hall, trying to decide whether to walk into your own execution or drag your boyfriend back to the dungeons by his ear.

Mattheo Riddle had been pacing like a man possessed for the past fifteen minutes.

“Okay, okay, okay—maybe I should bow?” he muttered to himself. “No. Too much. Theodore might think I’m mocking him. Should I curtsy? Would that be better? Classier?”

“Mattheo,” you said, voice deadpan, “if you curtsy to my brother, I will physically throw you out of a window.”

“I just—he’s going to murder me,” Mattheo wailed, throwing his hands in the air like some kind of tragic widow. “He’s going to skin me and use my corpse as a decorative throw for the Slytherin common room. I’ll be throw fashion, darling.”

You stared. “You’ve lost your mind.”

He spun dramatically and grabbed both your hands. “You don’t get it. That man terrifies me. He’s tall. He’s quiet. He wears all black. He looks like he reads tragic poetry for fun. He has ‘I’ll bury you behind the greenhouse’ energy.”

You tried not to laugh. “He’s just my brother.”

“No. He’s a whole experience. A terrifying one. Like one of those silent movies where the guy never speaks but everyone dies anyway.”

“Mattheo—”

“What if he pulls a wand on me and casts some obscure ancient curse from the Nott family grimoire and my skin turns inside out?”

“Then I’ll get you some exfoliating cream and a hug.”

Mattheo gave you an utterly wounded look. “That’s all the sympathy I get in my darkest hour?”

“Your darkest hour hasn’t even started.”

Footsteps echoed ominously down the hallway.

Mattheo froze, grabbing the wall like a man in mourning. “Oh Merlin. It’s him. It’s Theodore. I’m not ready. You said I had five more minutes!”

“You said that twenty minutes ago.”

“I wasn’t emotionally prepared then and I’m *less* emotionally prepared now!”

You didn't have time to argue. Theodore turned the corner, walking toward you with his usual unbothered, slow-as-hell stride, like he had all the time in the world to arrive at your crime scene.

Mattheo made a strangled noise like a dying bird and—without shame—threw himself behind you.

“Don’t let him hurt me!” he whisper-yelled into your shoulder. “If I die, tell your mother I looked amazing at my funeral.”

Theodore raised a single eyebrow. “Are you hiding behind my sibling?”

Mattheo popped his head out. “Not hiding—strategically retreating. It’s different.”

“Yes,” you muttered, “the strategy is cowardice.”

He clung to your robes like a damsel. “This is not cowardice. This is self-preservation, thank you very much.”

Theodore stared at him blankly. “You’re pathetic.”

Mattheo inhaled deeply and then stepped out with the air of a man marching to the gallows. “Okay. Okay. Theodore. I—I want to say something.”

Theodore tilted his head, mildly curious.

“I want to apologize for—uh—for all the... snogging. And emotional bonding. And, uh, the fact that I may or may not have licked and attacked your sibling’s neck in a highly inappropriate location on the Astronomy Tower—NOT THE POINT—what I’m trying to say is I’m sorry and please don’t hex my kneecaps or transfigure my ears into cauliflowers or whatever it is you Notts do when people betray your bloodline.”

Theodore blinked.

Mattheo cleared his throat. “I just—really, really like your sibling, alright? Like, a lot. Like, ‘I’d write you letters in blood if I wasn’t squeamish’ a lot. And I know I’m kind of a mess and also a little deranged but I swear on Salazar’s bald head that I’m serious about this and if you want to punch me, just go for the left side, that’s my less photogenic side anyway—”

“I already knew,” Theodore interrupted.

Mattheo stopped mid-rant, finger in the air like he had more dramatic declarations to unleash. “Wait. What?”

“I’ve known for weeks.”

There was a beat of complete, shell-shocked silence.

Mattheo’s hand slowly lowered. “You… what?”

“I saw you sneaking out of the Astronomy Tower the first time,” Theodore said casually. “The scarf was a dead giveaway. And the second time. And the third. And the time you came back to the dorms with glitter in your hair and that weird grin like you'd just invented a new sin.”

Mattheo blinked rapidly. “So you knew... this whole time?”

“Yes.”

“And you didn’t say anything?”

“No.”

“You didn’t curse me? Or duel me? Or send a howler to my mother?!”

Theodore shrugged. “I was enjoying watching you panic.”

You smacked your forehead.

Mattheo gasped and dramatically grabbed your sleeve. “He played me like a fiddle. A fiddle made of pure emotional torment.”

Theodore looked at you, dead serious. “If he breaks your heart, I’ll feed him to the Giant Squid.”

Mattheo nodded solemnly. “Honestly? That’s fair. Bit overkill, but poetic.”

“You two are insufferable,” you muttered.

Mattheo flopped against your back again, sighing dramatically. “You love me.”

“Unfortunately.”

He peeked at Theodore again. “So we’re good?”

Theodore gave him a long look. “Don’t push it.”

Mattheo immediately retreated behind you again. “He said don’t push it. I’m not pushing it. I’m hiding behind it.”

“You’re a grown man.”

“I’m a terrified man!”

Pansy, who had just turned the corner behind you with Draco and Astoria in tow, screeched like someone had been stabbed—an unholy, earsplitting shriek that ricocheted off the stone walls of the corridor like a cursed howler let loose during a funeral.

“HE FUCKING KNEW?!” she howled, her eyes wide with the sheer betrayal of it all, like Theodore had personally wronged her ancestral bloodline.

The entire hallway fell into a stunned silence for half a second before chaos exploded like a badly brewed potion. A nearby portrait of a sleepy wizard jolted awake and threw his goblet at the ground, muttering something about “witches these days.” You and Mattheo both flinched so violently you almost knocked heads—and Mattheo, being the brave soul that he was, dove behind you like a coward, clutching the back of your robes with the death grip of a man facing an angry hippogriff.

“HOLY SHIT, Pansy!” Lorenzo barked, careening in behind her like a gale-force wind in Gucci boots, nearly tripping over his own feet and the bag of crisps he had clearly brought specifically for this moment. “You trying to rupture the space-time continuum with your lungs? I think my left eardrum just committed suicide!”

“You—you KNEW?!” Blaise turned to Theodore with all the grace and fury of someone who just found out his favorite soap opera had been canceled mid-cliffhanger. “And you didn’t do anything?! Not even a single ominous shoulder squeeze? A disapproving nod? A slow, terrifying walk behind them in the corridors with your eyes narrowed like a cryptid in the fog?!”

“I was counting on some emotionally stunted vengeance,” Lorenzo chimed in, now holding his crisps like a judgmental gavel. “You let us down, Nott.”

“EXACTLY!” Pansy shrieked, spinning around with the energy of a banshee leading a revolution. “Where’s the drama?! Where’s the furious wand duel at midnight in the courtyard? WHERE'S THE TWO-PAGE SPEECH ABOUT BETRAYAL AND SIBLING HONOUR AND A TRAGIC LOVE DOOMED FROM THE START?!”

Draco looked like he was genuinely grieving. He placed one hand on his heart, the other dramatically outstretched as if speaking to the heavens. “This is worse than my father’s fourth engagement party. At least that had fireworks and an enchanted swan that exploded.”

Theodore, for his part, looked like he’d just woken up from a nap and couldn’t be arsed. Standing with his hands in his pockets and his expression set to “Could Not Care Less If I Tried,” he said, “I already told them. I’ve known for weeks.”

“WEEKS?!” Blaise yelped, clutching Lorenzo’s shoulder like he needed emotional support.

“And you didn’t even glare once?!” Draco gasped, eyes practically bulging out of his head. “You didn’t pull out your wand and threaten to CRUCIO his bloodline?!”

“I expected some level of ominous sibling rage,” Lorenzo muttered. “Instead I got... emotional neutrality. Honestly, it’s offensive.”

“I’m just—confused,” Blaise said, flinging his arms out. “Do you even care? You’re acting like Mattheo hasn’t spent the past month playing tonsil hockey with your sibling in every broom cupboard in the castle.”

“I expected fireworks,” Pansy seethed. “Screaming. Maybe a duel that would’ve made the school nurse cry. At least a threatened expulsion! And instead—” she gestured wildly at Theodore “—we got this! Calm! Rational! Emotionally intelligent?! I’m DISGUSTED.”

Astoria, who had been quietly standing by, now had both hands around Pansy’s waist, physically holding her back like she was restraining a chihuahua on steroids. “Pans, don’t lunge. You promised no tackling.”

“I DIDN’T PROMISE NOTHING,” Pansy roared.

Theodore blinked slowly, looking almost bored. “If Mattheo breaks their heart, I’ll throw him off the Astronomy Tower myself. Until then, I’ve got exams.”

Mattheo, still half-hiding behind you like a traumatized Victorian child, made a strangled sound. “He’s gonna what—?”

“I—I tried to apologize,” Mattheo spluttered, peeking out from behind your shoulder with the world’s most wounded expression. “I was halfway through my bloody sentence and he just cut me off! I had a whole speech! With metaphors!”

“You didn’t even get to the metaphor about comparing Theodore’s glare to a dementor with a caffeine addiction,” you whispered.

“RIGHT?” Mattheo pointed at you with a pout. “That was my best one!”

“You were sobbing into a chocolate frog outside the potions lab,” Blaise said, deadpan.

“Yeah, I remember that,” Lorenzo added with a snort. “You kept whispering, ‘he’s going to turn me into a ferret’.”

“You weren’t even dating me when you did that,” you muttered.

Mattheo groaned and dragged a hand down his face. “I was emotionally preparing! For war!”

“And there was no war!” Draco cried. “Just—just peace! Like we’re living in some healthy, emotionally mature AU!”

“This is worse than my cousin’s vow renewal,” Pansy snapped, now pacing in a circle. “At least that ended with a hexed priest and someone’s wig catching fire.”

Lorenzo clapped Blaise on the back. “Well, guess I lost the bet.”

“What bet?” you asked, dreading the answer.

“I had twenty galleons on Theodore turning Mattheo into a cactus and leaving him outside Hagrid’s hut.”

“Honestly, I would’ve preferred that,” Mattheo muttered.

“Same,” Draco said, disgusted.

“You’re all insane,” Theodore said.

“And you’re boring,” Blaise fired back. “Where’s the trauma?! Where’s the iconic sibling rage? You had the perfect opportunity to deliver a one-liner and threaten him with a slow, painful doom! Instead you let him live?!”

Pansy turned on Theodore with wide, devastated eyes. “You’re not mad at all? Like not even a little? There’s no secret plotting? No passive aggressive breakfast commentary?!”

Theodore just shrugged. “I like my sibling. I don’t hate Riddle. I’m not wasting spell energy unless he does something dumb.”

“I am something dumb!” Mattheo squeaked from behind you.

“WE KNOW!” Pansy and Draco yelled in unison.

Astoria buried her face in her hands. “I’m too sober for this.”

Draco sighed dramatically and crossed his arms. “Fine. New plan. Someone date someone they shouldn’t so we can salvage this absolute travesty.”

“I VOLUNTEER!” Lorenzo said immediately.

“NO YOU DON’T!” Blaise and Draco snapped.

You turned to Mattheo with a dazed smile as the rest of your friends devolved into chaos, arguing over who should pretend to get engaged for maximum scandal.

“Well,” you muttered. “That went well.”

Mattheo blinked at you, still clutching your robes. “I feel like I survived an execution by emotional chaos.”

You patted his cheek. “You did great, sweetheart.”

“I hate all of them,” he whispered.

From behind you, Pansy screamed, “SOMEONE THROW SOMETHING DRAMATIC OR I’M GOING TO COMBUST.”

A shoe flew past your head.

“Okay,” Mattheo muttered. “Maybe I don’t hate them. I just… fear them.”

You nodded. “Reasonable.”

And somewhere, Theodore was already walking away from the scene like a man who had never emotionally invested in anything except his morning tea and the hope that someone, someday, would shut Pansy up for more than two minutes.

[lcriedlastnight]

w/c: 500 late night oscar is coming home!

it was dark by the time oscar had made his way back to yours, the moonlight giving your living room a cold look in contrast to how oscar always seen it.

he never drops his bags at the door, nor does he flick his shoes off and not care where they end up at the front door or worry who will trip over them when they come in next like he usually does with yours. he has no time to do any of that because you were two doors away. you were probably sleeping right now (oscar wouldn't blame you, he wishes he was doing the same) but that didn't matter because he was here. finally, he was here, in the same time-zone as you. fuck, you were both literally in the same house right now!

so, yes he does leave everything at his arse like he has no respect for you or your house at all. he'll move everything before you even open your eyes though because he does feel a little guilty.

tip-toeing through your house as not to wake you from your sleep - he eventually pushes your room door open to see the duvet cover a mess on the bed. the boy can't help but smile at the sight. he knows you are lost under those covers somewhere and he has never been more excited to find you.

continuing into your room he chucks his t-shirt to the ground (something he will also move in the morning, when it's impossibly more important than seeing your face) and moves back the lump of covers to find you curled up on his side, his pillow hugged to your chest, he even thinks that your wearing one of his jumpers but it's too dark to tell. he would bet on it though.

instead of following his original plan and waking you up to greet you, like you had asked him to, he instead decides to let you rest and admire your sleeping form curled up in the bed.

your usual teddy was abandoned in favour of the pillow but he knows how bad you'll feel in the morning for 'forgetting' him so he reaches over you to move him in between your arms as well before pressing one, two, three quick kisses to your forehead.

with what can only be called a lovesick grin, he settles into what is supposed to be your side of the bed and moves so that his chin is resting on your hair, breathing in your lovely shampoo every time he breaths in.

"missed you, baby." oscar whispers into your hair before pressing another kiss to it and finally letting his eyes slip closed.

just before he falls asleep he feels your body shift to accommodate the new body in the bed beside you, your lashes now coming to brush against his bare chest. the last thing oscar remembers thinking is 'can't believe i'm finally home.' while being a good few thousand miles from melbourne.

[c-monthecob]

Ran Haitani Headcanons!

💤 Grew out his hair because Rindou told him he looked like their mother with it long.

💤 Wore glasses one time, and the other S62 made fun of him for it.

💤 People thought he was a little girl with his pigtails when he was younger.

💤 Started wearing different color uniforms after accidentally punching Rindou in the face during a brawl.

💤 Snores loud asf, like you can hear his ass from the halls.

💤 The kind of guy who will repeat your joke but louder and get all the praise.

💤 He hated recess. He'd throw a fit whenever the teachers tried to make him go out.

💤 Eventually, the teachers let him stay in and have nap time instead.

💤 Slept so much in class that teachers started to get concerned about his home life. (They reported him to CPS before)

💤 He and Koko go to the same hair salon. They go out for coffee afterward, too.

💤Gossips with his hairdresser and all the old ladies in the salon.

💤The women will show him pictures of their daughters and granddaughters, trying to set him up with them.

💤Shamelessly stands outside to watch the neighbors argue. He knows they won't say anything.

💤 All his food HAS to be cold. He says it cools his stomach down.

💤 Doesn't allow Rindou to sit on the couch after coming home from the gym because he smells musty

💤He wants to ask Baji for his haircare routine, but his pride won't let him.

💤Always nagging Rindou about his posture and frowning. "You'll get wrinkles and grow a hump"

💤Believed his life was over when he got a pimple. Rindou had a full face of ache and listened to him cry about it for twenty minutes.

💤Aging is his biggest enemy. He stresses over wrinkles and grey hairs like it's the end of the world.

💤 As an adult, he often regrets cutting his hair.

💤 Dyed his hair purple because it's supposed to make him 'look young'

💤 Refuses to sleep anywhere but his bed. He doesn't trust anything else.

💤 Has to sleep on a specific thread count or he will throw a bitch fit.

💤 Has a satin bed set and his name embroidered on his pillowcases.

💤 Washes his sheets twice a week, but blames the high water bill on Rindou.

💤He used to worry when Rindou wouldn't come home from drinking out, then he acquired the "He'll come back eventually" mentality.

💤In school, he'd pretend to sleep to listen in on conversations. "Oh, don't worry about him. He's sleeping." No, he's not. He'll relay everything to his brother right after class.

💤 Hates New Years. The fireworks keep him up all night.

💤 Only watches 3 specific asmrtists every night. He refuses to watch anyone else.

💤 He never eats in front of people. But he'll fuck up a plate when he's alone

💤 When he was a kid, he sent really low-quality photos to a modeling company.

💤He and Emma like to gossip while painting each other's nails.

💤In the final timeline, he made Hanma do a photo shoot for him. When Hanma wanted him to pay, he tried to smooth talk his way out of paying

💤Wakes up in a cold sweat constantly. He has no idea why. He just does.

💤Mistook Rindou for someone else and punched him in the face during a brawl

💤The guards had to hold him down to cut his hair in juvie

💤He adores trad goths. Loves the spooky Victorian vibe they give

💤He was a Twilight fan back in the day. (Team Edward)

💤Loves mean-girl movies. Clueless, Heathers (1988), and Mean Girls

💤He has a one-sided beef with Tom Holland. Apparently, he "Knows what he did."

💤His parents got him glasses but he refuses to keep them on because it's "Rindou's trademark."

[halfway-happyyy]

cant sleep cos im thinking about franks lap…

not even necessarily in a sexual way just him sitting cross legged and me making myself comfy right on top of his thighs (okay maybe its in a sexual way- can you blame me?!) but the width of him is crazy i just wanna curl up on him like a cat ugh

did i send this message to myself?? because i too, am constantly thinking of that man's lap.

(and like, lets be real... even if it doesn't explicitly start out sexually it sure as hell ends that way 95.9% of the time). and i think that he loves it almost as much as you do. like it's become part of his routine that if he sits down on the couch, or the lazy boy chair, it's only a matter of time before you're curled up in his lap.

and i don't think it gets talked about enough, but frank loves the weight of you on him. loves to feel like you're grounding him in the present, like a weighted blanket would. especially if he's had a rough go of it recently - you just add an extra layer of security that he doesn't really get enough of in his day-to-day. so it's not uncommon that if you haven't done it already, he'll ask you to.

"c'mon over here, sweetheart. come sit with me."

and you'll drop everything to do it because apart from anchoring himself inside of you, it doesn't get much more intimate than wrapping yourself around him.

"needed this today," he'll sigh.

and you'll smile and peck his neck. "i know, frankie."

it's not uncommon for whole hours to pass by that way. sleep comes and goes, and eventually, you two will only separate to head to bed together.

[hbyrde36]

Night Terrors & Daydreams Pt. 1 of 2

For @penny00dreadful 🖤

I don't know where this came from but as soon as I had the idea I knew I just HAD to write this for your birthday. I'm not sure what that says about me, you, or our friendship 👀😂 but I hope you enjoy! Happy (early) Birthday , Love!

Steddie | Explicit | WC: 2876 | AO3

Eddie stood in the corner of his new charge’s room, biding his time, waiting for just the right moment to strike. 

It was a strange existence, this push and pull between ethereal and corporeal. In his early years he’d kept entirely to the shadows, doing his work from a nice safe distance, paying his dues without ever really showing himself to his… victims. 

He’d always hated that word, victim. He liked to think of himself as something of a caretaker. The way he watched over his humans, so vulnerable as they dozed in their nice warm beds, was evocative of so much more than predator and prey. There were, naturally, much worse things lurking in the night than him, a mere sleep paralysis demon.

It was also a bit of an inside joke with himself, if he was honest. One needed such things to keep themselves entertained these days. The poor souls he pursued endured abject terror to give him life and help power The Underworld like living breathing batteries. 

Ergo, charge.

There was magic and meaning in the naming of things. He’d chosen to call himself Eddie for just that reason, to take control of his identity, abhorring the idea of referring to himself simply as Demon. His kind didn’t typically have names, per se, or at least they certainly weren't given them at their unholy creation, but nothing about Eddie had ever been what one might call typical. 

At the end of the day, he supposed, he could call things and people whatever he liked in the sanctity of his own mind, and the powers-that-be could…

What was the phrase again?

Ah yes. 

Suck it.

The man in the bed stirred, the most delicious whimpering sound slipping from the depths of his throat. Caught in the middle of what appeared to be a nightmare, he tossed and turned, eventually winding up flat on his back, chin tilted to the heavens.

“Perfect,” Eddie whispered to himself. 

He let his essence drift out of the shadows, his smoky half-form ruffling the curtains as he passed by a faintly glowing window, the city with her ever present lights and commotion—regardless of the storm that raged outside— persisting just on the other side of its glass. That glow fell over the figure in the bed to illuminate his face, revealing the gentle curve of full pouty lips, and the fan of long lashes resting heavy across eyes that were accentuated by dark, well-groomed brows. His perfectly tanned skin was dotted with beauty marks, a feature so aptly named when adorning such a lovely specimen.

At first sight, Eddie—who didn’t even need to breathe as a rule—felt as if all the air had been sucked from the room, from the world. Suddenly he understood why humans sometimes wept when they looked upon a particularly beautiful work of art. Why one look at Adonis brought so many to their knees. Why the Trojans went to fucking war.

The man’s eyelids fluttered softly, opening as Eddie continued to gaze upon his face and for a moment it was he, the demon, who was the one frozen in place.

Quickly, before the rare beauty in the bed could so much as cry out, Eddie forced himself to his senses, shifting his focus instead to his power and paralyzed the man with a single thought. The most disarming set of hazel eyes, the only part of his body that the man still had the power to move, stared up at him, showing too much white as they tracked his billowy movements overhead. 

He left in a hurry that night, not even taking the time to feed like he ought to, afraid of what he might do if he lingered long enough to make the necessary connection.

It should have ended there. He should have done the reasonable thing and switched assignments with another of his kind to avoid temptation entirely.

But, it seemed, reasonability had no place in Eddie’s mind. Not anymore. Not when he was consumed with the need to know more about the exquisite stranger who had ruined his very existence, mind, body, and soul.

Well… if only he’d had one, that is.

Three nights later, as drained of energy as he’d ever been, Eddie returned to that bedroom, hovering like a dark cloud over the man who had haunted his every conscious thought since the moment he’d fled. This time he didn’t wait, Hell, he didn’t even paralyze the body beneath him before plunging right into the man’s sleeping mind. 

And dove face first into a world full of nightmares.

His poor human was plagued by all manner of awful dreams. After so many years, Eddie was familiar with what humans feared—fire, darkness, the various things that went bump in the night—but it wasn’t the boogeyman, or any other such monster that lived under beds or in closets that hunted his sweet charge, no. The monsters that tormented the man were formed of disappointed hopes and unmet expectations, of cruel words hurled from the throats of those who were meant to love you most. 

Of loneliness, sorrow, and despair, that could remain unending until his last breath. 

Steve.

His human’s name was Steve. 

A kind soul born into an unkind world that he’d never quite found his place in.

With a mournful sob, Steve gasped awake abruptly. Eddie yanked himself back, freezing Steve in place as he did, leaving only a tendril of his smoke-like being behind to gently brush over the man’s cheek.

'Hush,' Eddie thought at him, for the first time ever projecting peace and comfort on the subject he intended to feed from, and set himself to his task, reverently.

Eddie visited often after that, far more so than was strictly necessary to sustain himself, and yet he couldn’t seem to get enough. Feeding from Steve was a singular, mind-blowing experience, making every human who’d come before him pale in comparison. They had been nothing more than an apéritif, and hors d'oeuvre at best, and Steve?

Steve was a full-course meal, complete with the most decadent, sinful dessert imaginable.

Delicious, addicting, dangerous.  

No other human would ever do for him again. 

Steve’s nightmares remained an unfortunate constant and, visit after visit, Eddie began to make a habit of waking Steve straightaway if he discovered his beloved human in the throes of a night terror.

After a while though, the bad dreams began to lessen, making way for something new. Calm, pleasant interludes started to unfold right before Eddie’s eyes. 

Steve smiling on his commute to work, watching the city race by through wide tinted windows, for once not feeling like a lone raindrop in a storm.  

Steve luxuriating in a warm, lavender scented bath, bubbles concealing much of his perfect form from sight as every muscle in his body relaxed for what felt like the first time in his entire life. 

Steve walking along a tranquil beach at dusk, no longer alone, but hand in hand with another, a faceless man with a head of wild hair, dark as night and curling to his shoulders.

Sadly, it wasn’t all like watching a feature film, much of Steve’s sleeping thoughts came in bursts and flashes.

A strip of pale skin, beautifully mottled with fresh red bite marks.

A prominent Adam's apple, bobbing along a pale, delicate throat.

The glossy sheen of silk sheets bathed in moonlight.

Pretty soon Eddie found himself in Steve’s company every single night, the temptation had become far too great, as did the sharp sting of jealousy for the man in Steve’s dreams. Eddie was completely consumed with his obsession, affectionately so, and had even begun manifesting himself in a full physical form to sit at Steve's bedside, gently stroking his soft, silky hair with real fingers, soothing his beloved while he was trapped in his frozen state.

It was too much, and still not enough, and before long Eddie started to fear that he was killing the man he’d come to care for more than his own existence. He was meant to do this slowly, to drain his victims over time—decades—taking what he needed and siphoning the residuals off to The Underworld to keep the lights on, so to speak. Instead he eventually cut off the outward flow of power altogether, and only took the bare minimum of what he needed to keep himself alive, spending the majority of his time with Steve now simply existing beside him.

Pining.

Yearning for more.

He was breaking convention. He didn’t know what sort of retribution there might be, but in truth it didn’t matter. He’d take whatever punishment was due and be glad of it, happy to pay any price necessary to be with his true love. He ached to have Steve in every way possible. He knew much of the man’s mind, but his soul, his body? That largely remained a mystery. Eddie wanted—needed—to know the taste of Steve’s lips, the touch of his hand, the way it would feel to have Steve inside him, an echo in compliment to the way he had been immersing himself in Steve for so very long now.

The night Eddie finally lost control, was a night like many others.

Already gripped by the nightmares he still suffered from now and then, Steve was thrashing in his sleep when Eddie arrived, his duvet falling off the side of the bed leaving nothing but a thin white sheet between his body and the rest of the world. 

Eddie willed his physical form into existence around him, the one he’d made piece by piece over time, taking inspiration from the mysterious figure who starred in so many of Steve’s less haunted dreams. Anticipation flowed through his veins like a drug as he stepped closer, holding Steve still with his power the way he always did, but this would be no typical night. 

Eddie was only a man. 

No, not even that. 

He was a creature of the night, an incubus, a pathetic wanton fiend who could only stare temptation in the face for so long before he could no longer resist the urge to take that which he desired. 

Sensing Steve was soon to wake, Eddie leaned down to press a kiss to his brow, pulling back just in time to see those honeyed eyes snap open. 

“Sorry I'm late, sweetheart,” Eddie said softly, settling himself on the side of the bed, reaching out a pale, ringed hand to push the damp hair back from Steve’s forehead. “And I'm sorry I couldn’t stop the other bad things from claiming you tonight.”

He imagined a world where Steve didn’t have to be held captive by his power to do this, where Steve would lean into his touch, knowing how cherished he was. But then, that was the goal tonight, wasn’t it, proving his love to Steve and making that world a reality.

Ever so slowly, he peeled back the sheet from Steve’s body, like opening a carefully wrapped gift and wanting to extend the excitement of the moment out as much as possible. He watched, rapt, as the sleek fabric pulled back, revealing bare, tempting flesh by mere inches at a time.

The hair on Steve’s chest. The blush pink of his nipples, hardening the instant they were exposed to the air. The finer line of hairs that trailed down the length of his stomach, dipping lower, and lower still, leading to a well defined groin bracketing his thick, half-hard cock.

It was more likely that Steve had always slept in the nude, Eddie wasn’t sure, and maybe it was delusional, but the sheer thought that perhaps this lovely little surprise was intentional and done specifically with him in mind, had his heart racing and drool pooling in his mouth.  

With a final tug, the silken sheets flew off the end of the bed to land in a heap on the floor below, and Eddie spent a short eternity standing at the foot of the bed, gazing down at the beauty before him, taking in the full effect of Steve’s mouthwatering physique.

Steve simply had to be one of the most gorgeous beings to ever walk the face of the earth, and here he was all laid out for Eddie, completely at the demon’s mercy.

At the wave of his hand Eddie’s own clothes vanished, and with nothing more to keep them apart he crawled back up onto the bed, determined to taste every square inch of his sweetheart’s skin.

He began with a soft tender kiss to the top of each of his beloved’s feet, kneading his fingers into Steve’s strong, muscular calves, at the same time dragging his lips up the length of legs that would have been at home on any Greek statue, worshiping them from ankle to knee with the deepest devotion.

Steve’s inner thighs were practically begging to be bitten, and Eddie was powerless to resist the siren call of them. He sank his teeth in gently but without hesitation, moaning as the soft flesh filled his mouth, sucking on the skin until he could sense blood pooling to the surface where it would surely leave a lasting mark.

A strangled cry suddenly broke through the heavy silence as Eddie pulled back, a high pitched whine vibrating through Steve’s throat. It was the first time the man had ever managed to make a sound, as strained as it was, while under Eddie’s power and it was like music to the demon’s ears.

He repeated the process on the other side of Steve’s body, marveling at the way his love’s cock twitched with each stroke of his tongue, or nip from his teeth.

When Eddie was satisfied with his own handiwork, knowing Steve would see and feel his presence long after he left this night, he moved on to the place he was most desperate to explore. Dipping his head down low, he opened wide, taking each of Steve’s balls into his mouth. One at a time he rolled his tongue around them, reveling in the feel of the loose skin between his lips. Steve’s body at least seemed to be enjoying his efforts too, his cock quickly filling out, now standing at its full height. Long, thick, and so incredibly enticing. 

Eddie ran the flat of his tongue up the underside of Steve’s length from base to tip, carefully swirling all around the head—teasing, testing, tasting the pearly white fluid that leaked from its slit. 

As if the salty, mildly bitter substance were Steve’s own source of magic, Eddie’s entire being began flooding with heat. The fiery desire filled him more and more as he swallowed the paltry droplets, lapping sloppily, desperate for more. 

Steve’s keening reached new heights, the sound nearly frantic when Eddie wrapped his lips firmly around the head of him, hollowed his cheeks, and started to sink down a millimeter at a time until Steve’s entire length was sheathed deep within his mouth and throat.

It was a fullness unlike any other Eddie had experienced before and he loved the way this act took command of all his senses. It was not quite the fullness he’d been craving, there was still an ache in his core, a deep pocket of emptiness that yearned to be stuffed, but there were still plenty of hours left in the night for that. 

Eddie pulled off with a gasp, finding himself panting for air. In his excitement he’d sort-of forgotten that he did need to occasionally breathe in this form. 

With a final kiss to the shining tip of Steve’s cock, now wet from Eddie’s own saliva, he moved on to explore the flat plane of Steve’s lower stomach. Like a cat, he nuzzled his cheek through the hair of Steve's happy trail, letting his lips brush over skin here and there as he shifted further up to Steve’s chest. 

After peppering the entire width of his collarbone with sweet, gentle kisses, Eddie ran his tongue all the way up Steve’s neck to his ear. He wasn’t ready to let Steve go completely of course, not yet, but he was ready to free his mouth, to finally hear Steve’s waking thoughts, in his own true voice.

“You may speak now, my love, but I’d advise you not to scream.” Eddie breathed the words directly into Steve’s ear. “Lest some well-meaning neighbor come investigating and interrupt us.”

Steve’s lips parted slowly, the tip of his pink tongue darting out to wet his plush lips, making them all the more inviting as he begged, softly… 

“Please.”

Eddie tilted his head, the gentle plea most unexpected. “Please what, pet?”

“Kiss me?” Steve asked.

“What did you say?” Eddie whispered on a sharp inhale. He couldn’t possibly have heard that right. 

Please stop. 

Please don’t. 

Please let me go. 

All of those he’d anticipated. All of those he’d been prepared for, ready to fight for his one true love, to show Steve how much he cared, over and over again if he had to, until the man came to believe it.

“Please,” Steve begged again, his eyelids half-closed and his tone breathy, bordering on a whine. “Kiss me, my Angel.”

Part 2 (coming soon!)

Many thanks to @pearynice for the amazing beta work and for always being the best, loudest cheerleader! 💕

Permanent taglist (open): @penny00dreadful @pearynice @hitlikehammers @sidekick-hero @firefly-party

@bookworm0690 @wonderland-girl143-blog  @goodolefashionedloverboi @themagicalari @awkwardgravity1

@rocknrollsalad @eternal-sunflowers @cringe-culture-is-dead-99

[revolutionsingingintherainnn]

light ｡𖦹°‧

⚡︎ carlando ✶⋆.˚

⚡︎ comfort ✶⋆.˚

masterlist ☾☼

lando was good at comforting people. it was one of his strengths. he knew what to say when, and he knew how to look for signs in a person, trying to figure out whether they wanted to be left alone or needed someone to listen. he was good at that. his mom and his therapist said that it was because he was an empath. he liked the word. empath. an empath is defined as a person who is highly attuned to the emotions of others.

yes. lando was an empath. 

however, as good lando was at comforting people, he was equally bad at accepting comfort from people. he didn’t find it necessary. always thought to himself that it’s his problems that he needs to take care of, and he will figure out ways to do it. he’s always brushed off carlos or max f or sometimes even oscar, when they tried to talk to him about whatever was going on in his brain. he always just said, “don’t worry about it, i’ll figure it out.” 

triple headers had always been rough for lando. it was too close, with no space for him to breathe. one race done, and back to training and different diets and different sleep schedules for the next race. an entire month of it was mentally exhausting.

it also did not help that everyone around him called him mentally weak, and how his mentality is not the same as a champion’s. well, he’s not a champion yet, so how is he meant to have a championship mentality, but whatever. the end of the triple header was hard. lando became more closed off, spending more time in the garage than anyone else would, only ever going back to the hotel room well after carlos had fallen asleep. carlos would have questions that lando didn’t want to answer. it was a solid plan in lando’s opinion. 

being back in monaco, in the home that carlos and he had decorated on their own, it was always a good feeling. especially when he had more time to talk to both sets of families, and more time to just cuddle his boyfriend. if he disassociated some times, or sat on the bathroom floor because he couldn’t breathe and his vision was blurry, well no one had to know. 

soft kisses on his neck made him burrow deeper into the blanket. he could feel carlos’ stubble against his neck, and he hated himself a little bit for giving his boyfriend more of his neck. it feels good, okay? you wouldn’t understand. 

“buenos noches, mi vida,” carlos whispered in his ear, pressing a soft kiss to the tip of his ear. 

“no, i’m still sleeping,” he grumbled. he could feel carlos smile against his skin, and he was a traitor to himself for smiling as well. 

“we have to get ready,” 

“for what?” 

“padel,” 

lando’s eyes opened slowly, and he turned on his back to look up at carlos. his boyfriend was beautiful, even from the weirdest angles possible, and lando thought he could spend the entire day just looking at him. but, he had questions. “padel? when did we plan that?” 

“we didn’t plan it, mi corazon. alex, george, and i did.” 

lando’s eyebrows furrowed, as he tried to understand. “why?” 

carlos ran his fingers through his lover’s curls, “well, we just want to spend time with you. is that so bad?” 

lando hummed, “no. no, it’s not bad,” 

the smile that carlos gave him was enough to pull him in, and the two exchanged soft kisses, lando’s hand on the back of carlos’ neck, and carlos’ hand on his cheek, caressing him in a way that would make him cry if he thought about it too long. 

so, he wasn’t going to think about it too long. 

they got out of bed eventually, and with slow movements, the two got dressed. there was carlos’ jazz music playing in the background, and while lando usually didn’t like it, it seemed to fit the mood today. he hoped that carlos didn’t notice when lando’s hands shook a little bit while he was going through his notifications. he hoped that carlos didn’t hear lando’s heartbeat. he hoped that carlos didn’t notice when lando got dizzy and had to stand, leaning against a wall with his eyes closed for a few seconds. 

carlos drove them to the court, letting lando control the music. and when they reached there, george and alex were already waiting for them. 

the game had been fun. carlos and alex versus lando and george. they decided to do a one tall person and one short person kinda team. carlos was offended at being called short. lando was used to it. 

they played for hours. the game had been fun. the four of them bantering, george and carlos ranting about how useless the fia was, and the things they wanted to change, alex and carlos telling them funny stories from their team, and george, lando and alex telling carlos all the stories from their f2 years again. they laughed and they screamed, and they fought for points, and they stole kisses from their partners. 

after padel, carlos informed them that he had a brunch planned for lando, and george and alex were heading back to switch cars. “if i have to hear another word about how we could’ve gotten george’s new merc, i’m going to shoot myself,” alex had complained. it had made lando laugh. 

on the way to the cafe, lando had sang out loud to every country song that was in the playlist, and and carlos laughed with him every time. 

at the cafe, the two opted to sit outside, in the warm sun, and lando ordered pancakes with way too much nutella. jon wasn’t going to know, anyways. 

“landito,” 

lando stuffed his mouth with a bite, and hummed in response. 

“tell me what’s going on, please,” 

“nothing’s going on, carlos,” 

carlos sighed, “please don’t hide from me,” 

lando gulped. he could continue the act. he knew he could. he was capable of it. could do it forever. but fuck, when his boyfriend, the love of his life sounded almost as broken as lando felt, he didn’t have an option but to say everything that was going on. 

“i’m tired, carlos,” 

“of what?” 

“everything, really.” and then, everything came tumbling out. every race so far, every clickbait article he saw, every hate comment he read. his team, and the lack of support he felt, and how mclaren didn’t feel like home as much anymore. 

carlos asked questions at the right time, and he listened without interruptions. he didn’t give advice, well aware that lando was capable of taking his own decisions. fuck, lando felt like he could breathe again. the two wanted to hold the other, but they were in public, and neither could risk anything. 

after brunch, the couple met up with george and alex again to the golf course. george and alex didn’t ask questions about anything. lando didn’t offer them any information. but they jumped around with him, and they made him feel like he was a teenager again. 

“george, no-“ 

“that’s how you do it, lan-“ 

“dios mio,” 

“for fuck’s sake, guys-“ 

some people stared. well, four loud, obnoxious men were screaming and laughing and falling. who wouldn’t stare? 

“ay, cabron-“ 

“you’re wrong, carlos!” 

“i’m wrong? i’m the one who introduced you to this sport!” 

“we should have popcorn for this-“

“no, you would get popcorn all over my new car-“ 

“i would not!” 

“terrible swing-“ 

“that was exactly what you did-“ 

for the first time in a month, lando felt lighter. he felt like he could breathe again, and like the sun shining on him wasn’t biting, but rather, welcoming. he laughed and he felt like he was flying. but, not the kind was flying where he knew that he was going to hit the ground and splatter like a bug. this type of flying was the one where he felt like he was one with the wind, and that if he fell, he would have something, someone, to save him. 

later on, when carlos and lando were getting to bed after a day of sports and smiles and all things light, lando whispered to his boyfriend, “thank you,” 

“for what, mi vida?” 

“for today. i- i needed it.” 

carlos kissed his forehead, pulling him closer till the two fit together like puzzle pieces, “te amo, carino,”

“i love you too,” lando breathed. 

✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧

i was bored, and i got tired of studying. so here you go, i guess.

[jkthiighs]

I fell into LotR - chapter 1 || [x reader]

❀lord of the rings/fellowship men x reader (eventually)

➔classic 'girl fell into middle earth' plotline. self indulgent

❀ word count ; 4.1k

        Maladaptive day-dreaming. You never realized there was such a fancy term for your overactive imagination. Though you suppose, given its definition, the term fits like a glove. They call it ‘excessive’, however, and that’s where you have to disagree. You weren’t that bad... Were you? Imagining you were someplace different, some fantasy land compared to the current day and age– who wouldn’t? Doesn’t matter which side of the political tree you’re on; war is still war, and necessities are too expensive. Life is bleak, and yours, particularly, has been mundane. 

        Go to work, come home, eat, sleep, and repeat. The only thing that made existence tolerable was the little scenarios you came up with in your head. Your own personal ‘What If’ series that you’d play out quietly during your tasks, on your drive home, or in your bedroom late at night. It had always been this way. You thought you would grow out of it as you hit your adult years, but if anything, it got worse. When you saw a movie or read a book that particularly spoke to you, you’d spend months imagining yourself within the story, how you’d interact with the characters, how you’d spend life in their world. Your favorites were the works of Tolkien and George R. R. Martin, always managing to hold your attention and adoration over the years, never being able to stray far from them mentally. 

        Your hyper-fixation had been reignited over the last few days when you decided to watch the extended editions of the ‘Lord of the Rings’ trilogy in one sitting during your day off from work. ‘The Hobbit’ trilogy had been your favorite to watch by far, having seen it probably a hundred times since its release, but you had only seen the first trilogy once or twice. Controversial, to be sure, but you blamed your fascination on Richard Armitage– rather, Thorin Oakenshield, for that opinion. 

        Most of your imaginings, or ‘shiftings’ as tiktok likes to call them, take you into the company of the dwarves... but tonight was different. Tonight, you stood in the middle of Rivendell’s courtyard, looking out into the great cascade of waterfalls that littered the mountainside as beautifully as the surrounding leaves fell from their branches. Music blasted through your earphones, a way of focusing your mind and deafening the obnoxious sounds of your upstairs neighbors. It didn’t matter which song you played, for the longer you stared at the wall, the sooner it disappeared and melted into the dreamscape you longed for. 

        You imagined yourself to be standing by the railing, wind licking your cheeks, tossing your hair playfully as it passed by. The scenery became clearer and clearer, and the carpet beneath your bare feet even seemed to turn cold, like it was stone. You must have been staring off into the distance for a while because your eyes began to burn from being too dry. You lifted your hands to rub them, and as you did so, your stomach fluttered as if you had the faintest sense of falling. However, when you opened your eyes again, you were in the same spot as you were before, but now it was… different. You could see into the distance, and it wasn’t fuzzy like it usually was; the details didn’t blur in a haze. The air itself felt alive, fresh, and you could hear birds chirping past the sound of your music. ‘Odd. ’ You rubbed your eyes again, blinking a couple of times, but nothing changed. The walls of your room did not return; in fact, you didn’t even realize they had gone missing. ‘Okay, what the fuck.’ Your heart began to quicken, but you took a deep breath. It was only five steps from the edge of your bed to the wall. If you walked that length, surely you’d meet your bedroom face-first and end the dream with a headache, right?

        You turned from the railing, facing the tall pillars and great halls that lay behind them, and took a step forward. One. You were beginning to think that maybe you were just having a bad trip, maybe you got too high, and now you’re paying the price… The problem with that, though, is that you don’t do drugs. Or drink. So… Now what? Another step forward, that makes two. Your heart has taken up a steady rhythm of thudding against your ribcage, and you fidget with your hands nervously. As breathtakingly beautiful as the scenery was, it was now becoming all too real. Impossible, surely. Your third step forward. At this point, you were considering sticking your hands out in front of you so that you didn’t smack yourself face-first into the wall, but you didn’t want to embarrass yourself even if there were no witnesses. There was hesitation in your fourth step; your foot hardly wanted to pick itself off the ground, but you gathered your resolve and took your fifth and sixth steps in quick succession. 

        There was no wall. Your bedroom was gone. And it was then that you realized you were standing in Rivendell for real, in the flesh. Time froze in that moment as your mind raced with thoughts too quick to comprehend, but the theme of it was along the lines of: ‘How is this possible? Am I dead? How do I get home?’ Each with no answer. Your head swiveled back and forth as you looked, really looked, at your surroundings. There were elf guards in the distance on either side of you, but they were pretty far ahead. Far enough not to have noticed you yet. Other than that, it was a quiet autumn's eve. Then, after a few long minutes of deliberation, you decided you should go talk to them. Maybe Lord Elrond would know of some magic that could reverse whatever brought you here, or at least summon Gandalf and ask him. However, you found yourself frozen in uncertainty. How do you even explain your coming here? Who you are, or where you are from? Would they believe you? You looked down at the clothes you were wearing. ‘Damn.’ The one time you don’t take care to imagine yourself in a pretty silk gown is the day you’re thrown into Tolkien’s universe. ‘Just great.’ You were wearing a pair of high-waisted black jean shorts that barely covered the curve of your ass, and a white front-tie cropped shirt that had a v-neckline so deep it made the fact you weren’t wearing a bra plain as daylight. Men at the bar would have been drooling, but the people in this land would curse you for your indecency if they didn’t pass out at the sight of you first, for much more than your ankles were on display. 

        You drew in a shaky breath as you tried to steady your reeling head. You needed a plan. An excuse. ‘Maybe I could just say that I’m a witch? That could explain a lot, right? But then I would need powers or proof…’ You reached into your back pocket for your phone and were met with nothing. Your hands frantically started patting down all other areas of possibility, as if you had more than two pockets, but your phone had disappeared. Bringing up the question, where was the music from your earbuds coming from? You lifted your hands and took the buds out simultaneously, staring at them in your fingertips. Nature's orchestra had instantly taken their place, filling your drums with the dull roar of white noise and accented with the chirps and tweets of birds flitting through the trees. The grandiosity of it all hit you like a truck as your eyes lifted to take in the sight again, but in that small moment of admiration was when your earbuds disappeared from your fingers. It was a minute or two before you realized, and it was a little saddening, though it made sense, you supposed. Anything not from this world wouldn’t be accepted– would be…unmade, but then again, why were you still here?

        ‘Well, this is just fucking great,’ You cursed bitterly to yourself, rubbing your temples with your now empty hands. You had nothing. No abilities or semblance of home. It was just you here, stuck. But the prospect left you considering: Do you even want to go back? What was there that was worth returning to? Isn’t this most people’s dream: to be dropped into their favorite fictional universe? You took off towards the direction of the two elf guards on patrol, but they were further away now than before. ‘Damn. These people walk fast.’ You took up a brisk stride, making an effort to catch up with them, but as you walked, you could feel the cold seeping into your bare feet with each step. The wind seemed sharper than before, and even through the fair temperature, it had a bite to it. Leaves drifted past you as you traveled along a stone archway, not daring to peer over the side and tempt fate further. The trees that enveloped the mountainside were a spectrum of evergreen, red, orange, and yellow hues, making plain the season. This truly was a beautiful place, but whatever god that was in charge of your suffering just couldn’t let you enjoy it, could they? 

        It took a glimpse of your shirt turning transparent before finally fading entirely, did you realize the reason behind the sudden temperature change. Your clothes, like anything else you had owned, disappeared without a trace. You could have laughed, honestly. Instead, you stood there, exposed and in disbelief. Could it get any worse? Yes. Of course it can. But for you, there was only one option now. You booked it to the nearest doorway you laid eyes on, careful to keep your footfalls as silent as you were capable of. A sheet, a tablecloth, shit- even a curtain. Anything would work at this point. Not that you were religious, but you prayed for the gods– any god, to throw you a bone, and since you were in elvish territory, fuck it. Beseech the Valar while you’re at it. 

        You make it past the threshold just as the guards had turned their heads in your direction. Your eyes searched frantically for anything to cover yourself with, and as luck would have it, you had chosen a door that led into some type of kitchen. Herbs and spices replaced the scent of wet earth from outside, copper pots hung from carved hooks above stone countertops, and bundles of dried flowers stirred faintly by the same wind that stole away your mynute sense of modesty. You dipped quickly behind a long table as your heart pounded in your ears. Blessedly, this room was empty of people but not barren. There was a linen basket near the base of another doorway that caught your eye. You gathered your courage and scrambled towards it like a man possessed, tearing the thing open with shaky hands. ‘Jackpot.’ Inside were meticulously folded lengths of fabric–some sort of table runners or ceremonial cloths smelling faintly of floral scented oils. They were smooth and lightweight, uncolored silk. You didn’t dare complain, and you didn’t have time to feel guilty for theft. 

        You gathered the fabric in your arms and ducked behind the door and the wall, which offered you some cover. You could do as the Romans do, but you decided on a different route. A saree. You’d seen a few tutorials, having awed over the elegance many a late night, but without your phone, your innovation would have to suffice; beginning at the waist, you wrapped the end of the fabric around yourself, tucking the fold where your hip curved. You secured it with mutterings of ‘please god make this work,’ and started folding the next sections into pleats–messy and uneven, but enough to mimic the distinctive cascading drape. In all the videos you’ve seen, the models usually wear a petticoat underneath, and you just had to hope that step was optional. After tucking the pleats into your waist, you swept the remaining fabric around your back and over your shoulder, letting the edge fall across your chest, forming the pallu. Anxiety had you fussing with the edges, tucking one side under your arm for security, and trying to cover your side-cleavage as much as possible since you didn't have a blouse. It was nowhere near perfect or symmetrical. Shit, it probably wasn’t even correct. But it worked. There was that. 

        At the very least, you weren’t naked anymore. You poked your head through the doorway and looked in each direction. Elrond’s sanctuary seemed like a maze, so it was a coin toss on which hall led to civilization. You decided on left and took up walking once again. Though you couldn’t walk very fast, mind you. Any sudden movements threatened to undo the folds around your waist, but it was a small price to pay for semi-decency. It didn’t take long after that for your wandering to be noticed, and you were soon met with a handful of guards who had arrows pointed directly at your face. ‘Dang, it really is just like in the movies, huh. Rather an arrow than a gun, though.’ 

        The surrounding guards eyed you suspiciously, clearly not impressed with your choice of attire, though you never expected to be greeted with compliments. “Who are you, and how did you get in here?” Their voice was clean and clear, tinted with an accent you couldn’t name. You damn near missed what they said though, considering you were staring at the arrowhead that was aimed between your furrowed eyebrows. There was hesitation as you considered your options. Say the wrong thing, and you’d find out if Rivendell featured dungeons. But… What was the right thing to say? What time period were you set in? You’d have to guess, and needed to tread incredibly lightly. In an effort of peace, you raised your hands slowly to show you weren’t holding any weapons. Your voice was soft, delicate, but held an air of provocation to it, having seen enough in the high-fantasy genre to mimic their speech patterns. “Do you think I could have made it this far unchallenged, without an invitation?” You glanced between each of them, gauging their reaction. You were bluffing, obviously. But you were hoping that maybe you had arrived at the same time as the Company. Delusions of grandeur had entered the chat, snuffing out the need to go home and making you think that maybe you could see the line of Durin not so quickly snuffed out, and since you were seemingly stuck here anyway, you might as well make the most of your presence. However, you knew that elves would be the least gullible out of all the races.

         “Your Lord Elrond is expecting me. Could you take me to him?” Your heart was steadily thudding in your chest as all the possibilities flashed through your mind, and it took every fiber in your being to maintain composure. There was a flicker of…  something in the eyes of the elf in front of you– doubt, or reservation perhaps, but certainly not mercy. 

        “Lord Elrond is busy entertaining his other guests. If you were truly summoned, why are you not with them?” He said it coldly, with a slight tilt of his head that made plain his disbelief. But his statement gave you hope. ‘Other guests? Then that means the dwarves must be here already.’ Another guard stepped closer, scanning you up and down with a detached curiosity. Up close, the way they moved–fluid yet precise, economical–they weren’t just aesthetics. They were warriors, and you were just a girl in the grand scheme of things. You didn’t even get the chance to lie and say you had gotten lost before–  “Search her,” the third guard murmured. The fourth approached, and you flinched slightly as his fingers grabbed your arm, feeling the cold press of his gauntlet through the silk. “This cloth–” The one holding you began, eyes narrowing. “It was taken from the kitchen stores.” 

        “A degenerate and a thief, then.” Another replied. That one stung. But in their defense, you were baring a scandalous amount of skin even with the linen draped around you. “Or a spy,” one added. The first, probably the leader, spoke up again, but it wasn’t in English common tongue. It was Elvish, you knew. Fluid, fast, and filled with sharp consonants and words that bled into each other like smoke. You couldn’t understand even if you tried, but situational awareness told you that to them, you were a problem. And problems were never welcomed in Rivendell.

        “You will come with us.” The first one declared, not even glancing your way as he spun on his heel and started the march forward. The others slowly lowered their bows, but did not un-nock their arrows. “Where to?” You asked, biting back the anxiety that threatened to spill from your throat. “Lord Elrond, as you wished.” The reply was simple, however, you couldn’t imagine this situation was gonna play out how you wanted it to, because it never could just be that easy. 

        Clearly, the gods liked playing cat-and-mouse with your dignity, because you didn’t even get to walk there under your own volition. No amount of protests, threats, curses, or pleas swayed the elf who had an iron grip on your arm, steering you along with enough force to make your feet stumble beneath you. ‘The dwarves were onto something, these people are kinda rude.’ There would definitely be a bruise there later, but it was hard for you to blame them, even if you could feel the saree coming undone at your waist. Their job was duty, not sympathy. 

        As they led you—more like herded you—through the pale stone archways inlaid with silver, the halls blurred, your feet whispering against the marble floor. Finally, they shoved you firmly into a vast, echoing chamber of carved stone and filtered starlight. The walls shimmered faintly with runes, silver-veined and ancient, and high above, a skylight poured moonlight through an intricate lattice of crystal and carved metal. It bathed the floor in ghost-pale patterns, like rippling water. At the center stood two figures deep in quiet conversation. One, cloaked in muted tones of grey, leaning heavily on a gnarled staff that clicked softly against the floor as he moved: Gandalf the Grey. The other was tall–taller than you expected–and ethereal, looking as if he had stepped from a painting made by the gods themselves: Elrond the Half-Elven. 

        He turned at the sound of your entry, and the world stilled around his gaze. The Master of Rivendell didn’t need to raise his voice, for when he spoke, even the walls listened. “What is this?” Lord Elrond asked, his gaze more piercing than anything you’d ever known. It raked up and down your form before flicking once to the guards at your side, and under his scrutiny, all thoughts and half-baked plans left your mind. It was much easier to imagine a thing than actually do it. This had to be how people who meet celebrities feel. Fangirling, though, wasn’t an option. You had to play it cool. But holy fuck, did seeing these two characters have you dumbstruck. “We found her wandering the inner halls,” one guard answered. “Clothed in stolen tablecloths. She claimed you were expecting her.”

        Gandalf raised an eyebrow as his blue-grey eyes took you in—amusement and suspicion dancing beneath his shaggy brows. ‘Alien’ radiated off you as vibrant as his fireworks, and yet he looked like someone who had expected oddness today and still found himself surprised. “Indeed?” The half-elf muttered. “And what else does this woman claim?” 

        Obviously, that was your cue to speak, but nothing came. No words; you were a deer in headlights. Stuck there, just staring at the two with naught a clue of what to say. ‘Hey, so I’m actually from another universe. Care to send me back?’ or, ‘Hey, I have main character syndrome and want to join in on this life-threatening quest just for funsies!’ There was nothing you could rationalize that made any amount of sense, and as the silence stretched on, it became harder and harder for you to speak up.

         A loud tap that echoed more in your mind than in the room came suddenly, seemingly from Gandalf’s staff. It startled you, but it brought you back from your spiral inward. “You–your guards… said you were entertaining other guests, but I haven’t seen them. They wouldn’t happen to be a group of dwarves and a hobbit, would they?” Gandalf’s head tilted slightly, though he said nothing. Elrond’s face, which was already unreadable, grew a tad bit colder. 

        “We’ve more hobbits than dwarves, as of late.” He gave a slight quirk of his brow, glancing once toward the wizard beside him as if confirming that your strangeness was painfully apparent. Gandalf came closer, muttering to himself as he inspected you like one would look over a meteorite fresh from the sky. You paid him no mind besides a furrowed brow, and stepped slightly to the side to better stay in Elrond’s line of sight. “Forgive me, my Lord. I just–...might I ask who currently reigns as King under the mountain of Erebor?” Your hands were trembling now, a manifestation of the anxiety coursing through you. Gandalf’s gaze sharpened, intrigue finally piqued enough to give voice to it. “Why do you speak of dwarves, child? Who do you presume is here?” 

        Your mouth opened to respond, but again you hesitated. As you turned to face the wizard, and your eyes met his, you found it increasingly difficult to conjure a story. ‘Shit, he can’t read minds like Lady Galadriel… can he?’ You couldn’t remember. It was hard to think straight under the pressure of these two immortals. The answer was yes, but thankfully, he hadn’t decided on doing so quite yet. 

        “Is this why I summoned you? So that I might educate you on Middle-earth’s current monarchies?” Lord Elrond, as graceful as he is, sounded a bit annoyed. To which you understood, for surely a ruler had better things to do than fuss over a random’s inquiries. You chewed the skin of your lip. You didn’t want them to kick you out so soon, but at the very least, Gandalf seemed interested in what you had to say. “Forgive me, your Grace. I meant no offense.” You bowed your head as you raised your hands in a gesture of peace. They don’t go over manners and proper etiquette much in the Tolkien universe, so you mimicked what you saw in Game of Thrones. That always seemed to work. “I’m simply trying to gain my bearings. I...I'm a bit confused.” 

        “Dáin Ironfoot took control of Erebor after the line of Durin fell.” There was a tinge of sadness in Gandalf’s voice as he spoke, but his gaze remained fixed on you as he watched for your reaction. The words processed, registered, and then struck hard. Your inability to change Thorin's fate saddened you, and it also meant that any purpose for yourself you envisioned died with him. However… If Oakenshield was dead, then that meant this wasn’t the adventure you’d hoped to take part in. It was a darker tale, deadlier, and would explain why the two immortals in front of you seemed so weathered and tired.

        “Thank you,” you muttered, eyes drifting to the floor as you considered your options. There was no use mulling things over now. You felt defeated, but you tried not to show it. “You said ‘more hobbits than dwarves’... I take that to mean Frodo and his friends are here instead?” 

        That caught Elrond’s attention. Those in Rivendell and those summoned to the council were the only ones aware of the hobbit and his possession of the ring. “How do you know this?” The half-elf turned to face you now, stepping closer as he studied you. You raised your gaze to meet his, but the weight of his scrutiny made you glance to Gandalf for help. The wizard only reflected the same sentiment as Lord Elrond. 

        Finally, you answered. “I know a lot of things… And it’s because I have seen the future–I know the fate of the One Ring.” The lie spilled through your lips before you considered the weight of it. While it was technically the truth, you couldn’t just recite three movies' worth of information at them. That had to be breaking some sort of interdimensional time travel rule. However, you knew what they would ask of you before it even left their lips: “Prove it.”

format © starmapz. dividers © chachachannah & cafekitsu

[mullermilkshake]

People would assume

Part 11 <- Part 12 -> Part 13

Only thinking of you.

Satoru comes home and reacts to the news of the night before how you expected.

Satoru Gojo x Fem!reader Tags - smut,grinding, vaginal sex, p in v, dirty talk, mentions of unproductive sex/creamipies

<- Masterlist

“Why didn’t you tell me; call me? I would have flown back on the jet in a heartbeat. I would have been home in two hours; two. I would have been there.” Satoru wasn’t angry at you. But he reacted exactly the way you assumed he would. 

“I didn’t want you to worry while you were so far away. Two or twenty hours it didn’t matter, you still wouldn’t have been back in time if something…” You caught yourself immediately, awkwardly fiddling with the hem of your nightdress.

“Oh course I’d worry, I’m worrying now.” Satoru stood on the other side of his office, looking away from you, he didn’t seem to catch what words you were going to use to finish that sentence.

“What if you got hurt, or worse and I wasn’t there for you? The security footage stopped working and you went through all of that shit on your own, all the while I was playing golf… I knew I shouldn’t have left you; you should have come with me-”

“I made a decision.” You were more assertive. “I knew I’d be here all by myself and all I did was let my head get the better of me and I made a big issue out of nothing…” 

He came up to you, his touch kinder than ever. “It wasn’t nothing to you. Please, call me no matter the time or how long it takes me to get to you, call me next time. Tell me. I’ll be there.”

You nodded and there stood a pregnant pause between the two of you for some time, Satoru holding you in his arms eventually, pulling you in and rubbing your hair enough that it could have easily put you to sleep. 

“How are you feeling now, any better?” 

You shook your head but didn’t dare move away from the contact. “No, I’m going to go to the doctor after the weekend if nothing changes.”

Satoru fiddled with your hair still and brushed it from your face lovingly. “It’s worrying me. Maybe it's... nah. Maybe it's the flu or something.”

It didn’t feel like the flu, just tiredness hitting you like a full speed train. It was possible you were just burnt out. “I’m sure it’ll work out, but right now I could do with a lay down. I missed you.” 

“A lay down huh?” He’d relaxed a little, there was a slight hint of a smile at his lips. “That can be arranged because I missed you too.” 

He whisked you off your feet and carried you out of the office like a newlywed couple, you smiled and held on tight as he navigated the stairs and kicked the bedroom door open.

“Don’t swing me like that Satoru or I really won’t feel any better, you ass!” He didn’t take anything you said seriously whilst you were full blown belly laughing, not serious enough to launch you on the bed.

“Ass? You wound me Honey.” The distance between you closed so quickly and Satoru was on top of you, pressed snug to your chest with his chin. “I got a smile out of you, I’d say my mission is completed.”

“Yeah until I puke all over you with motion sickness.”

“Ew. You say it so hot though.”

Totally inappropriate and immature. “That’s ew. You’re so…”

“Hot?”

“No.”

“Amazingly talented at everything I do?”

“No!”

“Then what?”

“Annoying.”

Satoru face dropped. “I’m what? You’re such a liar!”

In one quick motion, he had you hooked over and rolled enough to sit you on top of him, hair falling in front of your face, hands pressed against the cotton shirt on his chest in a way that was suggestive. 

He did not make that move. “So… You thought of where you wanted to go? Now the auction is over, the rest of the meetings end this week and we’ll have a lot more free time together.”

Malaysia. You wanted to visit there. Though the more and more you thought of it, it only reminded you more and more of him. You recalled it clearly like it was yesterday. 

‘ Malaysia. A wise choice. I hear Kuantan is nice this time of year.’

That stopped you from saying it, a stupid reason and stupid enough that you could not remove that thought from your head. He’d ruined something else once again. 

Seeing Satoru lay there looking up at you with those eyes made you want to give him the world, so beautiful and would do damn near anything for you.

He would give you the moon and its orbit if he could, you just knew he would happily climb into a rocket, annoy the astronauts and catch it with a comically large net just to get a smile on your lips.

Three years almost in the grand scheme of things was not long at all and there was so much more to learn about each other, that was a point you sought comfort in knowing you were going to evolve with him. Together.

And fuck, did you love the guy too. 

Which brought you right back to the point. If it weren’t for Kento Nanami, things might have ended differently.  

So fuck him. Fuck that guy.

“Malaysia. I hear Kuantan is nice.”

“Hmm. Malaysia huh? Whatever you ask, you shall receive.”

You couldn’t hide that smile of yours. “Really, we’ll go and it’s just you and me, no work involved?” He only nodded, but he was terrible at hiding his own grin.

Alone time, that’s all you ever asked for whenever it was readily available, sometimes it wasn’t at all and that was the downside of being committed to someone in his position.

Some women asked for fancy cars and dramatic statement pieces around their necks, others begged for glamorous designer shoes that came with their own fucking insurance that just begged to be stolen from their feet in public. 

You just wanted Satoru, the whole money thing never sat right with you, recalling your little stuffy apartment and the closet with the rickety door where Sashimi loved to sleep whenever the sun hit your bedroom window just right. The stupid door you wrestled with, however you did not miss. At all. 

Sometimes, things seemed so much simpler back then though… 

“I could look at you all day, did you know that?” Satoru grazed his fingertips over your hips and pulled your nightdress up a little. “What are you thinking about?”

“Mmm,” You thought for a second, tapped your lip with your index finger. “You.”

It wasn’t meant to be construed as sexual in any way, but the two of you knew exactly where this was going after you had said that. There was something about Satoru’s eyes that changed whenever he looked at you in a way that people would assume was lust from a distance. 

And they would be correct. 

You saw that look many times before he fucked you good over the desk in his office, shoving his hand over your mouth to keep you quiet whilst he had to watch a live work presentation. Camera turned off of course but the mic still switched on, that was a good test of your self control though Satoru rarely had a tight grip on his own.

“Just can’t get me off your mind, huh?” Satoru’s hands wandered over the fat of your ass and up the base of your back, pressed flat and firm. “What I gave you before I left for my trip wasn’t enough to tire you over?”

Electric shot up your spine and sent warm flutters inside the pit of your stomach and gorgeous tickles to your muscles to coax you to jolt and grind over his cock that you noticed quite quickly. 

That was quite a night. Satoru looked after you quite well and in truth it was more than enough to last you all week. How he used his mouth the way you liked and the perfect purple marks over your breasts like he owned them gave you enough to finish yourself off whenever you wanted.

“I don’t think it did, actually.” Grinding on his cock always seemed to drive him crazy.

Still, like he said, if you asked, he’d give it to you. His personal time and perfect slender fingers to get sounds from you one wouldn’t normally make in polite conversation.

“Look at you. Did you really miss my cock that much? Now I know for definite you should’a come with me Honey, but I’ll tell ya somethin’” He pulled you so close his breath tickled your ear with heat. “My cock missed you so much, I got hard just thinkin’ about you.” 

Holy shit. Words like that got you soaking on the right day, and it seemed it was one of those times. The sickness and tiredness went away already like it was edging you to one hell of a night. Nowhere in sight like a good girl, readily sat there in the corner to allow you to lose yourself to your boyfriend and watch what a fantastic lover he was. 

Pushing your ass close to him, Satoru nibbled on your earlobe and sucked it, putting all the pressure on your hips as his cock got harder. ‘There’s no way I’m starting and letting you come on my fingers… You can take all of my cock and only that.” 

You wanted to whine and it was as though he'd’ predicted you would, but you didn’t complain when he smacked your ass and let it echo in the bedroom like others would hear it. 

“I bet you used your fingers on yourself while I was away. Am I right?” 

Of course he was fucking right. The first night you were on your own, you had a glass of wine and read one of those sloppy romance books you’d been into recently. The guy did questionable things to the main character and all you did was imagine Satoru doing all those things to you. 

One thing led to another and you finished yourself off… Twice.

Another spank, harder this time. Fuck. “Am I right?” 

“Yes- okay, yes you’re right.”

“Dirty girl. I can’t leave you alone for three nights without you touching yourself, what should I do with you?” 

You ground more deeply, his cock hard and rubbing you the right way enough that you were certain that keeping up like this would make you come quickly. But Satoru knowing your body by now and recognising your cues, he wouldn’t keep you like this long, he would inevitably pull away and tease you before picking you up and pushing you down on his erect length until you begged him to stop.

Which was never.

You struggled to speak consistently but had the strength to sit up straight. “Well… you can fuck me- fuck me for starters.”

“Would you like that? I could rip these panties off you right now and fuck you senseless-” He paused abruptly, he didn’t stop you and kept bucking his hips. “Wait… you said you wanted to lay down, let’s do that instead.”

“No.” You were stern and meant business. “You got me all worked up so you can sort this issue out, then we can lay down.”

“Are you ordering me? That is very fucking hot, Honey. Keep going.” His voice grew more gruff, he was getting excited.

“You’re going to fuck me, come inside me, then order take out.” Of course you needed food after, even in the midst of your passion. 

Satoru laughed but his movements didn’t stop. “Take out too? Jesus christ why don’t you just marry me as well, huh?”

“Mmm,” Now you were getting sarcastic, “Depends if you fuck me right, maybe that’ll determine my answer.”

The tip of his cock poked you perfectly, if you sat as you were and leant to the side, it was going to make you come through the friction alone. Though it was short lived when he stopped you with a hand either side of your waist pulling you up. 

You didn’t get time to whine that time either because he was so quick, you were soaked, your underwear pulled to the side, pants undone and his cock pushed inside you. 

“Oh fuck-” Gorgeous, his cock was just gorgeous.

“This is what you wanted, right? And now you want me to come inside you too, you ask too much of me and I can’t say no to you; shit I can’t say no."

You moved and bounced, the perfect noises of skin on skin, sweat and wet. “Not much- mhm not much, just your cock.” 

He always made you a mess and now he was getting you closer just by the way he was holding you, firm hands had a firm grip, he wouldn’t let you fall, he wouldn’t let you go until you let go. Closer.

So much closer. Close enough to...

A massive crash downstairs made you both stop as you were. Heavy pants and hot breaths were the only sounds after the noise. “What the fuck was that?” 

Satoru didn’t say a word and he had his eyes hardened on the bedroom door that was open into the dim hallway. His own breathing calmed immediately, yours however, didn’t and it matched your heart.

“Satoru…”

“Shh.” One finger up to his lips, “I don’t think it’s-”

“Meeeeooowwwwww!” Sashimi shot through the bedroom door which gave you a little relief knowing it was the silly cat making a ruckus downstairs, but Satoru still hadn’t moved from where he was.

“It’s alright, Love. It was just Sashimi, I’ll clean the mess up later-”

“That noise wasn’t the cat.” He didn’t look at you.

It was. You had just heard it and saw Sashimi darting from the crime scene, of course it was him. “Babe there’s no noise-”

A door opened, the office door specifically. You had grown accustomed to the artificial noise that the office door made, the same annoying to micro squeak you had begged Satoru to fix, but in his own words, ‘Kinda gives it character, y’know?” 

“Stay here and don’t come out until I tell you,” He pulled away and pulled out, still inside you and sat you down on the bed but never took his eyes away from that door. 

“Satoru wait-”

He put up his hand to dismiss you and strode over towards the open door while sorting his pants out. “Lock yourself in the bathroom and don’t come out. Please,” Your name was called, “Please do as I ask.”

Then he wandered away into the darkness. 

You weren’t sure whether to follow him or stand by the bedroom door so you could bring him back up and help him should find himself in a spot of trouble.

Thinking and thinking. Thinking on what to do, you clambered back towards the bathroom and did as you were told, but the haunting loneliness sat uncomfortably on your chest just watching that dim hallway through the open doors. 

It was just like last night.

Whoever it was, they had come back to finish whatever they had started.

Part 11 <- Part 12 -> Part 13

If you'd like to be tagged, please let me know! 😊

Taglist -@starrynights23x,@yatiimariiee,@jumpinjaxx,@keepghostly,@reicyberia,@yourhornysister

Likes, comments and reblogs are so appreciated! ❤️

DISCLAIMER - I do not own any of the characters. This is a work of fan fiction and is absolutely not representative of the views or intentions of the original creator(s).

Also please don’t post any of my work without permission thank you!

[fadedpiink]

after everyone's asleep

txt x gn!reader

somewhat specific nights with txt

genre: fluff / comfort / slice of life / soft boyfriends / established relationship. warnings: none. just soft and warm. just the kind of night where the world slows down and you remember what it feels like to be safe.

author's note: this has been in the drafts for 2 weeks cus i wasn't sure if i liked it fr BUT this is my first time writing for txt/kpop in general! :3 so lmk what u guys think

soobin — windows cracked open, the sound of crickets and a soft breeze sneaking into the room. you’re both tangled in a mess of limbs, too lazy to fix the blanket even though it’s half falling off the bed. soobin’s voice is sleepy, low and mumbly.

“why’re you still awake... come here.”

his arms tighten around you, pulling you impossibly closer. his cheek rests against the top of your head, fingers tracing lazy patterns on your back. the moonlight slices through the blinds, but neither of you move to shut it out. it’s quiet. peaceful. the kind of night where the world could end and you wouldn’t even care, not as long as you’re in his arms.

yeonjun — the air conditioner is humming but his body is always warm against yours, especially when he lets you steal his oversized t-shirt to sleep in. his hand finds yours under the covers and absentmindedly squeezes it, his thumb brushing over your knuckles like muscle memory.

“you’re comfy,” he mutters, half-asleep, “think i’m gonna keep you forever.”

you’re both stretched out on the couch, feet tangled under the throw blanket, some random drama playing on mute because the real entertainment is whispering nonsense back and forth until one of you drifts off. the room smells like popcorn and laundry detergent. safe. soft. home.

beomgyu — your window is open and the fan’s blowing but the summer heat still sticks to your skin, so he’s sprawled on the floor, you curled up next to him, both too lazy to move. every so often his hand reaches out to brush against yours, like he just needs to remind himself you’re there.

“wanna go get ice cream,” he mumbles, staring at the ceiling. “it’s 1am.” “...so?”

the night feels endless, like you’re both the only two people alive. your laughter fades into soft humming, and eventually into silence, both of you just existing together in the glow of streetlights sneaking through the curtains.

taehyun — soft lo-fi playing from the speaker, a half-empty glass of water on the nightstand, and his hoodie hanging off your frame because he noticed you shiver once. your legs are tangled under the blanket, arms free, and he’s holding your hand under the pillow like it’s second nature.

“are you warm enough?” he asks, brushing your cheek. you nod. “are you?” his lips twitch into a tiny smile. “i am now.”

the night passes slow, calm, full of quiet conversations about nothing and everything. the kind of night you wish you could bottle up and save for when the world feels too loud.

huening kai — the windows are fogged up from the rain, the room dim except for the string lights he insisted on hanging. he’s laying on the floor with you, both staring at the ceiling like it’s the most interesting thing in the world.

“do you think the stars miss us when it rains?” “what?” “just wondering.”

he turns his head and smiles at you, soft and sleepy. your hands find each other in the space between. the rain taps against the glass, steady and slow, and you both drift off right there on the floor, warm skin against warm skin, hearts beating slow and safe.

hope you enjoyed! please like + reblog to show support, and feel free to leave feedback and comments through rb tags or anon messages!

[blank-potato]

One Bed, Three Ta'veren

Pairing: Rand al'Thor x Reader x Mat Cauthon

Summary:

If you were this uncomfortable, you could only imagine how miserable Mat and Rand must be on the hard floor. With a sigh, you sit up in bed, glancing between them before finally muttering, “Just get up here. Both of you.” There’s a moment of hesitation before they give in, shuffling under the covers, pressed close together for warmth. Or You all love each other but need a little push to admit it; luckily, you all end up staying at an inn with only one bed.

A/N: Another Randwich but with Mat this time! I just love me some Cauthor and best friends kissing for the first time, Challengers style. It's set during season 1, and Rand and Egwene have never dated in this fic, it’s just implied briefly that he had a crush on her

✦ ⋆ ࣪.✦ ⋆ ࣪.✦ ⋆ ࣪.

It had been a long journey, and exhaustion weighed heavily on all of you.

Walking for hours on end, trying to reach the White Tower, not knowing if you would see Perrin and Egwene again or if they even made it out of Shadar Logoth alive. The only thing keeping you sane was Rand and Mat.

Eventually, you made it to a place to rest for the night in a village not too unlike Emond’s Field. The inn where you had to stay was all full except one room…with only one bed. Your luck had been terrible, but you had two gentlemen more than willing to sacrifice their sleep and their backs for you.

“I can stay on the floor,” Rand offers.

“So can I,” Mat interjects, ever the stubborn one.

As you watch them bicker over who should take the worst sleeping spot, you even try offering to take it, but they immediately shut you down. They were always coddling you, even back home in the Two Rivers.

You had to carry something heavy? Rand would offer to take it off your hands. You had a problem that needed solving? Mat would be there to figure it out with you. They supported you no matter what, so of course, you found yourself in bed while Mat and Rand took the floor.

“Goodnight,” you say, and they mumble back half-asleep responses in quick succession.

As you lie there, staring at the ceiling, it’s not even five minutes before you realise sleep won’t come. You can’t help but notice the way the cold seeps into your bones, the stiff mattress and flimsy blankets doing little to keep you warm. If you were this uncomfortable, you could only imagine how miserable Mat and Rand must be on the hard floor.

With a sigh, you sit up in bed, glancing between them before finally muttering, “Just get up here. Both of you.”

There’s a moment of hesitation before they give in, shuffling under the covers, pressed close together for warmth. It feels so much nicer, their bodies on either side of yours. The bed was anything but spacious, and you were all kind of on top of one another, but you didn't mind.

Quite the opposite.

You’d been harbouring a crush on both Mat and Rand for quite some time, and now this... well, it was either a dream come true or it was going to give you a heart attack. If you did die of happiness, at least you’d die knowing you'd been truly alive.

"Comfortable?" you ask, pulling the sheet over all of you, and the boys let out thankful grumbles, glad their backs wouldn't be broken by the hardwood floor.

Then, in a quieter voice, “What if it’s one of us… the Dragon Reborn?”

Silence hangs between you, heavy with unspoken fears.

“If it is one of us…” Rand murmurs, his voice steady despite the weight of his words. “We stay together. No matter what.”

Mat opens his mouth to respond, but instead hums in agreement before muttering, “I don’t think I’ll be able to sleep tonight.”

You shift slightly, feeling the warmth of Rand’s body against your front, the softness of his hair brushing your cheek, while Mat’s scruff tickles the back of your neck behind you.

“I don’t think I will either,” you reply.

Sandwiched between them, it feels comfortable, more comfortable than you’ve been in a long time. Like you’re back home, surrounded by warmth and familiarity, as if everything were normal again. No Trollocs chasing after you. No looming threat of being the Dragon Reborn. No Darkfriends lurking in the shadows, waiting for the right moment to strike.

Just you, Mat and Rand, like it always used to be.

As you close your eyes, you can almost picture it, days spent in Emond’s Field, nights filled with laughter, with nothing to fear except whether the crops would yield enough, or if the Village Council would argue themselves hoarse again.

But that life is gone now, a distant dream.

You feel Mat shiver against you, he’s been like this ever since you left Shadar Logoth, his body tense, his breath uneven.

“Mat? Move over.”

Without thinking, you climb over him, positioning him between you and Rand, hoping the added warmth will help. He grumbles about something, but you don't hear the words.

As if second nature, Rand’s hand moves gently to Mat’s dark hair, fingertips ghosting over his temple in a silent gesture of comfort. You notice the way Mat leans into his touch in the dim light from the lantern by the bed.

“I'm not even cold.”

“Stop complaining, I can feel you shivering,” Rand says softly as he comforts him.

It was cute. They were always so touchy with one another, always having an excuse to have their hands on each other.

Just then, Mat reaches back blindly, searching for you, and you take his hand, tracing slow, calming patterns along his fingers, hoping it gives him even the smallest bit of relief.

After a long pause, his voice breaks the quiet.

Mat says, “Do you remember when you snuck us into the Winespring Inn’s kitchen to steal the leftover sweetcakes?”

You smile at the memory, feeling a sense of warmth that makes you feel safe again.

You reply, “Of course I do, you spent the whole night trying to convince Mistress al’Vere it was all Rand’s idea when we'd get caught.”

Rand, laughing at the memory, shakes his head and says, “And somehow, I still ended up scrubbing pots for a week! You were always such a troublemaker.”

“I was only a troublemaker with the two of you. I was perfectly well behaved with Perrin or Egwene.”

You feel another hand reach out for yours, and even without looking, you know it’s Rand’s; his fingertips are rough and calloused from years of working on the farm, so different from Mat’s.

You hold hands, the tufts of Mat's hair between both of your fingers like carding through blades of grass.

“So you blame us for your bad behaviour?” Rand teases.

“In part, yes.”

They both laugh, and in the darkness, your senses are heightened, every small sound and touch feeling like fire.

Mat moves and rests beneath Rand’s chin, his breathing finally evening out, though the tension in his body hasn’t fully disappeared. You shift slightly, letting your head rest against Mat’s, his heartbeat steady beneath your ear.

For the first time in what feels like forever, despite everything, despite the fear and uncertainty that the future holds, you feel safe.

“Do you think one day we'll be able to return home?” Mat says, his voice quiet but hopeful.

You know he misses his sisters and the way things used to be.

“I know we will, even if it's years from now. We're going to make it through…together,” you say, gripping his shoulder firmly.

Mat nods, exhaling slowly. “Yeah. Together.” Then, with a lopsided grin, he adds, “Just as long as I don’t have to carry Rand the whole way, guy’s heavier than he looks.”

Of course, Rand responds with a playful whack to Mat’s chest. “Hilarious, you ought to be the one carried,” he deadpans, though there’s a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

You laugh, the sound light in the quiet night, and as you sit in the warm stillness between them, you decide to take a swing.

“I couldn’t be without you both,” you say, voice soft but sure. “I’d go mad.”

There's silence in the room. Even though your words were simple, the weight behind them and the sincerity in your voice carried through, doing little to conceal how much you meant it.

"I mean it…" You say, your voice steady but intense, your eyes meeting theirs.

You sit up, lighting another lantern, its soft glow flickering and brightening up the dim room. Both of them are looking at you with a mix of curiosity and concern, their expressions waiting for your next words.

You inhale deeply, gathering your thoughts before continuing. "I'd do anything to protect you and make sure you're safe, no matter what it takes and I…"

“I love you, I'm in love with you," you say softly, your heart racing as the words leave your lips. The silence that follows feels deafening, but in it, there's a sense of relief. You can’t believe you’ve finally said it. You had imagined telling them so many times, speaking to yourself in your mirror, but now it was finally out there.

"Rand?" Mat asks, his voice laced with disbelief.

"Yes, and you, Mat." You nod, your words steady despite the weight of the moment.

"You love us both...?" Rand’s question lingers in the air, almost hesitant, as if unsure how to process this revelation.

"It’s not as uncommon as you may think," you reply, a touch of vulnerability in your voice. "Having feelings for more than one person… And I can’t help how I feel about both of you. And…" You pause, gathering your thoughts. "I can see the way you look at each other."

"Rand and…" Mat's voice falters as he tries to get his head around it, the realisation dawns on him slowly. His conflicted expression falls onto Rand, looking for some sort of answer.

"It would take a fool not to notice. You care for each other far more than just friends do. It's love..." You add, hoping that they'll listen to reason.

Rand is quiet for a long moment, his gaze distant, as if deep in contemplation. The silence feels heavy, but you know this is a lot for both of them to process.

“Someone, please say something.”

You've never been so terrified as the silence continues to stretch on. Maybe you’ve overstepped and said too much. Maybe you've lost your best friends and should've stayed silent. The tension hangs thick in the air as you pick at the bed sheet, but your mental spiral is interrupted by a low chuckle from Mat.

“I think we've said enough.” Mat pulls you in, his embrace firm and steady, as if grounding you both in the moment.

When your lips finally meet, it's hesitant at first, but full of the unspoken emotions that have been building up over the years. Then, as if something clicks into place, the kiss deepens, carrying the weight of everything they've been through together. Gently holding your face in his hands, as he steals your air with each movement.

You both pull away, breathless, like you can’t believe it was finally happening. And almost instantly, Rand pulls you closer, his lips moving desperately against yours, as if afraid to let go.

His hands find their way to your back, fingers pressing in just enough to keep you grounded in the moment. It’s more than just a kiss; it’s a promise, a release, a feeling of finally being understood.

You both pull back, and Mat’s gaze shifts between the two of you with a look that’s full of wonder and want. He exhales sharply, running a hand through his hair and shaking his head with a crooked, half-amused smile.

“Well… that was something,” he mutters, his voice lighter than the tension still lingering in the air. “You two really know how to put on a show.”

But there’s no denying the way his eyes linger, the way his fingers twitch at his side, like he’s debating something he’s not quite ready to say out loud. Then, his gaze flicks to Rand’s lips, and you know exactly what he wants. 

Mat and Rand look at each other, uncertain if they want to cross this line, if they should take that final step into something they both clearly want. 

“Don't be afraid to give in. What do you have to lose?” you say, your voice barely above a whisper, but full of meaning. Afraid that they wouldn’t be able to make the first step, you make it for them. You hold both of their chins gently, guiding them toward each other until their lips meet, hesitant at first, then melting into each other like it’s something they’d done a million times before. 

Mat kisses Rand with desperate fervour, his hands clutching at your thigh like you were a lifeline, while Mat’s touch is tentative but searching, his fingers reaching out to furl in his shirt like he was a lost part of his soul, now reunited.

It was a beautiful sight, the moment hesitation gave way to something they’d been hiding for a long time. All those days they spent dancing around it or pretending it wasn’t there. The jealousy Mat would feel when Rand was fawning over Egwene, and the quiet ache Rand carried when Mat wasn’t by his side. All of it leading up to this moment. 

As he lets down his defences, Rand leans into Mat, his fingers running through Mat's hair, gripping just slightly as if afraid to let go. Mat exhales against his lips, a quiet sound of surrender, before pulling Rand even closer, their bodies pressing together as the space between them disappears.

Rand’s tongue slips into Mat’s mouth, slow and searching, and Mat responds with a sharp gasp before melting into it. It was messy and hungry, like they couldn’t get enough of each other, like they’d been holding back for far too long, and you couldn’t look away.

They finally tear apart, panting and reluctant, eyes still locked on each other, before they both turn to you.

“I… I don’t know what that was,” Rand says, voice low, “but…”

Mat doesn’t wait for him to finish, already knowing what he’s thinking. 

“Me too.”

He then reaches for you and pulls you between them, no hesitation, no second-guessing. Your back rests against Rand, his arms wrapping around your wrists, gently pulling one of your hands to his lips as he works his way up your arm, his breath warm against your skin. Mat’s eyes are a fire of intensity, never leaving you. He’s looking you up and down, his gaze hungry, like he’s ready to devour you and then, without a word, he does.

Lips trail hot kisses down your neck, hands roaming, gripping, exploring. The longer it goes on you barely know who’s touching you, and where.

“We need you,” Rand says, his voice low and steady, as he tugs your shirt off with a gentle urgency.

Mat’s gaze lands on your topless form, and with a teasing smirk, he finishes, “More than you can imagine.”

The rest of the night is long, the heat and emotion taking over you as if no challenges were waiting in the morning because, in that moment, it truly felt like there weren’t.

There were no more secrets between the three of you now. Your desires and your fears, your longing and your love, all of it had been laid bare tonight.

Morning breaks softly, casting a pale golden light across the room. The boys are still asleep beside you, their breathing slow and steady, bodies loosely entangled with yours. Their bodies were littered with love bites, teeth marks and scratches, evidence of the night that had been shared between you all. Looking down at yourself, you realize you were no different, your skin marked like a map of the stars. 

A warmth fills your heart as you trace each mark with your fingers, remembering each touch they gave you. You hope they last long, that each mark stays, so you can look at them every day and remember what happened that night.

Masterlist

[quibbs126]

So my brain had another thought recently, and so I figured, how else to convey this idea than through another meme redraw?

I swear, I don’t know why I’m doing it so much now

But anyways, I essentially have this mental image of Starscream, Soundwave and Shockwave all being roommates in the TFOne-verse, whether that was always the case or if that only happened after Megatron took over an essentially kicked Starscream out of his room (and/or Starscream didn’t want to share with him). I just think it’s a funny mental image

But I also have a specific mindset with this dynamic, in that Soundwave and Shockwave are dating/married, while Starscream and Skyfire were a thing in the past, but with Sentinel’s betrayal Starscream hasn’t been able to see him in 50 years. So basically he’s stuck unwillingly third wheeling while not being able to be with his own partner, and he just kind of has to live with this

Anyways, I just thought it was funny and wanted to share it

[phagodyke]

yeah I'm not gonna talk abt it am I...

[orcelito]

Been fiddling with my phone in bed for like an hour ish. Decided to finally actually sleep, but figured I should use the bathroom first. Both cats were already settled with me in bed, tho I knew I'd end up waking up needing to pee if I didn't go now, so I decided to go anyways.

As I was leaving the bed, I tried to tell them, "I'll be Right Back... don't get up..."

But of course. They both got up immediately. And Tally followed me right into the bathroom to sit on the litter box and keep me company (as she likes to do).

Back in bed now. And I have neither cat with me 😑