#and include the longer responses too

[catboydan]

fiance got me a kindle for my birthday <3

[sapphia]

USA please listen to me: the price of “teaching them a lesson” is too high. take it from New Zealand, who voted our Labour government out in the last election because they weren’t doing exactly what we wanted and got facism instead.

Trans rights are being attacked, public transport has been defunded, tax cuts issued for the wealthy, they've mass-defunded public services, cut and attacked the disability funding model, cut benefits, diverted transport funding to roads, cut all recent public transport subsidies, cancelled massive important infrastructure projects like damns and ferries (we are three ISLANDS), fast tracked mining, oil, and other massive environmentally detrimental projects and gave the power the to approve these projects singularly to three ministers who have been wined and dined by lobbyists of the companies that have put the bids in to approve them while one of the main minister infers he will not prioritise the protection of endangered species like the archeys frog over mining projects that do massive environmental harm. They have attacked indigenous rights in an attempt to negate the Treaty of Waitangi by “redefining it”; as a backup, they are also trying to remove all mentions of the treaty from legislation starting with our Child Protection laws no longer requiring social workers to consider the importance of Maori children’s culture when placing those children; when the Waitangi Tribunal who oversees indigenous matters sought to enquire about this, the Minister for Children blocked their enquiry in a breach of comity that was condemned in a ruling — too late to do anything — by our Supreme Court. They have repealed labour protections around pay and 90 day trials, reversed our smoking ban, cancelled our EV subsidy, cancelled our water infrastructure scheme that would have given Maori iwi a say in water asset management, cancelled our biggest city’s fuel tax, made our treasury and inland revenue departments less accountable, dispensed of our Productivity Commission, begun work on charter schools and military boot camps in an obvious push towards privatisation, cancelled grants for first home buyers, reduced access to emergency housing, allowed no cause evictions, cancelled our Maori health system that would have given Maori control over their own public medical care and funding, cut funding of services like budgeting advice and food banks, cancelled the consumer advocacy council, cancelled our medicine regulations, repealed free prescriptions, deferred multiple hospital builds, failed to deliver on pre-election medical promises, reversed a gun ban created in response to the mosque shootings, brought back three strikes = life sentence policy, increased minimum wage by half the recommended amount, cancelled fair pay for disabled workers, reduced wheelchair services, reversed our oil and gas exploration ban, cancelled our climate emergency fund, cut science research funding including climate research, removed limits on killing sea lions, cut funding for the climate change commission, weakened our methane targets, cancelled Significant National Areas protections, have begun reversing our ban on live exports. Much of this was passed under urgency.

It’s been six months.

[sophiamcdougall]

You're a reasonably informed person on the internet. You've experienced things like no longer being able to get files off an old storage device, media you've downloaded suddenly going poof, sites and forums with troves full of people's thoughts and ideas vanishing forever. You've heard of cybercrime. You've read articles about lost media. You have at least a basic understanding that digital data is vulnerable, is what I'm saying. I'm guessing that you're also aware that history is, you know... important? And that it's an ongoing study, requiring ... data about how people live? And that it's not just about stanning celebrities that happen to be dead? Congratulations, you are significantly better-informed than the British government! So they're currently like "Oh hai can we destroy all these historical documents pls? To save money? Because we'll digitise them first so it's fine! That'll be easy, cheap and reliable -- right? These wills from the 1850s will totally be fine for another 170 years as a PNG or whatever, yeah? We didn't need to do an impact assesment about this because it's clearly win-win! We'd keep the physical wills of Famous People™ though because Famous People™ actually matter, unlike you plebs. We don't think there are any equalities implications about this, either! Also the only examples of Famous People™ we can think of are all white and rich, only one is a woman and she got famous because of the guy she married. Kisses!"

Yes, this is the same Government that's like "Oh no removing a statue of slave trader is erasing history :(" You have, however, until 23 February 2024 to politely inquire of them what the fuck they are smoking. And they will have to publish a summary of the responses they receive. And it will look kind of bad if the feedback is well-argued, informative and overwhelmingly negative and they go ahead and do it anyway. I currently edit documents including responses to consultations like (but significantly less insane) than this one. Responses do actually matter. I would particularly encourage British people/people based in the UK to do this, but as far as I can see it doesn't say you have to be either. If you are, say, a historian or an archivist, or someone who specialises in digital data do say so and draw on your expertise in your answers. This isn't a question of filling out a form. You have to manually compose an email answering the 12 questions in the consultation paper at the link above. I'll put my own answers under the fold. Note -- I never know if I'm being too rude in these sorts of things. You probably shouldn't be ruder than I have been.

Please do not copy and paste any of this: that would defeat the purpose. This isn't a petition, they need to see a range of individual responses. But it may give you a jumping-off point.

Question 1: Should the current law providing for the inspection of wills be preserved?

Yes. Our ability to understand our shared past is a fundamental aspect of our heritage. It is not possible for any authority to know in advance what future insights they are supporting or impeding by their treatment of material evidence. Safeguarding the historical record for future generations should be considered an extremely important duty.

Question 2: Are there any reforms you would suggest to the current law enabling wills to be inspected?

No.

Question 3: Are there any reasons why the High Court should store original paper will documents on a permanent basis, as opposed to just retaining a digitised copy of that material?

Yes. I am amazed that the recent cyber attack on the British Library, which has effectively paralysed it completely, not been sufficient to answer this question for you.  I also refer you to the fate of the Domesday Project. Digital storage is useful and can help more people access information; however, it is also inherently fragile. Malice, accident, or eventual inevitable obsolescence not merely might occur, but absolutely should be expected. It is ludicrously naive and reflects a truly unpardonable ignorance to assume that information preserved only in digital form is somehow inviolable and safe, or that a physical document once digitised, never need be digitised again..At absolute minimum, it should be understood as certain that at least some of any digital-only archive will eventually be permanently lost. It is not remotely implausible that all of it would be. Preserving the physical documents provides a crucial failsafe. It also allows any errors in reproduction -- also inevitable-- to be, eventually, seen and corrected. Note that maintaining, upgrading and replacing digital infrastructure is not free, easy or reliable. Over the long term, risks to the data concerned can only accumulate.

"Unlike the methods for preserving analog documents that have been honed over millennia, there is no deep precedence to look to regarding the management of digital records. As such, the processing, long-term storage, and distribution potential of archival digital data are highly unresolved issues. [..] the more digital data is migrated, translated, and re-compressed into new formats, the more room there is for information to be lost, be it at the microbit-level of preservation. Any failure to contend with the instability of digital storage mediums, hardware obsolescence, and software obsolescence thus meets a terminal end—the definitive loss of information. The common belief that digital data is safe so long as it is backed up according to the 3-2-1 rule (3 copies on 2 different formats with 1 copy saved off site) belies the fact that it is fundamentally unclear how long digital information can or will remain intact. What is certain is that its unique vulnerabilities do become more pertinent with age."  -- James Boyda, On Loss in the 21st Century: Digital Decay and the Archive, Introduction.

Question 4: Do you agree that after a certain time original paper documents (from 1858 onwards) may be destroyed (other than for famous individuals)? Are there any alternatives, involving the public or private sector, you can suggest to their being destroyed?

Absolutely not. And I would have hoped we were past the "great man" theory of history. Firstly, you do not know which figures will still be considered "famous" in the future and which currently obscure individuals may deserve and eventually receive greater attention. I note that of the three figures you mention here as notable enough to have their wills preserved, all are white, the majority are male (the one woman having achieved fame through marriage) and all were wealthy at the time of their death. Any such approach will certainly cull evidence of the lives of women, people of colour and the poor from the historical record, and send a clear message about whose lives you consider worth remembering.

Secondly, the famous and successsful are only a small part of our history. Understanding the realities that shaped our past and continue to mould our present requires evidence of the lives of so-called "ordinary people"!

Did you even speak to any historians before coming up with this idea?

Entrusting the documents to the private sector would be similarly disastrous. What happens when a private company goes bust or decides that preserving this material is no longer profitable? What reasonable person, confronted with our crumbling privatised water infrastructure, would willingly consign any part of our heritage to a similar fate?

Question 5: Do you agree that there is equivalence between paper and digital copies of wills so that the ECA 2000 can be used?

No. And it raises serious questions about the skill and knowledge base within HMCTS and the government that the very basic concepts of data loss and the digital dark age appear to be unknown to you. I also refer you to the Domesday Project.

Question 6: Are there any other matters directly related to the retention of digital or paper wills that are not covered by the proposed exercise of the powers in the ECA 2000 that you consider are necessary?

Destroying the physical documents will always be an unforgivable dereliction of legal and moral duty.

Question 7: If the Government pursues preserving permanently only a digital copy of a will document, should it seek to reform the primary legislation by introducing a Bill or do so under the ECA 2000?

Destroying the physical documents will always be an unforgivable dereliction of legal and moral duty.

Question 8: If the Government moves to digital only copies of original will documents, what do you think the retention period for the original paper wills should be? Please give reasons and state what you believe the minimum retention period should be and whether you consider the Government’s suggestion of 25 years to be reasonable.

There is no good version of this plan. The physical documents should be preserved.

Question 9: Do you agree with the principle that wills of famous people should be preserved in the original paper form for historic interest?

This question betrays deep ignorance of what "historic interest" actually is. The study of history is not simply glorified celebrity gossip. If anything, the physical wills of currently famous people could be considered more expendable as it is likely that their contents are so widely diffused as to be relatively "safe", whereas the wills of so-called "ordinary people" will, especially in aggregate, provide insights that have not yet been explored.

Question 10: Do you have any initial suggestions on the criteria which should be adopted for identifying famous/historic figures whose original paper will document should be preserved permanently?

Abandon this entire lamentable plan. As previously discussed, you do not and cannot know who will be considered "famous" in the future, and fame is a profoundly flawed criterion of historical significance.

Question 11: Do you agree that the Probate Registries should only permanently retain wills and codicils from the documents submitted in support of a probate application? Please explain, if setting out the case for retention of any other documents.

No, all the documents should be preserved indefinitely.

Question 12: Do you agree that we have correctly identified the range and extent of the equalities impacts under each of these proposals set out in this consultation? Please give reasons and supply evidence of further equalities impacts as appropriate.

No. You appear to have neglected equalities impacts entirely. As discussed, in your drive to prioritise "famous people", your plan will certainly prioritise the white, wealthy and mostly the male, as your "Charles Dickens, Charles Darwin and Princess Diana" examples amply indicate. This plan will create a two-tier system where evidence of the lives of the privileged is carefully preserved while information regarding people of colour, women, the working class and other disadvantaged groups is disproportionately abandoned to digital decay and eventual loss. Current and future historians from, or specialising in the history of minority groups will be especially impoverished by this.  

[bdbdbdbdmn]

government people will be like "yeah it was cool before but now in our state we're gonna make it illegal to uncover female breast. or biological male breast that have been altered to look female. it's not against breastfeeding though we still want lots of babies" and TERFs will be like "yay feminism!" and the trans allies will be like "hooray you affirmed trans women's genders by no longer allowing them to continue to be shirtless post transition just like cis women even though they already elected to cover up because it's gender affirming and it's culturally taboo not to! trans rights have all been won except for how dare they include trans women in an anti-woman law boooooo!" and trans guys will be like "what about how they just redefined us as legally female so they're definitely talking about us, and then specifically in response to us uncovering our chests after top surgery, they made this law? and they only included cis women to misgender us further and they only included trans women to uphold the sexist and misogynistic idea that breast that have developed beyond a certain point (like ours were/are), or that don't exist on a body that belongs to a cis male (like us too), are inherently sexual? what about how we're the only significant demographic challenging cis men's monopoly over shirtlessness?" and everyone will be like "shhhhhhhhhhhh it's just a potential implication! clearly the only targets are female (cis or trans), they said so when they called you a female! you're definitely just collateral damage. it's definitely for sure totally not the other way around at all!"

if you can recognize when "male" is a dog whistle, you can figure out when "female" is too. it's the easiest one to figure out, especially when they're side by side.

[kukinkrim]

Hiii💗

I was wondering if you could do headcannons of the Saja boys with a demon s/o that’s a little weirdo? Like maybe she has a very odd hyper fixation like embalming, poisons, spirits, etc. She could be a little eerie looking, still pretty but theirs just something off. Maybe one of the boys hears their fans bashing the reader on her interests or appearance and instantly shut in down publicly?

the tales of five demon boys & their delightfully disturbing lovers

saja boys x gn!demon!reader (separate)

note: they ended up longer than i inteded TT i'm getting used to writing hcs, sorry!

jinu + a spirit-whisperer s/o

when jinu first met you, he was convinced you were possessed. like actually.

demons are evil and weird—he included, of course, he has his own fair share of hobbies. but you were different

you would mutter in latin to the air and say things like “don’t step there—he hates being walked through.”

sometimes you would stop mid-conversation to stare at something in the air and say, “can you not breathe down my neck right now?”

jinu can't see them, which makes it all the more scary.

how can a demon be scared of ghosts? he doesn't know.

but jinu fell inlove still.

and your spirit friends actually, genuinely, liked him.

their approval gives him pride, like he was asking your parents to court you.

jinu thinks your quirks that humans deemed 'weird' were what made you all the more beautiful.

he never found you weird.

not once. not even when you left cups of tea in the hallway and whispered to empty rooms like you were tucking invisible children into bed. if anything, it made the world feel less lonely.

most people said the word ghost with fear in their voices.

you said it like family. and jinu was welcomed into that little family of yours.

jinu had grown used to hearing you talk to the air. to them. like bakunawa, the ancient spirit who refused to sit unless the tea was boiling, steam hissing. or gertrude, an old lady, who hovered around his lover like a protective auntie, brushing your hair when you fell asleep.

sometimes, he’d catch glimpses—just shapes and flickers of movement. but it was your stories that brought them to life.

he'd make you tea and listen. no judgment. he listens and gets to know the spirits you were so fond of.

because in your world—between the living and the dead—you were never alone.

and neither was he. h had grown to love them, too.

but it was only a matter of time before his fans knew of your existence. not that he was hiding you deliberately, but kpop fans were just whole other level of nightmare to control.

he wasn’t even sure how they found you.

regardless, the storm hit fast.

your face was everywhere, and the nickname "spirit freak" was trending.

“they need help.”

“jinu’s dating a that freak??”

“is he being posessed because why them? that's so creepy.”

“someone check his house for ouija boards.”

the worst ones weren't just mocking. they quickly turned violent. threats. doxxing. they managed to catch wind of your cellphone number and blew up your notifications with nonstop threats that made you feel disgusted.

mortals were scarier than ghosts; demons, even.

they didn't faze you, of course. you are a decade older than the rest of this sorry population. you wouldn't stoop so low as to dignify their taunts with any more response—you don't care much.

but jinu cares alot more than you realized.

he didn’t go online. he didn’t tweet, didn’t post, didn’t stream.

everyone thinks it's because he was weighing his options. that, or he finally woke up from this 'nightmare' of a relationship—according to his fans.

but what the public didn't know was that he spent three weeks studying defamation laws, cybercrime statutes, digital harassment ordinances. he skipped meals to do his research thoroughly, leaving no stone unturned.

he compiled every tweet, every handle, every traceable threat; especially those that were sent to your phone.

when the lawsuits dropped, the media exploded

“Multiple Pride Fans Facing Court Action from SAJA BOYS's Jinu’s Legal Team.”

he didn’t post a statement.

he didn’t need to.

his silence did all the talking.

abby + an embalmer s/o

you're a 10/10 but owns 5 vintage embalming kits and a preserved raven in your entryway.

when abby first visited your home it smelled like clove oil and faint formaldehyde.

abby once asked if that was a perfume, only to be surprised of the answer.

the shock wore off quick, though, because he didn't really understand what it really is and what it was for. "what's a floramahehaye?"

abby actually likes your job. he doesn't care about humans so it didn't really faze him when you knew of your occupation and hobbies.

if anything, he would volunteer sometimes when you're studying about human anatomy.

mostly because his abs, his proud and joy, fascinated you so much.

he's very smug about it actually.

as a demon, you spent most of your early existence buried deep within the earth’s crust, surrounded by a screaming fire lord and lava rivers and imps who couldn’t didn't have anything more to do than wallow in despair. you didn’t like hell—everyone doesn't. it was too loud, too hot, too full of shame. but you were used to it.

until you started watching humans.

they were delicate. complicated. tender. they lived fast and rotted faster.

you wanted to understand them.

so, naturally… when you were given the chance to stay on the surface, you took a job where you could open them up and study what they left behind.

embalming was never about death. to you, it was about learning. it was preserving. honoring the shell left behind.

your coworkers thought you were a little off. not that you would blame though. your uncanny precision, your fascination with each organ’s texture, your absolute indifference to that iron smell—but you never let it bother you.

and abby doesn't too.

your first time meeting, you were shamelessly staring and he absolutely drank that attention up.

he was unnaturally pretty. not like “idol pretty,” more like if the concept of youth itself hit the gym. broad shoulders, pretty mouth, lashes long enough to dust a corpse’s cheek, and those godsent, chiseled, mouth-watering abs.

you didn’t mean to fall in love.

and when you once murmured your confession, “i wonder what your heart looks like outside of your ribcage,” he just grinned and said, “kinda sweet. kinda terrifying. i'd give it to you if i could, though.”

he never made you feel like a freak.

so when fans found out who you were. when your job, your calling, became the butt of every joke online—it crushed him.

it started with a leaked photo. you, in your lab coat, smiling serenely as you adjusted a body’s jaw. it was taken out of context and plastered everywhere.

“abby’s lover is a corpse freak???”

“THEY HANDLE DEAD PEOPLE FOR FUN.”

“what happened to dating normal people.”

“wouldn't be surprised if abby's dead one day with an open stomach lolol. what a freak."

the comments weren’t just cruel. they were invasive. some found your workplace and showed up outside, calling you all the names on the book.

you nearly lost your job.

abby didn’t wait for the PR team to draft an apology. apology for what? he wasn't sorry for loving you. he ignored the company meetings taht called to him for damage control.

and three days later, at the next fansign, he arrived wearing a tight white t-shirt.

on the front, in bold red gothic lettering: "EMBALM ME, MOMMY."

and on the below it is a large, flattering photo of your face—taken when you weren’t looking. probably in your embalming room. you had a scalpel in one hand and a slight smile on your lips. you looked beautiful.

mystery + a poison-obsessed s/o

your kitchen looked like a potion lab. bottles of liquid with caution plastered all over them.

your kisses sometimes tasted like bitter almonds or lemon balm.

you have a garden in your backyard solely for growing herbs.

you labeled your garden beds like “mild paralysis” and “emotional support toxicity."

he liked it.

sometimes he’d join you, fingers brushing yours as you crushed petals into paste.

mystery: you drank WHAT?

you, grinning: only a sip. i just wanted to know if it numbed my tongue—turns out, it does!

true to his name, he would sometimes ask you to let him taste some of them too

mystery wasn’t sure when it became normal to wake up to the smell of crushed wolfsbane and jasmine tea.

he just knew that when he saw your apron covered in petal dust and your fingers stained faintly green, it felt like home.

you were strange.

you were a poisoner.

not an assassin—just a curious one. a demon with a flair for toxicology and herbal pharmacology. you’d been alive for centuries and tasted everything from heavenly herbs that made angels cry to the extract of a root so potent it made your vision turn sideways for a week.

he once caught you licking a leaf, then calmly scribbling down symptoms in a leather-bound notebook.

“just tingling this time,” you had mumbled, smiling.

mystery stared at you for ten full seconds before croaking out, "honey, you ingested… all of that?!”

you just blinked, head tilting slightly. "it was for science. science tasted kind of burning though."

he nearly died of a heart attack. not from your herbs—just you being you.

but did he ever stop you? no.

he was mystery, after all. and you? you were every dark thrill he never knew he needed.

you were careful, really. but one photo of your windowsill garden—specifically the belladonna and monkshood—somehow surfaced on a gossip account. then someone dug deeper and found your blog; a poison-for-research journal filled with herb tests, absorption rates, even antidote recipes you’d developed yourself.

the internet of course lost its mind.

some fans began speculating even the smallest things like his energy drinks having odd colors and were convinced you were poisoning him slowly.

#SaveMystery

“that freak is literally feeding him poison!”

“they're a murderer, i swear.”

mystery read them out loud with a deadpan face. "they're not exactly wrong though," he comments as he zooms in on a picture his fans posted of his 'odd drink.' "you put wolfsbane here, right? they're exaggerating though. didn't kill me."

you squinted at the picture he was holding up. "oh that? that's just vitamins.”

mystery blinked. "what?"

you chuckled. "you think i'd feed you something dangerous? you big goof. they're all vitamins. ever wondered why your skin is glowing and you're healthy as a baby?"

"what."

mystery felt betrayed that you didn't poison him like he believed you did. in fact, he's so butthurt about it he decided to rant about it on his live.

in the garden, pretending to be sad as he expressed how he was deeply hurt by his lover's actions, ignoring his angry fans that flooded his comments—all the while you were working in the background with your frilly apron, tending to your garden.

"you're all wrong. they aren't poisoning me. in fact, i found out rhey've been sneaking vitamins and immunity boosters into my food this whole time, and i, frankly, feel betrayed that my glowing skin is natural.”

you peeked from behind him, holding something in your hands.

“this one’s elderberry and magnesium. want it in your smoothie?”

he nodded solemnly. “yes, please.”

the fans had long since stopped trying to protect mystery because he clearly doesn't want it. who whines on live about not being poisoned by their lover?

romance + dollmaker s/o

he met you during a fansign when you showed him a picture of your next doll project: the saja boys.

creepy button eyes and sewn mouths, unfinished, but still creepy

thought it was a prank.

realized it wasn’t and said, “nice detail on the jawline.”

perhaps the mini doll of himself that you made was cursed, but it hangs on his bags permanently.

the thing actually purred and he was elated.

he brags about it to his members.

romance had always been used to fans doing bold things. letters written in blood (food coloring, hopefully) life-size cardboard cutouts of him left at hotel lobbies, one girl even proposed with a ring pop.

but nothing—and he means nothing—could’ve prepared him for you.

you arrived at the fansign table dressed sweetly enough, nothing out of the ordinary. fans likes dressing uo for these occassions, it wasn't anythinf new. but what you placed in front of him had romance.exe malfunctioning.

it was a doll. a creepy, uncanny-valley doll. big head, button eyes, sewn lips, and somehow… his exact jawline...?

“is this… me?” romance asked, blinking, and you nodded, excited. “yes! and here’s the rest of your group, but j spent the most time on you. i even added your tattoos!”

at first, he thought it was a prank. maybe, there was joke he missed.

but then you pulled out stitching diagrams. color palettes. handmade clothes. and you started yapping and you just looked so passionatr about it that he couldn't even bring himself to say anything bad.

he eyes the doll, fiddling with its hair. it was very real. and kind of creepy, he swore it would start walking if left in a room alone. but also… he's shockingly flattering?

“i look nice here, actually,” he said, grinning. “perfectly captured my jawline.”

romance hadn’t stopped thinking about you. the dolls were weird—but you weren’t. besides, anyone who paid that much attention to his features? yeah. he doesn't mind one bit.

you were dating quietly, secretly. he loved visiting your apartment—shelves lined with little haunting faces, half-stitched limbs, eyes in jars waiting for placement. dors he find it creepy? absolutely. but your focus, your joy, your pride in every weird little creation?

he loved that even more.

you once handed him a tiny version of himself. a keychain doll. “for luck,” you said. and he has it always, ALWAYS, hanging on his bags. he swore the mini-romance purred when it sat beside the mini-version of you on his nightstand.

if it was a curse, he’d never felt more lucky.

one day, during a casual vlog in his apartment, fans noticed something in the background.

two dolls.

not just any dolls. your dolls, but they didn't know that yet. it was very clearly a couple's item. one of him and one of… someone else. a striking resemblance to a photo they'd seen from an obscure art account.

the internet did its thing.

within hours, fans had connected the dots. your etsy store. your blog with antique doll restorations. they even managed to dig up the blurry photos of you behind him on some vlogs he had carelessly posted.

“that freak collection is dating romance???”

“THEY PUT HIS SOUL IN A DOLL, GUYS.”

“those dolls probably blink at night.”

“they're gonna curse the whole group. watch.”

the hate was immediate and brutal. they called you everything from creep to witch.

the hate had been building for days. rumors of your “witchcraft,” the conspiracy threads claiming you’d stolen romance’s soul and trapped it inside a life-sized doll made of bone dust and silk; they flooded comment sections with hex emojis. fans even speculated you had a whole graveyard in your apartment.

romance merely lets them bark. he let them foam.

and then he announced a solo comeback.

no teaser. no album name. just a picture of his new merch on his account.

on a worn velvet armchair sat the doll. rhe very first one you made. slumped slightly, hands on its lap. it stared directly at the camera.

the photo captures every detail of the doll that he called mini-romance. on his heart was an embroidery of your name in red thread.

"she made me with her hands. now you can hold a piece of me too. preorders now open."

baby + an s/o that loves haunted artifacts

this one? wasn't fazed in the slightest.

he actually liked accompanying you to go store hopping, even if most of the stores you visited were eerie.

he hels you arrange them sometimes.

he would even help you with installing shelves for your little trinkets.

he once caught the porcelain hand on your desk waving at him and he waved back.

baby’s been many things in life. a demon, idol, walking disaster with a voice like sin—uh... that's kinda it, to be honest. but scared? never.

so when he started dating you, the only real shock wasn’t your hobby… it was how into it he got.

your apartment looked like the aftermath of a haunted estate sale—crucifixes, ouija boards sealed in glass cases, dolls missing one eye but “don’t worry, she sees just fine,” and shelves of jars with things inside he doesn't to ask about.

your prized possession? a cracked music box from the 1800s that played by itself at 3 a.m. every third thursday.

“it’s a spiritual warning,” you explained sweetly.

he blinked, shrugging his shoulders as he holds the music box carefully. “well, the melody kinda slaps. mind if i sample it for our next song?"

baby genuinely loved your weirdness.

you’d get excited explaining where your “possessed” trinkets came from, describing the terrifying rumors around each one. he’d nod along, snack in hand, letting you ramble for hours like you were narrating a true crime doc he was deeply invested in.

“this mirror’s from an asylum that burned down.”

“dope.”

“if you stare into it too long, you see your past life.”

“bet mine was hot too.”

baby was actually one of the members who was pretty open about your relationship, which is no wonder why everyonr had been questioning his sanity the moment they first discovered your love for weird and creepy things.

at first, he ignored it. it didn't matter what the public said anyway, he didn't care about them. it didn't seem like you cared either.

“is baby okay?? that room is CURSED.”

“i swear i heard someone singing inside the bathroom.”

“his lover is a witch. or a demon. or both.”

“SOMEONE GET HIM OUT OF THERE.”

but a particular request from you made him sigh. you asked, innocently, so gently, if you could show his fans your trinkets so they wouldn't be so scared.

so, thats why he found himself setting up in the middle of your living room.

the live started with a low hum.

not from the camera, but from the background. something in a jar on that third shelf was vibrating. which is something that happens everyday. the chat doesn't know that though and they were going absolutely nuts.

omg is that the haunted jar?? WHAT IS THAT NOISE who let baby go live unsupervised again IS THAT A DOLL IN THE BACK why is it BLINKING

then baby appeared onscreen—grinning, holding his phone like a microphone. he waved lazily. “sup.”

behind him, your famously haunted living room was in full display. crucifixes, preserved bones, jars that kept rocking about, and many more things that the chat didn't want to see.

he stepped back, then gestured off-camera. “okay, listen up. i brought someone.”

you stepped into view, sheepishly waving at the camera.

baby leaned into the frame again, eyes narrowed in a glare. "they're going to show off their favorite artifacts and your only job is to clap and say good things. you're going to play nice, got it?”

then he retreated to the back, letting you have the spotlight while he crossed his arms, glarimg from behind you.

“okay, babe. show ‘em your favorites. i'll be back here, not getting possessed. probably.”

you brightened.

“okay! first—this is tobias, my favorite mirror.”

[abbotjack]

aaahh hi hello! :)

first thing, i just wanted to say how much i love the way you write for jack and robby. you capture their personalities so well! reading your works are an absolute treat. <3

second, would it be possible to request something for robby? he finds out that his wife was in a really bad accident on her way to work, so she's rushed to the hospital and admitted to their icu?

tysm, and keep up the amazing work!

And You Came Back to Me

content/warning : Serious car accident, medical trauma, cardiac arrest, emergency resuscitation, hospitalization/ICU setting, emotional distress, PTSD symptoms, brief combat/military reference, grief response, partner fear, sibling care, recovery from near-death experience. Heavy emotional themes including flashbacks, guilt, and the fragility of healing.

word count : 3,791

a/n ; Wrote this as an exploration of what happens in the quiet after chaos—the weight of routine, the people who stay, and the small ways grief and love show up at once.

He should've kissed you longer.

That's the first thing that slams through Robby's chest when the officer says your name. Not doctor. Not sir. Just: "Mr. Robinavitch, your wife's been in a serious accident."

It doesn't register, not fully. Not until the following words hit him like shrapnel: "She was unconscious at the scene. EMS is transporting her to Allegheny General now."

And suddenly, time snaps backward, throws him hard against the wall of the morning. Back to the kitchen. To the faint hum of NPR on the radio. To the faint smell of burnt toast from the toaster, because you always forget about it halfway through brushing your teeth. He's told you a hundred times to stop using the "max crisp" setting. You always say, "It's faster." Back to the sound of your heels on the tile as you rushed in, already dressed, hair still damp and twisted into that messy bun you always called "professional enough."

"Shit," you muttered, digging through your purse. "I'm running late. Can you zip me up?"

He should've stopped what he was doing. Should've set down the mug. Turned fully toward you. Looked at you the way he used to, like you were something he still couldn't quite believe was real. But he was distracted. Reading the news. Checking an overnight lab update. Half-listening to McKay's complaint in the group chat about last night's board decision. So, instead, he reached out automatically. Took hold of the zipper. Pulled it up the back of your dress like he's done a hundred times before. A quiet, familiar ritual.

"Thanks, babe," you said, glancing over your shoulder with a delicate smile.

He leaned in and kissed the back of your neck, right where your hair curled against your skin. "You look beautiful," he said. Distracted. Sincere, but distracted.

"You always say that."

"Because it's always true."

You laughed and turned away to grab your keys. He should've stopped you. Should've surrounded his arms around your waist, relaxed his chin on your shoulder, whispered something mindless and tender and marriage-soft like, Don't go to work. Stay home. Let's be irresponsible. Should've asked about the dream you mumbled in your sleep. Should've paid attention when you said, "I might take the highway if traffic's clear, I'm too late for the long route."

You hated the highway. Said it made you feel like one incorrect action could ruin everything. Said the backroads felt safer, tree-lined, steady. He teased you for it. Called you dramatic. But he always agreed. Take the long way. What's ten more minutes if it means peace of mind? And this morning, God, he hadn't even thought to remind you.

"You driving in or Ubering?" he questioned, eyes still on his phone.

"Driving. Highway if I have to. Don't yell."

"Just… text me when you get there."

"I always do."

You smiled. He didn't look up. You walked out the door. Now a stranger is telling him you were rear-ended at 70 miles per hour, spun into a guardrail, crushed on the driver's side. That EMS pulled you from the wreckage with the jaws of life. That you weren't responsive. That you lost a lot of blood. That they're bringing you in. To him. To his ER. His trauma bay. His staff. And you might not survive the trip.

He should've kissed you longer.

He should've kissed you like it was the last time. Because maybe, it was.

He drops the phone in the stairwell. He's moving before his mind catches up—down the steps, through the ER corridor, and straight into the trauma bay. The doors slam open so hard they shake on their hinges. "Where is she?" His voice breaks as it rips out of his throat.

Dana's the first to reach him. She's just stepped off the elevator—chart in one hand, coffee in the other. "She just came in," she says immediately. "Langdon's leading. Mateo is on the vent. Santos and Javadi are in the room—"

"Where is she?"

The way he says it this time, it's not procedural. It's not about who's on what. It's you. There's a tremor in his voice now, something raw enough to cut through Dana's usual calm. She steps in his path. "Robby," she says gently, too gently. She never uses that voice. Not with him.

"She coded in the rig."

He flinches like she slapped him. The hallway tilts. "They got her back," Dana rushes to add because the look in his eyes unravels something in her. "But it's bad. She's not... she's not conscious."

He doesn't stop to respond. Robby just shrugs off Dana's hand and barrels toward Trauma One, like his body's moving on instinct, like it never forgot how to find you. And then he sees you. You're nearly lost in the swarm of bodies around you, but he'd know you anywhere—even battered and broken, even with your hair soaked through and clinging to your face in tangled strands. One of your feet is bare. Your dress—that dress, the blue one you joked made you look like a lawyer even though you worked in a nonprofit, the one he remembers zipping up hours ago—has been sliced clean down the center. Blood saturates the fabric, blooming across it like ink in water until there's barely any blue left at all. Mateo is squeezing the Ambu bag. Javadi's covered in sweat, glove smeared in something dark. Langdon is barking orders like his throat is full of glass.

Robby freezes in the doorway.

Langdon doesn't even look at him. Just shouts, "Get him out of here!"

Dana's behind him again. This time, she doesn't touch him. Just steps into his line of vision and holds it. "You know better. Let them work."

"That's my wife. That's Jack's sister."

Santos' voice breaks, just barely. "She's got internal bleeding. If we can't stabilize her, we're opening the chest."

And there it is. Robby's hand slams against the doorframe. He backs away without realizing he's doing it.

He ends up in Observation 2. He doesn't remember walking there. Doesn't know how long he stands in the dark before someone, maybe Perlah, sets a bottle of water beside him. He doesn't touch it. He's never felt like this before. Like the air is too thick. Like he's breathing cement. Jack shows up ten minutes later. Not in scrubs, he's in a weather-beaten field jacket and dark jeans, the kind of outfit that's survived its fair share of long nights. There's rain slicking his shoulders, water dripping from the cuffs like he didn't bother with an umbrella. Or didn't care.

"They told me," Jack says, low.

Robby doesn't move.

"I came as soon as—"

"She took the fucking highway."

Jack is quiet.

"She never takes the highway. I—I always tell her to take 51. She hates the on-ramps. Says they make her feel like she's gonna die. She said it, Jack. She said it."

Jack nods slowly, but his posture is all wrong, too still, too rigid. Like he's holding something in. His jaw is locked, eyes fixed somewhere over Robby's shoulder like if he looks at him directly, he'll break. "Yeah," he finally says, voice hoarse and frayed. "She told me that too. Said the on-ramps made her feel like the road would disappear underneath her. When we were kids, she'd make me walk the long way to school just to avoid the underpass near 18th. Three extra blocks. Every morning."

He exhales, sharp and uneven. "She'd hold my sleeve like she thought the wind might carry her off if she let go."

The pause that follows isn't empty. It's full, tight with every year Jack spent being the big brother. Every time, he covered for you. Every scraped knee, every school project, every time he stood between you and the door while your parents screamed. Robby sinks down against the wall. His voice is hollow. "She asked me to zip up her dress this morning." He swallows hard. "I didn't even look at her. Not really. I was reading emails. I kissed her neck and said, 'Text me when you get there.'"

Jack doesn't answer. Doesn't offer reassurance, statistics, or hope. He just lowers himself to the floor beside Robby, head bowed like he's praying to no one in particular. "You love her," he says, and there's no bitterness in it. Just something steady. "You take care of her in a way I never could. You know how to make her feel safe when it's quiet. How to be soft when she won't ask for it. I've spent my whole life guarding her from the world, and now…" He trails off, staring at the floor. "You're the part of her world I trust the most."

Robby closes his eyes. His shoulders shake once. "I don't know how to be okay if she doesn't wake up."

Jack reaches out and sets a hand firm and grounding on Robby's shoulder, steady like he's done for you a hundred times before. "Then it's a good thing you won't have to be," Jack says. "Because she's too damn stubborn to leave either of us."

And for the first time since the call, Robby lets himself breathe.

The updates come like clockwork.

"She's holding."

"We've got the bleeding under control."

"She's going up to the ICU now. Sedated. Ventilated."

Robby follows the bed upstairs like a shadow. No one stops him. Not even Langdon, who looks like he's aged ten years in a single shift. They set you up in 312A. You're pale. Still, your wedding ring sits in a plastic cup on the tray beside your bed. He takes your hand. "Hey," he whispers. "I'm here. You're okay. You're safe."

You don't move. He tilts forward, pressing his forehead to your arm. His voice catches.

"Baby, please. Please come back."

And then, he talks. About the cat, how she followed you to the door that morning, meowing like she knew something was wrong. How you paused, scooped her up, kissed the top of her head, and whispered, "Hold down the fort, okay? Back before dinner." Then, you blew her a kiss like you always did, keys already in hand. About the coffee mug still sitting in the sink. The one with the chipped handle and the faded red lettering from that anniversary trip to Vermont—the kind of mug that never matched anything else but somehow became your favorite. You used it every morning, even when there were clean ones on the shelf. He used to mock you for it. Then he stopped. About the basket of laundry half-folded on the couch. A pair of your socks tucked inside one of his. Your blouse is still soft from the dryer, draped across the armrest like you might come back and finish putting things away. Like you'd walk in and complain that he always left the fitted sheets for you to deal with. About the dress you pulled from the closet the night before—how you held it up in the mirror and said, "If this still fits, maybe I'll wear it next weekend. The red one. You like this one." And how he didn't say anything. Just looked at you like you'd already won the room.

It's those things. The little ones. The ones that never get written down or photographed. The pieces of a life you don't realize you're building until everything goes quiet.

"You can't leave me yet," he mumbles, voice rough. "I haven't seen you hold our kid yet. I haven't told you enough times that you saved my life just by saying yes."

Day Two

He doesn't sleep. Javadi comes by. Says nothing. Just looks through the glass and nods. Collins leaves coffee on the table without a word. He doesn't leave your side. Jack shows up again late that night. Sits with him in the dark. Neither of them speaks. Not until Robby, voice shredded and barely audible, says, "I can't lose her, Jack."

Jack just nods. "You won't."

"I always figured I'd go first," Jack says quietly like the words slipped past his guard. "She's always been the brave one. Ran toward things I would've flinched from. I was the one who hung back, scanned the exits, counted the risks."

His jaw clenches. He stares at the floor like he's trying to make sense of it all from the grain of the tile. "But when I saw her in that trauma bay…" His voice falters, and he has to force the following words out. "Even in combat, I never felt fear like that. Never felt that kind of helpless."

Robby doesn't speak at first. Just sit with it, like the silence might soften the blow.

Then, quietly: "She told me once she felt safest when she was with the two of us. Like the world couldn't touch her." Jack exhales, slow and uneven. His eyes drift toward the bed—toward where you lie, still and silent beneath the tangle of wires and monitors. Still unmoving. Still too quiet. Like if he looks long enough, maybe something in you will stir. Perhaps you'll meet his gaze and say his name like it means something.

"She better wake up," he murmurs. "Because she still owes me twenty bucks. And I'm not letting her off the hook just because she got hit by a truck."

Day Three.

The room is still. Quiet in a way that feels deliberate, It feels as though the air itself is holding its breath. Pale morning light creeps in through the ICU blinds, catching on the sharp corners of machines and the softer curve of your shoulder beneath the hospital blanket. Everything hums: the ventilator, the heart monitor, the sound of plastic tubing shifting slightly when you exhale.

Jack arrives before sunrise. He doesn't announce himself. Doesn't knock. Just moves through the doorway like someone crossing into sacred ground. He sets a cup of black coffee on the counter for Robby—no cream, two sugars, just the way you always made it for him, and then takes the same spot by the wall he's stood in every day since you were brought in.

Robby hasn't slept. He's still in yesterday's clothes, eyes ringed with exhaustion. His hand hasn't left yours all night.

They don't talk for a while. Don't need to. Jack watches you breathe. Robby counts each peak and drop of your chest as if he's tethered to it.

The moment happens quietly. Just after nine. Your fingers twitch. Small. Involuntary, maybe, but real.

Robby jolts forward. "Jack."

Jack is at his side in an instant, already reaching, already watching. "Do it again," he whispers, knuckles white where they grip the bed rail. "C'mon, kid. Come back to us."

And then you do. Your hand tightens around Robby's. Weak. Barely there. But deliberate. Robby exhales like he's been underwater for days. A strangled sound escapes him, half sob, half stunned relief, and he bows his head to your hand like it's the only thing anchoring him to the world. Jack grips the back of Robby's chair with one hand, the other dragging down his face. His mouth is tight. His eyes were wet. But his voice, when it comes, is steady in the way only older brothers can manage.

"She's fighting."

The nurses rush in. Langdon appears within minutes. Orders are called out. Sedation is reduced. The ventilator settings are dialed down. But Robby doesn't move—not from your side, not from your hand. The change is slow. But it's there. Color returning to your cheeks. Lashes twitching. A soft wrinkle between your brows like you're dreaming, or hurting, or both.

When your eyes finally open, it's dusk. They're glassy. Unfocused. But they find him.

"Hey, baby." His voice cracks. "You with me?"

You can't speak. Not yet. But your eyes do the work. Then, your fingers constrict in his again.

Jack moves to your side, each step careful. Measured. He doesn't speak. Doesn't trust his voice not to crack the quiet wide open. And for a second, something flickers across your face. Recognition. A tear. It rolls down your cheek, and Robby catches it with a shaking hand. He kisses your fingers. Your knuckles. Your wrist. "You came back to me."

Jack looks at you, jaw tight, throat working. Then he mutters, almost to himself, "Damn right she did." He doesn't say more. He doesn't have to.

You're awake. And they're both there.

That's everything.

Three Weeks Later.

The apartment smells like lavender and laundry detergent. Your favorite blanket is folded over the back of the couch, and someone—probably Jack—restocked the kitchen with your exact tea and oatmeal brand, like muscle memory. There are flowers on the table, half-wilted, and a stack of unopened get-well cards beside them that you haven't yet had the energy to read. You're home. And you're alive. But nothing feels normal yet.

You're thinner than you were. Your ribs ache when you turn too fast, and your hands shake when you try to open pill bottles. But you walk. You breathe on your own. You wake up in your own bed next to Robby instead of tangled in ICU tubing. And Robby, Robby hasn't let you out of his sight. He tries to be subtle. Tries to hover without hovering. You catch the way his hand spasms when you bend down to pick something up. The way he stays awake two hours after you've fallen asleep, just to make sure your breathing stays steady.

"I'm not going to break," you tell him one morning, finding him standing in the hallway just outside the bathroom door.

He doesn't smile. Just step forward and cup your cheek like it's second nature like his hand was always meant to rest there.

"You did," he says, voice low and frayed at the edges. "You almost died. And I stood there and watched it happen." His thumb moves against your skin gently. Reverent. "So yeah," he murmurs. "I'm sorry, but I'm gonna be careful with you for a while. You don't get to scare me like that and expect me to walk away unchanged."

You don't argue. Just press your forehead to his and breathe with him.

Jack visits like clockwork. Mondays, Wednesdays, Fridays. He always calls ahead, even though you stopped asking him to. He comes with practical things, groceries, multivitamins, takeout from that one Thai place you craved when nothing else would stay down. He never makes a scene of it. Just moves through your kitchen like it's routine. Like you didn't code in the back of an ambulance while he was somewhere else, driving home, bone-tired and still smelling like antiseptic, unaware that your heart had stopped without him there to catch it. He acts like nothing's changed. Like you didn't almost leave him without warning. But the way he watches you when you walk across the room says everything.

"You gonna let me in, or am I just supposed to enjoy the doorframe?" he jokes the first time you're strong enough to answer it yourself.

"You gonna keep looking at me like I've got a ticking clock strapped to my chest?" you fire back.

Jack shrugs. Steps inside. Kisses on the top of your head. "You're still annoying. Good. I was worried."

That night, you all end up in the living room, curled into Robby's side on the couch, a blanket tucked around your legs, while Jack settles into the armchair nearby. His prosthetic leans against the side of the chair, balanced carefully where he left it as if it belonged there. He sits back, one socked foot up, the other leg stretched out and relaxed. Comfortable in a way he rarely lets himself be. The TV plays some half-watched game on mute, casting flashing lights across the room, but no one's really paying attention. The silence between you feels lived-in, not awkward. Familiar. But still edged with something tender. Like you're all waiting to exhale at the same time. The kind of evening that feels hushed on purpose.

The kind that says: We're still here.

"I think I scared you both more than I scared myself," you murmur, eyes still on the screen.

"You scared the shit out of me," Jack says, voice low. Honest. Not sharp, not teasing, just stripped down. Like it costs him something to say it out loud.

Robby's grip around your waist tightens almost instinctively like he can still feel the echo of that moment, the call, the drive, the trauma bay. His fingers curl against your side, anchoring himself to something warm and alive. "You don't get to do that again," he says, hardly above a whisper. "Ever."

You turn your head then, eyes flicking between them, one sitting too still, the other holding on too tightly. And for the first time all day, you let yourself feel the whole shape of what almost happened. What nearly broke you. "I didn't say this earlier," Jack says, softer now, voice rough around the edges. "But I meant it. Back at the hospital. You have him. You're not doing this alone."

You don't look at him right away. Just nod, slow, like the words are settling into a place they hadn't quite reached before. Your eyes sting, but you don't blink them away. "I know I'm not," you murmur.

And you do. Even on those days, it's hard to feel it. Healing isn't linear. Some days, you get through without tears, almost like nothing ever happened. Other days, it hits you sideways—over coffee, in the shower, folding laundry—and you're crying without knowing why. You haven't driven yet. Not because you can't, because you don't want to.

And everyone understands that.

Robby never asks. He just grabs the keys and opens your door first. Jack doesn't comment, doesn't tease—he just takes the driver's seat without question when it's his turn. Even Dana understood. On Saturday, she showed up with oversized sunglasses and a tote bag full of snacks, knocked twice, and said, "Girls' day. Non-negotiable. Collins is already in the car."

And sure enough, Collins was in the passenger seat, sipping an iced tea and pretending not to be amused. Dana took the wheel, flipped the radio to something from the nineties, and announced you were starting with pedicures and ending with overpriced appetizers—"and maybe a shoe sale if we're feeling emotional."

But tonight, the air is still. Your body is tired but not heavy. There's a blanket over your legs, the low hum of the dishwasher in the next room, and two people who never let go—even when you tried to disappear. You close your eyes.

And for the first time in weeks, you don't brace for the fall.

[neshamama]

WASHINGTON — The Smithsonian Institution has begun quietly removing some artifacts from the National Museum of African American History and Culture (NMAAHC), according to two museum employees and at least one high-profile donor.

Rev. Dr. Amos Brown, a longtime civil rights activist and pastor, tells WUSA9 he was notified via this month that several artifacts he donated — including a Bible he carried during civil rights demonstrations — were being returned to him.

The email he shared with WUSA9 from the NMAAHC says:

"Dear Reverend Brown,

I wanted to alert you that the National Museum of African American History and Culture (NMAAHC) will be returning your Bible and book we borrowed for our exhibition, Segregation. Both books have been on display at the NMAAHC since we opened our doors to the public in September 2016. We are grateful for the loan of these important objects and the ability to share them with the public. In order to preserve them and not display them for too long, we are now returning them to you."

Brown said he doesn't believe it's about the conditions of the books and says a museum should know how to preserve them.

“The flimsy excuse was because they were under too much light,” Brown said in an interview.

Brown said he never requested the return of his items, which includes a bible and a historic copy of "The History of the Negro Race in America," one of the first books to document racism in the United States.

“I had called them and told them how unfortunate and ideological it is,” he added.

Brown has been a civil rights activist for more than 70 years, marching alongside Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. and the Rev. Jesse Jackson. The Bible and book, he said, have been on display at the museum since it opened in 2016.

When WUSA9 visited the museum Saturday, the artifacts were no longer in their previous exhibit space.

“It was right here to the left of the narrative,” Brown said, pointing to the empty display.

He also expressed concern that the iconic lunch counter from the sit in movement started by four students at North Carolina Agricultural and Technical State University in Greensboro, North Carolina. The lunch counter is one of the key features of the museum — Amos says there are discussions on removing that. WUSA9 has not independently verified that claim. During our visit, the lunch counter remained on display.

Visitors we spoke with say the news is both emotional and troubling.

“I feel like that’s crazy,” said Samiyyah Greene, who traveled from North Carolina. “That’s like taking a big part of our culture away.”

“It’s very frustrating,” said Wynter Barton-Brown of Boston. “I’m glad I had my glasses on because I didn’t want my children to see the emotion that was driven up.”

In March, President Donald Trump signed an executive order calling for the removal of “improper, divisive or anti-American ideology” from federally funded institutions, specifically naming the African American museum.

“That was the most unfortunate directive,” Brown said. “It’s about someone being against diversity, inclusion and equity for African Americans and all people who’ve been marginalized in this country.”

WUSA9 has reached out to the Smithsonian Institution and the National Museum of African American History and Culture for comment but has not received a response.

Brown says the lack of communication from the museum leaves him worried for its future.

“We aren’t going to let anyone tell us what we can’t read and celebrate as our artifacts,” he said.

[ladyfocalors]

The Prefect's Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Rulebook

summary: After yet another rule violation by Grim, Riddle hands you a comprehensive guide to Heartslabyul’s regulations expecting you to finally learn and teach Grim. Instead, you retaliate by writing your own unofficial rulebook about Riddle himself, filled with exaggerated (but surprisingly accurate) observations. He inevitably gets his hands on the book. Riddle is left flustered and scandalized, especially with the last rule.

pairing: riddle rosehearts x gn!reader

warning: secondhand embarrassment experience.

word count: 2.4k

i had so much fun writing this. probably one of my favourite fics i have written. it's fun to write about my beloved riddle <3

It all started with a tart. Or rather, the lack of one.

You and Grim stood in the lounge, both of you equal parts guilty and unapologetic. Well, you were mostly guilty by association, considering it was Grim who had eaten one of Trey’s tarts without permission, but in Riddle’s eyes, you were both responsible.

"Grim," you sighed, standing before Riddle Rosehearts with his face red, arms crossed, eyes burning with irritation. "What do you have to say for yourself?"

Grim, hiding behind you, peeked out from behind your legs, ears twitching. "I regret nothing," he declared. "That tart was mine!"

"It most certainly was not!" Riddle snapped, his voice sharp. "That was my tart, specifically prepared for me. And not only did you eat it, but you also violated Rule #89 ‘Never eat a tart without the Queen's permission’, and Rule #27 ‘Do not break into the dormitory kitchens after hours’ and Rule #53–"

Grim huffed. "Ya make it sound worse than it is."

"You ate the Housewarden’s tart in front of him and ran to me," you muttered, reminding him of his crime. You were surprised that Grim hadn't been collared yet.

"A mistake anyone could make," Grim said stubbornly.

"A mistake that you made," you deadpanned.

Riddle inhaled deeply, clearly exercising a lot of restraint to not collar Grim. Then, he presented you with a book, quite a massive book.

"This," he declared, "is the Heartslabyul Rulebook."

You took it, nearly dropping it due to its weight. No dorm rulebook should be this heavy, you thought. "This thing could kill a man."

Grim peeked at it over your shoulder and immediately recoiled. "Ugh! Words! Too many words!"

"That is exactly the issue," Riddle snapped at him. "You do not read the rules, and as a result, you break them." Riddle then turned to you, his face no longer red. "As the Ramshackle Prefect, I expect you to look after your dorm members. Therefore, I expect you to read this book in its entirety and teach Grim to behave himself in my dorm."

You blinked at him. This seemed hardly fair. Why did you have to be punished?

You opened the book to have a look.

Rule #1: Always respect the Queen’s Decrees.

You promptly closed it.

"Yeah, I’m not doing that," you said.

Riddle frowned.

At first, you did try to read the rulebook, but between all your other work, assignments, and the endless errands you had to run, it simply wasn’t feasible. Not to mention how utterly ridiculous some of the rules were.

So instead of reading his rulebook, you wrote your own. For fun.

Grim was pleased with the outcome.

It had started as a joke, something to vent your many grievances about the amount of rules in Heartslabyul, but you quickly realized something: your rulebook wasn’t about Heartslabyul.

It was about Riddle, which Grim had helpfully pointed out.

"Myahaha! Look at this one! ‘Rule #23 – Riddle can and will recite the rules you broke.’ That one's good! Let me add some too!"

And so, The Prefect’s Unofficial Guide to Riddle Rosehearts was born.

The Prefect’s Unofficial Guide to Riddle Rosehearts

(Compiled by the Ramshackle Prefect, with essential additions and doodles from Grim. Rules may be ignored at your own risk. Side effects include but are not limited to: exasperation, lectures, punishments, and possible collaring.)

Rule #1 – Anything is legal when Riddle has his back turned. (Grim wrote this.)

Rule #2 – Riddle will scold you for running in the halls, even if you are running to avoid being late for a meeting with him. (It was a no-win situation. You’d be scolded for being late or scolded for running. There was no escape.)

Rule #3 – Riddle has a ‘stern nod’ and a ‘very stern nod.’ Learn to tell the difference. (One means ‘I am disappointed in you.’ The other means ‘You will be collared in five seconds.’)

Rule #5 – If Riddle goes silent mid-sentence, he is either (a) so angry he can’t speak, or (b) realizing you have a point but refuses to admit it.

Rule #12 – If you see Trey baking tarts, congratulations! You are in the presence of Heartslabyul’s unofficial MVP. Do not let Riddle (or anyone) see you sneaking one.

Rule #18 – If you notice Riddle's face is turning red, you have exactly three seconds to mentally prepare for whatever comes next.

Rule #23 – Riddle can and will recite the rules you broke.

Rule #28 – If you compliment Riddle out of nowhere, he will malfunction like a broken automaton. (Highly effective distraction technique.)

Rule #31 – If Ace says, 'Housewarden Riddle will never know,' Housewarden Riddle will absolutely find out.

Bonus Section:

Rule #31.1 – If Ace says, 'I have a great idea,' walk away. It is neither 'great' nor 'an idea.'

Rule #31.2 – If you try to hide something from Ace, he will immediately become interested.

Rule #34 – Riddle pretends not to have a sense of humour, but he does. (It’s just deeply buried under layers of responsibility and rule enforcement.)

Rule #38 – Trey has a 70% success rate of calming Riddle down. (Cater has a 50% success rate. Ace and Deuce have a -500% success rate.)

Rule #41 – Riddle secretly likes animals, but will deny this if accused. (He takes good care of the hedgehogs and adores them.)

Rule #53 – If Riddle ever finds out I like him, I am done for.

You weren’t sure why you wrote that last one. It was a joke. Mostly. (It felt easier to admit on paper rather than to say it. It was most definitely not a joke.)

The rulebook remained a harmless source of entertainment between you and Grim. You had your fun, and Grim even doodled in a few pictures of angry Riddle before resorting to drawing himself.

It should have remained a private joke. It really should have. But, of course, nothing involving Grim remained a secret for long.

It was another ordinary evening in Heartslabyul, where you had reluctantly agreed to a study session with Ace and Deuce. The plan was simple: Ace and Deuce would attempt to get their grades up, you would try to prevent them from slacking while trying to study as well, and Grim would… probably not study.

Riddle had allowed you all to use one of the study rooms, though not without a warning about ‘proper conduct.’

You had meant to be careful, really. You had every intention of keeping your very unofficial, very embarrassing rulebook far away from prying eyes. You just hoped nobody looked through your stack of books, among which laid your rulebook you had accidentally brought. Unfortunately, for you, Grim had other plans.

Grim huffed, then pawed through the stack of books on the table. "There’s too many words in here! I wanna read something fun."

"You’ll think studying is fun when you see your test scores improve," Deuce said, diligently copying notes and actually putting in an effort.

"Nyah! Where’s our rulebook? I wanna add another one about Riddle’s scary angry face!"

You immediately froze and, like a shark smelling blood in water, Ace perked up.

"Rulebook?" he echoed. "Wait, wait, wait. Is it another one of Riddle’s? Man, you’re actually reading that thing?"

Deuce actually looked impressed. "That’s really responsible of you, Prefect."

"It’s not the Heartslabyul Rulebook," Grim piped up, completely missing the way you were silently willing him to stop talking. "It’s hench-human’s rulebook! The one ‘bout Riddle!"

A beat of silence.

Then, with alarming speed, Ace lunged for your stack of books before you could even stop him. (Rule #31.2 was being displayed right in front of you.)

"HEY–"

"Hold on, hold on," Ace said, flipping the thin book open. "This is– ooohhh. You wrote an entire guide to our Housewarden? With rules?" He barked out a laugh. "Rule #1: Anything is legal when Riddle has his back turned."

You snatched for the book, but Ace twisted out of reach.

"It was a joke! Give it back!"

Deuce, peeking over Ace’s shoulder, frowned. "I don’t know if this is a good idea–"

"‘Rule #31: If Ace says, Housewarden Riddle will never know, Housewarden Riddle will absolutely find out.’" Ace read. "Hey, what the hell! That’s slander!"

"It’s true!" you snapped.

Ace ignored you, flipping further. "‘Rule #38: Trey has a 70% success rate of calming Riddle down. Cater has a 50% success rate. Ace and Deuce have a -500% success rate.’"

Deuce looked offended. "Hey, why is mine also negative?"

Ace grinned. "Because you’re the one who keeps making it worse by apologizing wrong and getting us caught."

"I– wait. I do not!"

"Stop arguing and give it back–"

"Prefect, Ace, Deuce," came the voice of Riddle Rosehearts from the now open door.

A terrible, horrible, no good, very bad silence followed.

The three of you went completely still, and Grim decided he would hide behind you.

This was the worst possible outcome ever. In Ace's hand was your silly book, in plain sight, and there stood Riddle in the doorway with his brows furrowed. Riddle’s eyes flicked to the book in Ace’s hands. Ace immediately noticed and hid it behind his back, but it was far too late.

"Ace," Riddle said, stepping forward. "What are you hiding?"

"Uh… nothing?" Ace tried, clearly lying.

"Nothing," Riddle repeated flatly. His gaze sharpened. "Ace Trappola, hand it over. Now."

Ace, being Ace, grinned as if he could still salvage the situation. "C’mon, Housewarden. Maybe this is one of those things you're better off not seeing–"

"If you don't hand me the book, it's off with your head!"

Ace immediately caved, sighing. "Alright, alright. Here." He handed over the book, and you had never felt such levels of anxiety in your life. Not even facing overblots made you feel the level of panic you felt now (that was an exaggeration but, still).

Riddle took it, immediately glancing at the cover. Then he flipped open the first page. Then the second. Then the third.

You watched, frozen in place, as Riddle continued reading, his expression shifting between scandalized and exasperated.

Then he was at the last page. You could tell the exact moment he read the 53rd Rule. His face went from normal to red in an instant.

Oh no.

You squeezed your eyes shut for a moment and then opened to meet Riddle's blue-gray ones.

“I see,” Riddle said, his voice carefully even but his face red. "Is this true?"

You considered your options.

Lie. (Too late, he’s already read it.)

Run. (Where? He knows where you live.)

Pray. (The Great Seven can’t save you now.)

You picked option 4. Deflection.

"You were not supposed to read it," you said, your voice steadier than you felt.

"So I gathered," he muttered. He looked at you then glanced at the audience.

"Ace, Deuce and Grim," he said. "I expect a 2000 worded essay about the need of study ettiquette and rules."

Ace groaned. "Aw, c’mon, Housewarden–"

"2500 words," Riddle amended, not even hesitating.

Deuce sighed but nodded, already resigned to his fate. Grim, however, let out a dramatic wail. "But I didn't even do anything!"

"Then you may explain, in 2500 words, why you are a menace to the dorms."

Grim gasped. "Wha– ME?!"

"Now leave," Riddle said, and Ace wasted no time grabbing Grim and Deuce by the collars, dragging them toward the door.

"Good luck, Prefect," Ace called, grinning like a traitor before the door shut behind them.

And then, silence.

You were alone with Riddle. You could hear the pages of the rulebook crinkling slightly under his grip. He wasn’t saying anything. Oh no.

Riddle took a deep breath, and exhaled. His face was still tinged red, and you had no idea if that was a good sign or if you were about to be executed on the spot.

"Why," he finally said, "did you write this?"

You hesitated, rubbing the back of your neck. "It was just a joke. Grim and I wrote it for fun."

"Fun," Riddle echoed, a slight twitch in his brow. "So, you thought it would be fun to create an entire guide about me?"

"When you say it like that, it sounds weird."

"It is weird!"

You winced. Was it Rule #18 red or Rule #5 red? Either way, this was not looking good for you.

(Back in your world, you used to laugh when your friends talked about the embarrassing things they did and noticed about their crushes. You thought it was ridiculous. Now the tables have turned and you feel like you want to throw up.)

"Look," you said, shifting uncomfortably, "I didn’t mean for you to see it. I mean, it’s not like you don’t do all those things–"

Riddle inhaled sharply. "That’s not the point!"

There was another terrible pause. You could feel your soul slowly trying to escape your body.

Then, he huffed, closing the book with a thunk against his palm. "So," he said, eyes locking onto you, "Rule number 53."

Your stomach flipped in a very bad way.

"That one was a joke," you blurted out.

He raised an eyebrow. "Was it?"

You swallowed. "Mostly?"

His lips pressed into a thin line. "Mostly," he repeated. He tapped his fingers against the book, thoughtful. "I find it strange, Prefect. You wrote a rather detailed guide about me, yet you conveniently included that rule."

You remain silent.

"I am asking again. Is it true?"

You opened your mouth. Shut it. Opened it again.

"...Yes."

Riddle stared at the floor. His fingers curled slightly. You silently braced yourself for the rejection. All you had to do was not cry and act as level headed as you could.

Then, after a long pause, he muttered, "I think I should make my own rulebook."

You blinked. "Huh?"

He looked up, red-faced, but determined.

"Rule #1 : If the Prefect likes me, they are not done for."

You felt your face burn. Embarrassment rising up again.

"Rule #2," he continued, flustered, "If the Prefect insists on writing about me, they should expect me to read it and respond accordingly."

You could feel yourself sweat. "Riddle–"

"And Rule #3–"

He hesitated, then turned away, mumbling, "...They should expect me to like them back."

Your heart soared and you almost cried in relief.

Riddle sighed, covering his face. "This is the worst rulebook ever."

But there was a small, shy smile peeking through his embarrassment.

© ladyfocalors

[tbaluver]

hiii! could you do hcs of lads men reacting to mc posting or sending them this but like with theur pictures?? hihiihi 🤭💕

https://x.com/mahaegals/status/1888472565120733590?s=46

Sending Him A Cleavage Photocard Pic- The Love And DeepSpace Men

featuring ( in order ): xavier, zayne, rafayel, sylus, caleb summary/context: if my title didn't make sense and you don't want to check the link ( im sorry im bad at titling .·°՞(¯□¯)՞°·.) scroll all the way down for a reference! tags: suggestive a/n: hihi anonnie ! ⸜(｡˃ ᵕ ˂ )⸝♡ hehe i remember seeing this trend all over twitter and i was def thinking abt this bc of my lads brainrot i hope i did it justice ! enjoy reading ! (∩˃o˂∩)♡ any likes and reblogs are always appreciated! enjoy!

⋆｡‧˚ʚ♡ɞ˚‧｡⋆

Xavier:

He didn’t even realize that there were pictures of him peeking through your cleavage. His eyes instantly went to your tits and admired how they sat so pretty and how it would look so good with him in between them

He won’t reply for a few minutes because he’s busy staring until he finally realized that you had his pictures in your cleavage

He can feel heat traveling to his body, and yes, it was down in his trousers, but he can’t help and feel a little jealousy boil in him because why are those pictures of him on you and not him.

₍ᐢ. .ᐢ₎: there’s no need to put my pictures there

₍ᐢ. .ᐢ₎: On my way!

He’s using that speed of light to USE. The moment you look at his messages, you’d already hear your front door opening

Zayne:

He definitely should’ve seen it coming. With a sigh, he rubs his temples and eyes, shaking his head. A small smile tugs at his lips as his ears flush a deep red.

His cock twitches in his slacks when he stares longer at your breasts displayed so perfectly while his photos peek out of your clothes. He doesn’t even realize how many minutes pass by, completely hypnotized by the mounds of flesh.

☃︎: apologies.

☃︎:..i’m a little distracted.

You knew it was one of his weaknesses. You most likely sent that picture without context to tease him and it's definitely working.

☃︎: is this another way of you telling me you want another private check up?

☃︎: i’ll be home in an hour

☃︎: i believe you won't be needing those photos once i'm there.

Rafayel:

SWEET MOTHER OF PEARL

He would gasp SO loudly once he saw it. His mouth is wide open once he opens the messages to see your beautiful boobs cupped so nicely and so perfectly on his screen with his pictures popping out of your clothes.

It didn’t take that long for dirty images consuming his brain along with his dick rising in his pants

Responses from him include various compliments and keyboard smashes or both combined. He would get really impatient if you didn’t respond immediately because he needs to see and hear you right now

𓆟: oh my glubsddhkahf

𓆟: my girlfriend is so pretty (っ˘ڡ˘ς)

𓆟: so gorgousddsfjo

𓆟: cutiecutie

𓆟: answer the call pretty plss

Sylus:

A low chuckle escapes him as his lips curl into a smirk, savoring the image on his phone. Your pretty breasts are sitting nicely while pictures of him peek out of your bra, the one that he bought you. Tease.

Sylus will never get used to seeing your breathtaking figure on his screen. You always try to surprise him, and he can’t help but be amused but also find it adorable that you try too.  two can play at that game.

But obviously he’s going to shower you with compliments first

𓅂: my my my

𓅂: to what do i owe this pleasure to sweetie?

You can expect him to send you a couple more pictures. One of him is in the shower, where water drips down his body, giving you a clear view of his upper body but not enough to provide you with everything you want. Another of him is in his tank top, where he works on his motorcycle.

𓅂: to add to your photo collection.

And another one where he copies you. He'll send a close up shot of his towel wrapped around his waist, a picture of you peeking out of it, giving you just enough for you to have a full view of his v-line and his abs

𓅂: such a shame only a picture of you can be here

Caleb:

COLONEL DOWN COLONEL DOWN

See this is why he opens your messages after he finishes flying. Mainly because he knows that any picture of you might have him distracted when he's up in the sky. Literally head in the clouds.

Do not ask him the colors of your shirt/ bra or anything else in that picture, NOTHING

He’s also the type to realize late that there were pictures of him on your cleavage. It would just be a blur to him and he just thought your shirt/ bra was shaped silly.

✈︎: only i get to see this rightt :o

A low groan slip out of his lips as he held his phone tightly, his eyes tracing the shape. His brain fumbles on what to do or say but his dick is already racing him to it

✈︎: so picture caleb gets lucky but what about me :(

✈︎: you're killing me pipsqueak >:(

His hands would be shaky the entire time he’s sending you messages. His dick was too hard to even think properly

✈︎: looks like im gonna take a quick detour :D

✈︎: gonna show picture caleb that's not where he belongs

Like a puppy going after a treat

context: sending him a picture like this but only his pictures

ʚɞ cr. for the divider @/ cafekitsune

ʚɞ thank yew to @divinedevotions for helping me sketch the reference pic so i can edit their photos on it .·°՞(¯□¯)՞°·.

ʚɞ thank you to my beta reader @ilovemitsuya (˵˘ ³˘˵) ᯓᡣ𐭩

ʚɞ my other works if you want to check it out! Love And DeepSpace Masterlist, Pg. 2

[lqveharrington]

Never Planned | F.W.

summary: you and fred had been friends for so long that it never occurred to the both of you that everyone thought you were dating.

pairing: fred weasley x gryffindor!reader

includes: fluff, the both of you being mischievous, kissing, cursing, the two third years being wingmen when they don’t even know it

a/n: officially working on requests the second this gets posted!

You and Fred had the same routine every Sunday night after dinner. The routine was simple and familiar—so familiar that even the younger students knew it all too well. Every Sunday evening, you would typically read the Daily Prophet or do final touches to your essays while Fred would find a way to bother you until you finally gave into him and give him attention. That’s how Sunday nights would always go.

Except for tonight. For some reason, today felt off and neither of you could place a finger on it. The evening started off normal, but the longer you ignored it, the more the feeling intensified.

You were supposed to be working on your Charms essay, but all you could think about was the small feeling nagging at the back of your mind. You were so absorbed with the thought that you didn't realize you were biting the tip of you quill until Fred pulled your hand away from you, propping his feet up on your lap.

"What's with the face, Faucett? Need help with your Charms essay?" Fred asked, pouting dramatically when you snapped out of your trance and pushed his feet off your lap. "You hate me."

You scoff and roll up your parchment, placing it away on the side table. "I do not hate you, Fred."

“You do.” He teased and angled you to face him, pulling your legs to lay over his lap instead. He watched you rest your head against the cushions of the couch, making him tap your knee in concern. “What’s wrong?”

You huff and play with the threads of you sweater that Molly had made you this past Christmas, meeting his eyes that were filled with more emotion than you could place. “Nothings wrong with me, but it feels like something in this room is, you know?”

Fred looked over at the other people in the room. There were hardly any people in the Gryffindor Common Room on Sunday evenings. Everyone was out either making use of the last few hours of freedom they had before classes started the next day or in their dorms, trying to cram for any surprise quizzes.

The only people that were in the Common Room were a group of first years comparing notes, some fourth years playing exploding snap, and a pair of third years conversing quietly in a corner, tucked away from prying eyes and voices—such as Fred Weasley himself.

Fred raised a brow at the two boys who looked away quite quickly when they met the older boy's gaze. He turned back to you for a quick second, replying quietly to your previous comment. “Maybe…”

You crease your brows and look over at the pair of boys as well, “What—?”

“Oi!” Fred hollered at the two third years, making the entire room snap their heads over at the sudden boom of a voice. You blew a piece of hair away from your face in exasperation, giving the other students apologetic looks for the commotion.

“What are you blokes whispering about?” He called out, making the third year on the left burn bright red.

You poke Fred's arm when you saw the poor boy's face, not deterred by all his muscles underneath his own sweater. “Fred, stop bothering them."

The same boy looked away from you two, swallowing thickly while his friend pursed his lips in an effort to not laugh at the current situation. While the rest of the room went back to what they were doing, Fred continued to watch the pair, waiting for a response from either one of them.

Finally, after the two boys whispered back and forth—for Godric only knows how long—one of them spoke up, making the red-head beside you perk up instantly.

“Nothing important.” The teen on the right said for the sake of his friend, waving a dismissive hand in your general direction. “Just trying to figure out how to ask this girl out."

The second you both heard those words come out of the boy's mouth, you looked over at Fred who was already looking back at you with a grin that could only be described as smug.

You sighed, knowing you couldn't do much to stop whatever Fred planned on doing. “Freddie, don’t—“

He stood from his spot on the couch, hands placed on his hips like he suddenly knew the answers to everything in the universe. “Luckily, you’ve come to the right man—“

“—Boy—“ You quipped from his side as you followed him to ensure he wouldn't do or say anything stupid.

“Shut up.” Fred half-heartedly pushed you to the side, still catching you when you stumbled over your feet. He stuck his thumb in the other teen’s direction, “Anyway, who does he fancy?”

You roll your eyes at his antics and give them a warm, reassuring smile, hoping it would take their minds off whatever foolishness Fred has in plan. “First, what are your names?”

“I’m Oliver, and he’s James.” The boy on the right said tentatively, the one on the left—which you both now knew was James—nodding in agreement.

Fred clasped his hands together and nodded mindlessly, keeping his eyes trained on the boys. “Alright, I’m Fred and she’s the pain in my arse—“

“Can you focus?” You groan and shove him to the side, laughing loudly when he threw you over his shoulder to get you to stop interrupting—although the two of you knew it was hopeless.

“Oliver, who does James fancy?” Fred asked, ignoring your calls and protests.

You continued to wiggle yourself free from his grasp, huffing when he held onto you tighter. At that point, the rest of the Common Room gave you odd looks, making you flush a bright pink in slight embarrassment.

Oliver opened his mouth to speak, hesitantly as he stared at you and Fred in concern and confusion, unsure what to do in the situation. “Uhm… He fancies this girl in Hufflepuff named Lila—“

You gasped and hit Fred hard in between his shoulder blades, earning a groan as he dropped you from his arms. You spun around and gave James a soft look, knowing exactly who Lila was. You had tutored her last year in Potions—and based on your five minute interaction with James—the would be the perfect pair.

“She’s really bright and gifted in Herbology.” James says softly, making your heart ache at how he spoke about Lila in adoration.

“Have you tried to ask her out before?” You ask and watch him fidget with his hair.

He shakes his head, eyes darting away from your face toward the ground. “I’m too nervous.”

After recovering from you sudden attack, Fred clapped his hand on James’ back, ruffling his hair when the boy looked up at him. “Don’t be, you look handsome and clearly you’ve got the brains for it.”

In an instant, you saw an increase of confidence in the thirteen year old, making you grin at the sight. Maybe Fred being nosy in other students’ conversations wasn’t the worst thing in the world.

You watched for another second before murmuring something to Fred about finally finishing your Charms essay, giving the two boys one last smile. Before you left for the couch, Fred subconsciously pressed a kiss to the top of your head, knowing you were leaving even though he barely listened to you as he continued to speak to the younger students.

“Ask her out to a picnic by the lake or in one of the outdoor gardens—Not Hagrid’s, of course. That would be a nightmare.” Fred clarified with a small smirk decorating his face, leaning back on one of the armchairs behind him as the boys listened intently.

“Thanks, I’ll ask her tomorrow after class.” James replied with a new found determination in his voice.

Finally snapping out of his small trance, Oliver switched his gaze from Fred to your spot on the couch, tilting his head with a raised brow. “How did you ask your girlfriend out?”

Fred copied his facial expression, turning his head to follow the boy’s eye line when they landed on you. He poked the inside of his cheek with his tongue before clearing his throat, waving a dismissive hand in the air.

“Oh, we’re not dating.”

“Sure seems like it.” Oliver crossed his arms and raised both brows this time, judging Fred like he was a liar. “You can’t give out advice about dating without having a girlfriend yourself.”

“My advice is fool proof!” Fred blurted, almost baffled that a thirteen year old accused him of spreading false information—though he has done that multiple times before to everyone he knew

“Then how come you don’t have a girlfriend?”

Fred opened his mouth and shut it, putting his index finger up toward the boys before turning and walking over to you. He stood in front of you with his hands in his front pockets, waiting until you finished your thoughts on the essay before speaking.

“Did you know people think we’re dating?” He said quietly, earning a wide-eye look from you. Based on your reaction, you probably didn’t know either. “Yeah, weird. Those two boys thought we were dating.”

“That’s the weird feeling I was getting in this room.” You say as you twirl your golden charm necklace between your fingers, looking over at the two boys who suddenly looked guilty and mischievous at the same time. You raise a brow and look back at Fred with a small smirk, making him grin back.

“Can you imagine the shock on their faces if they believed it took you two seconds to land a girlfriend?”

Fred bent over by the waist, lips mere centimeters from yours. “And what do you have in mind, Faucett?”

Your smirk widens before you pull him in by the collar of his sweater, lips meeting his faster than anyone could have expected it. As if someone flipped a switch in Fred’s mind, he quickly reciprocated, hands coming up to cup the back of your neck and cheek.

For a second, the two of you were completely immersed in each other that you didn’t realize that—once more—the Gryffindor Common Room stared. This time, they stared only for a brief moment before looking away. It seemed like everyone expected it since the moment you both walked into the Common Room together on any Sunday evening.

You separate after the kiss that lasted longer than you both thought it would last, the two of you slightly out of breath, but still wearing eat-shitting grins at fooling the two third years in their small corner. Fred glanced at them from the corner of his eye, winking at Oliver specifically when he stared with a gaped mouth.

“That’ll be the best piece of advice they’ll ever get.” You laugh quietly as Fred plops down beside you, resting his chin on your shoulder and wrapping his arm around your abdomen, warm against your skin under the sweater. “You’re not going back to those two boys?”

“Nah, it’ll ruin the fun.” He drawled and looked up at you with his pretty brown eyes, pressing a lingering kiss to your shoulder unexpectedly. You looked down at him and raised a brow, waiting for an explanation from the one Weasley you liked a little more than the others.

“So, you? Me? Next weekend? Hogsmeade?” He asked with a confident smile, twirling a piece of your hair in between his index and thumb.

You bite back a smile and pat his cheek, his own smile never wavering. “You really know how to make a girl feel special, Weasley.”

“Is that a yes?” He questioned, looking between your eyes.

“You did this on purpose, didn’t you?” You say as you go back to finishing your essay, not caring for the blush that rose to your cheeks.

You and Fred have been friends since first year, but it never crossed your mind that you could ever be in the relationship everyone assumed you were in. Not until this year. It felt like you clung to every single word he spoke to you this time, and it felt so different.

All the pranks he would plan with Lee and George was always relayed to you, every gift he planned to give to his family members went through you—you were practically his without officially being his.

“I plan for many things, Faucett.” Fred moved to sit properly and dragged your legs back on top of his lap, messing with the embroidery on your jeans. “But I never planned on someone like you kissing me just to mess with two thirteen year olds.”

“You went along with it.” You clarify, knowing damn well that he also wanted to prank the two teens. Besides, it’s not like it was your first time kissing Fred. Not at all.

Your gaze meets his, “So what, you actually want to take me out on a date now?”

“Yep.” He continued to grin and trace the embroidery.

You carefully tuck away your Charms essay once more, continuing to hide the smile that came with the thought of going out with Fred Weasley. “I guess I’ll go on a date with you.”

Fred didn’t even know his grin could get bigger, but it did. He pulled you as close to him as he could, arms wrapped securely around your waist as he tilted his chin down to meet your eyes. “You say it like it’s a bad thing.”

“You are bad news.” You laugh and melt into him when he pressed a kiss to your forehead. You raised a brow at him, “Never planned huh?”

“Nope.” He popped his syllables with a smile so bright you swore the sun would shake in it’s presence. “Never planned.”

©lqveharrington - all rights reserved. do not copy, translate or share my work on other media platforms

[thatdiabolicalfeminist]

I've been messaging with a 17yo kid from Gaza, named Nader.

When I asked what he wanted people to know about his family's situation, he immediately answered "the bitter cold".

His other answer was about how incredibly expensive everything is in Gaza right now. Here's context: https://www.aljazeera.com/news/2024/10/16/how-much-does-food-cost-in-gaza

Can you imagine being in this situation? Made homeless where the stores are no longer getting consistent deliveries and might be bombed, the government is barely operating cuz it keeps getting bombed, there's not even charity getting into your besieged area, and most people's jobs—including your big brother's—have been bombed beyond repair?

Where it's getting so cold and you CAN'T get warm because you're relying on strangers to help you get that coat or blanket, or bc you need the little money that trickles in to just survive??

And can you imagine living this way for OVER A YEAR as a normal teenager who has a little brother and a baby niece with malnutrition to stress about too?

I know people are tired of hearing about Gaza. It's upsetting that this genocide has continued so long with so few powerful people even trying to stop it. But we have a responsibility to our fellow humans, to help them survive persecution.

Nader is seventeen. None of this should be on his shoulders. Please help his family be safe so he can stop feeling like it's his job to make sure his family has what they need.

This campaign was verified as authentic by gazavetters (#4 on this spreadsheet), which I have seen Palestinians I trust cite as a trusted source.

Can you give up one treat this week to help Nader's family have the basics?

If you donate at least $10 and comment on this post with proof, I'll record a silly voice message for you or draw you a post it note doodle!

Please also consider following @abdalsalam1990, the tumblr account this family is using to try to raise funds, as a reminder to yourself to share the campaign or contribute in the future.

Tagging usernames off the top of my head in hopes you'll share this fundraiser; please message me if you don't want to be tagged in things like this, or if I didn't tag you but you DO want to be tagged in posts like this.

Edit edit: thank you @transmutationisms for teaching me how tagging works 😅 i've only been on this site 10 years lmao

@wizardarchetypes @herpsandbirds @brattylikestoeat @tearsofrefugees @milf--adjacent

@vampiricvenus @mostly-funnytwittertweets @sweatermuppet @mostlysignssomeportents @probablyasocialecologist

@timequangle @repotting @robertreich @antifainternational @dlxxv-vetted-donations

[accioharrington9]

we can't be friends (but i'd like to just pretend)

pairing: steve harrington x fem!reader

prompt: four times you spent a holiday with your best friend Steve Harrington and one time you didn't and missed him.

word count: 10.2k

warnings: friends-to-lovers, everyone can see it (including steve and reader but they're both kind of in denial), mutual pining, characters in their mid-twenties, fluff and (some) emotional angst, steve uses a cheesy nickname for reader, mentions of partying and alcohol consumption, some swearing, no use of y/n

notes: hi all, this is the first reader fic that i publish here, so bear with me, i tried my best <3 in light of the year-end celebrations, this fun little idea of a fic came to me and i decided to give it a shot, so i hope you'll enjoy reading it as much as i enjoyed writing it <3

🥂🥂🥂

“What are your resolutions for the new year?”

You looked up from your glass of champagne when Steve asked you that question out of the blue. You were both leaning against the kitchen island at Nancy and Jonathan’s apartment, distractedly observing your friends playing a drinking game you had both stepped out of.  You were glad to allow your friends their fun, but mostly, to have a reason to get some alone time, just the two of you. A silent agreement, as always.

“You know I don’t believe in resolutions,” you answered before bringing a flute smudged by your red lipstick to your lips.

“Oh, come on, kitten, humor me for a second.”

You raised an eyebrow at him while he waited for your response with a cheeky smile. You heard Robin burst into laughter from the living room, but you were too focused on Steve’s loose strand of hair and the woody scent of his new cologne to acknowledge it.

“Fine,” you obliged him. “Well, I resolve to quit drinking coffee, exercise more, and buy a new and well-functioning car.”

“You’re full of shit,” Steve laughed. “Like you’re ever going to get rid of Gina.”

“Of course I’m not getting rid of Gina, she’s my ride-or-die,” you said, referring to your personified old car.

“Yeah, emphasis on ‘die’ – you're missing a rearview mirror in there.”

You nudged him playfully, briefly losing your balance but Steve helped steady you immediately, putting a hand on your hips that hovered there longer than necessary. You chuckled for good measure but couldn’t help the heat that rushed to your face.

Everyone knew you and Steve had a thing for each other. It had been that way since high school – lingering looks in the hallway between classes, overly tactile during a mundane conversation, pretending to forget something at the other’s house to have a reason to go there again… Everyone knew it, was used to it, and never mentioned anything about it – you and Steve included.

Nothing had ever happened because the timing was always off. If it wasn’t Steve who was dating someone, you were; then you moved away to go to college, and when you came back to Hawkins after graduating, Steve had just left for an internship in New York. Eventually, you grew tired of the never-ending “what-ifs” and made your peace knowing that Steve Harrington would always be more than just a friend but less than a lover. A fine line you both tiptoed in and out of too much over the past eight years.

“What about you?” you eventually asked Steve. “You’re corny as shit, you must have a lot of them resolutions in mind.”

“I only thought of a couple, and they’re not that corny.”

“Let me be the judge of that.”

Steve laughed again, running a hand through his hair as he reflected on what he’d say. You admired him while he did so. It was frustrating, still having that teenage crush on your longtime friend, not being able to let it go, not entirely at least. You sometimes wished you could be his friend the way Robin was to him, or Eddie was to you. It would make it all so much easier, so much less painful than this in two minds you were both stuck in, this blatant desire for more, this fear that it could all be ruined in seconds, poor decisions fragmenting the illusion of a blissful friendship.

“I thought about learning how to play the guitar.”

“Cliché,” you teased. “What else?”

You could see the turn the conversation had taken when Steve hesitated before talking – looked nervous, even.

“Moving out. Getting my own place.”

You stared at Steve, quiet. You couldn’t say you were surprised – he’d been roommates with Eddie since they both enrolled in community college a few years ago. Even after graduating and getting a job, they stayed that way, because it was simple; splitting the bills, having someone to talk to after a lonely day. But it could only work for so long. It was only a matter of time until one or the other got bored and needed a change of scenery. To you, it was no surprise Steve had that revelation first.

“You sound serious,” was the only comment you could express.

“Because I am,” Steve said. “I started looking at one-bedroom apartments to rent in the neighborhood.”

“Does Eddie know?” you asked.

Steve pursed his lips as he shook his head from left to right. You hummed and couldn’t help but look at the young man in question, with his curly hair tied back in a bun and his poor imitation of some football player his team had to guess the name of. You loved this friend group – you loved the dynamic, the hijinks, and the stability. You loved hanging out with Robin, Nancy, and Jonathan at Eddie and Steve's apartment. You loved everything about it and the thought of losing your bearings, of disrupting your habits, made you too sad for the 31st of December, five minutes away from another midnight of confetti, embraces, and promises.

“You’re the first person I told,” Steve eventually said, breaking the silence that had settled between you two. “I thought you could share some of that wisdom you have to advise me.”

You snorted, lazily knocking your shoulder against his arm. “You buttering up to me, Harrington?”

“Only if it’s working.”

You got lost in his beautiful brown eyes, aware of the subtlest things, like his pinky finger brushing your hand timidly, the mint toothpaste on his breath, or how perfectly he wore the sweater you gifted him. It felt so right, standing close to him and toying with the possibility of the unknown. It always did with Steve.

“Okay guys, it’s officially one minute away from midnight, gather ‘round!!” Nancy exclaimed, clapping her hands to get everyone’s attention.

Reluctantly, you left the little bubble of peace and happiness you had created in the kitchen, Steve following closely behind. As you started counting down from ten, surrounded by all your closest and dearest friends, you only had eyes for Steve.

It had become a habit since you first celebrated New Year’s Eve with him years ago – you couldn’t help but wonder if he’d kiss you at midnight. It was a fantasy you’d entertained ever since you were eighteen, the final and first thought of each year that passed without ever becoming real. Each year, naively, you thought it’d be different. But each year, it was the same old song all over again.

As the clock struck midnight and cheers erupted among the friend group, you hugged everyone. You saved the best ‘til last, heart beating frantically as Steve wrapped his arms around you. You buried your face in his neck, getting drunk on his cologne – pathetic, disillusioned.

“Happy New Year, kitten,” Steve whispered in your ear before kissing your cheek – soft, tender, and terribly platonic, as usual.

“Happy New Year, Harrington,” you kissed his cheek in return, the trace of your lipstick leaving a mark on his skin like a temporary tattoo.

And you were too busy thinking about the undone to notice that this year, Steve held you in his arms a little longer than usual.

🌹🌹🌹

“Bro-lentine’s Day?”

“Is that one of those boys band they keep talking about on the radio?"

You held back a laugh at Steve’s question and Eddie’s comment regarding the odd suggestion Robin had just made. The four of you were waiting in line at a Wendy's drive-thru in Steve’s car, the crescent moon shining its feeble light in the night sky above.

“Why would you even think about spending Valentine’s Day with your loser single friends when you have a beautiful girlfriend you could shower with gifts?” Eddie asked, to which Steve, behind the wheel, concurred immediately.

“I mean, I obviously love you guys, but I mostly suggest that because Vickie’s working a night shift on the 14th and I figured it’d be nice to hang out together, the four of us, instead of just… I don’t know, being alone?” Robin admitted.

“Oh, so we’re your stand-ins?” Eddie exclaimed, feigning offense under your amused attention. “Classy, Buckley.”

“That sounds a hell of a lot like a pity party, Rob,” Steve pointed out.

You laughed along as Robin kept putting her foot in her mouth. It was often like that – Robin and Eddie gently bickering in the back seats while you exchanged knowing looks with Steve, in your designated seat at the front of the car.

The only difference was this time, when Steve searched for your eyes to have a silent laugh with you, you avoided his gaze, pretending to look in the distance, thinking about something you needed to say to him but couldn’t find the courage to.

“Okay, fine,” Eddie eventually yielded. “Let’s do this thing. But I have one condition – we go to Steve’s new apartment.”

“Excellent idea!” Robin exclaimed, enthusiastic.

“I told you guys, I’m not done unboxing my stuff, the place is a mess,” Steve argued as he started the ignition to move forward.

Robin rolled her eyes. “You say that like you have a thousand boxes.”

“It's his plethora of hair products - they take up a lot of room,” Eddie teased, which made Robin snort.

“You’re both hilarious, seriously, I can’t stop laughing,” Steve said with a straight face.

“So, it’s a deal,” Eddie said. “Bro-lentine’s Day at Steve’s new place – no, I’m sorry Rob, you’ll have to find another name, I hate how it sounds when it comes out of my mouth.”

“What do you think, babes?”

You only focused back on the conversation when Robin called your name, looking away from the constellations in the sky.

“Hmm? Oh, I’m sorry babes but count me out of this one,” you said with a sorry smile.

Robin laughed, thinking you were probably messing with her. Steve was driving slowly now that the line ahead finally seemed to clear.

“Right, because you have something better to do on Valentine’s Day, of course,” Robin joked while Eddie chuckled.

You tried not to take offense because you knew it was some innocent banter, but it didn’t stop you from frowning.

“Actually, yes, I do,” you contradicted. “I have a date that day.”

The car braked abruptly, causing a blast of horns from the vehicle behind and surprised yelps from the back seats.

“What the fuck, Harrington??” Eddie ranted. “That’s why I keep telling you you’re a shit driver, seriously, how did you manage to get your license, man?"

“Sorry, I got… distracted for a sec’,” Steve apologized.

You couldn’t bear to look Steve in the eye, so you toyed with the bracelets around your wrists and stared at your shoes, waiting for your friends’ reaction to the news.

“Is it someone we know?” Robin asked bluntly. “It’s the cute guy from the music shop at the mall, isn’t it? I knew he had a crush on you, you’re the only one who got Like a Prayer for half price.”

“It was… actually a twenty-percent discount,” you corrected, even though none of your friends cared about that information.

“Who even asks someone out on Valentine’s Day?” Eddie asked himself out loud. “We have three hundred and sixty-five days a year, why choose this nightmare of a commercialized day deliberately?”

“I think it’s cute,” Robin shrugged.

You attempted a smile, but it was nowhere near convincing. Robin and Eddie weren’t even paying attention to you anymore, discussing with each other the pros and cons of a first date on the 14th of February. You gathered the courage to look at Steve, decipher his expression. He might’ve been trying to get your attention a moment ago, but now, he was just staring in front of him, both hands firmly holding the lower part of the wheel.

“So, you’re really going to abandon me with these two idiots, huh?”

Your laugh at Steve’s rhetorical question was a mix of amusement and relief. If there was one thing that meant more than anything to you, it was the harmony between you two. You knew that as soon as you or Steve dated someone, that harmony was threatened. It had happened before. It was a fatality.

“You’ll be just fine,” you assured softly. “It’s just one night.”

Steve chuckled, finally making it to the pickup window. “Yeah, you’re right. Just one night. Easy-peasy.”

At that moment, you couldn’t have imagined that on the 14th of February, you’d find yourself knocking on Steve’s door at ten in the evening, makeup ruined by your disappointed tears, holding tight to your coat and shame in the cold evening air.

When Steve opened the door and saw you standing before him, he blinked at the unexpected sight of you sniffing and shivering.

“What are you doing here, kitten? Is everything okay?”

As soon as you heard Steve’s voice and the concern he displayed, it was out of your control – another tear rolled down your cheek.

“Oh no. Come here.”

You didn’t need to be asked twice- when Steve opened his arms at you, you dived in, letting him hug you tight, accepting his warmth and empathy.

“Dude stood you up?” Steve asked, voice muffled as his face was buried in your hair.

“Worse,” you said. “He was there.”

Steve huffed, because it could’ve been a funny anecdote if not for the dried mascara that ran under your eyes.

“So, we’re not going to the music shop again, huh?”

“I never said it was the guy from the music shop,” you pointed out.

“You never denied it either.”

You snorted and you felt Steve smile against your head. He was the first to part from your embrace, but you were under the impression he could’ve stayed like that much longer.

“What’s taking so long, dingus?” Robin shouted from the living room. “You need help with the pizzas?”

“It’s not the pizzas,” Steve retorted as you stepped inside the apartment.

Both Robin and Eddie turned around on the couch and looked equally surprised to see you there.

“Is it okay if I crash Bro-lentine’s Day?” you asked sheepishly.

“We’re not calling it that!” Eddie said in a singsong.

“You’re more than welcome to crash Bro-lentine’s Day, babes,” Robin told you while wrapping her arm around your shoulders as you sat next to her.

“I give up,” Eddie sighed before heading for the kitchen.

“What did the loser do to get you like that?” Robin inquired, touching your face where the tears had dried.

“Honestly, he wasn’t even that bad,” you explained. “He just… wasn’t what I expected. I guess I’m tired of getting my hopes up and ending up disappointed every time.” You paused, reflecting on that state of mind. “It’s stupid, I know.”

“It’s not stupid,” Robin contradicted with a sympathetic smile. “It’s Valentine’s Day, anyone would’ve expected a perfect date.”

“Hence why you don’t date on that doomed day.”

“Can’t you just let it go already, Eddie??”

You smiled softly at your friends’ innocent quarrel, and you realized in the end, there were no other people you’d rather spend the day of love and romance with.

So, you settled comfortably on the couch in Steve’s new apartment, surrounded by dozens of wrapped boxes and your closest friends with a glass of wine and a cheesy movie to watch, sharing the details of your date with them.

“Well, his loss, darling, not yours,” Eddie said in conclusion to your story.

“Definitely,” Robin nodded.

You smiled lightly and you thought maybe, just maybe, they were right.

“Why are you smiling like that, Harrington?” Eddie then asked.

“Hmm? Oh, no reason,” Steve answered casually before finding a tiny spot between you and Robin on the couch.

🎉🎉🎉

There was nothing more frustrating than being late to meet your friends and having your car’s engine make that hideous sputtering sound as you kept putting the key in the ignition without it ever starting.

“Shit, shit, shit, shit,” you echoed in sync with the car’s noises.

“I see Gina’s being cranky today.”

You glared at Steve, sitting in the passenger seat and enjoying himself a little too much.

“It’s too hot outside, she doesn’t like it when it’s too hot,” you explained to yourself more than Steve.

“It’s the 4th of July, kitten. It’s always hot on the 4th of July.”

“Thank you so much for this enlightening forecast, Harrington, have you ever considered a career in meteorology?”

You bit your lip when you realized how harsh your comeback had sounded. You slowly turned your head to lay regretful eyes on your friend.

“Sorry,” you winced.

“You’re good. I think I know why Gina’s cranky today – she takes from her owner.”

You rolled your eyes but didn’t bother denying it.

The sun was starting to set in a sky adorned with pink and orange hues only summer could take credit for. The air was hot, crickets chirping and bees buzzing while the whole town was already busying itself in preparation for the incoming festivities.

For the past six years, on Independence Day, you’ve met all your friends by the lake on the outskirts of Hawkins to have a barbecue with beers and watch the fireworks. It was a tradition you all honored religiously each Fourth of July.

Except this year, Robin was celebrating with Vickie’s family, Eddie was working at the music camp, which meant you were spending the evening with Nancy, Jonathan, and Steve, a group hangout that looked an awful lot like a double date, and it worked yourself up into quite a state.

“Did you get the Buds?” you asked Steve as the ignition still wouldn’t start.

“Packs in the trunk,” Steve answered straight off.

“And the blankets?”

“In the backseat.”

“The radio for the music?”

“Nance’s taking care of it.”

You fell back in your seat after failing one too many times to start the car and just closed your eyes, sighing heavily. You wiped your hands on your shorts, the summer heat getting the best of you, chest heaving and patience hanging by a thread.

“We can take my car tonight, maybe Gina needs the rest,” Steve suggested. It irritated you even more.

“We always take your car, tonight’s the one night a year we take mine,” you argued, putting the keys in the ignition again.

“We’ll take yours another time, then, it’s no big deal.”

“No,” you just said.

Without a heads-up, you got out of the vehicle. Steve followed you as you opened the hood to check the engine. You were rough in your endeavor, hair falling out on your face and hands quickly stained with oil.

“Why are you being so stubborn today?” Steve asked you, tone cutting sharp like a knife.

“I’m not.”

“Yes, you are! You can tell as much as I can your car’s not going anywhere tonight, mine’s parked right behind and ready to go, so why are we losing time for nothing?”

“She’s just being picky right now but I’m getting there. She needs a little boost and she’s good to go,” you insisted, wiping the back of your hand on your forehead before realizing it’d smudge the oil.

“Yeah, sure, at this rate, she’ll be good to go for Thanksgiving,” Steve said ironically.

You shut the hood close abruptly, shooting daggers at Steve as he stood in front of you with his arms crossed. He looked just as irritated as you did.

“You’re being an asshole,” you stated matter-of-factly.

Steve snickered, eyebrows raising like he couldn’t believe what he just heard.

“Oh, I’m the asshole in this situation? You’re a fine one to talk!”

“Are you seriously turning the tables on me right now?!”

“I’m not, you’re clearly in a mood today and you’re taking it out on me! Last I heard, I’m not a punching bag!”

Your face twisted into a scowl because Steve annoyed you a great deal, but mostly because he was right. You were far from being good company today, and today was meant to be fun, chill, eventful. You could blame it all on Gina, but you knew that was just the tip of the iceberg.

“I’m just saying I’m going to get the car started just fine, all I need is a few minutes to figure it out. And we’re already late anyway, they won’t hate us for the extra ten minutes,” you said as you opened the hood again.

“This is not about the car and we both know it,” Steve stated, sure of himself. Of course, he was – he knew you like the back of his hand.

You closed the hood as soon as you opened it, walking closer to Steve to face him properly.

“Maybe you should take it easy if you want her to work, you know,” Steve remarked.

“Why don’t you just say what’s on my mind, Steve? Since you apparently know it better than I do,” you hit him with your words.

“But that’s just the thing! I don’t!” Steve exclaimed, his voice raising an octave. “I don’t know what’s going on with you right now and you won’t tell me a goddamn thing!”

“You already know what’s going on with me, I made it perfectly clear – I want my fucking car to start so we can go and meet our friends, as we do every year!”

“And I made it perfectly clear that we can take my car, so why are we still arguing about this??”

“Because it’s the way things are supposed to be!!”

The silence that followed that revelation felt intrusive. You couldn’t wait for Steve to tell you off, to argue with you some more, but instead, he didn’t say another word and just stared at you, dumbfounded. It allowed you to reflect on your behavior of the past ten minutes and you immediately dropped your eyes to look at your shoes, ashamed.

“What do you mean?” Steve asked you then, voice softer.

You sighed and looked in the distance, avoiding his gaze.

“It’s the tradition. On the 4th of July, you come to my place to help me pack everything, we take my car to pick up Eddie and Robin on the way to the lake, we meet Nance and Jonathan there, then, you and Eddie set the barbecue while Jonathan and I take care of the music, and Nance and Robin lay the blankets to make us cozy. And we eat and drink until they shoot the fireworks from downtown – it’s how the day is supposed to go.”

“Right, and it’s how it’s going to go today,” Steve assured, confused.

“No, it’s not. Rob and Eddie are not there this year, and because of Gina, we’re late and missing out on the sunset.” You paused, taking a breath. “It’s what I look forward to the most. Watching the sunset on the lake with you guys. All of you.”

Steve relaxed his shoulders and breathed out like he finally made sense of the underlying problem. He stepped closer to you and his hand cupped your face, willing you to look him in the eyes.

“Okay, I’m going to take a wild guess and assume it has something to do with Nancy and Jonathan talking about moving to Chicago next year for Nancy’s job,” Steve said. “Am I boiling or getting colder?”

The rhetorical question elicited a weak smile on your lips.

“I know Chicago’s not that far from Hawkins, but… I like the way things are right now, you know?” you explained while Steve listened, nodding. “I like that we can hang out whenever we want to, show up unannounced at each other’s place, and whatnot.”

“You can still do that if they move to Chicago. It’ll just take you more than three hours to get there,” he teased you.

Steve did it – he made you laugh. “I’m not so sure Gina would survive the trip.”

“I’ll let you borrow my car, then,” Steve whispered, and even though you were bantering, it sounded like a promise.

You chuckled, the knot in your stomach coming undone as Steve put his thumb to your forehead, stroking where you had wiped the oil stain earlier.

“You look like shit,” he told you unceremoniously.

“And you’re a shitty friend,” you bit back, making you both smile.

Friend. The denomination never felt strong enough to define what you and Steve meant to one another. Yet, it was the only one you used, the only one that brought you comfort, especially in those blurry moments that kept you wondering why that boy had always been so sweet and kind to you, even when you felt undeserving.

You jumped at the sound of a car honking from the street, bringing you back to reality as you and Steve turned your heads to see what happened. You felt amused, and somehow relieved when you saw Nancy popping her head out the passenger window of Jonathan’s car like a beautifully staged interruption.

“Oh my God, you guys are late too?” Nancy shouted at them. “I told Jonathan to go over the speed limit, and as you can imagine, he was not happy about it.”

Steve laughed, and you followed suit because it was almost ridiculous, how perfect the situation had turned out. Sure, things felt different this year, with winds of change impending, and the future of your friend group unclear. But at least, you were all on the same page.

“While we’re here, get in the car with us!” Nancy offered, gesturing for you to come closer. “Maybe we can still catch the sunset.”

You exchanged an amused look with Steve, silently agreeing that your uncooperative car and your latest conversation would remain a secret you’d share only between you. Your friends didn’t need to know the reason why you were late.

So, you and Steve hurried to put everything in Jonathan’s car, climbed in the backseat, and made it to the lake just in time to admire the remnant of sunset and put everything into place to wait for the fireworks.

And as you put a blanket over your and Nancy’s shoulders, the fire crackling in the quiet of the evening around you, you couldn’t help but search for Steve’s eyes. He was already looking at you, sitting across the fire next to Jonathan. You smiled when you realized, and he winked at you, playful, secretive.

Maybe you were lying to yourself, in the end. Maybe you didn’t mean it when you said you liked things the way they were. Maybe there was one thing you wouldn’t mind changing, you thought as you looked away from Steve to look up at the fireworks now erupting in the sky above.

🎃🎃🎃

“I’m not sure I get it, Robin – who are you dressed as?”

“Are you seriously asking me that question, Nance? Marty McFly? Don’t tell me you still haven’t watched Back to the Future!”

“I didn’t have time.”

“In five years, you didn’t have time to watch a two-hour movie?”

“I work a lot, okay?!”

You were only half-listening to Robin and Nancy’s bickering as you finished getting ready for the Halloween party that your high school classmate Tina and her best friend Vicki Carmichael threw every year.

Usually, on the 31st of October, you would just crash at Steve and Eddie’s former apartment with the group, stuffing your face with popcorn and watching horror movies. But this year, the boys didn’t live at that apartment anymore and it was the last Halloween you’d all spend together in Hawkins before Jonathan and Nancy moved to Chicago next January. You all agreed it called for a memorable celebration, hence why you were now getting ready with the girls at your place.

“So, you mean to tell me you haven’t had time to watch Back to the Future, but you had it to watch all three Star Wars movies, judging on your costume?” Robin asked while Nancy grunted in frustration.

“I told you last week, me and Jonathan are wearing couple’s costumes – he’s Han Solo and I’m Princess Leia, obviously,” she explained while pointing at her long white dress and peculiar hairstyle.

“Couple’s costumes,” Robin repeated. “Kids these days, they’re just talking nonsense.”

“It’s romantic and fun, you’re just jealous you didn’t think about it for you and Vickie,” Nancy retorted as you were starting to think you were in the middle of playground taunts.

“Oh yeah, I should’ve asked Vickie to dress as Doc, it would’ve been crazy romantic,” Robin sassed.

Once the heels were at your feet, you turned around on your chair to stare at your friends.

“You two realize how stupid your fight is, right?” you chipped in.

“We’re not fighting,” Robin and Nancy said in unison.

You rolled your eyes and turned back around to face your vanity and finish your makeup, but it was too late – you had involuntarily drawn the attention to you.

“And who are you dressing as, hot stuff?” Nancy cooed while smirking at your reflection in the mirror.

You hummed the Dirty Dancing theme song to answer her question, and she nodded approvingly, taking in your pink dress and silver heels.

“I love it,” Nancy smiled.

“Thanks,” you said as you stood up. “And you two look equally great, so stop biting each other’s heads off.”

“So, if you’re Jennifer Grey, does it mean Steve’s dressing as Patrick Swayze? I could see him pulling that off.”

Robin’s question took you aback for it came out of nowhere. You gaped at her, face warm and thoughts racing.

“Hmm, no, he’s not. That’d… be a great couple’s costume, for sure. But we’re not a couple, so…” you stammered, awfully self-conscious.

“Well, yeah, but you might as well be.”

“Robin,” Nancy reprimanded her with warning eyes.

“What??” Robin exclaimed while you watched, confused. “It’s not like she doesn’t know what I mean, it’s been going on for years, this… whatever this is. And honestly, we’re all tired of pretending like we can’t see it.”

Nancy blushed, embarrassment written all over her face as she rubbed a hand over it.

“I don’t… understand,” you admitted, tugging at the hems of your dress to anchor yourself in the moment.

“There’s nothing to understand, babes,” Nancy said softly. “Robin was just joking. Right, Rob?”

Nancy was now glaring at Robin, who had no option but to concur. It felt like you were missing something there, and you didn’t like it. Were your friends talking behind your back? Were they annoyed at your relationship with Steve? Annoyed at the ambiguity, the unsaid, the attraction? Was it all that obvious as of late?

“I’m sorry, guys,” Robin said with a sigh. “I had a fight with Vickie earlier today and it messed me up a little bit.”

“Oh, babes,” Nancy softened, hugging Robin from the side.

“I know that’s no excuse for being a jerk,” Robin winced in your direction.

“You’re all right,” you said with a sympathetic smile, and both Robin and Nancy seemed relieved.

The three of you talked Robin through her problem until it was time to meet the guys outside. Nancy was the first to exit the apartment, but Robin lingered by the front door, hand hovering hesitantly above the handle. Eventually, she made up her mind and turned over to face you.

“I just want you to know that I’m really sorry for earlier,” Robin told you.

“It’s okay, Rob, I get it. You were upset about your fight with Vickie and said stuff you didn’t mean. It’s fine, it happens to all of us,” you said, wondering why Robin had felt the need to bounce back on that.

“No, but see, that’s the thing – I did mean it,” she contradicted. “I just didn’t say it like I should’ve.”

“And how should you say it?” you asked with a frown.

Robin looked uncertain now, fidgeting where she stood. You imagined that if Nancy were still in the room with you two, she’d probably give Robin an earful.

“When I said that we’re all tired of pretending like we can’t see what there is between you and Steve, I didn’t mean that in a bad way,” she elaborated under your undivided attention. “It’s just… We’re your friends, and you know, as friends, we want what’s best for each other, I’m sure you feel that way about us too –“

“Robin, cut to the chase, please,” you interjected before she could lose herself in her explanation.

“We just think if you two admitted what you’re both obviously feeling for each other… You could be very happy together. And the rest of us would be too because damn, we’ve watched it happen since high school and it’s about time one of you does something about it, babes.”

You stared at the door behind Robin, wishing to run away from this conversation that was too much for you to handle. It was the first time one of your friends confronted you on the matter, upfront, and you had no idea how to react.

“I’m not expecting you to say anything, don’t worry,” Robin added. “I just wanted you to know what everyone else is thinking. Do what you want with that information.”

You opened your mouth to respond but you heard the distinctive sound of Eddie’s van parking on the street, your sign that it was time to go and end this conversation for good. You rushed to the door, opening it before Robin could and hurtling down the stairs to some extent on your heels. Once you were outside, you breathed in slowly, calming down and processing what one of your best friends had just confided to you.

You and Robin met Nancy on the curb as Eddie slid the van’s side door open to let you in the backseats.

“Evening, ladies,” Eddie greeted.

“Wow, you’re Elton!” Nancy exclaimed after studying Eddie’s costume, a white ensemble with feathers and glitter that was the singer’s signature.

“You could get that but not mine?!” Robin exclaimed, almost offended.

“Move on, Rob, and let’s have fun tonight,” Nancy teased her while sitting near Jonathan, dressed in the easily identifiable Han Solo outfit.

Robin took the passenger seat next to Eddie, leaving you with no choice but to sit next to Steve at the back of the van. Of course. Almost like it had been on purpose, you thought to yourself.

You settled next to him and you were almost insecure, something you’d never felt around him. You resented Robin for not knowing best, and not keeping her mouth shut.

“Hey, kitten,” Steve welcomed you as you smoothed the edges of your dress.

“Hey, Harrington,” you said in return, attempting to smile at him.

You studied his costume as he studied yours. Aviator sunglasses on his head, green jumpsuit, sleeves rolled back under his elbows – Maverick from Top Gun. You'd gushed over the character when the movie came out, and you wondered if it happened to be a funny coincidence or if Steve had picked that costume on purpose.

“Baby,” Steve suddenly said.

“What?” you choked out with widened eyes.

Steve frowned. “Your costume,” he clarified. “Baby from Dirty Dancing, right?”

You processed the information and chuckled awkwardly, feeling stupid. You let Robin get in your head and you hated it.

“Right,” you breathed out as Eddie drove away.

Something passed in Steve’s eyes, and you were not sure what it was. Hesitation, desire, resignation… You watched and waited, fingers laced on your lap, heartbeat echoing in your ears.

“You look… very nice,” Steve told you in a hushed voice.

You knew neither Nancy nor Jonathan could’ve heard it – they were engaged in a vivid conversation with Robin and Eddie in the front of the car. It was an intimate declaration, meant for you and you only.

Your lips parted subtly, but Steve’s eyes caught it regardless. It did not soothe the rate of your beating heart.

“Thanks,” you croaked it, throat tight. “You’re not too bad yourself."

Steve smiled briefly, then did the strangest thing. He leaned in, his face awfully close to yours, and you thought; this was it. He was going to kiss you. Right then, right there, in the back of Eddie’s van dressed as the guy from Top Gun on the way to a Halloween party.

And as much as you wanted him to kiss you, it wasn’t how you wanted him to do it. Not the place, not the time. Maybe Steve realized it too because he moved away as quickly as he had gotten closer to you, clearing his throat and watching out the window like nothing happened.

The party at Tina’s villa was loud, messy, and packed with former classmates – some you were glad to run into, others you made a strong case of avoiding. You had a nice chat with your high school sweetheart, even though you could feel Steve’s eyes on you the whole time. When you couldn’t bear the weight of his yearning gaze, you took a sip of that rum punch Vicki Carmichael had made – a few times.

You fled to the bathroom around eleven to freshen up and have some alone time. You were reasonably drunk, but still conscious enough to notice someone was already in the room when you barged into it.

“Oh, so sorry, I didn’t know someone was in there –”

You cut the apology short when you recognized the person’s reflection staring at you in the mirror.

“Becky, hi,” you said, surprised.

The girl greeted you back, the sound of your name imperceptible amid the party people shouting in the hallway. Now, you were reasonably drunk and very uncomfortable.

Becky was the last girl Steve had dated. They had been together for two years and seemed happy until Becky broke up with Steve overnight. Everyone assumed she’d probably met someone else, but you always felt like that was too simple and there was another more plausible explanation.

“You okay?” Becky asked you.

“Y – yeah, I just needed to cool off,” you mumbled.

You assumed Becky would urge you to clear off and leave her be, but instead, she stepped aside to give you some space in front of the sink.

You closed the door behind you and stood in front of the mirror, silently watching Becky perfect the mascara on her lashes. You quickly gathered she was dressed as Madonna in the Material Girl music video.

“It’s… been a while,” you said to break that awful silence. “What are you up to these days?”

“Small talk, huh? I thought we were way past that.”

You chuckled, ill at ease and too drunk to have a proper conversation. Out of all the girls Steve had dated, Becky was the one who unsettled you the most. You never knew what to expect of her.

“How’s Stevie?” Becky then asked before reapplying some lipstick.

Maybe it was the alcohol, or maybe it was Becky's inquiry, but something turned your stomach. You always hated it when she called Steve that name. It reminded you of a jealous version of yourself you’d rather leave in the past.

“He’s good,” you said casually, no matter your inner turmoil. “You know. Same old, same old.”

Becky’s lips turned into the semblance of a smile.

“I take it you two still aren’t together.”

You felt your heart drop at that comment. What did she mean, “still”? And what was up with everyone and their insights regarding your relationship with Steve?

“It sounded a lot less petty in my head, I promise,” Becky said when you stayed silent.

“It’s not that,” you replied. “I’m just… surprised you would say that.”

Becky sighed and turned around to face you. It looked like she was about to get a lot of things off her chest, and you were not sober enough for that.

“You know why I broke up with Steve?” Becky asked you, and she obviously wasn’t waiting for an answer. “Why all the girls he dates eventually break things off with him?”

You blinked. You didn’t want Steve’s ex-girlfriend to share that information with you. You had absolutely no desire to detain such knowledge. Yet, you shook your head, permitting Becky to say what she really thought, too curious to pretend you didn’t care.

“Because it’s painfully obvious he’s in love with you and we’re just here passing time until he finally has the balls to tell you.”

In love. You had thought about it all with Steve – he thinks I’m pretty; he’s attracted to me; he likes me more than a friend. But never in your wildest dreams had you dared fantasize about these powerful little words.

He’s in love with you, Becky’s voice repeated like a broken record on a loop in your mind. Taunting, hopeful, too good to be true.

You found yourself sitting on the bathtub’s edge, both arms at your side, speechless. Becky leaned against the wall across from you and chuckled like she'd just shared the funniest story.

“Don’t tell me this is shocking news.”

“I…” you started without finishing your thought. You were at a loss for words and your head started spinning, the fateful sentence seeping into your mind faster than the liquor in your system.

“Look, obviously, it wasn’t my place to tell, but you know, despite everything, I always liked you,” Becky confessed. “You were always nice to me, even though I could tell it was not easy for you.”

You lowered your eyes, apologetic. It was true – you had always been nice to Becky. After all, it wasn’t the girl’s fault if you had feelings you’d never dare confess to your best friend.

“That’s why I’m telling you,” Becky resumed. “I’m trying to help you two out. This whole faint-hearted act was probably cute when you were sixteen, but you’re adults now. Are you waiting for him to get married and start a family with someone else to tell him how you feel?”

The mere thought made your heart ache. You didn’t want to picture Steve married to someone else. It made you nauseous.

“Sorry, that was harsh,” Becky apologized.

“Why are you doing this?” you asked her in a whisper, feeling like your head was about to explode. “Why are you telling this to me and not him?”

Becky stared at you like you’d just said the most nonsensical thing.

“Because he’s an idiot and a coward. If you’re waiting for him to make a move, you’ll wait a long time, honey.”

You spaced out for a moment, and when you returned to your senses, Becky was gone, leaving you alone with your spiraling thoughts in that bathroom.

Becky was right. Steve was an idiot and a coward. The inebriation clouded all your good judgments, so you got to your feet and walked out of the bathroom to look for Steve. After everything that happened tonight, you were confused, upset, and even angry.

You found him outside by the pool, joking around with some guys from his old swim team in high school. You marched to him, bold and determined, and he didn’t notice you right away, so you hooked your fingers to the fabric around his arm and dragged him behind you. You ignored the guys whistling at you both or Steve protesting and asking what had gotten into you until you walked into an empty room on the side of the villa and closed the patio door behind you.

“Okay, what the hell was that about??” Steve exclaimed, his voice loud in the quiet of the room, away from the party noises and the music. “Have you lost your shit??”

“You’re an idiot,” you told him in an accusing tone.

“Tell me about it,” Steve sassed you.

“And a coward!”

“Oh, so you have a whole list, huh?”

“That’s what Becky said.”

Steve looked at you in silence, processing what you just said.

“Of course, you talked to Becky….” he sighed. “Let me guess – she said I stole her INXS tape? She needs to let it go, she clearly lost it, she can’t keep blaming me for –“

“I don’t want you to get married, Steve,” you interrupted him, blurting out what you had been obsessing about for the last ten minutes.

Steve froze and looked at you like you were insane. And you might just be, you realized. You took a step back, dizzy and embarrassed.

“I… was not planning on getting married any time soon. Where is that coming from?” Steve asked you, stepping toward you.

You bit your tongue, holding from saying another stupidity you’d immediately regret. Suddenly, your choice to confront Steve and isolate yourselves in a bedroom didn’t look like the brilliant plan it seemed to be five minutes ago.

“Forget it, I’m drunk, and I don’t know what I’m saying,” you stammered, head low as you walked toward the door.

“Hey,” Steve brought you short by taking your hand before you had the chance to leave. His touch was tender, your hand fit perfectly in his, and you understood what Becky meant when she said "still not together".

“Talk to me,” Steve urged, lacing his fingers with yours. It was unbearable, how natural it felt. “You used to tell me everything, and now, I have no idea what’s up with you anymore.”

You swallowed the lump in your throat, wishing you could go back in time and stop yourself from putting the two of you in this awful situation.

“Come on, kitten, we’re friends, you can tell me anything.”

Friends. You loathed the word that normally comforted you. You couldn’t stand to hear it.

He’s in love with you. How could he say you were friends when he was the one you called first when your car broke down, when he’d snuck out of college to comfort you after you got dumped by your ex-boyfriend, when he drove you across the country to see your sick grandfather for the last time? How did he have the audacity to minimize what you meant to each other after taking such a significant place in your heart for years and years?

“We’re not friends,” you mumbled.

You looked at him and thought you could see heartbreak in his eyes. You’d hurt him. You’d hurt him badly.

“We’re not?” he asked, his voice breaking in the inflection.

You held your breath as Steve questioned you with glistening eyes. He didn’t understand what you were trying to tell him, and it was killing you.

“You know what I mean,” you breathed out, unable to say the actual words.

He’s in love with you. It was so simple. Why couldn’t he just admit it?

You’re in love with him too, why can’t you say it?  you admitted to yourself.

Because no, it wasn’t that simple. Steve wasn’t the only coward in this situation. After all these years, it was so scary to admit, even more to say out loud. How could you expect him to say it when you were terrified of doing it yourself?

Eventually, Steve let go of your hand, an almost insignificant gesture that shattered your heart into a million pieces.

“Actually… No. I don’t know what you mean,” he said, defeated, before leaving the room.

You did it. You ruined everything, you thought as you sat on the floor and cried your heartbreak away.

🎁🎁🎁

It was supposed to be the merriest day of the year, with children's laughter filling the air and countless presents to unwrap. Yet, your heart was not in it, and you had to hold back tears during dinner that night at your parents’ house.

You hadn’t talked to or heard from Steve in almost two months, and it was officially the longest you’d spent without seeing each other. The thought was excruciating. He was your best friend in the entire world, you were head over heels in love with him, and the absence of him was like gasping for air on the verge of drowning.

But today was a merry day. Today was all about spending time together, eating a nice homemade meal, and reuniting. So, you played the part – you ate dinner, played board games with your cousins, and chatted with your uncles and aunts. You did what you were expected to do, and nothing more.

When you returned to your place, to your sad and lonely apartment, you sat down on the floor, still in your red party dress, back to your couch with a glass of wine, and flipped through a photo album Nancy and Jonathan had given you for your twenty-fifth birthday.

It was a recollection of happy times Jonathan had captured with his camera throughout the years – from graduating high school to renting your first crappy apartment, taking your first trip to New York with the group, and celebrating various occasions with them.

You took the last photo from the album, holding it between your fingers to get a closer look. It was a picture of you and Steve on New Year’s Eve the year before. You were posing for the camera, smiling from ear to ear. You were looking at the lens, but Steve only had eyes for you, holding you in his arms with rosy cheeks. When you looked at it like that, in retrospect and from another’s perspective, it seemed so evident that the guy in the picture loved the girl posing next to him.

You were fully crying now, blurry eyes and stuffy nose in contradiction with the holiday spirit. You were about to put the picture away in the album when something in the back of it caught your eye.

There was a note in the handwriting you would recognize anywhere at any given time – Steve’s. Your heart skipped a beat. It had gone unnoticed the first time you’d looked through the album at your birthday party and none of your friends had mentioned a thing about it. You started to look at a handful of pictures to see if others had something hidden on the other side, but they were all blank. All except for one.

You took a deep breath, pondering. Maybe Nancy and Jonathan were unaware of it, but Steve not saying anything didn’t make sense. This note had been there, forgotten in an album gathering dust in your bookcase, for months, and it could’ve gone on for years had you not felt nostalgic on that specific day.

You wondered if you should read it or pretend you’d never seen it. It was only a few words; they were probably some meaningless inside jokes or more personal birthday wishes. But they could also be something more, much more.

You knew you couldn’t live with the uncertainty, so you gathered your courage and read.

Happy birthday, kitten! Don’t know if you’ll ever see this, but I want you to know you’re my favorite person in the entire world, and I love you. Yours always, Steve PS: stop being a sourpuss just ‘cause you turned 25

It had been there. Right there, under your nose, all along. Yours always.

Before you could think it through, your coat was around your shoulders and you were behind the wheel, ready to drive to Steve’s place and tell him how you felt. Screw the stability and the uncertainty – you loved the boy too and you needed to tell him tonight.

It was past midnight, the air was cold and the streetlights reflected in the puddles on the pavement as you drove a little too fast toward Steve’s building. Your heart was racing in your chest, anticipation mingling with excitement while you rehearsed what you’d say in your head.

You were going to confess your true feelings to Steve. Nothing could scare you anymore.

Except, perhaps, the ominous sputtering sound your car made when you tried to restart at a traffic light.

“No, no, no, no, no, come on, not now!!” you begged desperately.

The ignition wouldn’t turn over, and you could’ve screamed at the sky. Was it some sort of cosmic sign preventing you from making the biggest mistake of your life?

You got out of the car to check the engine under the hood. When you opened it, it did something it’d never done before – it gave off fumes.

You coughed violently as you stepped away from the car, looking all around you and realizing you were alone on the street in the middle of the night with a kaput car and wasted opportunities.

“This is a nightmare,” you told yourself out loud. “This can’t be happening to me.”

Your eyes burned as you were about to cry again, disheartened and pathetic. Then, some headlights on the other side of the road caught your attention.

A maroon car stopped next to you and turned the ignition off. You held your breath, recognizing the vehicle instantly and wondering if the universe wouldn’t happen to be messing with you.

The driver exited the car and eyed yours up and down before chuckling.

“I had a feeling Gina wouldn’t make it through the year,” he said.

You laughed, the sound choked up in your throat at the improbability of the situation. You couldn’t believe Steve was there, rescuing you even without meaning to, always being there when you needed him to, the constant one in your life. As luck would have it, you thought.

“What are you doing here this late at night?” you asked him.

“Could ask you the same thing,” he remarked with a smile.

You returned his smile, nervously fixing your hair. The wind was rising, and the air was filled with change and expectations.

“I was… on my way to your place, actually,” you explained, somehow shyly. “I wanted to talk to you.”

A few seconds passed until Steve spoke again like he was processing the information. “That’s funny, I was on my way to your place too.”

You swallowed, unable to stop hoping. “You were?”

“Yeah… Of course, I was,” Steve shrugged. “I couldn’t sleep, and I realized I never got a chance to give you your present because we weren't speaking to each other, so… Anyways, I can just give it to you now.”

“We’re literally in the middle of the road, Steve.”

He looked around at the empty and silent street for good measure. “Yeah, and it’s not like it’s rush hour right now, I think we’re good.”

You opened your mouth to retort but opted against saying anything else. It was your first interaction with him in weeks, it was out of the question to ruin it just to have the last word.

The young man got something from the backseat of his car and immediately handed it to you. You took it carefully, turning it over in your hand to try and figure out what was beneath the wrapping paper.

“I… don’t have your gift,” you admitted, crestfallen. “I mean, I did get you something, but I didn’t think to give it to you tonight.”

“It’s okay, kitten. Just open it.”

You complied, slowly unwrapping the paper with trembling fingers and shortness of breath as Steve observed quietly.

You were now looking at a book’s front cover, and it might’ve seemed unremarkable at first glance, but it was not some common paperback.

“First limited edition,” Steve explained, even though you already knew. “You talked about it at Eddie’s place a couple of months ago, that it was almost impossible to find today, and you’d love to have it. So, I went to every bookstore in town to ask if they knew where to get it, and one of them gave me their counterpart's number from England, they had to send it all the way here but… Yeah,” Steve concluded, face red and hands in his pocket. “I found it.”

You looked up from the book to lock eyes with Steve. He seemed expectant and abashed, almost anxious of your reaction.

“You went to all this trouble for me?” you asked in disbelief.

He pursed his lips and nodded as if it was that obvious.

“You’re well worth the trouble.”

All this time, you had expected blatant signs, big gestures, and declarations, when Steve had been telling you how he felt in his own way for years. It had always been there – in fleeting touches, longing stares, and understated actions.

“I read it,” you eventually confessed.

"The book?" Steve asked, puzzled.

“No," you laughed. "The note you wrote in my photo album. I read it tonight.”

You noticed the way Steve held his breath at that revelation. Suddenly, you no longer cared that you were standing in the middle of the road with your dead car by your side. Suddenly, all that mattered was the pretty boy standing before you and what you felt for him.

“It was corny, right?” Steve said with a nervous laugh. “I know you don’t like it when it’s corny but –“

“Can’t you just be serious for one minute, Harrington?” you cut him short with an amused eye roll. “I’m trying to tell you how I feel here.”

“I know,” Steve breathed out. “I’ve been trying to tell you how I feel for months now, but I never find the right words.”

In the elation of the moment, your words got a mind of their own, and you heard yourself saying: “Show me, then.”

Friends. A designation you held onto for the past eight years, a status that put things into perspective whenever Steve introduced a new girlfriend to the group, a word that freed you of your guilt when getting into relationships yourself, a term that helped you when you would yearn for something more, something you thought to be unrealistic and unreachable.

That word no longer held any power over you now that you were in Steve Harrington’s arms and he leaned in to seal his lips with yours into a long-awaited and overdue kiss, the promise of a cherished and beautiful future.

You'd envisioned the scene time and time again in your mind, but none of the imaginary scenarios your fantasies created could measure up to that kiss. It was sweet, yet demanding, like you were the air he needed to breathe. He kissed you like he loved - sincerely, tenderly, and intensely. You smiled against his mouth, and your heart melted when he did it too.

When you parted from him, lips swollen and eyelashes fluttering, you felt like everything was finally right and mourned the time you wasted being scared of changes.

“So… What now?” you whispered, getting a strand of hair out of Steve’s face to look at him better.

The boy held your gaze, enamored and enraptured like you’d never seen him before. You enjoyed it while it lasted because it was a momentary bliss until reality caught up.

“Well, first, we’re going to call a tow truck," Steve said as he entwined his fingers with yours. "And then, you’ll bid farewell to Gina,” he nodded toward the car.

Your heart tightened in your chest. You’d almost forgotten about your car. It was truly ironic, how you needed to say goodbye to your oldest partner while embracing a new beginning with your best friend.

“Can it wait until tomorrow?” you asked while batting your lashes at him.

“Hey, just because we’re going to make out a lot from now on doesn’t mean you get to do that,” Steve jokingly scolded you while gesturing at your face.

“Do what?” you asked, coy and amused.

Steve laughed and put his arm around your shoulders. “Come on, kitten, I’m taking you home.”

At first, it didn’t feel like much had changed between you and Steve. You were still teasing each other, spending time with the group before Nancy and Jonathan’s departure, and arguing about what car you should buy now that Gina was in a junkyard.

But things had changed for the better, and you realized it on New Year’s Eve when Steve kissed you at midnight, as he would for many new years to come.

❤️❤️❤️

[literaryvein-reblogs]

Writing Notes: Anxious Attachment Style

Common Anxious Thoughts, Emotions, and Reactions

THOUGHTS

Mind reading: "That’s it, I know s/he’s leaving me."

All-or-nothing thinking: "I’ve ruined everything, there’s nothing I can do to mend the situation."

"I’ll never find anyone else."

"I knew this was too good to last."

"I have to talk to or see him/her right now."

"S/he can’t treat me this way! I’ll show him/her!"

"S/he is so amazing, why would s/he want to be with me anyway?"

"I knew something would go wrong; nothing ever works out right for me."

"S/he’d better come crawling back to beg my forgiveness, otherwise s/he can forget about me forever."

"Maybe if I look drop-dead gorgeous or act seductive, things will work out."

Remembering all the good things your partner ever did and said after calming down from a fight.

Recalling only the bad things your partner has ever done when you’re fighting.

EMOTIONS

Sad ⚜ Angry ⚜ Fearful ⚜ Resentful ⚜ Frustrated

Hopeless ⚜ Despairing ⚜ Jealous ⚜ Hostile ⚜ Vengeful

Guilty ⚜ Self-loathing ⚜ Restless ⚜ Uneasy ⚜ Humiliated

Hate-filled ⚜ Uncertain ⚜ Agitated ⚜ Rejected ⚜ Depressed

Unloved ⚜ Lonely ⚜ Misunderstood ⚜ Unappreciated

ACTIONS

Act out. ⚜ Attempt to reestablish contact at any cost.

Pick a fight. ⚜ Threaten to leave.

Wait for them to make the first reconciliation move.

Act hostile—roll eyes, look disdainful.

Try to make him/her feel jealous.

Act busy or unapproachable. ⚜ Act manipulatively.

Withdraw—stop talking to their partner or turn away from him/her physically.

Attachment classifications come from watching babies’ behavior.

Below is a short description of how anxious attachment style is defined in children. Some of their responses can also be detected in adults who share the same attachment style.

This baby becomes extremely distressed when mommy leaves the room.

When her mother returns, she reacts ambivalently—she is happy to see her but angry at the same time.

She takes longer to calm down, and even when she does, it is only temporary.

A few seconds later, she’ll angrily push mommy away, wriggle down, and burst into tears again.

Where Do Attachments Styles Come From?

Initially it was assumed that adult attachment styles were primarily a product of your upbringing.

Thus, it was hypothesized that your current attachment style is determined by the way in which you were cared for as a baby:

If your parents were sensitive, available, and responsive, you should have a secure attachment style; if they were inconsistently responsive, you should develop an anxious attachment style; and if they were distant, rigid, and unresponsive, you should develop an avoidant attachment style.

Today, however, we know that attachment styles in adulthood are influenced by a variety of factors, one of which is the way our parents cared for us, but other factors also come into play, including our genes and life experiences.

Source ⚜ More: On Attachment ⚜ Writing Notes & References Writing Resources PDFs ⚜ Avoidant ⚜ Secure ⚜ Disorganized

[sugary-strawberry-shortcake]

“Take It Off.” (Yandere Older Brother!Damian x Sister!YN)

A/N: if any of you want to be included in a taglist for my series 'Reverse Bloom‘ feel free to just tell me. in the next few days I’ll make a separate taglist post too.🩷

Damian didn’t understand it at first. Why something so small—so ridiculously insignificant—would make his skin itch.

A pink ribbon. Soft. Loose. Curled into her hair like something innocent.

But when she wore it, the world changed. People stared longer. Teachers smiled differently. Boys laughed too loud around her locker. They didn’t see her as Y/N Wayne—sweet, shy, quiet. Pure. They saw something else.

Something they wanted to reach for.

And that wasn’t allowed.

She didn’t understand. Of course she didn’t. She was always naïve like that—always thinking she could make friends in a city that breaks everyone. She still smiled like she didn’t know how this world worked. Like she hadn’t died in it once already.

And now that he remembered?

He couldn’t unsee it.

The photo of her corpse on the slab. Her hair matted. Her wrists bruised. Her ribbon cut and discarded on the floor.

So when she walked in with it again—smiling, soft, stupidly sweet—his control snapped.

She was his blood. His sister. The only other biological child of Bruce Wayne. She was his responsibility. His to protect. His to watch over. His to keep safe when the rest of the world failed.

If she wanted attention, she should’ve asked for his. Or the family’s. Not the world’s.

He was trained to defend.

They were not.

She didn’t get to offer herself up to the public like that. Not when she was already the only delicate thing left in this house. And if that meant taking the ribbon, the smile, the freedom from her—then so be it.

She didn’t understand yet.

But she would.

The car door shut behind her with a soft click, the leather seats still warm from the morning sun.

YN settled in quietly, brushing her fingers through her hair—just enough to fluff it a little. The pink ribbon rested neatly near her temple, tied in a small bow, the ends tucked into her curls.

It was a delicate thing.

Soft. Feminine. Innocent.

And Damian had been staring at it since the moment she stepped out of the house.

The car pulled away from the curb.

Neither of them spoke.

Until—

“Take it off.”

She blinked, glancing at him. “What?”

He didn’t look at her. His voice stayed flat.

“The ribbon. Take it off.”

Her hand hovered near it. “…Why?”

“You don’t need a reason. Just do it.”

She frowned. “It’s not hurting anyone.”

“It’s drawing attention.”

“And?”

Damian finally turned his head toward her, green eyes sharp.

“You know what kind of attention.”

She narrowed her eyes. “You can’t control how people look at me, Damian.”

“I can control how you present yourself.”

“Excuse me?”

He leaned slightly forward. “You think boys at that school aren’t already staring at you every time you walk through the hall?”

“I don’t care.”

“Well, I do.”

“You’re not my father,” she snapped.

“No,” he said, “but I’m stronger. Smarter. Faster. And unlike you, I understand what people are capable of.”

She glared at him, chin tilted. “You’re overreacting.”

“And you’re being reckless.”

“I’m wearing a ribbon.”

“A ribbon you don’t need,” he hissed, voice low and simmering.

Then—before she could flinch or pull away—his hand moved.

Fast.

Too fast.

She let out a startled gasp as his fingers curled into the fabric near her temple, not yanking—not quite—but firm, unyielding.

“Damian—”

She lifted her hand to stop him, but he was already there.

His other hand caught her wrist—easily. Her arm was like paper in his grip. His heart clenched. She was small. Frail. Soft in ways that didn’t belong in a world like Gotham. In a world he lived in.

And he knew it.

He had trained for war.

She could barely lift a textbook.

“Let go,” she whispered.

“Then stop acting like you’re not mine to protect.”

She froze.

His fingers slipped the ribbon from her hair. She tried to jerk back—not to fight, not really, just to reclaim a little space.

But he didn’t move.

Didn’t loosen his hold until the ribbon was curled in his palm.

He looked at it.

Then looked at her.

Her hair was mussed now, the curl loosened where the ribbon had been. She looked younger. Smaller.

He hated that she looked upset.

He hated more that she still didn’t understand.

“Don’t wear things that make people look at you like that,” he said softly. “I won’t allow it.”

She stared at him, cheeks flushed, breathing tight.“You don’t get to decide what I wear.” He didn’t answer.

He just slipped the ribbon into his pocket and leaned back in his seat.

She turned toward the window, shoulders trembling with quiet frustration.

And neither of them said another word for the rest of the ride.

She never asked for the ribbon back.

And he never returned it.

Authors note:

my first drabble of a singular member. Will probably do a few more. If you have any requests feel free to tell them to me.:)

[kykyonthemoon]

How to babysit a wounded little Hunter

Injured after a mission, you now indulge yourself in his special tender loving care.

ಇ. Character x Female Reader fanfic,

including Caleb, Rafayel, Xavier and Zayne

ಇ. Tags: fluff, domestic fluff, early stage of established relationship

A little heads up: The writer will not take responsibility for any side effect (such as toothache) that might come after reading the fic.

ಇ. Word count: 4k

ಇ. Requested by Wytchie Pie and x

ಇ. Masterlist ♡ Request a fic ♡

𝑪𝒂𝒍𝒆𝒃

You dimly sensed footsteps in the bedroom, and then one side of the bed sank. The acquainted scent and warmth embraced you. A cool hand rested on your forehead. In an instant, the heat in your body subsided.

So as soon as that hand was gone, you seized it.

"Don't go…"

You mumbled in a daze. There was a quiet laugh close to your ear, and then that palm brushed against your forehead again.

"If you don't let go, how can I take your temperature then, pipsqueak?"

You recognized that voice. It was Caleb's. So you acted even more aggressively. You yanked his hand tighter, so much so that his entire body appeared to collapse into the bed, just a little above yours.

"Huh? Aren't you a little too strong for someone who is sick?" Caleb laughed again. The sort of laughter that made you feel considerably better.

"I'm not sick." You were persistent, still. "Just feeling a little sleepy."

Caleb's hand tried to pull away from you. But perhaps he kept it that way on purpose, since given your current state, he would have no problem withdrawing if he truly wanted you to let go.

Caleb's hand patted you a little tenderly. He managed to grab the thermometer with his free hand. He took your temperature, then exclaimed: 

"Almost forty Celsius!"

You exhaled heavily, almost a moan. Every part of you felt irritated and heated. Despite this, you dismissed it, saying:

"I'm not... sick..."

Caleb used the chance to release his wrist from you. You opened your eyes slightly and gave him a disappointed expression.

"You have such a high fever, yet still saying you're not sick?" Caleb mumbled, but you caught every word. He handed you medicine, but you did not take it.

"Too bitter." You said.

"Quit whining. "Just take it and go to sleep."

"If I take it… you'll have to stay here with me, okay?"

Caleb sighed. "Only until you sleep, pipsqueak."

You smiled faintly and fast to accept the pills from Caleb's hand. You clutched his hand securely as you drifted off to sleep, dreaming of the Wanderers, the escapes, and the secrets in which you were a part of. Then, when you woke up again, you noticed Caleb seated beside the bed.

“You're awake now, pipsqueak?” He smiled at you. He was rather relieved. He put a hand on your forehead again. “Yup. No more fever."

Caleb's presence seemed to chase the nightmares away. You removed his hand from your forehead and held it tightly.

“How long have I been sleeping?”

"Let's see…" Caleb brushed his chin. "When you arrived home last night, you went to bed right away. You got a high temperature around early morning. From the time you took the medicine and fell asleep until now, I've finished a whole movie, cooked a delicious pot of porridge, and measured your temperature three times."

"What nonsense are you talking about?"

Caleb laughed. He squeezed your hand once. "You've just been asleep for a few hours. But it is past noon now. Are you hungry?"

You shook your head.

"Are you sure?" Caleb asked again. "I made a super delicious pork rib porridge for you though."

You opened your eyes wide and looked at him. Pork rib porridge was a dish he would often cook when you were sick and no longer in a mood to eat anything. That dish always helped you feel better, even just hearing about it was enough to make you crave food again.

"Pork rib porridge…"

You could only whisper that much when Caleb pressed the tip of your nose and said:

“I knew right away that you couldn't resist food.”

A minute later, the room was filled with the aroma of a still-hot bowl of porridge. Caleb put it on a little tray over the bed. You lay back against the cushion, staring at the meal in front of you as if it were a rare delicacy, despite the fact that the ingredients were absolutely basic.

You looked over at Caleb. He was observing you. "What's wrong? Still no appetite?"

“It's too hot…” You pouted. “Besides,… both my arms and body are aching…”

It took a quite difficult mission in extreme weather, and a high fever to receive special care at your bedside. How could you not enjoy it?

Caleb read you right away. He said: “What? The Hunter in Linkon wants me to feed her? Weren't you delirious this morning, saying you had to go fight off Wanderers?”

“When did I say that? But it's okay if you don't help me. I don't want to eat anymore.”

“Are you still a three-year-old then?”

Even though he grumbled, Caleb still smiled very gently. He scooped a spoonful of porridge, blew on it to cool down, then held it out to you.

You opened your mouth really wide, making him chuckle. When he saw that you were eating well, Caleb felt relieved. He teased:

"I thought you're a grown-up now and wouldn't need me to take care of you anymore."

You replied, still with a mouthful of pork rib porridge: "When you lose your cooking skills, I won't really need you anymore then."

Caleb laughed aloud. He patted your head and said: "I didn’t expect my vacation to turn into a part-time job for babysitting. If I catch a fever from you, you must take care of me in return.”

You rose up in a sudden and pressed your still-hot face into the crook of Caleb's neck, nearly dropping the porridge spoon.

“Then I’ll cook pork rib porridge for you. Just heads-up though, even if it tastes yucky, you must eat it all!”

𝑹𝒂𝒇𝒂𝒚𝒆𝒍

The door to the hospital room opened. Rafayel's curly purple hair appeared. And immediately, your phone lit up with a text message from Thomas:

[The little devil is coming for you. Sorry, I did my best.]

You exhaled. Clearly, he had not done his best. That was why Rafayel was here, staring at you with such a deep gaze from the entrance.

"Er… "Hello, Rafayel..." You waved your arm, attempting to greet him with a warm smile.

"Rafayel?" He frowned. "Do you still remember that we know each other?"

"Huh? Why did you...?" You left your sentence incomplete as Rafayel surged inside. He placed his hands on his hips, his expression filled with slanderous words as he accused you.

"Who are you? Do I know you? It's been eight hundred years. Jellyfishes are walkin' naked. Sea turtles climb trees. Sharks are eatin' grass for free! And finally, you remembered me?"

You frowned. Why was there something that rang so familiar with this scenario? Yet it was still off.

“Rafayel, I—”

“When are you going to tell me you're hurt?”

Rafayel pointed a finger directly to your shoulder, where the white bandage was visible through the hospital gown. That was the real reason he was precisely distressed.

“Even Thomas knew you were injured. Yet you didn't say a word to me?! You left me waiting alone for three hours at the exhibition. I can't believe you stood me up!”

You lifted your hand, intending to remind Rafayel to keep his voice down because you were both in the hospital. But he gave you no opportunity to speak.

"Do you realize how scared I was? When Thomas told me you couldn't come, I thought about all the things that could happen to you!”

"Rafayel…" You finally found a chance to interrupt him.  “Let's calm down first. I didn't mean to hide it from you, it's just... I haven't told you yet..."

Rafayel crossed his arms. He was still irritated.

“I can't believe it! You deliberately manipulated me with your innocence so that I would let you get away this time!”

You felt dizzy in the head, and your ears were ringing with Rafayel's nagging words and accusations. The injured one was you. Why did you feel as if you had just committed a great sin?

"ARGHHH!" You shouted and clutched your bandaged shoulder. "It hurts!"

Rafayel quickly forgot the rage in his heart. He moved right away to the bed and gently raised your arm. His eyes were full of concern and anxiety.

“Are you hurt? I'll call the doctor here right away!”

You grasped Rafayel's hand, urging him to stay with you.

“See? I'm still very strong. Just a little hurt."

"How much is a little?" Rafayel frowned. You could feel his hot glare on your shoulder, soaking into the bandage and searing your wound.

"… This much." You clasped your thumb and index finger to form a circle, then held it up for Rafayel to see. He grabbed your hand and placed it on his chest.

"I don't believe you anymore." He continued to speak with a condescending tone. "I have to check it out with my own eyes."

"Huh? What do you mean?…” You suddenly blushed. Rafayel looked at you with serious eyes, yet very sincere. He replied:

“Your wound. I want to see it."

The mere notion of Rafayel wanting to look behind your garments made your cheeks flame. You withdrew your hand and refused:

“I told you I'm fine… Don't make such a scene…”

“If I don't see it, how can I be sure you're not lying to me? This isn't the first time you've hidden your injuries..."

That was all Rafayel said. You gazed at him for a second. Aside from being concerned about you, he was also saddened since you had repeatedly hidden your wounds from him. A great deal when you did not want to bother him, he always found out and became much more frustrated.

"Alright then…"

Eventually, you had to give in. You turned your back to Rafayel and carefully slipped the shirt collar down your shoulder, displaying the neatly wrapped bandages around your torso.

You could see your reflection in the front window. Your face turned crimson. And Rafayel stood next to the bed, attentively investigating you, his fingers softly caressing the gauze, causing you to bow slightly in pain as well as anxiousness.

“Yet you said it was just a little wound.” Rafayel muttered. It was his hand that drew your collar back up. And the next thing you knew, you were upgraded to the best room at the hospital.

You weren't used to how wealthy people spent their money. You looked at Rafayel, who had constantly been by your side during your hospital stay. He requested you to remain in the most advanced hospital room, with the greatest level of care. More than that, he refused to leave your side even when you asked to be alone.

"You don't have to do this, Rafayel." You spoke as he was peeling the fruit for you.

"Open your mouth." He handed you a slice of mango. Even if your lips stated it wasn't required, you nevertheless welcomed all of his attention.

"I'm serious…" As soon as you finished swallowing the mango, he gave you another slice. "Really, um... This mango is truly delicious..."

"Do you crave anything else?" Rafayel purposely ignored every time you told him he didn't need to stay there all day and night to care for you. Your wound had improved significantly.

“I think I can be discharged from hospital and get back to work now…” You said. “I don't want to bother you anymore…”

"What's that?" Rafayel pretended not to hear you. “I think I heard the sound of abalone porridge just being delivered to the hospital. Let me go grab it.”

You sighed. Another expensive meal he had prepared for you. But you knew how much you would miss these things when you left the hospital at last and could no longer benefit from his tender loving care.

“Maybe I'll stay here one more day... You're spoiling me too much...” You muttered beneath your breath, but Rafayel overheard everything. He pinched your cheek and responded:

“You're staying because of the delicious food, not because of my devoted service? This is so heartbreaking! Then, after you've recovered, I'll make you repay everything. You have to work overtime as my bodyguard too!"

𝑿𝒂𝒗𝒊𝒆𝒓

You crept along the hospital's vacant rear door. You were just hospitalized in the afternoon due to an injury suffered while on job. Even though the doctor advised you to stay for additional examination, you believed the damage was minor. On top of that, the mission was not yet over. You needed to get back to headquarters.

Unfortunately, your escape did not go well. You ran into a familiar shoulder before you could complete the corridor.

"X-Xavier?" You became pale, but not because of the pain. It was only that you were astonished and a little ashamed when caught red-handed.

His look was incredibly complicated, ranging from apprehensive to serious and somewhat furious.

"Where are you going?" he inquired.

You didn't dare to reveal the truth, so you invented an excuse: "Ah... well... The hospital room is quite boring, so I decided to go for a stroll."

"From the back door?"

"Er… I heard the nurse say this is a quicker shortcut to the garden..."

Xavier gazed at you for some time. You clutched your hand tight, terrified that he would not believe that ridiculous excuse. Yet, Xavier nodded at you: "Then let's go together."

Before you could respond, Xavier grabbed your hand and led you outside. It was night time, the wind blew, sending you a slight chill. Xavier took off his coat and draped it over your shoulders. That incredibly gentle gesture made you feel more guilty than ever for lying to him.

“Lead the way.” He told you shortly. For some reason, you had the impression that he was in extreme anger over you.

During the stroll, you didn't dare to speak, and Xavier did the same. He strolled close to you, as if keeping watch rather than walking together. You wandered about for a long time, but there was no trace of the hospital's garden anywhere. Xavier continued to follow your every step in such silence. Him being like that evoked even more guilt in your heart.

At last, you couldn't take it any longer and had to confess: "Xavier... Actually... The truth is, I don't know where the garden is..."

At that point, he spoke up and asked: "So why did you leave your hospital room?"

You didn't dare look into his eyes, so you just stammered an explanation: "Ah... My injury is nothing to be concerned about... That's why I... planned to return to headquarters..."

You noticed Xavier's hands clenching into fists. Fearing he'd be upset, you added: "The doctor also said my injury wasn't too serious— Ah!"

Xavier abruptly pulled your wrist, causing the wound on your arm to hurt. He read through your face which was miserable but still faking a smile. His voice turned sharp:

“If I hadn't caught you, would you really have sneaked away from the hospital?”

Your body convulsed in pain, but you were more concerned about Xavier's rage. You said, "I'm sorry... I was wrong... I'll return to the hospital room right now..."

"Good." Xavier responded curtly. Then he quickly leaned down and held you up in the attitude of a princess being carried.

"W-What are you doing, Xavier?"

"Let's take you back to the hospital room." His expression remained frigid, making you both terrified and embarrassed to be carried by him in such a manner.

Xavier did not return to the same path you had taken. Instead, he took you into the front entrance, where many people, including patients and hospital staff, could see you.

"Xavier? You... put me down! "They are looking at us!"

"I want them to see, so they know you intend to escape the hospital and will monitor you more closely."

Your cheeks became scarlet with humiliation. You swore you saw a kid pointing at you and chuckling, "Mom! I want to be carried like that princess, too!"

And you swore you saw Xavier smirking at that.

After an embarrassing journey, you finally arrived at your room. Xavier set you down on the bed. He chose to remain silent with you as punishment for your unsuccessful escape. You saw him sitting in the corner of the room, peeling a red apple for you.

“Xavier?”

You called out, but he didn't look at you and just replied curtly:

“Rest.”

“Are you angry with me?…”

Xavier's silence revealed the answer. You groaned and pulled the warm cover up high, as if to conceal yourself away from Xavier's rage, but he remained as quiet as a cloudless sky.

When he finished with the apple, he brought it over and gave you a slice. "Eat."

You did not enjoy this cold and distant demeanor of Xavier. If he was upset with you, he should have expressed it directly. You knew it was your fault, and he was so concerned about you that he got mad when you lied to him like that.

"Xavier, I'm sorry…" Your hands seized Xavier's wrist, which was clutching the apple slice. Your eyes widened as much as possible, even giving the impression that you were going to cry.

In the end, the ploy worked. His gaze had softened completely. He placed the plate of apples on the bed and used his other hand to elevate your chin a little. He said: "If you know your fault, then obediently eat all of these and rest."

His hand softly separated your lips, and his other hand inserted a slice of apple for you to eat. You were back in the sunshine, coaxing him to sit on the bed next to you.

"I'll give you three days to recover." Xavier spoke, his voice still agitated, but you could feel his boundless care and love.

"Then I shall bother you to watch over me for a few more days!"

𝒁𝒂𝒚𝒏𝒆

You had just returned to your private cabin at the icy mountain base when you heard a tap at the door. You answered the door, wondering who was seeking for you at this hour, and there was Doctor Zayne, holding a first-aid kit while standing outside.

“Zayne?” Your eyes caught the blood on his face and neck. Snow adhered to his dark hair. You took a step back and allowed him inside. "Why are you here?"

Your team had accepted the mission of rescuing people caught in an avalanche created by a group of Wanderers on the mountain. You had learnt that a team of physicians from Akso Hospital was also on their way. But you did not expect to see Zayne here.

Zayne set the first aid pack on the table and then turned to you. He went on to say: "I'm here to do my duty as a doctor."

You widened your eyes and inquired him again, "Your duty as a doctor?"

Zayne pointed to your abdomen, which was soaked from your own blood oozing through the gauze you had recklessly covered earlier.

"Oh dear…" You cried out. You were so engaged in battles that you didn't have time to look at your wound. Your head began spinning as a result of excessive blood loss.

Zayne's powerful arms directed and assisted you to the table. He put you to the wooden table and took a chair to sit in front of you.

"Doctor Zayne, what are you going to do?"

You noted this when you found his hand on the hem of your shirt. He seemed to want to lift it up.

"Treating you."

You knew that. But you were still extremely nervous when thinking that he was about to lift up your shirt. So your hand was still securely grasping his, preventing him from moving any further.

“I've already bandaged it. A nurse also helped me stitch up the wound earlier..."

During the turmoil, you recalled being stabbed in the abdomen. A nurse assisted you in stitching it up, but because there were so many others with more serious injuries, you let her tend to them while you put bandages over yourself and returned to the battlefield. Perhaps your clumsiness caused the wound to bleed a great deal more.

Zayne used his other hand to remove yours before pulling your shirt up. The gauze surrounding your abdomen was drenched in blood. He slowly withdrew it as you writhed in pain and embarrassment.

"Try to sit still for a bit, will you?"

Zayne's soothing voice burst out, calming you down a lot. You sat on the table, your hands lifting your body up while you looked down at the doctor who was treating your wound. The fact that you had to display your skin beneath his gaze made you uneasy and desire to cover your face. But Zayne was quite professional. He remained silent and entirely concentrated on his work. He cleansed the wound and applied a new layer of gauze. His warm breath occasionally wafted against your skin, causing you to tremble slightly. Even when his frigid fingers touched you, it seemed like you were being scorched.

"It's done."

Zayne said after fixing the new layer of gauze. You were a little discontent when his fingers left you. You were ready to pull your top back down when Zayne lightly rubbed his fingers against your abdomen.

“Ouch!” Even though the place he touched was not wounded, you were still startled and embarrassed.

“Just checking it again.” Zayne elaborated. He had you sitting on the table, your bandaged abdomen at his eye level. You could feel his stare through the gauze, pausing a bit too long in areas that were not covered by anything.

“Doctor Zayne… Are you done now?”

You attempted to keep your speech cool, but your crimson cheeks could have given you away. Zayne appeared to flash a little smile. You felt the icy sensation of his fingertip on your skin again as he slid it beneath the hem of your shirt, then pulled it back down.

"I am now." He answered while returning the supplies to the first aid kit. "Don't be so reckless next time. You have to care for yourself first before you can save others.”

"Hold on." You stopped him. You altered your position and stared into his eyes. "You always say so, but can you actually do what you say?"

Zayne tilted his head to look at you. You took advantage of the moment and raised his chin to have a better look. He had a minor cut on his forehead, and the blood on his body was most likely someone else's.

"You rushed here to take care of me, while you, yourself, are in this condition."

You spoke. His hand found your wrist.

"I barely got a few scrapes. Not as concerning as someone who rushed into the battlefield with a bleeding stomach."

"Whether the wound is big or small, it can be critical." You stated precisely what Dr. Zayne told you whenever he saw you injured, even if it was only a little cut.

Realizing that he had just tasted his own medicine, Zayne let out a small laugh. Then he tugged your hand, causing you to almost lean towards him. He gazed into your eyes for quite a while.

"So, my doctor, will you treat me?"

You blushed again. Zayne relinquished his hand, allowing you to properly wipe the blood off his face. You had to confess that you were a little awkward, owing to your unexpected closeness to Zayne in such a private and calm setting. He probably could hear your heart racing. He supported your hand which was holding a sterilized cotton pad and said:

"If you want to become a skilled doctor, in situations like this you must be even calmer."

"I'm not as professional as Dr. Zayne." You answered with a little caustic tone. "You were able to treat my wound so calmly just now."

Zayne gazed at you for an instant. His face remained calm, but his eyes were not.

"I'm a skilled doctor. Yet, it doesn’t imply that I wouldn't feel anything while treating the girl I like in such a... condition."

[dodgeballstuckonthegymceiling]

CAN WE HAVE DOEY BEING A PLATONIC YANDERE TO THE PLAYER?? I WONDER HOW HE WOULD ACT GIVEN HIS CONFLICTING PERSONALITIES AND EMOTIONS DUE TO BEING MADE OUT OF THREE KIDS

Yes, you absolutely can! This ended up being way longer than I first planed and I'm actually pretty proud of it :)

If you like my work, please consider commissioning me.

Platonic yandere Doey & Reader

★ When Doey first meets the Player, he is intrigued. It's not every day you meet someone who keeps cheating the grim reaper. As Doey spends more time with the Player, he realizes that they are different than most employes. You are nice and treat him kindly.

★ His conflicting personalities create a strange mix of curiosity and adoration inside of him. Especially after you stay to help the Safe Haven instead of working with Poppy. Plus, the Player has been through so much already. They really should take a break.

★ He goes above and beyond to make them feel comfortable and secure in their new home. He introduces them to the other toys, making sure they feel included and part of their little community. Tries to help them relax after what they have been through, also.

★Doey becomes emotionally dependent on the Player, deriving a sense of purpose and stability from their presence. The thought of losing the Player or not being able to protect them fills him with fear and anxiety, fueling his yandere tendencies.

★ All three parts of him agree on one thing, protect the Player at all costs. That means not letting them leave the Safe Haven. At least not without him. It comes from a place of genuine care, having concern for the Player's well-being.

★ He prioritizes their needs, ensuring the Player feels safe and loved. If the player were to reciprocate his care by doing things to make him feel valued, it would mean the world to him. If it's not too much, could he pretty please hold your hand? (please say yes)

★ The player's consistent care builds trust between them. That trust is very important. Never break it or you might regret it. Doey is still unstable at times, and he could still lash out at you if the wrong button is pushed.

★ Yandere Doey is very possessive, he is aware of this and tries his best not to be. He really wants to give the Player the freedom they deserve but at the same time he fears losing you to others and may become anxious if you spend too much time with another toy.

★ Those thoughts are silly, he knows it, you would never abandon him for a new friend. However, that nagging voice in his head tells him differently. It may end up with him subtly manipulating the Player. It was for friendship though so it's okay!

★ He might use guilt or even fear to keep the Player close, making them feel responsible for his emotional well-being. The thought of the Player getting hurt when he's gone fills him with all sorts of bad feelings. Ones he doesn't even want to think about.

★ By this time it's too late to go back. He is too afraid of being abandoned, if you suggest going off to finish what you started and killing the prototype he would have a panic attack.

★ His conflicting personalities are unified in their fear of the Player facing danger and he becomes visibly distressed. It's too dangerous! If you leave and never come back, what will he do? Doey may even go as far as physically putting himself between the Player and the exit if it comes down to it.