#and then it started to feel like something else i had written

[uravitypng]

𝐛𝐚𝐛𝐲𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐩𝐩𝐢𝐧𝐠

𝐬𝐚𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐮 𝐠𝐨𝐣𝐨 𝐯𝐬 𝐤𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐨 𝐧𝐚𝐧𝐚𝐦𝐢

I HAD A VISION!! THIS IS CANON ! the dichotomy of gojo and nanami <3 !!! (i've never really written for nanami before so this may be a little ooc but he's WHIPPED so i don't think it is tbh)

𝐒𝐀𝐓𝐎𝐑𝐔-

satoru is absolutely besotted with you, head over heels! he's so happy you're his girlfriend and he'll do anything to keep it that way. satoru babytraps you, purposely trying to get you pregnant so you don't leave him. people always use to compliment him and fawn over him but none of it actually made him feel anything, they were all just hollow and shallow words but then you came along! a pretty little thing with a pretty smile, kind and complimentary, laughing at the things he said and always trusting him!

he wants you to stay with him forever, he wants you to be his wife, he wants to be your husband, he knows you'd make such a good mother and the idea of your body changing and looking softer than it already is makes him cum quicker than it should.

it started off as poking holes into condoms for about seven months but you still weren't pregnant! no matter how many holes he poked and how much he fucked you until you couldn't think anymore you still weren't pregnant.

he had to try something else! and after a lot of convincing you he didn't use a condom anymore as long as he promised he'd pull out. when satoru mentioned pulling out your furrowed your eyebrows, because you swear that isn't one hundred safe but satoru swears to you it is! and of course you'd believe him.

and you're just so cute! with the way you trust him implicitly! and your adorable face when you cum!

so every night, without fail, he's folding your body in half and thrusting into you as deep as he can. even when satoru pulls out sometimes he'll 'accidentally' time it wrong with the tip staying just outside your pussy and shooting cum everywhere, a little gets inside you and you don't notice and you definitely don't realise that the rest goes in you too as satoru makes sure to scoop up his cum with his fingers before fingering you claiming that he "wants to make you cum one more time."

when your period is finally late he'll tell you how "it must be fate" and "it's meant to be" and you'll believe him. how he'll say "you'll be such a great mama" and "we're going to be the best family!" he'll ask you if you want a summer wedding or an autumn wedding, he'll take you ring shopping the next day and buy the most expensive one your eyes linger on. the thought that your boyfriend purposely got you pregnant will never cross your mind.

even ten years later as a stay-at-home mum and housewife with three kids, you still believe that the pull out method is just as accurate as different birth controls but that it was destiny for you to get pregnant, you and satoru are soulmates and the universe was telling you that you'd make perfect parents and would be perfect husband and wife.

𝐊𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐎-

you love kento! and you know he loves you, you wouldn't be dating as long as you have if he didn't but sometimes you still have your doubts. you've been dating for six years and he still hasn't proposed. you live together and when you first started dating he mentioned that he wants to get married one day, he wants to start a family one day, but all these years later nothing has happened. sometimes you get worried that he'll leave you, you couldn't bare it if he did, you think your heart might break in two.

it's gotten to a point where you can't cope anymore. friends and family will make comments about starting a family at dinners and events but kento just brushes it off. you worry that he'll find someone else, younger, prettier, thinner. you can't lose him.

you stop taking your birth control. every morning when you wake up, instead of taking the pill like you used to, you flush it down the toilet, in hopes that you'll get pregnant. you've been on birth control since before you met him so not taking it is a change but you need a change, a change that will help you start a family! you and kento have a very active sex life, if everything goes to plan he'll keep cumming in you like he always does and you'll finally get pregnant and start a family, he'll want to marry you!

you shouldn't underestimate your boyfriend though. kento knows what you're doing. he won't say anything but he'll make sure to stuff you with more cum than normal. he'll make sure to grab your malleable hips tightly and thrust deep and slow, pushing himself as far into as possible before cumming inside. he'll make sure it sticks.

the thought of leaving you never crossed his mind for one second, he does want to marry you and have a family with you, he has for years, he's just been waiting for the right time. he wanted to make sure he's financially stable with work, he wanted to make absolute sure that he'd never have to go on work trips away from you or work even ten minutes longer than when his shifts end. he wants to make sure you never had to worry about money and he'd get to spend lots of time with you and the kids but then he discovers that you have other plans.

when he finds out what your doing because you're getting worried over such a silly, inconceivable thing he thinks its so you. he thinks it's cute that his girlfriend is going through all of this so he'll play along. he'll ask you when the test comes back positive if you've 'been taking your birth control' and when you lie and tell him 'yes' he won't say anything, he'll pretend that he doesn't know the truth.

and then finally he can answer all those questions honestly from family members, he'll finally be able to tell everyone the truth to the questions. squashing the thought in his head that it's a possibility you only want one child, because you did all of this you must want more than one, or even if you don't it's at least you could do after 'trapping' him, "this is just the first one but of course we don't want them to be lonely so we'll have to give them a few siblings."

he does fabricate some things still, "we've decided not to find out about the sex of the baby, i know our little surprise is going to be perfect." kento's telling everyone that you're "going to look absolutely gorgeous coming down that aisle." you ask him shyly if you should wait until after you give birth to get married but kento won't have any of that, he's been dreaming of the wedding pictures for years, most of those dreams have included you visibly pregnant.

[tousey-mousey]

"If you had no rules, you'd have nothing to roleplay about" is the most This Is The Autism Website thing I've read in a while actually. Like.

If you're running a campaign based on exploring a world trying to get Something Specific done, who cares what, then the rules are "can we achieve this thing, given that we live in a society?"

Like. Okay, let's imagine we're running a campaign in... hmm, let's say the present day, a world most people are familiar with (I can't say everyone, because I have met humans before you see).

You're tasked with trying to do something challenging but eminently possible. Let's say... escape a major city while being pursued by the mob. It's certainly not impossible, people do it all the time, but people also fail to do it all the time.

You have absolutely no ruleset. Go with god.

HOWEVER!

You need to convince everyone around the table that your planned action for the next however-long-everyone-lets-you-have-a-turn-for is sensible.

"I hijack a car"

Okay then, mate. Walk me through this process. Because I feel you're probably assuming that hijacking a car - that is, stopping a moving vehicle, getting a driver out, getting inside unstopped, and driving away safely - is as easy as you think it is. And it's really not! So... let's do it.

When you go to attempt something, someone might say "I mean that feels like your plan is basically 50/50", so someone else says "let's say if they succeed based on a coin flip!" and if everyone agrees, cool then you do that. There's no strict rule, but it works so go for it.

If someone says "I use my mind powers to make them stop", then most people will probably go "I am desperate to hear how you have mind powers" and if you can talk them round, cool! Now mind powers exist, you have them, and you get to roleplay about them. If they DON'T exist... You have just, in character, stared at a guy really hard and muttered "I am using mind powers..." under your breath while your friends start getting concerned about your sanity. That is also a fabulous chance for roleplay.

Literally none of that requires written rules. Combat? Also does not require written rules: you can negotiate EVERYTHING.

"I fire a gun"

Cool, we can all agree she definitely hits him right? Okay, you've fired a 9mm at a guy's... where did you aim?

"That'd be for his body, chief"

At a guy's trunk. You hit him... I dunno, someone name a bodypart?

'SPLEEN'

At a guy's... lemme google this... "splenic ruptures can cause life-threatening internal bleeding causing shock", jesus okay. You hit his spleen and he screams like you have shot him, because you have shot him. Hmm... I think he's probably gonna collapse, and when he collapses he'll bust the shitty shaky floor out under him as he falls into the room below.

FUCK I needed his keys, okay okay does anyone have rope?

Kay we are wearing pyjamas why in gods name would we have rope??

I dunno babe, worth a try.

Uhhh, we're in an abandoned living room yeah? I'm gonna look around for an electrical device.

Hey chief, can I take this one?

Yeah sure.

You find an old-ass lamp, also I do NOT like where this is going and am SO desperate to see it.

Wait hang on, a LAMP? In this ABANDONED TRAP HOUSE?

Everyone's gotta see, I'm taking the lamp. I could fish around in the walls for the internal wiring if you like, I've punched through drywall before it's not that hard.

No, no, good point, go off

Okay. I am using my knife - y'all remember my knife, we've been through my knife before - to slice off the power cord. I'm gonna say 1.2m sounds around right, I've seen lamps with that.

Sure.

So. Kay, do you wanna... you know...?

JESS ARE YOU SUGGESTING I ABSEIL DOWN A HOLE IN THE FLOOR ON THE END OF FOUR FEET OF ELECTRICAL CABLE?

...Yes.

ABSOLUTELY NOT.

Oh come on it'll be fine.

MEANWHILE as you two dipshits bicker over who is the biggest moron, you hear sirens outside.

F U C K

Folks I'm gonna suggest we hurry this up?

No, yeah, nah, yeah, good point.

She's right, we're good.

Cops are about 15 seconds away from breaking into the room, who's doing what?

---

Like. You can do A LOT with no rules. Roleplay can be enhanced by rules or hindered, it really just depends who you are. Some people NEEEEED structure, others rebel against it. It's just a thing.

Everyone has gotta stop treating TTRPGs like there's this dial between "rules" and/or "combat" and "narrative" and/or "roleplaying" and as one goes up the other must go down.

[tsaheylutales]

You weren't supposed to know | Chapter 3

Pairing: Steve Harrrington X Henderson!Reader

Warnings: ANGST, stranger things level threats, reader is a softer girl so if you don't like that, scroll, Steve and Dustin are very ooc so...keep that in mind. Let me know if there are any more! each chapter will have more specific warnings <3

Summary: Steve wasn’t always like this, he used to be kind, and caring, and he used to call you every night. But now? He barely calls at all. Most of the time it’s you calling him. Or you visiting him…Or you planning dates…He’s just really busy at the moment…That’s it. That’s gotta be it…Right?

2.3k words

“It was here. Right here…” Max says, voice low, eyes fixed on the spot in the wall like the clock might reappear any second.

“A grandfather clock?” Nancy asks, cautiously.

Max nods. “It was so real. And then, when I got closer, suddenly I just… I woke up.”

“It was like she was in a trance or something.” Dustin adds quickly. “Exactly what Eddie said happened to Chrissy.”

You take a slow step closer, watching Max like she might crack and fall apart at any moment. She’s pale. Shaken.

“That’s not even the bad part.” She says, her voice dropping further. “Fred and Chrissy, they both came to Miss Kelley for help. They were having headaches. Bad headaches that wouldn’t go away. And then…then the nightmares. Trouble sleeping, they’d wake up in a cold sweat. Then they started seeing things.”

“Bad things.” Max continues. “From their pasts. These visions, they just… they kept on getting worse and worse, until eventually… everything ended.”

You gulp, looking away.

Dustin’s jaw tightens. “Vecna’s curse.”

“Chrissy’s headache started a week ago. Fred’s, six days ago.” Max glances around, her eyes landing on each of you before they drop to the floor. “I’ve been having them for five days. I don’t know how long I have. All I know is that, for Fred and Chrissy, they both died less than 24 hours after their first vision.”

She swallows hard. “And I just saw that goddamn clock, so… looks like I’m gonna die tomorrow.”

“We’re not gonna let that happen, Max.” You say, stepping forward before anyone else can.

Your voice is firm, stronger than you feel, but it cuts through the tension like a blade. You surprise yourself, and everyone looks at you. Even Max, who had been staring at the floor like it might give her the answers she needed.

She blinks up at you, eyes rimmed red but dry. “Yeah? And how exactly are you gonna stop it?”

“I don’t know yet.” You admit. “But we will. Together.” You look around the group, and land on Steve. He’s looking right at you.

You sit between Lucas and Dustin, all three of you looking through newspapers, the basement air thick with teenage boy and quiet frustration. You try to focus on the article in front of you but it’s hard to concentrate when Steve keeps pacing like he’s trying to wear a groove into the floor.

You glance up. You hate how attractive he looks when he’s stressed.

Messy hair. Frown lines. That familiar furrow between his brows. You shouldn’t still be looking at him like this. Not when everything between you feels so...off. Broken.

“Okay, be honest…You guys understand any of this?” Steve asks, holding the newspaper like it’s written in ancient hieroglyphics.

“No.” Lucas replies flatly.

“Pretty straightforward.” Dustin says, smug as ever.

Steve shoots him a look. “Oh, straightforward? Really?”

Dustin shrugs. “What’s confusing to you? So far, everyone Vecna’s cursed has died, except for this old Victor Creel dude Nancy found. He’s the only known survivor. If anyone knows how to beat this curse, it’s him.”

“That’s assuming he was cursed, Henderson.” Steve mutters, shaking his head. “Which we don’t even know. How could Vecna have existed in the ’50s? It doesn’t make sense.”

“As far as we know, Eleven didn’t create the Upside Down. She opened a gate to it. The Upside Down has probably been around for thousands of years. Millions. I wouldn’t be surprised if it predated the dinosaurs.”

“Dinosaurs?” Steve looks up sharply. “What are we-”

“Okay, okay,” Lucas cuts in, already tired of the tangent. “But if a gate didn’t exist in the ’50s, how did Vecna get through?”

“And how’s he getting through now?” You add quietly.

“And why now?” Lucas asks.

“And why then?” Steve continues, a little too loud. “He just pops out in the ’50s, kills one family, and he’s like, ‘I’m good,’ and poof, disappears? Just… gone? Only to come back thirty years later and start killing random teens? No, I don’t buy it. Straightforward, my ass.”

Dustin opens his mouth to argue, but Steve cuts him off. “Honestly, Henderson, a little humility now and then wouldn’t kill you.”

“Sorry.” Dustin mutters, a little sarcastic.

The silence that follows is stiff, until you laugh. It’s quiet. Soft. Just enough to break the tension.

Steve glances at you, almost startled by the sound. You’re still smiling, trying to hide it behind your hand, like you didn’t just find his little outburst kind of funny.

Dustin turns to you. “What?”

“Nothing, just-s’funny…” You say as your eyes avoid Steve’s.

And Steve…he smiles too. Just a little. More to himself than anyone else. He hides it behind the edge of the newspaper, but it’s there. That flutter in his chest, annoying and sudden. It feels… good.

You always laugh when he’s being dramatic. You always have. He used to like that. Still does, maybe.

And for a second, it almost feels like things could be okay between you. Like maybe he could look at you again the way he used to, like you’re the only one in the room worth watching. Back when making you smile was easy. Natural, like breathing. He used to say the dumbest stuff just to hear your laugh, used to try too hard sometimes, but you found it endearing. You used to blush and giggle, and lean in to kiss him stupid. It used to be simple.

But now, he doesn’t know. Because when Nancy walks into a room, his thoughts shift without permission.

Sometimes, he finds himself craving the familiarity, the safety. In the worst moments, when you're right next to him and he still can’t stop wondering what it would’ve been like if they hadn’t fallen apart. He hates himself for it. For thinking about the what-ifs instead of holding onto what he has.

You. You're here. You're real, you're trying.

But then he hears footsteps. Quick, purposeful. Paper rustling.

Nancy.

She’s coming down the stairs, a stack of files in her arms, eyes sharp and focused like always. And just like that, the smile fades.

You shift, and he hears the creak of the chair. You’re quiet now. You’ve noticed. Of course you have. You always notice when he drifts.

You used to reach for his hand when he got quiet like this. Used to brush his fingers and ground him again. Now you just go still.

He can feel the gap growing wider with every unsaid word.

“Max, Max. Seriously. Seriously, I'm not joking. I'm not driving you anywhere.” Steve calls, jogging after Max. You all follow behind, backpacks bouncing.

She doesn’t slow down. “If you think I'm going to spend what is likely the last day of my life in the armpit that is Mike Wheeler's basement, you're out of your mind. Either take me where I need to go or tie me down, which is technically kidnapping of a minor. And if I live to see another day, Steve, I swear to God, I will prosecute.” She turns to the car, tugging on the door .

“Open the door.”

Steve scoffs “Uh, no.”

“I know a good lawyer.” Max bites back.

He shakes his head, letting out a sharp exhale. “Henderson, that super walkie of yours better reach Pennhurst.” His eyes quickly meet yours as he rounds the car, an anxious flicker in his eye. His jaws clenched, he’s worried. About Max, everyone. You.

You swallow and look away, pretending you didn’t see it. That it didn’t make your stomach flip, just a little. 

You’re all quiet on the ride to Max’s trailer, the car filled with fear, tension, and the light hum of Steve’s radio. No one knows what to say, or where to look. 

You’re stuck in the back with Max and Lucas, leaning against the cool window. It soothes the ache. Kind of. 

“This better be fast, Mayfield.” Steve mutters, pulling up beside her home.

“Twenty seconds.” Max says, already jumping out the car.

You all watch Max jump out with a sense of urgency, then Steve turns to your brother. “That thing's got batteries in it, right?”

Dustin blinks. “I'm not even answering that question…Yes, it has batteries.” 

“Yeah, I got it.” 

And when Max comes back, she’s quick. Frantic. She keeps looking behind her, like she’s being stalked for prey. She tugs her back on her shoulder and rushes to the car.

“Hey, that was longer than twenty seconds.” Steve says as Max yanks the car door open and climbs back in, her face pale, jaw clenched. “Hey, whoa, whoa. You all right?”

“I’m fine.” She snaps, slamming the door. “Just drive.”

Dustin blinks, surprised by her tone. “Did something happen?”

Max avoids his gaze, eyes fixed straight ahead. “Can we please just go?”

You all climb back into the car, and  Steve starts the engine, and the silence stretches as the road rolls out beneath you.

You reach over, gently, and place your hand over Max’s. She flinches, just slightly, but enough for you to feel it. Her shoulders tense, her eyes still fixed out the windshield. You start to pull back, but her fingers curl, loosely, around yours.

No one says anything. The engine hums. The trailer park disappears behind you.

You’re on the road a while before she speaks up.

“Turn here.” You watch from the window as the car eases into the cemetery. The bright daylight makes the rows of tombstones look almost peaceful, but the weight of everything that’s happened lingers, casting a shadow over the quiet scene.

You watch her walk towards her brothers grave, letter in hand.

Oh max…

“All right, it’s been long enough.” Steve mutters, glancing nervously at Max on the hill. His fingers tap anxiously against the door.

“Steve, just give her some time.” You say softly from the back seat, casting a glance back at Max.

“I have, all right? I'm calling it. She wants to get a lawyer, she can.” He throws the door open and jogs towards her, his voice sharp but rising with worry. “Max. Time to giddy up, yeah?”

“Max?” He calls, a little louder this time as he walks up the hill. The wind picks up slightly, rustling the trees. She doesn’t move. She’s still in front of the gravestone, stiff as a statue, arms at her sides.

Steve slows, a frown pulling at his face. “Max?” He says again, more urgent now.

“Max. Max!” Steve picks up his pace. “Max, wake up! Hey! Max!”

She doesn’t blink. Doesn’t flinch. Her breathing is shallow, her eyes wide but unfocused, moving to the back of her skull.

“Oh, something's wrong.” Lucas breathes.

“Max! Guys!” Steve’s voice slices through the air, frantic and sharp.

“Oh shit.” you breathe, already throwing the car door open.

All three of you take off running, feet pounding the earth as Steve’s panicked voice draws you in like a siren. He’s on his knees in front Max, hands shaking her shoulders, his face a mix of terror and helplessness. He shouts, voice cracking. “Max, you gotta get outta there! Can you hear me?!”

You skid to a stop beside them, dropping to your knees in the grass. “Max!” You call, your hands fluttering uselessly before gripping her arm. “Please. Come on, wake up!”

“You gotta get outta there!” Lucas repeats, desperation rising.

“Call Nancy and Robin!” Steve shouts, turning toward Dustin. “Go get ‘em! Call Nancy and Robin! Go!” He grabs Dustin by the front of his shirt, shaking him. 

“Shit!” He speeds off towards the car, tripping over his feet. “Shit, shit, shit! Shit, shit, shit!” 

He grabs the walkie, pulling up the antenna. “Nancy? Robin? Do you copy? This is a code red. Do you copy? Shit. Robin!” 

Dustin comes sprinting back over the hill, nearly tripping in the grass, arms full of cassette tapes and Max’s Walkman. His face is flushed, breath ragged.

“What’s her favorite song!?” He shouts, panic edging every syllable.

Lucas looks at him like he’s lost his mind. “Why?”

“Robin said If she listens-It’s too much to explain! Just trust me! What’s her favorite song?!” Dustin yells, voice cracking, desperation exploding in his chest.

You, Steve, and Lucas scramble around him, ripping through the tapes in a flurry of shaking hands and pounding hearts.

“C’mon, c’mon…” You mutter, rifling through labels, fingers barely working. “She plays this one all the time-this one!” You yell, holding up the cassette with a trembling hand.

“Quick!” Steve fumbles with the Walkman, nearly dropping it, before shoving the tape in and slamming it shut. He practically throws it to Dustin, who grabs it and yanks Max’s headphones over her ears.

“Play it! Now!” Lucas yells.

Dustin hits the button. And you all freeze, holding your breath as the music starts. She begins to rise.

You all watch as she starts to ascend. You stare in disbelief, your heart hammering so loudly you can barely hear the music spilling from the headphones. 

“Max!” You all scream. “Max-please!” You cry. She rises higher and higher. 

Then suddenly, she falls.

“Max!” “Oh my god-Max.”

“It's okay. It's okay.” Someone says, maybe Steve, maybe you. Your voice mixes with the others, soft and shaking. A chorus of stunned relief.

“I thought we lost you.” Lucas chokes out, his arms wrapping around Max before he can stop himself. 

Max’s breathing is ragged, her chest rising and falling in short, sharp bursts as she clutches at his arm like she’s afraid it might disappear. “I'm still… I'm still here.” she gasps.

“Oh shit.” He breathes out, barely louder than a whisper. 

“I'm still here,” Max repeats, a little quieter, like she’s not saying it to them, she’s saying it to herself. Trying to believe it..

And you’re all just kneeling there in stunned silence, the weight of what just happened sinking in. Because none of you know what to say…

A clock chimes... "[Y/n]..."

Taglist:

@answer-the-sirens @ashkuuuu @madaboutjoe @oatmealisweird @joeyugglakiller @teheabrams @criesinlies @lovers-111 @swiftie-4-lifes-stuff @aleemendoza2425-blog @iraslore @hello-nah817 @blujaybirdy @vajjaa @anuglyidiot @alicejwebster @hnslchw @neighborhoodparker @yunnie-f1 @sunshinedaisy21 @frey-williams @miahslt91 @gayandbasic @bubblybizarre

[binmeister]

If you write bobby x reader can I request a M!reader who largely does the catering for the events the girls hold (during said events he trying his best to impress/ask out bobby)

You got this!

Bobby x Male! Reader

I’ve never actually written for Bobby or read much involving Bobby but i do think he’s a pretty fun and cute character, short-ish nonsensical drabble for this

CW: not proofread, fluff mostly, fast-paced / established dynamics

You didn’t mean to start crushing on Bobby, it happened over time. You owned a little catering company and often ended up being contacted for events Huntrix hosted, or rather Bobby hosted with their name. You spoke with him on the phone frequently, met with him for taste-testing and met with the girls as well. Enjoyed his company. You’d even gotten closer to the girls because of the frequency you’d worked for them.

You hadn’t even known that you had started to crush on him until the girls had asked you about it during one of your scheduled taste-testing sessions, Bobby having had to run off and take a call before excusing himself as it turned out he had to attend another meeting to organise something else for the next event. They were seated in your industrial kitchen, on metal stools as they all looked at you with big eyes and smug smiles.

“Sooo...” Mira sings out playfully as Rumi and Zoey look up at you expectantly, but you’re genuinely confused because you’re not sure where this is going. “So..?” Was all you replied with as you looked up from your prep work, currently in the process of getting some fresh desserts prepared for the girls to try and see if they’d like this to be part of the food spread. You hear them giggle between themselves as your hands continue to busy itself with prepping the pastry dough, sprinkling flour out on the counter top as you carefully knead at it.

“We were wondering..” Rumi continues before Zoey finishes their question. “When are you going to ask Bobby out?”

You slip slightly as you apply too much pressure on the dough and your weight goes off balance, nearly falling onto the counter as your head snaps up to look at them in shock. They continue to giggle like little school girls as they look at your flustered expression.

“C’mon we’re not blind, we see how you look at him.” Mira teases you as she points at you as well, emphasising something that you apparently weren’t aware of. Zoey’s nodding along at this as her eyes sparkle like it’s the cutest thing in the world. “Yeah! Like, you look at him like how we look at our ramyeon.”

“I do?” Your voice cracks when you respond, nervous as you rest your palms on the counter and question yourself on what you were feeling. Did you? Yeah you appreciated Bobby’s company, liked the way he got excited when he had succeeded in booking something for the girls. Thought it was cute how he rambles about them like they’re his daughters.. As you’re listing more and more things in your head you realise they’re right. You like Bobby.

“Oh my god, you didn’t know.” You vaguely hear Rumi’s shocked voice as your face looks like you’ve had a terrible dawning realisation and then there’s colour and heat, and you don’t know what to do so you step away from the counter and bee-line to the walk-in freezer. Before they can stop you, you’ve already stepped inside and let the cold air do it’s work in attempting to diffuse the frazzled thoughts and heat from your body. It was a little ridiculous, a grown man panicking because it turned out he had a crush on someone he professionally worked with but you felt stupid. What skillset do you bring to the table for someone that actively manages one of the biggest idol groups?

Maybe 5 minutes go by before you walk back out and see the guilty expressions on the Huntrix girls, as they try to play off that ‘oh maybe we were wrong’ but you cut them off. 

“I like Bobby.” Their eyes widen. “And I don’t know how to impress him.” They nod slowly at that. “I don’t even know if he likes men,” There’s an awkward pause, “..can you help me?”

There’s a chorus of squeals as the girls start dancing in place a little in excitement, match making their manager? A dream come true. Bobby has been working so hard to make sure they succeed and does his best to assist them, so it’s been in their best interest to scope out any potential romantic interests for the man because they didn’t want him to feel like all his worth came from their success. Because he’s much more than that.

Thus began operation “Woo Bobby”.

At the next event hosted by Huntrix it was a series of pre-planned events set up by the girls to try and get you and Bobby alone or for you to show off to Bobby. Unfortunately, they didn’t take into account that you were not even remotely close to a good actor so half of the events went poorly.

They planned for you and Bobby to be caught alone, but that was cut short as his attention was needed by other staff and you ushered him away because you didn’t want to take up too much of his time. They thought maybe you could protect him from something falling but all it lead to was you falling over on your ass in front of Bobby as he panics, asking if you’re okay and calling for staff to check the safety of the area because it’s not fit for guests. They thought about getting you into a close contact situation with Bobby by asking other people to help crowd the area but instead of it being romantic, Bobby looked close to a panic attack and you had pulled him out of the crowd and to a quiet area so he could breathe.

Not exactly what they planned for but at least they got you alone?

Bobby was breathing heavily, trying to calm himself down and you had just returned with a bottle of water - cracking the cap open and handing it to him while gently encouraging him to take deep breaths and to have some water when he’s able to. He looks upset and he starts to vent to you, the happy and excitable manager is gone. Replaced by a much more vulnerable man as he beats himself up over tonight's events.

In Bobby’s eyes - the night was a near disaster.

“Everything was rushed so everyone’s constantly asking for my attention, security has been a mess since we’ve been short-staffed for the last couple weeks,” He takes a deep breath, “People are showing up invited which is causing problems for the safety of others, you got hurt-”

You put a hand on his shoulder when he says the last part and it causes him to pause his rambling and look up, eyes catching the goofy grin on your face as you reassure him that you’re fine. One slip here was nothing to the amount of burns and cuts you’ve gotten from cooking.

“Actually, I’m pretty sure one of those little finger sandwiches has a drop of my blood in it.” You’d joked and you hear that familiar laugh from Bobby as the tension in his shoulders ease for a moment, you watch the way his clammy hands rub against his suit pants and he’s trying to calm himself down now that you’ve snapped him out of his little spiral.

“Well we can advertise that you put yourself into the food.” He’d chimed back in return and you pause before bursting into laughter. You liked this. The dynamic you two had going on was nice, refreshing between all the strict business meetings and professional facades you’d normally have to put on. A natural lull in conversation happens as you’re both able to hear people cheer and idly chatter amongst themselves as you continue to people watch with Bobby nearby in your little quiet corner.

“Hey,” He looks over to you when you speak, “..do you wanna get lunch sometime? Just me and you, for pleasure and not for business.”

You’re relieved when you see his eyes light up and he responds enthusiastically, whipping his phone out and checking his calendar and the girls’ schedules to see when he has a free slot and you just smile with this goofy little expression on your face at your success. 

[theethighpriestess]

Chapter 3- The Thirst Beneath the Song

A/N: First off, thank y'all so so sooooo much for all the love y'all have been showing my little story. I have a few more chapters left in me before we close the book on Eden, but her story is far from over.

Characters: Elias "Stack" Moore, Eden Taylor (OC), Oriana Mireaux (OC)

Warning(s): 18+, Adult language, Blood & vampirism, Supernatural Elements, Vampire Kink, Explicit Sex

Summary: Eden’s broke. Her rent’s late, her car sounds like it’s choking, and her dreams of making it as a singer in New Orleans are getting harder to hold onto. So when she sees a sketchy little ad offering big cash to be a “discreet donor,” she answers it. She tells herself it’s just money. Just blood. Just once. But the contract’s signed, the room is breathing, and Eden? She might’ve just stepped into something deeper than debt.

Word Count: 6K

Eden woke up with the taste of him still in her mouth.

Not blood, since she hadn’t been the one feeding, but something heavier. Copper-soft and electric. It sat on her tongue like a memory, low and honeyed, like the ending of a song you didn’t know had already ended. The fan buzzed overhead, stirring the thick July air but doing nothing to move it. The sheets clung to her skin like a second body. She kicked them off and sat up slowly, her throat dry.

The clock blinked 3:47 AM.

Her limbs felt loose. Her thoughts didn’t. They curled tight behind her ribs, coiled and pulsing, like something inside her was waiting for instructions.

She hadn’t heard from Stack since that night.

Not a message. Not a call. Just the envelope of cash, the press of his mouth, and the silence that followed like steam after a summer storm. She told herself it was fine. Just business. A high-end transaction. Money for moments. But her body remembered too much. The weight of him between her thighs. The way his fangs dragged slow, deliberate. Like he could taste more than just her blood. Like he could taste her secrets.

She hadn’t written anything in over a week. Not a full verse. Not a line.

Every time she picked up her pen, it started hopeful, then sank into something else. Something slow and aching. Lyrics that tasted like want and satin. Rhymes that pulsed like bruises in candlelight. She couldn't finish a single song without slipping back into that red-lit room and the feel of his breath against her skin.

She tried humming instead, keeping her hands busy with dishes or her hair or folding laundry she hadn’t worn in weeks. But even her melodies came out low and syrupy, dragging like river silt. By sunrise, she gave up on pretending she could sleep.

The sun had just started to bake the sidewalk when she threw on sandals and grabbed her keys, no real destination in mind. Her curls were still damp from the shower, piled on top of her head, and she’d thrown on one of her dad’s old Tulane Law tees that hung low on her thighs. No makeup. No earrings. Just a set of keys, five crumpled dollars, and something gnawing at her chest that wasn’t quite fear and wasn’t quite hunger.

Her silver Camry purred to life, cool air blowing steady from the vents. She’d only had the car for a few weeks, but it still felt like a quiet kind of miracle. No dashboard tantrums. No grinding starter. The dealership had thrown in a peach-scented air freshener and a full tank of gas, and she’d nearly cried in front of the finance guy.

She made it as far as Chartres and Iberville before she turned the wheel on instinct and pulled to the curb.

The Sugar Séance sat nestled between a shuttered florist and a barbershop with a crooked barber pole and faded saints decals on the door. Its storefront was painted in soft lavender and buttercream hues, like a slice of cake someone had dreamed into being. Glass jars dangled from the porch beams, filled with pastel candy rocks, dried herbs, and tiny paper spells that fluttered when the wind caught them. Wind chimes made of antique spoons, skeleton keys, and chipped teacups clinked gently overhead. The windows were fogged with lace curtains and dusted sugar, and the hand-painted sign above the door shimmered in the morning light—gold lettering curling like incense smoke across a board carved to resemble a bitten praline.

Inside, the air was thick with scent: warm pralines, candied citrus peel, bourbon vanilla, and something older and greener beneath it all. Not unpleasant, just unexpected. Like walking into a candy store that had a working altar in the back and whispered when you weren’t looking.

The bell over the door jingled low as Eden stepped inside. The floorboards creaked beneath Eden’s feet, and for a moment, she thought she was alone.

Then Oriana Mireaux, the bubbly shop owner, appeared from behind a curtain of beaded strings, barefoot and unbothered, as if the room had conjured her on cue. She moved like incense smoke; slow and sure, every step threaded with something otherworldly. Her silk slip dress clung to her body like moonlight to water, dyed the color of periwinkle smoke and trimmed in antique lace. Long dark locs tumbled over her shoulders, wrapped in velvet ribbons and rosemary sprigs, tiny golden charms glinting like secrets where the light caught them.

She smelled faintly of rosewater and scorched citrus peel, with a note of ash clinging like a memory. A black cord circled her neck, the small iron key at its center resting just beneath her collarbone. Her gold-rimmed glasses flashed as she tilted her head, eyes narrowing through enchanted lenses rumored to show only the truth.

“Well, look who finally wandered in,” Oriana said, her voice a velvet drawl. “Miss Eden Taylor.”

Eden offered a half-smile, suddenly aware of how loud her own breath sounded in the foggy hush of the room. “Was I expected?”

The shop shimmered behind her, all sugar smoke and drifting whispers, but Oriana’s gaze held steady. Not quite amused. Not quite surprised. Just certain.

“Always,” she murmured, like the answer had been written long ago.

“You been humming in your sleep,” she said softly, stepping around the counter. “Dreamin’ in red. Thinking I wouldn’t hear it.”

They weren’t close, not really. Acquaintances, more than friends. Same circles. Same city. The kind of woman you see at shows, at bookstores, on sidewalks with a paper bag full of herbs and intentions. But Oriana had always looked at her like she saw more than the surface.

“I didn’t come here for anything serious,” Eden said, wandering toward a shelf lined with jars of rock candy and candied ginger.

“Mhm,” Oriana hummed. “That why you drove straight here with your hair still wet and your heart all tangled up?”

Eden blinked. “You’re really doing the full clairvoyant thing today, huh?”

Oriana grinned. “I don’t do anything half-assed. Besides, I know a hunger dream when I smell one.”

Eden picked up a tin of cinnamon drops. “You’re not gonna ask what happened?”

“I already know what didn’t,” Oriana replied, walking past her to a low cabinet near the register. She crouched, pulled open the drawer, and came back with a small stack of books tied together with twine.

“You came looking for answers,” she said simply. “Here’s a few to start.”

Eden looked at the bundle. “What kind of answers?”

“The kind you don’t get by Googling,” Oriana said. “First one’s a grimoire from a healer in St. Lucia. Talks about beings that feed off life force, not just blood. Second one’s vampire folklore collected from Creole families down in Plaquemines Parish. Half of it’s myth, the rest is memory. You’ll know which is which. And the last one…” Her lips curled. “Let’s call it a manual for women learning how to hold their power without flinching.”

Eden stared at the twine. “And you keep this kind of stuff tucked between bubble gum and jawbreakers?”

“Sugar makes the medicine easier to swallow, or whatever Mary Poppins said,” Oriana said with a wink. She added a sachet of candied hibiscus to the stack and nudged it forward. “For the heart. On the house.”

Eden reached into her pocket. “Let me pay you—”

Oriana shook her head. “Just tell me what you learn when you come back to see me.”

The morning light glinted off her dragon tattoo as she turned away, the scales inked in ocean tones that caught like moonlight. Eden stood for a long moment, the books pressed to her chest, the weight of them anchoring her in a way nothing else had lately.

Outside, the city simmered, golden and loud. She got back into her Camry, shut the door, and sat with the engine running, watching the steam rise off the pavement. One of the books shifted in her lap, the corner catching a glint of sun.

Blood remembers what the mind forgets.

She traced the words with her finger, then put the car in drive.

She had a lot of remembering to do.

–

Eden read everything over the next two days. She read like someone starving. Like the words might stitch the holes she didn’t know she had. She didn’t eat much. Didn’t sleep. Her songbooks lay untouched on the floor beside the bed, lyrics abandoned in favor of pages filled with things older than memory. The books smelled like old paper and fennel, and sometimes, when she turned a page too quickly, something floral and unfamiliar drifted out. Rose, maybe. Or dried blood.

The first book read like a letter from a world she almost recognized. It spoke in symbols and metaphors, riddled with footnotes, but something about it made sense in the marrow. There were no fangs. No coffins. No capes. Just hunger and power, described in strange, beautiful prose. It spoke of ancient rites hidden in songs and salt lines. Of those who fed not only to live, but to listen. To taste the truth in someone’s breath and mirror it back with intention.

The second book was messier. Marginalia scrawled in red ink by someone who clearly didn’t trust the stories. There were interviews. Fragments of oral tradition from families along the Gulf Coast. Tales passed down from grandmothers who had seen too much and said too little. Stories of midnight visitors who never knocked, only whispered. Of lovers who fed beneath cypress trees and left their marks behind in freckles shaped like constellations. Of women who woke up glowing and wrecked, their mouths bruised with silence, their lives never quite their own again.

One account stopped her cold. A Creole midwife in 1913 claimed she’d seen a man waiting just beyond a woman’s doorstep, still as a shadow, until she beckoned him inside. She said he didn’t touch her, not in the way people meant, but knelt at her feet, placed his hands on her thighs, and took something she didn’t know she’d offered. The woman wept without knowing why. For seven nights after, her dreams ran thick with blood and candlelight. On the eighth, she vanished. No sign of struggle. Just open windows and sheets still warm.

Eden shut the book and stared at the ceiling.

She tried to shake the image, but it clung. Not the story, but the sensation. The heat of remembered breath against her skin. The curve of hands. The weight of silence. She dropped her head back against the pillow and closed her eyes, and the vision opened like a door.

Stack.

In the dream, she was sitting on the chaise again, red light painting the room in velvet shadows. He knelt in front of her, still and grave, the way he always was before feeding. No hurry. No hunger in his face. Just that watchful, measured calm. His fingers grazed her thighs as he leaned in, and she remembered the moment not by sound, but by pulse. How hers jumped. How his slowed. How everything between them thickened.

She could feel the way his mouth pressed into her skin. Not with greed, but with reverence. The kind of slowness that demanded surrender. She remembered the pull, not just from her body, but from somewhere deeper. Like he wasn’t just drinking, but drawing something out. Something molten and tender and unsayable.

She gasped and sat up.

The book had slipped from her lap to the floor, its spine cracked, pages spilling like open wounds. She rubbed her eyes and tried to steady her breath.

The final book was different. Smaller, bound in thick navy cloth with no title on the cover. The kind of thing you wouldn’t pick up on instinct. Inside, it read like a guide. A warning. A promise.

There were diagrams. Symbols in ash-colored ink. Notes written by a woman named Esmé Duval, who claimed her great-aunt had once been “bonded” to a feeder for nearly a decade. The term wasn’t explained so much as whispered around. But one sentence stood out, underlined already in faint pencil, as if it had mattered to someone before her:

The bond is a thinning of the veil. A place where breath and blood and memory meet. It is temporary. It is dangerous. It is addictive.

Eden stared at the words. Her pulse slowed. She reached for her own pencil and traced over the line, darkening the letters like they might come alive if she gave them enough weight.

She leaned back against the couch and tried to process it all. The heat outside pressed against the window, thick and humming, but her skin had gone cold. Not in fear. In recognition.

The bond. That was what it had to be. She hadn’t imagined the way her body lit up beneath his touch, or the way the world blurred into velvet and honey when he fed. It wasn’t just chemistry. It wasn’t even lust. It was a threshold. A place she hadn’t known she was capable of crossing until he opened it for her.

She touched the side of her neck, absently rubbing a spot that still felt warm, though nothing had been there in weeks. The next few pages detailed signs of a bond forming. Lucid dreams. Heightened senses. The inability to write, sing, or create without summoning the other person in your mind. A kind of echo, the book called it. A soulprint.

Eden flipped to the next chapter, but the words swam. She shut the book and pressed her fingers to her temple, breathing slow. She had wanted clarity. Instead, she’d found a name for something she hadn’t been ready to claim. A name for the burn in her chest and the way her melodies kept turning into confessions. And if this was only temporary, if it really was meant to fade like the book said, then why did it feel like she was just beginning to be pulled under?

Her phone buzzed.

A text from the DJ who had promised to spin her single on the radio again.

Can’t play your track this week. Sponsor pulled. Maybe next month.

She stared at the screen. Her reflection ghosted in the glass. Curls pulled back. Face bare. Eyes sharp and unsure.

She tossed the phone onto her bed, the words from the book still carved into her thoughts.

Temporary.

Dangerous.

Addictive.

So was music. So was dreaming. So was trying to touch something sacred with your mouth open and your hands trembling.

But she didn’t stop singing.

And she wasn’t ready to stop dreaming about Stack.

So she dressed.

Not in anything extravagant. Just a fitted white tank top, soft from too many washes, and a long black skirt that kissed her ankles when she walked. Her curls were pulled back in two space buns, loose bangs falling in her face casually. She dabbed rosewater at her pulse points and slid gold bangles up one arm until they clinked softly when she moved.

She wasn’t planning to see him. She just needed to drive.

Needed the hum of the city in her ears, the blur of houses and shotgun porches flickering past her window like beads on a second line. Maybe she’d loop around City Park. Maybe she’d find a corner to sing on just to hear her own voice move through the air again. Something to break the silence that had started feeling personal.

The Camry was cool and ready, the stereo humming something slow and unbothered. She didn’t touch the volume. She just drove. By the time she made it past Canal and turned onto Baronne, the air had begun to shift. Not the weather, but something quieter. Underneath. A low pull, almost magnetic, settling beneath her ribs like a string being tugged.

She told herself she was just heading toward the river. Just driving.

She passed a corner store that sold pink coconut pies and menthols in singles. An old woman sweeping her stoop looked up at her like she knew something Eden didn’t. She turned off the next street.

And that’s when she saw her.

A woman. Slim. Pale in that fragile kind of way that always looked a little haunted in this heat. Her hair was the color of night oil, long and brushed to shine, not a strand out of place. She wore a silk dress the color of champagne, high heels in one hand, a phone in the other, smile small and tired.

Eden slowed instinctively.

Not because she recognized the woman. But because she recognized the ache behind her posture. The way she walked like something inside her had been poured out and carefully refilled. Not sluggish. Not broken. Just... stretched.

Like Eden had felt.

That’s what did it. Not her looks. Not the gleam of her jewelry. But the air around her. That afterglow. That softness edged in something sacred and bone-deep. The woman crossed the street. Eden kept driving, eyes flicking to the rearview.

The woman moved with purpose, but not urgency. She turned left at the light. And something in Eden’s chest clicked hard, like a trap being set.

She circled the block and caught up, easing her foot off the gas just enough to watch without drawing attention. The woman stopped in front of a nondescript warehouse tucked deep in the Warehouse District. The surrounding buildings were lifeless, windows dark and walls crumbling with time. To the untrained eye, Stack’s place looked just as abandoned, just another forgotten relic of the city. But above the steel door, a single red light pulsed, dim and deliberate, like a secret only some could see.

Stack’s warehouse.

Eden’s stomach pulled tight. She turned down the next alley and parked behind a van with peeling paint. Cut the engine. Waited. The woman pressed something into the hand of the man at the door, maybe an envelope, maybe a card, and smiled like she’d done it before. Not warmly. Not flirty. Just… familiar. Like this wasn’t a favor. Like this was a rhythm.

Eden watched her disappear behind the door.

She sat still for a long time. Long enough for the windshield to fog faintly from her breath. Her hand stayed frozen on the gearshift. Her mouth felt dry. She told herself it made sense. Stack was powerful. Wealthy. Undead, yes, but polished. Controlled. It made sense that he had others. That she wasn’t the only one.

It made sense.

But sense didn’t settle anything. It just rang hollow in her chest, like a bell with no echo. She hadn’t expected this kind of feeling.

It wasn’t jealousy. She refused to name it that. It wasn’t love. She wasn’t that naïve. But it was something that curled tight in her gut and whispered things she didn’t want to say out loud. Something old. Something human. A want to be singular. A want to be remembered. 

A want to matter.

She let her forehead rest against the steering wheel. Closed her eyes. Breathed deep.

He hadn’t lied to her.

He’d never said it was exclusive. Never promised intimacy beyond the sharp end of a transaction. And maybe the money had been clean. Crisp. The experience curated. Gentle even, in its own strange way.

But it had changed her.

And now, watching someone else walk that same path, unbothered, glowing, undone—it scraped against her like a blade in silk.

She sat up and started the engine again. Didn’t drive off this time.

Instead, she pulled out her compact mirror and stared at herself under the flickering streetlight. Skin slightly damp. Eyes rimmed in shadow. Lips parted like she’d been caught mid-confession.

She didn’t recognize herself. Not fully.

There was a woman inside her now who craved more than answers. Who wanted to understand not just the what, but the why. Why her melodies trembled when she thought of him. Why her lyrics always led back to his mouth. Why she had started humming in minor keys even when she felt victorious.

Maybe she needed to ask him.

Not about the other woman. Not about rules.

But about this.

This pull. This weight. This ache she hadn’t known how to carry.

She checked the rearview again.

The door hadn’t opened. No one came or left. Just the pulse of red light above the threshold, like a heartbeat in concrete. Her fingers hovered over her phone. She didn’t text.

Instead, she drove home slow, letting the city wind around her. Spanish moss dipped low from the trees. A second line ghosted down St. Charles, distant brass echoing like it belonged to another lifetime.

By the time she reached her apartment, the sky had gone purple-black. The books were still where she’d left them on the coffee table, but she didn’t touch them. Instead, she let her body carry her to the kitchen, where she stared at her reflection in the microwave door.

Still hers.

Still Eden.

But the name felt softer now. Like it had been spoken too many times in too many dreams.

She turned off the lights and lay on her bed with her knees drawn up and her hand pressed lightly to the center of her chest.

The ache wasn’t going away.

But neither was she.

–

His text came late.

Later than usual. Later than polite. Midnight was already breathing down her neck when her phone lit up across the room.

Eden rolled over in bed, her arm draped over the nearest pillow, her hair still damp from the shower. The screen glowed cool in the dark.

Tomorrow. Midnight. I want to show you something.

No greeting or pleasantries. Just that message. Short. Final. Like he knew she’d come.

She stared at it for a full minute, thumb hovering. Her first impulse was to ask for details. Her second was to pretend she hadn’t seen it. But all she did was lock her phone again and hold it to her chest, heart already kicking up a rhythm like her body knew something her brain hadn’t caught up to yet.

She didn’t sleep. Not really.

The next day passed in a quiet blur. She cleaned the kitchen twice. Tried to write. Tried to eat. Settled for tea and the last of the pralines Oriana had slipped in the bag with the books. When she looked at herself in the mirror, she saw someone less frayed than before. But not quite steady either. Like a record with one deep groove too many.

By the time the clock hit 11:30, she was already dressed.

Not stage-dressed. Not pretty.

Just real.

A black tank dress with thin straps. Clean face, clear gloss on her lips. A single gold ring on her finger. Her curls pulled back into a high puff that crowned her head soft and proud. She looked like the girl she was before him, or close enough.

The drive was quiet. The address he’d sent took her out of the Quarter and into a neighborhood that sloped low, where the houses sat quiet behind wrought iron fences and jasmine spilled over from every second gate. She slowed in front of a narrow cream-colored home tucked between two tall oaks. No number on the door. Just a single porch light glowing warm above it.

She parked at the curb and took a breath before stepping out.

The heat hugged her instantly. July heavy. Still and watching.

The front door opened before she knocked.

Stack stood in the frame, barefoot and unsmiling, wearing a black shirt and loose cotton pants. His sleeves were pushed up. No watch tonight. Just the gleam of his chain and the soft violet burn in his eyes.

He didn’t speak. Just stepped back and let her in.

The house was quiet.

Not the sterile kind of quiet. But lived-in. Dimly lit and warm, with dark wood floors and worn rugs. The walls were lined with framed photographs. Sepia portraits, places she couldn’t name, people in old clothes with eyes that followed her as she walked past. She swore there was even a photo of Stack, except his expression was much more serious and his tweed suit sported blue trim and detailing. A piano sat under the front window, its lid closed but freshly dusted. Somewhere deeper in the house, she heard the whisper of a record player, old jazz playing like it had been waiting for her to notice.

“You live here?” she asked, voice softer than she meant it to be.

Stack gave a small nod. “Most of the time.”

She turned to look at him fully. His posture was easy, but something about him was wound tighter tonight. Not tense. Just alert. Like this moment had been rehearsed in his mind too many times.

“Come,” he said and turned without waiting.

He led her through a narrow hallway that smelled faintly of cedar and smoke, the walls lined with gilded sconces dimly lit by candlelight. The floorboards creaked softly beneath their steps, their footfalls swallowed by the hush of something deeper. At the end of the corridor, he opened a tall door and guided her into a back room that felt more like a study or a sanctuary.

Tall windows reached nearly to the ceiling, their panes streaked with rain and city light, but the velvet curtains had been drawn wide open to the night. Outside, the moon hung low and swollen, casting silver onto the wooden floors. A low fire crackled in the hearth, the scent of burning oak mingling with something faintly sweet, like tobacco and aged vanilla.

Books filled the built-in shelves from floor to ceiling, their spines worn, many of them leather-bound, some tagged with ribbons or crumbling slips of parchment. A few were stacked haphazardly on the floor and side tables, as if they’d been read recently and often. There was no overhead light, only antique lamps with amber bulbs and thick beeswax candles in mismatched holders. Their flickering glow danced across the room, turning gold against the stone mantle and deep burgundy rug. Everything shimmered in the firelight, as if the room itself was exhaling warmth. It was quiet in the way sacred places were quiet. Like the kind of silence that asked something of you.

He gestured to the armchair. She sat. He remained standing.

“I saw you,” he said after a moment. “Across the street. A few nights ago.”

Eden’s mouth went dry.

“I didn’t mean to—”

“You weren’t the first,” he said, gently. “To come back with questions. You won’t be the last.”

“But you texted me.”

“Yes.”

“Why now?”

His eyes caught the firelight. “Because you’re still here.”

The silence stretched between them, not cold but close. His voice was low when he spoke again.

“I don’t feed from many people, Eden. I never have. What you saw... it was just a rhythm I kept. Clean. Efficient. But you...”

He trailed off, looking down at his hands.

“You made something stir in me I thought was gone. Not just the blood. Not just the body. You brought something back.”

Eden didn’t move.

He stepped closer.

“Tell me what you feel when I’m near.”

She shook her head. “You don’t want that answer.”

“I do.”

She hesitated.

“I feel seen. Not the way people look at me on stage or when I post something pretty. But like... like you see the parts I didn’t mean to show. The ones I try to tuck away.”

Stack’s jaw flexed, almost imperceptibly.

“Do you feel safe?”

“Yes,” she said, before she could second-guess it. “But not in the way that makes me comfortable. In the way that makes me want to give more. More than I should.”

He knelt down in front of her. His eyes flicked up to hers, slow and deliberate.

“I want you to stop feeding with anyone else,” he said. “If you ever have.”

“I haven’t,” she said. “Only you. I didn’t even believe this was real initially. Sometimes it still feels too good to be true.”

He looked relieved. Or as close to it as a man like him could look.

“I want us to be exclusive,” he said. “You and me. No other donors. No other exchanges. This doesn’t have to be permanent. But I want to walk this further.”

“Why me?”

“Because your blood tastes like truth,” he said. “And I haven’t tasted that in a very long time.”

Eden’s breath caught.

No one moved.

She didn’t lean in.

Neither did he.

But something shifted between them anyway. A thread pulled tight and quiet. And for the first time in days, Eden didn’t feel like a woman unraveling. She felt like a flame being watched. Nursed. Fed.

Stack didn’t speak right away, and Eden didn’t fill the silence. The fire crackled behind him, casting long shadows against the floor. He was still kneeling, his body so still it almost startled her when he finally moved, sitting back on his heels, gaze steady and waiting.

But Eden wasn’t ready to say yes. Not just yet.

She tilted her head, voice quiet but unflinching. “What do you get out of this? Really?”

Stack’s lips curved slightly. “You.”

She didn’t flinch, but something fluttered behind her ribs. Still, she leaned forward.

“I want something too,” she said. “Something more than candles and soft chairs. More than whatever it is we do when I let you feed.”

Stack didn’t blink. “Say what you want.”

And just like that, the air between them shifted.

Eden exhaled through her nose, gathering the pieces. She hadn’t known until this moment how badly she needed to speak these things aloud.

“I want a guarantee,” she said. “That I make it. That all this work I’ve done, the nights I’ve spent singing songs into a busted mic, rehearsing with a sore throat and a busted engine... I want to know that it’s not for nothing. That I don’t have to keep begging DJs to play my music or chasing tips in half-empty lounges where people talk over my lyrics like they cost nothing.”

She stood up slowly, letting her words stretch out into the quiet room. Her feet padded across the rug as she walked toward the window, not facing him now, but her reflection hovered ghostlike in the glass.

“I want to live like my voice means something,” she said. “I want the kind of apartment where I can record properly. A bathtub I can actually fit in. A kitchen that doesn’t hum when I run the microwave and the lights at the same time.”

She turned then, arms folded.

“I want my father to stop looking at me like I’m a disappointment. Like I picked a hobby instead of a future. I want him to hear me on the radio one day and have to sit down.”

The words hit the floor between them, heavy as bone. Stack rose from his knees slowly. He moved with that same careful grace he always had, like every inch of him was aware of the space he occupied.

“You want power,” he said.

“I want my life to stop feeling like a question mark.”

He stepped closer. “Power has a price.”

“So does silence,” she replied.

He studied her for a long moment. The firelight threw gold across his skin, catching the line of his jaw, the gleam of his eyes. Something stirred there. Not desire. Not yet. But recognition. A flicker of ancient memory that lived in the marrow of people like him. People who had once been human. Who remembered the hunger of wanting.

“Come with me,” he said at last.

He led her down the hall, through a tall door she hadn’t noticed before. Inside was another room; darker, smaller, but warmer. A set of tall French doors opened to a back courtyard lit by string lights and the hush of wind in the trees. Eden followed him outside.

The garden beyond was wild and fragrant, lined with herbs and climbing roses, citrus trees heavy with fruit, and deep stone planters brimming with mint and marigold. A wrought iron table sat near the center, its surface dotted with candle stubs and something else. A long velvet pouch.

Stack pulled the pouch open and emptied it slowly. What spilled out didn’t glitter. It shimmered. A small collection of items, old and strange. A ring that pulsed faintly. A coin that made the air tighten when you looked at it. A spool of black thread that seemed to swallow the light around it. And a mirror, no larger than a pocket watch, but so polished it looked wet.

“Each of these belonged to someone who asked for more,” he said.

Eden leaned closer but didn’t touch. The ring was carved with a language she didn’t recognize. The coin looked ancient. The mirror... the mirror seemed to watch her.

“These are tokens,” Stack said, “tied to old favors. Old debts. None of them came cheap. But each one delivered exactly what was asked.”

Eden licked her lips. “Are you saying you’ll make it happen? Everything I want?”

“I can’t force the world to bend,” he said. “But I can show you the door. I can give you the key. The rest…”

“Depends on whether I walk through it.”

Stack nodded once.

“And the cost?”

He looked at her then. Full, quiet, unguarded.

“Your trust,” he said. “Your willingness to let this be more than a transaction.”

Eden swallowed hard. “You want me to belong to you.”

“Not as a possession. As a choice.”

She looked down at the items again. Her skin buzzed like it did right before she sang something new. Like a current lived under her bones and had just found a way out.

“And if I say yes?”

“Then I will show you what that life feels like,” Stack said. “Tonight.”

She lifted her eyes to his. “Just a taste?”

His smile was slow. “Enough to remember.”

She nodded.

He held out his hand.

Eden placed her palm in his, warm against his cool fingers.

They returned to the house, but the room had changed. Or maybe it hadn’t. Maybe it was only Eden who had.

She moved through it like it was already hers. Like the fire had been lit for her. Like the walls had heard her stories before. Stack handed her a glass of wine. Rich, dark, with a scent like fruit and something metallic. She drank, slow, the warmth blooming down her throat.

Music began to play from the record player. Vinyl, smooth and slow. Something older than jazz. A voice that knew longing intimately. Stack sat across from her. Not close. Just present.

“Close your eyes,” he said.

Eden obeyed. The air shifted. She smelled the roses again, but stronger. Felt the weight of silk brushing her arms. Heard the soft applause of a stage. A microphone buzzing to life. Her name whispered through a crowd.

She was singing.

No scratchy feedback. No static. Just her voice, clear and honey-deep, filling every corner of the room. The crowd leaned forward. Held their breath. Hung on her words.

She saw herself, bathed in light. Smiling. Steady. Not begging.

Owning.

A man in the front row pulled out his phone, and she heard a familiar voice on the radio. Her voice. A car zipped past a corner store with her face on the side in a local station ad. Her boots were new. Her apartment had tall windows and shelves full of vinyl. Her father’s voice cracked on the line. He told her he was proud.

She opened her eyes. And gasped.

The fire had dimmed, but the heat remained. Her hand still held the wineglass. Stack sat exactly where he had before.

“Was that real?” she whispered.

“It can be,” he said. “If you want it.”

She set the glass down. Her heart thundered.

And for the first time in years, it didn’t feel like she was chasing a dream.

It felt like it had finally turned to look back at her.

“Where do I sign?”

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[anakinsluvrgirl]

✧ sam monroe x f!reader

summary: you and sam have always been close, maybe too close. now its just late night, quiet kisses, and feelings that neither of you are ready to name.

warnings: none ! simply making out.

a/n: ok this is the first minimally good thing ive written in MONTHS so im kinda proud of it ngl 😣 its pretty simple but i hope you like it as much as i do <3

divider creds: @roseraris

Sam Monroe had many hobbies. None of them particularly healthy. Smoking, dealing, blasting music loud enough to piss off the neighbours — And of course, making out with his best friend like it wasn’t a total disaster waiting to happen. Things to fill the silence.

Risky? Sure. But that wasn’t the right word for it. Sloppy felt more accurate, like something unplanned, impulsive, the kind of thing that started without meaning to and never really stopped. You couldn’t remember the first time it happened. The first kiss, the first time you ended up tangled in his sheets, breathless and laughing like idiots, but it blurred together after that. Like muscle memory.

You didn’t talk about it. You didn’t need to. And honestly? You weren’t really complaining. It wasn’t love, at least not in the clean, safe way people always talked about it. Something kept pulling you back into his orbit, night after night, until it stopped feeling strange and just started feeling like the only thing that made sense. Neither of you asked what it meant. Neither of you cared enough to stop. Or maybe you cared too much to say it out loud.

Though you refused to admit it. Dating? No, you two weren’t dating. Best friends? Definitely. You always said that you two were just really close. But deep down you both knew that it wasn’t entirely true. However, can you really call it a real friendship if you don’t occasionally make out or fool around a bit?

You and Sam had been orbiting each other for as long as you could remember. He’d always just been there. This permanent fixture in your life, like a scar or a favorite song you never got sick of. From scraped knees and schoolyard fights to late-night drives and cigarette ash on hoodie sleeves, he was a constant. Reliable in his own unpredictable way.

You know each other better than anyone else ever could, down to the exact same look he’d give when something was bothering him but he didn’t want to talk about it, or the way his voice dropped when he was trying not to like he cared. He never had to say too much, and you never had to ask. Inseparable didn’t even begin to cover it. You were entangled. Years of shared secrets, close calls, and unfinished sentences had made sure of that.

Deep down, you knew you weren’t supposed to be here again, but you just couldn’t resist the urge to see him. It was a random Tuesday, barely past midnight, and his window was still half open, like he expected you to crawl through it.

Sam didn’t say anything when you stepped inside. He just blinked at you through the smoke curling off the cigarette between his fingers. He was sitting on his bed, hoodie falling off one shoulder, eyeliner faded into tiredness shadows. His room was a mess, still smelled like paint thinner and cheap cologne.

“You forgot how to knock or something?” He muttered, his voice low and scratchy.

You didn’t say anything, you simply sat beside him, your knees touching. He passed you the cigarette wordlessly. You didn’t really smoke, but you took a drag anyway. Something about the way his lips had just been on it made you feel high enough.

“Rough night?” He raised an eyebrow as he observed you. You stayed silent for a few more moments, before finally speaking up, “Aren’t they all?” You mumbled, turning your gaze towards him, the cigarette between your fingers.

Sam leaned in before you could say anything else, pressing his mouth to yours like it was the only thing that made sense. The cigarette in your hands was immediately forgotten. His hands moved to your waist, pulling your body closer. The way his hands slid up your hoodie, the way you tilted your head just so, the familiar scrape of his lip ring against your mouth. It wasn’t rushed, but it wasn’t gentle either. You kissed like you were trying to prove something, like maybe if you stayed close enough, long enough, it’d start to feel real.

Sam pulled back just enough to speak, his voice nothing more than a murmur against your lips, “You’re gonna get tired of this someday,” he spoke. “And you’re gonna pretend like you won’t care,” you shot back.

He didn’t argue. Just kisses you again, deeper this time, like he was trying to drown the silence between the words neither of you would ever say.

His fingers toyed with the hem of your shirt. Your hoodie was already half off, and so was his. The room was cold, but his hands were warm, calloused, familiar. He tugged you closer, until you were practically on his lap, your thighs straddling his and your breath catching somewhere between your chest and your throat.

You almost said something, something stupid like “don’t go falling in love with me” but the words died before they made it out.

Because deep down, you weren’t sure which of you would be more likely to mean it.

[emeraldserenade]

This might be a lot but maybe a Joaquin fic where him and bestfriend!reader have always had sexual tension but tonight, in a moment of teasing him during their movie night, she notices that Joaquin is a little… excited. Reader sees how far she can push him before finally just making him beg for it. Like REALLY beg for it. Once he gets permission subish!Joaquin kind of just loses restraint

Friends Don't Hook Up ~ Joaquín Torres

synopsis: A night changes everything after you and Joaquín finally give into the sexual tension

tw: fem!reader, best friends to lovers, smut, barely edited. smut tw: sub!Joaquín, dom!reader, unprotected p in v (be smart and practice safe sex), oral (fem receiving), praise, aftercare.

fic, ficlet, drabble, request

Hi!! I've never written sub!Joaquín I wrote this while on Facetime with two of my best friends, they don't know about this. If you find this, I'm sorry but you two called as soon as I started this. You guys like my smut and it makes me happy but I also feel like an imposter since I write it as a virgin

➽──────────────❥

You and Joaquín had friends for years and over those years, you two had fallen into the routine of weekly movie nights. This one was overdue, for the past few weeks Joaquín's been on a mission. Now you were on his couch watching him make popcorn in the kitchen. "You're staring," Joaquín said without looking.

"Can you blame me, I've got a fine ass man making me snacks," you told him, your eyes roaming the expanse of his back. Maybe it was too forward, but that's the relationship you two had. Flirty but never going anywhere.

✧°˖ . ݁˖︵‿❀‿︵˖ . ݁˖°✧

You were sitting with Joaquín, your legs spread across his lap as the movie played. It was bold, but you kept running Joaquín's fingers over your thighs via the hold you had on his hand. It was just something for you to do with your hands, needing to fidget with something while you watched the movie. You didn't notice the shifting from Joaquín, but you did notice something else when you shifted your legs. Your knee brushed over something that made you pause. "Joaquín, are you...?" You trailed off as you saw his face get red. "Oh my God, you are!" You announced.

"You're over here running my fingers over your thigh, dangerously close to the hem of your shorts, and expect me not to be?" Joaquín countered, gently pushing your legs a little farther down his thighs. You, however, shifted completely until you were straddling his waist and settling down. "What are you doing?" Joaquín's hand automatically reached for your waist, pulled you down just a little bit more.

"Nothing," you smiled, pressing yourself down onto Joaquín's lap. You had a thought that made you pause and lift your hips again. "Are you ok with this?" Joaquín pulled your hips back down to meet his with a whine, a full whine.

"Please," he begged and you got a huge smirk.

"Are you going to ask nicely?" You asked with a teasing roll of your hips.

"I need you so bad, please," Joaquín rolled his hips up into you.

"Do you need me to ride you stupid? Need me to make you so pussy drunk you can only babble my name?" You teased him, your hips rolling down again.

"Yes, please," Joaquín was so far gone he started to mouth at your neck. You took pity on him and pulled his head up to press your lips with his. It was messy and desperate but it was exactly what you thought it would be like with Joaquín in the state he was.

"Do you want to keep going?" You asked, letting Joaquín have a moment to breathe as you pulled your hips away from him again. It was asked in a nice tone, but you truly were trying to make him lose it.

"More than anything, please. I promise I'll make you feel good," Joaquín was borderline whimpering below you. "I promise, mami, I promise," Joaquín whimpered and you smirked down at him.

"Ok, love, I got you," you told him, moving to get off him. You saw him about to complain but he stopped when you hooked your fingers into your waistband. You watched as Joaquín quickly rid himself of his pants and boxers, gasping when you caught sight of him. He was big, flushed, and leaking. You slipped your shorts and panties off before reaching for your shirt, well his shirt but you long since stole it. You were bare to him as you settled on his lap again. You watched as he hesitated on where to put his hands. "You can touch me, baby," you told him and suddenly you were pressed into the couch on your back.

"I promised to make you feel good, please let me. Please," Joaquín was already lowering himself and you nodded at him.

"Ok, baby, go ahead," you spread your legs and let him dive in. You didn't know what to expect, but Joaquín ate you out like you were something to worship. One of your hands threaded through his hair as your other reached for one of his hands. Your fingers interlaced as you felt him eat you out like a man starved. Your orgasm washed over you as Joaquín kept going, you had to push him off.

"I wasn't done, please. Let me keep going, I wanna make you feel good," Joaquín was palming at your thighs with his hands, you leaned up to connect your lips. Humming at the taste of yourself on his lips, you pushed Joaquín back to sit on the couch.

"I gotta ride you stupid, don't you want me to?" You tilted your head as he nodded. You reached down, gave him a little stroke to hear him let out a choked moan, before lining him up. You took a deep breath before sinking down, knowing he was going make you feel impossibly full.

"You feel so good, so tight, so warm," Joaquín moaned into the skin of your neck. "All for me, right? Please, tell me, even if it's a lie," Joaquín begged.

"Don't worry, it's all for you," you told him, slowly starting to ride him. Your pace was slow but it seemed to have the wanted effect on Joaquín as he slowly lost his mind. His ducked his head to capture one of your nipples into his mouth, causing you to squeeze him at the action.

Your thighs were burning but you kept going, Joaquín was just a whining and moaning mess under you. Your hips were moving up and down while occasionally grinding down on his lap. You could tell Joaquín was close by the way his grip on your hips was tightening and his sounds were becoming more frequent. "You going to cum for me?"

"Please, please let me. I was a good boy, please," Joaquín whimpered into your neck.

"You are my best boy, you can let go for me," you reassured him, feeling him fill you up. The pressure of it triggered yours and your hips started to lose rhythm. You rode out both of your highs before collapsing into his chest. "You did such a good job, you filled me up so well," you muttered, pressing kisses to chest.

"Do you want to shower together?" You could hear how wreaked Joaquín was.

"Yeah, let's go," you got off Joaquín, both of you hissing at the lack of contact before you two walked to his bathroom. You would talk about what this meant later, but you knew you wouldn't be just friends anymore.

➽──────────────❥

Masterlist | Requests If you want to be added to the tag list, follow the directions on my masterlist

[geddyqueer]

Sentences Sunday

i think i've been tagged by @setmeatopthepyre @apollabarnes @emphasisonthehomo @adiprose and @rcmclachlan this week. throwing tags back out to @ambernotember and @newtkelly and @screamlet if they want them! and tagging @dharmaavocado for reasons. here's more of the thing i've alternately been calling "tommy's nothing" and "funeral fic", titled This be the verse:

He makes it outside and the air immediately thins. There's no one yelling, out here, no baby crying, just the sound of someone running an electric leaf-blower a block or two away.

Tommy's nowhere to be found.

The truck is still parked on the curb, sandwiched between Fish's Hyundai and one of the great-uncles' Buicks. Buck calls him and it goes straight to voicemail. Phone must be off. He doesn't have anyone's number inside, and he doesn't want to risk the fight spilling out here anyway. He's half a second from calling Maddie and asking if she can reverse-911 a phone that's off before he comes to his senses and lets himself relax.

Half the houses on this street have been torn down, new lot-fillers replacing them, extending their boundaries from one retaining wall to the next. New families must have moved in over the past couple of decades. In front of the house across the street an elementary schooler sits on her front porch, scrolling on an iPad. Buck imagines Tommy at that age. He conjures up an image of him, collected together from the pictures in Donna's house. Nine year old Tommy holding a toddler-aged Jackie in his arms, staring down at her with a sweet gentle look of awe. Twelve year old Tommy and third-grader Beth sitting back to back on the couch reading their books: Goosebumps for him, Saddle Club for her. There weren't any pictures of Tommy on any of the walls of this house, on this street. That Tommy's been wiped from physical memory.

Tommy liked being outside, Donna had said. Always in his own little world. Dreaming of something bigger, she'd theorized, but maybe he was just trying to survive the only way he could.

To his right Buck can see the mountains peeking up over a new construction, and so he heads up the sidewalk toward them, trying to channel the Tommy that lived here as he walks.

Three blocks later he's starting to doubt himself when he sees it: a little neighborhood park, a baseball field and a chain-link fence, palms and oaks and a tall hedge made up of something scrubby, a swing set and monkey bars and a spinny wheel and a few sets of picnic tables and there off to the side in the dirt behind a park bench a figure in a dark suit is huddled in the dirt.

Buck approaches slowly, like Tommy's one of the dogs at the shelter on fire, but even as he snaps a twig under his foot Tommy doesn't look up. He moves around so the sun is at his back, and he waits, and finally Tommy lifts his head and blinks up at him, red-eyed exhaustion written all over his face.

"Hey," Buck says.

"Hey," Tommy says. "Found me."

"I figured you couldn't have made it that far if you weren't flying," Buck says, and Tommy just nods.

"They still yelling?"

"Yeah, Jackie was threatening to kneecap your great-uncle Pete when I left," Buck says.

Tommy snorts. "That's good. Glad everyone's enduring memory of me is going to be the fact that I ruined Dad's funeral by holding a baby."

"If that's what it takes to ruin it, it wasn't much of a funeral to begin with." Buck squats down so he can rest his hand on Tommy's shoulder. There's a bunch of dirt stuck to his suit pants and Buck starts to pick the pieces off one by one. "I'm sorry. That was a fucked up thing for your mom to say."

"Yeah," Tommy says. He bites his lip and sniffs and brings his sleeve to his face. "Fuck."

Buck doesn't say anything. There's nothing to say. There's no one else here to feel the July sun beating down on them, to witness Buck curling around Tommy like a guard dog.

[eyekonimations]

and, fyi, the dsm-5 can only take you so far ⭑.ᐟ yn ln is a sophomore in university , a crappy drummer , and a minimum wage boba shop employee . expecting the worst once again for her third semester , yn's pessimistic world view is shattered after serving her cutest customer to date ─ meret manon bannerman , a member of katseye , the darling influencer friend group rocking social media .

05. my fortune cookie says we have to kiss lol

── rule governed behavior : when an individual does not engage in a certain behavior because of verbal rules explaining possible consequences

written  word  count  :  like 1.0k again im done 😭😭

she recognizes me.

when you first open your mouth, no sounds come out. then moka shoves you a bit, reactivating what’s left of your brain and kicking your social skills back into gear. 

“hey,” you exhale. oh my God. 

tearing your eyes away from your shoes, you notice how she meets you with that same smile from last weekend. your heart flutters.

“hey yourself,” she giggles, then turning to yunjin, “jen, i had no idea you knew yn!”

and she remembers my name.

yunjin matches her grin, “campus' too small. how do you two know each other?”

she knows of course, all of you do. it’s all any of your friends had been hearing about since your initial interaction. but everyone had mutually agreed to be completely oblivious. a blank slate. you find yourself suddenly worrying about the quality of your friends' poker faces. 

you present the bag in your hands to manon, who graciously accepts it. you hear the thump of another pair of footsteps accompanied by an eager ‘ooh, is that the food?’ followed by an excited ‘finally!’ 

to manon’s right, you catch a glimpse of who you assume are two other members of katseye: a girl with dark brown curls yanks the bag from manon’s hands while another with straight hair streaked with pink tails her. a few other girls surround the kitchen island, chattering amongst themselves as they unpack each container. manon looks back at them, then to the rest of you and steps aside.

“she works at the boba store we like,” manon answers, shutting the door behind niki who enters last, “it was actually my first time going in cause usually megan or yoonchae goes to pick stuff up for us.”

yunjin nods, then pats you on the back, “i’m assuming she left a good first impression? i can’t have my reputation tarnished by hanging around the wrong crowd, you know.”

before you have the chance to retaliate, manon jumps in, “oh no, she was just awful. had me repeat myself three times, made the wrong order, and didn’t give me any straws.”

your stomach flips. she can’t be serious, right? no, she’s literally smiling. she’s definitely joking. wait, is she actually? did you somehow gloss over some very major details of the interaction in your love-riddled haze?

“you really need better friends, yunjin. maybe i could just take this one off your hands for you?” she adds, casually.

yunjin raises an eyebrow, “tempting but no deal, we’re buy one get one unfortunately.” 

“not even a free trial? i’m offended.” manon’s focus turns to you. it looks like she’s waiting for a reaction. you’d much rather not know what you look like right now. 

would it kill me to actually come up with a response for once? not that it even matters anymore, since she and yunjin have both gone over to help plate food. you can also feel a smirk boring into the back of your skull that feels like much more of a pressing matter.

“aren’t musicians supposed to be really good at flirting?” shinyu asks, his eyes following the pair as they stroll into the kitchen.

“why don’t you ask minji,” you grumble.

“where even is she?” niki flips his hat off and twirls it around one hand.

“her and moka ran off somewhere, they’re probably socializing.” 

he gives you a pointed look, “you’d better start too before yunjin steals your girl.”

you get up to new moon before half the group starts complaining to put something else on. much to manon’s dismay, daniela starts flipping through the horror category on whatever streaming service as her voice is drowned out by a slew of unhelpful suggestions. 

“wait, wait,” lara calls out, face tinted blue from her phone, “try bodies, bodies, bodies. it’s less scary more black comedy but i think we’d all like it.”

megan and yoonchae return with snack refills, flinging bags of candy and chips at the couch until one smacks sophia in the forehead. everyone resettles and you snag a stray pouch of sour gummies from the coffee table. turning back around, you’re just now noticing how yunjin has taken your original seat beside moka and left hers–next to manon– conspicuously open. the two of them grin at the look on your face, with moka giving you a thumbs up, before returning to their conversation. a beat passes as you hesitate, contemplating excusing yourself entirely until manon pats the empty spot beside her, tugging her blanket away and scooting slightly to make more room. your mouth twists when your lips fold inward, trying your hardest to smother the busted smile fighting its way out. the bag in your hand crinkles under your grip while you carefully drop into the seat beside her.

“sorry about the twilight thing.” an attempt at making conversation.

“huh? oh, don’t be,” manon laughs softly, “i make them rewatch all 5 movies with me all the time they’re probably sick of it.” your chest does that thing again at the sound.

“it’s also probably time i let someone else choose.” she’s turning her body toward you a little now.

“that’s, uh, nice of you.” you busy yourself with ripping open the plastic in your hands while you overthink the way each word came out of your mouth. you want to say something again but manon’s turned back the other way, cackling at something lara’s just said as she presses play on the movie. you inhale, allowing yourself a moment to sink back into the cushions just a bit and popping a gummy worm into your mouth.

time passes in blinks with unwanted commentary, obnoxious screaming, and daniela accidentally kneeing shinyu in the head when pete davidson’s character died. mixed in that timeline was the process of getting more comfortable with manon. cracking a joke at the right moment and getting her to laugh, offering her one of your snacks and her gracious acceptance, or even just catching moments of her looking at you instead of the screen. it’s also around this time that you realize you’ve been drifting ever closer to each other. so much so, in fact, that your leg brushes against hers for a brief moment. you still immediately. but she doesn’t move. not away, at least. if anything, you could swear she shifts that much closer. 

meanwhile in the background, unbeknownst to you, yunjin and moka celebrate their success with a fist bump.

a/n 05/07/25 : wowww, hey people😅😅 im so sorry please i hate work and i hate school. happy halfway through summer and happy 1 week to beautiful chaos!!! also my irl said credit her w the ugly ass reaction image in the last tweet...AGAIN IM SORRY FOR THE WAIT I LOVE YOU GUYS FOR BEING PATIENTTT <3333

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[serveandchoke]

Message In a Bottle

Jannik Sinner x Reader

Synopsis: You ever send someone a message at 2am and wonder if it actually landed somewhere? This is that — long-distance tension, bad timing, soft yearning, and the one person you can’t stop thinking about no matter what timezone you’re in. Just two people throwing feelings into the universe and hoping the other catches it.

A/N: Hey guys! I'm reallyyyyyy sorry for not writing and publishing! College's been taking up all my time, and I was lucky enough to have the rarity of getting free time so I could write this small fic. I have a few ones in the works, so yeah look out for that one. ♡♡

The thing is — she never meant to fall for him.

Not really. Not like this.

It started harmlessly. A conversation at an event. A shared laugh over the same stupid meme. A follow-back. A couple of DMs. Nothing serious.

But somehow, "nothing serious" turned into late-night FaceTimes. Turned into missing each other’s texts. Turned into looking at the sky in two different countries at the same time, wondering if he was doing the same.

And now, she’s sitting at her kitchen table, staring at her phone, pretending she doesn’t want to text him first.

Because it’s been three days. Not that she’s counting.

(But she’s totally counting.)

--

Jannik’s on the other side of the world — literally. Somewhere between press, practice, and pretending to sleep on a plane again. He’s been running on caffeine and adrenaline, earbuds in, hood up, zoned out to music he can’t even hear.

He’s been trying not to think about her. Not because he doesn’t want to — but because it’s getting harder not to.

It’s stupid, how fast it all happened. How easy it felt. How the second he met her, something in him just… clicked.

She was all fire and charm, didn’t try to impress him, didn’t ask for photos or act like she cared that he was that guy. She just handed him a drink and said, “You looked like you needed this.” And honestly, He did.

And now, weeks later, he’s opening his phone mid-layover, scrolling up on their chat thread just to reread the old stuff.

She hasn’t texted first in days, which means he’s probably next up.

He types:

this airport is so cold it’s actually illegal

Then deletes it.

Types again:

why do all sandwiches in europe taste like regret

Deletes that too.

Jesus. What is he even doing?

---

She’s doing the same thing — hovering over her keyboard, staring at a half-written message:

I walked by a guy who smelled like your cologne and now I hate everyone else

Too much. She deletes it.

Instead she types:

hey, are you alive?

or did you marry your physio and forget to tell me

She hits send before she can overthink it. Then immediately tosses her phone across the couch like it’s cursed. Fuck.

---

He sees the message while boarding the plane.

Smiles. Actually smiles. His physio side-eyes him like he knows something.

He replies:

yes, he proposed. i'm sorry you had to find out like this.

And she fires back:

wow. not even a voice note? fake husband.

The banter slips right back into place. Easy. Familiar. Like no time passed. Like they’re right back in that weird little space between something and not quite.

And Jannik thinks: god, I miss her.

---

Weeks go by like this. Back and forth. Messages in different time zones. Snapshots of whatever city he’s in. Voice notes of her rambling while walking home from work. He saves the ones where she laughs without realizing it. And then, finally–

He has a break. Not long. Just enough.

So he books the flight. Doesn’t even tell her. Just shows up in her city, texting:

any chance you’re home tonight?

She’s confused. Texts back:

yeah?? why

And then her doorbell rings. She opens it, and he’s standing there — hoodie up, hair messy, suitcase by his side. Looking tired. And annoyingly perfect. He grins.

“Hey.”

She just stares for a second. Then hits him in the arm.

“What are you doing here?!”

“I was gonna ask if you had dinner plans,” he shrugs. “But I’ll also accept being physically assaulted.”

She’s still blinking, like she doesn’t believe he’s real.

Then: “You’re seriously here? Just like that?”

He nods. “Just like that.”

She pulls him in — into the apartment, into a hug, into whatever this thing is between them that neither of them wants to label but both of them feel.

And as he wraps his arms around her, tucking his chin into her shoulder, he says it — not loudly. Not dramatically. Just enough.

“I kept thinking about you.”

She breathes in his scent. It's familiar, and it's real. It was an addiction.

Warm and kind of overwhelming in the best way.

“Me too,” she whispers.

Because for weeks they’d both been tossing words into the void. Hoping the other would catch them. Hoping timing wouldn’t win.

And now, it feels like the bottle finally washed ashore.

Exactly where it was supposed to.

[flowersfromnaboo]

— ⠀ ִ ࣪ ׅ 𐔌ㅤ  BUT SHE DOESN’T KNOW WHO I AM !

ft. ellie williams

— ᶻ 𝗓 𐰁 ellie is once again following you around like a lost puppy. ellie—the girl who’s been trying to win your heart since… forever? and you can’t help but notice how sweet she actually is (and you absolutely hate yourself for it).

warnings / tags : emotional cheating? ‘cause reader has a boyfriend. and that’s pretty much it. plus she’s kinda mean and if you’re not into that.. don’t read i guess.

!! notes : this is the first fanfic i’ve written after a year of not writing… 😣😣 i’m NERVOUS and this probably will turn into a series..

lime milkshake for your friend. strawberry milkshake for yourself. one am in the morning.

“i think you’re being too harsh on that williams girl..” your friend, cindy, says as she takes another sip of her drink.

yes. one in the morning. and here you were—out with your best friend, sipping milkshakes. a big ritual, actually. something you both did at least twice a month. milkshakes and gossip. well, mostly gossip.

“who even is that williams girl?” you ask, mimicking her and taking a slow sip of your own.

“girl.. don’t even,” answers cindy, rolling her eyes. “you know damn well who.”

and you just twirl the straw in your milkshake, acting like you’re transfixed by the pattern of melted ice cream and strawberry. but the truth is, you were just trying to avoid looking into cindy’s eyes.

because she was right. of course she was. she always had to be the “reasonable one” and for what?

you weren’t that mean, were you? you were just letting her know you weren’t interested, yeah, definitely.

but you’d said that a week ago.

a week ago. that’s when things changed, at least for you.

you started getting that weird feeling in your stomach whenever she did something stupid. sometimes you even started smiling at her. you didn’t know what was going on, you thought you were probably… possessed or something, because this could not be happening.

“yeah.. okay.. ellie williams,” you mutter, finally saying the name out loud like it was a very secret spell. “she’s nothing even that cool.”

cindy raises an eyebrow. “was i dreaming or didn’t she literally walk you to class in the rain last week? no umbrella. just her hoodie.”

rolling your eyes, you scuff the toe of your shoe on the floor. “i know right? she���s just so dramatic.”

“and, she gave you the last blueberry muffin at lunch.”

“i literally hate blueberries.”

“… she also remembered your cat’s birthday.”

"... okay that was kinda cute."

cindy throws her hands up. “yes, exactly!”

you groan, leaning back into the booth. “why is she always just… i don’t know… around? like, she just appears. in the library. outside chem. by the vending machine. i turn around and boom—ellie. like some fucking lovesick ghost.”

“okay she’s not—“

you cut her off and just continue rambling. “and she’s so hard to ignore! she’s literally everywhere, cindy. gosh.. she’s literally your boyfriend’s cousin. and your boyfriend? he’s always around! and that means ellie is too. every movie night, every group hang, every. single. time.”

cindy just blinks at you. “okay..”

“and she’s so nice! too nice, actually. see, last week she got me a coffee. my favourite coffee. she remembers how i like my coffee, cindy. literally my coffee order.”

“okay but like… why don’t you just give her a shot? wouldn’t hurt, trust me.”

you blink. “excuse me?”

“i mean.. come on. she’s been into you since, like what…? forever?” cindy shrugs. “and it’s not like you actually like your boyfriend.”

you freeze like she just slapped you across the face. oh, how you hate hearing the truth. “don’t be ridiculous, i love my boyfriend.”

the single raised eyebrow from cindy shows her lack of enthusiasm. “do you, though?”

“i do,” you say, too fast, in a tone that sounds like you’re trying to convince yourself more than anyone else. “you sound absolutely crazy right now.”

she crosses her arms. “sureeee.”

you wave your hands up high. “i do! i love him. he’s... he’s good. he always picks me up after class. his mom thinks i’m nice. we—we watch movies together.”

cindy stares at you as if she expects more to the story.

but you go on all the same.

“and we've been a couple for, like, seven months! that’s a long time. that means we stick together. that’s commitment. you don’t just drop all that because someone’s cousin looks at you like you hung the fucking stars.”

cindy laughs, all sure and annoying. “girl, you’re so in denial and it’s funny. you talk about loving your boyfriend, but you keep talking about the girl who gives you more napkins without you asking.”

you try to talk back, you really do. but the words stick in your throat.

because you know: your boyfriend is nice. easy to guess. safe.

but ellie?

ellie makes your heart act up in ways it shouldn’t when you’re “in love” with someone else. she makes you feel… edgy? but in a good way—like you’re more alive. like your blood is loud when she’s near. it’s just weird, honestly.

you shake your head hard, as if that’ll clear your mind.

"yeah, i’m not doing this," you say.

[loserabby]

hi hi! 🍃 i think it’s time that I request something as well (since i love ur works so much!)

so, abby anderson x fem!reader - something fluffy and sweet. i’ll let u have creative freedom with this, do whatever fluffy bit you like!

i’d be super happy if you’ll take this request on but if you don’t - that’s totally okay as well! ☀️

love, hallow 🦋

.𖥔 ݁ ˖˚.     𝐁𝐄𝐃𝐓𝐈𝐌𝐄 𝐒𝐎 𝐎𝐅𝐓𝐄𝐍 𝐀𝐑𝐑𝐈𝐕𝐄𝐒 𝐉𝐔𝐒𝐓 𝐖𝐇𝐄𝐍 𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒 𝐀𝐑𝐄 𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐋𝐋𝐘 𝐆𝐄𝐓𝐓𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐈𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐄𝐒𝐓𝐈𝐍𝐆. wlf!abby x gf!reader

‧₊˚ ☁️⋅𓂃 ࣪ ִֶָ . ** MINORS DO NOT INTERACT, THIS IS AN 18+ BLOGI DO NOT GIVE ANYBODY PERMISSION TO REUPLOAD OR PLAGARISE MY WORK. IF YOU SEE SOMETHING I'VE WRITTEN ANYWHERE ELSE OTHER THAN HERE OR MY A03, PLEASE LET ME KNOW VIA ASK **

₊˚ 𓂃 ₊ ˚ ✧     you're not your girlfriends keeper but if hunting her down when she doesn't come back past curfew to make sure she gets a decent sleep is what it takes to make sure the patrol squad she gets paired with the next day doesn't get a grouchy abby anderson, you'll do what you have to.

𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒 :     established relationship, fluff, kissing, mentions of lord of the rings? the barest of spoilers for the series ig but not really, wlf!reader, just kinda domestic 𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃 𝐂𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐓 :     1,738k

𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐄𝐒 :     i had a crisis writing this because i started to panic i couldn't write straight up fluff, then i started wondering what constitutes as fluff and it just turned into a very weird moment where i was judging every aspect WAY too harshly so this is what we've ended up with. also hallow!!! ily sm thank u for ur kind words and i really appreciate that 🥺 also despite being a big fantasy reader, i have never read the tolkien books and only watched the films once (i cried bc i did not want to watch them lmao) so the snippet where abby speaks about the book i literally got from spark notes okay.     [ read on ao3 ]

[ border credit ]     [ resources for palestine ]     [ boycott tlou ]

A soft hum falls from your lips as you shift in the sheets, arm stretching as you move before you still and begin to softly pat at the mattress beside you with a furrow of your brow. Blearily you open your eyes, your hum sounding discontent when you realise the space really is empty and you weren’t just imagining the lack of another person beside you.

You wouldn’t quite say you’re awake but you still force yourself to toss the covers aside, fist curled and rubbing at your eyes tiredly as you throw yourself out of bed before you can think further on it. It doesn’t take a genius to figure out that Abby has clearly lost track of time and there’s only two options for places you can find her. 

You don’t claim to be your girlfriends keeper but you do like to look out for, you don’t know, the rest of the stadium and if there’s one thing that could potentially ruin everyone's day and keep them on edge, it’s a tired, grouchy Abby Anderson served with a side of the well known Anderson Attitude.

Call it civic duty or whatever.

Now that summer has hit you don’t quite feel the same need to pile clothes on while you wander the near empty stadium but you still pull one of Abby’s hoodies on, sleeves falling past your hands and hem past your ass, since you know a chill still remains in the air once the sun goes down. And boy has the sun gone down, went down hours ago. It’s gotta be way past curfew, probably closing in on two am when you tredge up to the door of your apartment — your shared apartment — with your girlfriend who promised she’d get home at a reasonable time.

Your eyes are a little less heavy with sleep by the time you push the doors to the gym open, noting the few people working out in solitude but mainly the lack of one Abigail Anderson with a sigh. That leaves one last place, you think as you yawn unabashedly.

It takes a while to walk across to the other side of the stadium with a sigh, but luckily it’s quicker with the lack of other people taking up space and getting in your way. Really, beyond the few people pulling night shifts or returning to their own homes, it’s practically empty, and the only reason the few guards you see don’t pull you aside to ask why you’re out past curfew is because they likely know who you are; or more likely, who you’re after.

Creeping into the stadium’s makeshift library you shake your head softly when you spot a familiar blonde head of hair just above a book, half-sunk into the cot  with her knees up that you know she’d claimed as hers for these reading sessions. When you walk closer you can see she’s struggling to keep her eyes open — eyelids bouncing open wide every couple of seconds like she’s being repeatedly jolted awake, almost like a kid whose up way past their bedtime.

She’s not even noticed you standing in front of her with a fond but tired look on your face, eyes too fixed on the words on the paper, engrossed by whatever is going on in her book of the week. She used to read mainly classics and fiction, but she’d begun to branch out into sci-fi and fantasy books, quickly becoming enraptured by the worlds she’d discover hidden within each book's binding.

You watch her eyes attempt to close before widening, forcing herself to stay awake, one last time before you reach over and gently push the book down on her lap, making Abby finally aware of your presence.

A sleepy smile and look of surprise appears across your girlfriend's face when she realises you’re there before her face falls slightly with a look of alarm in her eyes, “Shoot, what time is it? Did I stay up too late?”

An easy laugh tumbles from your lips as you place one knee on the cot, leaning over her and placing a soft kiss to her forehead. “Yeah, baby” You tease with a grin, watching as her cheeks tint rosy as she shoves something between the pages of her book to save her place. “Your book good?”

At your question her eyes light up, nodding as she pulls you down onto the cot with her — ignoring your grumble that they need to go to bed not get comfortable here — and pulls you up against her side, your cheek pressed to her chest as she lifts the book up to show you the cover.

“So good, no wonder it was basically a classic. I know I promised I’d be back and in bed for a reasonable time but I can not put this down”

You snort, “Weren’t you telling me at lunch that all they’ve done is travel so far?”

“It’s still so good” She pouts, rubbing at her tired eyes.

“Baby, for the good of everyone you need to be in bed ASAP” Abby’s face morphs into a desperate look and she shakes her head at your words, presenting the book to you as she tries to bargain for more reading time.

It’s some worn old thing, the corners scuffed and curled but Abby holds the thing like it’s precious, careful not to inflict any more damage than already done to it. You recognise the name, sure there was a movie made on it but you listen as she rambles on about the book.

“They’ve just got to an inn and there’s some mysterious figure called Strider that Frodo — he’s the main character, you know, one of the hobbits — talks with and I swear, he’s gonna be important cause even Frodo knows that he knows more than he’s letting on”

You nod, looking up at her from where you lay your head on her chest with a fond smile as she babbles on about her book, hand coming up to tuck a stray piece of hair behind her ear that’s from the fallout of her now messy braid.

“—And I was talking with someone about it on patrol and she said there’s a prequel about Bilbo and for the life of me I can not find it in this place so I’m hoping on the next patrol I can get away to one of the libraries in the city to scope the places out for it.” Despite her animated, excited tangent her words are interrupted by a series of yawns she can’t fight off.

“Okay, hobbit—”

“I wouldn’t be a hobbit! I’d be… Uh, I don’t know, maybe I’d just be a boring human but I wouldn’t be a hobbit” Abby interrupts, pulling a face as you lift up to move. Her hands come to your elbows, trying to ease you back down.

“Okay, well, we can figure out where you fall in Middle Earth tomorrow but you, ma’am, need to get into bed pronto.”

Abby rolls her eyes but finally relents, another yawn escaping. She laughs when it makes you yawn too, pulling herself up to follow you like a puppy and wraps her large arms around your shoulders, her chest pressed to your back and head ducked into the crook of your neck. She can smell your shampoo, greedy for the scent of you and smiles happily as you both awkwardly start walking away.

“Careful, still guards about. Don’t want your reputation going down cause people see you actin’ like a clingy octopus” You tease her, taking her book from where she’d tucked it into the waistband of her pants, and holding it carefully as you push the door to the library open.She just nestles her face further into your hair, blindly following you as you make your way home.

“Still kick their asses any day, I can be soft when I want to, especially when my girl is so pretty” Her lips press a kiss to your neck, making you squirm slightly. You’re not quite sure if it’s because she gets that spot that makes you go gooey beneath her or cause every time she calls you her girl you feel yourself going a little stupid for her.

She peppers light, tired kisses to your skin until you both make it to your apartment, finally releasing you from her grip as the two of you make your way inside. You place her book on Abby’s bedside table, ready for the next day, “There you go, ready to continue your adventures in Middle Earth another day” You tell her, watching as she strips from her casual day clothes tiredly.

You mirror, pulling her hoodie up over your head and putting it over the back of the desk chair in the bedroom area.

You know she’d showered earlier, most likely after her patrol, due to the wet towels she left on the bathroom floor (so unlike her normally but when she gets invested in one of her books she sometimes neglects other chores in favor of diving back into the pages) so you tug her over to the bed when she’d down to just her sports bra and underwear.

“Wait there,” You murmur, pressing a kiss to her bare shoulder as she sits and waits patiently on the edge of the bed. You return a moment later with a hair brush in hand, passing it to her as you take a spot behind her and remove the hair tie from the bottom of her braid.

You loved the small moments of domesticity like this, where you unwrap her braid and run your fingers through her hair, massaging gently against her scalp and feeling her melt under your touch with a blissed out expression on her face. You take your time then combing through her blonde locks, making sure not to pull at any of the slightly tangled strands until the brush runs easily through her hair.

Abby’s lips press against yours, not trying to deepen it but more show her appreciation. By the time the two of you are beneath the covers, bodies curled around each other. You both giggle tiredly as you set each other off with a myriad of yawns, but soon you both fall asleep in each others embrace. The last thing Abby remembers is the feel of your fingers tracing shapes against the exposed skin of her back

[junkuna]

°❀.ೃ࿔* ink me like one of your french girls - sukuna x reader

chapter 9 - banter ˎˊ˗

—————————————————

࿔ pairing - tattooartist!sukuna x tattooartist!fem!reader

| summary - “But I want to,” he said quietly, the words almost catching you off guard. “I want to be what you need.”

࿔ warnings - nothing in this chapter. we do argue with sukuna tho. but before that we have a rly cute banter moment. also he cracks a little and says smth he shouldn’t have oooouuuh this is a goodie! also i feel like in this chapter it sounds like reader wants sukuna but trust she doesn’t, not yet anyway. just trust the process

࿔ fic tags - they're both idiots so 0 communication, DEFO gets frustrating at times / shameless smut, mostly vanilla though for the chapters ive already written / megumi is ur apprentice which is cute / sukuna + yujir BROTHERS / mahito is an asshole, mentions of attempted sexual assault. / enemies (ish?) to lovers / trying 2 go 4 a slow burn but i fear it's not as slow as i wanted it to be. will add more as we progress probably be i suck at describing my work / hate sex - hate kissing…? / sukuna begging (very ooc) / soo fluffy yum yum / he’s also a bit of a dick sometimes / TOXIC relationship

࿔ wc - 5.2k

— a/n : HEY !! if u wanna be added to this taglist just reply 2 this chapter or send an ask ! ALSO — i’m now taking requests ! so if anyone has any requests just send an ask and i’ll do it hehehe

enjoy!! :D thank u 4 all the love!

════════════════════════════

The morning light slanted through the blinds, casting pale stripes across the bed. You stirred slowly, the heavy weight of sleep still clouding your mind — until you realized there was a solid, warm body wrapped around you.

You blinked, lifting your head blearily — and found yourself nestled against Sukuna’s chest, his arm draped casually around your waist like you belonged there.

He smirked down at you, lazy and amused, voice rough with sleep.

“Jeez,” he drawled, tightening his arm briefly around you before letting go. “Second night in a row of you ending up in my bed. People are gonna start talking.”

You jerked upright with a flustered little gasp, the blanket slipping down to your hips. Your cheeks burned as you scrambled to put some distance between you and him, ignoring the low chuckle he let out behind you.

“Shut up,” you muttered, running a hand through your tangled hair. You swung your legs over the side of the bed, taking a second to steady yourself before glancing back at him. He was still lounging there, bare chest on display, tattoos stark and vivid against his skin, an infuriatingly smug tilt to his mouth.

You swallowed your pride and said quietly, “Thank you again. For… everything.”

His smirk faded slightly, though a glint of amusement still lingered in his eyes.

“Yeah,” he said, voice softer now. “It’s fine.”

You looked at him for a second longer than you meant to — at the bruises forming on his knuckles, the large scratch just under his jaw that you hadn’t noticed last night. You had no idea what he’d done to Mahito after you sprinted into his shop, but you knew he hadn’t held back.

Something uncomfortable twisted in your chest. Gratitude, sure. But also something else.

You shoved yourself to your feet, ignoring the ache in your muscles and the thudding in your chest. “I should go,” you said, grabbing your shoes from the floor and shoving them on without looking at him. “I have work.”

He hummed, noncommittal, as you made your way toward the door. But just as you reached for the handle, his voice stopped you.

“Hey,” he said, a little quieter.

You turned your head slightly, enough to see him still sprawled in the bed, hair messy, red eyes half-lidded.

There was something almost lazy about the way he looked at you — as if he had all the time in the world, as if he wasn’t the reason your heart was knocking against your ribs like it wanted out.

“Stay,” he said, voice low and rough with sleep. “At least for breakfast.”

You blinked at him, thrown off balance.

“I can’t,” you muttered automatically. “I’ve got—”

He raised a brow. “Yuji’s got the morning shift, remember? You told him to open today.”

You hesitated, the handle of the door warm under your fingers. You had told Yuji that, yesterday — before everything went sideways. And sure, you could rush across the street, hover over him like a stressed-out parent, but… he was capable. He could handle it.

You shifted your weight from one foot to the other, glaring at Sukuna half-heartedly. “You’re very persistent, you know that?”

He just smirked, stretching like a cat in the morning sun, muscles flexing in a way that made you look away fast.

“Yeah,” he said lazily. “And you’re very stubborn. Guess we’re even.”

A beat of silence. You chewed your lip, tapping your foot against the floor, fighting the urge to just bolt — the safer, smarter option.

But your stomach gave a pitiful growl, and Sukuna grinned, victorious.

“See?” he drawled. “Even your body knows I’m right.”

You scowled, crossing your arms. “You’re insufferable.”

“And you’re starving,” he said, already pushing off the bed and grabbing a hoodie from the back of a chair. He tugged it over his head, hiding the lines of his tattoos but not the easy strength in the way he moved. “Come on, woman. I’m making pancakes. You like pancakes, right?”

You watched him shuffle barefoot toward the kitchen, muttering under his breath about you being a pain in the ass and stupidly stubborn. Something tugged at your chest again — the easy way he filled the space, how normal he made it feel even after everything that had happened.

The kitchen smelled like coffee and sugar and something a little burnt — Sukuna was many things, but a careful cook clearly wasn’t one of them. You leaned against the counter, arms crossed tightly over your chest, watching him wrestle with the ancient stovetop as if it personally offended him.

You hated how natural it felt.

How easy it was to stand there, the sleeves of your hoodie bunched around your hands, pretending this was normal. Like he wasn’t the same smug asshole who stole your apprentice, your supplies, your pride—and worse, had you melting into his arms last night, crying into his chest like you needed him.

Ew.

You shifted your weight, trying to pull the old anger back around yourself like armor. It was safer that way. Cleaner.

He didn’t deserve anything else. You wanted to remember that.

But every time you glanced over and caught the stupid, concentrated look on his face as he tried (and failed) to flip a pancake without ruining it, the hard edges inside you wavered.

“You’re burning it,” you said flatly, desperate to find something—anything—to be annoyed about.

He shrugged, utterly unbothered. “Adds character.”

You rolled your eyes so hard it hurt. “Adds cancer, maybe.”

He barked a laugh, deep and rough, and it snagged at something inside you before you could stop it.

You turned away quickly, pretending to dig through the cluttered cabinets for plates just so you didn’t have to look at him.

This wasn’t how it was supposed to be.

Wasn’t he supposed to be an asshole?

Not the guy standing there, sleeves pushed up, hair sticking out in every direction, making you pancakes in his crappy kitchen at eight in the morning because he didn’t want you to wake up alone after last night.

When you finally found two chipped plates and thunked them onto the counter, you caught him staring at you — not in his usual mocking way, but something quieter. Something almost… searching.

You looked away first.

Of course you did.

“Here,” he said after a beat, sliding a sad, slightly blackened pancake onto your plate. “Breakfast of champions.”

You snorted, grabbing a fork and tearing into it with more aggression than necessary. “Breakfast of people with no standards.”

He just smiled that infuriating smile again and dug into his own plate.

You were still at war.

Still trying to hold onto your anger like a weapon.

But with every second that passed, every wordless glance and sarcastic jab, you could feel it slipping through your fingers.

You were halfway through choking down the burnt edges of the pancake when Sukuna leaned back in his chair, stretching his arms overhead with a lazy groan. His shirt — rumpled, half-twisted from sleep — rode up just enough to flash a sliver of toned stomach.

You forced your gaze back to your plate immediately, stabbing your fork into the mess of syrup and batter like it had personally offended you.

“So,” he said after a beat, voice casual but carrying a weight that made you tense, “about that collab.”

You froze mid-bite.

The word hung there, thick and heavy between you.

You swallowed hard, forcing yourself to look up, to meet that infuriatingly smug tilt of his mouth.

“What about it?” you muttered.

He shrugged, but you caught the way he was watching you too closely — like he already knew exactly what nerves he was pressing on.

“Just saying. It turned out pretty good. Better than I thought it would, honestly.” He gave you a slow, deliberate look. “Considering how much you ‘hate’ me.”

You scowled, jabbing your fork into another piece of pancake. “Don’t flatter yourself. I carried that piece.”

He laughed — a rough, real sound that made your stomach twist for a whole different reason. “You wish you carried it. If anything, your pretty little lines needed my chaos to actually look alive.”

You slammed your fork down with a loud clang, heart beating faster for reasons you refused to examine.

“Excuse me?” you snapped. “Without my structure, your whole mess would’ve just looked like someone puked ink onto the skin.”

He grinned, wide and unbothered, resting his chin lazily in his hand. “Maybe. But you liked it. Admit it.”

“I didn’t—” You broke off, seething. He was baiting you, and worse, you were taking it.

“I liked it too,” he said, softer now, the amusement in his voice turning into something heavier.

”…Yeah?”

”Yeah. It was fun.”

You scoffed, grabbing your plate and standing up just to put some distance between you and the thick, heavy way he was watching you. “Yeah, well. You’ve got terrible taste, so that doesn’t mean much.”

Sukuna chuckled under his breath, low and infuriatingly fond. “Right. Forgot you know everything.”

You shot him a sharp glare over your shoulder, but he only grinned wider, leaning his hip lazily against the counter.

“I do know everything,” you said, tossing the plate into the sink with a loud clatter. “Especially about idiots like you.”

“Oh yeah?” he drawled, tilting his head like he was genuinely interested. “What else do you know about me, sweetheart?”

You stiffened.

You spun around, determined not to let him see how warm your face had gotten. “I know you’re an egotistical asshole who thinks he’s gods’ gift to tattooing just because he can draw a few angry skulls.”

Sukuna’s grin stretched wider. “Flattery’ll get you nowhere, y’know.”

You threw your hands up in frustration. “Flattery? I’m insulting you, you moron!”

He just laughed again, deep and shameless, and for one stupid, stupid moment you almost forgot why you were supposed to hate him.

Almost.

“You’re cute when you’re mad,” he said, voice dropping slightly, rougher around the edges.

Your stomach twisted violently, but you forced a sneer onto your face. “You’re annoying when you’re breathing.”

“Ouch.” He clutched his chest like you’d shot him, mock-wounded. “You wound me.”

“Good.” You grabbed a towel and started wiping the counter down viciously, just so you wouldn’t have to look at him.

For a moment, he didn’t say anything.

You could feel him watching you though, the weight of it prickling against your skin.

Then he spoke, voice lower, quieter.

“We made a good team. Admit it.”

You scrubbed harder at an invisible spot on the counter. “We didn’t not make a good team,” you muttered.

“Progress,” he said, so smug you wanted to throw the towel at his head.

Instead, you tossed it onto the counter and spun around, pointing a finger at him.

“This changes nothing. I still think you’re a cocky, selfish bastard.”

Sukuna didn’t even flinch. He just leaned back against the counter, his arms folding across his bare chest like he had all the time in the world to be insufferable.

“Yeah,” he said, tilting his head at you, smirking. “That’s why you spent two nights in a row in my bed, right?”

You felt your whole body tense up — your hands curled into fists at your sides, your heart hammering way too fast for how casual he sounded.

You hated how easily he could say shit like that. Like it didn’t mean anything. Like you didn’t mean anything.

You crossed your arms, glaring so hard you were surprised he didn’t catch fire.

“That wasn’t by choice,” you snapped. “Circumstances. Situational necessity. Not because I like you.”

Sukuna raised an eyebrow, amused.

“Oh, of course. Purely situational.” He chuckled under his breath, that infuriating, lazy sound that made your skin crawl in ways you didn’t want to name. “Could’ve fooled me, the way you were clinging to me last night.”

Your mouth dropped open.

“That’s… I was scared.”

He just grinned wider, like he enjoyed watching you get riled up. “Yeah? Could’ve ran to anyone’s door, but you picked mine.”

Your jaw tightened. The heat that rushed up your face wasn’t from embarrassment anymore, it was from anger. From fear you hadn’t fully shaken. From the way he kept treating it like some big joke, when all you could remember was the blind panic in your chest, the way your legs had almost given out under you, the way that guy’s hands had felt gripping your skin—

You angled your face away, pretending to be really fucking interested in drying a cup.

“Not funny,” you muttered.

The grin slid off Sukuna’s face almost instantly. You didn’t even have to look at him — you felt it in the air, how heavy it got. He shifted his weight awkwardly, his cocky arrogance draining away like water down a cracked sink.

“Hey,” he said, quieter this time. “I’m—” he hesitated, like the word caught on his tongue. “I’m sorry.”

You snorted, short and sharp, finally setting the cup down with a loud clack.

“You’re a dick,” you snapped, turning to face him fully now. “You think everything’s a fucking joke, but I was scared last night, Sukuna. Like, actually scared. And you’re here laughing about it like it’s some big fucking game—”

“I’m not,” he cut in, rougher than before. His jaw was tight now, and something almost defensive sparked in his eyes. “I’m not laughing at that. I just… fuck, I don’t know. You’re easier to deal with when you’re pissed off at me than when you’re scared.”

You froze, the words hitting you like a slap to the face.

“Easier to deal with?” you repeated, your voice cold, sharp. “What, so I’m a burden when I’m scared? You can’t handle me when I’m vulnerable, huh?”

Sukuna flinched, and for the first time, you saw a flicker of discomfort in his eyes — a crack in his usual indifference. But it didn’t stop you from fuming. It didn’t stop the flood of anger and frustration that welled up in your chest.

“You know what? Fine,” you spat, taking a step back. “If I’m so much of a fucking burden when I’m scared, maybe you should’ve just let me handle it on my own last night. Would’ve been easier for you, right?”

Sukuna’s jaw clenched, and he took a step closer, like he couldn’t help it, like there was an invisible force pulling him toward you. “That’s not what I meant, and you know it,” he said, voice low, but with that edge of tension that always crept into his tone when he was on the defensive. “I didn’t want you to be scared. But you’re always so goddamn tough — I didn’t think you’d need me.”

“Need you?” You laughed bitterly, shaking your head. “I didn’t need you, Sukuna. I didn’t need anyone, but that guy—” Your voice broke for a second, and you pressed your lips together to stop the tremble. “I couldn’t get away from him fast enough. I ran because I had nowhere else to go.”

The room was suddenly suffocating, thick with everything you were saying and not saying. Sukuna stood there, his eyes softening for a moment, but his posture still tense — like he didn’t know how to reach you, how to bridge the distance you were putting between you both.

“I didn’t mean to make it seem like you’re a burden,” he said quietly, his voice edged with frustration at himself now. “I just… I didn’t know how to be what you needed.”

You stood still, watching him. A moment stretched between you, thick with everything unspoken.

“Whatever,” you muttered, trying to shake the feeling. “It’s fine. We hate each other, so you don’t need to be ‘what I need.’” You took a step back, the words leaving a bitter taste on your tongue. You wanted to sound more convincing, but there was a crack in your voice that betrayed the weakness you were trying so hard to hide.

His expression shifted, his usual smirk softening just a little. “But I want to,” he said quietly, the words almost catching you off guard. “I want to be what you need.”

You blinked, momentarily stunned by his admission. “What?” you asked, your voice sharp but faltering.

Sukuna rubbed the back of his neck, eyes flicking to the floor for a heartbeat before he gave you a crooked smile. “Never mind,” he said, and just like that the moment dissolved, leaving you with nothing but the thrum of your own heartbeat in your ears.

You cleared your throat, cheeks warm with the urge to press him, to demand what he’d almost said—but the air felt thin, fragile, and you didn’t want to break it. So instead you nodded once, abruptly, and stepped back. “Okay,” you muttered, fumbling for your jacket on the bedpost. “I should get back.”

He stood quietly, silhouetted against the pale morning light filtering through the window. His gaze followed you as you tugged the hood of your jacket over your hair, as you slipped your feet into your shoes. It was almost like he wanted to say more, something different, but the words never quite made it. Finally, he gave you a small, resigned nod. “Okay.”

The door clicked shut behind you, and you walked down the narrow stairwell with your mind halfway on the shop, halfway on the half-formed confession you’d almost heard. Outside, the air felt sharper, the city waking up with distant traffic and the hum of neon signs flickering off. You crossed the street, each step taking you away from him and the unasked question hanging in the loft like a ghost.

Back at your shop, you flicked the lock open and stepped inside, the familiar scent of ink and antiseptic wrapping around you like an old coat.

Yuji, ever the ray of sunshine, was hunched over in the corner, sketching out a new design with exaggerated enthusiasm. He’d been a bit nervous this morning—still getting used to the pace of things—but he had that earnest determination that made it hard to stay frustrated for long.

“What do you think of this one?” Yuji looked up, holding his sketchpad toward you with a hopeful grin. “I was thinking something like this for the next one.”

You leaned in, squinting at the design. It was… not bad. He had a solid grasp of structure, though it was a little rough around the edges, the proportions slightly off. You could tell he was still trying to find his own rhythm, his own style.

“Not bad,” you said, your voice thoughtful as you tapped your chin. “But you need to work on the flow of the lines. Maybe simplify some areas to make it cleaner. And the proportions on the hand are a little off. Pay attention to the details, Yuji. It’s those that’ll make or break a tattoo.”

He nodded, eager to take the criticism without getting discouraged. “Got it! I’ll work on it right now.” He grabbed his pencil and started to sketch over the lines, making adjustments. It was clear he was trying to learn as much as possible, not just from you, but from everyone around him. You had to give him credit—he was a fast learner.

You moved over to the station, preparing your tools for the upcoming session, still trying to shake the memory of Sukuna’s quiet words. Why did it feel like something had shifted between you two? You couldn’t explain it. It was strange, but at least you were trying to ignore it.

Yuji, still immersed in his sketching, suddenly spoke up. “Hey, you’re kinda quiet today. Everything good?”

You glanced over at him, meeting his wide, curious eyes. He was genuinely concerned, not in the intrusive way some people were, but just enough to make you feel seen.

“Yeah,” you lied, turning away to prepare the ink. “Just a lot on my mind. You know how it is.”

Yuji gave you a knowing look. “Uh-huh. If you need to talk about it, I’m all ears. I’m a great listener.” He flashed you one of those goofy grins of his, the kind that made it impossible to stay serious for long.

You sighed, allowing yourself a small smile. “Thanks, Yuji. I’m good, though. Just a little tired.”

With the brief distraction, you started setting up for the tattoo. Yuji watched you for a second, and then went back to his own sketching, his pencil flying across the paper. It was oddly comforting, the simplicity of the moment. For once, you weren’t thinking about Sukuna or the mess of feelings he stirred up. You just had work to do.

The rest of the morning passed with a slow, steady rhythm. You gave Yuji a quick rundown of some of the more basic techniques, explaining the subtle details that made tattoos work—the pressure, the angle, the way the needle should glide over the skin. He picked things up quickly, soaking in your instructions like a sponge. It wasn’t long before you gave him his first real practice session, helping him set up a design on a small patch of skin. You guided his hand at first, then let him take the reins, keeping a watchful eye as he worked.

“You’re getting better,” you said as you cleaned up his work, the lines sharper, the shading more even.

Yuji grinned, clearly proud of himself. “Thanks! I’ll be better than you in no time.”

You chuckled, shaking your head. “Not that fast, Yuji. It takes years of practice to get to my level.”

“Years, huh? Guess I better get started,” he said, flashing a determined look.

The afternoon flew by as you worked side by side with him, passing on tips and letting him experiment. Despite the weight on your shoulders, the tension in your chest that you couldn’t shake, you found yourself falling into the familiar groove of your routine. In some way, it felt normal—like this was the path you were meant to follow. Yuji, though still raw and unpolished, was eager, passionate. And that energy was enough to pull you through the day.

By the time the sun began to dip below the horizon, you were both exhausted but satisfied. Yuji had made decent progress, and you’d spent the day pushing him further than he’d expected, all while trying not to dwell on everything that was going on in your personal life.

“You did good today,” you said, wiping your hands on a rag as you cleaned up the station.

Yuji looked up at you, his face bright with a mixture of exhaustion and pride. “Really? I mean, you’re the expert, so if you say so…”

You nodded. “You have potential. Just don’t expect me to go easy on you just because you’re my apprentice.”

He laughed, rubbing his hands together in mock fear. “I wouldn’t dream of it!”

You finished tidying up, the shop growing quieter as the day came to a close. You could hear the distant hum of the city outside, but inside, it felt still, calm.

He turned to you, looking a little hesitant for the first time all day. “Hey, I was thinking… I know it’s been a long day, but maybe we could grab some food? You know, to celebrate my first official day.”

For a split second, you almost said no. You were tired, and you still had a lot on your mind. But then you looked at Yuji, his bright eyes full of hope, and you couldn’t say no.

You smiled, albeit a little tiredly. “Sure, why not. It’s been a long day.”

He beamed, his excitement infectious. “Awesome! Let’s go. I’m starving.”

—

The restaurant you and Yuji ended up at was a small, cozy spot, the kind of place that felt like it could be your new regular hangout. The dim lighting and the soft murmur of conversations gave the place a calm, inviting atmosphere, a nice contrast to the chaos of the day. You both slid into a booth, Yuji immediately starting to glance at the menu, though he clearly didn’t need it. He was the kind of guy who could eat just about anything.

You couldn’t help but notice how at ease Yuji was. He seemed like someone who could find the silver lining in any situation, no matter how bad things got. And, for once, you found yourself actually enjoying his presence. It was a refreshing change after the mess with the creep and everything else that had been weighing on your mind.

“So, what’s good here?” Yuji asked, glancing up at the waiter as they took your orders.

You pointed to a few things on the menu. “The ramen’s pretty solid. Can’t go wrong with that.”

Yuji nodded, already sold on the idea. “Ramen it is, then.” He gave you a grin, and for a moment, you almost felt normal again.

As the waiter walked off to place your order, a quiet silence settled between you two. It wasn’t uncomfortable, but it lingered long enough that you felt the need to fill it. Your mind, as usual, wandered back to the things you didn’t want to think about, particularly Sukuna. There was something about him that made your chest tighten whenever he crossed your mind.

You hesitated, unsure whether it was a good idea, but curiosity got the better of you.

“Hey, Yuji,” you started, catching his attention. He looked up from his menu, waiting for you to continue. “Does Sukuna… ever, I don’t know… have girlfriends? Like, has he ever been in a relationship?”

Yuji raised an eyebrow, clearly a bit surprised by the question. He leaned back in his seat, eyes thoughtful as he gave a small chuckle.

“That’s an interesting question,” he said, tapping his fingers against the table. “Honestly, I’ve never really seen him with anyone like that. He’s… well, he’s Sukuna. He’s not exactly the type to have a ‘girlfriend’ in the way most people think about it.”

You narrowed your eyes. “What does that mean?”

Yuji scratched the back of his neck, clearly trying to figure out how to phrase it. “Well, it’s just… he’s always been kind of… a lone wolf? You know, not really the type to settle down or get close to people in that way. I mean, he gets along with a lot of people—he has his way of charming them—but he doesn’t exactly make an effort to, uh, keep anyone close for long. You get me?”

Right, that basically means he’s a whore.

It was an odd answer, but it made a certain kind of sense. Sukuna was never the type to stick around for too long, always moving through life like it was a game. But you had to admit, there was a part of you that couldn’t help but wonder: why did it feel like he was trying to keep you close, in his own twisted way?

“Isn’t it weird, though?” you muttered, your fingers tapping lightly on the edge of the table. “How someone like him can just… avoid relationships like that? I mean, I get it, but it’s kind of… lonely, right?”

Yuji’s expression softened a little, and he shrugged. “Maybe. But I think Sukuna’s just… built different. He doesn’t need anyone to be happy. At least, that’s what he wants everyone to think.”

You chewed on that for a second, trying to process what Yuji had said. It was strange—Sukuna didn’t exactly seem like the type of person who would want to be alone. But then again, he had a way of keeping people at arm’s length. Even you, despite the strange, undeniable connection you had.

��Do you ever think he’ll change?” you asked, more to yourself than to Yuji.

Yuji paused, considering the question for a moment. “I dunno. I think he’s capable of it, but only if he wants to. Sukuna doesn’t do anything he doesn’t feel like doing. If he wanted a relationship, he’d go for it. But I don’t think he’s interested in one right now.”

At that moment, the waitress came and places two bowls of ramen in front of you and Yuji. Giving you a big smile before nodding and walking away.

You watched Yuji slurp another mouthful of ramen, the steam curling around his face as he chewed. His offhand comment about Sukuna’s lack of interest in a girlfriend had landed with a surprising thud in your chest. You’d felt that pang of disappointment, sharp and confusing. Why did it bother you so much that Sukuna wasn’t looking for a relationship? You barely understood it yourself.

“Are you okay?” Yuji asked, eyes flicking up to you again. “You look… disappointed.”

You forced a shake of your head, blinking away the sudden sting behind your eyes. “I’m fine,” you lied, pushing your noodles around your bowl.

”Oh my god, no way.”

”What?”

Yuji set down his chopsticks and gave you a thoughtful look. “You don’t seem fine.” He paused, then asked the question that made your heart suddenly hammer in your chest. “Do you… like him?”

You nearly choked on your ramen, heat flushing your cheeks as you slapped a hand over your mouth to stifle the rising gasp. “What? No!” you said, more loudly than intended, eyes snapping shut in mortification. “Don’t be an idiot, Yuji.”

Yuji’s expression softened into a gentle half–smile. “You care,” he said quietly, leaning back and folding his arms across his chest. “And you’re disappointed he doesn’t want someone right now—like maybe you were hoping it’d be you.”

You froze, the soup burning your tongue and the world narrowing to the small wooden table between you. There was no way to deny the thought that had wormed into your mind the moment Sukuna had admitted he wanted to be what you needed. You could feel the truth of it like a pulse under your skin, but you forced your expression into a scowl.

“That’s ridiculous,” you muttered, tearing your gaze away and stabbing at the ramen with renewed aggression. “Don’t be silly.”

Yuji watched you for a beat longer, his brow furrowed in concern. Then he reached across the table, lightly tapping your hand. “I’m not silly,” he said firmly. “And neither are you. You’re allowed to feel things, you know.”

You flinched at his touch, closing your eyes against the wave of heat it brought. “I said I’m fine,” you whispered, more to yourself than to him.

He gave a small, understanding nod and let his hand fall away. “Okay,” he said softly. “Just… don’t pretend you don’t feel anything. You deserve to be honest with yourself.”

You opened your eyes and met his gaze, the banter and bravado slipping away until there was only the raw ache of uncertainty between you. You weren’t sure how to respond, so you fell silent, letting the clatter of dishes and the murmur of the other diners fill the space.

But as you sat there, the late–evening light casting gentle shadows across your face, you knew that pretending would only make it harder to figure out what you really wanted. And maybe, just maybe, that was the scariest part of all.

—

taglist - @beabamboo @snapcracklen @fushiguroooozzz

[storytimewithanonwriter]

🕸️ The Best Love Story Ever Written

TASM! Peter x Wife!Reader

Hello! Found another draft… this one has a lot. I what happens after this moment. I could make it a series. Just not sure if there is a want for it. Let me know if y’all want the rest. There’s an injury and hospital in this fic as well…. I guess I was in my Grey’s Anatomy era lol

- K

His voice was hoarse. He’d been speaking so long he wasn’t sure he could stop even if he wanted to.

Maybe he didn’t want to.

Because once he stopped, he’d have to think about how close he���d come to losing everything.

He cleared his throat, rubbing his thumb over his palm like he could ground himself in the rhythm of it.

“I guess…I should start at the beginning,” he said, voice low.

The very beginning.

It was pouring.

Not the gentle kind of rain that made the city look pretty, but the relentless, sideways sheets that turned umbrellas inside out and flooded every gutter.

He was late. Again.

And he knew, without even checking the clock, that she’d have something to say about that.

Peter swung down from a fire escape, landing in a puddle that soaked his ankles straight through his beat-up sneakers. His mask was still tucked in his pocket, and he probably looked like he’d been mugged.

He caught sight of her standing under a tiny awning, glaring at her phone like it had personally betrayed her.

Her friend Maven , the one with the bright pink streak in her raven hair and the louder mouth, was beside her, rambling something about online dating.

“…I’m just saying,” Maven was insisting, “if he doesn’t show up in five minutes, you’re letting me set you up with that EMT.”

She shoved her phone deeper into her coat pocket, rain dripping off her eyelashes.

“Mav , I swear, if you try to—”

And then she looked up.

Right at him.

And even in the rain, with her hair plastered to her cheeks and her friend in mid-rant, she smiled.

Like she was relieved.

Like maybe she’d been waiting for him all along.

⸻

His hand flexed where it rested on something soft—something small.

He kept going.

“She always said I’m dramatic,” he murmured. “But you have to understand—when she smiled like that…everything else just stopped.”

He let out a breath that trembled a little.

“She looked at me and asked, ‘What happened to you?’ And I said—”

⸻

“What happened to you?” she demanded, eyebrows lifting.

Peter ran a hand through his soaked hair.

“Uh…rain?”

Maven made a strangled noise.

“Rain?” she repeated. “Did the rain beat you up and steal your wallet?”

He felt heat creep up his neck.

“…Sort of.”

Her mouth twitched, trying not to laugh.

“You’re late.”

“I know,” he admitted, feeling sheepish. “But I’m here now.”

And even though Maven rolled her eyes so hard it looked painful, she stepped away leaving them space to short out whatever was happening between them.

⸻

He swallowed, fighting the tightness in his chest.

“She had every reason to walk away,” he said. “She could’ve gone home. Let someone else in. But she didn’t.”

His voice softened.

“That’s the first thing you should know about her. She never gives up. Not on people . Not when things look tough . She keeps going. She keeps trying.”

⸻

A week later, he was early. Ridiculously early. He sat in a cracked red booth, bouncing his leg and checking the door every thirty seconds.

When she finally walked in, she looked nervous in a way that made something warm bloom in his chest.

She slid into the booth across from him, pushing her hair behind her ear.

“Hi,” she said.

“Hi,” he breathed.

“You look…less drowned.”

He laughed, rubbing the back of his neck.

“I clean up okay.”

The waitress came by. She ordered pancakes and hot chocolate. He ordered coffee . He was too nervous for anything else.

For the first twenty minutes, they were both so awkward that she knocked over her water glass twice, and he forgot what day it was when she asked.

But by the time the plates were empty, he felt something settle in his chest. Something he hadn’t let himself feel since Uncle Ben died.

Hope.

⸻

A little movement beside him made his breath hitch.

He paused, feeling the soft rise and fall under his hand.

“You know,” he whispered, “I almost didn’t call her after that night. I thought she deserved someone normal. Someone who didn’t have… baggage. ”

His throat tightened.

“But I’m selfish. I wanted more time with her. And every day since then, I’ve been glad I was.”

⸻

He came through her window at 3 a.m., bleeding.

It was closer than his place. He’d meant to leave again before she woke up. He’d meant to keep her out of this part of his life.

But he tripped on her bookshelf.

And she bolted upright, flipped on the light, and stared at him—half in costume, mask pulled back, trying to look casual as he dripped blood on her rug.

“…Peter?” she croaked.

He froze.

“…Hi.”

“Hi?” she echoed, voice climbing an octave. “Hi? You are Spider-Man? ….all those times you were late or missing or distracted? My…My Birthday?”

He opened his mouth, closed it, opened it again.

“Peter, you’re bleeding.”

She did blink an eye . Got out of bed and began to bandage him up. Made him hot tea , handed much needed Advil, and lead him to bed . She curled in to bed next to him , placed a delicate kiss to his brow , and placed a hand on his chest as she drifted back to sleep.

⸻

He laughed softly at the memory, the sound a little watery.

“She didn’t scream,” he said, shaking his head. “She just started swearing and helped me”

His smile faded.

“She has never looked at me like I was a monster. Not once.”

His voice grew softer.

“She makes everything feel…possible,” he whispered. “Even the parts that scared me.”

He finally looked down.

At the two tiny faces wrapped in soft blankets.

At her still form in the hospital bed, monitors beeping steady and reassuring.

“I guess…I should tell you,” he whispered to them. “Your mom…she’s the bravest person I’ve ever known. And she’s fighting to come back to us right now.”

His thumb brushed a tiny cheek.

“So while we wait…I’m going to keep telling you how it all began.”

He looked at her, voice breaking but full of quiet faith.

“Because this is the best love story ever written. And it’s not over.”

[punkrinn]

HSR 3.4 thoughts, character analysis, and theories:

SPOILERS:

So it turns out EVERYBODY on Amphoreus is an equation, an ai, even Lygus. It seems that Lygus is controlling the Scepter now but, who is writing the notes in the files? They were clearly not written by Lygus as he didn’t exist for all the cycles.

The Sceptor IS Irontomb, created when Lygus brutally slaughtered his in-organic brethren during the 50,121st cycle (the Sceptor’s cycles, not Phainon’s. Phainon’s cycles are considered “dead loops”). This earned the Sceptor a gaze from the Destruction. Now Irontomb isn’t a complete being YET, but it has earned its reputation by using its (incomplete) Destruction equation on civilizations. However credit should really be given to whoever is writing the files and observation notes testing the Destruction equation, because the equation isn’t complete yet…

Until Phainon came along.

So it looks like Phainon was either programed or naturally developed his mark for Destruction. “Mark” being the physical (on his neck, in his golden blood, in his body containing multiple coreflames aka “factors” of destruction) and also his nature. What do I mean by his nature? In the notes and “As I’ve Written” we see that he only has the capacity to feel anger and hatred. He actually feels guilty he can’t feel sorrow or joy the way others do, and this is how he found out he is a creature of Destruction. So he hides all of his pain behind a smile, and that’s why he feels so off putting when talking to him. (I totally freakin called it I KNEW there was something wrong with him and it’s not just because I was mad he broke Cloudpiecer. Kudos to the writers and Joshua Waters for portraying it so subtly). The only one who sees through his facade and even supports him is Mydei. Mydei sympathizes with him the way no one else can (both have a tendency for self destruction) and believes in Phainon for Phainon, not this “hero” role he places on himself (ie using “Deliverer” in a mocking tone).

(Mydei’s known all along Phainon has a darker side to him. Even our current cycle Mydei warns Trailblazer that Phainon is not all pretty smiles. I think Mydei and Phainon enjoy their battles and spars because it’s the only time they are BOTH vulnerable with each other (in a way). Mydei’s not exactly good at wearing his heart on his sleeve either.)

I would argue that as much as hatred and anger is literally programmed into Phainon’s very being, he is also a creature of love. He uses his anger as fuel to fiercly love his friends and family, to protect them and fulfill their wishes, and bring Destruction to those he perceives as a threat to them. I feel (and I think Phainon feels similar) that this is his way of balancing himself, and it’s such an interesting dichotomy to place on a protagonist. This sort of trope is usually only reserved for villains. It’s also interesting that despite his innate nature, he CHOOSES to be good, and I love that.

Here’s where I start getting into some theory territory. Phainon and Cyrene were the *closest* to becoming real people, and became self aware enough to stop the hatching of Irontomb, which had very nearly perfected its Destruction equation. They are the only ones (besides the Trailblazer and Dan Heng) that see the Black Tide as a “glitch” and not a wave. They are the only ones who are able to enter the Membrance Maze (fairy forest in Aedes Elysiae) and are treated as one of them. The Maze itself is unaffected by the Black Tide, and is constantly seeing newcomers with spotty memories, not to mention the entire Aedes Elysiae map is considered “outworld.” I believe the Maze may be a memoria field, and the fairies are memes. Phainon and Cyrene, computer equations that have now entered this memoria field, have absorbed some of the memoria concentrations and therefore have become more self aware and closer to a living thing than anyone else on Amphoreus. My theory is that they are a mix of their orignal ai equations and a memetic entity. That is until Cyrene (probably?) became a Memokeeper, and Phainon fuses with Irontomb. This is how they “escape” Amphoreus and become “real” people.

[steamberrystudio]

For a hopeful visual novel and interactive fiction writer, do you have any specific tips on world building? Do you have a process you're willing to share? You always have such in-depth world building, but I'm never sure where to start or what to include.

Hmm. First of all I do want to state that not every story needs heavy or hard world building. It is okay to do soft world building for your stories. I always think Ghibli is such a great example of having worlds that feel deep and fleshed out but also not explaining how they work. The worlds feel lush and amazing but a lot of the lore is left vague.

So world building needs to be as detailed, as rigid, or as soft and vague as you want it to be.

We live in a time where media is hyper analysed - sometimes in bad faith - and where things like metaphor and implication and soft world building are treated like flaws and plot holes instead of valid literary devices. It can create the sense that you must know every detail of your world or you have failed at world building. And that is not true.

I build worlds and lore the way I do because it's fun. And because I know my players like it. But no one has to world build this way if they don't want to.

If you want to world build this way, keep reading. But if it's not your thing, understand that I'm not saying this is THE WAY to world build or THE BEST WAY to world build. And if it's something you feel trapped into doing but you get stuck and/or struggle with it, then again…you don't have to do it. Write in the way that genuinely works best for you.

So when it comes to how I do it…

I guess I kind of world build in phases, though this is more practical and incidental than deliberate. It's just kind of the strategy I fell into. And it really boils down to 'world build and research as needed' if I had to explain it in one sentence.

Stage One: Building a world I can make characters and a plot for.

My initial process is "write what I need and no more" - I think the trap with heavy world building is getting stuck in it. You can spend two years world building and never write a word for your story. Especially because world building is easy and fun, and it feels like progress even when you haven't written any of your story.

I don't want to get caught in that trap.

So when I am first starting with building the world for the story, I create what I know I need and what I know will come up in the story, and what is just…in my head already. And nothing more.

If I have vague 'maybe' concepts that I think are interesting, I'll jot them down but not spend a lot of time expanding them yet unless they seem connected to everything else and/or necessary.

The first step of creating a story/game for me is always to build the world but I do my best to not focus on trivial details or things I don't think have primary relevance to the story. I don't personally value world building for the sake of world building.

Generally if I write it down it's because…

- it seemed important or relevant

- I definitely thought it would come up

- it was something that sprang to mind so I wrote it down in order to not forget it.

Generally I have a sense of the world when I'm starting out. And I just begin recording what I know.

During this process, there's a lot of spontaneous world building. I create one thing which causes me to think about other things.

I genuinely do not have much of a process other than writing what comes to mind or what I think is necessary to fully grasp a concept so I can write about it.

And then I stop.

I stop when I run out of things to write and I do not worry about world building trivial things - like money or government, or things that I don't need to know at this stage. I write down what I think I need to start working on characters and a plot.

Stage Two: World building through character creation

During this stage, I'm focusing on creating character profiles for the story. Generally I have a vague idea of these when I'm starting out. I know roughly who the characters are but have to start hammering out details.

I think it's inevitable that as you start detailing the important people in your story, you're going to add more world building. For instance,in my next project, Thornewood, there are some characters who are nobility. So as I was working on them, I came up with a loose peerage system for the kingdom the story takes place in.

While the peerage itself isn't important, setting out the ranks for myself just means I can be consistent when I create new characters and that I have a general sense of where people fall rank-wise.

I didn't come up with the peerage system prior to character creation because I didn't need it. It didn't come up until I decide I wanted Ivailo to be nobility.

So while character creating, I will often come up with more a lot more of the world building. This world building is *very* centred around what is needed. It's all stuff that I need to know for the characters or want to know for them.

Again, I don't write down useless or trivial things about them most of the time. I don't personally find it useful to know things like everyone's favourite fruit. A lot of people come up with that stuff because they find it helpful but I find myself getting bogged down coming up with that stuff. So, again, I focus on what's needed for the characters.

Sometimes I create things for practical reasons.

During this stage I do a lot of editing to my original notes as well. Rather than forcing the characters to fit into whatever I came up with during Stage One, I'll just change it if it's being a problem at this point. I add whatever details or needed or change up stuff that is proving to be a problem. And I'll remove things that I realise are going to be a problem for the characters.

Stage Three World building for the plot

Typically at this point is when I start working on my outlines. I have a whole process I use for the outlines. As I work through them, I just, add to, edit, and cut bits of the lore based on what I realise is needed for the plot.

My world building always tends to get a little fuzzier the further away from the characters you are. Sometimes I come up with things I don't think will be used in the story but that are nice to know and have for characterisation or other reasons. If I need it, it's there.

Sometimes I come up with things because it gives me a clearer mental image of what I'm writing about. In GS I sat down one day and decided on the rough population estimate of the cities being referred to because I was using a lot of vague terms like "big city" or "small city" or "less populated" and I was annoyed at how vague it all felt to me. By deciding the population I had a much clearer idea of what Morgan meant when she said something felt small compared to her hometown. Those weren't necessary for the story but helped me write with more clarity and confidence.

I think things like this come across as "Wow! She put so much thought into that!" but it genuinely was just a matter of it being something I felt I needed to know for my own clarity.

Stage Four: World Building Maintenance Mode

The truth is that I world build throughout the writing process. I never really stop. If I am drafting the story and along the way some idea I really like occurs to me…it gets added in (if it works in the story, of course).

I make changes and additions throughout the process even it means having to go back and do continuity edits.

Spontaneous creations are some of the most interesting thing I come up with. And sometimes they're just practical. When I was plotting for Quill's route, I kept questioning why would Quill - a robot in a city made primarily of other robots - have a bathroom. It would be a totally unnecessary feature for them but is kind of needed for Morgan. She showers at several points, and we SEE the bathroom in his flat so why is it there?

I had several options to explain this but ultimately came up with the idea that they are not mere androids but are "bio-synths" that are partially organic. That they do eat and expel waste because they have organic components. And this distinction became part of the lore. Quill talks about his childhood so then I ask - well, how do they reproduce? What does their childhood look like? Those questions came up during writing.

So the world building isn't a thing I do at the start and then I move on. It's an on-going part of the writing process.

It's not that organised a process, though I can roughly break it down into different stages where the process looks slightly different. World building is just a stepping stone for story telling so think about what you need to know vs what is just an interesting fact or a non-important fact. And don't get bogged down in those kinds of details or let them divert too much attention from the more important parts of story crafting.