#and finally. finally. I can hear her. I can hear thunder rolling in across the city

[nocturnebite]

#1 Fan boy ♬⋆.˚

(i know you're a star) - fanboy!jake x fem-idol!reader

synopsis: shes an idol. he's her biggest fan. what starts in secret slowly turns into something real— shared dances, late-night messages, and a love they were never supposed to have. But in a world that watches everything... how long can a secret stay safe? fic notes: fluff || slowburn || secret romance || idols x fan || emotional tension || soft angst || cozy scenes || private love || wc: 16.85k

ash's notes: HEYY! this one took me so long.. so sorry. but i really hope you enjoy this soft lil fic for jake! i love him so bad! ALSO thank you so much for all the love and support i've been getting! it means the world to me! <3 (also i had no idea that you could only have 1,000 spaces in a post.. so i randomly went through combining things.. if it seems a little off paced.. i blame that lmao)

The dressing room buzzes with low chatter, the scent of hairspray clinging to the air like static. Somewhere to your left, a curling iron hisses against a strand of hair. The floor beneath your heels is slick with polish and dust, and someone’s laughing—but it doesn’t reach you.

You sit beneath the harsh vanity lights, staring at a version of yourself you’ve seen too many times. Glitter-shadowed eyes, lips tinted just shy of red, skin airbrushed into something near divine. Not a flaw in sight. Not a crack.

Stage-ready.

You flex your fingers in your lap. They're cold.

"Three minutes, Cherie," a stage manager calls through the crack in the door, voice clipped and urgent. "You're closing."

Cherie. That’s the group. Four girls molded from sleepless nights and survival instincts, packaged into a dream. They call it glamorous. You call it exhausting. You rise slowly, the hem of your silver dress brushing against your thigh as you move. The fabric feels expensive and hollow.

“Hey,” your leader, Naya, murmurs, brushing invisible lint from your sleeve. “You good?” You nod. You're always good.

Your heels click against the tile as you move toward the back hallway, a sound swallowed by the murmur of nerves that cling to the air. The corridors behind the stage are narrow, dimly lit, and colder than the dressing room. Fluorescent lights buzz faintly above your head. You can hear the muffled pulse of the crowd on the other side of the wall—it’s a sound like thunder underwater. Distant. Alive. Your stylists hover nearby, making last-second adjustments: a shimmer dabbed onto the inner corners of your eyes, a flyaway smoothed behind your ear, the clasp of your earring tightened without a word. It all happens around you like clockwork, like you’re a porcelain figure being carefully prepared for a museum display.

You barely blink. “Final checks,” someone says.

You exhale through your nose. It’s not nerves, exactly. Not fear. It’s something tighter. Thinner. A ribbon pulled too taut. A screen nearby shows the stage just seconds before your entrance. The lighting rig sweeps across the crowd like a sunbeam, and the fans roar louder. Your groupmates stand beside you in a practiced formation, each of them focused, stretching, rolling their shoulders. You do the same, even though your limbs feel more mechanical than your own. Your fingers drift to the in-ear monitor tucked behind your hair. The soft buzz of the backing track hums quietly now—a countdown in code.

“Mic check,” someone murmurs through your earpiece. You answer quietly, voice steady, even though your throat’s a little dry. The lemon tea you drank earlier didn’t help. Nothing ever really helps. There’s a moment before every performance that feels like falling. Not in the way people romanticize it. Not flying. Not freedom. It’s the other kind—like slipping just as you reach the top step, heart hitching as gravity remembers you. That one breath before the lights catch your face, before thousands of eyes lock on yours. Before you become the version of yourself they paid to see.

You swallow hard. Taste nerves at the back of your tongue. From somewhere deep inside, the mask rises again. You tilt your chin, adjust your posture, and exhale. Right on cue, the curtain begins to rise. It hits you all at once—the heat of the stage lights, the colors exploding overhead, the synchronized stomp of backup dancers hitting their mark behind you. Music crashes like a tidal wave. Your body moves before your mind does, choreography pulling at your muscles like thread. You hit every beat—sharp, flawless, designed. The kind of perfection they screen-cap and replay in slow motion.

But even as your lips form the words, even as you throw your arm outward and spin in time with the next hook—you feel it. That ache. That ghost of emptiness just beneath the surface. Like you’re watching yourself from a few inches to the left. Like your smile doesn’t quite fit your mouth. Then it happens.

Midway through the second verse, during the fan-favorite part of the song—when your group pauses just long enough for the camera to pan close to your face—you glance out at the sea of lightsticks and signs and phones and colors— And for a moment, your eyes snag. There, in the fourth row, just off-center. A boy. Not one of the shouting ones. Not flailing. Not holding a flashing sign with your name in LED. Just… standing there. Camera in hand. Focused. Still. The kind of stillness that makes you notice.

His face is soft. His mouth slightly parted, like he’s afraid to blink and miss you. He’s not the type to scream. He’s the type to remember. Every note. Every expression. Every time your fingers trembled on a high note you swore no one noticed. His lightstick glows quietly at his side. Not raised, not demanding. Just... there. Like he’s not trying to take from you—only to witness you. You don’t realize you’re staring until the beat drops and your body reacts a half second late.

The delay is minuscule. No one notices. Except maybe him. You look away fast. And yet, even as the performance charges forward, lights flashing and sweat beginning to gather at your spine, there’s a flicker behind your ribs you can’t shake. You’ve seen thousands of faces. But his felt like something. You don’t even know his name. Not yet.

The stage continues to swell around you—LED panels shifting, bass vibrating through your shoes, backup dancers circling as the final chorus begins its climb. Your voice cuts through the roar, flawless on the outside, but underneath it all, your thoughts are slipping.

You don’t usually look at individual faces. It’s a rule you taught yourself early on. Look over the crowd, never into it. It’s easier that way. Safer. If you see someone crying, someone reaching out like they know you—it becomes too real. And this industry has taught you how dangerous real can be. But that boy. The still one. The one who wasn’t cheering, but watching. He didn’t look like someone who saw a star. He looked like someone who saw you.

Your feet move through the final formation, hips angled just right, arms outstretched with the practiced grace of a thousand rehearsals. Naya hits her high note beside you, her voice slicing through the haze of lights like silk drawn over glass. You keep your smile steady, the exact kind they expect—soft, mysterious, composed—but your heartbeat is anything but. It pounds in your ears louder than the track. A strange, subtle panic spreads through your chest like ripples across still water.

Why did that feel like something? Your hand brushes your side during the final spin. You’re supposed to wink on the last beat. You always do. Fans love it. It trends. But this time, your eyes find that spot in the crowd again. He’s still there. And for just a second, he lifts his camera from his chest—slowly, reverently—and takes a photo. You don’t see the flash. You feel it. It’s not a click you hear. It’s something quieter. A thread being pulled. Your chest flutters. Then the lights explode gold. Confetti shoots into the air, raining down in metallic flakes. The crowd screams, drowning out every thought. You hold your final pose, breath shallow, smile frozen. He disappears into the noise. The music fades.

Applause crashes forward like a tidal wave, relentless and bright. You bow automatically with the others, waving toward the fans, smile never wavering. You squeeze Harin’s hand without meaning to. Her fingers squeeze back. You don’t remember walking offstage. Only the heat still clinging to your skin. Backstage is dimmer. Quieter. The roar of the crowd is muffled again, reduced to static behind concrete walls. Your chest is rising and falling too fast. Naya wraps an arm around your shoulders as the four of you file down the hallway, heading toward your waiting room. She smells like hairspray and citrus perfume, her sweat glistening under the collar of her jeweled jacket. “We killed it,” she says breathlessly, grinning. You nod again. You’ve done it a hundred times. It's muscle memory now.

The stylists are waiting with towels, cool bottles of water, soothing pads for your face. You take them with a dazed kind of precision. Your body knows what to do, even if your brain is stuck somewhere else. Someone is speaking to you—Juna, probably, joking about a missed cue or a wardrobe slip—but it all feels muted. Like glass between you and the world. You sit down slowly on the dressing room couch, the leather creaking beneath your weight. The towel in your hands is warm now. You don’t remember when you stopped holding it to your neck. You blink. You can still see his face. Not perfectly—just impressions. The shape of his eyes. The softness of his expression. The way he stood as if he wasn’t sure he was supposed to be there. He wasn’t loud. He wasn’t trying to be noticed. But he was the only thing you saw. There’s a moment where you let your head fall back against the couch, eyes closing. The voices of your groupmates swirl around you—Naya laughing, Harin humming the chorus under her breath—but for once, you don’t chime in. You don’t move. You just sit there. And you wonder:

Why did it feel like he was looking for you… before you even knew to look for him?

The soft murmur of your groupmates’ voices slices through the haze just as you start to drift away. Juna nudges your arm with a grin, her eyes sparkling like she’s caught you daydreaming again. “Heyy, hellooo? Anyone home?” she teases lightly, voice warm. “You zoning out or what?” You blink, focus snapping back like a rubber band. Harin is already standing, stretching her arms overhead, while Naya checks her phone with a faint smile. The room shifts, the energy picking up—it's time to move for the send-off. You stand slowly, muscles still heavy from the show but aching for the familiar rhythm of movement. Your heels click quietly against the floor as the four of you slip out of the dressing room and toward the exit. The backstage corridors are narrower now, the bustle swelling as the night grows deeper. As you step into the cool night air, the roar of the crowd washes over you like a tidal wave again. Lights flash from hundreds of phones, and voices rise in a chorus of cheers and cries.

Near the barricade, you spot him. He’s easy to miss if you weren’t looking for him: just a boy in a simple hoodie, his lightstick held loosely in one hand, a soft smile brightening his face. Hopeful. Patient. Your heart jolts, breath catching in your throat. You push forward, weaving through the cluster of fans and staff, desperate to reach him. But before you can slip through, Juna steps past you, effortlessly reaching the barricade first. She flashes a bright smile, signing autographs and chatting briefly with the fans pressed close. You watch as his gaze shifts from Juna’s familiar face to yours. Your eyes meet for a heartbeat—an electric pulse of recognition and something unspoken.

You almost falter, the world narrowing to that fragile moment. His smile widens, just a little, before he turns his attention back to the Juna in front of him. You catch his eye again as Juna steps back, handing over the moment like a silent promise. You inch closer, your fingers twitching to reach out, but the crowd surges slightly, and he’s pushed back. Still, every glance between you feels like a secret conversation—small, intense, and filled with more meaning than words ever could. After the send-off, the night stretches thin as you ride back to the dorms. The hum of the city blurs past the tinted windows, your mind replaying the stolen moments. Back inside your room, the quiet wraps around you like a balm. You slip off your stage clothes, the fabric falling away like a second skin, slipping into the pajamas you left out just for this moment. The bed beckons, but your hands tremble just enough as you reach for your phone. You unlock the screen and open the “fake” TikTok account you keep hidden from your company and fans—a quiet corner of the internet where you watch without being watched. Tonight, the feed shows something new. An edit of you. But not just any edit. This one is different. It feels intimate. Raw. Like it was captured through someone’s eyes... Through his eyes.

The footage moves slowly—a close-up of your face under the spotlight, the way your fingers twitch mid-chorus, your “signature” move during that song. And oddly enough they seem to be taken from where he would have been standing. Your breath hitches. You tap the username. yourcheriefanboy. It’s unfamiliar. Yet somehow, the world inside that screen feels closer than the one outside your window. And in the dark, you wonder what it means.

You lie back on your bed, the cool sheets tangling around your arms like a gentle weight. The city hums faintly outside your window, distant and unobtrusive, a soft lullaby that somehow sharpens the silence in your room. Your phone rests on your stomach, screen glowing softly in the dim light. The video you found loops silently—a montage of you. You stare at it again, heart fluttering with an ache you didn’t expect. On a whim that feels like a secret rebellion against the loneliness you carry, you tap Follow. A tiny ripple in your quiet world. You set your phone gently down beside you, letting your breath slow, your thoughts scatter like fragile leaves.

Then, almost instantly, your phone vibrates. They followed you back. The words feel heavy, electric. Your fingers tremble as you reach for your phone, eyes flickering between the screen and the dim ceiling. You want to believe it’s real. That this isn’t just another fragment of your isolated life. You open the video’s comment section, fingers hovering for a moment before you type, the words small and cautious:

Cherieoffgrid: Was this from tonight’s concert?

Almost immediately, the reply pops up:

yourcheriefanboy: Yes.

Simple. Unadorned. Honest. A shiver curls through your spine, warm and unexpected. Could it really be him? You slide open the profile, eyes searching for clues. The profile picture is a blurry mirror selfie, shadows swallowing most of the frame, the faint outline of a face just visible. Too dark to recognize. Too vague to be certain. Yet, something about the faint smile etched in the shadow feels familiar—like a whispered promise. You scroll through their videos, each one a tender glimpse into a world you rarely see. Clips from concerts, candid fan edits, moments caught through a lens you never imagined looking through. No hype. No drama. Just quiet admiration. Your thumb hesitates over the message icon. Then it glows. A new notification. You tap it open.

yourcheriefanboy: Hi! How are you?

Your breath catches. Usually, you don’t respond to messages from fan accounts. Not anymore. It’s safer not to. But something about this one is different. Sincere. Soft. You pause, fingers hovering over the keyboard. You wonder if you should ignore it, but instead, you type back simply:

Cherieoffgrid: I’m doing good!

The reply is swift, almost eager.

yourcheriefanboy: Are you a fan of Cherie?

Your lips press into a thin line. You hesitate. It’s your undercover account. No one must know. You type carefully:

Cherieoffgrid: Yes.

A beat. And then:

yourcheriefanboy: Who’s your bias?

You chew your lip, thinking of your groupmates—their faces, their laughs, their fierce dedication. Your fingers move before your mind catches up:

Cherieoffgrid: Juna.

Seconds stretch like hours. Then his message comes. Your chest tightens. It’s you. Your name. On your screen. From whoever this mystery fan may be. The weight of those words presses against your skin like a secret meant only for you. You blink, heart hammering so loud it drowns out the distant city hum. For the first time in so long, you sorta feel seen. Truly seen. Not as the idol the world demands you be. But as you.

You stare at the screen, the gentle glow illuminating your face in the dark room. And wonder if this quiet fan watching from the crowd, might be the beginning of something real. The conversation unfolds like a thread pulled gently, night after night. You never tell him who you are. You don’t have to. He doesn’t ask in the way others do—not with greed, not with demand, just with curiosity. One night, curled beneath your blanket with the phone warm in your hand, he types:

yourcheriefanboy: What’s your name?

You stare at the message for a while, the cursor blinking. A real name would be reckless. Obvious. But something about him—the way he talks to you, like he isn’t trying to pry under your skin—makes you want to be known. A little. After a pause, you type back:

Cherieoffgrid: Yeji.

A fake name you thought of on the spot. You almost don’t send it. But you do.

yourcheriefanboy: Pretty,

He replies simply. 

I’m Jake.

You smile faintly, eyes softening. Jake. It suits him. Then days pass.

The rhythm of your chats are simple, natural. You talk about little things—your favorite snacks, music that makes you feel something, the way city lights look when it rains. He tells you about school, about how he works a part-time job at a coffee shop. He tells you he doesn’t have a ton of friends who understand his love for idols. You listen. You laugh quietly when he says he once camped overnight for a Cherie merch drop and got sick after but still swears it was worth it. You don’t say much about yourself. You don’t have to. He fills the space with softness, not noise. Then one night, he sends you something.

yourcheriefanboy: Thought you might like this one

You click the video. And there he is. For the first time. Standing on a quiet street, just out of frame at first, then laughing as he holds his phone and pans upward. The night sky behind him is deep and silver-dusted. His face is lit only by a streetlamp. His eyes crinkle when he smiles. It’s him. Him. The boy from the crowd. From the send-off. The boy with the steady gaze who made your chest twist onstage. Your fingers pause over the screen. So it’s really him. You don’t reply for a few minutes. You just watch the video again. And again.

—

The fansign is loud. Hot lights beat down on your skin. The chatter of the crowd blends with the shuffle of papers, the clatter of pens, and the familiar refrain of “Can you sign this?” “Can I take a picture?” “Can you write my name like this?” You smile. You always do. It’s practiced. Perfect. Everything about you is fine-tuned for this—the nods, the giggles, the little tilt of your head when someone says something sweet. They love you for it. You’re good at it. But something in your chest already knows. He’s here. You feel it before you see him. Then the next fan steps forward. And it’s him. Jake.

He looks just like the video. More alive than memory, softer than screenlight. Hoodie sleeves tugged over his palms, fingers wrapped gently around an album. He doesn’t start speaking right away. Doesn’t rush. He sits down in front of you and meets your eyes like no one else does. You paste on the same bright, rehearsed smile. “Hi!” you say in your polished fanservice voice. But he doesn’t play along. He just smiles. Soft. Steady.

“You look tired,” he says gently after a few seconds, not accusing, not unkind. Your smile falters for half a second. Almost invisible. Almost. His voice lowers, quiet enough that only you can hear it.

“I just wanted to say I’m really proud of you.” Your fingers pause over the page you’re signing. Jake’s eyes flick to the crowd behind him, then return to yours.

“All of these people,” he says, nodding toward the fans buzzing with energy behind him, “they love you. You give them so much. Even when it’s hard.”

You swallow tightly. He smiles again, softer now, more fragile.

“So don’t give up, okay? You’re doing amazing.”

Something cracks in you. A gentle fissure. The exhaustion you buried all day suddenly rises like a tide. Your eyes sting. Just a little. You look up at him. And he sees it. His smile shifts—still kind, but worried now. His expression flickers, caught between reaching for you and respecting the space between your worlds. He opens his mouth to say something else. But a staff member steps forward.

“Time’s up,” they say with mechanical efficiency. Jake glances at them, then back at you. He stands slowly, his eyes never leaving yours. And for the briefest, barest moment, he looks like he doesn’t want to leave. Like there’s more he wants to say. You smile again. The one they all expect. Polished. Bright. It hurts this time. He smiles back—but it’s different now. Quieter. A little sad. Like he knows what’s hiding behind your shine. As he moves down the line to the next member, your eyes follow him for one last second, then snap away when you realize you're still watching. You turn to the next fan, all glitter and laughs again. You sign their album. You tilt your head. You laugh when they tell you you’re perfect. You’re not. And Jake knows it. From across the table, you feel his eyes on you. Not judging. Not disappointed. Just watching. Seeing. The weight of it presses against your ribs like a truth you don’t know how to carry.

—

The black van hums low beneath your legs as you lean against the cool window, the lights of the city blurring into yellow streaks against your reflection. Naya is scrolling through fan messages beside you, earbuds half in, her head tilted toward the glass. Juna is sitting cross-legged in her seat, laughing softly at a meme Harin showed her, something about a fan bringing twenty albums to the fansign just to get a longer interaction. You’re quiet. You don’t mean to be. But the weight of that last moment clings to you like humidity. Jake’s voice is still in your ears—You look tired… I’m proud of you… don’t give up. The way he saw you, even through all the polished edges and soft smiles you wear like armor. You rest your forehead against the glass, eyes half-lidded.

“You okay?” Naya asks, glancing at you.

You lift your head slowly. “Just tired.”

“Mm.” She studies you a moment longer than usual. “You sure? You were quiet even during that fan’s whole confession poem to you.” She nudges your knee playfully. “That usually gets a laugh.”

You smile faintly. “Yeah. Just... tired.”

Juna leans over the seat. “We all are,” she says gently. “But hey. One more week, right? Then we finally get that break.”

Harin makes a dramatic sigh. “I’m going to sleep for two straight days.”

You smile for real this time, warm and soft. They mean it. You all need this break like air. But as the conversation drifts, you slip back into silence. You don’t mean to think about Jake. But you do. You already are. At home, you drop onto your bed with a sigh, tugging off your hoodie and toeing off your shoes. Your body aches. Your face feels stiff from smiling. Your bones are tired in that way that doesn’t quite go away, even after sleep. You grab your phone off the nightstand and flick open your fake account. Jake’s just posted. It’s a selfie. The fansign banner in the background, the sun hitting one side of his face, a soft grin tugging at his lips.

yourcheriefanboy “still can’t believe today was real 🥹 thank you @cherie_official 💙 you were all amazing. so proud.”

Your heart jumps. Before you can stop yourself, you message him.

Cherieoffgrid: How was it?

You ask, pretending you don’t already know. Pretending you weren’t on the other side of that table, staring into his eyes like you were about to fall apart. His reply comes fast:

yourcheriefanboy: Insane lol. I was so nervous. I think I forgot how to talk when I sat down??

You smile softly.

Cherieoffgrid: You looked calm in the selfie yourcheriefanboy: Faking it

He says quickly. Then after a beat: 

yourcheriefanboy: One of the members—she looked kinda tired, though. I hope she’s okay.

Your chest tightens. You type slowly:

Cherieoffgrid: She’s probably fine. It’s their job. I wouldn’t worry too much.

You stare at the message as it sends, hating how hollow it feels. How much it sounds like something your manager would say. Jake doesn’t wait long.

yourcheriefanboy: Still… she deserves rest. They all do. They work so hard and care so much. It’s not fair how overworked they are. I hope they get a break soon.

Your throat closes. You blink a few times too fast. You don’t know what to say. So you say nothing. And he keeps talking. Casual again. You let the conversation drift back into warmth. He tells you how he almost missed his train to the fansign. How he waited in line behind a guy with a massive lightstick bouquet and felt like he brought nothing. How he accidentally waved to one of the staff thinking it was a member. You laugh under your breath. And for a moment… it’s easy. Then he types it:

yourcheriefanboy: We should go to one of their pop-ups together sometime. Like meet up. It’d be cool to talk in person.

You freeze. You don’t know how to answer. Of course you can’t. You want to. You really, really want to. But this life you’re trapped inside doesn’t allow things like that. You type:

Cherieoffgrid: I don’t really meet up with people I don’t know… sorry 😅

He doesn’t take it personally. He sends a heart emoji. Then: 

yourcheriefanboy: No worries. Maybe someday.

You don’t reply. But you reread it five times before locking your phone and pressing it to your chest.

—

The break begins. No schedules. No cameras. You wear a hoodie two sizes too big, a mask pulled up over your cheeks, a baseball cap hiding your face. Naya and Juna went to the spa. Harin’s sleeping in. You needed out. Air. Coffee. Something that didn’t taste like makeup wipes and lipstick. The café is quiet. Tucked into a side street in Mapo. You order an iced Americano and sit near the window, scrolling through your phone. You don’t mean to check Jake’s account. You just do. Still sweet. Still full of edits. Nothing about you specifically. Then the bell above the door rings. You glance up. Your heart nearly stops. It’s him. Jake.

Real. Taller than you remember. Hoodie sleeves rolled up. That same calm presence. He orders something and steps to the side, waiting. You don’t think. You just watch. You want to say something. You want to rip off your mask and walk up to him and say, It’s me. I’m right here. I’ve been here this whole time. But you can’t. So you sit. Frozen. He turns toward the tables. Your head lowers instinctively. You lift your cup to take a sip and your mask dips slightly below your chin. You don’t notice. But he does. A voice across the room—someone calling your name. A barista. Familiar.

“Hey, isn’t that—?”

Jake’s head turns. Your eyes meet. Everything stills. He tilts his head, squinting. Recognition sparks. You move. Fast. Shoving your cup down, pulling your mask back up, pushing past a couple entering through the door. You run. Out the door. Into the street. Heart pounding. Your phone slips from your hand in the panic. Hits the sidewalk. You don’t notice. Jake does. He hurries forward, calling out. “Wait—hey, you dropped—”

He picks it up. And freezes. The screen is lit. Still open to your messages with him. His own name across the top. His last message glowing blue. His hands go cold. Then— He looks up. And runs. Through the crowd. Across the street. Dodging cars, horns blaring, lungs burning. He turns a corner. And there— There you are. A blur of black hoodie and trembling shoulders turning down an alley, trying to disappear.

“Wait!” he calls, voice cracking. He runs faster. Your name—your real name—is forming on his lips. But you’re already vanishing. You’re breathless by the time you reach your building. Your hoodie’s damp from sweat and nerves, your mask pushed too tight to your lips, heart thrumming so loud it’s in your teeth. You don’t remember the walk back. Only that you left something behind. Your phone. You tear open your bag the second you get through the door, hands trembling, knuckles white. Not there. Panic blooms, jagged and rising.

You rip open your laptop, fingers flying across the keys as you log into the device tracker. The little pulsing dot appears—still close. Just a few blocks from the café. Somewhere by the park. Before you can fully process it, the first notification lights up on your laptop screen.

yourcheriefanboy [6:28PM]: …is it you? yourcheriefanboy [6:30PM]: Please tell me I’m not imagining this. yourcheriefanboy [6:32PM]: Your phone was left on the messages. I know what I saw.

You freeze. Another one appears.

yourcheriefanboy [6:34PM]: I swear I won’t tell anyone. Not a soul. Please. Just talk to me.

Your stomach flips. A cold sweat breaks across your back. Then more, faster:

yourcheriefanboy [6:35PM]: Was it always you? Yeji… well ig that’s not even your name.. Please, you can trust me. I won’t ruin this. I promise. I just want to know if I ever really knew you.

You slam the laptop shut, hands covering your face, trying not to scream. You want to cry, want to laugh, want to disappear. But you need your phone. You take a deep breath, pull the laptop back open.

Cherieoffgrid [6:39PM]: Leave the phone on the bench by the big tree in Seonghwa Park. Text me when it’s there.

His reply is almost instant.

yourcheriefanboy: Can I talk to you? Please. Just for a second.

You hesitate. Your hands curl into fists.

Cherieoffgrid: Just drop it off. Please.

Ten minutes later, you’re crouched behind a retaining wall near the park entrance. Hoodie zipped to your chin, a different mask pulled on, a hat shadowing your eyes. A whole new disguise. You glance down at your laptop.

yourcheriefanboy [6:52PM]: I’m here.

You peer around the stone edge. There he is. Jake. Alone on the bench under the wide, old tree—its branches bare in the late winter dusk, lights from the lamppost casting gold on his shoulders. He doesn’t leave right away. He just sits. His hands rest on his knees. His gaze slowly moves around the park, like maybe—just maybe—he hopes you’re watching. You are. And it hurts. He reaches into his backpack. Sets a small box down on the bench beside him. Stands. Looks around again. Then, without another glance, he walks away. You don’t move until he’s fully gone—until his silhouette disappears between the hedges, swallowed by the street. Then, cautiously, you emerge.

The box is simple. Wrapped in brown paper, like a gift left behind on purpose. You lift the lid. Your phone rests inside. Fully intact. And on top, folded neatly: a note.

You ignore it. You snatch the phone, shove it in your back pocket. You start to close the box… then stop. Your fingers tremble as you reach back for the note. You shove it into the pocket of your jacket without reading it and hurry away, heart hammering like footsteps on marble. What you don’t know is that just beyond the trees, hidden in the shadows behind a park wall— Jake is still watching.

He sees you grab the phone. Sees you hesitate. Sees the exact moment you reach for the note. He exhales softly, barely smiling.

yourcheriefanboy [7:08PM]: Did you get it?

You don’t reply. He waits. Posts a vague message—nothing anyone would notice. Just a sunset picture with a caption that says:

"Some things are real even if you can’t name them."

Still, no reply. Then:

yourcheriefanboy [8:11PM]: I won’t say anything. I swear. Please talk to me. Please.

You stare at the screen for what feels like hours. And then— You press the little heart on his earlier message. Seen. His next text comes seconds later. Then another. Then three more. You let them sit. Unread. The next day, he messages again. The day after that, too. You scroll through them once. Then slowly swipe right. Block. The last message you see before the screen fades is:

yourcheriefanboy [Last seen 10:04PM]: It really is you… isn’t it?

—

It’s been a few days now since you blocked him. You do everything you can not to sign into that account. Then one morning you’re pulling on your coat, still half-asleep, yawning as you stuff chapstick into your pocket when your fingers brush something slightly rough yet thin.

Paper. You pause. Your breath catches. The note. You’d forgotten. You pull it out slowly, carefully, like it might dissolve if handled too fast. Your members are already by the door—Juna calling, “Come on, we’re gonna be late!” You don’t answer. You stare down at the folded note, heart racing. You open it. Jake’s handwriting is cute, a little messy and shaky, yet legible. 

“I don’t know if I’m imagining this, but if it really is you— Thank you. For talking to me. For making me feel heard. For being a friend, even if you couldn’t say it out loud. You were always kind. Honest. Warm. Even if I didn’t know your real name, I knew your heart. I’m really glad you’re getting the break you deserve. Rest well. Be safe. You’re someone worth the world.”

Your chest caves a little. Tears burn quietly behind your eyes. You want so badly to run back to that bench. To tell him it was you. That he wasn’t imagining it. That you saw him, too. But instead, you hear your name being called again. You look up. The girls are already piling into the van. You look down at the note once more. Then fold it slowly and tuck it back into your pocket. And walk away.

—

The days stretch long and hollow after the note. You tuck it away like a fragile secret, a warm weight against your heart that you can’t share with anyone—not the members, not your manager, no one.

Blocking Jake had been a reflex—an act of self-preservation more than anything else. You needed space to breathe, to protect the life you’d built behind the mask. But the silence that followed was deafening.

You avoid his secret account altogether, refusing to let yourself stalk or even glance at the one place you once found comfort. It’s too painful to watch, to remember what you’re hiding. Instead, since you blocked him on your “fake” account, you use your real social media—where you’re just the idol everyone expects you to be, nothing more—to quietly check if he’s alright.

His posts are sparse, shy even. Pictures of cafés, sunsets, an occasional thoughtful quote. Nothing about the fan sign, nothing personal. You don’t follow, don’t comment. Just watch from a distance.

Then, the day of the sponsored pop-up event arrives, announced with flashy ads plastered across city billboards and social feeds. You know Jake will see it—he has to. It’s impossible not to. You change into something casual under your oversized hoodie, pulling your hair back loosely, trying to hide the familiar nervous flutter in your chest.

The streets buzz with excitement. Fans gather in tight clusters, laughter and chatter filling the air, mixing with the scent of roasted chestnuts and street food. Bright tents are set up, decorated in the group’s colors, with posters of you and the members smiling widely. Your heart pounds as you slip into the crowd, eyes scanning every face, every possible shadow. For hours, you find nothing. Until—there.

Near the edge of the crowd, leaning against a lamppost with his hands tucked in the pockets of his jacket, is Jake. He’s not close. Not trying to push forward or get attention. Just observing, calm and still. His gaze sweeps the crowd, and then—finally—it locks with yours. The world narrows to the space between your eyes. His cheeks flush pink, faint but unmistakable. His smile softens into something almost shy, as if he’s caught but trying not to be. You feel your breath hitch, your lips parting slightly. He glances away quickly, blinking as if to clear a fog, then looks back, just for a heartbeat more. Your heart aches with the weight of that brief connection. You want to step forward, to reach out, to say I’m still here—but the wall you’ve built tightens again.

Instead, you give the smallest, most fragile smile you can muster. He returns it, gentler now, eyes full of warmth and quiet hope. And then he steps back, melting into the crowd, respectful of the distance, of the silence, of the things you both can’t say. The pop-up is nearing its end when your manager gives you the nod.

“Do you want to go up front for a bit?” he asks gently. “Sign a few things, give the fans a moment?”

You glance at Naya, who’s already talking to a small group near the barricades. Juna’s posing with merch, Harin’s taking Polaroids with staff. All the cameras are off now—this part isn’t meant to be promotional. It’s just for them. For the ones who waited.

You nod. “Yeah,” you say, adjusting your hoodie, tugging the sleeves past your palms. “Just for a little bit.”

The crowd notices immediately when you step closer. Cheers rise—not too loud, but warm. Hands lift albums, posters, phones. Voices call out your name in that way that doesn’t feel scripted. This isn’t like a fansign. It’s more real. Messier. Softer. You move down the line slowly, signing things, offering soft thanks, smiling when someone hands you a hand-lettered note or a charm bracelet they made. Your fingers are cold, but you don’t notice. You’re searching. Where is he? Your eyes scan the crowd again—and finally, there. Jake. Still leaning back against the edge of the sidewalk, arms folded, head tilted slightly as he watches you. His expression is unreadable. Not sad. Not angry. Just… distant. Careful. Your chest twists. You hold his gaze, even as you sign something blindly in front of you. You hope—you pray—that the small, tentative lift of your eyebrows says what your mouth can’t.

Come closer. He shifts. Eyes flick toward the crowd between you. Then back to you. Still not moving. You hold his gaze a second longer, and then—slowly—you glance at the barricade, then back at him again. A silent invitation. Please. He hesitates. Your heart is thudding now, loud in your ears, because you can see the moment he almost steps forward. But he doesn’t. Not yet.

You smile softly—too soft to be fanservice, too personal to be anything else—and nod. Come on. He blinks like he’s waking up. Then finally, he takes a step forward— But it’s too late.

“Alright, let’s wrap it up,” a staff voice calls.

Arms gently usher you away from the edge of the crowd. More voices, more movement, a hand at your back. You glance over your shoulder, desperate, trying to find him again— He’s frozen mid-step. The space between you filled instantly with staff and fans and noise. You don’t get to say anything. You don’t get to see the look on his face as he stops walking. You just walk away.

That night, alone in your room, you sit on the floor with your hoodie pulled over your knees. The fan in your window hums quietly. Your phone’s still buzzing from mentions and updates and schedules. You toss it aside and reach for your laptop instead. You hesitate.

Then slowly, carefully, you type in the username: yourcheriefanboy. Blocked. Still. You breathe in deep. And unblock him. The screen refreshes. Everything floods in. All the messages you’d missed. They aren’t angry. They aren’t desperate. They’re just... him.

yourcheriefanboy [June 6]: Make sure you eat something today, okay? I know breaks get busy too. yourcheriefanboy [June 10]: It’s cold out—bundle up. Hoodie over hoodie, I’m serious. yourcheriefanboy [June 12]: Saw a clip of the pop-up. You looked happy. I hope it’s real. yourcheriefanboy [June 14]: I miss talking to you..

You stare at the screen, your heart heavy in your throat. They go on. Each one a little pocket of care. A soft tether. Your chest aches. You don’t reply. But he notices. Because the next one comes quickly.

yourcheriefanboy [Today 10:28PM]: You unblocked me. I was hoping you’d come around. Still not ready to talk? That’s okay. I can wait.

You don’t know what to say. You want to tell him everything. You want to rewind to the park bench, the alley, the moment you ran and never looked back. But instead, you stare at his words. And let the silence speak for you.

Seen.

—

You haven’t told anyone. Not about Jake. Not about the secret messages. Not about the way your heart nearly beat out of your chest when you saw him again at the pop-up. Not even about the quiet way he said I can wait. You carry it around like a hidden bruise—tender, pulsing, visible only when pressed. It’s been a week since you unblocked him. Since that message. You haven’t replied. But you’ve reread it more times than you can count.

Your phone sits beside you on the dorm’s kitchen table now, screen dark. The girls are gathered around eating late-night snacks after practice, half-laughing, half-exhausted. Instant noodles. Harin’s spilling broth. Juna is on her third can of soda. Naya is scrolling, eyes half-lidded but still sharp. You’re not talking. Again.

“Okay, what is going on with you lately?” Juna finally blurts, waving her chopsticks. “You’ve been, like… possessed. Zoning out every five minutes, walking into walls—like today! You almost ate a mic pack.”

Naya raises an eyebrow without looking up. “That was impressive, honestly.”

You blink out of your daze, cheeks warming. “What? Nothing. I’m just tired.”

“You’ve been tired for like.. two years,” Harin says, giggling to herself softly,  flopping across the table dramatically. “But this is new tired. This is like... daydreaming tired.”

You smile faintly and look down at your half-finished noodles. They’re not wrong. You’ve been a mess. Quiet. Distracted. Wandering around the dorm like a ghost that forgot what it’s haunting.

“Okay,” Naya says, sitting up straighter. “Spill.”

You freeze. “What?” you say, but too defensively. All three of them look at you.

“Whatever’s going on,” Juna says gently. “You need to let us in.” And then—something in your chest shifts. A crack forming in the dam. You hesitate. Then you breathe out, slow and shaking. And you tell them everything. It all spills out in waves. The fan account. The late-night chats. The note in the box. The park. The pop-up. The eye contact. The messages after you blocked him. By the time you finish, the room is silent. Your throat is tight. Juna’s eyes are wide. Harin’s mouth is open like she forgot how to close it. Naya’s still, unreadable. You bite your lip.

“I know it’s reckless,” you murmur. “I just… he didn’t know it was me at first. And then when he did, he still didn’t try to use it against me. He just… cared. And I don’t even know why I’m so scared, but it’s like—he sees me. Not the stage version. Not the mask. Me.”

The silence stretches. And then— “Okay,” Harin says, softly. “That’s kinda hot.”

“Harin,” Naya warns, half-laughing.

“I mean!” she holds up her hands. “He made you a fan edit before knowing it was you. That’s next-level devotion.”

Juna turns to you, serious now. “Do you want to talk to him again?”

You don’t answer right away. But you nod. Just once.

Naya crosses her arms, thinking. “Look,” she says carefully, “I’m not going to lie—I don’t love the idea of anyone having leverage over you. It’s risky. But... it sounds like he doesn’t want anything from you except to be in your life. Even just as a friend.”

You nod again, lip trembling slightly.

“And just because we’re idols,” she continues, “doesn’t mean we’re not human. We’re allowed to feel things. We’re allowed to live. Just... be smart. Let us have your back. We’ll protect you.”

You feel your heart twist.

“I love you guys,” you whisper.

Harin throws her chopstick at you. “You better. Now go text your fanboy.”

Later that night, once the dorm is quiet and the lights are off, you lie on your bed, staring at the soft glow of your phone screen. You hover over the message thread. The last thing Jake sent is still there. "I can wait." You bite your lip. Then you type.

Cherieoffgrid [11:42PM]: Hey. Sorry it took me a while. I saw what you said. Thank you for waiting.

There’s no typing bubble for a few seconds. Then— It pops up. You exhale, holding the screen closer.

yourcheriefanboy [11:44PM]: Hey. It’s okay. I didn’t think you would, but… I hoped. Are you okay?

You smile, small but real.

Cherieoffgrid [11:45PM]: Getting there.

— 

You don’t expect it to happen all at once. In fact, it doesn’t. But that’s what makes it feel so real. After that first reply—Getting there—Jake doesn’t flood your inbox. He waits a few hours before responding. Then a day. Then another. And then, slowly, it begins.

yourcheriefanboy: Did you get caught in the rain today too? I swear the sky hates Seoul. Cherieoffgrid: I was already home. But I love rain, actually. yourcheriefanboy: That feels like a main character answer.

You start talking again. Mostly late at night. Safe hours. He sends you songs, playlists with cryptic titles like "for no one in particular” and "if you ever look up at the same moon." You send back blurry selfies of your window view, captions like “long day” or “i’m tired but okay.” You don’t talk about the group. You don’t talk about what almost happened. You don’t talk about the fact that your fans still have no idea that the anonymous account you're using is you. But it’s comfortable. Quiet. Easy. Like you never stopped.

One night, long after a rehearsal that leaves your body aching, you find yourself scrolling through Jake’s account. You’ve been avoiding it. But now? You’re ready. And you weren’t expecting what you find. Because while you were gone—while you blocked him, while you ignored him, while you were protecting yourself—Jake didn’t disappear. He thrived.

The profile is still named yourcheriefanboy. But it’s different now. More refined. Still soft and sweet, but less anonymous. He posts dance covers now—full-on polished performances. Your choreo. Clean angles. Warm lighting. His form? Sharp. Intentional. Beautiful. Your jaw drops a little as you scroll through dozens of posts. He’s got rhythm. Style. Stage presence. His energy is magnetic. And the comments? Your fans love him.

“How is this not an official dancer for Cherie?” “Not to be parasocial but he might be my comfort person.” “My dream is for Cherie to do a duet with this fanboy omg.” “No one does their choreo like he does. He gets it.” “Cherie’s #1 fanboy fr.”

Some of them even use his edits to promote your group. And the hashtags? #fanboyforever, #cherieloyal, #jakeisour5thmember

You can’t lie. You’re floored. You smile without meaning to, staring at a video he posted last week: a slowed-down, emotionally-charged rendition of one of your most complex routines. There’s something about the way he moves that reminds you of your own feelings while performing it. The kind you never talk about. The way your knees go weak at the crescendo. The invisible ache in the bridge.

You whisper out loud, “You saw it…” Because he did. Jake saw you—the part that went unseen by everyone else. You text him for the first time that night without waiting for a prompt.

Cherieoffgrid [12:04AM]: i saw your choreo cover. the latest one. you’re… really good.

He responds within seconds.

yourcheriefanboy [12:06AM]: you saw that? wait i mean—thank you. i didn’t think you’d ever look. yourcheriefanboy [12:07AM]: did you like it? Cherieoffgrid [12:08AM]: it made me cry a little. yourcheriefanboy [12:09AM]: now i’m gonna cry.

A few days later, the members catch you smiling into your phone after practice while sitting on the floor with your legs stretched out.

Harin gasps. “Is this about him again?”

Juna drops beside you. “Wait, are you finally talking again?”

You blink up at them. “How did you—?”

“You hum when you text him,” Naya says from behind you. “You never hum.”

“I do not—”

“You do,” all three of them say in unison.

You bury your face in your hands as Juna throws an arm around your shoulders, grinning. “You know what this means, right?”

“What?”

“We’re totally doing a deep dive on his account tonight.”

That night, the dorm is filled with screams, laughter, and Harin aggressively clutching your arm every time a fan calls Jake “the future Cherie husband.”

“THEY’RE SHIPPING YOU,” she screeches, “AND THEY DON’T EVEN KNOW.”

You’re halfway between mortified and soft. Because somewhere inside… you like it. You want them to know. One day. Not yet. But someday.

Cherieoffgrid [2:41AM]: you’re kind of famous now btw. how does it feel to be internet royalty. yourcheriefanboy [2:43AM]: i’m just glad i get to share the things that matter to me. which is you. i mean. your group. your music. you know what i mean. Cherieoffgrid: yeah. i know.

—

It starts with a video. Posted late one night—@yourcheriefanboy. Jake. But this time, he’s not alone. The caption is simple, playful:

“had some help with this one :) tagging my partners in crime below. hope you guys like it <3 #cheriecomeback #cherrychemistrychallenge”

You tap the screen. Your breath catches. Jake, front and center, dances through your latest comeback choreo with six friends. They’re clean, dynamic, sharp—but your eyes never leave him. He’s magnetic. The others flank him like he’s the sun they orbit. And his timing—perfect. Every movement mirrors your group’s intent, every breath like he lived the song in his bones. You sit up in bed, blinking hard. This is not just a cute fan video. This is performance. And the fans know it. You scroll the comments and it’s chaos:

“JAKES ERA STARTS NOW.” “THEY GOT IT DOWN BETTER THAN HALF THE INDUSTRY.” “THIS NEEDS TO BE AN OFFICIAL COLLAB PLEASEEEEE.” “YOUR #1 FANBOY IS YOUR #1 DANCER.”

You’re still in shock when you practically trip out of bed, tablet in hand, stumbling into the kitchen where the others are eating cereal on the floor, in oversized shirts and tangled hair.

“Naya. Juna. Harin.” You hold up the screen. They scream. Like full-body, bowl-dropping screams.

“OH MY GOSH THEY LOOK SO—” “LOOK AT JAKE—” “He’s center. He’s main character-ing—”

Then, you do something you’ve never done before. You repost it. Not just from your private account. From @cherieofficial. No caption. Just a cherry emoji and the reposted clip. The detonation is instant. Jake’s comments explode:

“YOU GOT NOTICED. YOU GOT NOTICED. YOU GOT NOTICED.” “CHERIE KNOWS YOU EXIST. THIS IS NOT A DRILL.” “COLLAB WHEN. COLLAB WHEN. COLLAB WHEN.”

Even your own DMs are filled with fans tagging you, sending clips, screaming in all caps. You’re still watching the comments scroll when a message from him comes in.

yourcheriefanboy [9:01PM]: you reposted it. you didn’t have to, but… thank you. i still can’t believe you did that. Cherieoffgrid: you deserve everything, jake.

You don’t say more. But he does.

yourcheriefanboy [9:05PM]: i hope i can give something back someday.

You smile, not knowing what the next day will bring. The next day begins quiet. Too quiet. The dorm is washed in soft morning light, the scent of cinnamon oatmeal drifting from the kitchen. You’re curled into the far end of the couch in an old hoodie, scrolling through muted videos on your phone, your mind still playing back Jake’s latest post. You’d watched it three times before even blinking. You’ve watched it nine times now. You don’t know why you’re smiling. Or maybe you do. The room is peaceful—until your manager bursts in like a thunderclap. His heavy footsteps pound against the wood floor, and his phone is clutched in one tight fist like it’s a live grenade.

“Naya.”

She startles, spoon halfway to her mouth. “Mm?”

He stops in the center of the living room, panting like he just ran up the stairs. His shirt is wrinkled. His eyes are too bright.

“I want you to do a choreo collab video,” he says, breathless. “With that Jake guy. You know… the yourcheriefanboy person.”

Your heart drops so fast it takes your breath with it. There’s a pause in the room, heavy and sharp. Harin’s spoon clinks against her mug. Juna straightens slowly, frowning, eyes darting to you. Naya lowers her bowl, blinking. “Wait—what?”

Your throat is dry. The air feels thick like humidity before a storm.

“Why me?” Naya asks.

“I’ve already arranged it,” your manager says briskly, flipping his phone screen toward her. “The video went viral. Fans are frothing at the mouth. But we can’t have her involved—” he gestures vaguely toward you “—not yet. It’s too risky. Fans will think theres something there, and we can’t have that.”

Your chest constricts. Risky? You blink once. Hard.

“We need someone safe. Controlled. Professional,” he continues, pacing. “Someone who won’t complicate things.”

“I—” Naya stammers. “But she—”

“She knows the choreo better than anyone,” Juna says, bold.

He cuts her off with a sharp look. “It’s not about the choreo. This is about optics. Strategy. Exposure. And not about spreading baseless rumors.” He’s not looking at you when he says it, but you feel the sting anyway. Like glass behind the ribs.

“We’re going with Naya,” he finishes. Final.

He turns and walks out, leaving silence in his wake. Your lip trembles as you press your thumb into it. You taste iron. You’re still frozen when Naya turns toward you slowly. Her expression is tight, like she’s ashamed.

“I didn’t know,” she whispers.

“It’s okay,” you say. Your voice barely works. But it’s not okay. You spend the rest of the day pretending it is. That night, you’re curled up in bed, blanket over your shoulders, phone glowing dim against your fingers. You hesitate. Then type.

Cherieoffgrid [11:02PM]: Hey. Has anyone contacted you about a collab or something? yourcheriefanboy [11:04PM]: No? Wait, what? Should they have?

Your fingers hover over the keyboard.

Cherieoffgrid: Don’t worry about it. Just wondering.

You stare at the screen until your eyes blur. Then you toss your phone onto the pillow and turn away, curling tighter, like that might make the twist in your stomach disappear. And eventually it does.. That is until you wake up the next morning with more messages from him.

yourcheriefanboy [7:51AM]: HOLY SHIT THEY EMAILED ME I’M GONNA DO A COLLAB CHOREO VIDEO WITH YOU I SAID YES. I’M STILL SHAKING. THIS IS INSANE.

You smile. But it’s a hollow thing. He thinks it’s you. And it should’ve been. Two days pass like a fog you can’t wade through. Then Naya knocks gently on your bedroom door. You glance up. She’s standing there with her phone pressed against her chest.

“I think you should see this.”

You sit up slowly. It’s Jake. No friends. No background. Just him and a studio floor and the spotlight cutting across his figure like stage lighting. He’s dancing your solo choreo. The emotional centerpiece from your last comeback. A piece born from every overworked night, every sleepless breakdown, every cracked smile you wore for the camera. He’s perfect. It’s not just technical. It’s emotional. He feels it.

Your lips part slightly. “He’s…”

“He’s really good,” Naya murmurs. You both go quiet. And then she whispers, “I’m sorry.”

Your voice is barely a breath. “It’s not your fault.” But it still hurts.

—

The day of the shoot finally arrives. You're in the practice room early, but it doesn’t calm the nervous energy buzzing under your skin. You roll your wrists. Breathe. Stretch. Count. Across from you, Naya reties her shoes again. And again. Her hands are shaking. Then she misses a basic warmup move. Twice.

You glance over. “You okay?”

“I’m fine.” But she’s pale. Lips pressed tight.

Juna looks at her worriedly. Harin frowns. The door creaks open. Your manager strides in, tapping at his phone.

“Jake will be here in five.”

Naya visibly pales. She sways slightly, then grabs the barre for support.

The manager pauses. “You look off. Are you sick?”

She swallows hard. “No, I’m—”

Then it happens. She claps a hand over her mouth and bolts. The door slams behind her.

“Shit,” your manager hisses. “Is she seriously—?”

Juna immediately runs after her, calling her name. You step forward, concern growing, but Harin suddenly intercepts you, stepping in smoothly with a wide-eyed smile.

“Manager-nim,” she says sweetly, “Naya’s been sick all morning. We thought it’d pass, but it’s not looking good.”

He gapes. “We can’t cancel. This is riding the wave right now.”

Harin tilts her head. “We don’t have to.”

She turns to you and nods. “She can do it. She’s ready.”

Your eyes widen. “Wait, what—”

“She knows the choreo better than anyone. After all.. it’s hers. Not to mention the fans want THEM. He covers all her choreo in every video. Let’s just give them what they want and worry about potential rumors if they come.”

The manager looks you over, panic battling calculation on his face. His phone buzzes again.

He sighs, hard. “Fine. Get her ready.”

You’re rushed down the hall. Hair. Makeup. Fit change. They style you like the comeback video—cherry red accents, sharp liner, silver jewelry. Clean but bold.

It all blurs. You’re ushered to the threshold of the studio— And the door opens at the same time. He steps in. Jake. He freezes. So do you.

The staff’s voices melt into a dull roar. His lips part. Eyes widening. He hadn’t expected this. And it shows. For a second, his expression flickers—confusion, disbelief, awe. Then something softer. You feel your heart lurch. Someone says his name. Someone introduces you both.

“Nice to meet you,” Jake says, almost too quietly.

You nod. “You too.”

But your throat burns with everything unsaid. Practice begins. The track plays. Your body moves without hesitation. So does his. It’s a dance you both know—just not like this. You can feel the heat of his palm before it ever brushes yours. The choreography is sharp, intimate. Not romantic—but connected. It asks for trust. Proximity. Precision. Your movements synchronize like breathing in stereo. When your eyes lock, it’s not just choreo anymore. It’s confession.

There’s electricity in the silence between each beat. In the glide of your fingers near his ribs. In the pivot of his shoulder brushing yours.

He looks at you like he remembers everything you never said. And maybe he does. The camera rolls. One take. No cuts.

The music ends—

—and you’re both frozen in the final pose.

Chest to chest. Breath mingling. His hand still extended just near yours. Silence. Neither of you moves. Then:

“Cut.”

The spell breaks. He smiles first. Not the wide, goofy grin from his fan videos. Something smaller. Something real. You smile back. Barely. But this time, it’s enough. And for the first time, the air between you isn’t a wall. It’s a doorway. The rest of the room doesn’t move when they call cut.

Jake is still standing there, close—too close—his chest lifting with shallow breaths. Yours mirrors his. Neither of you has stepped back yet, even though the final note has long since faded. You’re both just… there. Suspended.

Frozen in the afterglow of something that shouldn’t have felt so much like a goodbye.

The staff starts clapping. Someone shouts, “One take?! That was insane!” Equipment rustles behind you. Lights adjust. The illusion cracks.

You step back first.

The cool air that rushes between you nearly makes you shiver.

Jake blinks like he’s waking up. His lips part like he might say something, but you don’t give him the chance. You turn toward the others as stylists flood the floor, pretending you don’t notice the way he watches you walk away.

But you feel it.

Like gravity.

You're back in the changing room, unzipping your top, when Juna bursts in.

“Oh my gosh,” she hisses, slamming the door behind her. “That was not just dancing. That was practically emotional warfare.”

You give her a look. “Don’t start.”

Harin follows, already mid-cackle. “The way he looked at you,” she says, flopping onto the couch. “Like he was trying to memorize your face.”

Naya peeks around the corner, her bun messy from earlier. Her voice is softer. “You okay?”

You hesitate, holding your reflection in the mirror.

“I don’t know,” you whisper.

Your manager’s still talking to Jake outside when you exit the dressing room. You catch his voice through the wall.

“...really well done. Thank you again for being flexible.”

Jake’s voice is quieter. “Of course. She’s great, I really look up to her and— I mean…” He pauses. “It really meant a lot.”

You freeze behind the door, heart skidding sideways.

Before you can decide whether to walk out or wait, someone opens it from the other side.

It’s him. Jake. And for a split second, you’re alone again. Just the two of you in the hallway. He sees you—and the breath catches in his throat. You try to smile. He does first. It’s shy, but something flickers behind it—like maybe he’s holding something in.

“I didn’t think it’d be you,” he says quietly.

“I didn’t either,” you murmur, voice dry.

A beat of silence.

“I’m glad it was,” he adds.

You open your mouth to answer—but your manager rounds the corner and the moment shatters.

“There you are,” he says, clapping Jake on the shoulder. “Let’s get some photos before you go.”

Jake’s eyes linger on you. You watch him walk away. You can’t remember the last time you hated a goodbye this much. That night, you lie in bed, hood pulled up, phone in hand. He messages you.

yourcheriefanboy [9:47PM]: i don’t know how to say this without sounding dumb but… thank you for today. i’ll never forget it.

You read it three times. You don’t reply. But you hold the phone to your chest like it might stop your heart from breaking.

—

It doesn’t happen all at once. But the internet notices. First. The collab video drops and within minutes—chaos. The comments are feral:

“NO WAY THIS IS REAL??” “THE CHEMISTRY?? i’m on the FLOOR.” “cherie noticed him??? i can’t breathe” “She’s so good but jake?? jake has IT.”

Clips from the collab flood TikTok. Your name trends. So does his username. Fan accounts start dissecting every frame:

—The way you smiled in the background. —How Jake subtly glances off-camera after every move. —The soft electricity in your eyes.

You scroll in the dark, heart pounding. Everywhere you look—

“Youcheriefanboy supremacy.” “HE’S HER #1 FAN FOR A REASON.” “Not to be delusional but this is giving actual love story.”

He hasn’t texted you yet. But he will.

It starts with a message. The kind that comes in late. When the dorm lights are off and the others are asleep. When the air feels heavier, quieter, like the world is giving you permission to be vulnerable.

yourcheriefanboy [1:04AM]: you awake?

You stare at the screen. The profile picture is still that blurry mirror selfie. Still unreadable. Still… safe.

Cherieoffgrid [1:08AM]: i am now

A beat.

yourcheriefanboy: sorry if i’m being annoying. it’s just… i can’t sleep i keep thinking about our collab about you

Your breath catches.

You type. Delete. Type again.

Cherieoffgrid: me too

You can feel his exhale through the screen.

yourcheriefanboy: can i tell you something without it being weird? Cherieoffgrid: go for it yourcheriefanboy: it felt different with you like we already knew each other i don’t know how to explain it but it’s like my body just… remembered yours

Your hand trembles. You hesitate before typing your reply.

Cherieoffgrid: it didn’t feel weird i felt it too

The typing bubble appears. Then disappears. Then comes back.

yourcheriefanboy: i don’t want to do this in DMs anymore can i text you?

You pause.

Your thumb hovers over the keyboard. Every warning in your head flashes like a red siren. But your heart? It’s whispering something else.

Cherieoffgrid: okay. here.

You send your number.

The second it leaves your phone, you flip it screen-down and inhale like you just jumped off a cliff.

Seconds later—it vibrates.

Unknown Number: hey. it’s me. jake.

Texting Jake is like exhaling after years of holding your breath.

He’s funny. Smart. Unfiltered. You talk about music. Life. Burnout. He tells you about the time he fell off a stage in high school. You tell him about Naya’s sleep-talking. It’s slow and tender and surprisingly normal.

And then one night:

Jake [11:56PM]: not trying to be bold or anything but… what if we met up? like. really. in person. no cameras. just 2 friends.. 

You stare at it for a long time.

You [12:03AM]: we can’t. it’s dangerous. you know that. Jake: i know. just had to say it.

—

A week passes. A slow, uneventful, moral questioning week.

And then.. Before you know it.. it somehow happens. Like you just could not resist it any longer.

You’re in a hoodie and sunglasses, sitting beside Jake on a tucked-away bench under a willow tree near the Han River. You haven’t smiled this freely in weeks. He brought you hot tea. The lid has a cat doodle drawn on it. You’re laughing at something dumb he said about idol stage names when he suddenly goes quiet.

“Don’t move,” he whispers.

Your body locks. He shifts forward slightly, his eyes scanning over your shoulder.

“What is it?” you murmur.

He lowers his voice. “There’s a girl across the park. She’s been watching us for five minutes.”

Your stomach drops. He shifts subtly in front of you, shielding your face.

“Phone?” you ask.

“Already out,” he confirms. “She’s pretending to stretch.”

“Shit.”

Jake leans in close, voice barely audible. “We’re gonna walk. Slowly. Don’t look back.”

You nod. He stands first, casually stretching, then offers you a hand. You take it. His grip is firm. Protective. You walk side by side. He murmurs directions like a bodyguard. Turns. Timing. You slip through alleys. Shortcut near a bookstore. Jake pulls his hoodie low.

And then—

A car. His friend. Already waiting. Jake opens the back door and helps you in.

You don’t look up until the door shuts and the car pulls away. Your pulse is thundering. Hands shaking. Jake leans down to the window and taps twice. You don’t roll it down. He mouths: I’m sorry.

You don’t text him that night. You don’t text him for days. But he does.

Jake [9:14AM]: are you okay? please tell me you’re okay i’m so sorry i should’ve known better Jake [next day]: i miss talking to you i’ll stop if you want me to i just… can’t stop thinking about you

You never reply. Until one night. You’re scrolling. Exhausted. Aching. And then it hits. A message. Just one line.

Jake [11:41PM]: when are we gonna stop pretending?

You freeze. You type.

You [11:46PM]: what if i showed up? Jake: i’d open the door. You: no questions? Jake: none. just you.

It’s late. Rain taps the sidewalk in soft rhythms. You’re wearing no disguise. No mask. Just a hoodie pulled over clean skin and tired eyes. You stand at his apartment door. It opens like he was already waiting. Jake stares at you. You stare at him. No one speaks.

You step in. And this time— You stay.

The door closes softly behind you. The room is quiet. Almost too quiet. Jake gestures loosely to the couch, like he’s unsure of what to say. “You, uh… want to sit?” You nod, but neither of you move.

He rubs the back of his neck. “I thought I’d say something clever. But you kind of caught me off guard.”

You huff a laugh. “Me too.”

He finally crosses the room, sits on the far end of the couch. You follow a beat later, leaving a polite, awkward distance between you.

Seconds pass. He taps his knee. You trace a thread on the hem of your sleeve.

It’s not tense—just… fragile. Like the moment might shatter if either of you breathe wrong.

Jake clears his throat. “So… how’ve you been?”

You blink. “Busy. Tired. Being an idol is—well. You know.”

“I don’t, really. Not like that. But… I can imagine.” He pauses. “I saw your interview. The one last week.”

You look at him sideways. “The one where I accidentally zoned out mid-question?”

He smiles. “No one noticed.”

“You did.”

“Always.”

The silence returns, but it’s heavier now. Something flickering just beneath it.

You shift. “I saw your new video.”

His eyes widen slightly. “Yeah?”

You nod. “You’re getting really good. Like, scary good.”

Jake shrugs, ducking his head. “I just… I like it. I like dancing. It’s how I feel close to you. Even if we’re not talking.”

The confession lands between you like a thunderclap—quiet, but impossible to ignore.

You open your mouth. Close it. Then finally whisper, “I watched everything I missed. Every post. Every caption.”

“I didn’t think you would,” he says softly. “After you blocked me.”

“I didn’t want to,” you admit. “But I had to.”

Jake leans back against the cushion, gaze fixed on the ceiling. “Because of the job. The fans. The risk.”

You nod.

“But we’re here anyway,” he murmurs.

“Yeah,” you say, your voice quiet, almost breaking. “We are.”

There’s a long beat. Neither of you move. The air is so thick with unsaid things it almost hums.

Jake tilts his head, finally meeting your eyes. “What are we doing?”

You blink. “What do you mean?”

“This,” he gestures between you. “It’s not just texting. It’s not just a collab. And that wasn’t just tea by the river.”

Your breath hitches.

“I know what we should be doing,” he adds. “Keeping distance. Playing it safe. But I can’t stop thinking about you. And I don’t think I want to anymore.”

You exhale shakily, looking down at your hands. “I want to see you. For real. Not behind glasses or masks or through DMs. But…”

Jake waits.

“But I’m scared,” you whisper.

He nods once, slowly. “Me too.”

Your eyes meet again. There’s no fear there. Just understanding. Longing. Quiet defiance.

“I’m not asking for anything,” he says finally. “Not now. Not yet. I just… I want you to know you don’t have to pretend around me.”

Your throat tightens. “That’s the problem. I’ve been pretending so long, I don’t always know when I’m not.”

Jake’s voice drops. “Then let’s figure it out. Together. Slowly.”

A silence settles between you. But this time, it doesn’t feel awkward. It feels like a beginning. You glance down at your hands, then over at his—resting beside him on the couch. Slowly, you reach out. Just pinkies. Barely touching.

His breath stutters. But he doesn’t move away. Neither do you. The lightest touch. Not even a grip. Just the barest brush of your pinkie against his. But it’s enough.

Jake doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak. His gaze stays forward, fixed somewhere ahead—but you can feel the way he shifts toward you. Like gravity.

You don’t look at him either. Your heart is pounding too loud. Your throat too tight.

But you don’t pull away.

It’s quiet for a long time. Then softly, so softly, Jake says, “Thank you.”

You glance at him. “For what?”

“For showing up.”

You smile, just barely. “I almost didn’t.”

“I almost didn’t believe you would.”

You look down where your fingers still touch.

And then—his pinkie curls slightly around yours. Just enough to hold.

It makes your stomach turn in the best, slowest way.

“You don’t have to stay long,” Jake says, voice low, almost shy. “I just… didn’t want to end the night wondering.”

You nod slowly. “I’m glad I came.”

He glances at you then, a real look. Eyes searching. “Are you tired?”

You pause. “Always.”

He laughs under his breath. “Want tea? Or water? Or like… the worst instant ramen of your life?”

You laugh, too. “Honestly? Ramen sounds perfect.”

Jake jumps up, nervous energy flickering under the surface. “Okay, but I warned you. This is broke-style desperation cooking. Like, scandalously low-budget.”

You tuck your legs up under you on the couch, watching as he disappears into the kitchen. The clatter of a pot, the hiss of a kettle. It’s domestic. Real. A little surreal.

He’s humming. You don’t recognize the melody, but it sounds like comfort. You let yourself relax.

His place is small—bare, but cozy. There’s a worn hoodie tossed over the back of a chair. A polaroid of a dog stuck to the fridge. A chipped mug on the counter.

You know nothing about his real life, and yet here you are. In the middle of it.

A few minutes later, he brings two bowls over—steaming and wildly uneven in noodle distribution.

“Don’t judge me,” he says, sheepish.

You grin. “I’d never.”

You both sit on the floor with your backs against the couch, bowls in your laps. The steam fogs your glasses briefly, and Jake hands you a napkin without a word.

You eat in silence for a while. Not awkward. Just… quiet.

Jake finishes first and leans his head back against the couch. “Can I ask something?”

You nod. He doesn’t look at you when he speaks. “Is this gonna be it?”

You pause, chopsticks still in your hand.

“Like…” he swallows, “just this one night?”

You don’t answer right away. Because you don’t know. Because you’re scared of what it might mean if you say no. But you also know the truth. So you place your bowl down carefully. And whisper, “I don’t want it to be.”

Jake turns his head slowly. Looks right at you. The softest breath leaves his lips. And then he smiles. Not a wide one. Not excited. Just… relieved. Like he’s been holding his breath, too. You shift slightly closer, knees brushing. Still no kiss. Still no bold confessions.

But something shifts between you in that moment. The air thickens, deepens. And it becomes clear that whatever this is—it’s not ending here. Not tonight. Maybe not ever.

—

It starts with small things.

A soft hum in the mornings. A spring in your step during rehearsals. The others notice before you do—how you laugh more. How your eyes light up when your phone buzzes.

They don’t say anything at first. But they see it.

Naya catches you grinning at your phone one night and just tosses a throw pillow at you with a knowing look. “Tell loverboy he’s keeping you up past curfew.”

You snort. “He’s not—”

“Mmhm.”

Still, they help. Every time.

Every cover story. Every excuse. Every well-timed distraction when a staff member walks too close to your room while you're slipping out in a hoodie.

Juna even keeps a spare jacket by the door “just in case someone needs to sneak out fast.”

You’re careful. You have to be. But you’re also the happiest you’ve ever been. And the fans notice. Your fancams hit different now. They flood the comments with things like:

“She’s GLOWING lately??” “Something’s changed, she looks so at peace.” “Whoever’s making her smile like that, thank you.”

At every pop-up, concert, street show—he’s there. Jake never tries to get your attention. Never causes a scene.

But somehow you always find him. His warm gaze in the crowd. The soft nod. That half-smile like he’s rooting for you even from a distance.

You swear your heart beats differently when he’s near. On a gray, wind-swept Tuesday, you meet again.

The girls cover for you without question. You slip out disguised in a bucket hat and oversized jacket, slipping through the back entrance of a quiet neighborhood café where he waits, already seated.

He’s facing the window. When he sees you, he stands, smiling wide. Like it’s the first time, every time. You sit across from him, the table small and warm between you.

“You ordered already?” you ask behind your mask.

Jake nods. “Your usual. I figured you wouldn’t want to be here too long.”

You smile beneath the fabric. “You figured right.”

He hands you the cup, fingertips brushing. Your heart flutters. You sip quietly, the two of you tucked in your little corner of the world. Safe. Hidden. Real.

When you leave, you both take the long way around, weaving through alleys and tree-lined paths.

It’s quiet between you. But not awkward.

Jake’s telling you about a viral dance challenge he got roped into when— He reaches down. And takes your hand.

Like it’s nothing. Like he’s done it a hundred times.

Your steps falter. You look at him, shocked.

But he doesn’t even glance your way. Just smiles to himself, like you’re not the only one who’s been dying to feel this close.

You don’t let go. You can’t.

For hours, you walk. Talking. Laughing. A world away from cameras, costumes, and curfews.

Until the sun starts to dip. You’re about to say goodbye when you feel it. A shift in the air. Jake freezes first. You follow his eyes—and see it.

A girl, no older than a student, standing across the street, phone halfway lifted. You don’t know if she’s aiming it at you. If she recognizes you. But she’s staring. Jake’s hand drops from yours instantly.

You both turn quickly, walking the opposite direction. Fast. Heads low. Adrenaline spiking.Your pulse is a war drum in your throat. Around the corner. Down another alley. Breath hitching.

“She saw,” you whisper, panic flaring. “I know she did—”

Jake hushes you gently. “Just keep walking. I’ll get you a ride.”

He already has his phone out. You duck under a stairwell, breathing hard, pulling your hood up, masking again.

Jake stays with you the whole time, guarding the edge of the sidewalk like a shield. When the car arrives, he opens the door for you.

“Go,” he says softly. “It’ll be okay.”

You look at him. Your fingers ache from not holding his. Your throat aches from the weight of the goodbye. But you nod. And then you’re gone. Later that night, your group’s manager knocks on your door.

“You saw the photo?” he asks flatly.

You freeze.

The photo is grainy. You’re in profile, mostly hidden, but it’s enough.

Just enough to make hearts race.

“Who is she?” “His girlfriend?” “She looks familiar…” “Wait, could it be—?”

The internet is frothing. The photo’s climbing trending tags fast.

Your manager sighs angrily. “Lay low. We’ll handle it. But.. we need to talk.”

You nod slowly, numb. In your room, your phone buzzes.

Jake [9:52PM]: i’m sorry. i swear i didn’t see her. are you okay?

You don’t answer. Not yet. Not until your heart stops sprinting. But deep down, you know this isn’t over. Because secrets can’t stay secret forever. And because the second he took your hand—you knew:

You never wanted to let go again.

—

The next morning, everything collapses.

You’re still in your hoodie from last night, curled on the couch with a half-finished tea cooling beside you. Your head’s resting on Naya’s shoulder as she softly scrolls through her phone, both of you too tired to speak.

Then—

SLAM.

The front door crashes open like a gunshot. You jolt upright.

Your manager’s voice cracks through the dorm like lightning. “WHAT. THE HELL. WERE YOU THINKING?”

Harin drops her cereal with a clang. Juna flinches so hard she spills milk down her leg. Naya straightens immediately, eyes dark. He storms into the room, red-faced and breathing like he’s run a mile. Phone in hand. Screen glowing. Already open to a photo.

A photo you know.

You and Jake.

From the coffee shop. Just before you parted ways. Just before the flash went off.

He holds it up like a weapon. “You think I wouldn’t see this? You think I’m stupid?”

“I—” Your throat closes. “It wasn’t—”

“Don’t,” he snaps. “Do not insult me with some excuse.”

He throws his hand out. “Give me your phone.”

You hesitate. Then Naya puts a hand on your arm. Gently. You pass it over.

He rips it from your grasp.

“You’re off. Hiatus. Immediately. No more social. No press. No rehearsals. No messaging anyone.”

“What?” you whisper.

He doesn’t even blink. “You’re lucky we don’t terminate your contract.”

The silence is suffocating.

“You can’t do that,” Juna says, voice shaking. “You can’t.”

“Watch me,” he hisses, and storms out before anyone else can speak.

You don’t cry at first. You sit still. Frozen. Like your soul has left your body.

The girls hover, frantic.

“Unbelievable,” Harin mutters, pacing the room.

Juna pulls you into a quiet hug, whispering, “It’s gonna be okay.”

That night, she slips you her phone. Her eyes say don’t get caught.

You type only three words:

I miss you.

His reply comes within seconds.

Jake: i’m here. always.

And he means it. You message one more night. Just once. But the third day, it’s over.

He finds out. No one knows how.

Maybe a slip-up. Maybe a tracker on the company Wi-Fi. Maybe he’s just watching everything.

He bans the girls from helping. Juna sobs in the kitchen. Naya throws her shoe at the wall. Harin rips the charger from her phone like it’s the manager’s throat.

But none of it helps. You’re alone again. Two days later the door slams open again—but this time, it’s Naya.

“Look,” she says, voice trembling. “You need to see this.”

She shoves her phone into your hand. Photos. New ones.

From the side. From behind. Someone clearly followed you.

You with Jake. His arm gently touching yours. Your hands interlocking. Your eyes on him, soft.

The article headline reads: “Is Cherie’s main dancer secretly dating her #1 fan?”

The comments are a firestorm.

“THIS is why she’s on hiatus.” “She’s reckless. Unprofessional.” “lol that’s what happens when you get too close to fans.” “I’m so disappointed.”

But then—

“She looks happy. Look at her smile.” “I hope it’s true. She deserves soft love.” “She choreographed half their discography and she can’t even date someone? Y’all are insane.” “This better be real or I’ll cry.” “If she’s with him… she’s winning.”

You read for an hour. The hate is loud. But the support? It's deafening. Your hands shake. You cry again, quietly this time, into the sleeve of Naya’s hoodie.

The next morning, a sudden meeting is called. All four of you stand awkwardly in the studio, tension high. The manager walks in, eyes tired.

“We’re dropping the new single,” he says. “This week.”

Stunned silence.

Your heart leaps for half a second. “Wait… really?”

He doesn’t look at you. Doesn’t even acknowledge your voice.

“Yes. But you’re not part of it.”

The floor falls out beneath you.

“What?” Juna gasps.

“You’re joking,” Harin breathes.

“She choreographed everything,” Naya growls. “The hook, the chorus, the damn bridge—”

“She’s a liability right now,” he snaps. “Too much press. We need clean faces. We’ll push with the three of you.”

“No,” Naya says, loud and firm.

He freezes.

“I said no.”

“We won’t do it,” Harin adds.

“She’s our sister,” Juna says, her voice breaking. “You don’t get to treat her like this.”

“If she’s not in it, we’re not in it.”

A beat of silence. Then he storms out without a word. You collapse back into the dorm, shaking. The girls surround you, soft and warm, full of fire and loyalty.

They make tea. Naya puts on your favorite movie. Juna paints your nails terribly on purpose to make you laugh. Harin makes heart-shaped toast.

And that night, you quietly thank them. You hug them all. And then go to your room. Lock the door. Sit on the edge of your bed. You try not to cry again.

Then—

A knock. You tense.

“Please go away,” you whisper.

Another knock. Silence. Then again.

You snap. Fling the door open— And stop breathing. Jake. In your dorm. In the hallway.

Soaked from rain. Hoodie clinging to his shoulders. Hair curling at his forehead. Breath heavy like he ran the whole way.

Your knees give out. He catches you instantly.

Arms around your waist, tight. Secure. Your face presses into his chest and the floodgates break.

You cry like your bones are splintering.

He holds you through it all.

“I missed you,” you sob. “I missed you so much, Jake. Everything hurts.”

He strokes your hair, voice choked. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. This is all my fault.”

“No—”

“I ruined it. I was your biggest fan and I ruined your career.”

“You didn’t—”

“I just wanted to know you,” he breathes. “I never meant for this. I never wanted to make your life harder.”

You shake your head. “You’re the only good thing that happened.”

He swallows thickly. “I’ll go. I just wanted to say goodbye. I won’t ruin this anymore.”

“No.”

He moves to stand. But your hand darts out—grabs his wrist.

“Don’t,” you whisper. “Please. Don’t go.”

His eyes shine. And you’re already crying again. You tug him gently into your room. He steps in. You shut the door. No cameras. No lies. No disguises. Just you and him. And finally, the quiet love you’ve both been trying to outrun.

But can no longer deny.

—

The apology post goes up a day later. You're the one who types it—but only technically. Every word is scrutinized, softened, sanitized. You're told to be thoughtful. Professional. Grateful. You're told to apologize for "the miscommunication." You're told to remind them that you're "still learning." But between the lines, you slip something in. Something real.

“Even idols are human. I’m still figuring out what that means. Thank you for your patience.”

The comments erupt. Not with hate—but with fire.

“Why is she apologizing for EXISTING???” “She literally did nothing wrong omg let her breathe.” “Let idols love. Let HER love.” “THE MANAGER NEEDS TO BE HELD ACCOUNTABLE”

Your inbox floods with love letters. Fan mail. Support. And hate mail, too—only this time, it's aimed squarely at the company.

“Let your artists live.” “Protect your idols, don’t punish them.” “Stop policing their happiness.”

It builds. Fast. Loud. Global. Enough that your manager finally looks at you in the practice room one night, exhales slowly, and mutters—

“Just… be careful.”

Not a yes. Not a no. But enough. You clutch your phone like it’s holy when it’s returned to your hand. And that night—

You [8:43PM]: Can I come over next week? Jake: Wait what??? YES. YES. you can come over right now if you want. or tomorrow. i’ll clear my whole schedule.

You laugh for the first time in what feels like days. But you don’t go yet. Because you have a plan.

It starts with a knock on Naya’s door.

Then Harin’s. Then Juna’s.

They don’t even hesitate.

They help you pick a chord progression. Fix your lyrics. Harmonize the hook.

It's just a short song. Small. Soft. For him.

Then the day comes.

You ride the train with your guitar strapped to your back, head ducked, heart thudding in your chest the whole way there. You don’t text before you arrive. You just show up.

You lift your hand to knock, but the door’s already open before your knuckles touch wood.

Jake stands there. He looks like he ran. Socks mismatched. Hair a mess. Breathless. He doesn't even greet you. He just pulls you in.

Arms wrapping around you so fast, so tight, like he’s been holding his breath since the last time he saw you.

You drop your bag and cling back. The silence is thick with relief. He pulls back just a little and notices the guitar.

“Wait—what’s this?”

You suddenly forget how to breathe. You’re never nervous to perform. Not for thousands. Not for cameras. But now? Your palms are sweating. Your voice tight in your throat.

You kneel on his living room rug, pulling the guitar from its case. Adjust the strap. Re-tune a string or two. Clear your throat.

Jake sits across from you on the floor, legs criss-crossed, arms resting on his knees. Watching.

Not expectant. Not eager. Just… open. Waiting.

You glance up at him, and then— You begin.

Your fingers pluck soft, trembling notes. A hush falls over the room.

The first lyric slips from your mouth like a secret you’ve never told anyone else.

“you called yourself a fanboy / but you made me feel like more / like i was someone to come home to / someone worth fighting for…”

Jake’s chest rises—slow. His mouth parts slightly. His eyes don’t leave you for a second.

“i was a name in lights / you were a face in the crowd / and somehow… you saw me / when i forgot how”

You look down as you play, afraid if you meet his gaze again, you’ll fall apart.

Your fingers tremble just slightly against the strings, but the melody is clear. Honest. It spills into the space between you like a secret finally brave enough to speak.

The lyrics come softer now, voice barely above a whisper. A line about a boy with stars in his eyes, Another about how he made you feel seen when you were disappearing.

The bridge builds gently, like your heart is learning how to breathe again, like it’s remembering how to feel without fear. Each note feels like confession. Like forgiveness.

And when the final chord fades, your breath catches in your throat.

Silence. No clapping. No smile.

Jake sits motionless on the edge of the couch, hands curled into loose fists on his knees. His chest rises, but he doesn’t exhale. Doesn’t blink. Doesn’t speak.

For a second, you think you’ve gone too far. That maybe this was too much.

Then you see it. Just one. A single tear, sliding slow and quiet down his cheek. Your heart drops.

You fumble to set the guitar down and rush toward him, panic blooming in your chest.

“Oh my gosh—Jake, I didn’t mean to—was that weird? I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have—”

“Stop.”

His voice is raw, thick like it’s been buried under too much silence for too long.

You freeze mid-step.

His hand reaches for you, tentative at first, then more certain as it curls gently under your chin, tilting your face up to meet his.

His eyes are red-rimmed, glassy, locked onto yours like they’ve been searching for you across lifetimes.

“Don’t apologize,” he breathes, voice just above a whisper.

And then—

He kisses you. Not soft. Not slow.

It crashes into you like a wave that’s been building since the day he learned your name. Desperate. Fierce. Like every sleepless night, every hidden smile, every text left unsent is behind it.

Your fingers twist into his hoodie, anchoring yourself to him. His hands cup the sides of your face, thumbs brushing away tears you hadn’t noticed had fallen.

He kisses you like the moment will collapse if he stops. Like if he doesn’t taste every second of it, he’ll regret it for the rest of his life.

It’s messy. A little unsteady. But so painfully real.

When you finally part, gasping, lips tingling and hearts racing, he doesn’t move far—his forehead presses against yours, breath warm against your skin.

He still hasn’t let go of your face.

He’s watching you. Carefully. Reverently. Like you’re a galaxy he’s terrified to disturb.

You blink, overwhelmed.

He smiles. A real one. Soft. Shy. Staggering.

“That song…” he murmurs.

You look up at him, unsure if you can handle the weight of whatever comes next. His voice is barely there now. “It’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever heard.”

And in the stillness that follows—

There is no idol. No fan. No fear. No world to chase or escape from. Just you. And him.

And the quiet, breathless bloom of something finally allowed to take root. Something permanent.

Something yours.

—

You and Jake have settled into a rhythm no one else fully understands. You keep things casual, deliberate—not officially “together,” not publicly seen hand-in-hand, but close enough that the members and a few trusted friends know. The rest? They speculate endlessly. Fans watch your social media, piecing together the hints, the moments he appears just outside the frame of your photos, the way your smiles brighten when he’s near.

At public events, Jake’s usually just a shadow in the crowd—never too close, never too obvious. But your fans notice. They see the subtle warmth in your eyes, the way your steps quicken when he shows up, the quiet moments you steal when no one’s looking. The rumors swirl, but you never confirm or deny. Why spoil the magic?

Your members tease you endlessly. Naya nudges you with a grin, “Girl, we all see it. You’re glowing.”

Juna laughs, “Yeah, it’s like you’re walking on sunshine every time he’s around.”

Harin winks, “Keep playing coy, but you’re basically a walking love song.”

You laugh, cheeks flushed, but there’s a comfort in their knowing smiles. They have your back. You have each other.

Then one evening, at the dorm you’re curled up on the couch, scrolling through fan tweets, half amused, half touched.

"‘She’s finally happy. About time!’" one fan writes. "‘He better treat her right, or else.’" "‘If this is real, I’m here for it.’"

You smile softly and tuck your phone away, unaware that Jake is quietly watching you from the hallway, his heart full and aching in equal measure. He steps inside, a little hesitant but smiling.

“Hey,” he says quietly.

You look up, startled but delighted.

“Hey.”

You fall into easy conversation, voices low, the comfort of presence filling the room. It’s not public, not official, but it’s yours.

—

The afternoon sun poured softly through the sheer curtains, dust motes floating lazily in the warm light. You sat cross-legged on the windowsill of your room, the city skyline stretching out behind you like a familiar, comforting backdrop. Your phone was perched just right on the windowsill, front camera activated, ready for your live stream. The gentle hum of the dorm around you—the clinking of dishes, muffled laughter, the distant sound of music—made the moment feel cozy and real.

Your members were scattered nearby, teasing you playfully off-camera. Juna poked her head into the frame, making exaggerated funny faces that sent you into a soft fit of laughter. Harin waved enthusiastically and mouthed “You got this!” while Naya leaned against the doorframe, a small, knowing smile playing on her lips.

You adjusted the camera slightly, then smiled warmly at the little crowd gathering in the chat box, where thousands of fans eagerly typed questions and compliments. The screen flickered with colorful hearts and messages of love. Your voice was light and casual as you answered questions, shared bits about your day, and gave gentle encouragement to those struggling to get through theirs.

You told a funny story about Naya’s latest kitchen disaster, and the chat exploded with laughing emojis. The tension of weeks past seemed miles away in that room, in that moment — here, you were just you.

Then, suddenly, the sound of the front door swinging open echoed through the dorm. A pair of soft footsteps came down the hall. Your gaze flicked toward the doorway, and there he was.

Jake.

Barefoot, his hair tousled from sleep or a restless afternoon. A steaming cup of coffee cradled in his hands. He wore an oversized hoodie that swallowed his frame in the most endearing way. His eyes caught the gentle glow of your phone screen, flickering with your face.

Time seemed to slow.

Your fingers froze mid-air, heart stuttering like a skipping record.

His eyes widened—surprised, amused—and a slow, sheepish grin spread across his face.

“Shit,” you whispered, instinctively covering the camera lens with your hand, cheeks flaming hotter than the afternoon sun.

“Shit,” he echoed, stepping closer, the soft scrape of his bare feet against the hardwood floor barely audible.

The members peeked around the corner, trying desperately not to laugh at the sudden burst of awkwardness.

Your heart hammered in your chest as the chat exploded:

“OMG IS THAT JAKE???” “GIRL WHY YOU WORRIED? WE ALL KNEW.” “FINALLY, THE SECRET’S OUT!” “Y’ALL ARE SO CUTE.”

Jake’s gaze flicked from your flushed face to the chat window. His eyes crinkled with warmth and quiet affection as he leaned slightly forward, whispering just loud enough for you to hear, “Guess the secret’s out.”

You bit your lip, still blushing, and slowly uncovered the camera. Your smile was shy but real, catching his gaze and holding it.

After the live stream ended, you set the phone aside and scooted down from the windowsill, curling up on the couch beside him. His hand found yours, fingers threading together like a perfect puzzle.

Jake brushed a loose strand of hair behind your ear with gentle reverence, his thumb caressing your skin. His voice was low, steady, as he murmured, “Guess we don’t have to hide anymore.”

You tilted your head up, eyes shining with a mix of relief and anticipation. “Not yet,” you whispered, voice trembling with the weight of everything unsaid. “But soon.”

He nodded slowly, the light in his eyes soft and sure. “And when that day comes,” he said, voice husky, “we’ll take it slow. Together.”

You leaned your head against his shoulder, feeling the steady beat of his heart beneath your cheek. The quiet around you was full of promise—of whispered confessions yet to come, shared glances across crowded rooms, the kind of love that grows in the shadows before stepping fully into the light.

Because some stories, you both knew, were meant to be whispered first—before they were ever sung aloud.

——————

EPILOG :)

The final night of the tour was electric, the air thick with anticipation and the collective heartbeat of thousands of fans. The stage lights pulsed in rhythm with the music as the crowd roared, waving light sticks that painted the arena in a sea of colors.

After the last high-energy track, the music faded, but the cheers kept rising, demanding an encore. You stepped back on stage, this time.. just you. Your heart was pounding like a drum. The spotlight found you, crisp and warm against the cool night.

“Thank you all for being with me on this journey,” you began, your voice steady but soft, carrying a weight of meaning. “Tonight, I want to share something special—a song I wrote for someone… very special.”

You paused, your eyes scanning the sea of faces, and then you smiled, the kind of smile that held years of secret stories finally ready to be told.

From the side, a stagehand handed you your guitar, polished and familiar in your hands. You strummed the first gentle chords, the melody weaving through the hush that fell over the crowd. You began to sing softly, strumming lightly. Everyone was silent as the melody filled the air of the venue.

Then, just as the track music began to flow fully, a figure stepped onto the stage’s edge — Jake. His presence was electric but calm, eyes locked on yours as he moved with quiet confidence.

The crowd erupted, screams mixing with cheers as you and Jake shared a glance filled with everything unspoken, everything finally free.

As the song’s rhythm picked up, someone took your guitar and you both began to dance—simple, sweet movements that told a story of connection and trust. His hands found yours, fingers intertwining effortlessly as the music carried you both through every note.

The audience was spellbound, watching two souls finally stepping out of shadows, bathed in the glow of stage lights and genuine love.

When the last note lingered in the air, you and Jake stood side by side, breathless and smiling, the applause crashing over you like a wave of pure joy.

You looked out at the crowd—at the fans who had waited, hoped, and now celebrated with you—and whispered, “This is just the beginning.”

Jake squeezed your hand, eyes sparkling, and together you took a bow, stepping forward into a future no longer hidden but shining bright for all to see.

Thanks for reading! Reblogs + notes always mean a lot 💌

tl: (read rules before asking to be added to any list ᥫ᭡. )

[delopsia]

i’d love to go on a hayride with rhett!

my title is: heaven sent 👼

thank you! so happy for you for hitting a follower milestone 🩷

I fear I may have strayed a bit far from this title, but 👀 it immediately came to mind when you sent this ask, and I HAD to write it, haha 💐 🍑Come join the Fernwell Creek Farms Event! 🍑 Hayride — Choose your date(s) and a title, and I'll write you a short drabble

Your presence arrives with the gunshot.

An invisible force swallows the bullet whole, lost to an inky abyss of time and space. Someone whistles. Your wings tuck, rolling into a spin. A plume of dirt kicks up, cloaking your form until you thrust up and into the air.

A second gun fires.

And all is quiet.

Tingles rush across your skin as the nameless soul whisks into the air. A translucent cluster of energy hovers just above the ground, shockingly small for what it contains, magnetically attracted to its mortal frame.

It's an easy one, though. The breeze from your wings is enough to whisk the silvery flame into the air, easily caught between your palms. Light flickers within, brightening as you blow into it. With that, it's rising on its own, embarking on its final journey.

The hitching post is your only decent landing space, swaying under the sudden appearance of your weight. A woman yelps. Doors slam closed.

But the only thing you can hear is the chime of spurs. A broad frame emerges from the dust, slotting a beaten pistol into its holster. Brown, loose curls rest at his nape, as dark as the felt hat that he tips at your presence.

"Hi, angel," his gruff voice is as deep as the distant thunder, rolling in from the west.

"Rhett," you chirp, in your best 'big bad, cowboy' impression. "You really should quit getting into duels."

A devilish grin works its way across his mouth, cocky. "Hey, he shot first."

"Uhuh," you lean up to meet him for a kiss. His chapped, split lips are a blessing in disguise, distracting in the best of ways, the kind of thing that makes your wings flutter. "What were you fighting over?"

"Asshole tried sellin' me a lame horse," he murmurs, already stealing another kiss. Anyone could poke their head out and catch a glimpse, but he doesn't seem to care. Never has.

"But you already have a horse," you say, tilting your head to the side. You can see her a few blocks away, munching on grass. What would he do with a second?

Rhett chuckles, pinching your cheek with rough fingers. "Promised I'd teach ya to ride, didn't I?"

Your gasp tells all, wings beating at the air hard enough to lift you a few inches. He was serious?

"C'mon," Rhett nods toward a nondescript building, towards the end of the road. "I reckon he won't mind lettin' ya pick one out."

Being a guardian angel just gets better and better.

[cameronsbabydoll]

Ex husband rafe where you are both at the park with your son and he falls. Maybe he needs stitches or something not too intense. Reader is freaking out in the moment and rafe calms her down. Later in the night the rolls kinda reverse and rafe admits to you he scared he was and its readers turn to calm him down. Maybe he even cry’s or is trembling…🙈I tried to send this before but I don’t think it went through ❤️

cw: medical talk and injuries and blood!!

you were at the park with your son, the afternoon sun still warm and soft over everything. rafe had met you there halfway through — unannounced, of course — just acting like it was normal to show up without warning, like he hadn't done it a hundred times before.

but your son was thrilled. and you were tired. so you didn’t argue.

everything was fine until it wasn’t.

one second he was running full speed toward the slide, and the next, he was tumbling. a bad fall — loud, fast, face-first onto the wood chips.

you completely froze, “o-oh oh my god — sweetheart—!”

you were already halfway across the park before he started wailing. you dropped to your knees, heart thundering, arms shaking as you tried to inspect the scrape across his brow, the blood trickling too close to his eye.

and then rafe was there. steady hands. calm voice.

“hey—hey. let me see him. breathe, mama.”

he was pulling his shirt off, folding it fast to press to the cut. “it’s not deep. i’ve got him. you hear me? i’ve got him.”

you were crying. embarrassed. he was the calm one — rafe. the same man who used to lose it over a dent in his car.

you rode together to urgent care, your son sniffly in raafe’s lap in the backseat while you drove like your life depended on it.

he only needed a few stitches. he was brave — brave in a way only little boys with both parents in the room can be. rafe cracked jokes. called him “tough guy.” never let him see him flinch.

but that night, after he was asleep and the adrenaline had finally worn off, you found rafe on your back porch with a beer in hand and a far-off look in his eyes.

you were the one who sat beside him now. quietly. no fight left in you.

“i didn’t like it,” he murmured, voice tight. “seeing him like that. bleeding.”

you glanced over at him, the moonlight catching on his sharp jaw and clenched teeth.

“i know,” you said softly.

he swallowed. didn’t look at you. “felt like... i don’t know. like i couldn’t do anything. and i always can, y'know? fix things. control shit. but that?” He exhaled, hard. “that wrecked me.”

you rested your hand gently over his.

“he’s okay,” you whispered. “you did everything right.”

a long pause.

“i didn’t think i’d lose it like that,” he admitted. “not after all the crap we’ve dealt with. but that scared me.”

you turned his hand over and laced your fingers through his, the way you hadn’t done in years.

and for a moment, there was no bitterness. no games. no broken marriage between you.

just the two of you — two scared parents, soft in the quiet, holding each other together.

[nerdygirlramblings]

The 141 and being "our wife" (for @beloveds-embrace based on this)

You're up to your elbows in flour, prepping the dough for Yorkshire pudding, when you hear the rumble of an engine in the drive. You wait until it's followed by four thunks before drawing in a deep breath.

Just as you're about to shout up the stairs, you hear a set of footsteps thunder down from the second floor.

"Dad's home!" your oldest, Kinsey, shouts to you.

"I heard hunny," you call back. "Can you get the door? I'm sure Papa's going to have a bunch of things with him."

"Alright, Mom," Kinsey says. It sounds like she's in the entryway. You hear the squeak of the hinges as she opens the front door. As it does, you hear your youngest's happy scream. Bailey must be able to see out the window.

"Da! Da! Da! Da!" he babbles.

"Yes, Bae, that's Daddy," you hear your middle child, Emma, tell him. You smile to yourself, proud of how well your kids get along. You're still musing over your little family when a rumble pulls you out of your reverie.

"Hey, Kins," John's voice says. "Where's your mama?"

"Mama's in the kitchen," Emma responds.

"Emma, my sunshine!" he crows. You hear her giggle and can only imagine John's picking her up and probably tossing her into the air. A squeal proves your instinct right.

"Munchkin!" you hear Simon call. He must have been just behind John.

You hear Kinsey groan at the nickname, but it's impossible to miss the smile in her voice when she says, "Welcome home, Dad."

It's Johnny's voice you hear next. "Where's my Em girl?" he says. It's followed by a grunt, a squeal, and and a, "Watch it, MacTavish," in John's deep baritone. Johnny probably snatched the girl right out of John's arms.

You hear the wheels of Bailey's walker rattle along the floor as Kyle's voice joins the fray. "Baby boy! You've gotten so big!"

Bailey coos, "Da. Da. Da. Da," at him, which earns a guffaw from Johnny.

"Tha's yer Daddy. I'm Da!"

As you listened to your children greet their fathers, you put the dough into the cooker and are washing up. You wipe your wet hands on the tea towel, and a pair of strong hands fall on your waist. The man smells like sunshine and tobacco.

John's beard tickles your throat when he leans to kiss you. "Thank you, Mama," he whispers. You know from previous deployments he's thanking you for waiting for them, for caring for the kids in their absence, for carrying the weight of everything by yourself. "We're home now." He punctuates his message with another kiss as you feel Simon enter the room.

You step away from John's embrace to wrap your arms around as much of Simon as you can manage. You don't say anything, and neither does he. He drops a kiss on the hair and holds you tight for one minute, then two. When you feel him unfurl, tension seeping away, you finally whisper, "Welcome home, Si."

"Missed you, Mama," he replies. He gives you another tight squeeze before stepping back. You turn to find Kyle leaning against the door frame. He smiles at you, and you open your arms for him.

He picks you up with a spin. "Ky," you giggle, feeling decades younger.

"Mama," he says, "it smells amazing in here." He smiles at you. "You take such good care of us." He pulls you against him and brushes his lips across yours. "Thank you," he murmurs.

"Always," you reply, cupping his cheek. You close your eyes and press your forehead to his. "Always," you whisper again.

Finally, Johnny's behind you, practically pulling you from Kyle's hug. "Stop hogging our missus, Garrick. I didnae get a turn yet." You see Kyle roll his eyes, but he lets you go, passing you gently into Johnny's arms. "Mama," Johnny says, looking you in the eye. "It's so good tae be home."

You wrap your arms around his neck, playing with the hair at the base of his skull. "It's good to have you all home." You close your eyes and breathe deeply. You try to blink them away, but you feel the tears lining your eyes. "So so good."

This last deployment was longer than anyone thought it would be. After three months, they went radio silent, and if Kate hadn't been giving you updates, you would have been out tracking your men across the desert. Six months alone. Six months raising three kids on your own. Six months worrying about them every day.

But they were home now. And that was enough.

main masterlist

[lovlidollie]

stepbro rafey who fucks you in front of the family portrait so he can watch guilt induced tears roll down ur pretty face :(

absolutely in love w this !!! cw ; stepcest, dubcon, dacryphilia, p in v, icky rafe

stepbro!rafe has a fucked up sense of humour. he’s always been .. a little twisted. a little cruel. he corners you in the living room, icy blue eyes gleaming with a dangerous mix of lust and malice. the cameron family portrait hangs to the right of the sofa you’re currently perched on, innocent eyes warily looking up at his angular face. he’d been .. looking at you a little differently these past few weeks.. and it had anxiety settling itself deep down in your tummy. you didn’t like it. he was older than you, bigger, stronger. ward and rose weren’t home, wheezie was with a friend, and sarah was off who knows where with her ragtag group of pogues. just the two of you tonight.

“what’s up, rafe?” you question quietly, trying to discreetly pull up the neckline of your tanktop. his lips curl into a slow, wolfish smirk, something so distinctly predatory you feel like sprinting. rafe doesn’t answer your question immediately, eyes flicking between your face and your cleavage. “‘what’s up?’” he echos, caging you in when he moves to take a seat uncomfortably close to you. his thighs touch yours as he stretches an arm over you to rest on the armrest, broad shoulders blocking your escape. “you tell me, sweetheart. you’ve been a little.. skittish ‘round me recently. makes me wonder what y’so nervous ‘bout.”

“‘m not nervous,” you stammer, shrinking further into the cushions. your heart thunders at his proximity. “well, um — if you’re done, ‘m jus’ gonna—”

before you can finish, rafe’s hand shoots out, gripping your wrist firmly. not painfully, not yet, but enough for you to freeze. “nah,” he interrupts, reaching out to brush a stray strand of hair behind your ear. the act is deceptively gentle, but you know his intentions are anything but pure. “wanna talk to you. y’know how much i love you,” he says with a grin, eyes darkening as he glances down to your wet lips. you have a feeling his idea of love isn’t the same as yours.

rafe leans back on the couch, pointing across to the portrait. it was new, recently commissioned to include you. the newest cameron. ward and rose were at the front, his self-satisfied smirk and her pristine smile looking painfully fake. wheezie was between them, her face shining the brightest. at the back, were sarah, rafe and you, his body directly behind you. in the picture, you’d plastered on a polite smile, though if someone looked closer, they’d be able to see the terrified glint to your eyes. rafe had gotten incredibly close, arm wrapped around your waist, hand resting low on your hips. he looked perfect in the portrait, hair perfectly styled, clothes crisp; the epitome of the man ward had raised him to be. ”wha’cha think, huh?”

you shrink into the couch, lips forming a line as you force your words out. “yeah — looks nice.” rafe sucks on his teeth, nodding his head to himself. you move to get up again but this time he’s prepared, grabbing you by the midriff. you think you hear him say “you look so pretty when you’re scared,” but the next thing you know his lips are on yours in a searing, sloppy, wet kiss. it’s all teeth and tongue and it’s so, messy.

you try resist, try hitting him in the shoulder but all he does is take that as confirmation to slip his tongue deeper down your throat. his fingers curl into your top, pads of his fingers dragging against your nipples, pulling you closer. your mind is reeling with the implications of this but your treacherous body betrays you, heat pooling heavy and low in your tummy despite the shame clawing its’ way out of your chest.

rafe groans when you finally manage to land a punch to his sternum, breaking away from you. a string of saliva connects the two of you before snapping, and silence fills the room, nothing except the sounds of your combined panting. “been wantin’ to do that f’a while.” he sounds so cocky, so assured, like he’d planned this the entire time.

“what the fuck,” you whisper, a shaky finger tracing your kiss-bitten lips. “what the fuck, rafe!” you feel the tears spring to your eyes immediately, and rafe’s face lights up like a kid on christmas.

he’s moving, grabbing you by the arms and flipping you over, throwing you like a ragdoll until your upper body is positioned over the armrest. “rafe — rafe wait — wait what.. rafe! we can’t. we, can’t.”

“no one’s here to stop us, baby. c’mon gimme what i want. ‘know you wan’ it too. don’t think i don’t see the ‘lil looks y’throw at me.” you hear him shuffling around, the clink of a belt, and suddenly something long and hard is poking you. “rafe! please!” you sob, even if deep, deep down you knew he was right. you felt so dirty. “‘s’okay, y’family now, right? family helps each other.”

his fingers crawl up your lower half, pulling down your pants and undies just enough for him to expose the globes of your ass and your leaking cunt. “mmmh yeah, see? knew it. its, uh, it’ll be okay. ‘m gonna make it good f’you.” he swipes his cock against your folds a few times, coating his thickness in your dewy wetness, using another hand to hold down your body as you struggle. and then he’s surging in, hips flush against yours within a second. your pussy grips him tight, clenching down on him like a vice, so hard rafe almost doubles over. “shiiit.”

it feels like too much and not enough. you’re full, so incredibly full you swear if you looked at your tummy you’d see his dick poking through. he gives you a second before pulling out slowly and slamming back into you, the couch screeching against the marble with the movement. rafe’s hand curls itself into your hair, twisting it until he can pull your head up. you can barely see the maniacal look in his eyes through your blurry vision, cheeks wet with hot tears.

“look at that,” he breaths out against your ear. your brain is so mushy you don’t even know what he’s talking about until he’s making you look right at the portrait. “perfect little family, yeah? haaah, bet they’d lose their minds if they saw their sweet, innocent girl letting her stepbrother ruin her like this.” he’s destroying you, right under their noses and it fuels him like no high ever could. oh, how he wished they could see you now, all your guilt and shame and the underlying lust. he loves it.

he punctuates it with a harsh thrust, one that has you moaning and subconsciously arching into him. he leans over you, watching the tears fall down your delirious face before licking your cheek with a broad tongue stroke. “keep y’eyes on them,��� he nearly growls, voice dripping with raw hunger. his fingers dig painfully into your hips as he sets a brutal pace. “wanna make ‘em watch you cry.”

[occamstfs]

Marichismo

Allen, a smug engineering student, finds himself seeking shelter from the storm in a museum for Latin American art. By the time it clears up it's safe to say he'll have a more than healthy appreciation for the arts.

Might've gotten away from me a tad but I think it turned out quite well! Latino Race and Cultural change, MG and language change ahead. Also a couple more people have hopped onto my Challenge since I last mentioned it! Otherwise, espero que disfrutes! -Occam

Allen was on a side of the campus he’s never quite made it a point to explore. In undergrad and in his Masters of Engineering program so far there has simply never been a need for him to venture too far from the engineering building or the architecture library. That is until his partner on a superfluous project requested he venture into the no man’s land that holds the campus’ main library, one that runs absolutely rampant with students he sees as far beneath him.

Even worse than simply venturing beyond his comfort zone, as soon as the pair have wrapped up their progress for the day, heading off on their less than merry ways, it begins to rain. As the first raindrops begin to fall, Allen scoffs at himself for being anything less than optimally prepared. Before he’s able to reflect too deeply, the snobbish student clenches his tech-filled book bag to his chest and sprints into the nearest building, apathetic to whatever space he noisily barges into.

Before his eyes can adjust to the dim light of the new space he finds himself in, Allen hears a crack of thunder as the heavens open up behind him. Sighing in relief at successfully staying dry, Allen keeps his guard up, eying the lobby of whatever building this is that he’s never deigned to step into before now. He grimaces as he finds himself in an art museum. He does not like art museums. It’s not so much that Allen sees himself as above fine art, it’s- well no it is that. Immediately, he begins scanning the lobby for a power outlet so he may continue working while he waits out the downpour.

Head shoved under a lobby bench Allen ignores a caution sign as he forces his charger in, causing an inevitable shock that forces out a less than respectful expletive in this place of introspection. He eyes the empty room around him, slightly grinning at just how barren the lobby is. Clearly he’s not the only one apathetic to this nonsense. Shaking his hand to reawaken its nerves, he hears the clicking of footsteps against the gallery floor as a small woman walks around the corner carrying a stack of books that block her view. Allen eyes a handful of escape routes to hide from the older woman before lightning strikes once more and she trips over in shock, dropping her small stack of books, “¡Dios Mio!”

Judgemental asshole Allen may be but heartless he is not. Setting down his bag with a sigh and a roll of the eyes, the student walks over to help the older woman gather herself. Barely avoiding reflexively chiding his elder as he offers her a hand, he helps her up. The attendant pushes a large pair of glasses up her nose and squints at him with a kind smile, “Ah! Gracias, gracias mijo.” She pulls herself up on Allen’s hand and he cringes back as some kind of aftershock of static goes up his arm. Thankfully it doesn’t seem to affect her. Dusting herself off, she does a double take at Allen and adjusts her glasses, “¿Qué te trae aqui hoy, mijo? (What brings you in today dear?)

Allen hesitates, blowing air as he tries to understand why this woman thinks he knows spanish. Scratching the back of his head he finally looks to see the text blazoned across the front desk, El Gustavo Ramirez Museo De Arte Latinoamericano. Putting two and two together as he is ever so proud of doing, Allen immediately apologizes for intruding. “So sorry uh, Ma’am. I didn’t mean to wander into your, uh, space.” gesturing to the woman and the building around him in a manner to distinguish it not so much as beneath him but as an other. Something that is simply a bridge too far for him to gap. “This place isn’t for me so I think I’ll go ahead and step out.” Thunder peels before he can start to gather his things, immediately reminding him why he is in here at all. 

The older woman also relents, switching to English since, despite some instinct saying otherwise, the man before her clearly speaks only english. “Ah don’t you worry yourself mijo. The museum is for all, para todos. Free with your student ID,” she tacks on with a wink. Allen smiles uncomfortably, baring teeth enough that it could be mistaken as a grimace. 

He can’t just tell this old lady that he hasn’t a thought to spare, in his mind: waste, on the collections behind her. Still he doesn’t want to make conversation indefinitely waiting for the storm to clear either. Fearful of the outlet he’s used thus far he convinces himself there must be one hiding somewhere in the exhibition hall. He’ll just pacify her with entry and go find some place in between ostentatious paintings and droll statues to insert himself and get some actual work done.

Producing his ID wordlessly, he hands it to the elderly woman and she quickly shuffles behind her desk to type his name into some registry. Handing it back with a smile she leaves her hand hanging for a shake, “Wonderful to meet you Allan! Soy Lupe Carvajal. But you can call me abuelita, mijo!” Pocketing his ID with a dismissive laugh he notices not that his name is apparently misspelled on his ID card, instead he packs his charger up and shakes Lupe’s hand. “Hah. Uhm, whatever you say Mrs. Carvajal.” Her hand is wrinkled and frail but surprisingly warm, as if his hand were receiving the full body experience of a hug in but a single shake. 

“You know Allan, I must have thought you know spanish because you look quite like my nieto, my grandson.” Allan puffs his cheeks to bite his tongue, holding a picture in his mind of what this granny’s descendants must look like and knowing there’s simply no permutation that lands at himself. She continues, “Es un joven fuerte! Haha!” She does a little bicep pose which allows Allan to understand exactly what she means without her translating. He shyly smiles looking down at his own thin arms and wondering why this lady seems to be mocking him. After doing her bit, Lupe moves to sit at the desk and pulls a book off her stack, “You just let me know if you need anything mijo, si?” Allan nods and reflexively responds, “Si ab- Mrs. Carvajal.”

Odd taste in his mouth at almost calling this random woman grandmas she asked, he shakes it off and wanders into the exhibit hall, decidedly less worried about using her museum’s resources to his own ends. It has probably been over a decade since anyone was able to drag him into an art museum. Even then was he vehemently against wasting his time visiting. He just didn’t get art, and not for not trying. It’s just, aggravating that some people can get so much from some splotches of paint and he just sees a picture on some paper. Feeling himself get riled up he turns to the exhibit hoping for some distraction, which he finds in an elaborate statue of some dog. himself. 

Allan stands beside a huichol coyote covered in beads about two feet high. Spotlighted in the dim gallery he circles it like a predator, inspecting the bright beaded beast from every angle. See this he gets. This took time, this took care. Leaning in close the warmth of the overhead light pleasantly burns the top of his head. Absorbed by the shimmering light off the beads, Allan is unaware as his hair suddenly begins to lengthen. The buzz he has always kept short for sheer manageability begins to curl over his ears, growing warm even quicker as it tints darker. Not quite black but certainly not the blonde shade he was always happy to keep despite his spending as few hours outside as possible.

Before curls can begin to crest over his forehead, his face is not spared the glare of the spotlight. Immediately as his olive eyes glaze over, absorbed into the intricate stitched patterns they begin to stain darker. The jade he has always seen in his own reflection shades darker ever so slightly. Not brown. No he doesn’t have brown eyes, they’re just hazel? His eyebrows match the suddenly darkened hair on his head as he stands staring at the beast. Not expanding to cover more of his face but growing thicker, denser. Almost as if to shade his eyes from the light. His lips thicken as a grin begins to tinge his face. Reaching up Allan feels stubble begin to prickle his chin and upper lip, as if he spent time shaving this morning. 

Allan moans contentedly as he gives in and reaches fully into the spotlight to touch the coyote. Rules and codes of propriety fall to the wayside as he reaches beyond the realm of rationality to touch the statue of the trickster. His hands burn as they tint ever so slightly darker under the glare of the spotlight. As soon as his middle finger feels the warmth of the first bead he recoils in shock. “Q- What?!” He falls onto his ass, no time to inspect his decidedly browner hands as the commotion made immediately summons Abuelita Lupe. The elderly attendant meanders as quickly as she can into the showroom, “¿Qué pasó Alan?” Alan flexes his hand in shock. Whatever just happened it can’t be his fault.  Surely he didn’t just unprompted mess with some artifact on display. “I, um? No sé?” He pauses, unsure of what he just said, nonsense he thinks. “I mean um, I’m not sure?”

Lupe goes to help him up with what little strength she can muster only for him to wave her off, sure that she would only get in the way. He finds standing takes more effort than usual as he does so with a grunt. Nervously patting him on the back, Lupe asks him if he’s alright after the spill, buzzing around him with concerned pleasantries. Alan doesn't quite hear her as he instead inspects his own body. His clothes are tighter. He stretches and pulls at them, presuming them to just be falling weird on him after the fall. But close inspection shows otherwise. Looking at his cardigan it is clearly strained by his chest and stomach. Blushing at the idea he’s put on weight, Alan crosses his arms and notices how snugly his arms fill the sleeves, how his wrists hang out further than they should, not only that but they are unmistakably darker. Not brown, but without a doubt a few shades darker than his usual porcelain tone.

Recovering from being lost in his thoughts he looks to find Lupe staring, “Oh! Lo, uh sorry. Did you uh, ask me something Senora Carvajal?” Looking down at a sharper angle than he did earlier, he sees the abuela looking at his head with a tilt. “Did you do something different with your hair mijo?” eyes narrowing with concern and suspicion he thrusts his hair into his new curls. He immediately gasps in shock before reconsidering. This is how he’s always looked right? 

Thank god his hair is naturally curly so he can just leave them as they fall without much ado. He smiles and shakes his head at Lupe and she nods happily in return. Reaching up she puts her small hand on his bicep and squeezes it, Alan can barely hear her as he is struck with just how powerful his arm seems next to her small hand as she continues, “Well I like it mijo.” With that she aways and leaves Alan be. Having the floor to himself his expression grims as he pulls out his phone to look for a picture of himself. Something is off. His mind tells him everything is normal. When he looks at his hands he sees them as they have always been right? Why would he have a buzz cut when his hair is so naturally nice? Something in his gut screams out that something unnatural is going on. His camera roll should hold proof. Going through his phone he barely holds back a gasp that would surely summon the docent back as he is immediately greeted by a folder of his own nudes.

“Que chingado…” He whispers under his breath as his face burns redder than the scarlet beads on the coyote. He didn’t take these did he? Zooming in he is once more floored to see tattoos on his body. Looking down at his arm he sharply inhales as there's a sting and suddenly his wrist matches the image on his phone. Or no. He’s had that tattoo for years?

 Aghast at himself he still feels he wouldn’t have taken these photos of himself. Vain in many ways, his appearance is not one of them. He wonders if he’s been set up or hacked or something before he reminds himself no one would be able to do so without his knowledge. He’s a pro after all. Mind going to his technical skills, his chest puffs with pride as it grows to match the one he finds in the nudes soft-core and otherwise on his phone. Alan quickly shoves it in his pocket, finding it a much tighter fit than when he retrieved it. 

Looking around nervously, he walks close to the coyote once more. Narrowing his eyes he feels new memories come to mind from his childhood. Memories of hearing story after story of the trickster, he tilts his head as the slightest whiff of something amiss hides behind them. Staring into the eyes of the beast with suspicion the image of reading Greek mythologies by himself fades away to be replaced by his mother telling him stories from her own childhood. The coyote playing tricks and la Llorona terrorizing their little town just to make sure he stays in line. Alan smiles as he shakes out of the reverie, my mom wasn't morena was she? Headache rising as seconds pass standing near the beast he wanders away, muttering to himself without awareness, “didn’t want him in the main hall anyway.”

His hair continues to thicken and curl darker as he moves deeper into the exhibition space. Scratching at his stubble lost in thought he finds it defining itself into a goatee with a matching mustache. His phone still unlocked in his pocket shifts displays his form as he continues to change unawares. He feels himself begin to sweat intensely as his cardigan grows even tighter. His body decides to ramp up his masculinity as he starts to outright swell with muscle. His whole body twitches larger as he briefly recalls Lupe playfully flexing, “un joven fuerte!” He clicks his tongue and grins as he sees his biceps strain his sweater, almost enough to see his button up through the threads. He fights back a smirk feeling his shirt underneath hug the sides of his chest as his soldiers expand. Feeling his thicker pits start to sweat through said shirt and into the jacket he resolves to remove the cardigan.

His struggled grunts echo through the museum space as he struggles to get the cardigan off over his chest. The sound of fabric tearing rips through the room as stitches finally give way down the whole front of the garment, his pecs bursting larger into the open air. The top few buttons of his dress shirt also explode open as he is finally freed from the constricting sweater, “ayy dios- fuck…” He whispers to himself as he appreciates the ice cold air of the museum on his sweaty skin. The white dress shirt may as well be sheer with his sweat soaking it, allowing any gawkers to easily see tattoos running down his arm and the nipples almost poking through the shirt.

Only briefly does he wonder why he’s not self conscious about being exposed in the gallery before he notices a side-exhibition hall. “Ah si, uh. The temporary exhibit,” he whispers dreamily. Keeping quiet as any respectful museum-goer does. Though he doesn’t quite have the bodily awareness to mute his increasingly loud footsteps, each one growing louder as his upper body expands. He looks up to read the title of the exhibit as the sound of his shoulders widen enough to tear the back of his button up. Marichismo: Taking Back Latino Masculinity. He smirks as he finds the idea compelling, he’s uh, not hispanic of course. Nor has he ever been intrigued by ‘art’ in the slightest, he thinks. But something draws him deeper. Something pulls him further. Something in him begs for more.

His pants creak as he crosses the threshold into the new space, his ass expanding beyond the pale. Similarly does his crotch demand both more room and his attention as Arlad is immediately face to face with a deliberately provocative statue. The blush burning his face is just as soon hidden as his tan grows darker as he’s overwhelmed by everything in front of him. It’s as if Tom of Finland were Chicano. Bulges beyond belief force their way out at every angle. Rigid thick mustaches hang stoic on every face as Arlad feels his own stubble grow darker, thicker, itchier.

The student is torn between instincts, just as he feels increasingly torn between two worlds. His body continues ballooning and his shirt bursts clean off, buttons scatter to the floor and sharp tears launch down his arms. He can’t help but hungrily scan the floorspace as the bright lights bore into him, exposing him as if he were a piece of art on display. He looks down just in time to see his cock burst large enough to blow his zipper out which only addles his mind further, “Tal vez, just a minute…” He wanders into the exhibit hall proper as his eyes finally make the jump into a rich chocolate brown. He trips over his feet, gasping as he feels them stuffed uncomfortably tight in his oxfords before kicking off the shoes altogether. Just as soon do his pants rip off and he is left almost entirely nude in this exhibit hall.

His mouth hangs open as his cock acts almost like a dowsing rod in between pieces. The language in which Arcad thinks rapidly begins to change altogether, already a bilingual medley, with each starved look at photographed vaqueros or bulge forward paintings does English drift farther away. Maintaining fluency in both of course, the man would never let that tongue take predominance over that of his madre y su madre before her. His pecs pump even larger with pride as thick curls begin itching up from his crotch. He scratches at his stomach as he smirks at his body finally getting on brand. This whole show is about displaying masculinity and he needs to be the apex. He needs…

Arcad twitches as these definitive thoughts cut through the fog in which he has been going about. Why does he care so much about this place? He doesn’t like art. Certainly not this uh smut. He twitches as he argues that being provocative is the point, sexualization of the male form is the point. Why could he know that? How does he know anything about this exhibit? Looking around at the photographs he sees men who are almost a parody of masculinity. Fighting back the overwhelming pervasive horniness issuing forth from balls bulging larger he takes a deep breath and ignores the temple to the male form around him. 

It’s impossible for him to notice as his thoughts crest fully into español. After all it simply is the language in which he has always thought, no matter what his teachers demand of him. Back to the matter at hand he is struck with the urge to create. Mierda- this exhibition really inspired him, he should really write an essay about this. Or, no. He moans and clutches at his temples as the shining lights out of sight gleam even brighter, sparkling off his sweaty muscled form as he’s racked with the pain of opposing realities. No, that isn’t right. He doesn’t do essays anymore. That’s not how he creates. 

Memories of long hours at the lab and in dark rooms sitting at a keyboard dissipate. Haughty superiority over fields and forms he deems insignificant thankfully blast away as images of the photographs and artworks around him come to mind with an ease that makes him uneasy. Creeping in from the edges of his lived memory are other exhibits, many that he has visited, some that he has put on of his own accord. 

Tattoos continue to drip down his arm as his treasure trail rushes onto his chest, blooming out to cover his pecs. The space in between his mustache and goatee is quickly filled, as are the entirety of his cheeks as his eyes shut even tighter. Independent muscle groups twitch as his body struggles to forge him even larger, to be more. The lengthy curls on his head fall away as his head returns to a buzz cut, this time black as the night. This time impossibly deliberate. 

Arcadio buzzed it himself, he loved his curls. But he knew for this exhibition he had to sacrifice. Anything for his art. The phrase burns across his mind, Marichismo. It, it was his exhibition. Arcadio opens his eyes to find himself standing across from an oppressive statue staring down at him in disdain. His blood boils as his fight or flight activates. Though staying strong he just clenches his fist as his body bulges larger one last time. “Papa.” He made that statue, he isn’t about to be shoved around by his own art. The feeling of confidence filling him at standing up against the domineering statue is more than he could have held within him as Allan. Reverbs of confidence go through his psyche as he finally gets it. Turning around the confidence that fills him rapidly dissipates as he sees a man posing like a dog.

He exercised complete creative control of the exhibition, but did he take this? Memories of being behind the lens of the camera dance through his mind for most of the images, this one seems obscured. He ignores the cold sudden sting of a nose ring as he leans in close to inspect it, smirking all the while. Who’d he get to model this? Looking at the jockstrap he nods approvingly, mierda it is certainly hot though. His underwear stretches to its absolute limit as he forces his large hand down to paw his cock at the image. Looking down at his hairy forearm he gasps as he sees the tattoo on his forearm perfectly matches that of the model. 

At that moment his underwear burst free from his body and he suddenly realizes that being nude in this space is far worse a breach of etiquette than touching that coyote. Arcadio sprints to his bag and digs around for anything he could possibly use to hide his still bulging cock at half mast. “¡Gracias a dios!” he whispers under his breath as he wraps a towel around his waist, perfectly mimicking a photograph behind him. He smirks at the man thinking how proud Jose will be when he gets to see himself on a gallery wall. Arcadio grunts and clenches his head as memories of the man ahead of him fill his mind. Lightheaded he leans against the wall grimacing as he leads a sweaty handprint on the pristine white wall.

Turning around seeing the exhibit hall as a whole he almost falls over with a rush of memories. Advanced math and the life he once lived as Allan are dust in the wind as his childhood growing up the son of first generation immigrants in San Antonio rises to take their place. Living alone with his mother before his abuela moved up from Mexico to help raise him as if he were her son. Understanding himself and the world around him as he discovered who he was and what he had to do. Finally achieving success, winning grants, booking galleries as an artist. Not too bad for a maricon eh? He winks at the statue of his father, smirking as he feels his power as a man and artist grow.

Looking down at some engineering homework scattered from his bag the last pangs of a headache buzzes through him before he shakes his head and the work is gone. The last shreds of a life he once lived dissipate. Walking out into the lobby he sees his abuelita. She smiles at the massive man before adjusting her glasses and shouting out, “¡Ay! ¿Qué estás haciendo? ¡Ponte algo de ropa! (What are you doing! Put some clothes on!)” Arcadio laughs and waves her off, knowing the museum is closed while he preps his exhibition for opening tomorrow. 

His new voice is rich on his tongue as he speaks up, “Espero que les guste. La universidad no sabe lo que pagaron ¡ja! (Hope they like it. The uni doesn’t know what they paid for ha!)” His abuelita clicks her tongue, she loves her grandson more than the world but boy if he hasn’t made her old beyond her years. She digs through the lost and found next to her for something that might fit her larger than life grandson and throws it at him. The man laughs and his abuelita can’t help but join in the reverie. She wouldn’t dream of going through his exhibit- que obsceno, que cachondo! But he could do no real wrong in her eyes. So far he’s blown her expectations out of the water with his success and she can’t wait to see what Arcadio gets up to next.

[aspenmissing]

Can I request headcanons for Karlach, Gale, Halsin, Astarion, poly Gale & Astarion, and poly Astarion & Halsin flustering her/his/their shy female s/o by showering her with kisses because she absolutely loves it but she's always feel extra bashful afterwards please?

ᴀ ꜱʜᴏᴡᴇʀ ᴏꜰ ᴋɪꜱꜱᴇꜱ

ᴀꜱᴛᴀʀɪᴏɴ | ᴋᴀʀʟᴀᴄʜ | ʜᴀʟꜱɪɴ | ɢᴀʟᴇ | ᴀꜱᴛᴀʀɪᴏɴ/ɢᴀʟᴇ | ᴀꜱᴛᴀʀɪᴏɴ/ʜᴀʟꜱɪɴ || ꜰʟᴜꜰꜰ || 4692 ᴡᴏʀᴅꜱ || ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ: ɴ/ᴀ

ʀᴇQᴜᴇꜱᴛ ᴀɴꜱᴡᴇʀ: ʜᴇʟʟᴏ ʏᴇᴛ ᴀɢᴀɪɴ ᴍʏ ᴅᴇᴀʀ! ɪ'ᴍ ɢʟᴀᴅ ʏᴏᴜ ᴀʀᴇ ᴇɴᴊᴏʏɪɴɢ ᴍʏ ᴡᴏʀᴋ! ꜱᴏ ɪ ᴅᴏ ʜᴏᴘᴇ ʏᴏᴜ ᴇɴᴊᴏʏ ᴛʜɪꜱ ᴏɴᴇ ᴊᴜꜱᴛ ᴀꜱ ᴍᴜᴄʜ! <3 <3

ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ | ᴀꜱᴛᴀʀɪᴏɴ | ᴋᴀʀʟᴀᴄʜ | ʜᴀʟꜱɪɴ | ɢᴀʟᴇ

ASTARION

The fire crackled softly, casting a golden glow on the mossy rocks and worn leather bedrolls. Shadows danced on nearby trees like slow-moving ghosts, and the occasional breeze carried the scent of pine needles and smoldering embers. The night was calm—a rare, precious gift after a day marked by bloodshed and the screaming of the dying.

The others had drifted off to their corners of camp, either asleep or feigning it. Gale was mumbling in his sleep again, something about “Weave compatibility,” while Karlach’s snores rolled through the clearing like distant thunder. Shadowheart sat in her tent, quietly reading. Lae’zel had long since retreated to sharpen her blade—or her temper.

But not you. And certainly not Astarion.

You sat beside him near the fire, your knees drawn up, your hair slightly damp from a hasty rinse in the river. The ends curled softly in the heat. You’d just finished recounting a particularly mortifying story from your childhood—one Astarion had insisted on hearing, after expertly needling you into it with those teasing eyes and that unbearably smug smile.

“Oh gods,” you groaned, burying your face in your hands as the final detail slipped from your lips like a death sentence. “Why did I tell you that?”

Astarion let out a delighted laugh, sharp and musical, like chimes caught in a summer wind. It made your heart stutter, every time.

“My dear, that was positively adorable,” he cooed, eyes crinkling at the corners. “Who knew the mighty, fearsome warrior of our little troupe once got her foot stuck in a pumpkin of all things?”

“Please,” you moaned, voice muffled by your hands. “Let me melt into the ground now.”

“But if you do,” he said, scooting closer, “how will I keep you all to myself?”

You peeked through your fingers to find him already far too close, the firelight reflecting off his pale skin like moonlight on silk. Instead of mocking you further, Astarion did something worse—far worse.

He reached out, gently taking your wrists in his cool hands, and pried your hands away from your face. His touch was light, reverent, as though you might vanish at the slightest protest. When your gaze met his, you forgot how to breathe for a moment.

“I simply can’t resist you when you’re like this,” he purred, his voice dropping into that dangerous velvet register. “All pink in the cheeks, lips twitching, trying so hard not to smile…”

“Astarion—” you warned, though it lacked any real conviction.

His lips brushed your forehead.

You froze, the warmth of the kiss blooming through you like wine in your veins.

Then he kissed your temple. Your breath caught.

Another kiss landed on your cheek. Then another. Then another. Quick, soft pecks. Featherlight. Mischievous. His mouth moved like a whisper across your skin, never lingering, always chasing the places you didn’t know you needed to feel.

He was grinning now, and your face burned hotter than the fire.

“A-Astarion!” you squeaked, trying to twist away, though the attempt was more symbolic than sincere. “You’re doing that thing again—”

“Oh? You mean the thing where I absolutely shower you with affection?” He captured your hands again, bringing them to his lips. He kissed each knuckle slowly, as if savoring the taste of your skin, like royalty or a relic. “Guilty as charged.”

You whined, half-laughing, half-mortified, your face so hot you could have sworn it was glowing. “You’re awful.”

“I’m charming,” he corrected smoothly, trailing his kisses down your wrist. “And—what was it?—irresistible? Wasn’t that what you called me the other night after your fourth glass of wine?”

“That was the wine talking,” you mumbled, hiding behind your free hand again.

“Oh, darling,” he murmured, brushing his lips up your arm now, slow and lazy, “but you’ve never needed wine to look at me like I hung the stars.”

You peeked at him through your fingers again, flushed and trembling and melting in equal parts. “You said there was a secret.”

He raised an infuriating brow, smug as the devil. “Ah, yes. A little secret I’ve discovered about you.” He leaned in, his lips brushing your ear. “You love it when I do this.”

Your hands dropped to your lap, betrayed by your own curiosity. “...Do not.”

“Oh, really?” His eyes gleamed, and before you could think of a rebuttal, he began peppering kisses along your jawline. One, two, three—pausing only to smirk against your skin as you squirmed in his grasp.

“Tell me to stop,” he murmured, voice like silk dragging across bare skin.

You bit your lip, eyes squeezed shut, and tried very hard not to giggle. “You’re impossible.”

“And yet,” he murmured, pressing a kiss just beneath your ear, “you still haven’t stopped me.”

“I’m trying to hold onto some dignity,” you mumbled, voice featherlight and almost pleading.

“Darling,” he chuckled, pressing his forehead to yours, “I stole your dignity days ago. Right after you told me you dreamed of me feeding you grapes on a velvet couch.”

Your eyes flew open. “That was one time!”

“And a delicious detail it was,” he purred, all mischief and moonlight.

Then, without warning, he wrapped his arms around your waist and pulled you into his lap. You landed against his chest with a soft yelp, and he held you there with startling gentleness.

“You’re far too precious,” he whispered, the tone of his voice suddenly shifting—less teasing now, more reverent. “Every time you blush, I swear my unbeating heart stirs.”

You buried your face in his shoulder with a muffled groan. “You are the worst.”

“And you,” he murmured, lips brushing your temple again, “are mine.”

The silence that followed was warm and heavy, broken only by the fire’s lullaby and the soft beating of your heart against his. He ran his fingers slowly along your spine, his other hand gently cradling the back of your head as though holding a dream he wasn’t ready to wake from.

You stayed like that, tangled in moonlight and warmth, your heart thudding embarrassingly loud in your chest while his lips found the soft spot just below your ear, the place that made your breath hitch every time.

You didn’t tell him to stop.

You never really meant it when you did.

KARLACH

The lake glittered under the afternoon sun, each ripple catching the light like a tossed coin. Wildflowers lined the grassy shore, and dragonflies skimmed lazily across the surface of the water. It was quiet—peaceful in a way the road rarely allowed. No shouting. No blades clashing. Just the hush of the breeze and the gentle lapping of water against smooth stones.

Y/N sat in the grass a few feet from the shoreline, boots kicked off and legs tucked beneath her. She ran her fingers absently through her damp hair, tugging out little knots and brushing dried blood from the ends. The fight earlier in the day hadn’t been bad, but it had been enough to leave her nerves buzzing, heart still trying to decide whether to calm down or stay on edge.

A shadow fell over her.

She looked up just in time to see Karlach grinning—wide, radiant, and slightly mischievous.

Before she could react, strong arms swooped down and lifted her off the ground.

“Karlach—!” Y/N yelped, flailing a little as she was hauled effortlessly into the barbarian’s lap.

Karlach plopped them both back into the soft grass with a huff of laughter. “There she is,” she said, nuzzling into Y/N’s shoulder like a happy bear. “My favourite girl.”

Y/N covered her face with both hands, already blushing furiously. “You can’t just—pick me up like that out of nowhere…”

Karlach leaned in, her voice warm and teasing in Y/N’s ear. “Pretty sure I just did.”

Y/N groaned softly, trying to hide in her own sleeves.

“Stop it,” she muttered, the words utterly devoid of conviction.

“Stop what?” Karlach asked innocently. “Showering my adorable girlfriend with affection?” She punctuated it with a kiss just below Y/N’s ear, then her jaw, her cheek, her temple—soft, rapid-fire kisses that made Y/N squirm and gasp with every one.

“Karlach—!” she half-laughed, half-whined, trying to duck away. “You’re not being fair!”

“Oh, sweetheart, I’m not trying to be fair.”

Before Y/N could wriggle out of her grasp, Karlach leaned them both back into the grass, rolling until she hovered above her. She braced herself on one arm while the other gently cupped Y/N’s flushed face, thumb brushing lightly against her cheek.

Pinned beneath her, Y/N looked up with wide, dazed eyes, the sky a perfect summer blue above Karlach’s silhouette.

The cold press of Karlach’s infernal engine brushed against Y/N’s stomach, barely felt through the fabric of her tunic—but it was the heat in Karlach’s eyes that made her breath catch.

“Look at you,” Karlach murmured, grinning down at her. “You’re blushing so hard I think the sun’s getting jealous.”

“D-Don’t say stuff like that,” Y/N stammered, covering her face with both hands again. “It’s embarrassing…”

Karlach chuckled low in her throat, eyes crinkling. She bent down and gently pried one of Y/N’s hands away, pressing a lingering kiss to the centre of her palm. “You love it,” she said smugly.

Y/N shook her head stubbornly, lips pursed into something between a pout and a bashful smile. “N-No I don’t.”

“Oh really?” Karlach grinned and kissed her nose. “Then what’s this?” A kiss to her cheek. “And this?” Another to the tip of her chin. “And this one right—here.”

A slow, soft kiss to Y/N’s lips shut her up entirely.

Y/N let out a tiny, startled noise, one hand curling into Karlach’s shirt like an anchor. She was melting—absolutely melting. Her thoughts turned to mist, her whole body tingling in the warm sunlight and the weight of the woman above her.

Karlach pulled back just enough to brush their foreheads together.

“You’re so cute when you’re flustered,” she whispered. “Like, devastatingly cute. I might never recover.”

Y/N made a soft, strangled sound, now covering her face again with both hands and mumbling something incoherent.

Karlach laughed again, a real belly laugh that rumbled through her chest. She leaned in, nuzzling against Y/N’s neck with exaggerated affection, nose scrunching up like a big, overgrown puppy.

“Okay,” she whispered dramatically. “I’m gonna keep kissing you until you admit you love it. No escape. This is your life now.”

Y/N peeked between her fingers, still bright red, voice muffled. “…Maybe just one more.”

Karlach froze. Then slowly, that grin returned, wide and unstoppable. “Oh, baby,” she said, voice low and warm, “you have no idea what you just unleashed.”

And with that, she kissed her again—slow, deep, sun-drenched—and didn’t stop for a very long time.

GALE

You were quietly reading by the campfire, the flickering flames casting warm, golden shadows across Gale’s face as he watched you with that familiar, soft smile that always made your heart flutter. The crackling fire filled the night air with a comforting rhythm, and for a while, nothing else mattered but the simple pleasure of being together.

You loved moments like these—peaceful, simple, shared.

The book in your hands slipped a little as you caught Gale’s gaze lingering on you, his eyes reflecting the dancing flames. He looked almost… mesmerized. You smiled softly and glanced up, brushing a stray lock of hair behind your ear.

Before you could say a word, Gale leaned in, his breath warm against your skin, and pressed a gentle kiss to your temple.

Your breath hitched, cheeks flushing a deep rose as a surge of warmth spread through you.

“I’ve missed you,” he murmured, voice low and tender, almost a secret meant just for you.

You swallowed, heart pounding, but before you could respond, his lips trailed down your cheek, slow and featherlight, teasing the sensitive skin beneath your eye. Then came the tip of your nose, which he nuzzled playfully.

You instinctively tried to pull back, eyes sparkling with laughter, but suddenly a shimmer of sparkling blue magic flickered around your wrists and ankles—a delicate yet firm Hold Person spell.

“Gale! What—?” you giggled, caught between surprise and amusement as you realized you were frozen in place.

He grinned like a mischievous child, eyes twinkling with delight. “Just a little spell to keep my favourite person still. I want to make sure I can show you exactly how much I adore you without you running away.”

Your cheeks burned hotter, both from the magic and the affection radiating off him in waves.

His hands cupped your face gently, thumbs brushing along your cheekbones as he leaned closer, lips capturing yours in a soft, insistent kiss. The world seemed to shrink until it was just the two of you—firelight flickering, your breaths mingling, and the steady beating of your hearts.

He pulled back just enough to pepper a dozen little kisses along your jawline and down to your collarbone, each one igniting tiny sparks beneath your skin. You sighed against him, body melting, heart pounding so hard you feared it might burst free.

When he finally released the spell, your limbs tingled, freed but reluctant to move. You instinctively tried to pull away, cheeks flushed a bright crimson, voice barely above a whisper.

“Gale… you’re… you’re impossible.”

He chuckled, the sound warm and deep, brushing a stray lock of hair from your face with a tender touch. “Only for you,” he replied softly.

You hid your face against his chest, feeling the steady rhythm of his heartbeat calm your own racing pulse. The moment felt infinite—intimate and perfect.

“More kisses?” you dared to ask, still shy but secretly hoping, your voice trembling with a bashful excitement.

Gale’s smile deepened, eyes shining with affection and a hint of playful mischief. “Always.”

Without hesitation, his lips found yours again—gentle, lingering, and utterly full of love. You laughed softly between kisses, the bashfulness melting away into pure, happy contentment.

When at last you pulled back, breathless and flushed, Gale tucked a loose strand of hair behind your ear and whispered, “You make me feel like the luckiest man in the world.”

You smiled shyly, fingers threading through his. “And you make me feel like I’m the most loved.”

He leaned in once more, a single tender kiss pressed to your forehead before resting his cheek against yours. The fire crackled on, but you barely noticed — because in that moment, nothing else existed but the warmth of his love and the sweetness of his kisses.

HALSIN

The forest around you was alive with the soft sounds of rustling leaves and distant birdcalls, but your focus was entirely on the steady, quick rhythm of your own heartbeat as you darted between the towering oaks. The air was cool and crisp, heavy with the scent of pine and damp earth—a scent that grounded you even as adrenaline surged through your veins and made your pulse race with excitement.

Your feet barely made a sound against the thick carpet of moss and fallen leaves, your movements light and fluid beneath the dappled sunlight filtering through the canopy. You weren’t running from danger—far from it. This was a game, a chase woven from laughter and shared moments, something wild and free that you cherished more than you could say.

Glancing behind you, just once, you caught sight of a familiar figure moving effortlessly through the trees. His amber eyes glinted with something playful, something warm that made your breath hitch and a smile tug at your lips despite yourself.

He was gaining on you fast, closing the distance with sure, steady strides that never broke the rhythm of the chase. You knew, without a doubt, that he could catch you whenever he wished—but the thrill was in the trying, in the momentary hope of escape.

You pushed yourself harder, laughter bubbling from your lips like a melody, light and bright as the sunbeams around you. Branches brushed against your arms, leaves tickled your skin, and your hair danced wildly around your face. Your heart soared, not from fear, but from the joy of being alive and being seen.

Just as you thought you might slip away—just as the soft whisper of victory brushed your mind—a rush of warm air brushed past your cheek. Before you could turn your head fully, strong arms wrapped gently but firmly around you, pulling you down onto the soft moss with careful ease.

You landed in a tangled heap, breath leaving you in a startled gasp as the world shifted beneath you. For a moment, all you could see were those warm amber eyes—bright, amused, sparkling with quiet delight—hovering just inches from your face.

A faint, tender smile played on his lips as he brushed a stray strand of hair from your forehead. His touch was soft and reverent, like he was handling something precious, something delicate and dear.

“You thought you could outrun me?” The words came then, low and teasing, but you hadn’t even realized he’d spoken until you heard the rich rumble of his voice. It was a sound that sent a shiver down your spine, warm and comforting all at once.

Your cheeks burned as you struggled to meet his gaze, feeling utterly exposed and wonderfully vulnerable beneath the intensity of his eyes. “I… I wasn’t running away,” you said quickly, your voice trembling despite your best effort to sound casual and composed.

His smile widened, slow and affectionate, the kind of smile that made your heart flutter and your knees go weak. Before you could even find the words to respond, he leaned down, his breath warm against your skin. A gentle kiss pressed to your temple, soft and tender as the caress of a summer breeze.

Then another—softer still—landing on your cheek like a whispered secret meant only for you.

You barely had time to breathe before his lips found your jawline, each kiss slow, deliberate, like a promise held close and treasured. Your eyes fluttered closed, heart swelling with a blissful warmth that bloomed through every fiber of your being, a feeling that words could never quite capture.

When he finally pulled back, the flush in your cheeks deepened, and your breath came faster, uneven and shallow.

His thumb brushed lightly over your cheek, tracing a path so gentle it was almost a question. He caught your shy smile, his own amusement and tenderness shining through like the golden light filtering through the trees.

“You really do love this, don’t you?” His voice was barely more than a murmur, teasing yet filled with something softer, something entirely his own.

You bit your lip, cheeks aflame, trying—and failing—to hide just how flustered you were beneath his gaze. “Maybe…” you whispered, voice soft, almost shy, the tiniest smile playing at your lips.

A quiet chuckle rumbled from deep within his chest as he tucked a stray curl behind your ear with delicate care. “Good,” he said simply, eyes gleaming with warmth and affection. “Because I’m not done yet.”

And then, with a final, lingering kiss pressed to your lips—slow, sweet, and full of quiet adoration—he wrapped you in a gentle embrace, holding you close beneath the ancient trees, the forest around you seeming to hold its breath in reverence to the moment.

You rested your forehead against his chest, feeling the steady thrum of his heartbeat beneath your skin, your own pulse still racing. Whispering breathlessly, you said, “Next time… I’m not running.”

He smiled against your hair, his voice low and certain, like a vow and a promise all at once. “Oh, I’m counting on it.”

GALE / ASTARION

The dappled sunlight filtered through the thick canopy of ancient trees, casting warm golden patches on the mossy ground beneath your feet. The forest was alive with quiet sounds—the distant call of a bird, the soft rustle of leaves stirred by a gentle breeze, and somewhere nearby, a brook babbled in a soothing murmur. The air was crisp and fresh, filled with the scent of pine and wildflowers, grounding you in this peaceful moment far from the chaos of the road.

You, Gale, and Astarion had just finished dealing with a particularly troublesome patrol of goblins that had been harassing the trade routes. The fight had been swift but exhausting, and now you had a moment to catch your breath. The tension in your muscles began to ease as you sank down onto a smooth, sun-warmed stone, letting the soothing quiet wash over you.

Gale came to sit beside you, his presence steady and calming. His eyes, filled with that familiar blend of kindness and admiration, softened as he looked at you. With a slow, deliberate movement, he reached out and brushed a stray lock of hair behind your ear, his fingers lingering just a moment longer than necessary. “You fought admirably,” he murmured, his voice low and warm, a tenderness threading through every word.

You felt the heat rise to your cheeks, an involuntary smile tugging at your lips. Before you could respond, a shadow shifted nearby, and Astarion stepped forward from where he’d been lounging on a fallen log, his usual roguish grin playing at the corners of his mouth. His eyes sparkled with mischievous delight. “And it seems our dear is as fierce as ever,” he added, his tone teasing but genuine.

Your blush deepened, cheeks flaming like embers as you tried to suppress a shy laugh. But before you could protest or deflect their praise, Gale leaned in gently, closing the small distance between you, and pressed a soft, lingering kiss to your temple. The warmth of his lips sent an immediate shiver through you, as if a current of electricity had sparked beneath your skin.

No sooner had Gale pulled back than Astarion slid down from the log with catlike grace and closed in on your other side. His lips brushed lightly against your cheek in a feather-light kiss, his breath warm and scented faintly of herbs and danger. “We do enjoy reminding you how much you’re adored,” he whispered, his voice a velvet caress that made your heart hammer wildly in your chest.

Your pulse raced as two pairs of lips lavished you with affection, each kiss feather-soft but charged with promise. Gale’s hands settled on your shoulders, steady and grounding, while Astarion’s fingers traced delicate, teasing circles along your forearm, sending delightful sparks of pleasure radiating beneath your skin.

Your breath hitched, eyes fluttering closed for a moment, savouring the sensation. When you opened them again, both men were watching you intently—Gale with that warm, open expression, and Astarion with a playful, almost triumphant gleam in his gaze.

You felt like you might melt where you sat, cheeks flushed with a deep rosy hue, lips parted slightly as if trying to find the words that seemed just out of reach. Instead, all you managed was a soft, breathless whisper. “You’re both impossible…”

Gale chuckled quietly, reaching up to brush his thumb lightly over your flushed cheek, the touch gentle and tender. “Only for you,” he said, voice thick with affection.

Astarion’s grin widened, eyes sparkling with unrestrained delight. “And we both rather enjoy making you this adorable,” he added, his tone teasing but filled with warmth.

You couldn’t help but glance up at them, heart swelling with something fierce and sweet all at once, warmth spreading through your entire being like sunlight on a cool morning. You bit your lip, voice shy but daring as it barely escaped your throat. “Well… maybe don’t stop, then.”

At that, Gale leaned in again, pressing a slow kiss just beneath your jawline, and Astarion’s lips found yours in a tender, lingering brush that left you breathless. Their hands found yours, fingers entwining easily, grounding you in the moment.

For a long while, the three of you simply existed in that quiet, sunlit glade—two men showering you with affection, and you, utterly and blissfully overwhelmed, basking in the warmth of their love, your cheeks forever stained with the sweetest kind of bashfulness.

ASTARION / HALSIN

The campfire flickered softly, casting warm, dancing shadows on the faces gathered around it. The air was crisp, carrying the subtle scent of pine and earth, but Y/N felt a comforting warmth radiate from the glowing embers nearby. She sat cross-legged on a soft patch of grass, the firelight catching the soft flush on her cheeks—part from the cool evening breeze, part from something else entirely.

Halsin sat quietly close by, his calm and steady presence a soothing anchor. He caught her eye and gave her that gentle, reassuring smile that made her heart flutter just a little. Across the fire, Astarion lounged with his usual mischievous smirk, the gleam in his eyes telling tales of some impish plan.

Y/N felt a quiet thrill run through her, knowing she was surrounded by two people who cared so deeply for her, even if their expressions said “plotting” more than “sweet moments.”

Then, without warning, Halsin’s form began to ripple and shift. His human features softened, muscles expanding, fur sprouting thick and glossy beneath the campfire’s glow. Within seconds, the massive, powerful bear stood where he had been only moments before.

The great, furry bear padded over to Y/N with surprising gentleness, each step soft despite the size of his paws. His warm breath brushed against her skin as he lowered himself carefully. With a low, affectionate growl, Halsin plopped down right on top of her, his broad, heavy body pressing her gently into the soft grass.

Y/N gasped, caught off guard, her breath hitching in a burst of surprised laughter. “H-Halsin! You’re—” She squirmed beneath his warm weight, trying to push him off playfully, but he was too steady, too strong.

Before she could get a proper protest out, Astarion was at her side like a shadow, graceful and quick. He leaned down, lips brushing over her cheeks, her jawline, her neck—each kiss soft, teasing, deliberate.

“Looks like we’ve got you, little one,” Astarion whispered with that sly grin of his, voice low and velvety as his lips trailed warm, feather-light kisses down her skin.

Y/N’s cheeks flamed hotter than the fire. She squirmed again, laughter bubbling out as her heart hammered in her chest. “S-stop… you’re going to—”

A deep, rumbling growl vibrated through Halsin’s thick fur, low and affectionate, as he nuzzled her gently with his massive head. His warm breath brushed her cheek, and with careful, deliberate weight, he settled himself to keep her pinned just enough—firm but tender.

Y/N’s bashful smile was a quiet confession. She did. She loved it. She loved how safe and adored she felt wrapped between these two—Halsin’s protective strength, Astarion’s playful intimacy.

Astarion’s lips lingered a moment longer just below her ear, a tender, teasing kiss that made a shiver ripple down her spine. Then he looked up at Halsin, eyes sparkling with affection and amusement.

The bear let out a soft huff, a contented sound like a purr, and gently pawed the grass beside her, as if marking this moment sacred and tender without words.

Y/N’s heart fluttered wildly, caught between embarrassment and the pure, joyful warmth that blossomed inside her chest. She felt the steady beat of Halsin’s heartbeat through his thick fur and the soft brush of Astarion’s breath on her skin.

Her cheeks burned as she whispered, “You’re impossible...” but the smile she gave them was full of affection and secret happiness.

Astarion grinned wider. “Oh, we’re just getting started.”

Another affectionate growl rumbled low and fond from Halsin, the bear’s eyes soft as he rested his massive head near her shoulder.

Y/N let herself melt under the weight of their love, surrendering to the safe, playful cocoon of their kisses and embraces. The night stretched on around them, the stars blinking down like silent witnesses to this perfect moment—full of laughter, whispered promises, and the sweet, electric joy of being utterly cherished.

[bless-my-demons]

Second Chances - Part Two

Paul Lahote x Reader

Summary: Something is keeping Paul Lahote from giving in completely to the imprinting bond and somehow I’m the last person on the reservation to know why.

Warnings: angst and curse words (my favorite)

Notes: the way I’m laying in bed trying to be strategic with this angst

Word Count: 1,220

Masterlist

Part One

Paul

“She’ll be here, don’t worry.” I suppose Jared wouldn’t be my best friend if he couldn’t read my mind outside of our much larger altered forms.

“I wasn’t worried.” Long shot, but I go for the bluff anyways. I busy myself with digging through the beer cooler, not that these do anything besides take the edge off.

“Yeah and those tremors aren’t from your wolf.” My gaze shoots to his at the observation, I snap the lid closed.

Fuck. “Mind your own business.” I roll my eyes and scan everyone near the fire.

“You are my business, brother.” Jared pats me on the shoulder before walking away, his eyes set on his imprint.

Mine? Currently not at our weekly pack bonfire. Hasn’t been for the last two weekends, not since… not since we blew up at each other after one of her failed dates.

Two weeks without seeing her, too goddamn long.

It’s a bigger turn out this weekend, the elders are here along with more extended family; most of which are huddled close to the fire. Meanwhile majority of the boys are gathered off to the side, grumbling about the latest res gossip like we don’t all share the same wolf brain.

“I can hear you thinking from across the bonfire.” Beer in hand, Sam sidles up next to me.

“I’m tired of thinking, I just want to shut it off.” Sighing, I tuck my chin and try to focus on calming the tremble in my hands from where they’re stuffed in my jacket hoodie.

“Just talk to her.” His quiet encouragement immediately raises my hackles, he doesn’t fucking get it.

“Easy for you to say.” I try to keep the attitude from my tone and fail miserably.

“I know what it’s like-”

Ice pours down my spine. “The fuck you do, Sam.”

“You’re right, I’m sorry-” his tired sigh throws a little bit of water on my anger. “I hate seeing you like this.”

Sam isn’t a man of many words, but somehow those words carry a lot of weight. Weight that makes me feel like an asshole. “Sam-”

“She’s here.”

Two words and my head is snapping towards the parking lot situated close to our spot on the beach so fast that I make myself a little dizzy. I frantically search for her familiar figure while my stomach leaps into my throat before I finally spot her standing near Emily.

My girl, she’s here. My blood feels like it’s thundering through my veins, fuck I missed her.

“You need to go say hi.” I ignore Sam’s unsolicited advice, the last thing she wants is to see my ugly mug.

Not even a second later, her eyes snap to mine and just like that, the tremors I’ve been dealing with all week vanish.

Once again my gravity is back, anchoring me, calming my racing pulse.

“Paul-” scolding me like only an older brother could do.

“Sam.” I turn to look at him, “you sat beside me that night, you know why I can’t.”

“It’s also the same exact reason you should, brother.” His stare turns pleading, but the logic tugs painfully at my heart.

I shake my head and his look turns disappointed, “I can’t go there, not again.”

“Again? Paul, that’s not all that’s meant for you-” he steps closer, conviction ringing in his voice.

“The unthinkable happened and then she came along, you think I should just move on and-”

“Yes-”

“Well I fucking can’t.” I can feel my eyes start to burn. Blinking rapidly, I turn back towards the fire. “I can’t forget what happened, I can’t just ignore what the ancestors did to her-to me-”

“I’m not asking you to forget or anything remotely close to that. None of us have forgotten, you know that. We are all right here with you every step of the way, but brother-” his hand lands on my shoulder, “you can’t ignore what you have right in front of you, what you’ve been blessed with.”

I stop breathing.

I know he’s right.

The ancestors, for some reason, have given me another shot. A second chance.

A second chance that I’m completely fucking terrified to take.

Reader

“Where is he?” I ask Emily as I approach. Fuck It, might as well get to the point.

She grins. “He’s with Sam.”

Scanning through the boys, I look for the duo. The past two weeks have been the longest I’ve gone without Paul since the moment we imprinted over six months ago. My nerves feel like they’re shot to hell and my stomach is lodged firmly in my throat, where is he-

Like a magnet drawn to its counterpart, my eyes land on his and everything is right again. The panicky feeling worming its way into my chest evaporates and I feel like I can take a deep breath again, fuck this man for making me feel this way.

“You should go talk to him.” Emily, always the instigator.

Paul’s gaze turns away from me to Sam and my heart sinks a little, “he doesn’t want to see me.”

“Nonsense, he’s been asking about you nonstop.”

I whip my head towards her so fast, “asking about me?”

She smiles to herself as she tidies up the snack table, “mhmmm.”

I groan to myself, realizing I’ve fallen into her trap and that she’s purposefully torturing me. “Em-”

“Heads up,” she nods behind me and I freeze. “Hello, my love.”

“Hi, beautiful.” The way Sam envelopes her in his arms and kisses her cheeks before planting one on her lips tugs at my heart in the most painful way.

Trying to look literally anywhere else, a large hand cups my elbow.

“Hey.” Paul’s voice is low, unsure.

I glance up with what I know is a sad look, “hey.”

His jaw clenches so tight that I can see the feathering in the muscle, but his gentle grip on my arm never changes. The heat of him slowly leaks into me from the small point of contact, fuck I’ve missed him.

“C’mon, let’s find a seat by the fire before Billy starts.”

“You don’t want to sit with your boys?” Why the fuck did I say that?

“No.” The loaded look he stares me down with offers no room for rebuttal, so I head for an empty bench with the heat of him following closely behind.

Kim’s eyes catch mine as I sit close enough to Paul that our thighs barely touch, her brow raising in a question that I pointedly ignore. Jared next to her gives me that same look and I quickly avert my eyes, everyone in this pack is so goddamn nosy.

Billy Black clears his throat as Sam tosses a few more pieces of wood onto the fire, everyone quieting down at the unspoken command.

The flames steal my attention as the low tenor of the elder’s voice begins the retelling of an old tale I should probably be paying attention to.

It’s soothing - Billy’s voice, the heat of the fire, the cool sand between my toes, the community atmosphere of the pack gathered in one place, Paul’s presence at my side.

It feels like I should belong here.

It feels like home.

Too bad the man next to me is everything I want, but I'm nothing he’s looking for.

Taglist:

@Locokoca @thestarcatcher7297 @idontliketoread2137 @itsmytimetoodream @wonderlandfandomkingdom @callsign-blue @sbrn0905 @callingmrslahote

Part 3

Want to be tagged in the next part? Go here

[xcaptainhannax]

Where It Hurts The Most (joel miller x reader)

Plot: Abby swears she only wants Joel dead—until she sees how much she means to him. Blinded by grief and rage, she changes her plan, targeting her instead. Joel powerless to stop the fallout is forced to watch as Abby wants him to feel the same crushing loss she once did.

Warnings: violence, blood, torture

A/N: I know Abby mentions multiple times that she only wants Joel BUT this idea came to mind and yet again i can do whatever the fuck i want SO yeah !! i hope you like this new twisted idea, joel is alive tho so that counts for something, right? RIGHT??

The ski lodge reeked of blood and gunpowder.

Joel's breathing was ragged as he struggled against the ropes biting into his wrists. Blood slicked his side — Abby hadn’t wasted time. When they'd first dragged him in, she'd made sure to beat him half to death, cracking ribs, splitting his brow, breaking him down piece by piece.

He didn’t know if the pool beneath him was mostly his or someone else's.

Ellie’s muffled screams and Dina’s frantic shouts echoed around the wooden beams of the cabin, but Joel’s focus was locked on one thing: you, forced to your knees before Abby, bruised and bloodied.

"I was just going to kill him," Abby said, voice trembling with rage as she wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. "Quick. Clean."

From across the room, Owen stepped forward, hesitation thick in his voice. "Abby — this isn’t what we talked about. We came for Joel. Just Joel."

"Yeah," Manny added warily, shifting his weight, his rifle lowering slightly. "Don't make this messier."

Abby barely heard them. She glanced down at you — saw the way your eyes, swollen and bloodshot, still searched for Joel — and her expression twisted into something dark, something cruel.

"But that’s not enough anymore," she muttered.

Joel jerked against his bonds so violently the chair scraped loudly against the floor. "You fuckin’ touch her, I swear to God—" His voice broke into a growl, hoarse and burning from the earlier beating.

Abby laughed, cold and hollow. "You’re gonna watch, Joel. You’re gonna feel everything I felt when you killed my father."

"No!" Ellie screamed, fighting against the arms pinning her down. "Please — please, don't!"

Abby barely glanced at her before turning back to you. She grabbed you roughly by the collar, yanking you closer. You didn’t cry, didn’t beg — you just kept your eyes on Joel.

Trying to be strong for him.

The first punch landed hard, sending your head snapping back. Joel bellowed your name, straining so hard that blood seeped from his wrists where the rope cut into his skin.

Another blow. And another.

Joel was roaring, begging, his voice hoarse and broken. Ellie was sobbing, Dina trying to twist free from the guards holding her.

"I’m gonna kill you!" Joel swore, voice cracking. "I’m gonna rip you apart!"

But Abby didn’t stop — not until your body slumped, weak and trembling, against the floorboards.

Joel’s vision blurred — from blood, from rage, from helplessness — until he heard it: Gunshots.

The door to the lodge slammed open, splintering against the wall.

Tommy burst inside, rifle raised, already firing. Behind him, Jackson patrols flooded the lodge like a tide — someone must have sent a signal.

The room exploded into chaos — gunfire, screaming, bodies scrambling for cover.

Joel didn’t think. He tore at the ropes until the chair tipped over, smashing against the floor. He rolled, gasping, side burning, and his hands — bloody and half-numb — finally found freedom.

He crawled to you, heart thundering so loud he couldn't hear anything else.

"Baby—" His hands cradled your face, sticky with blood and too cold. "No, no, stay with me. Look at me."

You blinked sluggishly, pupils slow to respond — but you were alive.

"Joel," you whispered, voice cracked and broken, but so alive it made him choke on a sob.

"I got you," he rasped, pressing his forehead against yours. "You're okay, baby. You’re okay."

Ellie and Dina were suddenly there too, shielding you as Tommy’s voice barked orders across the lodge.

And then Joel heard it — a sharp yell, a struggle — and through the broken beams of the lodge, he saw Abby trying to escape, blood trailing from a wound at her side. She shoved past a patrolman, frantic.

Tommy didn't hesitate.

One clean shot rang out.

Abby stumbled, then crumpled to the floor without a sound.

Joel stared — not with triumph, not even with hatred — just with a hollow, aching finality. She would never hurt anyone again.

The fight moved outside. The lodge grew quieter, except for your shallow breathing and Joel’s broken prayers.

Ellie clung to your side, Dina pressing cloth to your wounds, and Joel held you like he could will you whole again — ignoring the searing pain in his ribs, the way blood trickled down his temple.

Maybe he couldn't undo the pain Abby had caused. Maybe nothing would ever be the same.

But you were alive. And for Joel Miller, that was enough to keep fighting.

[loganlermanstanaccount]

Rigor Mortis (part 11)

College roommate!Miguel O'Hara x reader

(AO3 Mirror) (Wattpad) Series Masterlist, Main Masterlist,

Part 10, Part 12

summary: You and Miguel spend the day together. You get a surprise visit.

warnings: mentions of death, mentions of microaggressions and racism in the workplace (projecting bc my ass is tired)

a/n: uhhhhh. heyyy.... so i took a cute little break 👉 👈

Join my taglists here

wc: 7.2k

Oh! and I finally made the series' playlists (very open to requests) <3

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

cracks in clay, poured over

Cold. The slow drip of an IV seems to echo in that little room. 

She feels cold; the kind that drapes over her like a second skin - slimy, slick, and it makes him shiver. Pale; her hands barely have enough strength to curl around his anymore. His little girl, and he watches as she takes shuddering breaths. In, out. In, out. The shaky rise and fall of her chest and it’s all he can do to watch, hunched over metal railing with a certain kind of dedication. His eyes creak. His back groans. 

There’s an emptiness to hospital hallways, he thinks. That thought comes with traitorous relief - balled up like chewed gum at the pit of his stomach. He wants her to rest; to take a breath that isn’t heavy with the weight of living. Even in a tangle of wires and tubes, and the steady metronome of a heart monitor to punctuate a mess of thoughts, she still looks like his. When he blinks, he sees her: rosy cheeks and chubby fingers entwined with his. He curls into them now, with rough palms softened by love - which he will dirty just to keep her safe. 

Gabriella is a force of nature. A supernova: bright, bright light at the corner of someone else’s universe - but certainly the centre of his. And when she smiles; oh God, when she smiles; he sees his mama, he sees Gabi… and sometimes, he sees himself.

It’s not a case of roaring thunder in place of quiet sky. A flash-bang in the night felt more like a whimper: hushed tones in a doctor’s office that came with a wringing of hands. And dread - settling amongst the room like a lead balloon - that was what he remembers the most. It's a feeling he'll never quite forget. The doctor; a genteel, younger man with more worry lines than Miguel himself, he had thought. Gabriella was prone to poking at the folds beneath his brow, at the sides of his mouth that curled around the very same nose he had passed on to her; smoothing them out like lines in the sand. 

Like pockmarks and furrows in sand washed away by the sea. El Mar - but Gabriella had trouble rolling her Rs. She would get there, he had always thought. He would not brandish a wooden spoon or chancla as his mama was prone to do. He would be different. Better - provide her with the space to make the mistakes he never could. If it meant a lifetime of forehead kisses and boiled candy stuck to the roof of her mouth, he wouldn’t mind.

The sea. Maybe he should take her to the beach - a proper one, not the murky waters he had grown up with. Her hand is too pale, and Miguel can already hear his mama complain; fussing over his little girl. Has Gabriella been eating properly? Has he? She would pinch his cheeks and squirm, hissing at their sallowess. Too much like your father, Conchata would say. 

He's decided. Yes, that's just what they need. White sand stretching out as far as the eye can see - azure and turquoise and deep, deep blue. 

He blinks. Miguel, ever perceptive, swipes it away from your skin. A sliver of bare flesh against his, your arm across the couch as you lay across the pillows. He woke up to this, to you; a fleeting nap that takes you both to a bright midday. Tangled up in blankets, a mess of his limbs and yours; and yet, you still feel…

Cold.

You stir. Like a lamb woken from fresh grass, he watches as you stretch; shaking away gentle sleep. At least Miguel has the sense to look away, to pretend as if he hasn't been staring at the gentle rise and fall of your chest, nor the stray hair that peeks out from the nape of your neck. He traces it with his thumb, with a tenderness that makes his head hot and heart heavy. A warm blush spreads across his face as you huff, blowing air that makes his curls jump. Despite himself, Miguel smiles, feeling the warmth. It's lop-sided, gentle where his face is sharp and he allows himself to soften - if only for a little bit.

“You okay?” You croak, voice still heavy with sleep.

He smiles, daring to curl his fingers around yours. 

“M'better now.” It's barely a whisper, and so he clears his throat. “You still seem tired, sweetheart.”

When your face scrunches up into that adorable pout, he laughs the kind of laugh that echoes throughout his whole body; deep and sonorous.

“What’s so funny?” You're whining, but your face cracks into a small smile. And like the sun peeking out from the horizon, he feels its warmth spreading from his side; onto everything your light has touched.

“Nothin’” 

His breath hitches as you come closer, placing your head on his chest.

“You're a fat fucking liar.” 

Yep, he thinks. And you don't even know the half of it. 

There's something about domestic bliss that twists his heart into knots. Most of it is you, of course, neatly pressing him out and spreading him on wooden pegs like fresh laundry. A life together, like this…? 

Fuck. Maybe he hasn't had enough sleep.

Miguel hums, quietly turning your palm in his, tracing its lines like a lovelorn sap. He likes your hands, for some reason. They are smaller than his, gentle in their curve and crackle, fitting exceptionally well in his own.

He frowns. 

“I think I'm happy.” 

…and then he's biting his lip like he's said something he shouldn't. What should be an off-hand comment, swept away by the tide, makes you sit up abruptly.

“You think?” There's no malice in your voice, just confusion.

“It just feels…” He can't even look you in the eye, deciding to inspect your hands instead. 

“Different?”

You finish his sentences now, great. Miguel feels like a walking cliche; all butterflies and shaky hands and cotton in his mouth. 

In an attempt to sound indifferent, he hums. If you can see through his paper-mache facade, you don't show it.

“Different.” He rolls it around on his tongue, wanting to know its taste. If it fits, how it fits, and where you come into the equation. Different. Good different? It's a tentative thought, creeping into the back of his mind like a thief in the night. Whilst he wouldn't usually entertain it - as it was a dangerous thought, the kind that leads to others, thoughts of skipping through meadows with his hand in yours, or picnics on the beach, or–

“You think that might be because you had a full 8 hours of sleep?” You snort, stretching out. More thigh peeks out from under the covers.

His throat goes dry. Focus, Miggy. Yes, he wouldn't usually entertain it, but it felt far too good to think about the both of you, together, under different circumstances. 

He would've met you at an overpriced coffee shop on his way to work. Or maybe he would catch your eye on the subway, and you would flash him a smile too beautiful to ignore in return. One to keep, like the expectant one you give him now.

You're waiting, he realises. Waiting for him to say something; something that gets stuck in his throat. He hopes not to spill his guts like this: a tangle of maybes and might'ves. The reality is less exciting. It comes out wrong - flat and pathetic and lifeless.

“7 and a half.” He says, shaky. Sleep, right? You said something about sleep? “The other day, I had 7 and a half.” 

Miguel forces down the person-sized lump in his throat. You are stunning; sleep-rimmed and tangled up between his legs and that worn blanket.

Maybe we could've been more.

~~~

He’s an idiot, you think.

“And what good did that do you?” You retort, still sharp despite a blossoming headache at your temples. 

“And what good did that… you're the last person to talk.”

For all his degrees, his accolades, his middle-school-science-fair-certificates; he could barely manage to take care of himself. It worried you in a way you were sure was common decency, like the pang of sympathy one would regard a puppy too tired to keep its head up. 

“You look like shit, Mig.” And he did. In that frustratingly perfect way he was prone to, of course: rugged and ragged and handsome; messy, but without a hair in place. An oxymoron. A paradox. A fool with 2 degrees pending. A loveable idiot - certified, absolutely.

“You look like shit–”

You put your hands over your eyes like glasses, like a child on the playground. “Only one of has eyebags the size of Mars–”

“ –and only one of us has a hangover the size of Mars,”

“I do not.”

“The 3 tequila shots you took last night say otherwise.”

You descend into a heap of giggles, unable to refute his claims. Goddammit, does he have a point. You hate him for it; his smug tone, wagging a knobbly finger in your face; but you know there's no malice. What might've been turned into an argument oh-so long ago, stays childish and playful and maybe even a little… fun? There is a shine in his eyes that you have so dearly missed, and a hint of a smile you know he is barely clamping down on. It brings a warmth to your chest far greater than any alcoholic buzz - tequila shots or otherwise - ever could.

Wait. How did he know you had—

“Took you long enough.” 

He's chuckling, reaching over for his phone discarded on the rickety coffee table. With a couple quick swipes you're greeted with a plethora of drunk messages sent by Lyla; the majority of which are unintelligible. He hands the phone over, seemingly more interested in satiating his appetite as he heads for the kitchen, leaving you ample time to scroll through. You recognise one or two videos from Lyla's private story, and sure enough, there you are - knocking back shots offered to you like it was your job. Watching it back makes you wince. You were so sure of yourself last night, chock-full of liquid courage, it almost seemed like water in those dainty glasses. There’s more, as you scroll up: including candids of you at the club, some you don't quite remember posing for, others with Lyla's slim arm draped around your shoulders like they belong there.

Unsurprisingly, most of them are of Lyla; drunken selfies sent with a string of messages you were barely able to make out. It all makes you wonder just how well Miguel knows his friend, able to respond accordingly to her nonsense string of characters and emojis. Considering it had taken you this long to be barely conversational in Miguel-ese, Lyla would prove to be something else entirely. 

There's a peek of something as you scan through last night's messages. You don't mean to pry, but one thing leads to another, and you get stuck on a conversation that occurred not too long ago.

[Sent: 15:32]

Are you guys still on for tonight?

[Received: 15:32]

👍👍

[Sent: 15:3]

Okay, cool. I won't be home to drop her off, though. Is that okay?

[Sent: 15:32]

👍👍

“I messaged her this morning,” You start, making space for him on the sofa. “No response. Do you think I should give Lyla a call?”

“Don’t take it personally, sweetheart. Sometimes she falls off the face of the earth and then you find out she’s in Indonesia with a cocktail by the beach.”

You must make a face, because Miguel comes closer. It’s tender, and much more intimate than it should feel; and all you can do is short circuit as he brings his hand to your cheek.

His thumb rest at the cleft of your chin, gently moving your face to look him in the eye.

“I’ll give her a call, if you like.” He presses a gentle kiss to your furrowed brow, and you can barely breathe. “You’re much too pretty to worry. I’ll sort it out.”

When he pulls away, all you can manage is a weak nod. All that pomp and self-rightousness that filled you not even 5 minutes ago dissipates like a limp balloon with just a flash of his smile. 

“You hungry?” He asks.

“Starving.” You say with a grin.

~~~

You hear his voice first, the mellow timbre and its slight twang rumble through the walls. Your door is open in the hope that Miguel will saunter in and… and do something resembling earlier on in the day. Considering the time, it was little more than delusion - you can count on one hand the amount of times you’ve seen Miguel up past 11pm. Whether it was work, or studying, or a popcorn movie on the couch, he could never make it through the night. More and more, you’ve found him passed out on the couch, one arm slung lazily over it’s back - but that was another matter.

Now, your door isn’t too open - you wouldn’t want to seem desperate - but wide enough that you can catch whispers of his conversation. Miguel seems to speak in more grunts and huffs; and you can almost see his scrunched brow and crooked grimace. The other voice is tinny, but clearly male - spouting garbled, frantic words that you can’t quite catch. It’s odd; whilst you were no stranger to late nights, your roommate started fighting sleep at 7pm sharp - so what exactly was going on?

You creep towards the door, snaking your head around its edge. There he is; down the hall and shadowed by the doorway with his phone flat on the dining table, perched on its lip with nothing but a plaid pair of pants on. He looks bedworn and exhausted, sure - but gorgeous in the kind of way only oils on canvas can capture. With his hand scratching at light stubble, you watch as he takes a deep sigh.

“It’s– Pete, it’s–”

More jumbled words from the phone.

“I know, man.” He pauses, hesitant. “Are you… have you guys tried Lyla?”

He says the words like they’re bitter, acrid on the way out, eventually producing a deep frown as he listens. The image sticks with you, for some reason: hunched over, shoulders slack like a ragdoll, and picking at the loose black-and-red threads. There's a flash of something you can taste - like blood  after a sucker punch - and he flattens, roughly swallowing as he rubs his temples. There’s an ache, there - and it wasn’t just a migraine from all that salty junk. His eyes are sallow, without the lustre you had grown so accustomed to. Where did he go? Your Miguel, saccharine and sickly-sweet? 

A trick of the light, you decide; just the morning sun. 

You are too lost in your own thoughts - vivid ones, of takeout noodles and orange chicken - that you barely notice him move. Almost a second too late, it registers, and you scramble to your bed in a flurry of limbs, managing to close the door just in time. You hear heavy footsteps, and there’s a knock at the door. 

“Come in!”

Miguel pops his head through the door, shirking away from the bright light.

“Jesus, you need all these lights on?”

You roll your eyes. Laptop on, a desk lamp, a standing lamp, etc etc. Warm lights, made even cosier by pillows and plush bedding. The very same bedding he fucked you in the first time, and the next, and the next. Clearly, he couldn’t recognise ambience if it whacked him in the face.

“Did you want something?”

When once he would’ve been taken aback by your gall (and you too, you suppose, as Miguel had never been the most tactful), he simply purses his lips.

“I… I'm babysitting for Peter.”

“May's coming over?” You visibly perk up, and it makes him smile.

“I wish you got this excited when I come home. Yeah, she is.” He’s still picking at the loose fibres of his pants. “I'll try to get her to bed as soon as possible, but she's a little hurricane, so be wary of the noise.”

“It’s pretty late, Mig. Is everything okay?”

“Yeah, yeah; something came up and their usual sitter isn't available. It's the least I can do.” He gives you a weak smile

“Okay. Thanks for the heads up.” 

Despite this, he lingers for a bit, clearly antsy. “With traffic, I’m not sure when they’ll get here. Pete lives just across the way, but...” 

“But?”

“I’ll probably have to stay up for a bit.”

“I can keep you company.”

“No, no, I can’t ask you to do that--”

“Alright, alright!” You throw your hands up, huffing dramatically. “Mig, there’s no need to beg. Give me five minutes.”

He gives you a weary smile, before turning to leave. But he pauses at the doorway, and as if in a trance - tightening grip, clenched jaw - 

“You look nice.” He says, low and slow.

“Thanks.” You manage to squeeze out. Ever so slightly, you squeeze your thighs together too, for good measure.

With one last look he drags that heavy gaze away from you, giving your room a once over. 

“...now I know why the light bill’s so fucking high.”

~~~

The doorbell rings when the two of you have settled in - head on his broad chest and something on the TV. Whilst you don't know how you ended up here, you do know how it ends; he puts a boring documentary on, you proceed to fight sleep before hands wander, the room gets a little heavier, and…

The doorbell, right. He shuffles out of your grip, gently placing your head on the sofa. You feign a yawn as you shift, watching the wide expanse of his back as he answers the door. Unfortunately, he's put a shirt on, but you are still mesmerised by the way that baggy t-shirt clings this way and that. You sigh at the sight - it’s much too late for unabashed yearning - burying your cheek into the pillows.

The door opens. You manage to spot a flash of red peeking over your roommate.

“God, we are so sorry. We don't know what's gonna happen to my Dad and–”

Miguel brings a hand up to stop her. She is clearly exhausted, eyes-red rimmed like she's been crying; with a tight hand around the strap of a sling bag. It's full to bursting, likely haphazardly prepared - stuffed with diapers, snacks, toys and God knows what else. She scratches at the nape of her neck, pulling at choppy hair scraped into a bun. With her bangs pinned back, you can't help but think she looks less like the character she plays on TV and more like a person - experiencing the kind of grief made less glamorous by makeup and bright lights. 

“It's okay, Em.” 

Em. You can't see his face, but you can see MJ's; and you notice the way she softens at the nickname. 

“I haven't heard that one since college. Thank you, Miguel.” She gives him a watery smile.. “I've got some food for her in the bag, extra milk, those peanut cups she likes, my personal and my work phone number, my mom's phone number in case you can't reach me or Pete, diapers, wipes – hypoallergenic, she can be a bit sensitive – a-and we are trying self-soothing with her stuffy because she can get antsy before bed.”

Her eyes are a little bloodshot, but she manages to hand off the bag, before turning to talk to a little mop of red that peeks out from behind her. May's chubby fingers are clamped tight around her leg, but with some gentle coaxing, the little girl steps into your apartment.

“Hi, May.” Miguel smiles, one you imagine is dazzling kryptonite from her favourite uncle, and she puts her small hand in his.

“Bye, honey. Be good for your Uncle.” MJ gives her daughter a gentle hug, brushing back her hair for a kiss. Little chubby fingers try to do the same, and it's a display that makes your heart melt.

“Stay safe, MJ. Say hi to Peter for me?” You call out over the lip of the couch.

“Of course, sweetheart.” She flashes you a smile, and you are windswept by its candour. 

Once she leaves, May is uncharacteristically quiet. She seats herself on the sofa, little legs dangling, unable to reach the floor. Miguel slides off her backpack and jacket - brightly coloured plastic adorned with a kid's TV show - with an ease and gentleness you didn't quite know he was capable of. There's something to be said about a man of his stature - tall and hulking, with hands that could easily palm a basketball - using those very same hands to carefully unbutton the loops on May's jacket. Despite her muted panic; the gradual kind, the kind that wells up like the tide before a storm and comes with a wobbly lip and balled up fists; his voice stays calm and soothing in the walls of your little apartment. It is well-practiced and unfazed, exceedingly gentle in his approach. He'd make a good dad, you think. 

She's restless. You both try your best, coaxing her to eat mushy peas and applesauce, with little to no success. May clearly isn’t pleased - scrunching up her face with disgust.

“I feel you, kid.” You sigh, plopping the dinner spoon into the green mixture. “Not the most appealing.”

“But it’s good for her!” Mig yells from the kitchen, digging around for something in the cupboards.

She makes a face, looking to you for some comfort. All you do is shrug, tugging at your collar in an exaggerated manner. She almost smiles, and so you make your eyes go wide - pulling a peal of laughter from the little girl. It is contagious, and makes you beam from ear to ear.

“That doesn’t sound like dinner.” Miguel breezes past with something in his hand.

“I think they serve prisoner’s better food. Or food that looks less grey, anyways.”

“Don’t be a smart-ass.” He hisses, seating himself on the other side of the little girl. In his hands are a cute little bowl - pink plastic and toddler sized. It comes with a spoon that fits in Mayday’s palms just-right, and he scoops up some of the mixture the bowl. 

You’re a little confused. “Where did you fi-”

“She’s a big girl.” He says simply, facing her and mimes taking a spoonful. You watch as her eyes get a little rounder, shining and intelligent. You can almost hear the gears moving in her tiny little head. “She can feed herself. Can’t you, May?

“Mig, I don’t know if that would work.”

And like a curious little dove, her head cocks this way and that, with a deep frown on her face. Pudgy fingers wrap around the neck of the spoon, and clumsily, she brings it to her lips. It falls with a clatter, and mushy peas splatter everywhere. 

There’s an I told you so on the tip of your tongue, but he tries again; cooing at the little girl, encouraging her to take the spoon once more. He’s gentle, but doesn’t talk down to her - and like she can understand every word, her eyes shine with recognition. Now, you’re not the best with kids - a baby cousin or two notwithstanding - but its hard to believe he hasn’t babysat before. Miguel O’Hara; lab tech, masters student, and clearly, world class Uncle. You’ve got a million and one questions, but you are unable to do anything but watch - all the while, gears turning.

She gets increasingly frustrated. In an adorable, gap-toothed way, but the toddler can’t seem to get a good grip. You watch as the spoon falls: clatter, hollow clang, conk; and every time, Miguel picks it up, wipes it off, and encourages her to try again. 

Clatter.

“One more time, sweetheart,”

Clang. 

“You were so close! You want to try again for me?”

Thunk. You've got an idea.

“She’s not going to eat, Mig.” 

He looks up. You’re handing him her jacket, and pulling on a long-discarded sweater. 

“Let’s go for a walk.”

~~~

It fills you with a certain amount of delight to say something that surprises Miguel.

“I know a place.” You say, somewhat smug.

“What do you mean, you know a place?”

You shrug. After a couple of quick phone calls, you did, in fact, know the perfect place for a late night wander.

“The park on 10th?”

“Nope.”

“If it’s The Rec Centre on Chelsea Ave, it’s closed. I grew up with the guy who runs it, and–”

“Nope.”

“Where are you taking us? May, she’s going to kidnap us and sell our organs on the Black Market.” She’s got her little palm in his, and gives you a look that says ‘Him first’.

“Don’t want your organs. You’re Mexican and lactose intolerant; can’t imagine the damage you’ve done to your gut.” You stop them, crouching down to speak to May directly. “Do you like animals?”

Her face shines with recognition. She nods profusely. Miguel seems somewhat horrified, but it just looks cute, to you.

“That doesn’t reassure me, sweetheart.”

“I know.” You give Miguel a dazzling smile. Somewhat smug turns into very smug, very quickly. “We’ll take the subway!”

~~~ 

The Nueva York Research and Conservation Centre is quite the gem, Miguel quickly realises. It's the kind of thing that predates him, and even his oldest neighbours; immigrants that came to Nueva York in the 60s and 70s. He remembers a handful of school trips in elementary and middle school - traipsing around the old building with a clipboard and stubby pencil in hand. Even when he was a kid, the centre had paled in comparison to the Zoo up in Central; that was shiny and modern, with actual lions (plural) and giraffes. Of course, his school couldn't afford the accompanying exorbitant fees, so they settled for the converted municipal building and grounds; housing less exciting animals.

But he still remembered the first time he had walked through those double doors, and past the little ticket office after being handed the paper stub. 

He liked that there weren't any cages. At the time, there was thin plexiglass separating the people from the animals, but they had space to roam, and were never the flashy sort - meerkats were the highlight of one trip, and an alligator snapping turtle the next. The centre was temperature controlled and meticulously maintained despite the clear understaffing; he always enjoyed the trek on cobbled path, and the insect building and reptile room never failed to disappoint. 

There were always researchers hanging about there. Not in white lab coats and clicky pens like he had once thought; but sturdy trousers and frazzled smiles. They were kind, and easy going; always happy to talk to the little boy in clothes two sizes too big. 

Maybe May was too young to understand, but he felt it immediately. That rush of excitement as you lead them on a long forgotten path, and pull out a key that unlocked those very same double doors. Nostalgia, perhaps, bubbles up from his fingertips.

“Hey, Ernie.” You nod towards a night watchman, perched at the reception desk. With his head buried in a magazine, you are satisfied with a nondescript grunt. Security clearly hasn't changed. 

May gives a little wave, and Miguel can't help but coo. She's squirming, feeding off of his clear excitement and dragging him towards you with a surprising amount of force.

You lead them to the outside park. The Centre is dark, for a while, and after some rattling, and the careful click of a few switches; Miguel feels like a kid.

The lights are on, illuminating an acre or two of land, and he is transported to being 6 and then 7 and then 11 - clipboard and pencil in hand.

May is agape, eyes wide at nothing but fenceposts and plexiglass. The enclosures are empty with the majority of the animals asleep; yet she is fascinated with the landscape, so much so that she paws at Miguel to hoist her up. She's on his shoulders before you can orient yourself.

He hears you laugh first. Bright, gorgeous laughter like morning rain on a warm day. You laugh and clap with wonder, and pinch the little girl's cheek good naturedly. She returns it with her own, pointing at ‘funny trees’, their green tongues lapping at the bright light.

“We'll need to be quick.” You finally say, leading them once again. He catches a sliver of neck, pretty and supple as you turn your head towards them. Fuck. 

“How do you have access to this place?”

“I know a guy.”

“Not a chance.” A guy, sure. It sounds like bullshit, but he can feel the confidence radiating off of you. It makes him wonder… is this another ex? Someone who works here, no doubt, but with so much pull you can walk straight through after closing hours?

“We'll meet ‘em, in a bit.” You trail off towards a plaque, reading out the inscription. “The Giant Armadillo, Priodontes maximus, is a giant insectivore – that means eats insects, May – characterised by its hinged bands and pale head. Found in much of South America, this – oh, look!”

Miguel follows your line of site, to some movement within the enclosure. Between large, grassy mounds, sure enough he spots the pale snout of the animal. May squeals with laughter, pointing toward the movement.

You put a finger to your lips, and ease her out of his grip. You get closer, whispering excitedly in response to the little girl's babbling. He doesn't follow, hands buried deep in the pockets of a brown leather jacket. 

We'll meet him. He plays it over and over and over in his head, letting it rattle and clank before sinking to the pit of his stomach. It tastes familiar: heavy and bitter. He's thinking of a man from a nicer background; kind, maybe, and softer. Walks around in suits and shiny shoes; who owns shit, who doesn't rent. Someone with softer hands than his own. 

“Mig?” 

Your hand is on his cheek. He’s pulled out of that haze, and straight into the warmth of your eyes. 

“Y-Yeah.” He croaks.

“You okay?” Your brow is scrunched up adorably, little Mayday hanging off of your arm. He can't make you worried.

“Just fine, sweetheart.”

“Well, come on then. I’d like you to meet someone.”

You pull him towards the Reptile Room; a brick and mortar building with the metallic sheen of a lizard on its face. You pull out more keys, sifting through a whole jumble. Before he can stop himself, he's staring at you; intense and stormy. That sinking feeling deepens. You look up, and give him a smile. Like emerging above troubled water, he takes a deep breath and feels a little lighter.

“Liv?” The door is open in no time. You're calling out into empty space, boots click-clacking on tile. These lights are on, but dim, matching the hot and humid air of the building. “Liv!”

Miguel pulls at his collar, following you deeper inside. A service door; amidst enclosures of leafy green, pebbles, sand, and more; leads to a modest lab. Amongst vials labelled ominously and rows of benches that smell like disinfectant, lies a nest of hair crudely tied back.

Liv pops out from behind a clunky monitor, beaming from ear to ear. They're older, with a sharp jaw and soft features framed by wrinkles and smile lines. 

“Doctor Olivia Octavius,” You smile, “Meet Miguel.”

Hand outstretched, Liv clears a path of pens and junk to reach his hand. It’s firm, he notices; with inked scribbles on the underside and a stack of bracelets at their wrist. They look familiar, but he can't quite place the name.

“How do you two know each other?” It spills out like May's mushy peas, and he hopes his sweaty palms aren't too noticeable.

“She used to work here - night shift.” Liv adjusts octagonal glasses, jewellery clinking.

“I was only a janitor, Mig.”

“The best damn janitor around. And good company during late nights.”

You get a playful nudge in the side for your trouble, and the two of you share a knowing look. 

“And who's this?” Liv crouches, attention turning to May who is engrossed by a tangle of colourful wires. 

“Her name's May.” He grunts.

“Your….” Doctor Octavius looks between you both, choosing their words carefully. “Daughter?”

“No, no.” You laugh - a little too much, for his liking. “We're babysitting - Liv, he's just my roommate.”

Miguel winces. Twice. He chooses to ignore the raised eyebrow and pursed lips, lest it blossom into any awkwardness.

A beat passes. “Does May like lizards?” 

She nods enthusiastically, hissing like un vibora. She’s almost there, he thinks, and Miguel can't help but smile.

“We've got some speckled lizards in tank 3 and 4 - donations from our freshwater contacts in Panama. You want to show her around?”

“Sure, but what about–”

“You guys head off, I've got some paperwork to finish off. 10 minutes? If she's gentle she can touch one or two.”

Satisfied, you nod, looking at him expectantly. Your eyes shine just like May's, and like his once upon a time, with a childlike wonder that makes his heart ache. You look happy. God. He'd do anything to keep you smiling like that.

But he's tired. Finally, the night has caught up with him, and he just doesn't have the energy anymore. 

“I'll stay.” He says gently. “Need to sit down for a bit anyways.”

He must imagine it, but for a second, you falter. Big, round eyes that shimmer in the harsh lab lights; and for a millisecond, he sees it dull. It’s gone in just a moment. And then you give him a warm smile, with a touch on his arm that seems to linger. The two of you beam, and you bound off with the kind of vigour he hasn't felt in years.

The click-clack of keys fills the room. He takes the opportunity to look around, noticing plaques upon plaques in the little corner of the lab. PhD. Masters. Accreditation from organisations with long, winding names. Doctor. Bioengineering. A foray into experimental physics. Pictures of her shaking hands with flashy names - and he recognises one with wide eyes.

“That's Marcus Kirby.” They barely look up.

“I… I know.”

“I worked with him before he headed up Alchemax, and well before the position was passed onto his son.” There's a hiss, and Miguel hears the violent rattle of the keyboard come to a stop. “I remember when he was still a kid, actually.”

He hesitates. “I watched one of your talks in Prague…. the one on metaphy–”

“Metaphysical dimorphism? Or was it the metagenesis of the perpetual plane? I can never remember these things.”

“Something like that.” He grunts.

“You were there? Should've asked for an autograph. Wouldn't be worth much, though.” A little snort catches him off guard, but he shakes his head.

“I was 17 - so, no.”

“Ouch.”

Ouch, indeed. He had loaned that particular talk from the library, a tape played over and over until Gabi had thrown a spoon at his head for the crime of astrophysics at breakfast.

“Do you still work with them?”

“Oh, I've been back there a couple of times; despite the complaints otherwise, mind you; their conference centre is world-class –” They stop themselves. “You meant–”

“I meant Alchemax.”

They snort. “We went our separate ways.” 

Why? He can't help but wonder; considering the equipment and brilliant minds the company has access to. Especially someone with the tenure and experience of Doctor Octavius - he could only dream of that kind of influence. Imagine the good he could do, the lives he could change…

Wonder turns to indignation, which turns to unfair assumptions; he looks around at the dingy workspace and curls up his nose. Disgust. From a well-respected, world-renowned bio-astrophysicist to this. Without the rose-tinted goggles of his youth, Miguel can't help but feel the walls closing in - a future career flashing before his eyes. From a dim rent-controlled apartment to an equally dingy desk in the corner of nowhere. He can't have done all of this for nowhere.

Doctor Octavius squints. The click-clack of keys stops. The air leaves the room, leaving only a cold chill.

“What exactly do you do?”

“Genetics and Bio-engineering department.” He puffs out his chest, but is unable to hide a slight shake to his voice. “I'm a lab assistant at Alchemax.”

Liv gives him a blank expression.

“So you're young.”

“I guess.”

“Unexperienced. You've barely taken your first steps into this world. I bet you still have dreams of saving the world. What are you working on, a cure for cancer?”

His jaw shifts.

“A joke.” They smile stiffly. “Research isn't like that. It's stuffy and bureaucratic and painfully capitalist. Everything requires a thousand yards of red tape until it doesn't; until they ask you to fudge numbers for the sake of shareholder value. Until they axe vital projects that affect the bottom line.” 

They step closer, boots thudding on cheap linoleum.

“It’s hard, to get them to see you. It's even harder when they've already made their mind up. I gave 12 years of my life to that place and you'd be wise to quit whilst you're ahead. Whilst you're young.”

Their eyes are empty. A quiet, cold rage swirling for the last 10, 15 years. He recognises it, of course he does; it's the very same rage that sits at the pit of his stomach - with the dense heat of a white dwarf. In that way, he thinks, he's collapsing in on himself; one that precedes an abcess into the very same perpetual plane Doctor Octavius built their career on. 

“Alchemax is doing things no one could've predicted 10 years ago - our genetics trials are world-class -” He starts a spiel he is well versed with – but it sounds hollow even under these dim lights. 

“Is that what Marcus is going with these days? Plasticky and insincere?”

“I–We are saving the world.”

He's met with a withering look; that echoes the indignant sighs from teachers of his youth.

He remembers small squares of paper, handed out to kids in the Reptile house. Brightly coloured facts pasted along its route; detailing the kind of research undertaken at the conservation centre. For a 7 year old Miguel, he was wholly absorbed with the worksheets - three words at the top of a blank table. Hypothesis. Observation. Analysis.

Hypothesis.

“If this a personal gripe–” 

“Of-fucking-course it's personal.” It was spat out, with more emotion he thought they were capable of. A pause. “Did you know Marcus Kirby commissioned the research for near-unlimited nuclear energy? Did you know we actually built it?”

“You're–” His throat is dry. “You continue to make claims without evidentiary basis. 

Observation.

A slight bobbing of an Adam's apple. The tightening of the invisible string that slowly winds their shoulders back.

“We could have powered hundreds of thousands – millions of homes. For much cheaper and cleaner than what we have now; clogged up by fingers sticky with oil money, most likely. And the proprietary technology is collecting dust, somewhere in that fucking building. Knowing Marcus, he's using it as a paperweight.”

And his head is a blur. Miguel isn't stupid; he sees Alchemax for what it is. A business, at the end of the day. He thought childlike naivete was a distant bygone but for some reason, he's shaken.

Can he believe what he hears? Is it just personal pettiness at the root of all this venom? Sure, he doesn't get invited to after work drinks. Sure, he isn't involved in the office gossip; in signing birthday cards and impromptu lunches out. Sure, just once, he'd like to get more than lab reports and risk assessments dumped on his station. He even finds himself missing stilted small talk; picking his fingernails as his coworkers talk around him, like he isn't even there. No man is an island in his field of work. For every discovery and pseudo-cure-for-cancer there are hundreds of lab techs doing the grunt work. So he knuckles down and does the only thing he knows how to do. He keeps his head down; because he already has a job to do, he doesn't need to be liked.

Analysis.

He sees it now, clear as day. A coffee cup gripped too tightly, a flash of fear when he clears his throat. Little comments, and then big ones: 

Drug tests at your stage are mandatory, O'Hara. 

Ronnie’s been working here a long time. There's no need to be aggressive, O'Hara. 

We want you front and centre in this picture, O'Hara, but don't forget to take out the trash on your way out.  

But what he has always attributed to the status quo, to his prickly personality, to his distinct lack of charm and unwillingness to be loved - could it be something else? When they look at him, who do they see? Is it O'Hara, the underpaid, awkward intern - or Miguel, brutish and brash and scary?

A great crash and in its crescendo is Doctor Octavius, hand outstretched, half bitten fingernails and papercuts all the same. He's different, he knows that. He's intimidating and gruff with a slight propensity for violence. But he's saving the world! He’s making a difference, one meagre test tube at a time.

And then there’s that voice again, hoarse and buried deep deep down at the pit of his stomach. With all that they've asked him to do… what does he have to show for it?

You come to mind. Kind eyes and an even kinder smile. The way you look at him, the way you touch him - like he's delicate, like he's capable of breaking. He thinks of soft nights spent in your arms and between even softer sheets… and not once have you shirked away or asked him to flatten. Acceptance; whole-hearted and unconditional; tastes much too sweet between your thighs.

“Mig!” He hears a squeal from out and down the corridor. Footsteps on the linoleum are followed by a pitter-patter, before you and May arrive at the door giggling uncontrollably. 

“You okay, sweetheart?” He softens like butter under a hot knife, because of course he does. It’s you.

“Come look, come look!”

He throws a glance to Liv, their white hot grip on the desk relaxing. They tuck a strand of loose hair back and sit down, shuffling through papers like nothing had happened. The tension dissipates - that was your doing, he thinks.

“It's a… Mig, God, there's a tank with an oc…”

“Cephalopod, actually.” Doctor Octavius smiles, picking up a battered coffee mug to lead the way. “You would not believe the hoops I had to jump through to get her here, but isn't she a beauty…”

He trails behind, flashing you and May a shaky smile. The frazzled scientist is knee deep in another story - betrayal, heartbreak, a tentacled hero, and more. But when Liv looks back, for a moment, he sees it: the very same look he had given unapologetically just a few minutes ago.

Pity.

_

_

_

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[florencemtrash]

The Graveyard Shift: Chapter XI

Simon Riley x f!Reader

Summary: Simon Riley is a lonely grave keeper in Victorian England who puts a marriage proposal ad in the London newspaper. He's ready to make his house a home, but can he convince his new wife that he can be her safe space, or will the secret she carries threaten their newfound happiness?

Warnings: abusive marriages (not Simon), allusions to SA (not explicit)

This is the last chapter (plus an epilogue)! Thank you to everyone for reading. I hope you enjoyed! :)

The Graveyard Shift Masterlist

Masterlist of Masterlists

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Simon came back just as the sun was beginning to taint the sky, drenched down to his skin. He didn’t shiver. Didn’t flinch as he peeled his wet, mud-slicked clothes off his body. There would be another few hours of rain. The clouds were still heavy with them. 

He poured his bath and scrubbed himself clean, donning fresh clothes while the house remained silent. 

He found Y/n searching for him in her sleep when he went upstairs. Years spent afraid and alone had taught her to sleep compactly, but now she lay stretched out on the bed, arms reaching for a body that wasn’t there. 

She felt the bend of the mattress and followed after him until her hand was resting over his heart. He smoothed back her hair, pressing light kisses to her forehead and temple. Only then did the last furrow in her brow loosen. 

He melted into her, watching and waiting for the clouds to cease their crying so that the sun could splay across the grassy earth. Sunlight slipped through the curtains, speckling the floorboards with color when Y/n finally awoke, eyes swollen with crying. 

She coughed, swallowing the tightness in her throat and blinked. Her face was tucked into the crook of Simon’s neck and she dissolved in the feeling of clean linen and scruff against her cheek. 

Simon was here. His hand was drifting up and down her back, nails lightly scratching through her nightgown just the way she liked. Her feet were warm, basking in the heat radiating from Riley’s soft belly as he slept with his head resting on her calves.

“You’re awake, darling.” 

Y/n closed her eyes and breathed deeply. Her chest was still tight with feeling, like a knot that might never be untangled. Her hand clenched against her chest like she might be able to tear it out. 

She whispered his name in disbelief that he’d stayed. That he wasn’t angry with her. “I’m sorry.”

“You don’t need to apologize for anything.” “But I—” 

“No.” She didn’t flinch at the sure, almost commanding tone in his voice. Not this time. His voice rolled over the room like thunder in the distance — powerful, but non-threatening. “I don’t care that you were married before. I don’t care that you lied. Not about this.” He moved her hand away from her chest, closing the distance and nearly crushing her against him. It silenced the worst of the voices in her head. “You did what you needed to do, darling. You’re a survivor, and a damn good one at that.” 

She whispered his name again like it was breath. “Simon.” 

She fell back asleep and when she woke again, Simon was gone. 

Voices sounded from the kitchen table. Rough, low voices that were used to quiet, but not gentleness. Too exhausted to put on her clothes, she instead grabbed for one of Simon’s spare coats hanging from the door. She wrapped herself in his scent and padded halfway down the stairs, hiding just out of plain sight and craning her ears to hear. 

“Was he alive when they found him?” Simon asked, leaning back in his chair as if he were discussing the weather. 

Mr. Price scoffed, wiping the biscuit crumbs from his beard and taking a long drink of tea before answering. “Dead for hours. If the carriage crash didn’t kill him the horse hoof to the face certainly did.” 

“How’s the driver faring?”

“Sick to his stomach but walked away unscathed. He managed to jump before the carriage fully tipped over. He tried to get to town for help, but you know city-folk. They can’t handle their way in a storm.” 

Simon nodded in agreement. If he heard the soft creak of the staircase, swollen floorboards even more sensitive to eavesdropping, he made no motion against it. 

Mr. Price turned apologetic. “I’m sorry to bring such grim news but, well we heard Mrs. Riley needed to be informed.” 

Simon only nodded in thanks, and when the two men had finished their topic of death, Mr. Price took his leave. 

Simon locked the door, turning to face Y/n who now stood at the bottom of the steps like he’d known she was there the entire time. She held onto the staircase, her free hand held protectively over her stomach. 

“They’re bringing his body back to the city. He won’t be bothering us here.” He won’t ever bother us again, were the words that remained unspoken. 

Y/n thought long and hard about the chances of a carriage crash in yesterday’s weather, and even longer about the chances of a tame horse killing a horrid, inconvenient man at the most convenient of times. It was not unlikely and yet…

Simon sniffed and swallowed. “I meant what I said, Y/n.” If he was guilty he didn’t look the part. Shame did not touch him. Not when it came to this. 

“Which part?” Y/n whispered. 

“All of it.” 

Y/n swayed lightly on her feet, holding the edges of Simon’s coat close to her body. Then she stopped and walked towards Simon, wrapping her arms around his middle and burying her face in his chest. She didn’t cry. She had cried too many tears for them to come now, but she did breath. She breathed and breathed and breathed in Simon. 

“Thank you,” she whispered. 

Simon stiffened. He could ask her what she meant by such a thing. Ask her why she was thanking him. But deep down he knew she would have figured it out. There was no part of her that wasn’t tied to him somehow. Not anymore. She could have pressed her hand against his spine and he would have bent open like a book immediately. He would have told her all about how he’d ran after the carriage, cutting through shortcuts in the woods he knew like the back of her hand. He would have told her all about the flash of lightning striking across the sky. How he watched the carriage turn over like it was God’s will, waiting for the moment the driver was sent running to town before finding Thomas Hall, alive and struggling to free himself from the bent and broken carriage. How he didn’t flinch before caving in Thomas Hall’s skull with a flat stone and freeing the horse. 

She asked no questions. Didn’t ask how it had been done. She only washed his hair reverently, cutting it close just how he liked, then cradled him to her chest that evening in bed, whispering her thanks and her love. 

Her fingers were dragging across his neck, feeling the short bristles of his hair when she stopped. 

“Simon?” 

“Hmmm?”

“I am sorry I didn’t tell you. I… I wanted to tell you…”

Simon gently tugged at the front of her dress, kissing at the exposed skin of her chest. “But?” he whispered. 

“I thought you wouldn’t want me anymore. That you might send me back to London or—” 

Her husband’s eyes shot up to hers and she caught a flicker of anger within them. Shards of frigid hate still remained within him, a product of a past that she understood well even if he didn’t speak about it, and it came up every so often. Not at her though. Never at her. 

His hand tightened against her hip and there was the faintest edge to his voice when he rasped, “I will always want you. And I will never give you up.” 

Y/n smiled sadly at the look in Simon’s eyes. Fear along with rage. Love along with pangs of loneliness that lingered. “I know,” she whispered. She kissed the crown of his head. “You’re my husband after all.” 

Simon preened at her words, pressing more of his weight on top of her, sinking into the bed in a manner that should have been uncomfortable but only made Y/n feel warm and loved. There was power in belonging to something — to someone — and Simon belonged to her just as much as she belonged to him. 

“And you are my wife,” he spoke against her lips, “My wife. My clever, resilient, wonderful wife.” 

He helped her undress. Then she did the same to him, reveling in the way his body sank and melted into hers, strong and sturdy as he was. He pressed into her, stealing every moan and breath that slipped past her lips like a secret finally made known. She dragged her nails down his back and left trails of smoke and fire wherever her lips met his skin. Simon could only crane his neck back and groan, collapsing onto his arms and sinking into her one more time before her shuddering had him falling apart. 

They were slick and spent. Panting against each other as they caught their breaths. Then Y/n smiled, soft as rain. Her fingers brushed his lips. “My husband,” she murmured. 

Simon could only smile in return. “My wife.”

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[supremeleaderoofpoof]

Stormy Weather in The Lanes - Vander X Reader

It's been a long week, and you and Vander are finally able to have some alone time, that is until it starts to thunderstorm...

SFW: this boutta be fluffier than that your softest throw blanket you bring out for the holidays

CW: ok, maybe a little pain (storm triggering PTSD)

A/N: i did some digging and Zaun DOES have access to the sky i believe, it's just that the gas and fog covers it the deeper you go down (at least that's what the league website implies)

Work, bartending, caring for the kids, and keeping the fragile peace of the Lanes. That's almost all you see him do. However, this is what you signed up for when you decided to pursue none other than the Hound of the Underworld himself. Although, this doesn't change the fact that you wished for more time just for the two of you, so tonight was especially special, since you actually had him to yourself, almost like the old days, when there wasn't so much conflict, when the two of you were able to stay out all night, like the night you both watched the Undercity lights from the roof.

The night he promised you he would always keep you safe and sealed that promise with a kiss.

You find your thought lingering wistfully in the past when you hear the door open. "This week has been far too long'", Vander sighs as he removes his jacket. You rise from the chair you were seated at and greet him at the door. "At least it's over", You reply, taking his jacket. "For now," he replies. "Until tomorrow."

"So let tomorrow's problems be for tomorrow," You stated. You take his hand and yours and place a gentle kiss upon it.

A smile creeps across his face at this gesture, and his hand slips from yours to caress your face.

"It's been a while, hasn't it?" He says as you watch him. "Far too long", you reply, as you close the distance between the two of you until your lips touch. As you kiss him, you feel his arms wrap you in a tight embrace.

Oh, how you've missed this.

"The kids are all alseep", You whisper into his ear

"Now that's what I like to hear," he says with a smile.

You lead him by the hand to the bedroom, and soon enough, the both of you are wrapped in each others arms under the sheets. You feel his hand rub your back as you rest in his arms, which makes you hold him tighter to you. His arms were the safest place in the world, that was something you never let him forget.

The two of you basked in each other's company, reveling in every minute you could, when you both saw a flash of light, followed by a loud peal of thunder.

"Terrific," Vander sighs, his free hand rubbing his face in frustration.

You lift your head up. "What's wrong?"

"Well," He replies, "we're about to have company..."

"How so?" You tilt your head slightly, confused.

"Give it a minute."

No sooner then a minute after he told you, you hear a small knock at the bedroom door.

The door creaks open, and you turn around from Vander's arms to see a nervous Powder, standing by the doorway.

"Can-can I stay with you guys? Um-the outside is...a little scary-"

Before she could finish her sentence, another flash of lightning flickers through the room, causing Powder to flinch, rush over, and jump into the bed, quickly covering her ears before the rolling thunder cracked afterward.

"Whoa, whoa, easy there! It's ok, it's ok," Vander consoles the shaking child, who was now clinging to his shirt.

"Poor girl," you thought as you watched Vander calm Powder's nerves. "Her and her sister have gone through so much."

"I know it sounds all big and scary, kid," Vander continues, "But it's all bark, it won't hurt you."

The nervousness in Powder's eyes slowly began to fade as she listened to Vander's words. "Could...could I still stay here?" She requests. She then turned her gaze to you with pleading eyes. "Please?"

Vander's subtly looked towards you, wondering your response, studying your reaction. He knew his response would always be yes, but he wasn't sure if you felt the same. After all, you've barely seen him in weeks.

You look down at Powder and smile. "Of course you can, my little Blueberry," You say, pinching her cheek playfully. "As long as you aren't bothered by that one's snoring!"

"What do you mean I snore??" Vander retorts while Powder giggles at the two of you.

"Quite loudly, I might add," You continue, then proceed to poorly imitate your partner snoring to Powder's amusement.

"Ha ha, very funny," Vander shakes his head, yet he help but to chuckle as he lies back down.

You hold Powder close to you as the rain starts to pour, humming to keep her distracted from the storm. To your relief, she begins to drift off to sleep once again.

"I'm starting to think you're her favorite," Vander whispers, watching the two of you. More thunder rolls, and you feels Powder's arms tighten around you. "It's ok, sweetie, no storm's gonna get you while we're here."

As Powder drifts off to sleep, you notice Vander looking over at the door. Before you ask him why, you start to hear the sound hushed arguing outside the door.

"Are you gonna knock or what?"

"Why do I have to be the one who knocks? You're the one who's scared, you knock!"

"N-no, I'm not!"

"Mylo it's obvious-"

"Shut up, Vi! And besides why are you two here as well if you aren't so scared?"

"I-I'm just checking to see where Powder is..."

"I just wanted a drink of water..."

You and Vander stifle laughter while you listen to the three kids bicker outside of the door.

Another flash of lightning followed by a loud clap of thunder fills the air.

Suddenly, the door flings open, and Mylo and Vi rush into the room, leaving Claggor at the door holding a small flashlight.

"Sorry," Claggor said. "They both got scared of the storm-"

"Claggor!" Mylo hissed.

"That's not true!" Vi retorts. "I-I just wanted to check where Powder wa-"

A flash of lightning cuts her sentence off and causes Mylo to flinch, but no thunder was heard.

There was silence for a moment as the rain pattered on the roof.

"I told you guys," Claggor broke the silence. "Not scary at all. Could someone help me with the water hose at the ba-?"

Before the poor boy could finish his question, there was a thunder peal so tremendous it was as though it shook the building.

That was the last staw for Mylo and Vi, who were now huddled in the bed, Vi shielding her sister, who was woken up by the commotion.

"Enforcers!" Mylo whimpered, tears forming in his eyes. "They're using the storm as cover!"

"Easy there, kiddo," Vander hums. "You're safe. It was just noise.

"But how can you be sure -"

"Hey now, it's ok," Vander interjected, gently pulling a now sniffing Mylo into his arms. " You're safe. I mean it. I'd never let that happen to any of you. Not again. Never again."

You shift over the two girls so that your arms can hold both of them. "We won't let that happen to any of you," you said.

Vander takes a moment to calm down Mylo, then leaves to help Claggor get some water. While the two of them leave, you hear Claggor ask Vander, "Do you think I could stay with you guys as well?"

You smile as you hear Vander reply, "Sure you can, kid," with a chuckle.

[ethereal555]

Bad Decisions

Part 1

jobe bellingham x black!reader

Rain lashed against the windows of Tommie’s flat as she stood in the kitchen, arms crossed, glaring at Jobe from across the room. 

His jacket was still half-zipped, thinking he’d be warmly invited into her home, coily hair damp from training, and his expression matched hers furious and on the brink of bursting.

"I’m being dramatic?" she snapped, her voice rising despite how much he hated that. Disgust held her face hostage, was he really trying to gaslight in her own home?

"Didn’t say that," he shot back, stepping closer. "I said you’re making a big deal out of something that doesn’t matter."

She laughed bitterly, "Right. So texting your little Ibiza fling at midnight is just casual conversation, when I told you to block her weeks ago?"

He ran a hand through his wet curls, jaw tight. "It wasn’t like that."

She rolls her eyes in pure irritation.

"Look at you! You’re not even denying it!" Her voice cracked with frustration. "I trusted you, Jobe."

His eyes flared, and suddenly he was inches from her, breathing heavily, his eyes laser focused on her plump lips.. 

"You still can, pretty. But you’d rather believe the worst in me and that's not nice..."

And just like that her mind and body were at his mercy. All she wanted was to do was jump into his arms at the use of that nickname. He knew what he was doing, he knew what that tone did to her. Then before she got carried away by his charm, she clocked—he was trying to manipulate her—but not again. She wouldn’t let him.

Tommie stepped back instinctively, but he followed, closing the space between them again. A smirk landing on his handsome face. 

Tommie felt hot; beads of sweat accumulated between her inner thighs and prickled underneath her armpits. 

“Stop.” she whispered, more like mouthed because even Jobe couldn’t hear her plea.

“Hmm?” he chuckles when she darts her gaze away from him at record speed. It was nice to note the effect he still had on her, even when he was in the wrong. Her trembling stroked his ego, and from her bodily reaction, he was certain he’d win her over.

"This isn’t about the text," he murmured, his voice low now, almost dangerous. "This is about you pushing me away every time we get too close."

"Jobe that's not—" she argues

"It is," he interrupted, his hands bracing the counter on either side of her. "Don’t lie to me."

Tommie’s pulse thundered in her ears. She hated how close he was and how her body responded to him even when her heart resembled a war zone—she wanted nothing more than to fight him. She was trying, really trying to be strong for herself and her opinions, to set boundaries like her friends had hyped her to but it was futile. Absolutely impossible with a man this close and this handsome.

"This fight isn’t fair," she whispered.

"Neither is the way you look at me like you hate me... when we both know you don’t"

She held his gaze for a long, tense moment. His breath mingles with hers, their lips only inches away. Internally they both salivated at the thought of tasting each other but neither of them moved. Too prideful to make that move.

The silence between them was electric, with the words unsaid hanging between them. They both wanted to communicate with each other, scream at one another absolutely consumed by the frustration they had for each other. But talking wasn’t the form of communication most familiar to them.

"Why do you do this to me?" she whispers again.

He finally kisses her and it wasn’t gentle. He gives in to his bodies needs. His tongue fought hers with fire and fury acknowledging the months and months of biting their respective tongues. 

And in that moment when their lips enveloped each other, nothing else existed but the storm they created together.

A storm they were both content to perish in.

His lips crashed into hers like he’d been waiting all night — no, like he’d been holding back for weeks. There was nothing soft about it. It was heated, bruising, filled with everything they’d both refused to say out loud.

She moans into the kiss, immediately able to match up to his passion.

Tommie, weak at the knees, grabs fistfuls of his hoodie, pulling him closer as he backed her against the counter. His hands were everywhere — in her curly hair, on her waist squeezing tight as if to remind her she wasn’t going anywhere no matter how many times she tried to escape their vicious cycle, pressing against the small of her back like he could fuse their bodies together if he just held tight enough.

“You drive me crazy,” he growled against her mouth, teeth grazing her bottom lip. “Arguing with you makes me lose my mind, Tommie”

“Then stop playing with me Jobe,” she gasped, arching into him as his mouth dipped to her neck. “Stop acting like you don’t care when you clearly do. Stop entertaining whores when you promised me I was your only one Jobe” she says breathlessly.

His lips find the sensitive spot just beneath her ear, and he smirks when she lets out another breathy moan. “Oh, I care,” he murmured with a husky voice. “I care too much. That’s the problem.”

Her eyebrows furrowed, “Yeah, you care so much you’re down to lose from me for a cheap little holiday fling?”

Tommie didn’t remember how she ended up in his lap. What she did remember was that one moment he was lifting her onto the kitchen counter and slapping her ass hard as he did so, and the next, his hands were sliding under her shirt like he had every right to.

And he did.

His skillful and slender fingers torment her nipples as he drinks in all her mewls that send straight for his semi-hard dick.

“You like that, pretty?” Her upper body shivers and she rests her head against his broad shoulders in defeat, unable to think straight.

“J-jobe, I’m not playing, you need to—!”

Discarding clothes became the primary thought in Jobe's head, he shamlessley payed no mind to the words she was saying, well trying to say.

His jacket hit the floor first. Tommie’s bandeau top then followed, quickly joined by his hoodie. He paused only for a second to look at her, his chest rising with desire, and his eyes unrecognizable as they a glowed a shade darker full of indescribable hunger. Just for a taste of Tommie. 

He pulls her back into his body like a necessity. “Are you gonna keep yelling at me,” he whispered his breath fanning hot against her dainty collarbone, “or are you finally gonna admit you want me? All of me? Even when I fuck up....”

Her nipples harden more and more as he speaks. The way his hot fingers grazed against her skin left her breathless as he peeled away her clothes as if she was his present. Their bodies were having a whole other conversation and it meant she couldn't help but to divert her attention from the issue they were discussing, even if just for one night, she was dying to see how hungry his eyes would become once his head was caved in between her legs, feasting on her. Tommie dripped at the thought of the lust behind his eyes becoming a reality.

His tongue darts out of his mouth and he dampens his bottom lip.

He was ready.

Finally having had enough of imaging how good he’d fuck her she intiates the acting by digging her bare nails into his back, her puckered lips brushing lightly against his blushed ear. “Why not both Jay?”

She wanted him to fuck her, hard. So hard she’d forget what they were arguing about in the first place, and from the pace she felt as they were chest to chest, of his heart hammering, she knew her request would come true.

The growl he let out in response to her answer was low and deep, and when he lifted Tommie off the counter and carried her toward the bedroom, she knew there’d be no going back.

Tonight, their argument wouldn’t end in apologies.

It would end in tangled sheets, whispered names and the kind of silence only satisfied bodies could share.

----

part 2 coming today

[twd-bee3]

The Night it Rained

Summary: You two are sheltering from a storm when you pick up on Daryl's anxiety, and he opens up.

Warnings/Tags: brief description of a thunderstorm, hurt/comfort, slight reference to child abuse, established relationship, female reader (she/her), season ten, no use of y/n

Word count: 908

A/N: If you saw me post this yesterday, no, you didn't. I posted the wrong draft lmao. Anyway, this was actually a request, but I lost the question. Please keep the requests coming. Also, this is the one that y’all voted for, so I hope y’all like it!!

Kneeling in the garden, you were tending to some vegetables when the rain started. It was August in Virginia, so the rain had picked up lately. You kept trimming the branches of a small bush and looked up to see Daryl sitting near you. He was quietly sharpening his knife and occasionally glancing over in your direction. Since the rain was still pretty light, neither of you made an effort to move.

The thunder started to roll in, and the light rainfall had become a storm. There was a loud crack, and you looked up in time to see Daryl flinch ever so slightly. Most people wouldn't have noticed it, but you knew your boyfriend. Standing up, you moved over to him and gently took his hand.

“Let's go inside.” You made sure to keep your tone soft, but not patronizing.

Meeting your eyes, Daryl nodded and quietly stood up. The sky cracked one more time before you made it into the cabin. You took your shoes off and observed as he mirrored your actions. His shoulders were still tense, and his jaw was clenched. You wanted to ask, but he wouldn't talk about the problem unless he wanted to.

Feeling his girl's eyes on him, he looked over and finished unlacing his boots. He could tell that you'd picked up on his stress, but he wasn't in the mood for a conversation. Shrugging it off, he gestured towards your coat and nodded, “You gonna take off your coat or just get water everywhere?”

“Give me a second. Damn.”

Despite your words, your tone was light, and you smiled a little. You were about to make another teasing comment, but you stopped as the thunder pounded again and there was a flash of lightning.

Daryl cringed and looked away from you. There was a slight flush to his cheeks, and it made you raise an eyebrow. You hadn't wanted to point it out, but he seemed to be getting worked up.

“You okay, my love?”

“I'm fine. Ain't no big deal.” His voice was clipped, and he refused to meet your gaze.

It took a moment and another bout of thunder before you realized what was happening. The storm was making Daryl anxious. Not sure what else to do, you walked across the room and led him to the couch. You made sure that the two of you were settled before covering your laps with a blanket.

“You know that you can tell me anythin', right? Ain't gonna judge you for nothin'.”

Still holding your hand, Daryl debated being open and spoke softly, “I know it's stupid 'cause I'm a fuckin' grown man, but storms have always made me feel uneasy. Always been that way.”

“Oh, baby. That ain't stupid at all.” Your expression was gentle, and you were listening to him intently.

“Feels stupid. My old man used to tell me that I was bein' a pussy for bein' scared. Always said that men ain't supposed to be scared of stupid shit like that.”

Hearing him bring up his abusive father, you closed your eyes and took a deep breath. Your home life had been less than ideal, but it hurt knowing what your boyfriend had been through.

“That's bullshit. You admittin' how the storm was makin' you feel was strong as fuck. I know that was hard for you.”

A small smile crept on his face, and Daryl finally lifted his eyes to look into yours. “You really think so? I ain't bein' a little bitch or nothin'?”

“Nah, thank you for tellin' me. It makes me feel good that you trusted me enough to let me in.”

He's about to respond, but there's another boom of thunder and a flash of lightning. Daryl flinched a bit and instinctively looked out the window. He didn't even realize that his grip on your hand had tightened.

Picking up on his anxiety, you ran your thumb across his knuckles. “We're okay. You ain't gotta get all tense on me.”

“Tryin' not to. It was worse when I was a kid. Used to hide in closets and shit. That really set my dad off.”

As he spoke, you nodded and gently stroked his arm. You weren't pitying him, but you were sympathizing with what he had been through.

“Y'know, my momma used to put on music whenever she would get into it with my daddy. It always calmed me down. I wish I could do that for you.”

“Sounds like she tried to make you feel safe.” Daryl had heard you speak about your upbringing before, so he wasn't surprised that you'd been through similar shit.

“She did her best, but the problem was always bigger than her.”

“I know what that's like.” Pausing, he thought for a moment before gently pulling you closer. He lay back on the couch and positioned you so that you were lying against his chest. This was for both of your comfort, but mostly his. “That okay?”

You smiled softly and shifted to lie comfortably. You knew that Daryl needed this, and it helped you stay warm as well.

“Yeah, feels nice.”

In this new position, he felt his eyelids grow heavy, and he gently stroked your hair. He hummed contentedly and allowed himself to rest for the first time that night. Surprisingly, he felt safe. It didn't take too long for the two of you to drift off into a dreamless sleep.

[thegingerwriter]

Touch - Bob Reynolds x reader - Part 2 of Thunder and Lullabys

Find the first chapter here

Warnings/Tags: Mentions of needles/injections,future smut, not in this chapter, idiots in love Words: 2.4k If you wanna be tagged lemme know x

You are writhing in pain, squirming around looking for a way out of the senstations and feeling like there is nothing in the entire world that could tether you back. But he is there, standing above you.

“It hurts-” you mutter, and there’s a hand in your hair, shushing you. The bright lights of the lab are forcing you to keep your eyes closed as the person gently runs their fingers through your hair.

“I-I dunno what they gave you today. I’m sorry. But you’re okay and I’m here,- hold my hand.” You hear his voice, and then there is a light touch on your open palm, giving you the chance to flinch away, as if he’s terrified that’s the most likely outcome.

But you don’t flinch. You grab it weakly, letting him stroke your hair as you writhe in pain from whatever it is that happened to you today. You’re not always conscious for the trials you do- they don’t always need you to be. But today they insisted. And Bob was only allowed near you when the doctors had stopped injecting you with chemicals.

“Bob-” You sob weakly in pain, and you feel him push his forehead to yours-

“Y/n?”

***

You gasp awake, trying to snap out of…whatever that was. 

It’s like I was there again. But I still don’t…he’s still not clear.

You hear groaning. Whether it’s you or someone else, you don’t really know yet. Your head is pounding- ears softly ringing with tinnitus, you’re not sure if it will ever go away. You blink slowly, trying to understand what you just saw and try to feel what you are lying on. Soft and warm.

But that’s when you hear the groaning again and realise it’s coming from beneath you.

“Owe…” Bob groans, and you look down in surprise to see his brown hair thrown wildly over his face, only just being able to see his bright blue eyes beneath it. You hold eye contact for a moment, shocked that he’s so close, before you hear the others waking up and recoil in embarrassment.

What…?

Oh. 

The explosion.

You finally roll off him, muttering jumbled apologies that aren’t quite proper sentences. Your face is warm, and you convince yourself it’s from the explosion. Book looks as if he’s feeling the exact same thing.

“Guys? You okay?” A voice says, and you recognise it as Yelena. You don’t know if she’s talking to you or someone else, but a sudden, gentle hand on your shoulder makes you jump, and you look up at her. Her white hair is very similar to Bob’s- tousled wildly and ridden with smoke.

“Huh?” You mutter, still trying to understand what is going on.

Was I back in the lab?

“Great, she’s got a concussion,” A man’s voice, you think you remember (Walker?), says, but Yelena shushes him almost immediately when he speaks.

“Hey,” Yelena puts her hand to your face, cupping it delicately, and you look into her eyes, a surprising warmth to them. “Are you alright? Do you know where you are?”

You look around the room, at Bob still on the ground but slowly sitting up, at Walker and Ava standing across the room, and back at Yelena.

“I don’t know where as in the country or place, but I do know I woke up seemingly 10 minutes ago in….there.” You push the words out, lifting your hand to point at the metal door that is (thankfully) now closed.

“She’s fine,” Yelena says, smiling and standing up to give you her hand to try and stand. You look at it for a moment before clasping it as firmly as you can, letting her hoist you up and hold your shoulders for a moment longer after you’re upright to make sure you don’t end up straight back onto the floor.

Once you are settled (well as much as you can be after a room exploding) you look over at Bob, and are startled to find that he is staring at you. It’s almost like he’s trying to…figure me…out?

Bob catches himself staring, shaking his head to clear himself before letting Yelena help him the same as she did you.

“Well what now?” Ava says.

“Thank god you came back, I was worried.” Walker is almost smiling.

Ava rolls her eyes, walking around to inspect the rest of the room we were now all stranded in. “I had to. Someone cut the power source to the elevator.”

You know she is implying that is the only reason for which she came back to open the door- but nothing about her tone suggests she would have genuinely let any of you die in that wildfire of a room.

“Well good luck finding our fucking way out of here now,” Walker says, exasperated and clearly angry. “How do we even know Valentina wants to kill all of us? What if it’s just some of us? I’m trying to imply not me.”

“I’m sorry, were you not present in the giant INCINERATOR THAT TRIED TO COOK US ALL?!” Yelena slowly raises her voice till she is in Walker’s face.

“Sorry, I was too preoccupied to discuss it before.” Walker shrugs.

“Preoccupied with what?” Yelena interrogates.

You are surprised when Walker points directly at you and Bob, who you now find is directly at your side. “Trying to figure out what the fuck these two were in there for? You ever think they were supposed to die in there? What if they’re criminals! I mean, look at them!” Walker ends his rant by gesturing to your pyjama-hospital-like clothing. 

The next thing you hear is a sound you didn’t expect to hear at all.

Bob is laughing. A proper little chuckle that runs through his body, his shoulders shaking as he lets his body actually laugh. You can’t help but let your face light up, warmth spreading through you at the sight. It’s short lived.

“What is so funny?” Walker asks, stepping closer to the both of you. You are surprised when Bob steps forward only ever so slightly to be in front of you, almost guiding you behind him. You’re almost able to convince yourself you imagined it.

“Sorry sorry- it’s just…You were really Captain America?” Bob says, gesturing to his shield. Walker looks confused and a little stunned.

“Yes? Why is that so funny?” Walker raises an eyebrow.

Bob lets out a little laugh again. “It’s just- you’re an asshole.” 

You can’t help the little laugh that comes out of you too- and Bob looks like he’s about to join in when it happens too fast for you to register.

Walker is shoving you roughly out of the way, pushing Bob against the back wall by his throat and the back of his head hitting the concrete wall with a thud.

“Woah, hey!” You jump into action immediately, shoving your way in between the two of them, trying but failing to unlodge Walker’s hand from Bob’s throat. You feel better just being in front of Bob, like he was with you moments ago (Right?), but you know it would be far more helpful to actually do something. 

You look at Yelena for support, pleading with your eyes- but you don’t need to- she is already in motion, striding across the room as Ava stands to the side, watching the entire ordeal from the safety of her corner.

You feel slightly lightheaded at the exchange, the rush of the moment causing you to sway slightly.

“Walker, enough.” Yelena is firm, and Walker doesn’t reply- staring holes into Bob, who is stoic in return, hands on Walker’s arm to try and pry him off himself. When he doesn’t reply, Yelena grabs his arm, and Walker finally lets her pull him away. 

Bob slumps down as Walker lets him go, and you quickly grasp his shoulders to prevent him from going down to the floor.

As soon as you touch him, you feel it- the rushing and darkness overtaking your mind again. 

But as quickly as it appeared, it lets go as Bob pushes himself up and away from you, sending you a calming smile that almost makes you forget that he just pushed you away. 

What was that? God, my head.

“Okay we really need to- did she look like that before?” Ava is questioning something when her voice turns to you, and you realise she’s pointing directly at your face.

“Did- what-.” You try to answer, but the words don’t come- dizziness setting in as you sway on your feet again- but this time dangerously close to falling. 

“Y/n- hey you’re okay, here I’ve got you-” You recognise Bob’s voice beside you as you heavily fall backwards, but soft arms catch you before you hit a cold hard ground. 

Who said that to me last time?

“I-” You try again, but you can’t form thoughts, let alone coherent words or sentences.

“Help what’s wrong!” Bob’s voice is panicked and you’re not even sure why.

You blink, seeing Yelena and Ava standing over you as you lie gently on the ground in Bob’s arms. Your eyes roll back in your head, and you see black right as you hear Yelena say, “I think she’s about to pass-.”

***

For the second time in an hour, you wake up gasping, the warm hands cradling your face jumping off immediately as you sit up frantically, heart racing and looking around wildly.

“Holy shit- you’re okay- it’s just me! It’s Bob!”

You pause at the familiar voice, turning around to see Bob sitting cross-legged behind you. You do the math and realise you must have been lying with your head in his lap, his hands gently holding your face. It’s so tender and sweet you almost want to cry. 

Why would he care so much? I don’t even know him.

“Are you…are you alright?” Bob’s voice brings you back and you turn to face him, still sitting on the floor. You notice the others aren’t here immediately and the location has…changed.

“Um- I-,” You pause, taking a breathe. “Yes. I mean I think so. I’m okay. But where-where are we? Where are the others? What happened? How did I get here? Are the others-”

You are suddenly caught off guard by Bob’s warm hands on your face again, trying to calm you as he shushes you gently. 

“Woah okay, one at a time- it’s okay.” Bob says gently, and his voice fills you with such a warmth that you’re not sure what to do.

“Okay.” You nod, and Bob smiles, suddenly becoming self-conscious that he is touching you so…intimately that he blushes and pulls his hands away. “‘Where are the others’ is the important one. Let’s start with that.”

Bob fidgets with his hands in his lap, like he’s afraid of telling you. “They are…getting ready to fight. They’re coming up with a plan and they wanted me to stay with you because you…blacked out. For like a whole 20 minutes.”

“20-I’m sorry, 20 minutes? What even happened, how did we get…here? Up, down?”

“Up. And it’s a…long story. Painful movements up an elevator shaft. Yelena and Walker carried you.”

“Um…how did you get up an elevator shaft without an elevator.”

Bob goes red with embarrassment. “Um- don’t worry about it.”

Silence falls upon you both. Until, suddenly, you start to laugh. Hysterically, full belly laugh, clutching your chest as your entire body is ridden with giggles that begin to burn your chest. 

“What’s so funny?” Bob is smiling at you, confused, but the joy is contagious.

“I cannot stop thinking about all the ways that you guys made your way up an elevator shaft. Surely you didn’t do that thing where you link arms and push upwards with your backs, right? We did that once at youth camp when I was younger, but it was only with two people. I suppose it could work- or maybe you’d fall without coordination.”

Bob goes silent, and you start laughing again, knowing now you hit the nail on the head with your guess. 

“Stop that’s HILARIOUS!” You can’t help the giggles that are spilling out of you still, and soon Bob is joining in, laughing hard on the floor next to you. By the time you both come down from them, your faces are red, and your tummy hurts from laughing so hard. 

“Oh geez- I can’t remember the last time I laughed that hard. So stupid.” You admit, and Bob shakes his head, a small laugh escaping him.

“Don’t be. It was really funny. Just not in the moment.”

An awkward silence falls on you again but it’s more comfortable than the last few times. Content, almost.

“Hey I…I wanted to ask you something.” You speak up, and Bob looks up at you with curious eyes. 

“Yea?”

“What happened to you to wake up in a box?”

Bob is stunned. “I um…what happened to you?”

You pause. 

Taking a breathe, you look at him and you both respond simultaneously.

“Lab,” Bob says.

“Experiments.” You admit.

“Oh.” Bob replies, looking at you carefully. “So you…you were experimented on?”

“I signed up for it. Technically speaking.”

“Wait. Someone…someone was with me.” Bob looks away, staring off into the distance as if his memory is running away from him, and he has to keep his eyes on it.

“Huh?” You are confused, analysing his body language.

“There was a person with me, sometimes. She would comfort me. And I would do the same. Sometimes I would-” Bob can’t finish his sentence because you immediately cut in.

“Hold her hand.” You finish, and you both can’t help but stare at each other in complete awe, confusion and…something else. 

“You?” Both of you say, staring at each other so intently as if trying to will yourselves to remember the events.

“I-I thought you looked-” But now you can’t finish your sentence, because the sound of rapid footsteps, three people, and a voice cutting in all make you stop.

“Great, you’re awake. Get ready-we’re about to try and escape Valentina.” Yelena speaks, eyeing both of you still sitting on the ground, close together, knees touching. You blush at the realisation you are so close, but Bob doesn’t move. So neither do you.

Chapter 2 here If you liked this, follow me and consider donating to my Ko-fi plsss Tags: @eywas-heir @ren-ni @nervousstrangersandwich @usuallyunlikelyfox @samisprocrastinating @sarcazzzum

[danikamariewrites]

Watch Your Step

Feysand x reader

A/n: happy day 2 and another Feysand fic! Comfort fics are some of my favorites especially for Rhys. Some of my favorite moments with him and Feyre are in ACOWAR and he’s just doting on her. @polyacotarweek

Warnings: descriptions on injuries and comfort

“Nyx, slow down!” You yelled over the little boy's screeches and giggles as he ran through the upstairs hall. You held your dress above your calves, feet carrying you quickly.

You jumped toys littered across the carpet. Sighing mentally you make a note to have the boy clean up his toys. “Bet ya can’t catch me mom!” He giggled, disappearing around the corner. “No running on the stairs young man!” He giggled again as you heard the sound of winnowing. You came to a halt. The three of you knew Nyx’s powers were developing. He could finally hide his wings on command like Rhys. But winnowing was very new.

The first time he winnowed he had taken Rhys with him. Ending up outside the Winter Court palace wanting to see his friend, the Princess of Winter. To know he could winnow so far at such a young age was impressive but terrifying.

Your thoughts raced you began sprinting for the stairs. Praying to the Cauldron your little boy was only downstairs and not somewhere unknown.

Not keeping your eyes on the ground you completely missed the pair of toy swords in a small wagon on the first step. Your bare foot landed right on the center of the wooden toys, splintering them in half. Not even getting a chance to right yourself your other foot stays suspended in midair as the wagon moves across the stair.

Your ankle turns and you feel something pop. Falling down the stairs backwards you let out a scream. You try to grab hold of the banister to slow down, your fingers screaming in protest. You hit the curved landing hard. Rolling to a stop thanks to the wall.

Thanks to the pain numbing your body and ringing ears you didn’t hear Nyx scream for you. Or the multiple pairs of feet thundering to get to you as quickly as possible.

Groaning, you roll over onto your back, trying to keep your breathing steady. You keep your eyes screwed shut at the pain still coursing through your bones.

Nyx was now sitting next to you. A little hand on your face to comfort you. “Like mommy and daddy do for you,” he said once.

“I’m ok buddy, I’m ok.” You manage through gritted teeth. Opening your eyes you smile up at him. Panic on his little features. “See, mom’s ok. Just a little fall.”

Nesta and Azriel are first to arrive, Rhys and Feyre looking destressed right behind them. Nesta quickly gathers Nyx in her arms much to the boys dismay. He starts fidgeting wildly in his aunts arms fighting to get back to you.

Before he can be told to Az winnows away to get Madja. Rhys scoops you into his arms making his way to the bedroom quickly. Feyre prepares you a spot, fluffing your pillow as Rhys set you down gently.

“Questions later. I don’t want stress her out and add to her pain.” Rhys says into Feyre’s mind. He looks back at his mate to see silver lining her eyes. Her hand in yours, rubbing soothing circles with her thumb. “It’s ok angel, we’re here.” Feyre whispered softly. You squeezed her hand in response. The both of them could feel your pain through the bond and it was breaking their hearts.

Madja came bustling in as quickly as possible leaving Azriel to linger in the doorway. The old healer shoos your mates away, “I can’t work with you two breathing down my neck. Go with the Shadowsinger. I’ll come get you once she’s patched up.” Her tone leaves no room for argument. They’re hesitant to leave you but know it’s for the best.

An hour later Madja had left you with your ankle wrapped and strict bed rest orders which Feyre and Rhys took very seriously. For the next week your mates kept a close eye on you, not letting you move an inch.

“I still think you should keep your ankle elevated, my love.” Feyre sweetly chastises you a few days later. You roll your eyes as she puts the lunch tray down to fluff the throw pillow you abandoned a half hour ago.

“I’m fine, Fey. Besides, it’s practically healed.” She hummed, raising a brow at you, gently placing your foot on the pillow. “You want to tell Rhys that?” You sigh, dropping your head against the headboard.

Rhys has been worse than normal. Maybe because it was the worst at home injury any of you had sustained. He wouldn’t even let you sleep in the middle of the bed like usual. Rhys insisted you take his side while he slept in the middle so it would be easier to carry you out of bed.

Feyre placed the tray on your lap as she settled next to you, brushing a strand of hair behind your delicately pointed ear. “How are you feeling?” She asks softly.

“Better. The pain in my side is gone and my head is fine, the only problem is the pain in my ankle.” Feyre hums looking back at your bandaged ankle. You start to pick at your food when you notice a card under the plate. Picking it up you smile. Nyx had drawn you many get well soon cards over the last few days. “Good.”

In the middle of your meal and chat with Feyre, Rhys made his way into the bedroom taking the other spot next to you in bed. He takes your chin gently in his fingers, pressing a soft kiss to your lips. As if he was afraid of causing you more pain. “Hi angel, how are you feeling?” You smile against his lips, “Good.” He lets out a content hum leaning away from you.

As the week went on your mates let up on their hovering. When the bandage came off Rhys would massage your ankle every night, rubbing a special salve Madja gave you. While their overbearing nature at times can be aggravating, you wouldn’t have it any other way. You’d never stop being thankful to have mates and a family that cares so much about you.