#and i was like Well hold on. they weren’t the first one

[jasvtsc]

clean mess

“come on, birdie. i promise i will behave. and on the bright side, we’ll save water and help the planet. isn’t that great? more… kittens will live,” that was the shittiest excuse possible. but did it work?

yeah. it did.

almost immediately, with a renewed vigor, you jumped out of bed and dragged dean to the bathroom as he grinned stupidly. if you weren’t holding his hand in a vice grip, he’d probably be rubbing his hands together as if he plotted something devious.

and to be honest, he kind of did. he promised to behave but did he ever do that? no. you naked with him under the shower? he wouldn’t miss it for the world.

as soon as you were standing bare in the middle of the bathroom, dean took a moment to marvel at your figure. he let his eyes stay on your curves a bit longer, humming appreciatively with a soft smile, although sparks of lust twinkled in his green eyes.

he quickly took his clothes off, and well, his cock was already standing up erected. he looked down and then slowly looked back up at you, giving you a sheepish smile and a small shrug.

“can you blame me? i’m a simple man. i see my angel in full glory, i’m ready to jump in action,” he grinned, while you just crossed your arms and raised a brow with a clear exasperation written all over your features.

“can’t you control it?”

“you make it insanely hard to control myself. pun intended,” he murmured, reducing the distance between you and connecting your lips in a passionate kiss.

that was enough to make you fold because in a blink of an eye, you were pressed against the glass shower wall, your legs wrapped around dean’s waist as he was vigorously pistoning in and out of you.

“fuck, you feel so good,” he groaned, holding you by your hips, so you wouldn’t fall down the wall or anything. “so tight.”

one of his hands snuck between your bodies and his thumb immediately landed on your clit, massaging it in a way that matched his frenzied thrusts. you cried out, trying to hold onto something but you found your hands slipping on the steam covered glass.

“after we’re done—” he panted, trying his best to hold back his impending orgasm since he wanted you to finish first. “can we do it again? but from the back? and with your wings on display?” you looked into his eyes and squinted your eyes. although, it was insanely difficult to keep a straight face while he was fucking you like he was in heat or something.

“dean, don’t push it.”

“pretty please? i’ve been good,” he whined so submissively and gave you those pleading puppy eyes of his that not only made you cum but also agree to his idea.

so a few minutes later, your hands were splayed on the glass, your wings opened as he buried his face between them, nipping at your shoulder blades while pounding into you from behind.

shit, it felt so good.

[kateschi]

chef's kiss is not enough

synopsis: a simple night out for good food changes when you meet the chef behind a dish that leaves you speechless.

pairing: chef!bakugou katsuki x f!reader

the restaurant is cozy, the kind of place that doesn’t draw much attention from the outside but feels like a hidden treasure once you step inside.

soft lighting casts a warm glow over the wooden tables, and the low murmur of conversation mixes with the occasional clinking of plates.

you’re here with friends, seated at a corner table, menus spread out in front of you.

it’s the kind of night where you’re just looking forward to good food and laughter.

the waiter approaches, balancing several plates on his tray, and sets a bowl down in front of you. you thank him absentmindedly, but the moment your eyes land on your dish, you can’t help but pause.

it’s beautiful in its simplicity—steaming ramen served in a deep bowl, the broth shimmering under the restaurant’s soft light.

thin slices of pork rest delicately on the surface, alongside a soft-boiled egg, its yolk a vibrant golden color. green onions and a sheet of nori top it off, each detail deliberate and precise.

when you take the first bite, your eyes widen. the broth is rich and savory, the kind of flavor that seems to envelop your entire mouth.

the noodles are perfectly cooked, springy but not too firm, soaking up just enough of the broth.

each topping complements the next—the pork is tender, the egg creamy, the green onions adding a fresh, sharp contrast.

it’s the kind of dish that doesn’t just taste good; it feels like someone put their heart into it.

“oh my god,” you mutter, setting your chopsticks down for a moment. “this is incredible.”

your friends laugh at your reaction, one of them nudging you with their elbow. “you always get like this when the food’s good.”

“no, but this—this is different,” you insist, leaning closer to the bowl as if it holds some sort of secret. “this isn’t just good; this is like…life-changing.”

the comment earns a round of laughter, but you’re already distracted, glancing around the room for the waiter.

when you catch his eye, you raise a hand. “excuse me, who’s the chef here?”

the waiter looks surprised by the question. “our head chef is bakugou katsuki. would you like me to—”

“yes, please,” you interrupt, a little too quickly. realizing how eager you sound, you backtrack. “I mean, if he’s not too busy.”

the waiter nods and disappears toward the kitchen, leaving your friends to give you a variety of amused and curious looks.

“what?” you say defensively. “it’s not every day you eat something this good.”

a few minutes later, the kitchen door swings open, and the man who walks out is…not what you expected.

you were picturing someone older, maybe with a few gray hairs and a soft smile.

instead, this man—bakugou katsuki, apparently—is tall and broad-shouldered, his chef’s coat fitting snugly over a strong frame.

his spiky blond hair looks slightly damp, like he’s been working hard, and his expression is one of mild irritation.

he looks more like a professional athlete than a chef.

“what?” he says, his voice low and rough, as he strides up to your table. his crimson eyes sweep over the group before landing on you.

and for a moment, bakugou freezes. he didn’t know what to expect when the waiter said someone wanted to meet him—probably some pompous critic or a customer with a laundry list of complaints.

but you’re not what he expected. at all. there’s something about the way you’re looking at him, your eyes wide with a mix of nervousness and awe, that throws him completely off balance.

you’re…really pretty. too pretty, actually.

it’s annoying, how much it catches him off guard. his chest tightens, and he suddenly feels hyperaware of himself—his hands, his posture, the faint dampness of his forehead from the heat of the kitchen.

damn it.

“I, uh,” you start, faltering under his intense gaze. you weren’t expecting him to be so—well, intimidating. “I just wanted to say that the food is amazing. like, really amazing.”

for a moment, he just stares at you, his jaw tightening slightly. then he rubs the back of his neck, glancing away as if trying to compose himself. “thanks,” he mutters, his tone less gruff than before.

the way he looks away almost makes you smile.

he doesn’t seem like the type to take compliments well, and you can’t help but find it endearing. but at the same time, his presence is overwhelming, and you feel heat creeping up your neck.

“well,” he says abruptly, his eyes snapping back to yours. “if that’s it, I’ve got stuff to do.”

“right, of course,” you say quickly, nodding. “thank you again.”

he nods once, almost curtly, before turning and heading back toward the kitchen. you watch him go, your mind racing with thoughts you can’t quite organize.

the rest of the evening goes by in a blur.

you and your friends continue to chat and laugh, but your thoughts keep drifting back to bakugou. his sharp eyes, the way he looked almost flustered when you complimented him.

it’s distracting, and you can’t quite shake it.

as you’re leaving, stepping out into the cool night air, a voice calls out behind you.

“hey.”

you turn to see him standing in the doorway, still in his chef’s coat. he looks like he’s debating whether this is a good idea or not, his expression tight with something between determination and reluctance.

in his hand is a paper bag with the restaurant’s logo. “here,” he says, holding it out to you.

you blink, confused. “I didn’t order takeout.”

“it’s on me,” he says, shoving the bag toward you. his crimson eyes flick to the side, avoiding your gaze.

“oh, but—”

“just take it,” he interrupts, his voice firm but not unkind.

you hesitate for a moment before taking the bag. your fingers brush against his, and the brief contact sends a strange warmth through your chest. “thank you,” you murmur.

he nods, and for a moment, it looks like he might say something else. but then he just steps back inside, the door closing behind him.

when you get home, you open the bag to find a perfectly packaged serving of the ramen you raved about earlier. sitting on top is a small note, written in slightly messy handwriting:

xxx-xxx-xxxx the name’s katsuki. text me.

a smile creeps onto your face, and you find yourself thinking that maybe, just maybe, you will.

kofi — navigation — masterlist

do not copy, translate, or plagarize

[creamflix]

cw: mentions of sex & reader menstruating, nothing detailed or explicit [for nsfw].

read part one here

three years.

three whole years of loving each other in your own chaotic way.

but when the anniversary actually rolled around, you felt like someone had hit the reset button on your social skills. standing in the kitchen that morning, you blurted out, “it’s our anniversary. we’ve been together for a long time,” as if that wasn’t blatantly obvious.

sukuna blinked at you from where he was tying his tie, raising an eyebrow like he couldn’t believe what just came out of your mouth.

“no shit,” he deadpanned, though his lips twitched like he was holding back a smirk.

you huffed, crossing your arms. “i’m just saying. it’s... a big deal, y’know?”

“yeah, yeah,” he muttered, brushing past you to grab his keys, but you caught the way his gaze lingered for a moment longer than usual.

truthfully, neither of you were handling it well. anniversaries weren’t exactly your forte. it wasn’t like you didn’t say “i love you” to each other, but those words carried weight between the two of you — too much to just toss around casually.

and now, faced with the unspoken expectation to do something, both of you were stumbling like teenagers on a first date.

sukuna spent the entire morning at work distracted, fidgeting with his pen and snapping at his coworkers more than usual.

am i supposed to plan something? he thought. i was the one who proposed, does that mean it’s my job? the pressure was getting to him.

finally, he decided to keep it simple: your favorite takeout from university, a nostalgic callback to the start of everything.

meanwhile, you spent your day spiraling in a completely different direction. romantic gestures weren’t exactly your specialty, but the thought of doing nothing felt worse.

so, you left work early and dove into something utterly out of character — a full-on romantic dinner, complete with candles, music, and a dish you’d only ever made once before.

by the time the evening rolled around, both of you were a mess. sukuna trudged through the door first, looking disheveled in his wrinkled work clothes, seven plastic bags in hand, each one stuffed with takeout containers. he didn’t even bother taking off his shoes before stepping into the living room.

“yo, i got —” he started, but froze mid-sentence when he saw you.

you were standing by the dining table, decked out in an outfit that screamed special occasion, with your hair done and everything. the table was set like something out of a movie: a full spread of homemade dishes, soft lighting from the candles, and an awkward tension hanging in the air because, honestly, what the hell were the two of you doing?

“...what the fuck,” sukuna finally said, his voice soft with something you couldn’t quite place.

you shrugged, suddenly feeling self-conscious. “i figured... i’d try something different.”

he stared at you for a beat, then down at the bags in his hands, then back at you. “you made all this?”

“yeah.” you shifted on your feet. “thought it’d be nice. but uh, if you don’t wanna eat it, we can always —”

“shut up,” he cut you off, a grin breaking across his face. “you’re insane, you know that?”

“takes one to know one,” you shot back, but your cheeks were burning.

he dropped the bags unceremoniously on the counter and crossed the room in a few quick strides. before you could say anything else, his arms were around you, pulling you into a hug that was somehow both firm and gentle.

“you’re ridiculous,” he mumbled against your hair. “but you’re my ridiculous.”

you rolled your eyes but melted into his embrace. “yeah, yeah. happy anniversary, jerk.”

he laughed, low and genuine, and for a moment, the awkwardness faded. the food didn’t matter. the plans didn’t matter. just being here, in this little apartment you called home, with him holding you like the world didn’t exist outside these walls — that was enough.

even after three years together, the idea of using the typical, sugary nicknames made you both cringe harder than nails on a chalkboard. no “babe,” no “sweetheart,” no “love.” for some reason, it just didn’t fit.

instead, you’d toss out things like “dude,” “bro,” or, on particularly annoying days, “boy,” just to get under his skin. the way sukuna’s eye would twitch every time you called him that? priceless.

but sukuna wasn’t innocent, either. his repertoire of names for you was a mix of creative insults and borderline threats, delivered with just enough affection to remind you that he didn’t actually mean them.

“woman,” “brat,” “shit for brains” — those were the classics. and when he was in an especially foul mood? let’s just say the creativity really started flowing.

the funniest part? even in public, neither of you switched it up. at restaurants, when a waiter would ask for your order, you’d say, “he’ll have the steak,” and sukuna would fire back with, “she’ll take the fish,” like it was the most natural thing in the world.

no “my love” or “my darling.” just “he” and “she,” like a couple of reluctant coworkers at a team lunch.

the one time you tried something different, it didn’t end well.

“what’ll it be, babe?” you’d asked one night, trying to suppress a grin as you glanced at him over the menu.

sukuna lowered his menu just enough to shoot you a look so disgusted you swore you could taste lemons in the air. “what the hell did you just call me?”

“babe,” you repeated, forcing the word out like it physically pained you.

he grimaced, his nose wrinkling. “don’t ever do that again.”

you’d burst out laughing, and from that moment on, the unwritten rule was solidified: no “cute” nicknames. not unless you wanted to ruin the meal for both of you.

and yet, despite all of that, there were moments when the truth slipped through. when you were out with friends, you’d proudly call him “my man,” as if daring anyone to challenge the claim.

and sukuna wasn’t any better — he’d talk about you to his buddies like you were the most important person in the world, casually dropping “my lady” into conversations like it was nothing.

but back home? it was business as usual. “yo, dude,” you’d yell from the kitchen. “did you put the laundry in the dryer?”

“hell nah, woman,” he’d yell back. “do it yourself.”

sure, it wasn’t the most conventional display of affection, but it was yours. no sickly sweet terms of endearment, no over-the-top romantic gestures — just you and sukuna, trading insults and sharing a love that, in its own weird way, felt perfect. would you trade it?

absolutely not.

you and sukuna had never been the type to ooze affection. no heartfelt “good lucks” or mushy “come home soon” texts.

instead, your love language was passive-aggressive threats with just enough bite to keep things interesting.

“don’t fuck it up,” he’d said before your job interview, leaning casually against the counter with a smirk that hid the way his eyes lingered on you a second longer than usual.

“look who’s talking,” you shot back, adjusting your jacket in the mirror. “aren’t you the guy who choked on his coffee before his last one?”

“watch it, brat,” he muttered, grabbing his keys, but his lips twitched.

underneath the snark, though, there was always something unspoken. a silent, shared understanding that you were rooting for each other, even if neither of you would ever outright say it. and during that waiting period — the nerve-wracking limbo between interviews and callbacks — the usual jabs quieted.

it wasn’t a truce, exactly, but you both found yourself going easier on each other. sukuna would make sure you had coffee in the mornings, leaving it on the counter without a word. and you’d restock his energy drinks without him asking, slipping them into the fridge while he wasn’t looking.

when the calls finally came, first for you and then for him, the celebration was as understated as your relationship. no grand hugs or squeals of excitement — just a knowing look exchanged from across the room, a rare, genuine smile curving both your lips.

“guess you didn’t screw it up,” he teased as you set your phone down, but his voice was softer than usual, the edges rounded out by pride.

“guess you didn’t either,” you replied, tossing the comment back at him with a grin.

and maybe — just maybe — there was a fleeting kiss in the mix. something quick and almost shy, as if lingering too long might make the moment too heavy.

“don’t think this means you’re off the hook,” he muttered afterward, trying to play it cool, though his hand rested on your waist a beat longer than necessary.

“wouldn’t dream of it,” you quipped, leaning back just enough to meet his gaze.

this was just the start, the first step in what would be your new life together. and even if it wasn’t wrapped up in the typical trappings of romance, it felt right. because with sukuna, love was never about the obvious.

it was in the things left unsaid, the quiet gestures, and the stubborn refusal to admit just how much you cared — though, deep down, you both knew the truth.

you still remembered the first time sukuna kissed you.

it wasn’t some grand romantic setup or a scene out of a cheesy romance flick — it was just… sukuna. blunt, stubborn, and perfectly him.

it was after graduation, a so-called “first date,” though neither of you called it that. he had taken you to the same drive-in you’d always gone to during halloween, the one with the faded screen and popcorn that tasted more like cardboard than butter.

but this time, they weren’t showing the usual campy horror flicks you two loved to make fun of. no, this time it was la la land.

you’d raised an eyebrow when he mentioned it. “really? la la land?”

“what? you’re too good for musicals now?” he shot back, pulling into the lot like he wasn’t questioning himself at all. but you caught the way his grip on the steering wheel tightened just a bit, like he was bracing for you to laugh at him.

“no, just didn’t know you had a thing for jazz hands,” you teased, grinning when his scowl deepened.

the movie started, but naturally, the two of you barely made it through the first twenty minutes without bickering. the popcorn bag was snatched back and forth between you, each accusing the other of hogging all the caramel-coated pieces.

“you’re eating all the good ones!” you snapped, clutching the bag protectively.

“you’re imagining shit, woman,” sukuna retorted, leaning over to yank it back.

in the heat of the squabble, with your faces inches apart and insults ready to fly, he kissed you. just leaned in and pressed his lips to yours, all sharp and sudden, like he had decided there was no other way to shut you up.

you froze, your brain short-circuiting for half a second, before he pulled away with a smirk that made your blood boil and your heart race all at once.

“what the hell was that?” you demanded, staring at him.

“you were being annoying,” he said, like that was the most logical explanation in the world. but his smug expression faltered just a little when you glared at him, lips parted like you were about to really let him have it.

“you don’t just kiss someone and then pull away like that, you asshole,” you huffed. and before he could reply, you grabbed him by the collar and kissed him back, pouring every bit of your irritation — and maybe a little something else — into it.

the second kiss was different. softer, slower, and entirely mutual. neither of you pulled back this time, and when you finally did, both of you were slightly breathless.

“still annoying,” he muttered, though the corner of his mouth twitched like he was trying not to smile.

“still an asshole,” you shot back, crossing your arms, though your cheeks burned so hot you were glad for the darkness of the car.

after that, there wasn’t much attention paid to the movie. there was a lot more kissing, though, a lot more bantering between each one. and while neither of you would ever admit it, kissing him made you feel like a stupid, giddy teenager. like you wanted to kick your feet in the air and giggle, even if the thought made you cringe internally.

it was ridiculous, it was messy, and it was entirely the two of you. just the way you liked it.

your relationship with sukuna had always been a clash of opposites.

back in your college days, he was infamous for his revolving door of women — never the same face twice, always someone new on his arm. sukuna, the loud, reckless heartthrob who could charm his way into anyone’s bed.

and then there was you: exclusive, reserved, someone who didn’t let just anyone close enough to even try. while sukuna’s name was tossed around in gossip, yours carried a quiet weight, a mix of intrigue and admiration.

it wasn’t that you were some saint — far from it. you weren’t a stranger to sex, but you didn’t hand it out like candy at a parade. your friends teased you about your “dry spells,” but you’d always brushed it off. you had standards, that was all.

meanwhile, sukuna? standards weren’t exactly his thing, or so it seemed.

so, when the two of you somehow transitioned from bickering frenemies to a full-fledged couple, there was an unspoken tension between your histories. you knew who he was, what he’d done, and he knew exactly how tightly you held your walls up. still, you worked together, two stubborn halves of something that somehow clicked.

until one night, when things heated up unexpectedly.

it started innocent enough — if “innocent” was a word that could ever describe sukuna. a clumsy makeout session in his dimly lit apartment, his hands tangled in your hair, your breath mingling with his as he pressed you against the couch. it wasn’t your first kiss, far from it, but this one was different. there was a weight to it, a hunger neither of you had acknowledged until now.

“you’re terrible at this,” you muttered against his lips, though your shaky breath betrayed you.

“yeah?” he shot back, his voice low, teasing. “seems like you’re still here, so what does that say about you?”

you rolled your eyes, but before you could quip back, he kissed you again, harder this time. his hands moved to your waist, fingers tracing the curve of your hips, pulling you closer until there was no space left between you.

it escalated quickly, too quickly. his mouth moved to your neck, and you felt the scrape of his teeth against your skin. a shiver ran through you, your hands gripping his shirt to ground yourself. this was sukuna — your sukuna — and yet, this was a side of him you hadn’t faced before.

you froze slightly when his hands wandered lower, testing the waters. for a split second, you weren’t sure what to do.

your mind raced with contradictions: the part of you that wanted to pull him closer, to let yourself get lost in him, and the other part that wanted to smack his hand away and call him out for moving too fast.

“seriously?” you blurted, breaking the kiss and glaring at him. “do you ever not act like a horndog?”

he smirked, cocky as ever, though his hands eased up. “what? you didn’t seem to mind a second ago.”

“maybe because i was too distracted by your terrible kissing technique,” you shot back, though the heat in your cheeks betrayed you.

“you’re full of shit,” he said, leaning back with an exaggerated groan. but there was something softer in his gaze, a flicker of hesitation that wasn’t usually there.

“look, if you’re not into it, just say so. i’m not gonna —”

“shut up, sukuna,” you interrupted, grabbing the collar of his shirt and pulling him back down. your lips crashed against his, and this time, there was no hesitation.

it was messy, passionate, a clash of teeth and tongues that left you both breathless. every time you thought you’d had enough, he’d kiss you in a way that made your head spin, and you’d find yourself pulling him closer all over again.

maybe you’d slap him later for being an overconfident ass, but for now? for now, you let yourself get lost in him, in the way he made you feel like you were the only person in the world he’d ever want. and, as much as you hated to admit it, you didn’t regret a second of it.

sex with sukuna was its own breed of unique — a stark contrast to the wild stories he carried in his history. where you once expected a whirlwind of dominance and filthy words, what you got was something raw and unexpectedly tender, the kind of connection that made your chest ache in the best way. it wasn’t the slow, candlelit romance people wrote songs about, and it wasn’t some grand kink-fueled adventure. it was quiet, comfortable, and somehow, so deeply you two.

sukuna had his reputation, sure. tattoos, a sharp tongue, and an aura that practically screamed i don’t care about your feelings. in his youth, you imagined he’d been the kind of guy who thrived on power plays in the bedroom, leaving women weak-kneed and breathless for all the wrong reasons. hell, he probably relished in it, back in the day.

but that wasn’t what you got.

instead, he was gruff, but not in the way you’d expect. it was the kind of gruffness that came with holding back, with trying to temper himself into someone who could make you feel safe and seen. when he leaned over you, his usual arrogance was softened by something quieter, something he didn’t say out loud but you could feel in the way his hands traced over your skin.

“this okay?” he’d grumble, his voice low, trying to sound nonchalant, but you caught the way his eyes searched your face for any hesitation.

you’d nod, a little too bashful to form words, and he’d pause, eyebrows raising just slightly. “i asked if it was fine, not if you could sit there like a scared rabbit.”

“sukuna,” you’d groan, slapping his shoulder. but your face would heat up anyway, and he’d smirk like the cocky ass he was, though his hands stayed steady, patient.

if you didn’t answer quickly enough, he’d ask again, his actions slowing to a near halt. “hey,” he’d say, leaning down just enough so his lips brushed your ear, “you gonna tell me, or do I have to stop?”

“don’t stop,” you’d finally mutter, voice barely above a whisper, and he’d let out the most obnoxious chuckle, something halfway between pride and amusement.

“thought so,” he’d say smugly, resuming his movements — but gentler than his tone suggested, always so much gentler. it wasn’t about control or ego, though you knew he liked to push you just enough to make you squirm. no, it was about making sure you were there with him every step of the way.

it was new, this side of him that catered to you, the way he’d catch your gaze when he thought you were feeling shy or uncertain. sometimes, you wanted to throttle him for the way he’d tease you, like it was a sport. other times, you wanted to melt into him for the way his hands would guide you, steady and secure, like he had all the time in the world for you and no one else.

but your favorite part? it was always the aftercare.

where sukuna usually thrived on chaos and crudeness, after sex, he was different. softer, quieter, almost dazed. he’d hold you like he was afraid you’d slip away, his arms wrapped around you a little tighter than usual.

“you good?” he’d ask, his voice gruff but quiet.

you’d nod, and he’d huff, pressing his chin to your head. “drink some water,” he’d grumble, even as he was already reaching for the glass on the nightstand.

he wouldn’t joke as much, at least not in the way that made you want to kick him. instead, he’d run his fingers absentmindedly through your hair, muttering about how you’d better not go passing out on him. he’d press lazy, almost featherlight kisses to your temple, your cheek, anywhere he could reach without moving too much.

and if you curled closer to him, burying your face in his chest, he wouldn’t say anything. he’d just hold you tighter, his fingers tracing slow patterns on your back, grounding both of you in the moment.

sometimes, you’d laugh to yourself, thinking about how this man — this loud, sharp-edged, unapologetically rough man — had turned into a vanilla sap just for you. and other times, you’d bite your lip and blush at the thought that he was yours. completely and utterly yours.

you’d never admit it out loud, but the way he took care of you? the way he toned down all the bravado and just was with you? it made you love him more than words could ever say.

the first real fight wasn’t the playful sparring you and sukuna usually indulged in. it wasn’t the sarcastic quips or half-serious insults that usually left both of you laughing by the end. this time, it was different.

the argument started small, something inconsequential, but quickly spiraled into a storm of raised voices and sharp words. sukuna’s tone was harsh, and your stubbornness was just as sharp. you were used to challenging each other, but this felt heavier, like neither of you was willing to back down.

“you’re not even listening to me!” you snapped, your voice breaking in frustration.

“yeah? and you’re so damn perfect at communicating?” sukuna shot back, his words biting.

the tension was suffocating, the air in your shared apartment thick with unresolved emotions.

and then it happened — he grabbed his jacket, slammed the door, and left.

the sound of the door shutting echoed in your ears, and you froze, your chest tight. sukuna didn’t just leave. not like this.

he left home.

it wasn’t just an apartment. it was the place where you built something together, where you shared quiet mornings and loud, chaotic evenings. it was the place that held laughter, tears, and everything in between.

and now it felt unbearably empty.

you wanted to scream, to throw something, to lash out at the ache in your chest. but you knew that chasing him down with your usual fire would only pour gasoline on the flames. so you swallowed your pride, slipped on your fuzzy slippers, and bolted out the door.

you spotted him a few blocks down, his tall figure unmistakable even under the dim streetlights. his pace was fast, his hands shoved deep into his pockets. he looked pissed, but there was something about the way his shoulders hunched slightly that made your heart clench.

“sukuna!” you called, your voice louder than you intended.

he didn’t stop.

“dammit, will you stop walking for one second?” you yelled again, jogging to catch up to him.

when he finally turned around, his expression was a mixture of anger and surprise. “what the hell are you doing?” he asked, eyes narrowing. “it’s late.”

“yeah, and whose fault is that?” you shot back, before taking a deep breath. no, not this time. no more yelling.

“look,” you started, your voice softer now, though your chest was still heaving from the sprint.

“i’m sorry. i mean it. not the sarcastic, biting kind of sorry. a real one. i shouldn’t have — ” you paused, struggling to find the right words. “i shouldn’t have made it about winning. i was wrong.”

sukuna stared at you, his expression unreadable for a moment. the silence stretched, and you felt the sting of tears prick at your eyes.

“...dammit,” he muttered, his shoulders dropping. “i was a dick too.”

you blinked, surprised. sukuna rarely apologized, and when he did, it was never straightforward.

“yeah, you were,” you replied, a small, tentative smile creeping onto your face.

he let out a low chuckle, shaking his head. “you don’t make this easy, you know that?”

“neither do you,” you shot back, stepping closer.

he sighed, his hands leaving his pockets to pull you into a hug that was as awkward as it was comforting. “you’re lucky i didn’t get too far,” he grumbled into your hair.

“you’re lucky i chased after you,” you countered, though you clung to him just as tightly.

and just like that, the tension broke. it wasn’t perfect — there were still things to talk about, wounds to mend — but in that moment, wrapped in each other’s arms on a dimly lit street, you both knew this was home.

sukuna would never say it outright — hell, he’d rather swallow nails than admit it — but he had your back when it came to that time of the month.

he tracked your cycle like a tactical mission, not because he was obsessed with you or anything (his words), but because it was easier to prepare than to deal with the aftermath of being caught off guard.

“what, you think i like listening to you whine about not having your stupid chocolate?” he’d grumble, dumping a bag of your favorite snacks onto the counter with an air of exaggerated suffering. but there was no mistaking the care behind the gesture, no matter how much he tried to play it off.

medicines? stocked. pads and tampons? stocked. heating pads? ready to go. hell, he even had a backup stash of painkillers tucked into his drawer at work in case you ran out at home.

he wasn’t perfect, of course. sukuna had zero patience when you were in one of your mood swings, snapping at him for breathing too loudly or sitting “wrong.” but he’d weather it, rolling his eyes and muttering under his breath.

“you done yelling at me, or you wanna go another round?” he’d ask, arms crossed, leaning against the doorframe.

but the moment you started crying — whether it was over a sad commercial or pure frustration — his entire demeanor shifted.

“hey, hey, cut that out,” he’d say, pulling you into his chest despite his grumbling. “you’re not allowed to cry over dumb shit while i’m around, alright? i’ll give you something real to cry about.”

when you were touch-starved, he’d let you cling to him, even if it meant sitting through a three-hour movie you’d already watched ten times. when you were touch-repulsed, he’d keep his distance but stay close enough to hand you water or make sure you were comfortable.

and when you were too tired to shower, he’d step in without hesitation, grumbling all the while. “can’t believe i’m doing this,” he’d mutter as he adjusted the water temperature and gently washed your hair. “you owe me a massage or something after this.”

he’d change the bedsheets without complaint, tossing you one of his oversized shirts afterward. “don’t stretch it out, or i’ll kick your ass,” he’d say, but you both knew he didn’t mean it. he even kept a corner of his closet stocked with clothes he didn’t mind you ruining — shirts and sweatpants that were practically yours at this point, though he’d never admit it.

“don’t get used to this,” he’d say, watching as you shuffled into the living room in his clothes, burritoed in a blanket. but the way his gaze softened as you curled up on the couch, finally comfortable, betrayed him.

for all his rough edges, sukuna handled you with a quiet kind of love — grumbling, sarcastic, but steady. he might call it “dealing with your bullshit,” but deep down, you both knew better.

it wasn’t a night you’d easily forget — not because of the celebration itself, but because of what came out of your mouth when you were deep into a rum-induced haze.

the bar was alive with the thrum of music and the clang of glasses, laughter and shouting merging into a chaotic symphony that somehow suited you and sukuna. the two of you had ridden in on bikes, looking like a mismatched pair of rebels — him towering, tatted, and menacing, and you just as fierce but smaller, less overtly intimidating.

"you know," sukuna drawled, leaning against the bar with a lazy grin that had been charming women for years, “if you weren’t already mine, i’d be trying to pick you up right now.”

you rolled your eyes, though your own grin betrayed how much you enjoyed the rare moment of his playful charm. “you’re an idiot,” you shot back, taking another shot and wincing as it burned down your throat.

but then, in the lull between his next teasing remark, you blurted it out. “i love you.”

the words landed like a hammer.

sukuna froze, the smirk slipping from his face. the rowdy atmosphere of the bar seemed to fade into static as he stared at you, his crimson eyes narrowing slightly, as if he was trying to gauge whether or not he’d heard you correctly.

"what?" he asked, voice lower than usual, his usual bravado stripped away.

you blinked at him, too tipsy to care about the weight of what you just said. “i love you, stupid. don’t make me say it again.”

and just like that, it was as if someone had pulled the rug out from under him. sukuna, the guy who had once been a whirlwind of hookups and no-strings-attached chaos, was sober in an instant. not because he didn’t like what he heard — no, it was the opposite. it was because those words had been lodged somewhere deep inside him, waiting for the right moment to claw their way out, even if he refused to admit it to himself.

he didn’t say anything right away. instead, he paid the tab, his movements oddly methodical, and threw his leather jacket over your shoulders.

“c’mon,” he muttered, voice gruff as he guided you to the door.

“what’s the rush?” you slurred, stumbling slightly as he helped you onto the bike.

“the rush is you’re drunk and saying shit you don’t mean,” he snapped, though his tone lacked its usual bite.

you didn’t protest after that, leaning into him as he drove the two of you home. by the time you reached the apartment, he was practically hauling you inside, grumbling about how you were a lightweight.

as he set you down on the couch and pulled a blanket over you, the words escaped him, unbidden and softer than he’d have liked.

“i love you too, idiot.”

he thought you were out cold, your breathing slow and even. but the faintest smile tugged at your lips, and a quiet mumble escaped you:

“heard that.”

he froze, a flush creeping up his neck. “shut up and go to sleep,” he barked, but the gentleness with which he tucked you in betrayed him.

you didn’t say anything else, and neither did he, but the air between you felt lighter, warmer. it wasn’t perfect or grand, but it was yours — messy, stubborn, and just enough.

produced by creamflix on tumblr. all rights reserved. do not copy, steal, modify, repost — support your writers by liking and reblogging. ♡

[russo-woso]

This wasn’t planned || USWNT x pregnant!teen!reader

Request | Masterlist | Prompt list

Warning Teen pregnancy, morning sickness, cravings, long painful labour and delivery

Summary You fall pregnant very unexpectedly and feel like your falling but your teammates are there to pick you up

A/N I’ve done three different versions of this now with different teams but this is the final one 🫶🏻

•••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

“Y/N, what’s wrong hun?” Emily asked as she walked into the bathroom, heating your wracked sobs.

Emily was like your sister, having known you from the US team and Arsenal. You two even lived together in England.

You showed her the pregnancy test, her jaw dropping as she saw pregnant.

You weren’t surprised at her reaction, after all you were only sixteen. You don’t think anyone really expects you to be pregnant so young, but here you were.

“I did it once, Em. I was at that stupid party I told you about and I hooked up with a guy. It wasn’t even that long. Twenty second if that. And he wore a condom! I don’t get what happened.” You sobbed, Emily holding your shaking body.

“I know, hun. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” Emily whispered repeatedly, stroking your hair. “The girls will be with you the whole way through. I promise. I’ll help you.”

You didn’t believe her at first, thinking that everyone would judge you.

But surprisingly, Emily was right.

You had no choice but to tell the team, some of them bringing up that you were constantly sick, especially in the mornings.

“Y/N, are you okay? I saw you run in here.” Sophia asked as you continued to throw up in the toilet.

She rubbed your back as you threw up, holding your hair back too.

“Hun, you’ve been sick every single day this week. Are you sure you’re okay?”

You debated whether to lie or not, but you figured you’d be telling her soon anyway.

“I’m pregnant.” You revealed.

“Oh my god… hun, this is big. I’m here for you, okay?”

“Thank tou.” You sent her a weak smile before hugging her.

The reactions of the others was similar, promising they’ll help with whatever they could.

There was one person though who you had to tell, Alex.

Alex Morgan was like your mum. After growing up without a mother, Alex took on that role when you joined the USWNT.

In the year you played together, the two of you became so close.

Since she’d retired, you rang her to see if you could meet her somewhere and you agreed a small coffee shop.

You were nine weeks already, the party having been nine weeks ago, so you were starting to show the most tiniest bit hence why you had started to wear baggier clothes.

“Hi, hun!” Alex cheered as you walked though the door.

“Hey, Al.” You sighed, melting into the hug.

You got caught into a conversation when you finally got the confidence to reveal the pregnancy.

“So… I have some news and I don’t really…” you began, feeling tears well in your eyes.

“You’re pregnant?” Alex guessed, your eyes widening in shock.

“Yeah. How did you know?”

“I know you, Y/N. The Y/N I know doesn’t wear baggy clothes and she certainly doesn’t not order coffee.” Alex explained, looking at you noticing how emotional you looked. “I’m so proud of you. You’re so good with Charlie, I just know you’re going to be a good mama.”

“Thanks, Alex.” You said between cries

“I’m pregnant too.” Alex revealed

“Are you actually?”

“It’s still really early. I’m gonna announce it when I retire from club football.” Alex said. “So, we’ll have each others backs, huh?”

—

“Em?” You shouted from the living room to Emily who was stood making lunch for you both.

“Yeah?”

“Can you please get the marmite for me. Bubba’s really craving it.” You said, rubbing your now seven month bump.

“Eww, marmite?” Emily replied, grabbing it from the cupboard anyway and bringing it through to you.

“Not my fault.” You told her and she nodded, understanding.

Just as you opened the lid, a knock was heard at the door.

Emily got up to answer it, Alessia and Lotte’s voices filling the house.

“Hiya, Y/N, hiya bubba. They’ve got so big!” Alessia exclaims as she settles on the couch next to you.

“Hi.” You greet back, your mouth full of marmite.

“New craving by any chance?” Lotte asked and you nodded.

“This is the fourth jar this week.” Emily added as you grinned cheekily.

“It’s not my fault the bubba wants it.”

Your phone started ringing and you picked it up to see it was Alex ringing you.

“Hey Al.” You said, lifting yourself off the couch and walking towards your room.

“Hey hun, how you feeling? Emily said bubba’s been kicking you every night.”

“Alex, they won’t stop. I swear, it’s like they do it at night on purpose.” You said, collapsing onto your bed after the difficult journey up the stairs.

“What’s wrong? You sound out of breath.”

“I’ve just walked up the stairs.” You replied, Alex humming, also agreeing with how you were feeling. “Anyways, how are you?”

“Broke, but I’m okay.” Alex said

“Why are you broke?”

“Because I’ve just booked plane tickets to come see one of my favorite girls in England.” Alex responded, a clear smile evident in her voice.

“Alex… no.” You said, shocked.

“Yes, I’ve missed you so much, hun. I want to come see you before bubba is born.”

“Oh my god! When do you come? I’m canceling everything.”

The conversation carried on about when Alex was coming and what you were going to do.

—

You were now approaching the nine month stage.

You were exhausted to say the least. You were tired of being pregnant, you just wanted your baby here already.

You had asked Emily if you could go with to Colney today, wanting to see the Arsenal girls before you have birth.

She said yes, knowing she’d been making you coop up in the house for weeks now.

Maybe it would be good for you to get some fresh air.

“Hey, hun!” Alessia said, watching you waddle into the canteen where all the girls were sat. “You ready for bubba to come?”

“No. I’m dreading it but I can’t wait for them to come.” You responded, still making your way over to where alessia was sat.

“I can’t wait to meet them.”

“Well, you’re not going to wait much longer. Not much longer at all. Maybe today even because by the looks of it, bubba wants to come out now.” You said, looking at the puddle by your feet.

“Oh my god! Your water broke? Emily!” Alessia shouted, clearly panicked.

“Less! Calm down.” You laughed

“Yeah? Y/N! Your water broke!” Emily exclaimed, noticing the puddle at your feet.

“Wow, I hadn’t noticed.” You replied sarcastically, Emily rolling her eyes.

“Come on, hun, let’s get you home.”

—

It had been a long day.

You went home after your water broke, getting changed before timing your contractions.

After three hours, your contractions were bad, but not close enough to each other to go through hospital.

Emily suggested you went on a walk, to try speed up the labour.

You went around the block, waddling along as you walked.

But when you got back, they were only six minutes apart.

It was three o’clock when you finally went to the hospital, five hours after your water had broken.

Your contractions were close together now and were painful. Very very painful.

Emily drove to the hospital, holding your hand for support and comfort.

When you arrived, the nurses guided you to your room, allowing you to settle first before coming back to check how dilated you were.

“So, you are four centimetres dilated. How long ago did your water break?”

“About five hours ago.” You tell her

“Okay, so normally you would be a lot more further on in labour but there’s no need to worry. Slow labour could be affected by anything. Your age. Your athleticism. Anything.” The nurse explained and you nodded along, trying to focus on her words but it was hard to with a contraction hitting. “I’d recommend trying to get to sleep. It’ll be a long night for you and it might speed things up a bit.”

You took into account the fact that you might not be getting sleep with a newborn so you managed to get a few hours sleep, which actually helped speed up your labour too.

—

You were now nine centimetres dilated.

You had declined the epidural, having a massive fear of needles and after reading the negative effects an epidural could have, you definitely didn’t want it.

You were given gas and air instead, trying to decrease the pain as much as possible.

It was coming close to midnight, your body tired and achy now.

Emily still stayed by your side, rubbing your back and holding your hand.

You were currently knelt against the bed, your head in your arms as they rested on top of the bed.

“I think you’re ready to push.” The midwife announced as she checked how dilated you were.

“Thank god. I don’t know if I can do this for much longer.” You said, letting a sigh of relief out.

“Ready to meet your baby, huh?” Emily asked and you nodded, feeling a contraction coming.

“Ready to push? On three. One, two, three.”

You pushed with all your might, gripping onto Emily’s hands as you did.

“Okay, another one.”

Similar to the first push, you tried your hardest but there seemed to be no improvement.

Emily stroked back your sweat drenched hair, placing a kiss to your forehead as you pushed.

“I’m never having sex again.” You revealed after a push.

“Okay, hun.” Emily laughed

You had now been pushing for over half an hour, but still there seemed to be no sight of your baby.

“Y/N, if we can’t see your baby after this push we’re going to have to rush you in for an emergency C-Section.” The midwife said, and you nodded, knowing it would be for the best.

You were fully exhausted now, having used all your energy on the pushing.

“Hun, you’ve got this.” Emily said, panic on her face.

You groaned into the bed as you pushed, this time, using your whole body to push.

“I can see a head! Keep going, Y/N!” The midwife announced, as you kept pushing. “They’re heads nearly out. One more push and your babies head will be out.”

You pushed once more, this one more painful more than ever as the babies head crowned.

“They’re heads out. Take a breather if you want.” The nurse told you, rubbing your back in support.

“Tissue.” You mumbled to Emily who reached over to the box of tissues, bringing it to your forehead and wiping the sweat off.

“Whenever you’re ready, Y/N. One more big push, and your baby will be here.”

At them words, you pushed, using all your energy.

“They’re here! Your baby girl’s here.” The midwife said, catching your daughter and passing her under to you.

You held her to you chest, looking down at her as you both cried.

“Hi, bubba. I know that was tough, hey? Oh, I know.” You cooed as she cried her little lungs off.

“She’s perfect, hun.” Emily said rubbing your shoulder as she looked down at the baby in your arms.

“I’m gonna take her over here to check her vitals. I won’t be long.”

Whilst your baby girl was being checked over, you pushed the placenta out and moved to the bed.

Your daughter was being passed back to you, this time she was wrapped in a blanket with a small hat on top of her hair, covering her small tuffs of hair.

“She looked like you, Y/N.” Emily said

“You think so?”

“Same nose, same mouth, everything. A mini you.” Emily pointed out

“Would you like to hold her?” You asked Emily and she nodded, an emotional smile taking over her face.

“Hi, bubs. I’m your aunt Emily.” Emily cooed, stroking her finger up and down your daughter’s cheek. “What’s her name?”

“Florence Alexandra Y/L/N.”

“Oh my god, Alex is gonna be so happy.” Emily said

“I’m hoping she is, just like I’m hoping you’d be happy when I ask if you’d be Flo’s godmother?” You asked, Emily’s face lighting up.

“Of course! Oh my god thank you so much, Y/N.” Emily exclaimed, getting up to hug you.

—

After a while, you’d fed Florence and she was now fast asleep in a milk coma on your chest.

Emily was also fast asleep on the seat next to you.

You’d decided to FaceTime Alex to tell her about Florence.

The phone rang a few times before Alex finally picked up.

You’d angled the phone onto where Florence was laying, Alex’s jaw dropped as she focused on what she was looking at.

“They’re here?” Alex asked, you kidding with a tired smile.

“A girl. She’s perfect, Al. I’ve never felt a love like it, I’ve known her for an hour or two but I love her more than anything in the world. I guess you know what that feels like, huh? With Charlie.”

“I feel it with all my kids. Charlie, this baby, and you.” Alex said through tears.

“Al… you’re gonna make me cry.” You told her, blubbering.

“You’re my daughter too, Y/N. Since the moment you came into my life, you’ve been my daughter. Charlie loves you like a big sister too. Anyway, enough crying. What’s bubbas name?”

“Florence Alexandra Y/L/N.” You replied

“Oh my god, forget what I said about the no crying. You named her after me?”

“How could I not? You’re my mom Alex.” You said with a smile

“I love you two so much.”

“We love you too, Alex.”

[solxamber]

1800-Curse-Control || Lilia Vanrouge

You decide to open a hotline for curing curses with Lilia. It goes exactly how you imagined it would—maybe even a little better.

“Lilia,” you said, rubbing your temples as you leaned against the counter in Ramshackle’s disaster of a kitchen. “Grim’s eating me out of house and home, literally. If I can’t afford the repairs soon, the roof will cave in. But all he cares about is premium tuna! Do you know how much that stuff costs?”

Lilia, who was casually floating upside down for no apparent reason, looked entirely too entertained. “Ah, the plight of a homeowner,” he said, grinning. “Why not turn your misfortune into opportunity? I’ve been told I have exceptional customer service skills, and I’ve been dreadfully bored. Let’s open a hotline for removing curses!”

You blinked at him. “A hotline. For curing curses.”

“Yes, my dear beastie,” he said, flipping upright midair and landing gracefully. “Think about it! This school is crawling with fools who drink unlabeled potions, poke magical artifacts, and anger vengeful spirits just for sport. You’d be rich in a week!”

“…I hate how much sense that actually makes.”

“It’s a foolproof plan,” Lilia continued, already pulling a notepad from somewhere to scribble down ideas. “I’ll handle the exorcisms and the cackling, naturally. You, my dear entrepreneur, can be the charming face of the operation. We’ll call it—hmm—‘Curse-B-Gone.’”

“Absolutely not.”

“Fine, ‘Hex Hotline.’”

You considered it. On one hand, it sounded completely ridiculous. On the other hand, there was that third-year who accidentally swapped his voice with a frog’s last week and the freshmen who kept mysteriously sprouting feathers.

“…How much are we charging?”

“Ah-ha! I knew you’d come around!” Lilia said, clapping his hands together. “Let’s see, we’ll need tiers. Minor hex removal? Hundred thaumarks. Major curses—hair-growing hexes, spontaneous transformation curses—those will start at Five Hundred.”

“And what about something, like, really bad? What if someone’s whole body turns into a pumpkin or something?”

“That’s a premium package. One thousand thaumarks.”

You nodded slowly. “Okay. Okay, I’m in. But if this flops, you’re buying Grim’s tuna for the next month.”

Lilia smirked, his fangs glinting mischievously. “Deal.”

By the end of the day, you’d set up a magical hotline using some weird orb Lilia “borrowed” from the library, a vaguely threatening poster campaign across the campus (“Cursed? Hexed? A jackal-headed god show up at your dorm? Call us!”), and a suspiciously well-stocked supply of anti-curse materials Lilia claimed were “leftovers” from his youth.

You weren’t sure whether to feel excited or like you’d just signed up for the most bizarre mistake of your life. Either way, you couldn’t wait to see how this would go down.

The orb hotline rang for the first time, glowing ominously on the rickety desk in Ramshackle. You and Lilia exchanged glances.

“Answer it!” he whispered, like this was some spy mission and not a cursed customer service line.

With a deep breath, you picked it up. “Uh… Hello, this is the Cursed and Confused Hotline. How can we—”

“YOU HAVE TO HELP ME!” Ace’s voice screamed on the other end. “HE’S GOING TO KILL ME THIS TIME!”

You winced, holding the orb away from your ear. “Ace? What happened?”

“I DON’T KNOW! I WAS JUST TRYING TO MAKE TEA!”

“Okay, and?”

“And I might’ve…accidentally used that weird sugar in the Heartslabyul pantry, the one that glows in the dark? And now Riddle’s head is covered in, like…peonies. Big, pink peonies. They keep growing whenever he gets mad, which, uh, is always.”

You slapped your forehead. “You cursed your housewarden?!”

“I DIDN’T MEAN TO!” Ace wailed. “I thought it was sugar, not cursed fertilizer! Look, can you just fix this before he declares ‘off with my head’ for real?”

“Ugh, fine. Where are you now?”

“Hiding in the rose bushes. He hasn’t found me yet, but I think I heard him sharpening a guillotine.”

“Classic Heartslabyul,” Lilia said cheerfully, already packing his so-called emergency kit.

When you and Lilia arrived at Heartslabyul, it was pure chaos. Riddle stood in the center of the garden, his face as red as his hair—and also half-obscured by an explosion of giant pink peonies blooming out of his head like some cursed bouquet.

“TREY!” Riddle bellowed. “GET THE GARDEN SHEARS!”

Ace was crouched in a rose bush nearby, whispering frantically. “Please tell me you brought an anti-cursed-flower spray or something!”

You ignored him and approached Riddle cautiously. “Uh, Riddle? You’ve got—”

“I KNOW WHAT I HAVE!” Riddle shrieked, a few more flowers blooming on his head. “I demand immediate remedy! Or else—”

“We’ll fix it,” Lilia cut in, grinning like this was the most fun he’d had in centuries. “Now, let’s see…” He pulled a vial of glowing liquid from his kit. “This should do the trick.”

“Are you sure?” you asked, eyeing the suspiciously fizzing vial.

“Of course not,” Lilia said, popping it open.

He dumped the liquid over Riddle’s head without warning. The flowers immediately shriveled up and disappeared.

Riddle blinked, touching his head in astonishment. “…It’s gone?”

“You’re welcome,” Lilia said with a dramatic bow.

Ace peeked out from the bushes. “So…he’s not mad anymore, right?”

Riddle’s death glare answered that question.

“RUN!” you yelled, dragging Ace out of the garden as Riddle shouted about punishment for “sugar crimes.”

Back at Ramshackle, you slumped against the desk. “We’re never doing house calls again.”

Lilia just laughed. “Oh, but the drama! I live for it!”

The hotline orb began glowing again, pulsing with a foreboding, bluish light.

You groaned. “If this is Ace again, I swear—”

Lilia waved his hand. “Come now, it’s probably another entertaining disaster! Answer it!”

You reluctantly picked up. “Cursed and Confused Hotline. What’s your—”

“FIX. THIS. NOW!” came Azul’s shrill, panicked voice.

You blinked. “Azul? What’s—”

“I CAN’T EVEN DESCRIBE WHAT HE’S DONE THIS TIME!”

“Oh, come on, Azul!” Floyd’s voice cut in, cackling in the background. “It’s a masterpiece!”

“Masterpiece?” Azul screeched. “You flooded the dining room and filled it with—WHY ARE THERE EELS IN THE SOUP POTS?”

“Because it’s hilarious!” Floyd howled, clearly having the time of his life.

Jade’s calm voice joined in, oozing politeness as always. “To be fair, Floyd has a point. The eels are thriving in there.”

Azul sputtered like a broken faucet. “THRIVING?! THEY’RE STEALING PEOPLE’S FOOD!”

“Sounds efficient to me,” Floyd said. You could practically hear him smirking. “Dinner and a show!”

Lilia perked up. “Eels in soup pots? How creative!”

“Don’t encourage him!” Azul barked. “Do you know how much it costs to repair the water damage he’s caused? The walls are dripping! The chandelier is dripping! I AM DRIPPING!”

“That’s not cursed,” you said, trying to hide your amusement. “That’s just Floyd being—well, Floyd.”

“Oh, no, it’s cursed,” Azul hissed. “Every time I try to remove the eels, the water level rises. They’re like aquatic squatters! Fix it or I swear I’ll—”

The sound of something massive splashing cut him off, followed by Floyd’s uncontrollable laughter.

“HAHAHA! He slipped into the soup pot! Jade, did you see that?”

“I did,” Jade replied, his voice as smooth as ever. “It was quite elegant.”

“AZUL’S AN EEL NOW!” Floyd cried. “Eel bros for life, baby!”

The orb started vibrating violently.

“Get. Over. Here. Now.” Azul’s voice was barely a whisper, the tone of someone seconds away from an aneurysm.

You sighed and grabbed your bag. “Let’s go before he implodes.”

When you arrived at Mostro Lounge, it was exactly what you expected—and somehow worse. The entire dining area was flooded, eels swam lazily in the soup pots, and Azul was perched on a chair, drenched from head to toe and glaring murderously at Floyd, who was happily paddling through the water like it was his personal playground.

“Finally!” Azul barked, waving his wet hand. “Do something! Anything!”

Floyd, half-submerged in a soup pot, waved at you. “Hey! You wanna join the eel party? First rule—no rules!”

Lilia clapped his hands. “This is magnificent chaos!”

Azul groaned, burying his face in his hands. “I’ll double your pay if you fix this immediately.”

You glanced at Lilia, who was already pouring a suspiciously glowing liquid into the water.

“This should work,” he said cheerfully.

The water started to drain, the eels vanished in puffs of smoke, and the room returned to normal—except for Floyd, who now floated upside down in midair, spinning like a cursed top.

“Whoa, this is AWESOME!” Floyd laughed, twirling like a maniac. “I’m a flying eel!”

Azul sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose as you said “I’m charging you extra for emotional damages.”

The hotline orb flared up again, casting a frantic purple glow. You groaned, mid-sip of tea.

“I don’t know if I can handle more insanity.”

Lilia, perched upside down on the couch, grinned. “Nonsense! Chaos keeps the heart young. Answer it!”

Reluctantly, you picked it up. “Cursed and Confused Hotline. What did you do, and how bad is it?”

“It’s me! It’s Epel!” came the desperate, whisper-shouted voice of the Pomefiore freshman. “I need your help—immediately! I’ve got the worst curse of all on me.”

“Worst curse?” you asked, frowning. “What’s going on?”

“Vil,” Epel said, voice shaking. “And Rook.”

“...Epel, those are people, not curses.”

“They are when Vil finds out I repurposed his limited-edition face mask jars as apple cider mugs for the guys in Savanaclaw!”

Lilia burst into a delighted cackle. “Oh, that’s fantastic!”

“Not fantastic! Vil’s gonna flay me alive!” Epel hissed. “And Rook’s hunting me down like a rabbit in the woods. Please, ya gotta help!”

You tried not to laugh. “How exactly do you want me to help? I can’t exactly—”

A loud thud echoed through the call, followed by Epel screaming, “He found me! NO! PUT THAT BOW DOWN!”

“Bonjour, my friend~!” Rook’s voice came through, as smooth as velvet and disturbingly cheerful. “Ah, how beautiful the chase! Like a fox cornered by the hounds, our petit pomme has finally been found!”

“ROOK, NO! DON’T HAND ME OVER!”

“Oh, petit lapin,” Rook said, unbothered, “the punishment will only make you stronger. Think of it as a trial by fire!”

“I DON’T WANT TO BE STRONGER, I WANNA BE ALIVE!” Epel shrieked.

You sighed, pinching the bridge of your nose. “Rook, what exactly are you planning to do with him?”

“Ah, worry not,” Rook replied. “I am but a humble messenger delivering him to justice. Vil has been most patient.”

“HE CALLED ME A PEASANT AND THREW A HEEL AT ME, THAT’S PATIENT?” Epel howled.

Lilia leaned forward, thoroughly entertained. “Rook, at least let us have a word with Epel before he meets his doom.”

“But of course!”

“HELP ME!” Epel screamed the moment Rook handed him the phone. “Distract them, hex me, I dunno, CURSE ME INTO A TREE OR SOMETHING—”

“Epel,” you said firmly, trying not to laugh, “you’re going to have to face Vil eventually. What’s the worst he could do?”

“THE WORST? Oh, I dunno, exile me to a skincare bootcamp for the rest of my natural life?”

Rook’s voice floated in. “Imagine it, petit pomme: cleansing facials, detoxifying baths, and no more cider mugs. A new you!”

“YOU STAY OUTTA THIS!”

You sighed. “I can offer one thing.”

“Anything!”

“An apology. I suggest you start practicing now.”

“An apology?! I called Vil’s collection overhyped snake oil. I’m DOOMED!”

“Not if you run fast enough,” Rook chimed in cheerfully. “Shall we test your stamina?”

The call ended with Epel’s scream, followed by the distinct sound of someone bolting at full speed.

“Well,” Lilia said, smiling. “That was worth every second.”

Jamil’s voice crackled through the orb strained and absolutely done.

"Hi, yeah, it’s me again."

You rolled your eyes. "Let me guess. Kalim tried to throw a party?"

"And Cater," Jamil growled, the sound of something crashing in the background. "Do you have any idea how difficult it is to manage one chaos gremlin? Now imagine two. They’ve cursed half the dorm—random objects are coming to life, and singing. And I don’t mean pleasant singing. I mean like if a banshee and a kazoo had a love child."

Lilia leaned in beside you, eyes glittering with delight. "Oho, this sounds entertaining! What did they do this time?"

Jamil sighed deeply, as if he’d just aged ten years in the past ten minutes. "Kalim thought it would be fun to 'spice up' a party by enchanting the decorations. Cater encouraged him, saying it would make a great Magicam post. The result? The curtains are now tap-dancing, the chandelier won’t stop singing old sea shanties, and the punch bowl tried to bite me."

Lilia clapped his hands. "This sounds like an excellent way to spend the afternoon! Let’s go!"

You groaned. "Why do I have to go?"

"Because you’re the only one who can keep Lilia from making things worse," Jamil deadpanned.

Arriving at Scarabia was like stepping into a fever dream. The furniture was waltzing around the room, the ceiling fan was chanting, "Spin me right round, baby, right round," and the aforementioned punch bowl snarled at you as you walked in.

Kalim, of course, was having the time of his life, clapping to the rhythm of the furniture parade. Cater was filming everything, laughing as he tried to get the chandelier to do a TikTok dance.

"Do you see what I have to deal with?" Jamil hissed, his hair practically frazzled.

"Let’s fix this before someone dies," you muttered, pulling out the anti-curse toolkit Lilia had handed you on the way.

"Or before someone posts this to Magicam and the entire world sees it," Jamil added grimly, glaring at Cater.

It started smoothly enough—well, as smoothly as any curse-breaking session with Lilia could go. The two of you worked to unravel the enchantments while dodging flying pillows and shrieking party streamers.

Then, of course, you made the mistake of touching an enchanted lamp.

It burst into song—loud, off-key, and somehow extremely personal. The lyrics were all about your lack of a love life and questionable fashion choices. Before you could fight back, it tangled itself around your arms and legs, dragging you upward toward the chandelier.

"Hey, uh, Lilia? Little help!"

Lilia, ever the dramatic savior, leaped into action. With a mischievous grin, he sliced through the magical binds with a well-aimed spell and caught you mid-fall.

You blinked up at him, heart hammering in your chest. His crimson eyes glimmered with amusement, his fangs showing in a victorious smirk. He cradled you with an ease that shouldn’t have been possible given his stature.

"You alright there, my dear?" he asked, voice low and teasing.

"Yeah, I’m fine," you muttered, face heating up. "Just…you know…trying not to die."

But your brain wasn’t focusing on that. It was too busy processing the fact that Lilia was holding you like you weighed nothing, and you could feel your pulse quickening. Damn it, why is my heart beating so fast?

He tilted his head, studying you with an unreadable expression. "Are you sure? Your face is a bit flushed."

"Nope! Totally fine!" you squeaked, scrambling out of his arms as soon as your feet touched the ground.

Jamil, watching the whole thing from across the room, rolled his eyes. "Great. Now you’re cursed too."

"Shut up, Jamil."

It took another hour, but the dorm was finally back to normal—or as normal as Scarabia could be. Kalim apologized profusely, Cater promised to delete the footage (he didn’t), and Jamil looked like he might snap at any moment.

As you and Lilia walked out, you tried to calm your racing heart, but he leaned in with a knowing grin.

"Quite the adventure today, wasn’t it?"

"Sure," you replied quickly, hoping your face wasn’t still red.

He hummed thoughtfully. "I wonder what’s got your heart racing so much. You’re not catching feelings for your favorite partner-in-chaos, are you?"

"Not a chance," you lied, your heart betraying you with another treacherous thump.

Lilia just chuckled, and you couldn’t tell if he believed you—or if he was just letting you stew in your own embarrassment for fun.

The enchanted orb buzzed frantically, and you groaned as you reached for it. The second you accepted the call, you heard Deuce.

“HELP! WE MESSED UP BAD!”

“Deuce?” you asked, already dreading the answer. “What did you do this time?”

Jack’s voice came through, exasperated and growly. “It wasn’t just him. I was there too.”

“Great,” you deadpanned. “So, what kind of mess am I cleaning up now?”

Deuce gulped. “We, uh… were practicing some spellwork for exams—”

“Right by the Spelldrive practice field,” Jack added grimly.

Your eyes widened. “Please don’t tell me you—”

“Destroyed the field? Yeah,” Deuce admitted miserably. “But we didn’t mean to! The explosion was an accident!”

You heard a sharp, angry voice in the background: “AN ACCIDENT?! YOU DESTROYED HALF THE FIELD, YOU LITTLE—”

“Leona’s there?” you asked, already standing up.

Deuce nodded frantically. “He’s so mad. Please come before he kills us!”

“Stay put,” you said, grabbing your things. “And pray he doesn’t finish you off before we get there.”

The Spelldrive practice field was a warzone. One goalpost was completely obliterated, sand smoldered in random patches across the ground, and an entire section of the bleachers looked like it had been hit by a tornado.

Leona was standing in the middle of the chaos, arms crossed, glaring daggers at Deuce and Jack, who were huddled behind a tipped-over bench like it could save them. His team stood a safe distance away, clearly too smart to get involved.

You arrived with Lilia in tow, who was already grinning like he’d just stumbled upon the most entertaining show of the year.

“Oh, this is delightful,” Lilia mused, surveying the carnage. “It’s like an abstract painting of destruction.”

“Not helping,” you muttered, jogging toward the scene.

Leona’s sharp green eyes locked onto you. “Finally. You gonna fix this mess, or do I get to turn these two into sandbags?”

“Leona,” you said, stepping between him and the disaster twins, “We’ll handle it. Just… don’t murder them. Yet.”

Leona snorted. “You’ve got five minutes.”

Lilia hummed a jaunty tune as he began waving his hands over the destroyed sections of the field. Slowly, the sand settled, the goalpost reformed, and the bleachers stopped looking like they’d gone through a blender.

Meanwhile, you kept Leona from pouncing on Deuce and Jack, who were watching Lilia work with wide eyes.

“You two better hope I don’t find out about another ‘accident,’” Leona growled, looming over you.

“Relax,” you said, holding up a hand. “They’re idiots, not criminals. Save your energy for your team.”

Leona rolled his eyes but stepped back, muttering something about “babysitters.”

When everything was finally back in order, Lilia dusted off his hands with a satisfied smile. “That was quite fun. We should let those two cause chaos more often.”

You shot him a look. “Please don’t encourage them.”

Leona, arms crossed and clearly annoyed, stepped closer. “You’re done? Good. I’ll send Ruggie with something to pay you later.” Then he smirked, eyes flicking between you and Lilia. “Now keep your lovesick asses away from my practice field.”

Your brain short-circuited. “Wha—?! Lovesick?”

Leona just walked off with a lazy wave, leaving you standing there, half-mortified.

Lilia leaned in, clearly enjoying your flustered state. “Oh my. He really has a way with words, doesn’t he?”

“Don’t you start,” you muttered, your face burning.

But when you turned to walk away, Lilia was by your side, chuckling softly. He caught your wrist gently, pulling you to a stop for just a moment. “For what it’s worth,” he said, voice quieter and more serious, “you were quite impressive back there, keeping Leona from turning them into mincemeat.”

Your heart did a flip. “Uh… thanks?”

He let go with a grin, stepping back and returning to his usual playful tone. “Now, let’s see if we can avoid the next disaster, hmm?”

You weren’t sure if your face would ever cool down.

Potions class with the first-year gang was never uneventful. Today was no exception. The room smelled faintly of burnt caramel as Grim waved his tiny paws at Ace, who was leaning smugly on the table.

“I told you not to put that in!” Grim yelped.

“I barely touched it!” Ace shot back.

“It doesn’t matter who did it!” Sebek barked, slamming his hands on the table. “What matters is that our potion is—”

“About to blow,” Jack growled, pointing to the cauldron bubbling ominously.

“Wait—WHAT?!” you yelped, but it was too late.

The cauldron erupted, spraying a shimmering pink mist over everyone. The class erupted into chaos as Sebek shouted about “inferior techniques,” Epel coughed dramatically like he was dying, and Deuce tried (and failed) to douse the sparks with his coat.

You, unfortunately, caught the brunt of the potion to the face.

You thought the effects were mild at first—just a faint warmth in your chest and the echo of the sugary-sweet scent in your nose. But when you sat down at lunch with Lilia and Malleus, the symptoms became impossible to ignore.

Lilia was chatting animatedly, laughing at his own jokes and waving his fork in the air, while Malleus nodded thoughtfully. But you weren’t hearing a word.

Your brain had decided that the only thing worth focusing on was how kissable Lilia’s lips looked.

Wait, what?

You shook your head, trying to clear it, but it only got worse. Now you were noticing how nice his voice was. And his smile. And the way his hand brushed yours when he passed the salt—

Oh, no.

“Child of man,” Malleus said, pulling you from your internal meltdown, “you seem… distracted.”

You blinked rapidly. “Uh. Yeah. Distracted. Totally fine. Definitely not—uh—totally infatuated with Lilia or anything.”

Lilia looked up, smirking. “Oh? How flattering.”

You nearly choked on your drink. “IT’S THE POTION!”

Malleus watched you pace back and forth in the hallway, his expression somewhere between amused and curious.

“You have to fix me,” you begged, grabbing his shoulders. “This has to be the potion talking. There’s no way I just—randomly—started thinking about Lilia like that!”

Malleus tilted his head, his eyes studying you intently. “You truly believe you are under an enchantment?”

“Yes! Of course!” You gestured wildly. “I mean, it’s Lilia! He’s my partner in crime! He’s—he’s—”

“Kissable?” Malleus offered, a faint smirk tugging at his lips.

Your hands dropped to your sides. “You are so not helping.”

He stepped closer, his presence calm but commanding, and placed a hand on your shoulder. “Very well, child of man. Allow me to assess your condition.”

Malleus leaned forward, his magic swirling faintly around him as he studied you with eerie precision.

After a moment, he straightened, folding his arms. “The potion you were exposed to was a failure. Its intended effects are nonexistent.”

You froze. “What are you saying?”

Malleus raised an eyebrow. “I am saying that you are not under a spell. Your feelings are entirely your own.”

You stared at Malleus in horror.

“So… you’re telling me… I’m not cursed?”

“Precisely.”

“And this… this whole… wanting to kiss Lilia thing…” You paused, voice dropping to a mortified whisper. “That’s just me?”

Malleus nodded sagely. “Indeed.”

You covered your face with your hands. “No. No, no, no. This can’t be happening.”

Lilia’s voice drifted from the next room. “Are you done conspiring with Malleus, beastie? Lunch is getting cold!”

You peeked through your fingers at Malleus, who looked like he was thoroughly enjoying your suffering.

“Good luck, child of man,” he said, patting your shoulder.

You groaned. “I’m going to die.”

And yet, as you returned to the table and sat down next to Lilia, who greeted you with his usual teasing grin, you couldn’t help but wonder if maybe—just maybe—this wasn’t such a bad thing after all.

You didn’t think it could get any worse than being late for class, but that was before Grim decided to experiment with potions unsupervised. Now, you and Lilia were sprinting through the halls of NRC, dodging a cursed army of flying spoons.

“I told Grim not to use the potions lab as a snack bar!” you gasped, barely ducking as a spoon zoomed past your head with terrifying precision.

Lilia, running beside you, was grinning like this was the most fun he’d had all week. “I must admit, this is an impressive level of chaos. Even I wouldn’t have thought to curse cutlery!”

“Glad you’re enjoying yourself,” you panted, grabbing his arm as another wave of spoons turned the corner. “Hide!”

The two of you dove behind a nearby tapestry, pressing against the wall as the spoons zipped past, their metallic clinking fading into the distance.

For a moment, it was quiet—except for the pounding of your heart.

Your breathing slowly steadied, but your heart didn’t. Not when Lilia was so close, his eyes gleaming with excitement and his cheeks flushed from the chase.

You couldn’t take it anymore.

“Lilia,” you blurted, voice trembling but determined, “I’m in love with you.”

Lilia blinked, his surprise evident for a split second before a soft smile curved his lips. “Ah, I see. Was it the spoons that gave me away, or my undeniable charm?”

You groaned, burying your face in your hands. “I’m serious!”

He chuckled, gently pulling your hands away to meet your eyes. “So am I. I’ve felt the same for quite some time.”

Your breath hitched. “Really?”

“Really,” he murmured, leaning closer. His lips brushed yours, soft and fleeting, but it sent your heart racing like you were being chased by a thousand cursed spoons.

He pulled back, his grin mischievous. “Now, let’s survive this first date, shall we?”

He grabbed your hand, pulling you from your hiding spot just as the spoons began circling back like a swarm of metallic bees.

“Run!”

You laughed despite yourself, sprinting hand-in-hand with Lilia as the chaos erupted around you once more.

And yet, as you glanced at him—his hair wild, his smile unshakable, his fingers warm around yours—you couldn’t help but think:

I want this forever.

Masterlist

[notlongtolove]

in eternal lines

spencer’s mind—brilliant and boundless—was one of the reasons you fell for him in the first place. but when the deadlines are looming, it takes everything in you not to snap. because while you’re good at literature because you have to be, spencer's great at it because, well, he’s spencer. 

pairing: spencer reid x fem!reader (second person, no y/n)

genre: angst, comfort, fluff... i don't know anymore

content: student!reader gets kinda pissy and snappy but she has a 3000 word essay due and a fever so go easy on her. and spencer is spencer, so patient, so kind :'

word count: 5.2k

note: as a literature major this was extremely self-indulgent... i'm sorry. i love lit student reader and i hope you guys do too! also aptly titled after the one and only sonnet 18 because it was the first poem we were given read in uni <3 (reader is basing her essay on george macdonald's 'the princess and the goblin' and isaac watts' 'divine songs' if anyone is curious; but don't read too deeply into her lines about it because i submitted that essay weeks ago and it's been relinquished it from my mind oops)

a line: You’d decided then and there that if you couldn't break the glass ceiling, you'd make a comfortable home just beneath it. Always looking up, never quite breaking through.

When in eternal lines to time thou grow’st: So long as men can breathe or eyes can see, So long lives this, and this gives life to thee. - william shakespeare

You love your boyfriend. Truly, you do. After all, who else would sift through pages of Whitman’s dense poetry with you or debate whether Rossetti was really referencing Eve’s bite of the apple in Goblin Market? Nobody else ever cared enough to try. Spencer’s mind—brilliant and boundless—was one of the reasons you fell for him in the first place.

So yes, you love your boyfriend. But when deadlines are looming, and submission dates are bearing down on you, it takes everything in you not to snap. Because while Spencer can dissect poetry and prose with an ease that seems almost otherworldly, you sometimes feel the weight of comparison pressing on you. You’re good at it too—of course you are, you have to be. You’re pursuing a degree in it forgodsakes. But Spencer? He’s great at it because, well, he’s Spencer.

And while you can hold your own most days, a fair challenger when you come back from a particularly intriguing lecture too layered to dissect by yourself, there are times you feel like you’re running to keep up. Spencer will pull references from texts and obscure sources you haven’t even heard of, leaving you struggling to connect the dots. And that’s just literature. When he dives into his other passions—you don’t even bother to compete. Instead, you resign yourself to the couch, nodding and asking questions during the rare moments you can sort of follow the thread of his thoughts.

Having an IQ of 187 and an eidetic memory does have its perks. Everyone knows that.

Your friends see it too. Like today when one of them stopped by between classes to return an essay you’d been stressing over for days.

“Well, don’t you look fantastic,” she teased, smirking. “Guessing those leftovers weren’t as ‘fine’ as you thought?”

​​“Don’t even start,” you mutter, weakly grabbing the paper from her hands as you lean on the doorframe. You flip through the pages marked in red ink quickly with the little strength you have, eyes scanning briefly through the comments before you’re on to the next page, next page, next page. They’re not what you’re looking for. 

And then you see it. There on the last page, a definite red circle around it: B+. 

You’d expected it of course. B+—your ever-reliable benchmark. It's a mark of consistency you've been forced to be contented with. It wasn’t horrendous. It wasn’t amazing. It was fine. But you’d worked hard on this one. You’d hoped, maybe, for something more. You’d expected it, and yet, you don’t know why you still feel a pinch of disappointment.

“How’d you do?” you ask grimly, fighting the nausea creeping up your throat.

“Same,” she replies nonchalantly, scrolling through her phone.

You nod, trying not to dwell on the fact that she’d seen your grade before you did.

“Oh, you know it’s always the same,” she adds with a wry smile. “Solidly subpar, as per tradition.” 

The phrase stung a little more now than it had when you’d coined it back in your first year. Back when, after a string of middle-of-the-road grades, you’d decided then and there that if you couldn't break the glass ceiling, you'd make a comfortable home just beneath it. Always looking up, never quite breaking through. 

“Whatever, it was only 20% anyway,” she shrugs.

“Yeah…” you reply weakly, though the disappointment still gnaws at you. You can’t quite shake it. Maybe it’s because deep down, you know you do care—no matter how often you tell yourself you’ve accepted the fate of being perpetually average. You still want, so quietly, so desperately, to be something more. You’ve always had a love for literature: the way words flow across a page, imbuing meaning into simple phrases, transforming them into art. You’ve always admired the beauty of it. But passion doesn’t translate to academic brilliance, and appreciation doesn’t equal A grades. It’s a hard truth you’ve come to learn.

“How was class?” you ask, trying to steer your mind away from its current spiral. “We still on Faerie Queene?”

“Mhmm,” she hums, rolling her eyes. “Kristoff’s still rambling on and on about virtue and chastity. Ha. Imagine me living in those times—at the rate I ghost men, I’d be a certified whore.”

“Well, actually, they’d probably get to you first,” Spencer interrupts as he steps out of the bedroom, his tone slipping into that familiar, matter-of-fact cadence. “Virtue and chastity were considered to be absolute truths in the 16th century. A woman’s value was intrinsically tied to her perceived purity, which of course, was a reflection of her family’s honor.” 

If you weren’t so ill, you would’ve laughed at her face—eyes wide, mouth slightly open in disbelief.

“And then there’s the public shaming,” he continues, leaning casually against the doorframe with his hands tucked into his pockets already miles deep into his thoughts. “In fact, the entire allegory of Book III revolves around chastity as a cornerstone of moral virtue. Witch trials in the late 16th and 17th centuries often targeted women who were thought as sexually deviant or independent, framing their ‘sins’ as some sort of evidence that they were consorting with the devil—”

He pauses, glancing between you and your friend. “So yeah… considering all that, if you’d ‘ghosted’ a few men back then, they probably would’ve gone straight to accusations of witchcraft or worse.”

Your friend stares at him, “...Right. Good to know,” she says, blinking slowly.

“But you know, Edmund Spenser intended The Faerie Queene to be a moral guide for young men,” he adds as an afterthought, realizing he’s just indirectly affirmed your friend’s self-deprecating joke. Spencer shifts awkwardly but can’t help himself by continuing, “It was meant to instil chivalric virtues to shape a model English gentleman. So technically, your interpretation is, um, modern at best.”

Her expression—equal parts baffled, impressed, maybe even a little scared—almost makes you forget how sick you feel.

“So…” she says after a pause, “I’m guessing you’re Spencer?”

“I am,” he replies simply.

“Well,” she says, drawing the word out, “It’s nice to finally put a face to the name.” 

Spencer offers a smile, “Likewise.” 

“Anyway… I’m off.” She slings her bag over her shoulder, “Essay’s not gonna write itself. This one’s 30% by the way. God, I hate Kristoff but Burton’s a close second for sure.”

You wince at the reminder, the weight of your unfinished work pressing on you. The brief called for at least three secondary sources, and you’ve barely scratched the surface.

“Feel better soon, sweetie,” she says, offering you a sympathetic look. You manage a weak smile in return.

“Bye Spencer,” she says, her voice taking on a teasing lilt. “Take care of her for me, will ya?”

“Will do,” he says curtly, giving a small wave as you close the door behind her.

A moment later, your phone buzzes. He’s cute, her text reads. Another follows immediately: And basically a walking Wikipedia.

You start typing a response, but another text pops up before you can send it: Don’t dog on us for using ChatGPT now. You huff and click your phone off instead, tossing it aside. 

Therein lies another source of stress. Spencer is always happy to help you untangle a difficult text or interpret a dense poem, but he draws the line when it comes to your academic work. He never interferes directly. You’ve seen it yourself—The first time you handed him your laptop to review an essay, he’d made his comments verbally, pointing at sections on the screen while explaining his critiques in detail, but never actually touching the keyboard. You’d brought it up during an argument once, after a particularly crushing grade. Your frustration had spilled over: You’re smarter. You type faster. Why can’t you just fix it? But Spencer had only responded with something about “academic integrity” and the importance of maintaining the “code of conduct.” The conversation ended there, and after that, you stopped asking. 

Even yesterday, when you managed to scrape together 300 words for a draft, you’d handed your laptop to him, and again, he was careful to keep his boundaries. Too drained to make edits in real-time, you’d expected—maybe hoped—that he might step in more directly. Instead, Spencer quietly switched the document to “suggesting” mode, marking up your draft with precise yet detached annotations, never infiltrating or overstepping your own words. Spencer Reid is and always will be a stickler for rules. You try to hold yourself to the same standard. You steer clear of AI, no matter how tempting it might be. You know better. Well, that and because Spencer would never let it slide. 

But now it’s late and the thought of letting some website churn out polished, perfectly phrased sentences for you in seconds has never felt more tempting. The nausea has faded, leaving behind a fever in its place. Spencer’s in the living room, reading. You’d banished him to the couch—even the faint sound of pages turning, not to mention the speed at which he reads, was enough to derail your already fragile train of thought. You’d felt bad of course; he’d made soup for you earlier, fed it to you and everything. But with this essay worth 30% of your grade and your 300 words barely scratching the surface of the 3,000-word requirement, you don’t have it in you to be oh-so-sweet and ever-so-grateful. Not right now. You’ve nailed down the introduction—a quick overview of historical context, a sweeping statement on the authors’ intents. But now, the real challenge looms: The thesis. And you’re utterly stuck.

This essay argues that…  that…

You groan in frustration, flopping back against the pillows. So much for children’s literature. You’d chosen this class thinking it’d be an easy ride—fairy tales and picture books, how hard could it be? Yet here you are, being tasked with dissecting the significance of form and language. Now, the simple language and pretty pictures are anything but your friend, doing nothing to help further your argument. Your head throbs, your mouth feels like sandpaper, and the brilliant points you’d thought of in last week’s class are nowhere to be found, lost in the haziness of your mind. With a defeated sigh, you peel back the sheets and shuffle out of the bedroom, laptop in hand, every joint aching in protest. Spencer looks up from his book as the rustle of sheets catches his attention. His heart aches slightly when he sees you in the doorway, clutching your laptop and looking every bit as pitiful as you feel. He sets his book to the side. 

“How’s it going, honey?” he asks sympathetically, even though he already knows the answer from the state of you. 

“It’s barely going,” you admit with a yawn, tears prickling at your eyes from the force of it. They only add to your overall air of defeat as you cross the room and crawl into his lap, laptop balanced precariously on the armrest. “Brain’s foggy, can’t think straight,” you murmur in incomplete sentences. 

“Finalized your thesis yet?” he asks again, his voice gentle but patient. You shake your head, sinking deeper into his chest—It’s a silent surrender, as if giving in to the exhaustion and frustration that’s been building up. Spencer notices, brushing your hair gently away from your face, his hand cool against your hot skin. He presses the back of his hand to your forehead. “You’re burning up, hon,” he says softly, voice full of concern. “Why don’t we get you to bed, take a break for tonight, hm? You can work on this tomorrow.”

Tomorrow. The thought of putting everything off feels like both a relief and a burden. The idea of sleep has never seemed more appealing. But then, the thought of letting this drag on for another day—of pushing the finish line even further out of your reach fills you with dread. But you know you’re not in any state to be working on anything right now, let alone something worth 30% of your final grade. You know that you can’t focus, not when your body feels like it’s ready to give up and when your mind can barely hold onto a coherent thought. “Tomorrow, okay?” Spencer prompts again, calm and gentle. You know he’s right, so, despite the gnawing anxiety in the back of your mind, you nod. “Okay.” 

Spencer doesn’t push, just gives you a small, reassuring smile as he stands. Every movement feels like a chore as he guides you back to bed but the warmth of the blankets and the prospect of rest is more than enough motivation. He tucks you in, his touch comforting and steady. You feel like a weight has been lifted, albeit temporarily. Either way, it’s enough for now. You close your eyes, the thought of picking up where you left off tomorrow seeming almost bearable. 

You wake to the sunlight filtering through the curtains. It takes a moment for your brain to adjust to the new day, the stress of yesterday not entirely gone. But as you sit up, stretching slowly, mind less hazy and joints less achy, you feel a renewed determination, a flicker of focus that was nowhere to be found last night. Your mind is still whirling with fragments of ideas, half-formed arguments, and theoretical connections when Spencer strolls in with a cup of something warm for you.

“Tea.” he announces, handing it to you with a small, triumphant smile. “Decaffeinated.”

You frown, rubbing sleep from your eyes. “Need coffee.”

“Studies say caffeinated beverages stimulate the colon,” he counters matter-of-factly.

“Eww,” you groan, wrinkling your nose at him. “Why’d you have to say it like that?” 

“Exactly like that,” he replies without missing a beat, his tone precise and measured. “You’ve just recovered, and everyone knows caffeine is a gastrointestinal irritant.’

You huff, taking the mug from him. “Fine, but if I don’t finish this essay, it’s on you.” Spencer raises an eyebrow, completely unbothered by your protest. “Somehow, I think you’ll survive.”

You grumble under your breath but take a tentative sip of the tea anyway. It’s not what you wanted, but you can’t deny that he’s probably right—he usually is. The warmth seeps through the mug into your hands, grounding you just enough to pull your laptop over from the bedside table. Its practically empty screen blinks back up at you, as though it’s been waiting patiently all night. Hi again. Still here. Still empty. 

Spencer takes a peek at your screen and you can’t help but glare half-heartedly at the mug in his hands. Of course, it’s coffee. He’d get to enjoy caffeine while insisting you couldn’t. Typical.

“So, I was thinking…” you start, deciding to let the injustice slide for now as you scroll through your document.

“Hmm?” He looks up, his gaze meeting yours over the rim of his cup.

“What if I say that MacDonald’s pedagogy was more effective for children because Watts’s text was too directive. That works, right?” You look up, scanning his face for some form of agreement.

“That’s hardly arguable honey,” his words land softly, but you still feel your shoulders sag. “It’s an observation.”

"But—look at the words they use! It's so different. Here, look at the tone," you insist, nudging your laptop toward him. "There has to be something to be said about that, right?"

Spencer leans in, glancing at your screen before looking back at you. His expression is calm, composed, and maddeningly reasonable. "Watts’s text was meant to be read as a textbook. Of course it’s directive. You know that." 

Do you? You think you don't know much at this point. You don’t know what you know, and you don’t know what you don’t know. You groan, dragging your hands down your face as if you could physically scrape the frustration away. Darn you, Isaac Watts. Darn you, pedagogical learning. Darn you, whoever had the audacity to name this course a simple exploration into the history of children’s literature. 

Before you can wallow further, Spencer slides your laptop away. “How about we brush our teeth before crying over educational theories for children in the 18th century?” he suggests, his voice light. You sigh dramatically, dragging yourself to your feet like it’s some Herculean effort. When you shuffle back from the bathroom, hair slightly damp from washing your face, Spencer has taken over your spot on the bed, laptop resting on his legs as he scrolls through some article. He glances up when you flop down beside him with an exaggerated sigh.

"Feel better?" he asks, the faintest trace of a smirk on his lips.

"Not at all," you grumble. You don’t let him know that the brief pause in frustration has given your head just enough space to try again. 

It’s been hours, but you’ve finally narrowed down your thesis. It’s not amazing—far from it—but it’s something. It’s arguable, at least. Spencer’s been relegated back to the living room, his presence a vague hum in the background as you attempt to focus. You’d claimed you worked better in bed, though Spencer’s tried (and failed) to prove with statistics and studies that it’s just a placebo effect, a lie your brain insists on believing.

But right now, none of that matters. You have a thesis and on that note, an essay to begin. Or, at least, the faintest glimmer of one. And that’s when you hit a wall. Again. You sit cross-legged, laptop perched on your knees as you stare at the cursor, blinking like it knows you’re stuck. You wish it would stop judging you. You drag yourself—and your laptop thats become an extension of your body at this point—into the living room like a child seeking comfort. Spencer barely looks up from his article when you slump into the couch next to him.

“What about this?” You straighten your back, determined to sound confident this time, even if you're not sure where you're going with it. “What if I say that MacDonald’s use of fantasy is critical because it creates like, an emotional bridge and that makes it more effective for moral teaching and—”

“Well, yes," he says, like it's the most obvious thing in the world. Spencer doesn’t even look up from his article. "But that’s kind of a subpoint, honey.”

You stiffen, irritation rising like bile in your throat. “It’s not a subpoint. It’s a point.”

He shifts in his seat, eyes flicking up, finally meeting yours. His tone isn’t dismissive, but it might as well be. “How is that significant? What does it build toward?”

You grit your teeth. “Ugh, you sound like Kristoff.” You mutter, more to yourself than to him. You know it’s not fair to snap, but your patience is paper thin. You can feel the fever creeping back into your skin, and you’re not sure if it's the heat or the mounting pressure, but suddenly everything feels like a little too much. 

“Fine,” you say, swallowing your frustration, trying again. “What if I say that MacDonald’s narrative style is more progressive because it like, engages the reader’s emotions directly? And that’s why Watts’ text feels scarier?”

Spencer pauses. For a moment, you think you’ve finally hit something solid, his eyes narrowing just enough to show he’s intrigued. “And how are you planning to argue that?”

“Well, um… um—I… I don’t know!” You exhale sharply, throwing your hands up in exasperation. You sink back against the cushions, frustration seeping into your bones. “Something about how MacDonald’s vibe is all nice and charming while Watts is all like, ‘learn this or else’. 

“Sure I guess…” Spencer acknowledges, nodding slightly, a faint smile tugging at his lips. “But you’ll need more than vibes and a strong dislike of Watts to support it sweetheart.”

“Gee, thanks,” you say bitterly, rolling your eyes.

He chuckles softly, a sound that’s too calm, too collected, and somehow that makes it worse. He’s not wrong, but you’re still pissed off. You take a breath, steeling yourself for the next round of dissection. “Okay, then what if I say that MacDonald lets kids think for themselves, and Watts... doesn’t. Because of his moral authority and intellectual agency and whatever.”

Spencer’s eyebrows rise, just a fraction, but it’s enough. You feel a flicker of something—relief, maybe? It’s hard to say. His voice has shifted, just slightly, less detached now, more engaged. “You can build on that.”

“Really?” you ask, suddenly more hopeful than you’d like to admit.

“Really,” he confirms, leaning back in his chair. But then he tilts his head and furrows his brows in a way that makes you want to throw your laptop at him. “But you’ll need to define those terms and back it up with examples. Otherwise, it’s just a claim.” Of course. 

“God, you’re making this so much harder than it needs to be!” you snap, the irritation rising in your throat. “I get it, okay? I need examples. But you’re not even letting me work out a point before you just, I don’t know, shit all over it.” Spencer’s eyes widen, and for a second, you almost feel bad for snapping at him. 

“I’m just trying to help,” he says gently, but there's something in the way he says it—just a little too patient—that makes you bristle. You hate how right he always is, how calm he always looks, how much care he always has in his eyes even when you’re acting out. 

“You’re trying to help?” you repeat incredulously, shaking your head. “You’re poking holes in everything!” Even in your feverish haze, you know you’re being cruel—but you just can’t help it. All you can think about is how everything is slipping away, how your thoughts won’t line up, how your head is starting to hurt again. You’re not even sure if you’re angry at him anymore, or just angry at everything else. 

Spencer doesn’t answer right away. He glances at your screen again, a mess of quotes and bulletpoints. “I just want to make sure it’s solid, honey,” he says finally, his tone softer.

You scoff. “Yeah, well, you tore apart whatever solid lead I thought I had after two hours of work in just about five minutes, so thanks for that,” words tumbling out before you can stop them. Spencer’s silence hangs heavy in the air, and for a moment, neither of you speak. “Just… just let me get through this.” 

Spencer sits there for a moment, just enough for you to feel the weight of the tension shift in the room. “I’m not saying you can’t get through it. I just want you to get through it right,” he says carefully, his voice quiet but insistent. “That’s all.” There’s no judgment in his voice, just care.

But the heat, the fever, it’s all swirling inside you, and you can’t hold it together much longer. “Of course you are…” you mutter bitterly, already regretting everything you’ve said. It feels like every step forward just leads you straight into another wall, and you’re just too tired to keep going. It’s not that you want to push him away or that you don’t appreciate his help. You’re just too irritable, too exhausted. You just want the whole damn essay to be done—and you wish you didn’t need his help to make it happen. You want to yell, to throw something, to demand that the world stop spinning long enough for you to catch your breath. But all that comes out is a hollow, defeated sigh. 

You feel like you're drowning and you don’t want to drag him under with you. “I’m just…” You stop yourself, swallowing hard, trying to gather whatever little strength you have left. “I’m just so tired.” 

Spencer looks at you, eyes full of concern, but it doesn’t help. You don’t want sympathy. You want to be better—to be able handle all of this. You want to be able to write this damn essay on goddamn children’s books without falling apart. And it doesn’t help that you’re falling apart in front of Spencer. The same Spencer who can recite verses from Paradise Lost at the drop of a hat. You’d almost burst into tears the last time he did it after it had taken you an entire week just to decipher and analyze a single chapter with any real confidence. You can’t help but feel that pang of inadequacy every time he breezes through something you’ve struggled with, even if he doesn’t mean to make it look so effortless. You hate yourself for it. You can’t find a way to shake the feeling that you’re not doing enough, not good enough. Not for yourself, not for him. You feel the sting of it, it’s pressing on your chest, suffocating.

“I just… just feel like I can’t keep up with any of it.” You don’t say it with any anger, just exhaustion. It’s not even directed at him anymore—it’s just the fact that you feel so stuck, so far behind where you should be, where you so badly want to be. “Like I can’t keep up with you.” 

Oh. Spencer feels his heart sink. He’s always prided himself on being able to read people. He should’ve known better. He’d been so focused on helping, so intent on pushing you to reach the level he knows you’re capable of, the level he knows you want to be at—even if you keep telling yourself you don’t. The fever, the deadlines, the constant pushing—he should’ve known that it was all too much. 

“You don’t have to keep up with me honey, I’m right here with you,” he says, trying to get you to look up at him. You can’t meet his gaze. You feel guilty for snapping, for letting the frustration slip out, but you’re not rational enough right now to pull yourself out from this spiral of self-pity. It’s easier to stay here, in the anger, the frustration, than to face the embarrassment of it all. 

“I’m sorry,” he says quietly, his voice tinged with regret. “I didn’t mean to make things harder for you.” Spencer takes your hand, cautiously, testing the waters. He knows you don’t exactly want to be touched right now. He knows it makes you feel coddled. He pauses, waiting for your reaction. When you don’t push him away, he gains the confidence to cradle your face gently. You don’t resist, your tired eyes meeting his, heavy with sadness and Spencer thinks he can actually feel his heart break.

“You’re doing just fine sweetheart. You’re not falling behind. You’re just stressed. And sick.” He knows you’re feeling fragile, like any comfort might smother you so he threads forward lightly. “This essay? You’ll get it done. I promise.” It sounds right, and yet it doesn’t really help. It doesn’t stop the doubt that’s eating at you, the sense that you’re just not measuring up to everything you want to be. You feel like you’re barely treading water, no matter how hard you swim, the shore never gets any closer.

But for now, Spencer’s words are enough to quiet the panic—a buoy in your sea of sadness threatening to pull you under. You cling to it, knowing you’ll have to start swimming again soon. But for this moment, you allow yourself to stop. A beat. A pause. A breath—Just for now.

It’s only the next day that you manage to get the words on the page, not in any smooth, brilliant way, but they’re there. The sentences form, sometimes haltingly, sometimes with more confidence, until the essay is painfully but finally done. Not perfect, but it’s done. Relief washes over you, even as exhaustion lingers. 

The moment you hear the front door open, you practically leap up, laptop in hand, meeting Spencer before he can even take his shoes off. He raises an eyebrow, setting his bag down as you both settle onto the couch. Without a word, you hand over the laptop, nerves bubbling beneath the surface. You wait with bated breath as he begins to scroll, your laborious effort displayed in black and white. The sound of the touchpad clicking feels louder than it should in the quiet room. He asks a few questions, here and there—clarifications, mostly. Questions you answer with ease, surprising even yourself with the confidence in your responses. He nods along, his expression thoughtful, but not critical. Finally, after what feels like an eternity, Spencer looks up, eyes bright, a proud smile on his face. “It looks great, honey. You did a really good job.” 

You can’t help the grin that spreads across your face at his praise. “Really?” Spencer leans in, cupping your cheek gently, and presses a soft kiss to your lips. “Really.” When he pulls back, his forehead rests lightly against yours for a moment, his hand still cradling your cheek. “You worked so hard on this,” he murmurs. “So proud of you.”

Your chest tightens, but in a good way, and you can’t stop yourself from leaning forward to kiss him again, this time slower, savoring the comfort he always seems to bring. “Now," he pulls away just enough to smirk, "can I have my bedroom back, or should I just start setting up camp on the couch?” You laugh, rolling your eyes, but it’s full of affection. “Don’t even start.” Spencer chuckles, his arm slipping around your waist as he pulls you closer, the tension of yesterday long forgotten.

When you get your paper back, you flip through the pages, one after the other, looking for the feedback, waiting for the corrections, the marks that tell you where you inevitably went wrong.

Next page. Next page. Next page.

And then, there it is. On the last page, in a definitive red circle, unmistakable: A.

It’s an A. 

A goddamn A.

It doesn’t feel like a one-time fluke, not exactly, but you can’t shake the thought that this might be the only time you break through the glass ceiling you’ve spent so long looking up at. And who knows, maybe you’ll never push past it again. But for now, you allow yourself to relish in this singular moment of triumph. It’s enough. It’s more than enough. 

Because now you know that the other side is real, and that you can get there. But Spencer, the genius, the enigma, who’s always been a step ahead of everyone in everything academic, has always known.

And while everyone knows that an A in an essay that’s only a partial percentage of your overall grade isn’t anything compared to what he’s achieved, nothing compared to the academic milestones he’s already crossed—Still, he’s here, celebrating with you. You can see it in his eyes, even if he knows you’re not one to make a big deal of these kinds of things. His quiet joy is evident in the way he grins that little grin of his, the one that’s only for you. 

So, in summary, in essence, in all the words and ways you could possibly use to phrase a conclusion—You love your boyfriend. Truly, you do. After all, who else would read through your entire syllabus for the semester (frustratingly quickly), just because he knows you understand better when you can talk things out? Who else would patiently stick around, exiled to the couch in their own home, while you’re exhausted, irritable, and buried in deadlines? Nobody else ever cared enough to try. Spencer’s mind—though brilliant and boundless—isn’t the only reason why you fell for him. 

Because when the world feels too heavy, when the never ending lines of poetry and prose become too difficult to untangle by yourself, Spencer’s there reminding you—ever so gently, ever so steadily—that you can make it through, one word at a time.

⋆✴︎˚｡⋆ hi if you're here! thank you for reading! feel free to like or reblog or comment or reply!

[moonlitwitchdaisy]

baby, ride me to the darkness of the night

“F-Fuck—Ughh—can you feel it, baby? Can you feel my big cock pounding into your pussy to the rhythm of the music?”

Of course you could feel it. Oh, you felt it all too well.

Falling for Gojo Satoru’s charm wasn’t exactly a challenge. One glance from him was enough to have you slipping your panties down, wet and ready, waiting for him. And once he was inside you? The sensations he’d bring were like nothing you’d ever felt before.

You hadn’t even wanted to go to the club tonight, but your best friend had insisted you needed to celebrate finishing your midterms with something fun. Begrudgingly, you’d let yourself be dragged along, realizing that the night’s control was no longer yours.

At first, you’d rolled your eyes and sighed. But after a few shots, you felt bold enough to dance. On the dance floor, grinding against your best friend, collecting every wandering gaze, you had no idea the most dangerous one of all had already undressed you with his eyes and was fucking you senseless in his mind. Not until your friend leaned in, whispering about the blue-eyed devil watching you from upstairs.

People had given him many names: “The Strongest,” “Blue-Eyed King,” “Perfect Face.” But to you, the only one that truly fit was “Devil.”

Devil always got what he wanted. Sometimes, he lured people into his games with wicked tricks. Other times, he simply waited, his prey crawling to him willingly.

When you glanced in the direction your friend indicated, it became clear the Devil had already chosen you for his game. And without a word of protest, you chose to be his willing sacrifice.

You had no idea when exactly his hand gripped your waist and pulled you away while you were dancing with your friend. You could feel the hardness pressing against your ass. In fact, it was impossible not to feel it. And you couldn’t stop yourself from wondering just how much harder he could get.

Well, testing it wouldn’t hurt, would it?

Turns out, the results were conclusive. So much so that the Devil himself—Gojo Satoru—couldn’t hold back anymore. He’d dragged you into the women’s restroom, pinning you to the wall, his lips devouring yours the moment you were alone.

And now? Now your legs were wrapped around his waist, your already too-short dress pushed up to your hips, while his thick cock plunged in and out of you.

Each thrust hit that perfect spot, leaving you delirious as the beat of “São Paulo” synced with the rhythm of his hips. Your back slammed against the wall with every stroke, driving you closer and closer to madness.

You were letting the club owner fuck you senseless in the women’s restroom—something you never would’ve imagined yourself doing.

“S-Satoru—sl-slow-slow down, it’s too much,” you whimpered, your voice barely audible over the pounding music outside.

“Fuck no, baby. Haaah—I know you don’t want me to slow down. You just want more, you filthy little slut. F-Fuck, yeah—” he growled, his masculine rumble sending a shiver down your spine as he thrust into you harder and faster.

The sound of your bodies colliding echoed through the bathroom, but not a single soul dared to interrupt. It was as if, even through the blaring music, your shared moans were enough to warn everyone off. Nobody wanted to interfere with the Devil’s play.

And they had no right to.

“Mmmfp—I’m—I’m gonna—OH GOD, Satoru, I’m coming! Keep going!” you cried out, your voice trembling with the orgasm building inside you.

With one hand braced against the wall and the other gripping your hip, Satoru quickly moved his hand from the wall to your hip, using both to bounce you harder on his cock. It felt so good that you weren’t sure anyone else could ever fuck you this perfectly again.

“Shit—I’m coming too… You’re going to take all my cum like a good girl. Like *smack* a *smack* good *smack* fucking *smack* girl,” he hissed, accentuating each word with a deliberate thrust.

With a guttural groan, he spilled inside you, his head dropping to rest against the curve of your neck as his hot breath fanned across your skin. You could feel his semen dripping down your thighs as your legs trembled around him.

You closed your eyes, trying to process what had just happened.

You’d let the Devil ride you to the darkness. And it turned out, people were right—devil wasn’t a little red man with horns and a tail.

Sometimes, he had striking blue eyes and a massive cock.

a little note: i was listening to "são paulo" on the metro, and this idea came to my mind. this song definitely gives off Gojo vibes.

all rights belong to the @moonlitwitchdaisy do not copy, reproduce, or translate my work.

[mcrveilles]

just this once // ln4

HI WE'RE BACK - i'm having so much fun writing this. thank you for liking it and your encouragement.

word count: 2.1k warnings: casual intimacy themes, secrecy, conflicts of loyalty, romantic tension and suggestive content, heartache, feelings of betrayal includes: friends to lovers, fluff, best friends little sister, brothers best friend summary: the consequences hit hard

PART FIVE previous part - next part

The tension thickens, pressing down on your chest as Max’s words settle in the air between you. You glance at Lando, hoping he has some magic explanation, some way to fix this, but his jaw is set, his eyes locked on Max. His usual easy charm is nowhere to be found, and for the first time tonight, he looks genuinely shaken. Max crosses his arms, his sharp gaze moving between the two of you. "Well?" he presses, his voice growing louder. "Someone better start talking."

You take a shaky breath, your hands twisting together at your sides. “Max, it’s not like that,” you manage, though your voice wavers under the weight of his stare. “We weren’t sneaking around. I mean, not intentionally. It’s just…” You trail off, your words getting stuck in your throat. “Not intentionally?” Max repeats, his tone dripping with disbelief. “So what? It just accidentally happened?”

Lando steps in then, his voice calm but firm. “We didn’t plan this, Max. I swear. But… yeah, there’s something between us.” He glances at you, his expression softening before he looks back at Max. “It wasn’t something we wanted to hide from you. We just—”

“Wanted to keep it quiet until it suited you?” Max interrupts, his voice rising. “Do you even understand what this looks like? You, my best friend, going behind my back with my sister? And you—” He turns to you, his eyes filled with something between anger and betrayal. “You didn’t think to tell me? Not once?” You flinch at the accusation, guilt curling in your stomach. “I didn’t know how,” you admit, your voice barely above a whisper. “I didn’t want to hurt you.”

“Well, congratulations,” Max snaps, throwing his hands in the air. “Mission failed.”

The words hit like a slap, and you blink back the sting of tears. Max has never spoken to you like this, never looked at you like this—like he doesn’t even recognize you. The hurt in his eyes is worse than the anger, and it makes your chest ache in a way you weren’t prepared for. “Max,” Lando says again, his tone softer now. “You’re my best mate. I never wanted to hurt you either. But…” He hesitates, like he’s searching for the right words. “I care about her. A lot. And if you can’t see that—”

“That’s the problem,” Max cuts in, his voice raw. “I do see it. I saw it tonight, clear as day. And maybe even before that, but I ignored it because I trusted you, Lando. I trusted both of you.” The weight of his words hangs in the air, and for a moment, no one speaks. You can feel the tears threatening to spill over, but you hold them back, refusing to break under the pressure of Max’s gaze. “I need some time,” Max finally says, his voice quieter now, but no less resolute. “To think. To figure out how I feel about all of this.” He takes a step back toward the door, pausing to look at Lando. “Don’t follow me. Either of you.” And with that, he turns and walks back inside, leaving you and Lando alone on the balcony once more. The sound of the party swells as the door shuts behind him, a stark contrast to the silence that settles between you.

Lando exhales slowly, running a hand through his hair. “Well,” he mutters, “that went about as badly as it could’ve.”

You let out a shaky laugh, though there’s no humor in it. “Yeah. Pretty much.”

He steps closer then, his hand brushing yours in a gesture that feels both apologetic and grounding. “We’ll fix this,” he says quietly, his voice filled with a determination that makes your chest tighten. “I don’t know how yet, but we’ll fix it.” You nod, though you’re not sure that you believe him. The night feels heavier now, the spark of earlier completely snuffed out. But when Lando’s fingers lace with yours, you let yourself hold onto him—just for a moment—because even in the mess you’ve made, he’s the only thing that feels steady.

You pull your hand from his stepping back until the cool metal of the balcony railing presses against your spine. Lando’s brows knit together, confusion flashing across his face. “You okay?” he asks softly, his voice careful, like he’s afraid you might shatter. But you already feel like you’re breaking. Your breath comes too fast, and your chest tightens as all the emotions swirling inside you—guilt, fear, frustration—bubble to the surface. “I can’t do this,” you whisper, the words tumbling out before you can stop them. “What do you mean?” His voice is steadier now, but you can see the cracks in his confident mask. He takes a step forward, and you immediately hold up a hand to stop him.

“I mean this.” You gesture vaguely between the two of you. “Us. Whatever this is. I can’t, Lando. I thought I could, but I can’t.” He stares at you, his jaw tightening. “Baby, don’t do this,” he says, his tone low but urgent, almost pleading. “I’m serious, Lando,” you say, hating the way your voice wavers. “Max hates me now. He hates you. And he has every right to. We were selfish, and we’ve ruined everything.”

“He doesn’t hate you,” Lando says firmly, his hands falling to his sides. “He’s just upset. He needs time to process this, that’s all.”

“Maybe,” you say, your throat tightening, “but I can’t keep doing this with you, sneaking around, pretending everything’s fine when it’s not. It’s too much, Lando. I can’t handle it.” The hurt in his eyes is like a punch to the stomach, and you have to look away, focusing instead on the city lights below. For a moment, the only sound is the distant hum of traffic and the muffled music from inside the apartment. “You’re scared,” he says finally, his voice quieter now.

You laugh bitterly, though there’s no humor in it. “Of course I’m scared. I’m terrified, Lando. I’m terrified of hurting Max even more, of ruining what we had—what you and Max have. And I’m terrified of…” You trail off, biting your lip hard enough to hurt.

“Of what?” he presses gently, stepping closer despite your earlier protest. His voice is softer now, like he’s trying to coax the truth out of you.

“Of you,” you whisper, the words barely audible. “Of how much I feel when I’m with you. Of how I can’t seem to think straight when you’re around. It’s too much, Lando. You’re too much.” He doesn’t respond immediately, and the silence stretches out between you, heavy and suffocating. When he finally speaks, his voice is steady, but there’s an edge of vulnerability that makes your chest ache.

“I’m not going to apologize for how I feel about you,” he says. “And I’m not going to let you push me away just because you’re scared.”

“Lando—”

“No, let me finish,” he says, his tone firmer now. “I get it. You’re overwhelmed. So am I. But this? What we have? It’s real. And I’m not going to let you throw it away because you’re too afraid to fight for it.” His words hit you like a tidal wave, and for a moment, all you can do is stand there, your heart pounding in your chest. You want to argue, to tell him he’s wrong, but deep down, you know he’s not. Still, the fear is stronger. It wraps around you like a vice, squeezing the air from your lungs. “I need space,” you say finally, your voice trembling. “I need to figure things out on my own.”

His face falls, and the sight nearly breaks you. But he nods, his jaw tight. “If that’s what you want,” he says, his voice barely above a whisper.

“It is,” you say, though the words feel like a lie.

He steps back, his hands sliding into his pockets. For a moment, he just looks at you, his eyes searching yours like he’s trying to memorize every detail. Then he nods again, turns, and walks back inside without another word. You stay on the balcony, the cool night air doing nothing to ease the heat burning in your chest. And as the door clicks shut behind him, you realize just how much it hurts to push him away.

The second Lando steps away, a hollowness seeps into your chest, spreading fast and heavy like a lead weight. The cool night air brushes against your skin, but instead of soothing you, it amplifies the ache inside, making every breath sharp and uneven. You tell yourself this is for the best, that pushing him away was the right thing to do—for Max, for Lando, for yourself—but the words ring hollow.

Guilt churns in your stomach, twisting like a knife. Max’s face, the flash of hurt and betrayal in his eyes, replays in your mind like a haunting reel, over and over again. And then there’s Lando. The look he gave you before he turned away—raw, unguarded—feels like a scar you’ll carry for a long time. You hate that you put it there.

Your hands tremble as you grip the railing, the cold metal biting into your palms. Everything feels too much, too fast. You were supposed to keep things simple. One night. One moment. A slip you could explain away and move on from. But it’s become so much more, hasn’t it? And now, it’s spiraled into a mess you can’t seem to untangle.

The lump in your throat grows heavier, and your vision blurs as tears pool in your eyes. You don’t know if you’re angry, sad, or just exhausted—maybe all three. Angry at yourself for letting this happen, sad for the way things are unraveling, and exhausted from pretending you don’t care as much as you do.

And you do care. That’s the worst part. You care so much it’s terrifying. Every glance, every touch, every stolen moment with Lando has carved its way into you, leaving marks you don’t know how to erase. And the thought of losing him—really losing him—hurts more than you want to admit.

But the fear is louder. Fear of what this could mean for Max, for your family, for your heart. Fear of stepping into something that feels so big, so overwhelming, it might swallow you whole.

So you stay rooted there, staring out at the city lights, wishing they could somehow illuminate the answers you so desperately need. But all they do is flicker and blur, leaving you just as lost as before.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

The buzz of Silverstone is electric, a sea of orange and British flags waving wildly as engines roar to life. The atmosphere is alive, but you feel out of sync, moving through the paddock like a ghost. Max is there, but his smiles are subdued when it comes to you. He’s cheering forLando, though, still proud and supporting his best friend for his home race. Still, his excitement feels muted, his celebratory backslaps and grins somehow...limited and different. It’s like he’s drawing a line, one you’re not sure how to cross.

Lando keeps his distance too. You catch glimpses of him—a flash of his curls beneath his cap, the familiar set of his jaw as he talks to his engineers—but he never looks your way. You tell yourself it’s for the best, but it doesn’t stop the ache every time he passes.

When the race begins, you stand in the far back of his garage, heart pounding as Lando’s car tears through the track. Every overtake, every perfect turn has you holding your breath. You try not to think about the way things used to be—the way you’d celebrate together, no hesitation, no lines drawn in the sand. But you can’t help it. Because even with everything between you now, you’re still there, willing him to succeed.

When he crosses the finish line in P3, with Lewis winning the race, the roar of the crowd is deafening. You clap and cheer with the rest of them, smiling despite yourself as Lando lifts his trophy. Max is by your side in the crowd, grinning from ear to ear, but even his elation feels careful, like there’s something unsaid hanging between all of you.

Lando doesn’t look for you when he steps down from the podium. He’s swarmed by cameras and teammates, orange confetti raining down, but he doesn’t scan the crowd like he used to. And you? You stay on the sidelines, your pride for him tangled up in all the things you’re too scared to face.

tag list: @sltwins @sarx164 @hadesnumber1daughter @fullmugwolffish @willowsnook @sageskiesf1 @f1fantasys @cmleitora @rawr-123s-stuff @leclercdream @chezmardybum @landossainz @cloud-55 @sillyfreakfanparty @harrysdimple05 @mwuaferrari @milkysoop @weekendlusting @chezmardybum @isotopemylove @luvvcharxo

[tojisth3rdwife]

⚠️nsfw/mdni⚠️

Just a Thursday Night…

cw: suggestive (for now) you’re in a poly/closed triad with Toji and Shiu. They hate each others guts most of the time but they love the fuck out of you so..common interest i suppose lol

a/n: some fic below smau

Conversations like this were typical between the three of you. Shiu and Toji acting as if they weren’t essentially best friends by default, seeing as how it was difficult for either of them to cultivate any kind of relationship in their line of work. Which was what made the relationship between the three of you work so well. How it all came about? That's probably a complex story for another day. Tonight was going to be simple. Your boyfriends were working late and usually didn't get home until even later. So you were never hard-pressed for time to prepare the evening for them.

It's close to midnight and the house you three shared was warm and cozy, the air colored with the scents of dinner cooking. Foil-wrapped potatoes baked in the oven while two skillets sizzled on the stove. One containing buttery garlic green beans and the other a thick ass porterhouse steak. On the counter, one steak rests at medium well doneness to Shiu’s liking, soon to be joined by Toji’s medium rare.

You were busy searing each side of his steak when the door chimes alerted you that the front door had been opened.

Someone was finally home.

Shiu walks in the house first ,dressed in his suit and tie, blazer tossed over his shoulder. He always smells good as hell. Like expensive leather and mixture of his woodsy cologne and a freshly lit cigarette. Like a grown ass man that works hard just to provide his baby girl with whatever she wants.

He finds you in the kitchen at the stove preparing dinner and steps up behind you to make his presence known. His touch is gentle but firm, skimming over your hips and waist, pressing his front against the curve of your back. His lips find your ear, pressing a kiss to your temple before greeting you with a deep raspy “Hey sweetheart.”. His voice is like the butter sizzling in the pan in front of you and you melt against him, turning your head to give him a proper kiss that he hums into contently with pliant lips.

“Hi baby” you’ll sneak in between kisses that become less and less chaste. You're mindlessly pressing your ass into his crotch, making him grunt sexily and tighten his hold on your waist.

“Dinners almost done” you add, sneaking a lick of his tongue with a smile.

“Mmm..Smells good…” he’ll mutter against your lips, to which you’ll tell him to go get cleaned up so he could enjoy it. He’ll then hum in acknowledgment before pecking your lips a few more times, squeezing your hips and giving your booty a healthy slap before leaving you to it. Toji usually comes in right after him, shedding his coat and sporting dark jeans and a fitted tee. Looking every bit like that bad ass boy next door that your parents forbid you from dating. He greets you in his normal Toji fashion.

You yelp at the sting of the smack he plants on your other ass cheek, but it's soothed under Toji’s hand as he rubs and kneads your plumpness.

“Sup, Mama..” he growls into the curve of your neck, his buff ass arm coming around you and slotting under your chest for a possessive back hug. Toji’s scent is an addictive amalgam of sandalwood, some sort of citrus, and his sweat from the day. Since he rode home in Shiu’s car, accents of smoke were woven into the fibers of gia clothing to mix with his natural fragrance, having its usual effect on you.

He nibbles and teases the skin of your neck until you're giggling and reaching up to tangle your fingers in his messy hair.

“Toji!!” You attempt to squirm away from his lips. A feeble attempt of course. He’s got you locked in place under his bear arm. After seemingly having his fill of nuzzling, Toji lifts his head and the hand resting against your ribs to turn your face towards him for a kiss that already has your head spinning. His tongue tastes of mint and Monster energy drink, which he more than likely chugged on the ride home.

It takes some effort to pull back from him, and he just keeps kissing you. The corner of your mouth. Your cheek. Your jawline. Before he can find his home in the crook of your neck again you have to elbow him in the abs gently to get his attention.

“Youre gonna make me burn the food, Toji. Quit it..” you giggle.

“Just take it off the heat then..I missed you today.” He whines,his lips moving sinuously against your skin. You gasp when his teeth graze your flesh. You were feeling dizzy with desire, your lashes fluttering at the way Toji bit into your neck and sucked hard, earning a barely muffled moan that snaps you back into reality.

“Uh uhn Toj…I gotta finish your steak. Unless you want me to overcook it..” You nudge him gently with your shoulder and he obeys with a grumpy sigh, pulling away reluctantly.

“So? Then I’ll just have to eat you instead..” he grins, his cool-toned gaze blazing into you lustfully. Before you fall into his trap again, Shiu returns to the kitchen. He’s still in his dress shirt, the top few buttons undone as he's yanking at his necktie. He opens the freezer before glancing over at the two of you tangled in a hot embrace at the stove, he sighs and rolls his eyes.

“The least you can do is wash the murder off of your body before you rub yourself all over her…” he scoffs, rummaging in the ice tray for two cubes to drop in the short-cut glass. Toji’s upper lip curls into a snarl as he glares over your head at Shiu, who is now mindlessly opening his liquor cabinet.

“The least you can do is mind your damn business..cock blockn’ ass..” Toji seethes. Shiu's tired gaze returns to Toji while he pours himself a drink.

"So it's cock blocking because Id rather you didn't get some dead man's DNA all over my girl?" he perks his brow, lifting the glass to his lips for a sip. Toji kisses his teeth. " You think I'd be all over MY girl like this without at least changing clothes? I'm not an idiot.."

At that opening, Shiu's brows lift as if he's about to disagree. He merely grunts in response instead, mumbling something snide under his breath as he posts up against the counter with his drink in hand. You didn’t catch it but Toji must have since he was bristling with you still in his possessive embrace.

“Yeah? Wanna repeat that to my face?” he drops the arm that caged you to his chest. His other arm loosens a bit as he steps around you as if he's about to approach Shiu, who of course regards Toji blankly before taking one more sip of his whiskey. When you noticed him turning to set the glass aside, your eyes widened.

"Yall don't start.." you whine, already scrambling to grasp Toji's shirt. It stretches from his torso a little when he tries to move further away from you to close the distance between him and Shiu with a sinister smirk on his face. Shiu smirks back, leaning back up from the counter to face him. There's a silent exchange of colorful language between the two men that you weren't going to let escalate. It was late and you just wanted a peaceful night in with your men. No drama. No bickering.

"OH MY GOD! ALL THIS TESTOSTERONE IN MY KITCHEN!” you blurt out, earning both of their attention. Pointing the spatula you now had in your hand, you aimed it towards Shiu with a glare. He opens his mouth but you shush him.

“Aht! Make that the last drink you get before you eat your dinner, ok? And you..” you pause to crane your neck back enough to look at Toji.

“While I do love the smell of you, if you killed someone tonight I'd prefer it if you cleaned up. Cool?”

Toji glances down at himself with the same type of furrowed brow that Shiu was now sporting when he looked into his glass. "Now I don't wanna hear anymore bitching from either one of you tonight, dammit. Its late and I’m cramping. Dinner will be ready in about 10 minutes, ok? So both of you get out of my kitchen so I can finish cooking please.”

You give them both a look, ensuring that they understand their assignments, spatula waving between them. There is a mixture of surprise and amusement in their expressions, finding your bossiness endearing considering you were the smallest person in the room. The men exchange a seething look of understanding, Shiu being the first to scoff and break eye contact before looking to you.

"Sure thing baby," he remarks warmly, picking up his glass and tossing back what was left in it before putting it back on the counter. He then approaches you, giving Toji a snarky downward scan in passing before leaning in to peck your lips. Toji rolls his eyes and huffs loudly during the affectionate exchange, knowing Shiu was just trying to push his buttons in the little ways he could without you knowing.

When he pulls away, you lick the remnants of whiskey he left on your lips with a smirk.

" Mmmhmm. Out." you wrinkle your nose at him, pushing him away playfully as he steps between you and Toji to exit the kitchen.

Leaving you with your broodiest boyfriend.

Toji was biting the inside of his cheek and watching Shiu leave with narrowed eyes, looking like he was plotting something devious when you poked him in the pec. His glare drops to you, softening a little on the way your siren eyes were drawing him in. With a lift of your brow, Toji relents.

"What?" he frowns and you smile at him sweetly, reaching up to run your thumb over the scarred corner of his mouth before speaking.

"You too, big boy. Go wash ya ass. And don't kill Shiu on your way back there please." you nod your head in the kitchen doorway's direction. At that, Toji grunts humorously as he kisses your thumb, then your forehead.

"Only 'cuz you said please.." he grumbles before trudging out of the kitchen somewhat begrudgingly.

You maintained that stone-cold expression while you admired that muscular ass back on his way out, waiting until you were alone to allow that facade to break immediately in favor of you being utterly hot and bothered.

It wasn't always like this but you swore one day things would come to blows between those two if you weren't always there to intervene. There was no reason for them to still be this competitive when it came to you. There was a clear understanding between you three that you were theirs equally and vice verse. But you had to admit that it was annoyingly sexy to see them still fussing over you though. Or maybe it was just because you were ovulating.

Either way, you were sure to be in for another long night with these two…

[aquaticmercy]

Waste a Moment / Part 17

Summary : Bucky had always kept his distance, but seeing you get hurt on a mission changed everything. For the first time, he has a chance to start over with you.

Pairing : Bucky Barnes x avenger!reader (she/her)

Warnings/tags : Mentions of food. Cursing. Memory loss. Head injury. Reader used to work in a museum.

Requested by :  @remoony

Word count : 2.8k

Note : This is the second to last chapter :) Enjoy!

Series Masterlist

“All This Living”

Friday.

The mission had started out so promising. You were eager, determined to prove Yelena wrong— that you and Bucky going on the same job was not going to be a disaster. 

You’ve gotten better, and you've been on more missions after the artifact retrieval fiasco, but something about this one felt more personal. Maybe because it wasn’t just Yelena— Bucky had also doubted this from the start.

“Are you sure you’re up for this?” he’d asked, during the hot chocolate date the night before. His voice had been calm, but there was a flash of panic in his eyes.

“Yes, Bucky,” you had promised, putting your hand on his, “I’m sure.” 

And now, crouched beside him in the shadows of the Hydra facility, you couldn’t help but think maybe Yelena was right.

Everything had gone south so fast. You’d been working to disable the cameras when, somehow, you tripped the alarm. Your fingers had hovered over the holographic keypad for just a second too long, but a second was all it took.

“Damn it!” Bucky growled, his voice cutting through the blaring siren as the lights started flashing.

“I can fix it,” you hissed, turning back to the console.

“No, you can’t.” But he grabbed your wrist firmly. “We need to go. Now.”

“Bucky, I—”

“Now,” he snapped, his tone leaving no room for argument. He tugged you down the corridor, his eyes scanning to every shadow, every corner, for signature if hostility.

Your heart pounded in your chest, a mix of adrenaline and frustration building with every step. You weren’t helpless. You weren’t some rookie needing hand-holding. But the way he was acting, you might as well have been.

The two of you ducked into a storage room as the sound of boots thundered closer. Bucky leaned against the door. You could feel the tension radiating off him like heat.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered, counting the bullets in your rifle. “I didn’t mean to trip the alarm.”

He didn’t look at you. His metal fingers clenched the doorframe, his human hand flexing at his side. “Let’s just get you out of here alive.”

“Don’t patronize me.” You said harsher. You twirled your knife, the golden one you retrieved months ago. “I can handle this.”

His head turned toward you, exasperated. “Can you?”

The words cut deeper than you expected, but you refused to let them sting. “If you don’t trust me, then why the hell did you agree to this mission?”

“I didn’t agree to this,” he sighed. “You just— you wanted this.”

The tension between you was suffocating, but the sound of footsteps outside the door yanked you both back to reality.

“Stay here,” Bucky ordered, his voice cold as steel.

You reached for your gun. “Not a chance.”

“I said stay here,” he snapped, his metal arm blocking your path as he moved toward the door.

“No,” you shot back.

The door rattled, and a split second later, it burst open. Three hostile operatives stormed in, guns raised, but they found two avengers on the other side. He slammed one into the wall with his metal arm while disarming the other with a brutal twist of his wrist. You sliced the third guard’s chest and brought your knee to his head, knocking him out.

The fight was over in seconds, and neither you nor Bucky broke a sweat.

“Stay behind me,” He turned to you, concerned, “please.”

Your fists clenched at your sides. “I’m not a liability, Bucky!”

He didn’t answer, already moving toward the hallway. “We’re leaving. Now.”

You followed him, your blood boiling. The two of you moved through the maze-like corridors, every step laced with unspoken tension. The sirens screamed around you, but the only sound you focused on was the thudding of your boots against the concrete and the pounding of your heart.

The silence— it was too much. You couldn’t take it anymore, it was getting heard for you to breathe. “Why won’t you trust me?”

He stopped so abruptly you nearly ran into him. His shoulders were stiff, his fists clenched at his sides. He turned to face you, and the intensity in his eyes froze you in place. Anger. Fear. Love.

“I just can’t lose you again, okay?” he said, his voice breaking slightly.

The words hit you like a blow to the chest.

“But—” you started, but he shook his head, his jaw tight.

“You don’t get it,” he said, his voice rising now, his frustration spilling over. “You think this is about trust? About my damn ego? It’s not. It’s about the fact that I’ve already watched you get hurt— twice!”

You opened your mouth to respond, but no words came. The pain in his voice, his broken vulnerability, left you speechless.

“I can’t let you go through that again,” he said, quieter this time. “I won’t.”

The hallway was silent except for the distant echoes of shouts and the relentless blare of the alarm.

“Bucky, I can’t—I can’t promise I won’t get hurt,” you said finally, your voice shaking. “That’s the risk we both take.”

His jaw tightened, but he didn’t respond. Instead, he turned away, his shoulders tense.

“We need to move,” he said gruffly, already heading down the corridor.

You followed, your chest aching with the weight of his words. You wanted to say something— anything— to fix the growing rift between you, but the danger around you left no room for it.

And as the two of you fought your way out of the facility, every punch, every bullet, every explosion seemed calm compared to the storm raging between you. 

—

The Quinjet’s hum filled the silence as you sat beside Bucky, the adrenaline from the fight draining away rapidly. You had put the jet on autopilot while tending to his injury— a small would he caught on his arm. 

Bucky winced as you dabbed antiseptic on the gash, the fabric of his shirt now stained slightly red. He hadn’t said much since he got back, only the occasional grunt of discomfort. 

How could you put yourself through this? You’d made so much progress, or at least you thought you had. Just yesterday, you were laughing together over mugs of hot chocolate. But today? You were screaming at each other over a stupid tripped alarm.

Had Yelena been right? Was this mission a mistake? 

And deeper still, the question that you couldn't shake: Was your relationship always doomed to be this way? Was it destined to fall apart, to spiral into frustration no matter how hard you tried to fix it?

You noticed his teeth clenching, eyes cast down toward the floor of the jet. There was so much left unsaid— so much anger, frustration, so much fear.

"Does this still hurt?” you said as you started wrapping the bandage, your voice swimming with guilt. 

"I’m fine," he muttered with a sigh. “Just a scratch."

Your fingers tightened around the gauze. You knew it was more than just a scratch. You knew it was also an unspoken rift between you two.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered, the words coming out before you could stop them. “I fucked up. I didn’t mean to trigger the alarm, to put us in danger.”

His silence only made the ache in your chest grow. You finished wrapping his arm, moving carefully, as if he was made of glass. All you wanted was for things to be… better.

“I didn’t mean for it to go like this,” you continued, looking down at your hands. You could feel your heart racing. “It was going so well. I thought we were finally—"

“Yeah, we were,” Bucky interrupted, his voice gentle. He shifted in his seat, leaning back a bit, his eyes still fixed on you. His posture was rigid, like he was trying to keep himself together. “We were moving forward with… us.”

You blinked, surprised by the vulnerability in his voice. You couldn’t look away from him, your hand still resting on his arm, fingers tight around the bandage. 

“I know it’s been hard,” you said quietly, almost to yourself. “I thought it was… I thought going on a mission would move us forward. I thought we were getting there."

Bucky’s gaze flickered to you, and for the first time in a long while, you saw a glimpse of the hurt he’d buried so deep. “We still are,” He insisted, his voice strained. “I just, I can’t… I can’t lose you again.”

Your breath caught in your throat. It was the first time he’d said it outright. The first time he’d acknowledged what had been building between you— the way the tension had been pulling at the fabric of your relationship for months.

Maybe, you were right. Maybe,you just needed this mission to acknowledge all of this.

“I know.” Your voice cracked.

For a long moment, there was nothing but the sound of the Quinjet’s engines, a low, steady hum that seemed to vibrate through the floor beneath your feet. You could see him processing, his brow furrowed, gears turning like he wanted to say something but didn’t know how.

“I just… I don’t know what I’m supposed to do with all this fear anymore,” he finally murmured, his voice strained. “Every time you’re in danger, every time something happens to you, it feels like my heart stops. I don’t know how to protect you from that. I can’t—"

His words broke off. He did my have any idea how to put it into words— fear that had been gnawing at him every time you left for a mission, every time you came back bruised or hurt. 

"I can’t keep losing you," he continued, his words barely above a whisper. His eyes closed briefly as if he could shield himself from his own pain.

You reached for him, your fingers brushing over his hand before you intertwined them, gentle but firm. You could feel the warmth of his skin beneath yours, the callouses and scars that spoke of a life well fought for— a life deserved. It felt like holding a piece of his heart.

“You won’t,” you whispered, your voice hoarse. “I’m not going anywhere, okay? ”

Bucky turned his face toward you, his eyes more vulnerable than you’d ever seen them before. His lips parted, and for a moment, you thought he was going to speak. Instead, he just nodded slowly, his fingers tightening around yours.

For a moment, silence stretched between you, his thumb brushing over your knuckles.

You swallowed hard, the words hovering on the tip of your tongue. “Bucky…” You paused, searching his face for any sign of hesitation, for some cue that it was too soon or too much. But all you saw was him—waiting, holding his breath, as he was waiting for you to save him, even when didn’t need saving.

Your heart raced, the words spilling out before you could second-guess them. “I love you.”

It came quietly, but with a certainty you hadn’t felt in months. It wasn’t rehearsed, it wasn’t a grand declaration—it was simply the truth. 

Three months ago, you hadn’t been sure you’d ever say it again. You hadn’t been sure he was ready to hear it. But in this moment, it didn’t matter. It felt… right. 

Bucky froze, his eyes widening. He blinked, his eyes scanning your expression, like he was trying to figure out if you were being serious.

“I—” He stopped himself, his breath shaky, “You’re not just saying that to make things better, are you?”

“No,” You shook your head slowly, “I mean it.”

A long pause stretched between you. Slowly, Bucky’s eyebrows softened, the tension on his shoulders easing. 

“I love you too,” he murmured, his voice quieter than before. “I… I do. More than anything in the world.”

You squeezed his hand tighter, leaning in slightly, as if that physical connection would be enough to bridge the gap between you. “We’ll get through this. We’ll figure it out.”

And in that moment, despite the fear, despite everything that had gone wrong, you felt… right. Maybe it wasn’t all ruined. Maybe, just maybe, the road ahead wouldn’t be as hard as you thought. 

—

The cool evening air drifted through your hair as Bucky walked you back to your apartment.

The debrief had surprisingly been calm, echoing each other’s understanding as you told Sam what happened. 

Despite everything that went wrong, tonight felt different. It felt… right. 

When you reached your door, Bucky stopped a few paces away and turned to face you. There was a hesitation in his eyes, a mix of longing and uncertainty. He seemed like he wanted to say something, but instead, he just gave you a small half-smile.

“Goodnight, doll,” he said softly, his voice wrapping around you like a warm blanket. His eyes lingered on yours for a beat too long before flicking down to your lips. Then, almost reluctantly, they met yours again. It was like he was searching for permission. Or maybe an excuse to stay just a little longer.

You felt your chest tighten— he was looking at you as if you were the only person in the world. You couldn’t help the smile that formed on your lips, your fingers curling around the edge of the door. 

The door creaked softly as you pushed it open an inch, enough to wedge your foot between it and the frame. You glanced up at him, cupping his face. Your fingers trailed down, eventually stopping on his chest. You felt his racing heartbeat underneath your fingertips.

He wasn’t as calm as he seemed.

His gaze dipped to where your hand rested, and you felt the faintest hitch in his breath. He looked as though he was waiting for something— a signal, a moment, a reason to come back tomorrow, or maybe to stay today.

“This is progress, right?” you asked, your voice barely above a whisper. “Going on a mission, fucking up, coming back stronger… That counts as progress, right?”

Bucky’s eyes softened, the hallway lighting illuminating the faint lines of worry etched into his forehead, but they faded as he found your smile. Gently, he reached up to brush a loose strand of hair behind your ear. His fingers lingered there and couldn’t quite bring himself to pull away.

“Yes, sweetheart,” he murmured, confirming your hope, “it is.”

You opened the door a little wider, your hand still on his chest.

For a moment, you thought he’d say goodnight again and leave, but instead, he cleared his throat. “This might be the wrong time to ask again, but… can I kiss you?”

He said it so quietly, as if he was afraid of what your answer might be. His eyes searched yours, his brows furrowing just slightly, like he was bracing himself for yet another gentle rejection. 

Your heart stuttered in your chest. 

Oh god, you’d been waiting for him to ask.

Instead of answering, you leaned in, bridging the space between you. Your lips found his in a fragile kiss, as if you were both testing the waters. The world seemed to melt away, leaving only the warmth of his mouth on yours, to the way his hand came up to cradle your cheek as though you were a precious gemstone.

Three months. It had been three months since you’d felt this kind of comfort from him, and it was almost overwhelming in its familiarity.

And it was definitely worth the wait.

He responded cautiously at first. As the kiss deepened, his grip on you tightened, pulling you closer. Your hands found their way to his chest, your fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt, desperate to keep him as close to you as possible.

When you finally broke apart, breathless, you couldn’t help but let out a soft laugh. The tension you hadn’t even realized you were holding melted away.

“So… I guess that’s a yes,” he teased.

You grinned, leaning in again to capture his lips in another kiss, this one more urgent, more certain. His hands slipped to your waist, as your fingers found the edge of his shirt, slipping beneath it to feel the warmth of his skin.

It was like finding your way home again.

Bucky groaned softly, his hands finding your waist, pulling you even closer if it was even possible. The touches became more heated, more desperate, like you were both trying to make up for lost time, trying to bridge the gap that had formed between you that once felt unfixable.

In between kisses, you managed to pull away just enough to ask, “Do you want to come in?”

He didn’t even hesitate. His lips found yours again, and he nodded into the kiss, his arms wrapping around you. Without breaking the moment, you stepped backward, pulling him inside.

The night was only just beginning, and you had no intention of rushing through it.

-to be continued…

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[almostloverboy]

It was your first time going to your roommate, Tommy’s, gym. You felt a flash of thrill come up your chest as your hand touched the handle and pulled the front door open. You still weren’t passing very well yet, nor were you out to anyone but Tommy, so going to an all men’s gym was something that made your stomach churn. Tommy had told you to walk straight back to the locker room, that he would tell the front desk to expect you on his visitors pass. Just as your hand absentmindedly went to touch the badge hanging off the waistband of your sweats, you made eye contact with the attendant at the front desk. He eyed you suspiciously, but you guessed that your freshly buzzed hair and excessively baggy sweatshirt gave him a clue. He pursed his lips but with a swift nod of his head directed you back to the locker room.

There was only one, and Tommy said he’d meet you in it. When you walked in, you immediately caught sight of his bulky frame casually draped over with some towels coming out of the sauna. His skin practically glowed and you had to take a moment to really appreciate the sea of various gorgeous bodies following suit. There were some guys wrapped in towels as they came out Some guys were brazenly naked, showing off their bare chests or horizontal scars and tdicks and happy trails. The next thing you knew, Tommy was grabbing you by the shoulder. "Admiring the view?" He snickered and you can feel blush burn your cheeks. Maybe you were being a little too obvious with your staring.

Tommy took you to the back, where there were some free lockers. He took your bag and shoved it in, then turned to you expectantly. His arms crossed over his chest like he was waiting for a petulant child. "Well? Strip." You shook your head vigorously and tried to sputter off some excuse about being shy but Tommy was having none of it. "It's just guys here. No need to be weird about it. Nobody's looking but you." Your flush grows hotter but you know Tommy well enough to know that he won't let you weasel out of this so easily. So you drop your sweats, exposing the jock strap you were wearing underneath. What could you say? You were trying something out and your jaw dropped when you saw yourself in the mirror. It made you really feel like a guy. Tommy seemed equally impressed, but was much more fixated on your bare ass. "C'mon. All of it." He muttered breathlessly.

When you glanced over to make sure that there was, in fact, no one watching you strip, you noticed a couple of guys looking over your way. When you caught their eyes, each of their lips pulled up into a playful smirk. One guy whose lower half was covered up by a large gym towel started adjusting it while holding your gaze, opening it just slightly. Maybe it was to show solidarity, but you couldn't take your eyes off where you'd seen the glimpse of his hard cock. You couldn't help but imagine how long he'd been on T to be that big. Like they had a mind of their own, your hands started to pull off your sweatshirt and shirt in one go. You don't even bother to shove it into your locker, it just drops to the floor.

As soon as your taped chest is exposed, you feel Tommy's hands on your now bare hips. You start to move to cover yourself, hyper aware of all of the sexy guys staring you down and just how much more... Like men they looked. As if he could read your mind, Tommy spoke up as he moved to stand behind you. "Whadya think, guys? He's comin' along quite nicely, huh?" You hear a general murmur of agreement that makes you want to cringe away from all the eyes on you, but Tommy grabs your wrists and holds them behind you. You can feel his crotch push up against your bare ass, only shielded by the scratchy white towel.

"I bet those growing pains are a killer." You hear one guy mutter. Another nudges a friend: "You can already see some hair on his stomach." Finally, one guy takes the first step towards you and you're drooling. He's a big guy, and you can tell he spends every day at this gym because his arms make you want to lick them like ice cream. Your knees almost buckle at the sight of his bare body in front of you, but he smiles kindly. "Don't worry, we'll turn you into a real man here. You'll only look like a twinky little fag for a couple'a months more. Soon you'll be a muscular little fag."

The Adonis looks over at Tommy, as if asking permission. You can't see his response, but the guy's arm darts out to snap the elastic of your jock strap, earning him a sharp yelp and your voice cracks. You were surprised, you didn't think your voice had changed at all yet, but some of the guys grinned knowingly. "See? It's workin' already."

Tommy started to tug you toward the showers, and you noticed that there weren't even any walls or curtains between each shower head. There was already someone in there, he was leaning his head back in the stream and sighing as his fingers slid in and out of his cunt. You thought Tommy might notice the interruption and go someplace with some more privacy, but you also guessed after using you as a show for his friends, he didn't have much shame back here. "Hey Jack, why don't you show my roommate here how things go back here?"

The guy only opened his eyes just to roll them in Tommy's direction, but he seemed to comply. "Damn, did you tell him what was happening? This is quite the little outfit he has on. Practically begging to be used..." You can feel Tommy's hands let go of you as Jack ushers you to take over the shower stream he'd been occupying. "Don' worry, I'll be gentle." He muttered as he got to his knees in front of you. The steaming hot water hit your back and you couldn't help but relax at the feeling. It was nice. Jack leads one of your hands to grab at his tits, and your other hand is led back to your ass. "Lube will make the next bit more fun. It's in the dispenser next to you." He said like he'd done it a million times before. Maybe he had.

"I called dibs, Jack, don't use him up yet." As your lubed up fingers slide into your ass, you hear Tommy's voice ring out. You can hardly see him among all the steam, but you can tell he's close to you. "I get to break him in."

[midnighthazee]

Greenridge ABO Series

a/n: Sorry for the late post!!! Writer's Block got to me this weekend and I had to push through!! ENJOY!

Series Masterlist Masterlist

Warnings: explicit language, fear, mentions of past abuse/trauma, violence, alphas loosing their temper, abuse, blood

WC: 5823

Chapter 12

Felix decided to come upstairs to nap after eating. He was about to go into his room when he looked down the hall and saw your door cracked. You never leave it cracked - usually fully open if you weren’t in there. He goes to your room, knocking. No answer so he pushes the door fully open.

“Y/n?” he calls out.

Silence.

He steps inside, noticing a paper at the foot of the bed. He picks it up and reads. He reads it nearly four times, his mind reeling. He panics, running down the stairs to find Minho. 

Minho had been in the living room trying to figure out the unsettling feeling he had in his stomach. It started nearly an hour ago and he’s been nauseous ever since. But why? Could it be nerves? But he never got nervous like this before. 

He was so caught up in what it could be when Felix came in, interrupting his thoughts. The other packs came around after hearing Felix yelling.

“Minho!” he calls out. “Minho!”

“What? What is it Felix?”

“Y/n. She left.” he answers, holding the paper out as he pants.

“What?” Minho snatches the paper and reads it. “Shit. How did she find out?”

“She overheard someone talking about it.” Jeongin shrugged.

“How long ago since she left?” Minho asked.

“I don’t know. She told me she was going to shower after we told her she couldn’t come with us. But that was almost three hours ago.” Felix looked at his watch.

Minho shook his head. “Assuming she found her way, she would be there by now.”

“So then let’s go. We can leave now.” Jungwon spoke, standing up. His pack stood with him, ready to fight.

The other packs stood as well.

Minho nodded. “Okay. Let’s go get our pack back.”

They all headed out, getting into cars and driving over to the Nyko territory. It didn’t take long and soon they were driving up the long driveway to the pack house, parking in the front lawn. Getting out they all hurried over to the house.

“It’s awfully quiet.” Changbin whispers.

Minho nodded as the two of them walked up to the front porch. They kicked open the door, hurrying inside. A mix of the other pack members flanked, coming inside as well. The rest stayed stationed outside. 

They weren’t confronted with any hybrids as they made their way through the house. It didn’t take long for them to declare it empty. 

“It’s clear.” Minho called out.

The Greenridge members and all the alphas came inside.

“Where could they be?” Seungmin asked. 

“Alpha Minho, you might want to see this.” Mingyu said, leading Minho to the basement, the rest of them following.

They were all quick to cover their noses at the smell, the smell of rotting flesh now mixed in with the foul smell of the basement.

“Oh my god… Our y/n was down here? Living in this her whole life?” Felix looked on in horror at the cells. They were worse than he had imagined. 

Minho clenched his jaw, pushing onwards. Mingyu led them to the torture room, allowing them to look in. Changbin peeked but was quick to turn away, pushing Felix back from view. He knows Felix’s sensitive nature and doesn’t want to upset him further.

“What? What is it?” Felix asks, trying to push past him.

“It’s Lewis.” Minho says, walking past them and back up the stairs.

Felix froze, his face perplexed.

“He’s dead.” Changbin explains.

Felix’s eyes go wide.

They all go back upstairs, exiting the house. Minho’s fuming as he comes out of the house. The rest of the packs come over, wondering what happened inside.

“Lewis is dead. No one’s inside.” Seungcheol announced.

“Alpha, sir, I think I might have found something on the side of the house.” Niki said.

Minho was quick to follow.

“At first I thought it was graffiti, but I think it’s a message,” he explained when they got there.

“Blackmane?” Jeongin questioned. “They have our people?”

“Let’s hope.” Minho said. “Let’s go. We’re going to regroup and get ready for the drive.”

The packs headed back to Greenridge Manor, prepping for their travels. They didn’t know if that’s where their people were, but it was the only lead they had.

Your head was pounding, each pump of your heart making it throb. You groan, turning over and pushing your face into the pillow. The smell wasn’t familiar at all. Where were you?

You open your eyes and take in the room. The room was bigger than yours back at the pack house, having two double beds, a desk and chair, dresser with a tv on it, and a couch with a coffee table. There were curtains shutting out all but a sliver of light - just enough to tell you it was daytime.

The memories of last night come back to you, making you lean forward and massage your temples. Maybe you should have trusted them and stayed put. But then again, they would have been captured instead. Or killed. 

You sigh, swinging your feet off the bed and padding over to the window. Squinting, you open the curtains more and look out. Your stomach dropped, making you stagger backwards. Why were you so high up? 

Two little beeps made you whip your head around, a door opening on the other side of the room. It was then you noticed another door with a shower beyond it.

“Oh good. You’re awake.” a man said, coming inside and walking over to you. “Hungry?”

You scurried over to the side, only for him to place the plastic bags he carried on the desk. You caught his scent - another alpha. He turned to you, seeing your fearful expression.

“I’m not gonna hurt you.” He chuckled, as if your fear was silly.

You didn’t say anything as he turned back and began emptying the bags. You eyed the door, wondering if you would manage to get out before he got to you. Even then, you didn’t know what was on the other side of that door - what you would be running into.

“You can run, but I doubt you will get far,” he said condescendingly.

His back was still to you as he spoke. You roll your eyes, finding an ounce of courage to question him.

“Who are you?” 

“Oh, sorry. How rude of me. I’m Reed.” He smiled warmly at you.

You looked away from him. 

“Are you hungry, y/n?”

“How do you know my name?”

“Uh, I was there the day you were born…” He said as if it was obvious.

“Wh-what?”

He turned around, brows furrowed. “Did mom and dad never talk about me?”

You stared at him in bewilderment.

“I guess that’s fair. Why would they talk about me after they sent me away?” he rolled his eyes.

“I don’t have an older brother.”

“You do actually… Me. And we have a younger brother apparently. Hudson, right?”

Your heart started to beat faster. Who was this stalker?

“Please eat. You’ve been unconscious for a while. Not to mention, you threw up before that.” He says, sitting down on the couch and placing your food on the coffee table. He sat down, taking a bite of his own food.

You didn't move or say anything.

He sighs, putting down his food.

“Y/n…what’s it going to take for you to trust me? I mean you no harm.”

“Where’s Chan? Was he there with Hyunjin and Jisung?”

“Chan…? Oh, you mean Chris?” he asked.

You furrowed your brows.

“Did he not tell you his name was Chris?” Reed sat back. “How long were you with them anyways. Lewis wouldn’t shut up about you being stolen away.”

“I wasn’t stolen…” you cross your arms.

“Please don’t tell me you got Stockholm syndrome with that foolish pack,” he joked.

You felt anger course through you at the way he talked so negatively about your pack.

“They aren’t fools, they are my soulmates…my pack.” You growl. “Lewis lied, abused, and falsely marked me.”

Reed is quiet as he thinks this over. He studies you, smelling the anger and fear off you. He squints his eyes before finally going back to eating. He motioned for you to eat your food. “It’s good.”

“Where’s Chan, Hyunjin, and Jisung?”

“Safe. With the Hybrid Association.”

“Where is that?”

“Why? Do you plan on going there?”

“If I need to in order to get them back.”

“You won’t get through without clearance…which I have. So are you going to indulge me for five minutes to eat? Or keep playing hard to get?”

“How do I even know you’re my brother?”

“You were born twenty three years ago on a full moon. It was a Friday night when the moon was highest in the sky. Mom’s name is Haneul. Dad’s name is Walker. Hudson is…wait I know…five years younger than you. I don’t know that much about him considering I was sent away before you were even six months old. We lived in a little house on the hill, five minutes from town where they had the best fish cakes. Does Ms. Daisy still make them? Or did her daughter Daphne take over?”

You glare. He clearly knew a lot. 

“Why’d mom and dad send you away?” you question.

“Why did they send you away?” he rebuttals.

You don’t say anything.

“They sent you away for the same reason they sent me away. Money. The packs paid them.”

“But you’re not an omega…”

“True. Omegas do go for way more, but I was sold to a pack that desperately needed an alpha heir. And they paid a handsome price for that.”

“How old were you?”

“Ten.”

“What was the pack like?” You ask, sitting on the bed.

“The pack was great. They became my family, and I took over when the old alpha passed. I am now in charge of them, leading them into years of success. You’ve heard of the Blackmane pack…”

You shake your head.

“Really? That’s a first. Everyone knows us. It’s one of the oldest and largest packs still around. We have over a hundred members, twenty subpacks under us. The Nykos included.”

“The Nykos are under your rule? Did you know I was there?”

“We don’t monitor the packs like the police. They do their own thing, but all packs under Blackmane are automatically in an alliance. So it’s against our agreement to start fights with another sub pack. That’s about as far as regulation goes. As for you, they never listed they had omegas like they should have. Now I know why. So no, I didn’t know you were there.”

“Is Greenridge one of yours?”

“No.”

“So if you don’t monitor them, then what were you doing there?”

“With my help, Blackmane climbed the rankings and became privileged members of the Hybrid Association. There was a tip called in about Lewis and his treatment of omegas a few days ago. I took the responsibility to follow up and see if it was true, seeing as they were under our pack. When we arrived, Lewis was quick to butter us up, but I saw right through him. My men rounded up the immediate members and went through the house. It was then we found a female omega, Chris, and his betas.”

“How did they look?” you stepped forward.

Reed titled his head at you. “They were beaten and bloody but fine. They could walk out on their own so I sent them and that girl to the Hybrid Association with a couple of my men.”

You breathe a sigh of relief, thankful that they were okay. “Why send them to the Hybrid Association?”

“To give a statement of what happened so the remaining Nyko members can be dealt with.” Reed went back to finishing his food.

“Why’d you kill Lewis then? Instead of giving him to the Hybrid Association?” you asked warily.

“I couldn’t bear for him to weasel his way out of a death sentence after what he did to you. So when that girl told us what he did to you three omegas, I had him chained in the basement. My men dealt with him, I gave the final blow.”

You shudder, remembering the way his body looked.

“Let’s get one thing straight. I’m not Lewis. If I hurt or kill, it’s with intention and reason, not for fun.” He sat straighter, speaking with so much authority. “I’m not a threat to you.”

You nod, thinking over his words.

“Please eat.” Reed insisted.

You finally caved, sitting down and eating. It was so good you scarfed it down. Once you both finished, he offered you a chance to shower. You showered quickly and got dressed in the clothes he left you to change into.

Once dressed, you emerged from the bathroom. He was sitting on the couch, typing on his computer with a serious face.

“Can you take me home now?” you ask, brushing your hair.

“No.”

“No? Why not?”

“Because you’re going with me.” he said, still not looking up from his computer.

“I don’t want to. I want to go home. The rest of the pack is probably so worried about me.”

“They’ll be fine.” He reached for his phone, still barely paying attention to you.

“No. They won’t. Did you forget the part about us being soulmates?”

He finally looked up. “You need to give a statement at the Hybrid Association for what you have been through.”

“Fine. After, will you take me home?”

“Yes.” 

You figured you wouldn’t press the matter further and fell back on the bed. You laid there for a few more minutes until Reed declared it was time to go. You followed him down the hall, two men in front of you, two men behind.

They stopped in front of three sets of doors and pushed a button. There was a light above each door with arrows pointing up or down, flashing in time with a beeping sound. One of the doors opened, revealing a small room. They led you inside, and you looked around nervously.

“Never been in an elevator, I’m assuming.” Reed smiled over at you.

“No.” you mumbled,

The doors shut and you felt the room shake. You nearly jumped out of your skin, grabbing Reed’s arm tight. 

“It’s alright. It’s just lowering us to the ground floor.” Reed said, resting his hand on yours that was gripping his bicep. “We are going to have to work on your exposure to the world.”

“Blame your minion.” you grumble.

“Oh I do. I just regret not making him suffer longer.” 

Part you wished you had been here. Sure you might not have stomached it but to see him struggle and get what he deserved…it would have been satisfying.

The room finally stopped moving, bouncing slightly before the doors opened. You stepped out, seeing a whole different area. It felt like you had teleported.

“Come.” he beckoned with a small smile.

You followed Reed to the car, climbing in the backseat of the Escalade. As the suv peeled away from the hotel, you looked out the window. You didn’t recognize anything around you and it made you wonder.

“How far from Greenridge are we?”

“Couple hours.” Reed shrugged. “But it’s about to be more.”

“More? But I need to tell them I’m okay. That I’ll be back.”

“Do you have their number to call?”

“No…”

“Then how did you plan on telling them?”

You shrug. You had no way of reaching them.

“State your name for the record.” a man said in a bored tone.

��Bang Chan.” 

“Please tell us what happened last night to the best of your knowledge.” he muttered, two other gentlemen sitting on either side of him.

“Of course. Well, it actually started earlier that morning when I-”

“Mr. Bang, we are just here to collect your testimony as to what occurred at the Nyko Pack’s main house last night.” the man interrupted.

“This is important information relating to last night’s events, sir.”

“If we need the extra information, we will ask for it.” the man stated. 

Chan cleared his throat. “Last night, Hyunjin, Jisung, and myself were locked in cells in Lewis's basement. We had been sedated and were just coming to. Lewis pulled me from my cell, chaining me to a wall in a separate room. He had a cattle prod that he used to shock me repeatedly. He wanted us to suffer, but also wanted to use us as bait for y/n to come back.”

“Who’s y/n?”

“She was an omega he held captive in his basement, tortured and abused for years.”

“Why would he treat his omega like that?”

“She’s not his omega. And it wasn’t just her he abused. There were two others treated the same. I don’t know what compelled him to do such heinous acts.”

The three of them began to scribble on their papers.

“And how do you know this to be true?”

“She came onto our property. I saw the scars and injuries first hand.”

“What injuries?”

“His brothers liked to hunt her for sport, which they did the night we found her. She had silver and cobalt pellets embedded in her skin from them using her as target practice.”

The men scribbled more notes.

“Is she still in your care?” the man on the left asked.

“Yes.”

“And you didn’t return her, why?” the center man asked.

“She’s our soulmate.”

“Our?”

“All of my pack felt the soulmate bond, myself included.”

Jotting notes once more.

“What happened next?” The man to the right asked.

“We had our pack doctor, Doctor Quinn assist our medic, Felix, in caring for y/n. They removed the pellets, gave her an IV and let her heal. Slowly she learned to trust us. We helped her settle in, make a nest and now she’s feeling like part of the pack.”

“Is she marked?”

“Not by us.”

All three men looked up, confused. “Elaborate.”

“Lewis marked her.”

“Was he a soulmate as well?”

“Y/n said she never felt the pull with him the way she did with us.”

They wrote down more notes, shaking their heads.

“We’ve gotten a little sidetracked. Let’s get back to last night. After Lewis tortured you, what happened.”

“His brothers, Hayes and Milo came down as well…”

“Well well…look at the true alpha now.” Hayes taunted.

“Not so tough now, are you?” Milo snickered.

Chan was panting and shirtless, now suspended from the ceiling by his wrists. His skin was sweaty and bloodied from the lashes Lewis just delivered.

“Got nothing to say?” Milo asked, circling Chan.

Chan spit at the ground right in front of Milo. Milo punched him in the ribs, smiling at him.

“That wasn’t very nice, Chris.”

“Stop calling me that.” Chan growled.

“Look, Hayes. He’s getting angry.”

Hayes smirks, coming closer. He gets directly in Chan’s face, forcing him to look up at him.

“Such a pathetic alpha…” Hayes taunts. “You can’t even protect your pack.”

As if on cue, the cries of Hyunjin and Jisung echo down the hall. Their pained screams tug at Chan’s heart. 

“And soon enough…that little omega will be ours once more. I do enjoy fucking her sweet little cunt. Tell me, have you had the pleasure yet?” Hayes tilted his head at Chan.

Chan was seething, his chest heaving as he took deep breaths. His eyes were bloodshot, pupils red with fury. His jaw was clenched and his hands bawled into fits. The chains above him groaned as he pulled down on them. Hayes threw his head back, laughing.

“She’s quite a prude if you ask me. So if you really want a taste…” Hayes leaned into Chan’s space once more, whispering, “you’re gonna have to take it. And when you do, those sweet sounds she makes…..ugh the tears and whines as she begs you to stop. You know she secretly loves it. She gets so wet and-”

SNAP.

The chains holding Chan’s wrists snap apart, leaving a few links dangling from his wrists as they drop. His hands are immediately around Hayes’s neck, forcing him backwards to the stone wall. Milo was quick to jump in, attempting to pull Chan off his brother. Haye’s eyes flash panic as he feels the strength in Chan’s iron grip.

Chan releases one hand to shake off the pest that is Milo, shoving him to the ground. Hayes grips Chan’s remaining hand with both his hands, still not strong enough to pry him off. 

Chan now gets in Hayes’s face, gripping his neck so tight his face was starting to turn purple.

“You will never….ever get to touch my girl again.” Chan growled through gritted teeth.

With a flick of Chan’s wrist and a crack sound coming from Hayes’s neck, it was done. Chan threw his limp body to the ground, turning around and seeing Milo standing there in shock. 

“How dare you!” Milo charged at Chan

Chan was quick to duck out of the way, quickly turning around to face Milo, hand grazing the table. Milo yelled, turning around and lunging at him once more. Chan lifted his arm and stabbed a knife into Milo’s neck.

Milo froze. Chan yanked it out, blood spraying out. Milo was quick to clutch his neck, looking dumbfounded at Chan who just watched emotionlessly. Chan’s face and chest was splattered in blood, Milo dropping to his knees as blood poured from his neck. Toppling over, Milo too was now dead.

The room was silent.

“It was then some of the men from the Blackmane pack came in, rescuing me and my betas. They also rescued the omega girl left behind, and sent us all here.” Chan continued.

“I see.” the one in the center said. “And you’re aware of the laws we have in place, correct.”

“Yes, sir. I know it sounds bad. But I only acted in self-defense. They were hurting me and my betas. Plus they also-”

“Unfortunately, Mr. Bang…” the man on the right sighed, removing his glasses. “We know your history with these kinds of things. You are a power hungry alpha and many have fallen at your hands.”

“Sir, I-” “Christopher Bang. Did you think we didn’t know your last name? Or your alias ‘Chan’?” The gentleman on the left spoke, rising from his chair. “You killed your own brother and now two members of a neighboring pack - one being an alpha. Our first law is ‘Thou shalt not kill one’s hybrid brethren’ or did you forget?”

Chan swallowed, before shaking his head.

“Take him away.” the one in the center waved his hand.

Two guards from the back of the room stepped forward, grabbing Chan by the arms.

“Wait. Please, this is a misunderstanding.”

“You would do well mind your manners and go willingly. Any protest will not help your case.” the man on the right cautioned.

So Chan left willingly, the two guards leading him to a holding cell. It looked more like an interrogation room, having a two way mirror on one wall. There was, however, a cot on the opposite wall, a toilet and sink with a smaller mirror next to it. 

Once they were gone, Chan groaned. He looked into the small mirror, seeing the blood still decorating his skin. His eyes flash red and he punches the glass, shattering his reflection. Pulling his fist back, he plucks a few shards of glass from his knuckles. His hand bled a little so he turned on the water to wash his hands, splashing water on his face in an effort to wash off the remaining blood.

Hyunjin, Jisung, and the omega named Piper all gave their statements of what happened as well. Hyunjin managed to convince them to allow a phone call to their pack. They knew everyone was probably worried sick and needed to hear from them. On top of that, they desperately wanted to get back home. He held Jisung’s hand as they called together, luckily remembering Minho’s cell number.

“Hello?” Minho asked warily.

“Min? It’s Hyunjin.” They hear him let out a big exhale.

“Where are you guys? Are you okay?” Minho asked in a serious tone.

“We’re okay. We’re at the Hybrid Association headquarters.” Hyunjin answered.

“What are you doing there?” 

“A pack rescued us. They sent us here to explain what happened last night.” Jisung said.

“They wanted you to explain Lewis’s death?” Minho questioned.

“Lewis is dead?” Jisung nearly yelled.

“Yes. You didn’t know?”

“No. We were here because Chan killed Hayes and Milo.” Hyunjin whispered.

“He did?”

“Yes. They had us in chains and were torturing us. But Chan snapped, breaking free and killing them.”

“I bet y/n is relieved. She didn’t witness it, did she?” Minho asked.

“Y/n? She’s not with us.” Jisung stated.

“She’s not with you?” Hyunjin asked.

Minho was silent, clenching his jaw.

“Min?” Hyunjin looked to Jisung.

“She ran off last night to rescue you guys. We came shortly after, but we were too late. The house was empty. We found Lewis’s body though. We…we assumed she was with you guys.” Minho explained.

“We never saw her. It must have been the pack that found us that has her.”

“They probably killed Lewis too.” Minho said. “Where’s Chan?”

“Um…in a holding cell.” Hyunjin admitted.

“What!?” Minho yelled, making them jerk from the phone.

“They won’t let us see him.” Jisung whined. “Maybe it has something to do with Hayes and Milo?”

Minho was silent. He wondered if the real reason was Chan’s past coming to haunt him once more. After a few moments, Minho spoke. “We will be there shortly to get you. Then we are heading to the Blackmane pack. We believe they have y/n.”

“Blackmane? That was the pack that helped us.” Hyunjin noted. “They were nice people.”

“Then why haven’t they returned y/n?” Minho asked, doubting the kind nature of the Blackmane pack.

“Our time’s up. See you soon.” Hyunjin said.

“We are on our way.” Minho assured them.

Hyunjin and Jisung then followed a gentleman down the hall. They headed down the hall which opened up to a corridor that was well lit with natural light from all the windows. The ceiling was ten stories up from the bottom and glass with a huge chandelier hanging from the center. The halls opened up to the sides, walkways that wrapped around the corridor in a circular design. The center was open through all the levels, the walkway inclined to bring you up to each level. 

They headed up the walkway to the upper levels from level three which overlooked the reception desk below. The employee led them up to level four and they turned down the hall.

Downstairs, Reed and you walk in. He smiles at the receptionist, guiding you up the walkway. You get to level three and Reed leads you down a hall towards a small room designed like a courtroom.

“I’ll be right here when you’re done. You can do this.”

You take a deep, nodding. You step inside, standing in front of three gentlemen.

“State your name for the record.” the man said.

“Um… y/n y/l/n.”

“What are you here to discuss?”

“Alpha Lewis and…um…his mistreatment of omegas.” you say, twiddling your fingers.

“Y/n…as in the omega who escaped the Nyko pack?” the one on the right asked.

“Ym…yes?” you say.

“Speak up, honey. We can barely hear you.”

“Yes.” you speak louder.

“Okay. Where would you like to start?”

It took nearly an hour to go over everything he did to you while in his house. They questioned you about a lot of details, some hard to talk about. They asked you about your time and treatment during the period you were with the Greenridge pack as well. You confirmed the soulmate connection and talked very highly of everyone. The men just nodded, taking notes to look over later. 

Chan paced restlessly in his cell. Of course they knew who he was. And now they had him trapped, soon to face trial most likely. What was he going to do? He had to find a way to prove he didn’t kill his brother. He wouldn’t have become a true alpha if he had.  

Plan after plan swirled around his head as he tried to figure out how to get back home to his pack - to you. It was then his thoughts were interrupted, a voice speaking into the intercom.

“Well, well.” The voice taunted.

The hairs on the back of Chan’s neck stood tall. He froze, eyes wide. He knew that voice.

“Seems the alpha finally got caught.”

“You.” Chan growled.

“What about me?”

“You were there. You’re the one who killed my brother.” “Still spilling that lie? What makes you think it was me?”

“I know your voice.”

“Do you? It would be wrong for you to falsely accuse an innocent person.”

“You’re not innocent.”

“And neither are you, I hear.”

Chan glared at the two way mirror, being only met with his reflection. The man's words rang true as Chan took in his reflection.

“Tell me Chris…or Chan if that’s what you prefer now.” the voice continued. “How much longer do you think your pack will follow you when they learn the truth of what you’ve done?”

Chan’s hand balled into fists, rage coursing through him. Only Minho knew the truth about his past. How his brother was killed right in front of him. How the killer ran off before anyone else showed up, Chan being left there looking guilty. No one wanted to believe the alpha who always boasted about having his own pack. Instead, they called him greedy, power hungry, and ruthless. He’s never been able to prove them wrong, not having seen the face of his brother’s killer. But one day, he always dreamt, he would expose the truth.

“You’re a murderer. They aren’t going to follow a murderer.” the man continued.

Chan growled, banging his fists on the glass and causing the man to just laugh.

Once you finished your statement, you came out to see Reed working on his phone. Okay, not working. More like nodding off. You smiled, coming over and shaking his shoulder. He jumped awake, looking around frantically.

“Oh. You’re done?” he asked, putting his phone in his pocket.

“Yep. They said I was free to go.”

“Great. Let’s go.”

You followed him back down the walkway and out the front doors. You got in the suv, eager to go back to your pack. You missed them terribly and felt a deep need to see them. You wanted to assure them you were okay and hopefully get Minho to stop blaming himself. 

“Hungry?” Reed asked.

You shook your head.

“You don’t eat much, do you?”

You shrug. “I just want to get home.”

“Suit yourself.” Reed shrugged too, going back to his phone as the driver peeled off from the Hybrid Association.

Not even five minutes after your departure, Minho pulls up. The packs wait outside while Minho and Changbin go inside for their people. The receptionist directed them to level two. They followed her directions, finding themselves in a lounge. Off to the side, they located their boys.

“Jinnie, Ji!” Minho calls.

They both come rushing over, jumping into their waiting arms. They hug each other tight, Minho pulling back to examine them.

“I’m okay.” Hyunjin says.

“Good.” Minho says, kissing him briefly before checking over Jisung as Changbin holds him close. 

Changbin kisses his check, rubbing his back as Jisung relaxes into his hold. Minho then ushers them to the car, staying behind at the desk as they walk off with Changbin.

Minho turns around, his smile gone from his face. He marches up to the front desk, all pleasantries gone.

“I want to visit someone.”

“What’s the name?” the older lady asks.

“Bang Chan.”

“I’m sorry, son. He’s not allowed visitors.”

“What?! No, I’m his right hand alpha.”

“I’m sorry. Your rank doesn’t matter here.”

“Is there someone I can speak to about this?” Minho asks, exasperated.

“That would be Mr. Park. His office is on level three.”

Minho marches up the walkway, and finds his way to Mr. Park’s office. He knocks on the door, but no answer.

“Can I help you?” a gentleman asks, coming up from behind Minho.

“I’m looking for Mr. Park.”

“That’s me. What can I do for you?”

“I’m here to see Bang Chan.”

“I’m afraid he’s in lockup, pending trial.”

“I know. I want to visit him?”

“Those pending a trial are not allowed visitors.”

“He didn’t do it. His brother was killed by someone else.”

“I’m afraid I cannot discuss the case with you.”

“I’m his second in command, current Alpha in Greenridge until he returns, Lee Minho.”

“Sorry Minho. Those are the rules.”

“Your rules are bullshit!”

“You’d do well to watch your tone.” 

Minho grabbed the man by his collar, shoving him back into the wall. A nearby security officer stepped forward but Mr. Park raised his hand to stop him.

“Let go or you will be in a holding cell of your own.”

Minho growled, releasing the man and storming off. He flipped a stack of chairs in the process, scaring those passing by. He was livid to say the least.

Upon exiting the building, Changbin turned to see his mate. 

“What happened?”

“He’s pending trial. So no visitors.”

“Pending trial for what?” Seungmin asked.

“Killing Hayes and Milo probably.” Hyunjin said in a quiet voice.

“And his brother.” Minho added, face void of emotion.

They all looked at him confused.

“We should talk.” Minho sighed, deciding it was time they knew the truth.

You were in fact hungry, but didn’t want to admit it now after you told him no thirty minutes ago. Unfortunately, home would be another three ish hours of a drive to get to. Ugh you were going to have to speak up.

You turned to Reed, who was typing on his computer next to you, but noticed a giant mansion out the window. The car turned, stopping at a large gate that opened.

“Where are we?” you asked.

“Home.” Reed said.

“This isn’t Greenridge. You said you would take me home.”

“Yes, I did. I didn’t say to your home.”

You stared dumbfounded at him as the car pulled up under a carriage and stopped. Reed moved to get out, noticing you not moving.

“Come on. I’ll show you to your room”

“No.”

“No?”

“You tricked me.”

Reed sighed. “Come inside. I have some things to tend to. You can eat while I do that. Then we can freshen up and change clothes. Then I’ll see about taking you home.”

He winked at you before exiting the car. Groaning, you get out. You were hungry so you’d allow him to feed you first. He will be taking you home to your mates after that.

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Shout out to my lovely beta @cherry-erii

[jimblejamblewritings]

starlight moonlight sunlight — blurb ten

Title: To Be Ignored... And Summer Hopefulness

Pairing: ex!Remus x reader, Remus x Sirius, eventual poly!Wolfstar x reader

Warnings: friendship breakup, light angst

blurb series navigation here | previous blurb here

The girls woke up to the noise of someone shuffling in some trunks late at night. They sat up immediately as they slowly recognized it was you. You had been staying with Pamola and Tilda and even Jace, never staying too long because you were sharing a bed and didn’t want to force them to always share with you. You weren’t exactly happy the three of them chose now to get sick at the same time but there was nothing you could do. So you were switching out your clothes and small bag again and mentally preparing yourself to stay with Max. 

Maybe it would be better if you just stayed in your own room for the night. You were already here anyway. But then the girls would try and talk to you. They, especially Pandora, were worse than the marauders in terms of longing looks and awkward eye contact. This morning was no different. Mary, Lily, and Marlene tried to give you little waves but you purposefully looked everywhere but them. It was hard sometimes. Most of the time, actually. But Pamola, Jace, Tilda, and Max were good about helping you get through it. You threw a final pair of socks into your bag and left the dorm, making the short walk up the second set of steps and into the boys’ half. 

Peter was the first to turn his head at the soft knocking on the door. Max sprang to life, pushing out his desk chair. He barely gave them any warning about you staying over for a few days before opening the door to let you in. Sirius felt his jaw tick when Max held your shoulders and whispered something to you, faces only inches apart. Did he have the right? No, but it still made him jealous. Remus on the other hand didn’t feel jealous, just disappointed in himself. Maybe if they had come clean earlier, he could be holding you in the same way he was watching your friend do. Both men’s hearts jumped when you gave the marauders small waves and a thanks for not minding if you stayed. 

“Did you already wash? Are you hungry?” Max asked as he set down most of your stuff. 

You picked up his cat, Cromwell, and scratched between his ears. “I already did both.” 

“Good. Get some rest. I’ll come to bed in a bit.” 

Jealousy finally picked at Remus, potentially worse than Sirius although he would blame the full moon for that. You were getting comfortable in Max’s bed, slipping on one of his jumpers and burying yourself in the sheets. The four marauders had never seen their roommate so animated before. Usually, you and your friends were nowhere to be found outside of class. And whenever you were in lessons or the Great Hall, the five of you seemed so stoic. But you were currently talking up a storm in the dorm room. Sirius felt himself subconsciously smiling whenever you laughed. 

Remus looked over when his boyfriend suddenly snuggled into his side, both of them gripping each other’s thighs tightly. There was a silent understanding between them. They were honoring you and Max’s word and not approaching first. But Merlin did they want to. Remus wanted you in his jumper. Sirius wanted you curled up in his sheets. 

The raven-haired boy laughed to himself. He didn’t know you as well as Remus and you were closer to the rest of their friends before you two even became friendly. But the one kiss and the small period of closeness you spent together as bandmates made him want to know you desperately. It was torturous watching Max finally come to bed, having no qualms about cuddling up close to you. The two of you looked like a couple. Like a happy one. That sentiment continued in the morning as they watched you and Max change around each other with no embarrassment, shower and use the bathroom at the same time, and overall have no boundaries. 

Once again, you basically disappeared outside of classes. They were lucky to catch glimpses of you and your friends in the hallways, unsure of where you went all the time. The marauders weren’t using their map for once. If they took Veritaserum, they’d be able to answer honestly that they not once checked where you were. And they kept it that way all the way to graduation. 

The marauders and friends watched from afar as you charmed a camera so it could take pictures and get the five of you in the picture at once. You were in the middle as the other four kissed your cheeks. 

“Here’s to only a year before seeing your family,” Tilda said, happily. “Rounds at some random pub?” 

A chorus of absolutely rang out. You started to pack up the camera when you felt a tap on your shoulder. Turning, you were a bit surprised to find James. He was equally shocked, but happy, to see a slight smile on your face. His expression slightly faded as he saw your friends start to make their way back. 

“It’s not to pressure you or anything but I overheard you guys were looking for places and I know money is tight for all of you but our estate has lots of small houses and properties on it so I wanted to offer one of the places to stay. The rent is free or really low if it makes you feel weird about it being free. And it’s one of the farther ones so you don’t have to see any of us if you don’t want to. There’s a pathway separating the place,” he rushed out. 

“Thanks, James. We actually might need that.” You turned around, holding up a pair of keys. “Guys, I found us a place!” 

While your friends still didn’t like the marauders, they weren’t about to look a rich gifted horse in the mouth. Eagerly, they took the keys from you and jotted down the address and house number before apparating. He turned back to face his friends, mainly Sirius and Remus and gave them a thumbs up. They were cautious but optimistic. They had no plans on breaking their promise but some of the things on Potter Estate required walking past the cottages and other buildings. Maybe they could at least get glimpses of you or cross paths. It was worth a shot. 

That somewhat paid off one month into summer. Very much used to walking around the house a little too comfortably, Sirius answered the door while shirtless and still brushing his teeth. 

“Mr. and Mrs. Potter aren’t here rig— Y/N, hi.” 

Like your name was some sort of beacon, Remus appeared from where he was fixing his tea. You might have been mad at them but you were still human, well, part human. Your eyes slowly traveled down Sirius’ entire bare chest and the good bit of Remus you could see through his unbuttoned pajama top. They also looked at you. Less so your body and more what you were wearing. Sunglasses were on the top of your head in a matching color to your sandals. You were in tight and very short shorts with just a bathing suit as your top. And there was a large tote bag threatening to fall off your shoulders. You were definitely going to the lake with your friends. 

“Can you give this to James? It’s just a small thanks for letting us stay here. He kind of really saved us a lot of stress and financing.” You set the dish of custard slices in Sirius’ arms and then pulled another dish from your bag, giving the cookie cake to Remus. “And this is for Mrs. and Mr. Potter. You guys can have some too and whoever’s here.” 

“Thanks, Y/N.” 

The three of you stood there awkwardly before you finally said goodbye and walked away to meet your friends who were waiting for you a little ways up the path.

| next blurb coming soon |

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PERMANENT TAGLIST:

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[admirationandromantics]

Going overboard, 1: Memento Mori

Okay, so first the prologue, and now the first chapter. As I've said before, not all chapters include a Josh-interactions because of accuracy to the game, so you'll just have to live with it. If you haven't read the Prologue, go to my profile, then the masterlist, Josh Washington. You'll find it there. Get ready for tomorrow!

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Chapter 1: Memento Mori

After what happened up on the mountain last year, Josh didn’t stay in touch. At first we all tried to talk to him, help him, but we gave up one after another. He talked with Sam a lot. I think she did the most she could until he cut contact. I didn’t want to put too much on him, and we all were in grief as well, so it probably was the best solution. 

Sam and I had regular coffees. It helped us both. We shared stories about them, and she told me about everything which happened that night. The prank wasn’t about me, nor Josh. Not even Beth, but she still had to suffer the consequences. Poor Beth, and poor Hannah. We all knew she had a thing for Mike, but setting her up like that was not okay. I now despised them all, Jessica, Emily, Mike, Matt, Ashley. Matt was such a sweet guy, I couldn’t imagine him standing there with a camera, recording everything. For me though, Ashley hurt the most. I loved her, I truly did, but I cut contact quickly after I got to know about the evening. She sent me a bunch of texts, begging me to talk to her. She was sorry, she was drunk, caught up in the moment, and everyone was doing it so she felt like she had to. She never knew that the aftermath would be as bloody as it did. I still didn’t text her back. 

A month before the anniversary of their disappearance, Sam got a video message from Josh. He invited her up to the cabin again, stating that this would be a way to honour their memory, and relive the experience, but with a good ending. There would be booze, partying and just making new memories. Based on the video, it seemed like he asked everyone in the old group. Everyone except me. I felt hurt. Betrayed in a way. I was one of the few he talked to, cried to. Our relationship didn’t evolve after the event, but I was still there for him, trying to comfort him. Sam told me that I should come with her, but I declined. If he didn’t want me there, it was okay. She couldn’t understand why, but she kept being insistent, urging me to give it a chance. I didn’t have to be there the whole time, and if I wanted to, I could leave the very next day since the bus went through the area once every day. 

It would be good to talk to Josh, maybe even if he didn’t want to. I was selfish, I knew that, but I had to see him. I wanted to see how he was doing, how he was feeling. This also made me think of Chris. He would probably be there, and I hadn’t kept in touch with him either. I felt bad, but at the same time, we weren’t that close. I knew that he still hung out with Ashley sometimes, and maybe that made me a bit afraid. Maybe she would try to contact me through him? Maybe I wasn’t just selfish. Ashley also needed to talk. Talk to me, clear the air. I would let her. I finally agreed to come with Sam up to the cabin. 

***

The bus is empty, except for Sam and I of course. She didn’t pack much, and I didn’t either. I figured that I wouldn’t stay long. I just needed to talk to people, get some weights off my shoulders. The radio is playing, and no surprise, it’s about Beth and Hannah. I hold my composure, trying not to cry. The trip is long, and I end up sleeping on her shoulder for a good amount of it. Sam is watching something on her phone, but I don’t peek. I simply look out the window. There is an eerie feeling to these mountains. I felt the same last year, but this time it feels stronger. The black trees are covered in snow, untouched by animals. 

Finally we reach our stop. The sign says “Blackwood Pines” and hadn’t it been for last year's events, I would still love the name. Being here for the first time felt magical, straight out of Narnia, joining a winter wonderland of mystery. Now, I feel nervous. The air isn’t as fresh, the ground not as hard and the snow was too white. Instead of smelling winter, I smell something musk, like a dead animal or rotten meat. I look over at Sam, and I think she notices too. 

We start walking in silence, through the gate and up the trail. As we walk, she stops. 

“Did you hear that?”

“Hear what?” I whisper, getting anxious. Maybe it’s a wild animal, a wolf or a bear. 

“Hello!?” Sam shouts, and my eyes widen. Why would she do that, what if the animal looks at us as a threat now. I look around, expecting something to pop out, but it’s silent. 

“Sorry, I probably just thought I heard something,” she says, continuing walking. She notices my tenseness. 

“Are you okay?”

“No, absolutely not” I state, looking around again. 

“Hey I get it, this is weird, but we’re doing this for Josh right,” she starts, taking my hand, stopping me. 

“I hate to say it, but you need to relax. Nothing bad is going to happen, and people are just being friendly”

“I know, I know. I just can’t shake off this feeling that there’s something here”

“It’s because of last year. We’re all still thinking about it, so we know how you’re feeling”

I look up at her. She’s right, I’m not alone in this, and we’ve both been there for each other the whole year. 

“Yeah, thanks for the talk. It’s just… well, weird”

“It is, but I think this is good for you. This trip could be a way for you to let go, get some closure. They both would’ve wanted that for you” she says, before pulling me into a hug. I breathe, and some of the tension lifts. Thank God I still have Sam. When we pull away she looks at me, smiling. I smile back, before looking behind her. My mouth opens, eyes widen and my breath hitches. I grab her hand, holding hard. 

“S-Sam, c-c-careful. Stand s-s-till,” I whisper. She holds her breath while searching my face for answers. 

“Boo!” I shout, punching her with both my hands. She screeches, jumps and I feel her pulse in her hand. 

“Got you” I laugh, while she’s still trying to compose herself. 

“Fucking asshole” she says. I can’t stop laughing. 

“You know, you’re going to ‘wolf wolf’ me.”

“I can live with that” I continue laughing, before starting to walk again, her following after. 

“I’m joking, that was out of line, sorry” I say after a while. 

“At least you got to see my ‘frozen’ face”

“Yeah that’s why I laughed” 

We reach the gate, and a piece of paper is pinned on the lock. 

“The gate’s busted, climb over -Chris” 

“I guess we have to climb,” I state, looking at the gate. There are big spikes on the top of the gate, so I look over at the side. It’s a stone wall. 

“Right up my alley” Sam says enthusiastically. Of course it is. 

“I’ll give you a lift first if you take my bag” she says, already taking off her bag. 

“Fine, just don’t throw me over with those strong climber-arms of yours” I reply, taking her bag and making my way to the wall. She puts out her hands and I grab somewhere safe on the wall. She helps me get up, and I jump down the other side, looking up, waiting for her. 

“Gosh, the stones are cold” she complains, finally getting to the top. 

“Should’ve worn gloves” I smile, showing off my red-covered hands in a theatrical manner. She laughs before hopping down. I give her backpack back, and we continue up. 

When we finally arrive at the cable car station, the place seems empty. I see a couple of cars in the parking lot, but don’t want to check who they belong to. One of them must be Josh’s. I walk up to the bench, noticing a backpack and a ringing phone. My curiosity is immense, but I don’t touch it. Sam notices who’s bag it is. 

“Hey Chris!” she yells, looking around for him. 

“Hey guys” he answers, and we both turn around. He seems older, more harsh than the year before, but I don’t comment on it. 

“How are you ladies?”

“Well, as you can expect” Sam answers, still smiling. I smile as well, keeping the mood light. I don’t notice how much I’ve missed him before seeing him now. Something in me breaks a little. 

“Oh, so, I found something kind of amazing”

“What?”

“I’m not gonna tell you got to see for yourself” he smiles, grabbing his backpack and leading us around the house. We get to the other side where we’re met with a shooting range. Barrels and bottles stacked for hitting, as well as bags hanging from the trees. 

“Ta-da! Pretty rad right?” Chris exclaims, loving this a bit too much. Sam forces a smile, guns are not a source of happiness for a pacifist. 

“A gun range on the bottom of a ski lodge” I comment. “How… nordic?”

Chris picks up a gun before looking at me. 

“Well, have you met Josh’s dad?”

“Yeah”

“Then we shouldn’t be surprised” he says before turning and aiming the gun. I hold my breath, not comfortable with this funny clumsy guy holding a death-weapon. He shoots the bags and one of the cans. I’m kind of impressed. 

“Nice shootin Tex” Sam teases, not impressed. I guess it would take something better than shooting to impress her. She fakes an annoyed look before turning my way. 

“Wanna try?”

“You know what, sure. It’s been a while” I say before taking the gun from him, taking off my backpack and laying it beside me. 

“You’ve done this before?”

“Josh has taken me shooting several times, not hunting though, luckily” I smile, remembering how close we felt the first time he showed me how to use it. 

“I bet that’s not the only thing you two have done” he comments, a smirk on his lips. 

“Haha, funny guy” I tease back. Sam holds her laughter. I shoot a couple of bags, stopping when a squirrel jumps on one of the barrels. 

“I guess that’s our sign to start going to the lodge,” I say, leaving the gun and grabbing my bag. 

“Jeez, I wish Josh would take me shooting,” Chris says, and I smile. 

The cable car is coming, and Sam makes her way over there. I use the opportunity to grab ahold of him. 

“Hey Chris, about this year-” I start, but he holds a finger up, signalling for me to stop. 

“I get it, if I were in your shoes I would’ve done the same”

“Really?”

“Yeah, it’s weird being back, but I’ve been wanting to clear up everything. We should keep in contact, even though you don’t want to talk to Ashley, I understand”

“When did you become such an understanding gentleman,” I tease, punching his arm and start walking. He lifts his arms in the air. 

“Haven’t I always been?” And I laugh at him. 

We all get in the cable car, and it starts moving up. Chris starts talking about how he and Josh met, and I pay close attention. I’ve only heard this story from Josh, and I love getting the different story-perspectives. 

***

We arrive at the top, I stand and try to open the door. It will not open. 

“Uh, guys, I can’t get the door open.” Chris tries, but can’t manage either. His response is to smack the window. 

“Ahh, what the hell!” I hear someone say. Jessica. I compose myself. 

“Jess! Over here, open the door!” Chris shouts. I see her through the window, and I bite my lips from having to look put together. Don’t look like a bitch, don’t look like a bitch, don’t look like you have anything against this piece of scum. I keep chanting in my head. 

She opens the door, and we all thank her. As we walk out, Chris starts whining. 

“Oh my god. I thought we were goners. Another ten minutes in there and I would’ve chewed off my own leg.”

“Aw, sick Chris,” Sam comments. 

“Look, I’ve got a lot of meat on my bones. This is all muscle down there.”

Sam rolls her eyes. “Yeah riiiiiight”

“Keep telling yourself that Chris,” I add, clapping him on the shoulder as I walk past him. He lowers his voice to a whisper. 

“Well, we all know who’s bone you want to jump…”

I turn around, mouth agape and eyes threatening. He immediately puts his hands up in defence, walking backwards two paces. 

“Just jokes, just jokes” says, voice cracking. 

“Dickhead”

“Notice how I’m not going to make another joke about that,” he answers. I quickly make a snowball and throw it at him, hitting his chest. Sam places herself between us, arms tense as if waiting for someone to attack. 

Chris uses this opportunity to snatch whatever Jess is holding. 

“Well, well, well… What do we have here?”

“Chris” Sam starts. He opens it, a surprised look on his face. 

“My goodness! Seems like someone has a crush on our good friend and dear class president Michael Munroe.” Shit. That’s not good. 

“Chris,” I threaten. 

“And what kind of sizzling erotica might our Jessica be capable of imagining, I wonder…”

Before he’s able to see more, Jess quickly snatches the item back. 

“If you must know-” she starts.

“Mike and I are together now.” We all look at each other. 

“Drama,” Chris answers. 

“No, pretty cut clean actually. Em’s out, I’m in,” she explains. I look over at Sam. She doesn’t know what to say. Luckily, Chris breaks the awkwardness. 

“Well, we should keep going” 

“You go, I’ll be waiting here for a bit”

“Waiting for Mike?”

“Just go”

We oblige, walking further and leaving her behind. The trail is quite big and visible. It’s comfortable to walk on. As we turn a corner, I see the cabin. The cabin where Josh is, where Ashley is probably waiting. The cabin which was the last place two of our best friends were seen alive one year ago.

[amuseoffyre]

Fyre's convention adventures - Day 3 - Con O'Neill's Fanmeet

My final meet of the event was Con’s, immediately after the joyful chaos of his panel with Rhys.

Forewarning, this one contains some details of animal harm that happened to his pet before he got him.

He barely had sat down when someone asked if he’d been Whammed already and the look of feigned shock and “that’s none of your business!” set the tone of the thing :D He also told us in his best encouraging voice "You can be whammed as much as you like and don't let the right wing tell you otherwise!"

And also led into a discussion about whether it was Wham! or whether it was George Michael’s solo for Last Christmas and he had to sheepishly back down after a minute and admit, no, it was Wham, definitely Wham.

And of course, I had to bring up accent stuff and asked how it felt to actually be able to use his own accent, given how rarely northern English accents show up in media made elsewhere. He said it was a delight to be able to bring a bit of Wigan to the production.

He also talked about his drama teacher when he was a kid (who he did not name because she doesn’t deserve that respect) who – when he was sixteen – told him he would never be a successful actor because he had a weird voice. There was apparently a recent review for The Penguin series that someone said he had the coolest voice and he thought that was a lovely fuck you to that malignant boot.

He made a beautiful point that if you’re a teacher, especially a teacher in a creative field, you have a duty to be encouraging. Not talking BS about how everyone will be famous, he said, but realistic, supporting and encouraging the kids, because “we know it’s hard. We don’t need to be told it’s hard. We know, but when it’s good, it’s fucking amazing”. He also mentioned that it’s come so far from the days of RP everywhere.

I said it was definitely how I felt about seeing Buttons as well – having a working class Edinburgh accent, something that so many people have never heard. He was so happy to talk about how fantastic Ewen Bremner is as an actor (“even if I can’t understand anything he’s saying”) and that he saw him in the original run of the Trainspotting stage production in the 90s when Ewen played Renton, several years before the film happened.

It was surreal, he said, to have seen this incredible actor on stage and thirty years later, to be sharing the screen with him as Buttons (“and still not understanding a word he was saying!”) and that Ewen is genuinely one of the best actors he knows and that he’s also the best kind of people.

Someone asked about how they did the seagull stuff with Buttons and he told us about Jonathan, the gull on a string, but in the shots when they didn’t have the camera on Buttons, Ewen wore a stuffed seagull on his head to maintain the right eyelines. He had to admit it was quite challenging to keep his face straight when filming because when Ewen spoke, the plushie gull was jiggling on his head XD

And then, of course, he broke our hearts by telling us about how he and his husband adopted Cooper, their wee doggo.

Their previous dog had passed and they’d been adamant they weren’t going to adopt again because it fully broke their hearts when he died, but someone sent Con a picture of a dog in a shelter in Hungary, saying “does this remind you of anyone?” and it was the spitting image of their previous dog. They got a bit emotional about it and after a few days of trying to hold off, they called the shelter.

Cooper had already been adopted – in London – but it wasn’t working out, so they got in touch with the current owners and planned to go down and meet them. The first time Cooper saw them, he started barking excitedly and things only escalated :D

They took Cooper off for a walk to see how they got on, then got so distracted comparing selfies, that Cooper trotted off and they were so panicked about losing him that they rushed back to tell the current owners, only Cooper was there, patiently waiting on the step and ecstatically started barking when he saw them coming again.

So they go in and Con said he took one of the ladies aside to find out why the adoption hadn’t worked, because they needed to know why in case it was major behavioural things that needed work. She said that the dog was incapable of love or connecting with people. And Con, looking beyond her shoulder, could see his husband on the floor, dog on his chest, wagging his tail so enthusiastically his whole body was wagging, licking Con’s husband all over his face. Con be like MMHM. Sounds like a skills issue ;)

So they took him home but got a bit concerned when he had a tendency to bite and latch on if people touched his ears or ribs. Turned out Cooper had been horribly abused in Hungary: tattoos on his ear, broken ribs, cigarette burns and surgery without anaesthetic. They were worried it could be a problem because they have young grandkids.

Still, they decided do the trial adoption and see how he got on – usually, he said, the trial is for a week or two, then the dog returns to the original adopters and then the paperwork is done. They never saw the original adopters again.

And while they were still concerned about the biting, Con had to go away for work for a few weeks, so they got a dog-sitter in to look after Cooper. When Con returned, he said Cooper crawled along the floor of the hall on his belly to Con, head and ears down, then crawled all the way up under his shirt, curling up against his chest, trembling and whimpering. The dogsitter – who is some kind of pet psychologist as well – said it was because he’s been abandoned and dumped so many times, he didn’t know they were coming back.

Con: right that second, I decided fuck the grandkids, we’re keeping him.

And now, Cooper is so happy and safe and loved and safe :)

There was one other question but I can’t recall what it was now. It was such a lovely chat and he is genuinely such a lovely, warm, funny guy.

[hulloitsdani]

PLS go on another rant about Kiran Fire Emblem I’m begging you 🙏

I love to read you yapping💞💞💞 I like your TedTalks

:D

Aw thank you stranger! I’m happy to provide!

So recently I feel that I have been putting Kiran Fire Emblem through the wringer. Which is all well and good, but I believe it’s time for them to have good things. As a treat. This oddly takes the form of book 5.

In case it’s your first time witnessing my monologues or are in need of a refresher, let me provide a little context. Kiran had a life before being summoned to Askr and a major part of their arc is suppressing just how deeply that loss affects them. Like it or not, it bleeds into everything they do. This all culminates into book 4, which was an all time low for their character. A lot of issues all started blowing up in their face all at once, last but not least being the grief they hold from losing their entire world. It very nearly kills them. It was an extremely bad time.

However, lessons were learned. Since then, Kiran has been trying to vocalize their discomforts more. It’s a bit weird though, considering Anna and Sharena witnessed firsthand their little meltdown in the realm of dreams. It’s… damnit it’s just weird! Really weird! Most of their cards are on the table now and it’s weird! It’s not like their friends heard about this stuff by talking to them, they SAW it nearly KILL THEM. The dynamic is, understandably, different than it would otherwise be.

If they weren’t willing trying, Anna would pry their issues from their mouth with crowbar. Hell, sometimes she does anyway if she gets, in her own words, “a hunch.” Sharena meanwhile has been very pampering. They didn’t know she could be more pampering than she already was, but oh boy were they wrong. Three homemade meals a day guaranteed under her watch. And if they’re being honest, it does feel very nice, which ultimately makes them feel awful because the realm of dreams was rough for her too. She should also… they don’t know. They feel bad. She has reassured them many times that it’s all good and that this helps her too. And how even if it didn’t, she loves them and would do this stuff anyway. They don’t doubt that anymore but… they still feel bad. They feel bad about feeling good. It’s all a complicated mess. They are telling Alfonse about this though, which makes it feel less overwhelming. His insights help. He provides a bit of a sanity check.

It is within this state of recovery that book 5 occurs. Considering the weaponry of their enemy, Kiran ends up talking a lot more openly about their world. Delving into the literal and metaphorical mechanics of it. And it’s oddly fun! Alfonse has a leg up since he’s the only one who has been curious enough to ask prior to this. So there’s many scenarios where a.) something Kiran previous told him finally clicks now that he has a better visual for what they mean, which leads to b.) Alfonse and Kiran trying their best to explain to Anna and Sharena. It’s an absolutely ridiculous sight to behold— Sharena catches on a bit quicker since she’s pretty good at visualizing things, but Anna has no such boon and is STRUGGLING. Kiran and Alfonse aren’t exactly teachers either, so it’s a fun time.

Then they meet Reginn.

It feels obvious, in hindsight, that they were bound to click with each other. At first though, it seems like it’s going to be the same dynamic Kiran always has with the new stray the Order picks up. Polite friendliness alongside genuine empathy with a side of reassuring presence. The group agrees to help and Kiran gets cracking on how to make that a reality. But then something interesting happens. As Reginn speaks in further vulnerable detail about her plight to them, Kiran begins… talking. Like actually talking. Talking about their family and their life prior to Askr.

It starts small. The both of them are fixing up Reginn’s metal horse (the Order broke it in their initial fight with her) and she asks how they know so much about her country’s technology. She knows they’re from an alien world and, well, they aren’t proficient at this by any means— but they know enough to be helpful. And for once, Kiran is honest. “…My mom was a mechanic.” They say, not turning to face her. “She, uh, knew how to fix this kind of stuff. Taught us a little bit.”

It’s a small snippet of information that has taken five seasons to wring out of Kiran, and Reginn of all people is the first one to hear it. It’s way easier to tell her, for a multitude of reasons. One of them being exactly that— there’s no build up. Reginn didn’t see their book 4 meltdown. She doesn’t know how big of deal this is for them. That’s good. It takes the pressure off and makes it easier. For Reginn, this is information they offered casually and willingly from the beginning. And in doing this, they keep talking and both end up relating to each other rather deeply. It quickly becomes obvious that Kiran isn’t simply helping her out of the goodness of their heart, but because they personally relate to her plight. Kiran was extremely close with their siblings, and now they may never seen them again. They don’t want the same thing to happen to other people. This recontextualizes a lot of their actions, but it importantly builds trust. Kiran is immediately knocked off this pedestal as some morally pious figure and into a human person in her eyes. Someone who gets it and wants to help.

This creates a delightful dynamic between them. She is immediately more than friend, as that’s pretty explicitly what the Askr trio are to them. This is different. It’s familial. Reginn is working with information and a cultural context pretty perfectly equipped to understand them in this way. And, considering the losses they’ve both experienced, they crave this placement in each other’s lives. It’s healing. Kiran lost their family and Reginn’s family hasn’t been a family since Fafnir took the throne. It’s far from a replacement, but it’s definitely filling a void. They both needed this.

Gods, they both needed this.

They needed someone to respond to playful quips with a laugh and a clap back. They needed someone to triple dog dare to sling a spit ball into the back of a god’s head. They needed someone to people watch with as a late night to early morning watch shift wrapped up. They needed a shoulder to lean on after Otr finally said all the quiet parts out loud. They needed someone to understand some parts about them a bit more inherently than either are used to, for better or worse.

Without this, neither of them get better. Not anytime soon, anyway. But luckily, Reginn and Kiran entered each other’s lives at just the right time.