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woniedarlin · 1 day ago

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Shared Custody

Pairing: Ex! Jungwon x reader

Synopsis: Breaking up with Jungwon was one thing. But agreeing to co-parent a dog afterward? That was how you ended up in the weirdest post-breakup situation ever. Because what kind of exes still see each other at precisely 10 a.m?

You broke up. You’re sure of it. So why does it feel like your relationship never ended? Just… got a schedule and a leash?

Author's note: Another fic has been sitting in the drafts for too long. I finally decided to share it with you all. Hope you enjoy it! Happy reading!

Warnings: This story contains equal parts fluff and angst, with a dash of unresolved feelings, awkward ex moments, and a dog that might steal the spotlight. Reader discretion is advised! 🐾

Permanent tag list: @sol3chu @chlorinecake @13tter @jung1w0n @layzfy @firstclassjaylee @ijustwannareadstuff20

Here’s the thing no one tells you about breakups:

When you two bought a dog together while you were still dating, breaking up isn’t just about parting ways with a person. You get partial custody of an emotional support furball with no idea why mom and dad stopped living together. The breakup was mutual. There was no shouting, no ugly crying, no one storming out at 2 a.m. with a suitcase and a dramatic one-liner.

It was a quiet and tired conversation on the couch. Some nods. A few long silences. And Maeumi, curled up between you, unaware that his life was about to get complicated.

You probably should’ve fought over him. Or at least discussed like rational adults. Instead, you both just… didn’t let go. Now, you set schedules like divorced parents. Only with more awkward small talk and a lot of pretending it’s totally normal to see your ex every other day at exactly 10:00 a.m.

It started with meetups. Hand off the leash, say a polite hello, smile as if it doesn’t sting anymore. Then it became coffee afterwards. Then breakfast “because he looks hungry and I’m already here anyway.”

Then, last weekend, Maeumi ate an entire bag of chips and got sick all over Jungwon’s living room, which somehow led to you arguing about brand-name kibble.

“You were the one who said he needed variety!”

“Variety doesn’t mean junk food!”

“They were organic!”

“He threw up on my socks, (name).”

And you’re not proud of it, but you laughed. A little too hard. Then Jungwon laughed, and it felt like nothing had changed for a moment.

But everything had.

Now, you’re waiting for Jungwon in the usual meeting spot, Maeumi’s leash wrapped loosely around your wrist as he trots in excited little circles. Jungwon’s late. Not by much, just five minutes. Enough to make you wonder if he’s okay. Enough to make you check your phone. He shows up a minute later, hair a bit messy, holding two coffees. “Sorry,” he says. “I stopped by that place you like. The one with the stupid tiny straws.”

You take the cup without a word.

Maeumi barks, happy as ever, tail wagging because it was the best part of his week. Seeing his divorced parents together! ૮ ˶ˆ ﻌ ˆ˶ ა

“Did he eat?” Jungwon asks.

You replied. “Yeah. But he thinks spinning in a circle gets him more food now.”

Jungwon sighs. “You didn’t.”

You shrug. “It was funny. He almost knocked over my lamp trying it this morning.”

There was a slight pause before, “He seemed to miss you a lot when he was with me last week. A good thing he has spent with you these past few days.” Jungwon says, nudging Maeumi’s head.

You nod, eyes on your coffee cup. “I missed him too.”

You’re not sure which of them you’re talking about.

🍎

Maeumi planted his butt on the floor and refused to move. You tugged the leash gently. “Come on, it’s Dad’s turn.” Maeumi looked at you. Then looked at Jungwon. Then flopped onto his side. You sighed. “He’s being a brat again.”

Jungwon crouched beside you, holding out a treat from his pocket. “Maeumi, let’s not do this today.”

Maeumi sniffed the treat, stood up halfway, then turned around and pressed himself against your leg.

You and Jungwon exchanged a look.

“I think he’s made his choice,” you said.

“It’s not even a choice. It’s supposed to be my weekend.”

“You tell him that.”

Jungwon sighed and looked down at Maeumi, who was now rolling over, belly up, smug as ever. “You’re a traitor. You know that?”

Maeumi sneezed in response.

Eventually, after five minutes of bargaining and light bribery, Jungwon stepped inside your apartment to get him moving. One minute turned into five. Then ten. Now you were both sitting on the couch, a lukewarm mug of tea in his hands, Maeumi curled between you like a peace treaty in dog form. “You know,” you said, watching as Maeumi kicked his leg in his sleep, “he wasn’t like this when we first got him.”

“Nope,” Jungwon muttered. “He used to listen to me. Now he acts like he pays rent.”

“That’s your influence.”

He shot you a look. “My influence? You’re the one who started giving him tiny portions of your dinner because he’s a spoiled prince.”

You shrugged and grinned. “He deserves nice things.”

“He eats better than me.”

Jungwon glanced at you for too long, then looked away and sipped his tea.

You didn’t notice.

Well, yeah, you did, but you were pretending not to.

Jungwon leaned back a little. Then he looked toward the kitchen. And then he saw it. The mug. The one he bought for your birthday two years ago. You loved it to the point that you used it daily while you two were still dating. He nodded toward the cupboard. “Didn’t think you still had that.”

You glanced over. “Huh? Oh. Yeah.”

He didn’t say anything else, but his eyes stayed on it. That dumb, ceramic memory sitting there as if it had every right to exist in a post-breakup world.

You added, “It’s a good mug.”

Jungwon barely smiled. “Yeah. Real high quality.”

You didn’t reply.

He looked back at Maeumi, who was still fast asleep between you, snoring lightly. “I keep one of your spoons in my drawer,” Jungwon said suddenly.

Your head turned. “What?”

“You left it after that one trip. The one where we bought those instant noodles that tasted like cardboard.”

“Oh. Right.” You stared ahead. “That was a good weekend.”

“It rained.”

“I like rain.”

You both nodded and pretended the conversation didn’t sting a little.

Maeumi snored louder as if he were trying to cover the silence.

🍎

Your phone buzzed at 11:42 p.m.

You were half-asleep. Maeumi had gone home with Jungwon hours ago, but the apartment still felt…full.

You grabbed your phone.

Jungwon [11:42 PM]

Thanks for taking care of him this week. He seemed extra happy. When he saw you, his tail wagged about ten times per second.

You smiled without meaning to, your thumb hovering over the keyboard to send a quick "anytime" or maybe a "he missed you too."

But another message came in before you could type.

Jungwon [11:43 PM]

You’re still the easiest person to talk to.

You stared at the screen.

You didn’t know what to say. Or perhaps you did, and that was the problem.

So you… didn’t reply.

🍎

Jungwon sat on the curb's edge, nursing a canned coffee. Sunghoon was sipping from his drink, watching him spiral in silence. “I’m losing it,” Jungwon finally said. “She still knows how I take my coffee. Didn’t even ask.”

Sunghoon glanced over. “She made it the same way she used to? Back when you two were together?”

Jungwon nodded slowly. “Exactly like that.”

“And you’re upset because…?”

“I don’t know,” Jungwon shaked his head. “She laughs at my jokes the same way. She still says ‘bless you’ when I fake sneeze for attention. And today, I saw the mug I got for her birthday two years ago, sitting in her cupboard like it never left.”

“Maybe it’s just a good mug?” Sunghoon offered.

Jungwon stared at him. “That mug has a whale on it saying ‘whale you be mine.’ It wasn’t just a mug.”

Sunghoon choked on his drink and wiped his mouth. “Okay, yeah, that’s tragic.”

“And she still wears my hoodie,” Jungwon added. “She likes that hoodie.”

Sunghoon crossed his arms. “So, what’s the plan? Gonna ask for the hoodie back and confess your undying love in the same breath?”

“I don’t know what I’m doing. I thought I was over her. I thought we were fine being exes who raise a dog together.” Jungwon let out a long sigh and tilted his head back. “I don’t know when it started feeling like this again.”

Sunghoon crumpled his empty drink can and tossed it into the bin beside them. “You mean the part where you show up with her favorite foods, sit on her couch like you never left, and keep pretending Maeumi’s the only reason you’re still hanging around?”

Jungwon looked at Sunghoon. “…Okay, rude. But not wrong.”

“Exactly. Look, man.” Sunghoon turned to face him fully now. “You two broke up. Sure. But you’re still texting her late at night, still wearing the cologne she once said smelled nice, and still looking at her like she’s the only person in the room.”

Jungwon groaned. “She’s just being nice. She always was.”

Sunghoon scoffed. “No one’s that nice, bro. She has your hoodie. She made you pancakes last week. You said she cut the strawberries the way you like them.”

“She always cuts the ends-”

“Exactly.” Sunghoon gave him a look. “At this point, you’re not just co-parenting a dog. You’re toeing the line of a romcom reboot.” He added, “Seriously, who even does this? Shared custody over a dog? With your ex? This is the weirdest post-breakup dynamic I’ve ever seen.”

Jungwon didn’t even deny it. He muttered, “…Yeah, but it’s kind of working.”

Sunghoon nodded solemnly. “You’re doomed.”

Jungwon groaned. “I think I’m accidentally falling in love with her again.”

“No such thing as accidental. You just never stopped.”

🍎

Maeumi wasn’t himself. You noticed it the moment he refused his dinner. He moved slowly, dragging his paws across the floor, and his eyes looked distant. Something was off. He usually had a healthy appetite, but tonight, nothing. You knelt beside him, gently rubbing his back. “Hey, Maeumi, what’s going on?”

He let out a weak whimper. Panic rose in your chest. You didn’t know what was wrong but knew you needed help. You grabbed your phone without thinking.

Jungwon picked up almost immediately. “What’s wrong?” His voice was concerned, even though he wasn’t sure what was happening.

“Maeumi’s sick. He won’t eat, he’s not moving much… I don’t know what’s happening.”

“Don’t worry. I’m coming over.”

It didn’t take long for him to arrive, his face tense as he crouched down to Maeumi’s level. The dog barely acknowledged him, enough to make you both nervous. “We should take him to the vet,” Jungwon said after a moment.

You nodded, already on the phone, setting up an appointment. The drive was tense, your hand gripping the door handle while Jungwon kept one hand on the wheel, his eyes between you and Maeumi.

When you finally arrived at the clinic, it was quiet. You and Jungwon waited in the sterile, cold waiting room. Maeumi was lying on your lap, his eyes closed and his breathing shallow. You rubbed his head absentmindedly, trying to calm yourself. “He’s going to be okay,” Jungwon said quietly, glancing over at you.

You nodded but didn’t answer. He touched his hand lightly near yours as he reached for the water cup beside you, and for a fleeting second, you felt his warmth. You looked at him, but his gaze was somewhere else, not meeting yours.

For a brief moment, you wondered if he missed this. If he missed you. But before you could even entertain the thought, the door to the exam room opened, and the vet emerged, pulling your focus back to Maeumi. Jungwon stood up. “He’ll be fine,” he said.

And you weren’t sure what to make of it, but for the first time since your breakup, you couldn’t ignore how much it stung to see him so close yet still so distant.

🍎

By the time you and Jungwon returned from the vet, Maeumi was already dozing off on the couch, wrapped in an old blanket and looking much more himself. The panic had eased. You stood by the kitchen, hands on the counter, watching Jungwon kneel to check Maeumi. You glanced at the time. “It’s late. You should eat before you head back.”

Jungwon looked up. “You sure?”

“Yeah. I was gonna cook anyway,” you said, opening the fridge. “Don’t expect a five-course meal, though.”

“I never did,” he said, smiling as he joined you in the kitchen. “You still burn rice, don’t you?”

You gave him a light shove with your elbow. “That happened once. And the pot betrayed me.”

Then, he washed the vegetables while you stirred the soup. It was annoyingly comfortable.

By the time dinner was done, the table was set. Jungwon set down the last dish and glanced over at you. “This… feels like we never broke up,”

You froze. Then, you replied, “We never used to have this much garlic.”

He huffed a small laugh but didn’t push it. And for the rest of dinner, neither of you brought it up again.

🍎

The dishes were washed. The leftovers are packed. Maeumi, finally feeling a bit better, had claimed his usual spot at the foot of your couch, tail thumping gently as he dozed. You stood near the sink, drying your hands on a dish towel, when Jungwon spoke from behind you. “I didn’t just miss Maeumi, you know.”

“I miss…” He let out a soft breath. “I miss all of it.”

“Do you still think about us?” he asked.

The silence was deafening. You felt him watching your back, waiting. And if the room had stayed that quiet a second longer, you would’ve said something honest. But Maeumi barked as if he’d sensed the tension rising and decided to cut it clean. You both jumped slightly. You turned with a light laugh, avoiding his gaze. “I think someone needs his water refilled.”

Jungwon didn’t press. He nodded before crouching to check Maeumi’s bowl.

Neither of you said anything else.

But the question stayed.

🍎

It happens on a night that should’ve been uneventful. A regular handoff. Maeumi is snoozing on your carpet, belly full. Jungwon’s quiet tonight. You notice it right away, but you pretend not to. You handed over Maeumi’s leash, but he didn’t take it. “You still have my hoodie,” he says.

You glance up. “What?”

He gestures vaguely toward the coat rack. “The gray one. I saw it last week. You used to sleep in it.”

You shrug. “It’s comfortable.”

His jaw tightens, but he laughs a little. “Everything I gave you is ‘comfortable,’ huh?”

You don’t answer.

“I saw your story the other day,” he adds. “Looked like a date.”

Now, you furrow your eyebrows. “Seriously?”

Jungwon runs a hand through his hair. “Forget it.”

“No,” you say. “You brought it up. So say it.”

“It’s confusing. For one moment, we laughed as if nothing had changed. Then, in the next instant, I remember how you used to fall asleep on my chest or steal all the blankets.” His voice wavers for a moment, but he pushes on. “I just can’t tell if I’m the only one stuck in the past or you’re better at pretending.”

You hesitate, then quietly. “I wish I could say I moved on, but I haven't.”

Jungwon’s shoulders drop a little. “Then why didn’t you say anything?”

“Why didn’t you?”

He looks down. “Because you looked like you were doing okay. And I didn’t want to make it harder if you were healing.”

“I wasn’t okay,” you say softly. “I’m still not.”

Jungwon lifts his head, his eyes locking with yours. “Neither am I.”

“I miss you,” he says. “Not just Maeumi. Not just Saturday mornings. I miss… talking to you. I miss knowing how you’re doing without having to ask.”

You look away. “Then why are we doing this?” you whisper. “Why are we acting like we’re fine?”

He lets out a breath. “Because maybe we don’t know how to be anything else.”

You nod slowly. “Yeah.”

He says, more gently this time, “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to start an argument.”

You shake your head. “You didn’t.”

He bends down and clips the leash onto Maeumi’s collar. The dog wags his tail, clueless, happy just to be loved by both of you. Jungwon straightens up but doesn’t turn to leave right away. He looks around your apartment. His eyes land briefly on the hoodie by the coat rack, then the familiar mug on your kitchen shelf.

“I still love you,” he says suddenly.

You freeze.

“I didn’t think I should say it. I didn’t want to make this harder. I thought… maybe it’d get easier if I stopped talking about it. But it didn’t.”

He’s not asking for anything. Not a hug. Not a kiss. Not to come back. He was standing there with his hand gently resting on Maeumi’s back because it kept him from breaking. “You laughed at one of my jokes last week,” he says softly. “And for a second, I forgot we weren’t together anymore. That’s how easy it is to fall back into you.”

You swallow hard. But he keeps going.

“I didn’t want to make you feel guilty. Or corner you. I just needed you to know. It wasn’t because I stopped feeling everything when we broke up. I was scared. And tired. And maybe I thought it’d hurt less if we ended it on our terms.”

He finally looks at you. “But it still hurts.”

Maeumi lets out a soft bark. Jungwon reaches down and scratches behind his ears; for a second, it’s just the sound of his hand brushing fur. Then he straightens again, but now you notice his eyes are a bit glassy. “I’ll take him tonight. I’ll text you tomorrow. If you need anything, or if… you want to talk more, I’m one call away.”

You nod. Slowly. You can’t get your voice to work. But your eyes say enough.

Jungwon opens the door and glances back just once. “Goodnight,” he says.

And then they’re gone.

🍎

Jungwon sits on the edge of his bed, hair slightly damp from a rushed shower. Maeumi is curled beside him, his head resting on his paw, and his eyes blinking up at him as if he understands more than a dog ever should. Jungwon takes a small breath and runs a hand through Maeumi’s fur. “You don’t have to look at me like that,” he mutters. “I didn’t yell.”

Maeumi blinks again.

“Okay,” Jungwon sighed, leaning back a little, “I maybe said too much.” He sighed. “I don’t know, Maeumi,” he murmurs, voice softer now. “She just looked at me like I was someone from a different life. That sucked.’’ Jungwon glances down and smiles sadly. “Don’t worry,” he says quietly. “Mommy and Daddy were just having a little disagreement.”

He lays back on the bed. “I’ll bring her back,” he whispers. “I swear, Maeumi. I’ll bring your mom back to me.”

Maeumi lets out a soft woof.

🍎

The rain had been pouring since morning. You didn’t expect anyone when the doorbell rang, especially not Jungwon. But there he was. Standing at your doorway, drenched from head to toe, Maeumi dripped beside him and looked more like a soggy mop than a dog. “Uh,” Jungwon offered sheepishly. “He refused to walk anywhere else.”

You said in disbelief. “You could’ve called.”

“I did. You didn’t answer.”

You step aside. “Come in before Maeumi gets mistaken for a wet sock.”

Towels came out. You wrapped one around Maeumi, rubbing his fur as he wagged his tail. Jungwon was quieter. You handed him a dry hoodie from your closet, which was his, actually. It still smelled like him, though it had sat folded for months.

He changed. You made tea. He sat across you on the couch, rubbing Maeumi’s ears absently. “I’ve been thinking,” Jungwon started, voice gentle. “We weren’t ready back then. But maybe now…”

You looked at him, guarded. “I’ve changed,” he continued. “You have too. And I don’t just mean getting better at feeding Maeumi actual food.” You smiled a little. He took it as permission. “I guess I want to say I’m sorry. For everything I didn’t say before. For not knowing how to stay when things got hard.”

You met his gaze. “I’m sorry, too. For pushing you away when I didn’t know what I needed.”

“Do you think Maeumi would be okay if we lived together again?” Jungwon asked suddenly, eyes hopeful.

You raised an eyebrow. “Are you asking for the dog or for you?”

A sheepish smile curved his lips. “Both.”

You didn’t answer right away. Instead, you leaned into his shoulder, your head resting there like it used to. “Maybe we could try again,” you said quietly. “For real this time.”

Jungwon’s hand found yours.

Maeumi snored at your feet.

And outside, the rain kept falling, washing everything clean.

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ggukivrse · 3 days ago

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falling for you | myg

summary. you and yoongi have been best friends since childhood, and you pride yourselves in knowing everything about each other. well… everything except the quiet, growing warmth neither of you dare to name

pairing: min yoongi x reader

genre: childhood friends to lovers, idiots to lovers (they’re both so oblivious omfg), fluff, angst

word count: 5.5k

warnings: swearing, alcohol consumption, kissing, lmk if i missed anything!

note: it’s my birthday :> i mentioned this in my wip update, but i’m posting this cuz i feel bad that i’m not able to get the jk fic out in time and wanted to give you guys at least something. i wrote this ages ago and only briefly edited it, so it’s probably not amazing loll. likes, comments, reblogs, asks and feedback are really appreciated!! enjoy reading my angels <3

⌗ masterlist. ⌗ taglist. ⌗ feedback

The sun is way too hot for a Saturday. It’s one of those summer days where everything feels too bright and too loud — ice cream truck music echoing down the street, kids screaming over who’s “it” in tag, and the cicadas loud in the trees.

You sit on the curb in front of your house, legs stretched out so far that your toes are practically cooking on the asphalt. Your thighs are sticking to the concrete, and the back of your shirt is damp with sweat. You’re a little bit miserable, but not really. Because Yoongi’s next to you.

He’s got his usual half-annoyed, half-bored face on, like he can’t believe he let you talk him into running around the neighbourhood all morning.

His knees are scraped — both of them. One of them is still bleeding a little, but he doesn’t seem to care. You care more than he does. You tried to wipe it earlier with your sleeve, and he just grunted like an old man and told you to stop fussing.

Now, he’s eating a blue raspberry popsicle like it betrayed him. Slow bites. Little scowl.

You glance over at him and then back at your own red one. You’ve already got sticky syrup running down your wrist because you keep forgetting to lick the sides.

Yoongi nudges you with his shoulder. “You’re making a mess.”

“So?” You lick your wrist dramatically. “I’m still eating it.”

“That’s gross.”

“You’re gross.”

He doesn’t argue. Just takes another angry chomp out of his popsicle and kicks a pebble with the tip of his shoe.

There’s a comfortable silence for a bit. Not quiet — nothing’s ever quiet in your neighbourhood — but the kind of silence that feels like its own little bubble. Like you and Yoongi have your own world, just the two of you, sitting on the curb with sticky fingers and banged-up legs.

You glance over at him again. He’s squinting into the sun, his dark hair sticking to his forehead, a little piece of popsicle juice on his chin.

You say it without thinking.

“I’m gonna marry you when I grow up.”

Yoongi freezes.

You blink. You weren’t really planning to say that out loud. It just slipped out of your mouth. But now it’s out there, just floating between you like a bubble that’s either going to pop or land.

He turns to look at you slowly, eyes narrowed like he’s trying to figure out if you’re joking.

You’re not. You shrug like it’s no big deal. “I mean, you’re my best friend. You’re funny. Sometimes. And you always give me your pickle slices when we eat burgers. That’s boyfriend stuff.”

He snorts. It’s a weird, sudden little laugh, like he can’t stop it in time. “You’re so weird.”

“You’re weird too.”

“Yeah, but you’re weirder,” he says, but he’s smiling now, and there’s a faint pink blooming on his ears that you don’t notice at the time. You just smile back like you’ve won something.

“So you’re saying yes?” you press.

“I didn’t say that,” he grumbles, and looks away quickly. “You’re gonna forget, anyway. You’ll probably marry some tall idiot who plays guitar or something.”

You kick at his foot. “Nope. It’s you.”

He sighs like he’s got the weight of the world on his tiny shoulders. Then he turns to you and says, “Fine. But only if you stop stealing the last popsicle.”

You hold up your half-melted red one. “Deal.”

And he bumps your shoulder again — lighter this time — and finishes the rest of his popsicle in one bite like a monster.

You don’t know it yet, but this is the moment that will live in the back of his head forever, long after the popsicles are gone.

You just know the sun’s still too hot, the ground is still too hard, and Yoongi’s still here. Right next to you. Where he always is.

You’re laughing again.

It’s loud — too loud for the classroom, and definitely too loud for whatever dumb joke just came out of Hoseok’s mouth. It's probably not even that funny, but you’re leaning over your desk, face buried in your folded arms, shaking with laughter like it’s the greatest thing you’ve ever heard.

You’re wearing that white top again — the one with the fraying sleeves that you play with when you’re thinking. Your hair’s a little messy from gym. There’s a tiny smudge of ink on your cheekbone.

And Yoongi is staring at you.

He doesn’t mean to. His eyes just find you like they always do. Like it’s a reflex.

You throw your head back and laugh harder, and something happens in his chest. Not a big, dramatic boom or anything. It’s smaller than that. Quieter. A weird little flutter, like his ribs just skipped.

He blinks. Looks down at his notebook. It’s blank.

Focus. Come on.

The teacher’s still talking about sentence structure, and Hoseok’s still trying to make you laugh again, and you’re still glowing in that obnoxious, infuriating way that makes it impossible to think.

Yoongi grips his pencil tighter.

You’re just his best friend.

You’ve always been his best friend.

Since the popsicle days and scraped knees and pinky promises made without thinking. Since birthday parties with too much sugar and movie marathons where you fell asleep on his shoulder and drooled on his hoodie.

You’re his person. That’s it.

Right?

He sneaks another glance at you.

You’re trying to stifle your giggles now, hand covering your mouth, shoulders trembling. And Hoseok looks at you like he’s proud of himself, like he wants to make you laugh again. Yoongi wants to tell him to shut up. Wants to drag you out of this classroom, down the hall, outside, anywhere.

Away from everyone else.

Just so he can have you to himself for a little while. Just so he doesn’t have to share.

He swallows.

What the hell.

This isn’t... this isn’t how it's supposed to feel. He’s supposed to roll his eyes when you get like this, not sit here with his heart doing gymnastics over your smile. He’s supposed to find you annoying when you poke him in the ribs during class or call him "Grumpy Yoongi." But instead, he finds himself hoping you’ll do it again.

He looks down at his notebook again. Still blank.

Great.

He tries to tell himself it’s just a phase. A random glitch in the system. You’re still just you. Still loud and stubborn and kind of a disaster. Still his best friend. That hasn’t changed.

He glances at you again — now you’re doodling little stars on the corner of your worksheet, tongue poking out in concentration — and something in him quietly, undeniably shifts.

He turns back to his paper, presses the pencil down too hard, and curses under his breath.

Because he knows.

Even if he doesn’t want to know yet.

Middle school parties are always weird.

Too many kids crammed into someone’s basement, bad pop music echoing off the walls, the lights dimmed just enough to feel scandalous. Someone's older sibling is “supervising” from upstairs but mostly just stealing snacks and pretending they don’t hear anything.

You’re sitting on the floor with a half-melted cupcake in your lap and Yoongi next to you, shoulder grazing yours every few minutes.

There are about ten of you in the circle. Everyone’s either trying to act too cool or trying too hard. You’re somewhere in between — buzzed on sugar and nerves, pretending you don’t feel weird sitting this close to your best friend.

Truth or Dare starts like it always does: harmless. Embarrassing questions. Dares to do a cartwheel or chug a Capri Sun in under ten seconds. You're mostly laughing, swatting at people’s arms when they try to rope you in.

Until Ari — a classmate of yours — grins at you like she’s plotting something.

“Your turn,” she says, eyes flicking to Yoongi. “Truth or dare?”

You toy with the edge of your sleeve. “Dare.”

Her grin widens.

“I dare you to kiss Yoongi.”

There’s a chorus of gasps and dramatic “ooooh”s. The kid next to him starts laughing. Someone else claps like this is the best thing they’ve seen all night.

Your face burns instantly.

You glance at Yoongi. He’s frozen. Stiff. His hands still on his knees, his mouth slightly open like he was mid-breath when the dare landed.

You laugh it off. “Wow. Okay. Real original.”

“Come on,” Ari says, nudging you. “It’s not a big deal.”

“Yeah, it’s just a dare,” someone adds. “It’s not like you guys haven’t known each other since diapers.”

That doesn’t help. If anything, it makes your stomach twist harder.

You look at Yoongi again. He meets your eyes this time.

And something… flickers.

His expression isn’t teasing. He’s not rolling his eyes or laughing with everyone else. He looks nervous. Careful.

He clears his throat. “Only if you’re okay with it.”

You try to sound casual. “It’s fine. Let’s just get it over with.”

But you can’t stop your heart from racing.

You both shift toward each other, awkwardly, slowly, like two magnets confused about which way they're supposed to go. He’s so close now you can see the way his lashes touch his cheeks, the tiny mole just above his lip, the uncertain way he tilts his head.

Someone counts down, loud and obnoxious. “Three! Two! One!”

You kiss him.

It’s not long. It’s not deep. It’s just a press of lips — barely there, barely breathing.

But it’s soft.

Way softer than you expect.

Yoongi doesn’t move. Doesn’t push forward. Doesn’t pull back. He’s just… there. Warm. Still. His lips are chapped but gentle, and his breath stutters against yours for a half-second before you both pull away like the floor’s about to collapse.

The room explodes. Cheering. Laughing. Someone yells, “They’re in love!”

You grab the cupcake from your lap and toss it at them.

Yoongi stares at the floor. He scratches the back of his neck and mutters something you don’t catch. His ears are red.

You force out a laugh. “You guys are ridiculous.”

But your voice cracks on the end.

He doesn’t meet your eyes for the rest of the game. You pretend not to notice, but you do. You notice everything — how quiet he gets, how he taps his fingers against his knee, how he shifts away from you just a little when someone else sits down on his other side.

And you tell yourself it was nothing.

Just a stupid dare.

Just a game.

----

You’re lying on your stomach on Yoongi’s bed, chin propped on your hands, staring at your phone like it’s a live grenade. The text is typed out already. It’s stupidly short. Two sentences. Fourteen words. You’ve reread it twenty-seven times.

Yoongi’s next to you, sitting cross-legged with his back against the wall. He’s flipping through the songs on your playlist like it’s the most boring job on earth. His thumb pauses on a song you like and skips it.

You glare at him. “Hey. I like that one.”

“Yeah, and I’ve heard it a million times. Get a new personality.”

You kick at his leg. He dodges without looking.

The light in his room is warm, and the windows are cracked open just enough to let in that late-afternoon breeze. You’re both still in your school uniforms, slightly wrinkled from the day. His tie’s loose. Your shoes are off. It feels normal. Comfortable.

But it doesn’t feel easy anymore.

Your phone screen dims. You tap it back on and sigh, loud and dramatic.

“I think I’m gonna send it.”

Yoongi doesn’t look up. “Send what?”

You roll onto your side so you can face him, and your heart kicks like it’s trying to climb out of your chest. “The text. To— uh— Taehyung.”

Now he looks at you. Blankly. Like you just said something in a different language. “Taehyung?”

“Yeah. From science.”

His expression doesn’t change, but something in his eyes shifts. Slight. Quick. Like a flicker of static.

“You like Taehyung?” he says flatly.

You nod, even though your stomach doesn’t. “I think so. He’s funny. And he smells nice.”

Yoongi snorts. “You’re so shallow.”

“I never said I wasn’t,” you shoot back, but it’s softer than it should be. You’re trying to keep it light. Playful. Like this doesn’t feel wrong already.

There’s a pause.

Then he shrugs and holds out his hand. “Let me see the text.”

You hand it over without meeting his eyes.

He reads it silently. It’s short, awkward, obviously written by someone pretending not to care too much.

hey, i was wondering if you maybe wanna hang out sometime? no pressure lol

He raises an eyebrow. “You used lol. That’s tragic.”

“I panicked!”

“You sound like a robot. A sad, nervous robot.”

You grab a pillow and smack him with it. “Then fix it, genius!”

He laughs — really laughs — and wrestles the pillow away from you like it’s a life-or-death situation. His fingers brush yours in the process.

You still.

It’s barely a touch. Just a moment. But your body reacts like it always does now; your stomach flips; your face burns. And then the guilt rushes in.

You asked him to help you text another guy.

He doesn’t notice. Or pretends not to. He’s busy editing your message, adding a line about how you liked Taehyung’s project on sustainable energy (you did not). Then he adds a smiley face. The old-school kind, with a colon and a parenthesis.

“There. Now you sound like a dork, but at least a sincere one.”

You take the phone back and read it.

hey, i liked your science project btw. wanna hang out sometime? :)

Your thumb hovers over the send button.

You glance at Yoongi.

He’s staring at the ceiling now, one leg bouncing absentmindedly. He looks bored. Normal. Like this doesn’t matter.

You hit send.

It feels like swallowing a rock.

----

You don’t see him at first.

You’re on the couch, curled into Taehyung like you belong there — knees tucked between his, hand lazily draped over his arm, head thrown back in that kind of laugh you don’t fake. The kind that starts in your chest and takes over your whole body.

Taehyung’s saying something low in your ear, his voice too soft for anyone else to catch. You lean in, partially to hear him better, partially to get closer to him.

Yoongi walks into it like a punch.

He hadn’t planned anything dramatic. He’s holding a plastic bag with snacks — some random things he knows you like — intending to drop by like always. Just show up, sit too close, talk about nothing until the day disappears.

But you’re already laughing. And it’s not at something he said.

He stops halfway into the room.

You still haven’t noticed him.

Taehyung sees first. He looks up and gives a casual, almost smug nod. “Yo, what’s up?”

You turn your head fast, like you’re caught doing something wrong. But your smile doesn't fade. “Hey! You didn’t text me you were coming.”

“I did,” Yoongi says. “Like ten minutes ago.”

You blink. “Oh. Sorry.”

You shift slightly, pulling your legs back, not completely — but just enough that you can pat the spot beside you like nothing’s weird. “Come sit.”

He does. He sits. Of course he does.

He drops the bag on the table and slides into the open space next to you, but it feels exactly like what it is — too late.

The three of you make some awkward, half-hearted small talk. Taehyung says something dumb about your chemistry class and you laugh again — less wild this time, but still bright.

Yoongi forces a smile. It stretches across his face too tight. “Didn’t know this was a thing now.”

“What?” you ask, but your voice has that careful edge to it. You know what he means.

He shrugs, cool and neutral. “You and Taehyung.”

Taehyung answers for you. “It’s not, like, official-official. Yet.”

You laugh under your breath, brushing a piece of hair behind your ear, not looking at Yoongi when you say, “We’re just seeing where it goes.”

Right.

Cool.

Yoongi leans back against the couch and nods like that makes perfect sense. Like it doesn’t feel like someone just hit the mute button on the world around him.

You look happy. And not in a fake, putting-on-a-show kind of way. You’re relaxed. Glowing, even. And Taehyung? He’s just there. Confident. Comfortable. Sitting way too close.

Yoongi swallows it all.

The way your fingers had been resting on Taehyung’s arm like it was nothing. The way you pulled your legs back but didn’t move farther away. The way his name sounds too easy coming out of your mouth.

He laughs dryly at something Taehyung says — he doesn’t even hear what it is.

And he stays. Of course he stays.

Because he’s your best friend.

That’s what he is. That’s what he’s always been.

And if it hurts, if it feels like the room is spinning just slightly off-axis — well.

You don’t need to know that part.

----

You don’t cry right away.

At first, you just laugh. Too loud. Too sharp. The kind of laugh that feels like it has nowhere else to go.

You sit on the edge of your bed, phone still in your hand, screen black now. The last text from Taehyung stares back at you in your head, branded there like it wants to stay.

“I just don’t think this is working anymore.”

No call. No warning. Just a half-hearted paragraph and a stupid, passive “sorry.”

You set your phone down on your nightstand. It slides a little and stops.

You stare at the wall across from you. It’s the one with the old polaroids and dumb notes and a drawing Yoongi made of you in sixth grade that looks like a potato with hair. You don’t blink. You barely breathe.

The first tear slides out before you even notice it. Just leaks out. Quiet. Like your body knew before your brain caught up.

And then you’re crying.

Not pretty, dramatic crying — the ugly, silent kind where your chest hurts more than your heart and you can’t quite breathe right. Your hands shake. You press your face into the pillow to muffle the sound, and it doesn’t help. You feel like you’re sinking through the bed.

It wasn’t even a long relationship. A few months. A few kisses. Some hand-holding and shared playlists and awkward texts. But Taehyung made you feel seen. Liked. Wanted.

And now you feel... disposable.

There’s a knock on your door. Light.

Hesitant.

You don’t answer.

It creaks open anyway. You know the sound of his footsteps before he even speaks.

Yoongi.

He doesn’t say anything at first. Just stands in the doorway, taking you in — all curled up and messy and miserable. Then he crosses the room, slowly, like he doesn’t want to startle you.

“Your mom said you weren’t feeling good,” he says softly.

You turn your head, just enough to look at him. Your eyes are puffy. You’re not even trying to hide it.

His brows draw together instantly. “What happened?”

You open your mouth, and it takes two tries before anything comes out.

“Taehyung dumped me,” you mumble.

It sounds small. Childish. Not even worth the weight in your throat. But the look on Yoongi’s face shifts — his whole posture softens, and before you can stop him, he’s sitting beside you.

He doesn’t ask for permission, just reaches out and pulls you into his arms.

You fall into him without hesitation.

It’s warm there — his hoodie smells like detergent and the faintest trace of cinnamon gum. His chin rests on top of your head. His hands stay still on your back, not moving, not rushing you.

And you just let yourself cry.

Not because of Taehyung, not entirely. Not even because of the rejection. It’s all of it. The hurt, the disappointment, the slow-burning truth that you were hoping for something more than what he gave.

Yoongi holds you like he’s done this before in a dream. Like he knows exactly how to steady you without needing words. Like he feels what you feel.

But he’s quiet. Too quiet.

There’s something in the way his fingers curl into your top, in the way he presses his mouth into your hair and doesn’t move for a long time, like he’s clinging to something he’s not allowed to want.

You don’t say anything.

Neither does he.

Eventually, your breathing slows. You wipe your nose on your sleeve and shift in his arms, suddenly aware of how close he is. How good he smells. How warm he feels. And how badly you wish this was something else.

“Thanks,” you murmur, voice hoarse.

He just nods. “Yeah. Always.”

And you don’t talk about it again.

Not the breakup.

Not the way you cried into his chest.

Not the way his shirt smelled like you for two days after.

----

You’re still his favourite person.

That hasn’t changed.

What has changed is everything else.

He still walks you home when it’s late. Still sends you memes at 2 AM. Still saves the red gummy bears for you and pretends it’s not a thing. But it’s not like it used to be — not the same easy closeness, not the same comfort.

You date people now.

Sometimes you talk about them like they’re no big deal. Other times, your eyes light up in a way that makes something twist deep in his stomach.

He listens. He nods. He laughs when he’s supposed to. But underneath all of it, something grows. Slow and impossible and heavy.

Love is a quiet thing, he’s learned. Sometimes it lives in the silences. Sometimes in the way you pass him a drink before he even asks. Sometimes in the fact that you always take the seat next to him, even when there’s room on the other side.

It’s been building in him for years.

And tonight, it almost spills.

You’re both on his bed, legs stretched out, backs against the wall. It’s late — later than you said you’d stay — but neither of you mention it. A movie plays on his laptop, mostly ignored. Some old favorite you’ve both seen a dozen times.

You’re in a hoodie that doesn’t belong to you — his, probably — and your hair’s a mess and your socks don’t match and you look like home.

He can’t remember what the movie’s about. He hasn’t looked at the screen in a while.

You say something, soft and tired, and laugh at your own joke. Your head drops lightly against his shoulder, and he freezes.

You don’t move.

And he doesn’t either.

You just stay like that — your cheek resting against him, your breath slowing, your body slowly going still. You’re warm. He can feel the shape of you through his top, the weight of your trust in the way you lean into him like it’s nothing.

It’s not nothing.

Not to him.

He looks down at you. Your lashes flutter slightly. Your lips are parted. You smell like your shampoo and something sweeter underneath. And he wants to say it.

He almost does.

The words rise in his throat like a wave, a whisper, a fragile truth he’s carried for too long

But he doesn’t say it.

Because you’re tired. Because the timing’s wrong. Because he’s afraid you’ll look at him with surprise , or worse — pity.

So he sits there, still and aching, while the credits roll and your breathing deepens.

You fall asleep on his shoulder.

And Yoongi memorises everything — how your head fits perfectly into the curve of his neck. How your fingers twitch in your sleep. How you murmur something he can’t quite catch and then go quiet again.

He thinks, If this is all I ever get… maybe it’s enough.

But he knows it’s not.

Not really.

You’re drunk.

Not sloppy or reckless, just that warm, loose kind of drunk where the room spins slightly and everything feels a little softer. Someone's phone is plugged into the speakers, playing something moody and bass-heavy. The lights are low. People you barely know are dancing in the kitchen.

You’re on the couch, legs curled up, red solo cup half-empty in your hand. And Yoongi is beside you, same as always.

Except nothing feels the same anymore.

He’s wearing black jeans and a simple, grey t-shirt, dark hair falling slightly into his eyes. His knee brushes yours every time he shifts. You’ve stopped pretending not to notice.

He says something dry — some sarcastic comment about the guy doing shots off a frisbee — and you laugh too loud. You’re tipsy. You’re floating. But your heart’s not light. It’s buzzing. Loud and tense and full of every little thing you’ve been holding back.

You look at him.

Really look at him.

The way his mouth curves slightly when he talks. The way he never quite meets your eyes when you’re this close. The way he smells like laundry and something distinctly him — faint mint, skin-warm cotton, late-night comfort.

And it hits you all at once.

You want to kiss him.

Not because someone dared you. Not because you're drunk and stupid. Not even because you can’t stop thinking about that first time years ago. But because you mean it. Because you’ve been meaning it for a long time.

You lean in before you can talk yourself out of it.

Soft. Slow. Hesitant.

Your hand brushes his cheek. His eyes widen — just barely — and then your mouth is on his.

And he doesn’t move.

Not at first.

For a second, he kisses you back. Long enough to make your whole body hum.

But then he pulls away.

Not roughly or dramatically. Just enough. Enough to break your heart a little.

“Hey,” he says, voice too gentle. “You’re drunk.”

You blink, confused. Hurt blooming fast behind your ribs.

“So?”

His jaw tenses. He looks away. “I don’t want you to wake up tomorrow and wish you hadn’t.”

Your chest goes tight. “You think I didn’t mean it?”

He doesn’t answer.

And that tells you everything.

You pull back slowly. You don’t say another word.

The rest of the night blurs. Someone turns the music up. You make some excuse about needing air. He drives you home without being asked, hands tense on the wheel the whole time. The silence is too loud between you.

You lean your head against the passenger window, pretending to be asleep before he can try to explain.

You don’t want to hear it.

Because you meant it.

And you thought, for a second, maybe he did too.

It’s been weird for weeks.

Not explosive. Just off.

A slow shift. A stretching silence.

You're still around. Still close enough to touch, to laugh at his jokes, to send dumb videos to in the middle of the night. But there’s something behind your smile now. Something guarded. Distant. And he knows it’s his fault.

You kissed him.

And he pulled away.

Not because he didn’t want it — fuck, he wanted it — but because you were drunk, and he was scared, and it felt too real too fast. So he froze. You backed off. And neither of you brought it up again.

But you’ve both been pulling back ever since.

He doesn’t know how to fix it.

You’re in his room now, sitting on the edge of his bed, tapping your foot, eyes on your phone but not really reading. Yoongi’s at his desk pretending to study. The silence has weight. It presses on the back of his neck.

You exhale through your nose. Not loud, but sharp. Tired.

“Do you even want me around anymore?”

The question hits him like a slap.

He turns slowly in his chair. “What?”

You glance at him. “You act like you don’t care anymore. Like I’m just— I don’t know— there.”

He sits back. His jaw tightens. “I’ve just had a lot going on.”

“Yeah?” you say. “Cool. Same.”

Something in your voice snaps.

He straightens up. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

You stand now, phone forgotten on the bed. Your arms are crossed. “It means I’m tired of pretending everything’s fine when it’s obviously not.”

He doesn’t answer.

“You don’t talk to me like you used to. You barely look at me.”

“I look at you all the time,” he mutters.

You laugh once, the sound sharp and bitter. “Right. When you’re not busy avoiding me.”

He hates this. He hates how defensive he feels, how all the words he wants to say get trapped behind the ones he thinks are safer.

You step closer. Not too close. Just enough for him to feel it. “If you didn’t want me to kiss you, you could’ve just said so. You didn’t have to make it this awkward.”

His throat tightens. “You were drunk.”

“And you made it clear it was a mistake.”

He flinches.

“I get it now,” you say, biting the inside of your cheek. “It was a stupid moment. One I shouldn’t have started.”

His heart is pounding.

You look away like you’re ashamed, like you regret all of it. And maybe you do. Maybe he should’ve let you believe he didn’t feel anything, because that would be easier than this — than hearing you call it a mistake like it meant nothing.

He wants to stop you. Wants to grab your hand, say your name, rewind time.

But he just says, “Yeah. Maybe it was.”

Your mouth opens a little, but you don’t say anything. Just blink, like you’re trying not to show how much that hurt.

Then you grab your phone. “I should go.”

He doesn’t stop you.

You close the door behind you a little too gently, like slamming it would give away too much.

And Yoongi just sits there, staring at the space you left behind, hating every second of the silence that follows.

Because the kiss wasn’t a mistake.

But letting you believe it was? Might be the biggest one he’s ever made.

You haven’t talked since the fight.

No texts. No “are you home?” No memes.

No Yoongi.

It’s only been a few days, but it feels like weeks — like something’s gone missing in the background of your life. Like you keep reaching for something that isn’t there anymore.

You’ve reread the last texts between you two more times than you’ll admit. The tension. The things you said. The thing you didn’t say.

It’s past midnight when your phone buzzes.

Yoongi [12.36 AM]: Are your parents home?

You stare at the screen, heart suddenly in your throat. You don’t know what propels you to reply, but you do.

You [12.37 AM]: no

Less than ten minutes later, you hear the sound of pounding rain outside.

And then — knocking. Hard, fast, urgent.

You open the front door.

Yoongi is standing there, soaked to the bone. Hair plastered to his forehead, hoodie clinging to him, chest rising and falling like he ran here.

You step aside without saying a word, and he walks in like he’s scared you’ll change your mind if he hesitates.

Water drips onto the floor. He’s breathing heavy. His eyes are locked on yours.

And then he starts talking.

“I didn’t mean what I said. That it was a mistake. I didn’t mean any of it. I was scared. I didn’t want to screw up what we have and I—fuck, I already did, didn’t I?”

You don’t move. You just stare. Let him unravel.

“The kiss wasn’t a mistake,” he says, voice breaking just slightly. “Nothing with you has ever been a mistake.”

You open your mouth to say something, but he doesn’t let you.

“I’ve been trying to stay away because I thought maybe you were better off not knowing. But I can’t do it anymore. Not talking to you is— it's fucking unbearable.”

His eyes meet yours.

And then he closes the space between you in two steps.

He kisses you.

For real this time.

Not soft or scared or careful.

It’s soaked and breathless and honest — his hands cradling your face like he’s been waiting years for this exact moment and couldn’t risk wasting another second.

You melt into it. Everything inside you aches with how much you missed him.

He pulls back, eyes searching yours, his thumb still brushing your cheek.

“I love you.”

You blink once.

Then you grin, so wide it almost hurts.

“Took you long enough, asshole.”

He laughs. Breathless. Relieved.

And then you kiss him again.

Not because of a dare.

Not because you're drunk.

Not because you're trying to get over him.

But because you finally don’t have to pretend anymore.

taglist | click here to join: @thegreatdepressionme @golden-loona @kissyfacekoo @cookysstuff @whoa-jo

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bookhobbit · 2 days ago

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As I'm rereading I'm thinking the thing about Vimes is that he is genuinely sooooo repressed. In many ways including sexually. This man is unbearably embarrassed by the concept of having marital sex. A lawyer says "fruit of the union" and Vimes freaks out so hard he zones out for the rest of the appointment. Man who is about to get married can't contemplate the prospect of future heterosexual sex with his lawfully wedded wife because this concept is too immense!

And I do think some of this comes from self-loathing in a very "that stuff's not for me" kind of way, that's extremely clear in canon. For me I think Vimes also reads quite demisexual/demiromantic, so through that lens it also kind of comes across as "I am Not Ready for the sex stuff to be part of this because that part of my brain is not switched on yet." But I think also some of it is just good old fashioned Being Surprisingly Straightlaced For Someone Of His Life Experience which is really funny.

I was talking about this to @overelegantstranger who pointed out that it's easy to read this, in G!G! and MaA, as "Vimes is kind of put off by the large, fat, strong woman he is marrying," but that it's absolutely not textually what's going on if you analyze it. Notably, Vimes (almost?) never views other women in a way that is at all sexual. Like, Angua is a canonical hottie but you never have ANY sense that Vimes has noticed this and in fact I think he'd rather die than think about her that way. He just doesn't Do that.

On the other hand, with Sybil he's constantly flustered and thinking about her Size and Power and Movement and Body so it comes across as, he's kind of into her but doesn't know how to process the whole concept of being into someone or even how to process the fact that what he's into is different from the conventional idea of attractiveness. He's so deeply alarmed by having Feelings that it comes across as him being terrified of her....but like.......in a slightly scandalized, titillated way. "Oh my goooood I hope that scary rich lady doesn't ravish me, twirls helmet, that would be horrible." I don't think there's Zero fatphobia in the way Sybil is depicted, nuance etc, but for me it definitely feels like Vimes is going. Fuck, finally met a woman who is large and strong and powerful enough to tell me what to do AND she wants to AND I kind of want her to. How do I react to this. I need to flee the scene immediately.

Anyways. You do see why Vetinari had to invent a whole BDSM dynamic to make their working relationship functional, is what I'm saying.

#book reads #sorry I'm probably just gonna be writing long rambling incoherent discworld posts for a while #but let's be honest. I'm estimating about f 80% of you followed me at least partially for Discworld #this is my core demographic #so you'll have to put up with it

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nemesyaaa · 2 days ago

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kdizkdlaldkzldoeoeoz it was so good, i need more of this universe please. 6,8 of words and it just doesn't feel enough. neighbor!ellie is so charming, helpful and tough, i love her !!! i truly loved the vibes of the fic, and all the music store scenes 🥰 picking the fleetwood mac cd's ? we have golden tastes, i fear. anyways, the dynamic btw reader and ellie was incredible. imma re-read this when i got time again

She perked up immediately. "I’m your girl." — and i fear my whole street is gonna hear about this line 😵‍💫

There was a pause. You expected a laugh, maybe a 'good luck with that.' Instead, she played with two of her fingers awkwardly, and smiled at you. "I could take you?" she said. — i want her so bad, this is not even funny

She leaned against the doorway, hands in her hoodie pocket, watching you with the kind of soft smile she probably doesn’t even realize she’s wearing. "You don’t owe me anything." — i would ask for a kiss

You nodded like that wasn’t valuable information now burned into your brain. You grabbed a Fleetwod Mac CD, and took out your wallet to pay. "Cool," you said. "Guess I’ll have to stop by again." — ✨✨✨✨ the music tastes

"I’d let you," she mumbled. Then, like it was the easiest thing in the world, she added, "they look better on you anyway." — the ending SCREAMING

i love fluff fics

when you need the job done

neighbor!ellie williams x reader

neighbor!ellie universe

summary: moving out alone for the first time might be scary—and awfully exhausting. you’re lucky you have a very handy lesbian as a neighbor.

word count: 6.8k

The box you were carrying was way too heavy. You knew it the second you stubbornly yanked it out of the trunk, but by the time you realized how unwise that was, you were already halfway up the steps to your new apartment. The one that didn't have an elevator.

A bead of sweat ran down your temple. Your arms were shaking, the cardboard creaking ominously, and you could feel the edge of a textbook digging into your thigh through the bottom of the box.

You grunted softly as you stagger forward, muttering under your breath, "okay, stupid idea, officially noted."

That’s when you heard it. A door creaking open. You looked up, flustered, and caught sight of her. A young woman that was standing in the open doorway of the unit just across the hall. Faded gray hoodie, sweatpants that sat a little too low on her hips, and a tangle of auburn hair in a messy bun that looked like it gave up halfway. One hand gripped the door frame, the other clutching a half-eaten granola bar.

She blinked at you, shocked. You offered a small, sheepish smile. "Hi."

She blinked again. "Uh—hi."

There was a beat of silence. She kept staring at you, and you shifted your weight, struggling to hold the box and at the same time balance your pride. "I, uh… just moved in."

She nodded quickly. "Yeah, no—I figured. New face. And boxes. That’s… obvious. Sorry."

You bit back a laugh. "I promise I’m not usually this pathetic. Just… long drive. Too much stuff."

Ellie snapped out of it suddenly, like her brain had just rebooted. "Shit—wait. Let me help you with that."

Before you could protest, she’s stepping forward, quickly wiping her hand on her hoodie like she just remembered she’s eating, then gently taking the box from you like she’s worried you’ll shatter if she’s too rough. And she lifted it as if it didn't weight anything. God, you're not sure if it was just the exhaustion, but was the room suddenly hotter? Or was it just you?

"Oh my god," you exhaled in relief, letting your arms drop. "Thank you. You may have just saved my spine."

She grinned softly, cheeks a little pink. "No problem. I’m Ellie, by the way."

You gave her your name, and she repeated it quietly under her breath, like she wanted to make sure she didn’t forget. It was oddly endearing.

She followed you into your apartment and gently sat the box down by the window. "Wow. You’ve got, like… a lot of books."

You glanced around at the stack of boxes marked READING / PLEASE DON’T CRUSH, smiling a little. "Guilty. I had a system, but the system kinda died somewhere around hour five of unpacking."

Ellie nodded like she got it. "Want some help? I mean—only if you want. I don’t have anything going on. Just… reorganizing my guitar pedals and regretting life choices."

You raised an eyebrow. "Guitar pedals?"

She blushed faintly. "Yeah. Music nerd. Don’t judge."

"I’d never," you replied, already walking toward the nearest box. "If you’re serious about helping, I’ve got a bookshelf I was too scared to try assembling alone."

She perked up immediately. "I’m your girl."

An hour later, Ellie was sitting cross-legged on your living room floor, her hoodie sleeves pushed up—her arm tattoo on full display, as she studied the instruction manual with a look of pure concentration.

There was a screw between her lips and her hair was falling in her face, but she didn’t seem to notice. You were lying on the rug beside her, trying not to laugh. "You look like you’re defusing a bomb."

She spat out the screw with a grin. "This is Ikea. You never know." You laughed, and Ellie beamed at the sound. "Okay, hand me the... um. That… L-shaped—thingy."

"You mean the Allen wrench?"

"Right. That. Allen. Bastard of a wrench."

You passed it to her and watched as her hands worked with practiced ease, though she was still mumbling things like 'who designed this nightmare' under her breath. After a few minutes, the pieces started to come together.

You offered her a drink from your tiny fridge, and she takes it with a soft 'thanks,' sipping while scanning the partially-built shelf.

"You know," she said casually, "this place is nice. Good lighting. Kinda cozy already."

"Think I’ll like it here."

Ellie shrugged, maybe a little too fast. "Yeah, well. I mean. You’ve got a cool neighbor, so."

You laughed, leaning your head back against the wall. "I really do."

Ellie was standing at your door, awkwardly shifting from one foot to the other, wiping her hands on her jeans even though she hadn’t touched anything in the past ten minutes. The bookshelf was done. The boxes were stacked a little neater. She helped more than she should have for someone who just met you, and now there’s a weird lull in the air like… okay, what happens now?

You stretched your arms overhead, groaning quietly as your back pops. "Okay, officially retiring from lifting furniture."

Ellie snorted. "You say that now. Wait until you realize you still have, like, six more boxes marked 'miscellaneous disaster'."

You groaned again, dramatically this time. "Those are tomorrow’s problems." Then, with a soft sigh, you glanced toward your hallway and say, "God, I still need to get a new bulb for the bedroom. I haven’t been able to see in there since I got here."

Ellie raises her brows. "No light at all?"

"None," you say. "And of course, I packed the lamps in the box that’s... still in my car. Which is currently blocked in by some delivery truck of doom."

There was a pause. You expected a laugh, maybe a 'good luck with that.' Instead, she played with two of her fingers awkwardly, and smiled at you. "I could take you?" she said.

You blinked. "What?"

"To the store," she shrugged, eyes darting away like she regrets offering. "I was just gonna run out and grab snacks or something anyway."

You tilted your head. "You were?"

Ellie turned red, but tried to play it cool. "Yeah. Definitely. Wasn’t just gonna, y’know, spiral alone in my apartment or anything."

You both knew that was a lie. But you laughed, and something in her posture relaxed. "Okay," you replied, smiling. "Yeah. Let’s go lightbulb hunting."

Ten minutes later, you’re both in Ellie’s dusty old truck—windows slightly cracked, and a faint smell of pine from a crooked air freshener hanging from the mirror. She was gripping the wheel like she’s trying not to white-knuckle it, sneaking occasional glances at you when she thinks you’re not looking. You’re pretty sure you caught every single one.

At the hardware store, the lightbulb section was far more overwhelming than it had any right to be. You stood in front of it together, baffled by the sheer number of wattage options.

"Why are there so many types?" you whispered.

Ellie whispered back, "capitalism."

Eventually, you grabbed the right one (after way too much debate about warm vs. cool lighting), and Ellie casually picked up a few things for herself. Chips. A soda. A pack of sour candy she pretended not to want until you caught her staring at it for a solid minute.

"You’re definitely a sour candy person," you said as she tosses it into the basket.

Ellie shrugged, cheeks pink. "You're saying that like it’s a bad thing."

You shook your head. "No, just… makes sense."

"Yeah?"

"Yep," you said softly, smiling. "It’s cute."

She froze. Didn’t say anything for a solid five seconds. Then muttered a very quiet, 'Oh.' You pretended not to notice how red her ears go.

Back at your apartment, it took about eight minutes to screw in the new bulb—and then you were both just… standing in your now-lit bedroom, staring at the glow like you’ve just witnessed a miracle.

"Let there be light," Ellie said reverently.

You laughed and flopped back onto your mattress dramatically. "I owe you my life."

She leaned against the doorway, hands in her hoodie pocket, watching you with the kind of soft smile she probably doesn’t even realize she’s wearing. "You don’t owe me anything."

You glanced at the clock. "You hungry?"

Ellie paused. "Me?"

"No, the bookshelf." You smirked. "Of course you, dummy. C’mon. I’m starving. And you did save my spine."

She tried to brush it off with a joke—'I do take payment in pepperoni'—but you could tell she was secretly thrilled.

Twenty-five minutes later, a pizza box was open between you on the living room floor, two paper plates balancing precariously on a stack of books. You’d strung up some fairy lights that Ellie offered to 'totally not judge you for owning,' and now the room is bathed in warm, flickering gold.

You were sitting cross-legged, a slice in hand. "God, I didn’t realize how hungry I was."

Ellie smiled behind her cup of soda. "You looked like you were gonna pass out when I showed up earlier."

"Honestly? Close."

There was a pause. She glanced at you, then down at her food, then back at you. "I’m glad you let me help," she says.

"Yeah?"

She nods, playing with a corner of the box. “I don’t… really do that. Talk to people, I mean. Not right away. But you’re… easy."

You rose an eyebrow, smirking. "Easy?"

"I mean—you’re easy to talk to,” she blurted. "Not like—not in a bad way. You just—shit. That sounded wrong."

You burst out laughing. "Relax. I know what you meant."

She groaned into her hands. "Kill me."

"Never," you laughed. There’s a lull after that. A comfortable one.

You leaned back on your hands, stretching your legs out toward her. "So what’s your story, Neighbor Ellie? Mysterious girl across the hall. Fixes furniture. Gives rides. Loves sour candy."

She gave you a look. "You clocked all that in one night?"

"I’m a fast learner."

She exhaled a laugh, rubbing the back of her neck. "Okay, well. I moved here a couple years ago. Work in a CD store. Play guitar in my free time. Live a thrilling life of talking to no one and watching horror movies until 2 AM."

"Wow," you deadpanned. "Truly a menace."

She smirked. "I contain multitudes."

You nudged her leg with your foot. "I think you’re cool."

Ellie went so quiet after that you worry you went too far. But then she said, soft: "I think you’re pretty cool too."

Neither of you moved for a second. The pizza was getting cold, the lights were flickering softly. She was staring at you like you hung the stars, and your heart’s doing something very inconvenient in your chest.

It wasn’t hard to figure out where Ellie worked. Not like you stalked her or anything—she just... mentioned it. Casually. In passing. And it stuck with you, that offhand comment about shifts and sorting and 'old people complaining about the price of CDS like it’s 1985.'

And okay, maybe you were a little too curious. Maybe you had a free day and a really good memory. And maybe there weren’t that many record stores in town to begin with.

You checked out the first shop—a dusty little place with an impressive jazz section and a guy behind the counter who looked old enough to have invented jazz. No Ellie. The second one was sleek and modern, curated for aesthetic Instagram posts, with alphabetized playlists and diffused lighting. Also, no Ellie. But the third one… That’s where you saw her.

She was behind the counter, alone, hunched over a small stack of CDs, scribbling something onto tiny sticky notes with a black pen clutched between ink-smudged fingers. Her hair was tied up in a low bun, loose strands falling into her face as she worked. She was mouthing the words to whatever track was playing overhead—some soft, rock ballad you didn’t recognize—but it made the whole place feel hushed, intimate, like stepping into someone’s favorite memory.

You stood near the entrance for a second too long.

Ellie glanced up and froze. Her pen paused mid-word. You caught the brief flicker of surprise on her face—like she wasn’t expecting to ever see you here, like this part of her life was separate and you’d somehow wandered past the invisible boundary.

But then her expression shifted, softening into something unreadable. The corners of her mouth twitched like she was trying to decide whether to smile or run.

She settled on a weird middle ground. "Oh," she said nonchalantly. "Hey."

You raised a hand, suddenly hyper-aware of your own body, your posture, the fact that you hadn’t really thought through what you’d say when this moment came. "Hey. Fancy seeing you here."

Ellie blinked. "In my place of work?"

You laughed, and she smiled for real this time. "Right. I was just... exploring the neighborhood," you lied. "Didn’t realize this store was so close."

She nodded slowly, clearly not buying it—the store was a twenty-minute drive from the apartment complex— but was too polite to call you out. "Yeah? You into CDs?"

"Definitely," you said, scanning the shelves like you weren’t about to have a heart attack. "I mean, I personally prefer vinyls, but yeah, CDs are like, super retro. Very... round."

Ellie snorted. "That’s one way to describe them."

You wandered closer, pretending to browse, your fingers grazing the spines of old cases. She watched you, but not in a judgmental way. More like she was trying to figure you out.

"Do you work every day?" you asked after a moment.

"Nah," she said, leaning on the counter. "Just a few days a week. Tuesdays, Thursdays, sometimes Saturdays."

You nodded like that wasn’t valuable information now burned into your brain. You grabbed a Fleetwod Mac CD, and took out your wallet to pay. "Cool," you said. "Guess I’ll have to stop by again."

"No, uh, don’t worry. It’s on the house." Ellie scratched the back of her neck, eyes darting to her Casio watch. "You, uh... wanna hang out after I’m done? My shift ends at five."

"You sure?"

"You don’t have to. I just thought—I dunno, maybe we could go get coffee. Or you could show me your superior taste in 'very round CDs.'"

You grinned. "I’d like that."

Ellie looked down, then back up through her lashes. "Cool. Yeah. Cool."

You ended up spending the next half hour pretending to look through racks while sneaking glances at her—and she, in return, kept stealing glances at you in the reflection of the display glass. And when five o’clock finally rolled around, she practically flew out from behind the counter, tugging on her jacket and fumbling with the sleeves like she was nervous. Which, honestly, made two of you.

The coffee shop Ellie picked was small, local, and mostly empty by the time you both got there—quiet enough that your conversation didn’t have to compete with the noise, but not so silent that the pauses felt heavy. The barista gave Ellie a little nod when she walked in, like she was a regular, and Ellie just muttered a soft 'hey' back before holding the door open for you.

You sat by the window, your cups warming your hands, and the conversation came easier than you thought it would. Ellie was shy, yeah, but not in that way where she tried to disappear. It was more like she was deliberate. Careful. She listened to you like you were saying things worth remembering.

She told you about the weird guy who always came in looking for jazz CDs they didn’t have, and how she’d once spent two hours reorganizing the punk section just because she couldn’t stand the way someone else had done it. You talked about the move, the disaster of trying to assemble your own bookshelf, and the apartment above yours that sounded like a zoo with a drum set.

Ellie laughed at that one, and you caught yourself staring just a little too long at the way her eyes crinkled when she did it. You suddenly felt the urge to count every single freckle that was marked in her face.

Somewhere between a refill and a shared chocolate chip cookie, she glanced at the clock and said, "Wanna come over?"

"To your place?"

She scratched at the back of her neck. "I mean, only if you want. No pressure. I just—I have this CD collection I was talking about and, uh... coffee shops close eventually."

You tried not to smile too obviously. "Sure. I’d love to."

Ellie’s apartment was quite similar to yours—after all, both were from the same block, but something about it was undeniably her. The couch was beat-up but clean, the walls were decorated with band posters and a couple of hand-drawn sketches you didn’t ask about yet, and her windowsill had a few neglected plants that were somehow still alive.

"I wasn’t really expecting company," she said, kicking off her shoes near the door. "Sorry if it’s a little... messy."

You looked around. "Ellie, this is better than mine by far."

She shrugged, clearly flustered, and motioned for you to take a seat while she made herself busy putting on a playlist— just background enough to not distract from her own nervous energy. With your drink still in hand, you wandered to the shelf near the TV, running your finger along the neatly organized spines of her CD collection. "So this is the shrine."

"Hey, don’t mock the shrine," she said, coming to stand beside you. "It’s got history."

You glanced at the rows and rows of titles—some familiar, others completely new to you. "What’s your holy trinity, then?"

She paused, seriously considering it. "Green Day, Radiohead, and—don’t laugh—The Smashing Pumpkins."

You blinked. "Why would I laugh?"

"I dunno. People always think I’m gonna say something cooler. Nirvana or something."

You smiled. "I think that is cool."

Ellie ducked her head and muttered, "Yeah, well... you look cool, so I’m trusting your judgment."

You turned toward her, and right as you opened your mouth to say something, you felt it—a warm splash of beverage sloshing right onto your top. You looked down at the spreading stain and groaned. "Oh my god. I can’t take me anywhere."

Ellie reacted fast, already rummaging through a basket of laundry near the couch. "Wait—here. I, uh, I’ve got something you can wear."

She tossed you a hoodie, worn and soft and a little big. The same one she wore the first time she saw you. You pulled it on without thinking—slightly mortified, and very aware of how it smelled exactly like her. It was stupid. It was just detergent and something like cedar and maybe... her shampoo? But it hit you like a memory you hadn’t made yet, and when you looked back at Ellie, she was definitely flustered.

"You okay?" she asked, voice a little tight.

You nodded, tugging at the sleeves. "This is so comfy. You might never get it back."

Ellie laughed nervously. "That’s, uh... fine. You look good in it."

The sentence hung between you for a beat too long. You turned back to the CDs. "Show me your favorites."

And she did.

You sat cross-legged on her living room floor while she pulled out album after album, fingers brushing the covers like they were sacred texts. Time slipped away. The music got quieter, the light outside faded to black, and before either of you realized it, the clock on her microwave blinked 1:04 AM.

"Oh shit," Ellie said, glancing over. "You’re probably exhausted. I didn’t mean to keep you here so long."

You rubbed your eyes, yawning. "I am tired. But like, in a good way. I had fun."

Ellie stood awkwardly, hovering near the door. "Do you want me to walk you back?”

"It’s literally ten steps ahead."

"Still," she muttered, fidgeting with her fingers.

There was a weird, sudden stillness. Not uncomfortable exactly—just... charged. Like you’d both walked to the edge of something without realizing it, and now neither of you knew what to do. You stood in the doorway, Ellie’s hoodie still wrapped around you, warm from her and too soft to take off just yet.

"I should go," you said.

"Okay," Ellie agreed, voice quiet.

You could feel it—just beneath the surface—the shared, unspoken thing you both wanted. The maybe. The what if. But neither of you crossed the line.

Instead, you gave her a soft smile and a breathy 'goodnight,' and Ellie rubbed the back of her neck and murmured it back. When the door finally closed behind you, your heart thudded like you’d just run a mile.

Back in your apartment, you curled into the matress that laid on the floor, still wearing her hoodie, surrounded by the quiet hum of the night, and told yourself you were fine. That you’d get another chance. You didn’t know Ellie was sitting on the other side of the wall, wide awake, hoodie-less, and thinking the exact same thing.

The next morning, you woke slowly. And the forst thing that you felt was Ellie’s hoodie. Still wrapped around you. Still warm in the chest, even if the sleeves were cold now. You’d never meant to fall asleep in it, but you hadn’t been able to make yourself take it off either. Not when it still smelled like her. Not when it felt like the last piece of her you got to keep before things got too real. Before either of you dared to name what last night had almost been.

You sat up slowly, groaning at the way your spine protested after crashing half-sideways across your bare mattress. One arm still tucked under a throw pillow, hair wild with sleep. You ran your hand through it and stretched—and that’s when you heard the voices. Muffled at first. Laughter. Two people in the hallway, maybe just outside your door. You froze.

One of them was Ellie. You’d recognize her voice anywhere by now. That low rasp that turned warm when she laughed. And she was laughing—louder than you’d heard her in days. And the other voice? Feminine. Confident. Light and teasing.

You moved quietly, barefoot on the wooden floor, hoodie still draped over your frame like a second skin. You opened your apartment’s door just enough to let sound bleed in, and curiosity got the better of you. Just a peek, you told yourself.

You leaned into the silence of your own apartment, looking at the hall. And there she was. Ellie. Hair still damp from a shower, in a flannel over a gray tee and those dirty Converse she always stomped around in. She looked so relaxed, so casual��leaning against the stair railing, grinning in a way she never quite had with you. Her hand came up to push her hair out of her face, and she was looking at the girl beside her. Dark hair pulled into a high ponytail. Pretty. Effortless. Golden skin and a wicked smile and that kind of magnetic energy you’d always admired from a distance. She looked like someone who knew how to charm your mom and talk about records without ever trying too hard. The kind of girl who just fit.

She playfully shoved Ellie’s shoulder and said something that made them both burst into another fit of laughter. And your heart sank. Of course. Of course Ellie wasn’t single. What were you thinking? That someone like her—funny, sweet, handy, effortlessly cool—would just be floating around, unattached? That she'd invite you over, lend you her hoodie, stay up talking music with you ‘til one in the morning because she wanted something more? No. You’d misread it. All of it. You closed the door quietly.

Your face felt hot. Your eyes threatened to let out a couple of tears. You slipped the hoodie off and folded it, hands trembling just slightly, and placed it gently on the edge of the couch like it might burn you if you touched it for too long. Like it had just become hers again, not something you were allowed to keep holding.

And then you started getting ready. Quieter than usual. Slower. You told yourself you’d imagined it. That it didn’t matter. That it was fine. You’d just… back off. Respect the boundary you hadn’t realized existed.

Ellie noticed something was off that same day. No music playing. No lights on. Not even the faint sound of footsteps inside like usual. The little signs she’d come to expect over the past few days—gone. And the worst of all? You hadn’t texted her.

She bit the inside of her cheek as she walked down the street, bag slung over one shoulder, thumb hovering over your contact in her phone. She kept replaying last night over and over again in her head—the way you looked in her hoodie, how you smiled at her dumb music rants, how close your knees had been on the floor, how you hadn��t kissed her when you left. And how she hadn’t kissed you either. Too nervous. Too wrapped up in the fear of ruining something before it even started.

She walked into the shop, tossed her bag behind the counter, and barely had time to clock in before Jesse—her coworker, and unfortunately, her most observant friend—poked his head in from the back room. "Yo, Williams."

"What."

"You got the personality of a wet sock today. Did something happen?"

Ellie groaned. "I’m fine."

"What the fuck? You’re not. You sighed seven times during that one sentence. That’s a record, even for you."

She pulled the stool out and sat down behind the register, slumping dramatically. "It’s nothing."

Jesse raised a brow. "Is it about hoodie girl?"

Ellie snapped her head up. "What? How do you—"

"You literally texted me last night 'she’s wearing my hoodie and I might die.'"

"Okay first of all, fuck you. And second, I was emotionally compromised."

Jesse leaned on the counter, smirking. "So what happened?"

Ellie looked down, fiddling with the string of her hoodie. "I don’t know. We hung out, it was great—like, really great—and I thought we were gonna maybe... kiss or something? But then she left, and now she’s just—cold. Like, totally ignoring me."

"She see you with Dina?"

Ellie’s brows furrowed. “What?”

"Dee told me she went to pick up her speaker this morning. Maybe she saw you two together."

Ellie’s jaw dropped. "She thinks I’m dating Dina?"

Jesse just gave her a look. "Wouldn’t be the wildest assumption, dude. Dina is hot. And you two always look cozy as hell."

Ellie slumped back in the stool. "Shit."

"So go tell her." Jesse folded his arms. "Like, right now."

"I can’t just show up and be like 'Hey, by the way, that girl I was laughing with? Not my girlfriend!'"

"Why not?"

"Because it’s—" Ellie rubbed her face. "I don’t know, it’s embarrassing. What if she didn’t see me with Dina? What if I did read everything wrong? What if she’s not into me like that?"

Jesse tilted his head. "Are you into her like that?"

Ellie didn’t answer. She didn’t have to. He smiled. "Then fix it, you idiot."

But Ellie just sat there, heart caught somewhere between hope and dread, wondering how the hell she was supposed to explain the mess when you wouldn’t even look at her anymore.

For the rest of the week, you did your best to act like everything was fine.

Avoiding Ellie wasn’t hard, exactly. Not at first. You slipped out early to grab coffee before she left for work. And you told yourself—again and again—that it didn’t hurt. That you weren’t letting your mind wander back to the way she’d smiled at you in her dim little apartment, the way her voice had gone all soft and reverent when she’d talked about her guitar and her favorite bands. That you weren’t still thinking about her hoodie, folded on your couch like something sacred, something almost yours.

But even so… you missed her. And she noticed. She wasn’t stupid, either. Every time Ellie walked past your apartment, her chest tightened just a little. She couldn’t stop checking—subtle little glances at your windows, your doormat, listening for footsteps inside. But she was met with nothing, just pure silence.

It had been nine days. Nine days since your almost-date. Since you wore her hoodie and sat so close she could smell your shampoo. Since you’d yawned around midnight and she’d practically panicked, blurting something awkward about how you didn’t have to go but also yeah totally if you’re tired cool cool yeah no worries. And she hadn’t even walked you to your place. Just stood there, heart in her throat, as you smiled at her one last time without kissing her. Now you didn’t even look at her. And Ellie? Ellie didn’t know how to fix it.

That evening, a thunderstorm rolled in with no warning. It was more chilly than you expected, and by the time you realized, Ellie’s hoddie was back like a second skin. You tried to lie to yourself, thinking you were too tired to open the winter clother box. But in reality, it was just to feel it again. You’d tried to settle into a book, when the lights suddenly flickered… and then went out. You sat in stunned silence for a beat before peeking out your window and confirmed what you feared—the whole damn block was dark. Not a gleam streetlamp in sight.

And the worst part? You didn’t have a single candle. So you were swallowed by black-pitched darkness. You were just settled back onto your couch, the book long forgotten by now, when someone knocked. A soft, tentative knock. You froze. And then came her voice.

"Hey… It’s Ellie."

Your heart did a little jump, stupid and immediate. You stood slowly, suddenly all too aware of your pajama shorts and the way your hair had half-dried in soft, tangled waves.

You opened the door. Ellie stood there holding two thick candles—one already lit, the other one tucked under her arm—and a slightly sheepish expression. She was wearing a red flannel, straight jeans, and a pair of black Converse. Her hair was tucked messily behind her ears, her freckles barely visible in the low light.

"Power’s out," she said.

"Yeah. I noticed."

She shifted her weight, and if she had noticed you wearing her hoodie, she chose not to say anything. "Thought you might need these."

You took the candles from her slowly, your fingers brushing hers in the exchange. Her hand was warm. You swallowed. "Thanks."

Ellie nodded, but didn’t move. She glanced into your apartment and then back at you, chewing the inside of her cheek. "You okay?" she asked. "You’ve been, uh, quiet lately."

You hesitated, trying to ignore the knot isnide your chest. She had noticed. Your heart beat against your ribs, stubborn and tired. "Yeah. I’m fine."

A pause. "You’ve been avoiding me."

Your breath caught as you looked away. "No, I haven’t."

Ellie tilted her head, gently, like she knew you were lying. "Okay. Cool, then."

"Do you wanna come in?" You mumbled, stepping back. Fuck. Why’d you even said that?

She bit the inside of her cheek. "Only if it’s okay."

You nodded once. "Yes. It’s okay." So she stepped in.

The candlelight made everything feel hazier, slower. Her shadow danced across your floor as she walked toward your living room and stood awkwardly near your bookshelf, hands shoved into her hoodie pocket. You followed her in, set the candles on the table, and sat.

Ellie sat too—but not too close. She glanced around, then down at her lap.

"I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable," she said finally, voice soft. "The other day. At my place."

"You didn’t," you said too quickly. She looked up. You wrung your hands in your lap. "I just… It was silly for me to misread the situation, I guess."

Ellie blinked, then blinked again. "What do you mean?"

You gave her a look. "You know. I saw you with the girl... friend."

Realization dawned on her face. "Dina?"

You didn’t answer. Great. She had a great name too.

Ellie let out a breath and leaned back. "She’s not my girlfriend. She’s—God—she’s like my sister. We’ve known each other since middle school. We were talking about Uncharted."

That made you look at her. "Uncharted?"

"Yeah, she was making fun of me for being obsessed with it, and playing the stupid game the whole night. It wasn’t flirting."

A small laugh broke out of you before you could stop it, quick and surprised. Ellie smiled—just a little. And then the room got quiet again. That flickering, charged quiet where neither of you really knew what to say next.

Until Ellie whispered, "You look really good in my hoodie."

You swallowed hard, but didn’t answer. Ellie’s gaze flicked to yours. Her cheeks were flushed, soft pink in the candlelight, but smiled anyway.

"I thought maybe you were gonna kiss me," she murmured.

You felt your whole face go warm. "I wanted to."

She blinked slowly. "Then why didn’t you?"

"I got scared."

Ellie’s voice was barely above a whisper. "Me too."

You looked at her then. She looked nervous, her knee bouncing like she couldn’t sit still. She was leaning in just a little—but not enough. Like she was halfway between running and staying. And then she said it, "can I try again?"

Your breath caught. You nodded once, biting your lower lip unconsciously. And this time, she leaned all the way in, her hands finding your cheeks. The kiss was soft, shy, and barely there—like both of you were scared it would vanish if you moved too fast. But then she pressed in a little closer, and your hand slid gently to her cheek, and she smiled against your mouth.

And when you pulled back, her forehead rested against yours. In the flickering candlelight, everything else faded. No hallway whispers. No misunderstandings. Just Ellie. Warm and nervous and real.

The morning sun peeked in lazily through Ellie’s half-drawn curtains. The green-eyed girl had been working her ass off last week, and still pleaded you to wake her up once you did, but you weren’t going to do it. She needed the sleep. So here you were now, bleary-eyed, standing barefoot in her kitchen and wearing Ellie’s Pink Floyd oversized shirt.

You were trying to figure out the ancient coffee machine she kept saying 'wasn’t that bad' when you heard the apartment door creak open. No knock. No announcement. Just a solid, casual entrance. You froze with one hand on your chest, wide-eyed.

"Ellie, if you’re gonna leave your damn wrench where I can trip over it, I swear to—"

You turned just in time for him to round the corner into the living room, carrying a paper bag and squinting toward the kitchen. He paused when he saw you. His eyes dropped to the oversized shirt, the unbrushed hair, your whole deer-in-headlights vibe. His brow lifted—just slightly—but it said everything. "Well," he said slowly, adjusting the grip on the bag, "you ain’t Ellie."

You cleared your throat. "Um—no. She’s still asleep. I think. Probably."

The man stared at you for another long beat, then sighed through his nose and gave a slow, skeptical nod. "Right."

And just like that, Ellie burst out of her room, hair a mess, wearing a tank top, some boxers and a mismatched pair of socks, looking completely and utterly disoriented.

"Oh—shit," she groaned, voice thick with sleep. "Joel. What—uh—what are you—what time is it?"

Joel raised the bag. "Brought you breakfast. And coffee. Thought I’d surprise you. Guess you beat me to it."

Your face was probably nuclear at that point. Ellie looked like she might combust from within. Joel’s gaze shifted between the two of you. He let out a grunt. "Well. I’ll be damned."

"I’m gonna—uh—bathroom. I’m gonna use it. Yours," you muttered, already halfway down the corridor. "Yep. Bathroom. Gone." You shut the door behind you and leaned against it, hand covering your face.

Out in the living room, there was a heavy pause.

"So," Joel began, in a voice that could only mean trouble, "you finally got your head outta your ass."

"Dude. Please." Ellie rubbed a hand over her face. "She’s not— I mean—we’re not, like… together together."

Joel arched a brow. "Does she know that? ‘Cause she’s wearin’ half your closet and looked quite comfortable in your kitchen."

Ellie’s mouth opened and closed. No response. No correction. Joel nodded to himself. "Didn’t think so."

"I didn’t say anything!" Ellie hissed, lowering her voice like you might somehow hear through the closed door.

"But you ain’t denying it either, kiddo." Joel said smugly. "Look, I’m not gonna give you the whole dad speech or... whatever. You’re grown. But if that girl’s gonna be hangin’ around, I expect you to treat her right. Like how I raised you. No ghostin’. No weird mind games. No—"

Ellie sputtered. "Jesus, Joel, can you not?"

"You like her or not?" He asked calmly.

She was quiet for a long beat. "…Yeah," she said, voice soft and barely audible.

Joel grunted, satisfied. "Then don’t be an idiot."

The bathroom door creaked open a second later. You emerged, trying your best to look composed despite the fact your heart was definitely doing somersaults.

Joel glanced between the two of you, and his face softened for just a second—like he was genuinely happy for Ellie. "Well," he said. "I should get goin’. You kids behave."

Ellie groaned, already anticipating some parting remark. "Don’t say it—"

Joel ignored her entirely, giving you a quick, amused glance. "Good luck dealin’ with this one," he said, jerking a thumb at Ellie like she wasn’t standing right there. "And bon appétit."

You grinned. "Thanks for the breakfast."

"Take care," Joel said with a wink, then stepped out the door and closed it behind him with a soft click.

A moment of silence settled over the apartment. You turned slowly to face Ellie, arms crossed, squinting with faux betrayal. "You. Nearly gave me a heart attack."

"Me?" Ellie blinked, slightly offended. "What?"

"Don’t 'what' me, Williams," you said, marching toward her dramatically. "Your dad, or whatever he is—just walks in like he owns the place and finds me in your shirt, barefoot and barely awake, making a fool of myself trying to work that prehistoric coffee machine—"

"You mean the beautifully vintage coffee machine?" she interjected, raising a hand in mock offense.

You shoved her shoulder gently. "Don’t deflect! I looked like I had just rolled out of bed after a one-night stand!"

Ellie choked. "You didn’t! You—you look cute."

Your brain short-circuited at that for half a second, but you rallied. "I was wearing your clothes, Ellie!"

"I didn’t tell you to wear my clothes!" she argued, but her voice was breathless, half-laughing. "And you do look cute!"

You shoved her again, this time with both hands, and she stumbled backward into the couch, grinning as she caught herself.

"Oh, okay, so it’s my fault," she said, recovering. "Next time, I’ll just let you walk around naked. Note taken."

"You didn’t even try to explain!" you pointed out, still feigning dramatic offense.

Ellie held her hands up in surrender, though her face and ears were red. "Okay, okay, you’re right! I panicked!"

"You liked it," you accused.

"I did not—!" Ellie protested, but she was laughing mid-sentence. "Okay—maybe. Maybe a little. It was kinda… nice. I mean, not the surprise Joel part. That part sucked."

You hovered above her where she’d half-sunk into the couch cushions, breathless from all the mock fighting, face flushed. The laughter slowed between you both.

"It was nice," you echoed, voice soft now. "Him thinking I was your girlfriend."

Ellie looked up at you, suddenly quiet, her grin faded into something gentler, something almost vulnerable. "You didn’t run away screaming, so… that’s something."

You dropped your gaze, fighting a shy smile. "I thought about it. Then I remembered I still have your hoodie, and you’d probably come after me."

Ellie sat up a little straighter, nudging your knee with hers. "Damn right I would’ve. It’s one of my favorites, you know."

"You’re unbelievable."

"But charming," she added hopefully.

You tilted your head like you were thinking it over. "Eh. You’re on thin ice."

She reached over and poked your side, making you squirm. "I brought you breakfast."

"That was mostly Joel." You finally let yourself smile fully, sitting beside her and tucking your legs underneath you, shoulder brushing hers.

"But I didn’t stop him," she said proudly. "You’re welcome."

You laughed again, leaning your head on her shoulder without thinking. It just felt natural. Warm. Safe.

Her voice was softer now, almost a whisper: "You can… stay. If you want. A little longer. You don’t have to rush back."

You didn’t lift your head. "You sure? I might steal more of your clothes."

"I’d let you," she mumbled. Then, like it was the easiest thing in the world, she added, "they look better on you anyway."

Your heart flipped. "God," you murmured, eyes closing, "you’re such a loser."

"Yours though," she said under her breath.

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sillylilsquid · 2 days ago

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pairing - thanos x reader summary - you never expected one night out with friends to shatter you. but after the fear, and bruises you can't scrub away, the only place that feels safe is in thanos' arms. he's not gentle, not always kind...but he's yours. and he makes it his mission to erase every mark but his own. warnings - au!thanos, no squid game, mention of SA, thanos being an ass but trying his best, sexual content. minors dni, 18+ only 4.5k words

Karaoke night should’ve been harmless.

It was just a night out with you friends. Loud music, neon lights, mismatched tambourine rhythms, drinks in different sized glasses, and off-pitch screaming to old pop songs. The kind of night meant to make you forget how exhausting life can be. You hadn’t even wanted to drink at first–but one shot turned into two, and then someone passed you a cocktail that was more vodka than juice.

You remember laughing a lot. Dancing in that small, cramped room. The guys your friend invited being louder than everyone else. You remember one of them offering to walk you home and when you told him you lived kind of far, he said, “you can just crash at mine. No funny business.”

But everything after that gets blurry.

You remember being tired. You remember lying down. You remember trying to say no.

And then…nothing. Until you woke up.

Your clothes askew. The sharp sting of shame sitting heavy in your throat. His bedroom smelled like cheap cologne and stale liquor. Your phone was dead. The taste in your mouth sour. And the bruises blooming like fingerprints around your neck and down your chest make you want to crawl out of your skin.

You snuck out before he woke up.

Back at your apartment, you plug your phone in with trembling hands. It lights up immediately.

23 missed calls. 15 messages.

yo you ghosting me now?

answer your phone

you with someone else?

the fuck’s going on, baby?

at least have the decency to tell me if you are

The lump in your throat nearly chokes you. You throw the phone face down on the couch and stumble into the shower. The water is too hot, scalding your skin, but you stand under it anyway. Scrubbing at your arms, your thighs, your neck. Reddening your skin until your reflection blurs in the fogged-up glass.

You don’t cry until after. When you see your reflection staring back at you in the mirror.

You text Thanos when you get out. Say you’re home. Say you’re sorry.

His reply is short.

nam gyu’s party tonight. 9pm. don’t bail

You stare at the screen for a long moment before replying. i’ll go.

And then you’re standing in front of your closet, yanking out an oversized hoodie and jeans. Something that covers everything. Something safe. You don’t want to go. But you don't want him to think anything’s wrong either.

The party is already buzzing by the time you get there. Music thumping. Smoke curling through the air. People pressed shoulder to shoulder in Nam Gyu’s massive apartment.

Thanos is already inside when you arrive. He’s leaning against a wall, all black on black, eyes sweeping the room until they land on you. His expression doesn’t change, but he pushes off the wall and meets you halfway.

“You look like you’re going to a funeral,” he says, flat, eyes skating over your hoodie.

“I’m cold,” you mumble.

He doesn’t press. Just jerks his chin toward the bar. “Drink?”

You shake your head. “Not tonight.”

You try to keep it together. Really, you do. But the music feels too loud, the bodies too close. You keep flinching when someone walks behind you. You’re hyper aware of your sleeves and your collar. Of how his eyes linger on you when he thinks you’re not looking.

You force a smile. Laugh at someone’s joke. Try to act normal.

Thanos watches all of it.

After a while, he leans in. “You okay?”

You nod too fast. “Yeah. I’m fine. Just tired.”

He doesn’t believe you. You know that. But he lets it go.

Until you tug on his sleeve and whisper, “Can we go?”

Thanos groaned the second you ask to leave. Runs a hand down his face, annoyed, already halfway through his drink. “Seriously? We just got here.”

“I know,” you murmur. “I just…I don’t feel good.”

He watches you for a long beat. Jaw tight, eyes unreadable. You can tell he’s trying to figure out if it’s bullshit. But then his shoulders drop, and he sighs, pushing away from the wall.

“Fine,” he mutters. “Let’s go.”

The car is quiet. Too quiet. He’s got one hand gripping the wheel drumming on the center console. You sit rigid beside him, hoodie pulled tight around your frame, your fingers wound in the sleeves.

He starts the engine. Puts it in reverse. Then he pauses, shifting the car back into park.

Thanos’ gaze shifts. Slowly. Like he’s noticed something out of the corner of his eye.

You feel it when his eyes land on the bruise just peeking from the edge of your hoodie–the top of a mark near your collarbone you couldn’t quite cover.

“What the fuck is that?”

You don’t have time to react before his hand is on you–firm, not gentle–and he yanks the collar of your hoodie down.

Hard.

The fabric pulls and your body tenses, the panic instant.

His face goes still when he sees them. The scattered hickies painted across your chest. Some deep. All unmistakable.

“What. The fuck.” His voice is low. Dangerous. “You’re joking, right?”

Your mouth opens, but nothing comes out.

He jerks back like you burned him. “You said you were at karaoke. With friends. You didn’t answer your phone all night. Now I know why.”

“No,” you say quickly, “it’s not what you think–”

“Oh, really?” He laughs–bitter and disbelieving. “Because it looks like some asshole had his fucking mouth all over you.”

“I didn’t do anything!” you snap, voice cracking.

“You expect me to believe that?” he growls. “What, you just tripped and fell into his goddamn bed?”

Your cheeks burn. Your stomach churns. “I didn’t cheat on you.”

“Then explain those bruises,” he barks, gesturing to your chest. “Explain why you’re acting like a ghost, why you couldn’t even look at me all night.”

“I can’t,” you bite out.

“That’s not good enough.”

The air is thick with it now–his anger, your fear, everything unspoken crowding the space between you. You turn toward the door, fumbling for the handle.

His voice stops you cold.

“If you get out of this car…” he says, voice tight, jaw clenched. “I’m not chasing you after this time.”

Your hand freezes. Gripping the handle.

You don’t look at him. Can’t. You just breathe, shallow and quick, heart in your throat.

Then you open the door and step out.

And true to his word, he doesn’t follow.

He doesn’t move.

Not when you slam the door shut. Not when your footsteps fade into the night. Not even when the silence in the car gets so loud it feels like it’s crawling under his skin.

Thanos sits there, seething. Jaw clenched, nostrils flaring, knuckles white around the steering wheel. But the anger is hollow now.

What the fuck just happened?

He leans back in the seat, drags a hand down his face.

He didn’t mean to yell. Not like that. But those fucking marks–

Thanos' mind replays it like a loop. The way you flinched when he grabbed your collar. The way your voice cracked when you insisted you didn’t cheat. The way your fingers trembled around the door handle like you were deciding if it was safer outside than in the car with him.

And worst of all–the way you left without looking back.

His gut twists.

Thanos stays parked there for a long time. Long enough for the streetlights to hum like static. Long enough for the guilt to start gnawing through the heat of his temper.

He thinks about the messages he sent you last night. The ones you never answered. The unread texts. The missed calls.

His throat tightens.

Eventually, he throws the car in drive and pulls away from the curb. The empty seat beside him feels colder now.

You walk home in silence, hoodie still clutched tight around your frame. Your head throbs. Your chest aches. You shower again–twice–scrubbing until your skin feels raw. You still can’t get warm.

It’s nearly 2 a.m. when your phone buzzes.

1:53 a.m.

are you home?

1:55 a.m.

i shouldn’t have yelled at you

i just…fuck. please answer me

2:01 a.m.

i’m coming over

You stare at the screen, fingers hovering but you don’t reply.

You barely have time to register what that means before you hear it.

The soft metallic click of your front door unlocking. You sit up, heart hammering.

Thanos steps into the apartment like a shadow–big, broad, still wearing the same jacket he had on at the party. His hair’s a little messy, jaw tight, but his eyes…They’re soft. Wild. Scared in a way you’ve never seen.

“I used the spare,” he mutters. “Didn’t want to wake you.”

You don’t say anything. Just watch him as he closes the door behind him, standing in your entryway like he’s not sure if he should come closer.

He looks around, as if checking if someone else is there. His voice is rough when he finally asks, “are you okay?”

You sit curled on the edge of the couch, arms wrapped around your knees, hoodie sleeves pulled down over your fingers. Your hair’s still damp from the shower, sticking to the back of your neck. You look up at him slowly, heart thudding.

Thanos stands there, staring at you for a long second. Then–

“Give me your phone.”

His voice is low. Controlled. But there’s an edge underneath it–one that could slice clean through you if he let it.

Your stomach drops. “What?”

Thanos takes a slow step forward, hand outstretched. “Your phone,” he says again, firmer. “Let me see it.”

You hesitate for a second, confused. Then you grab it from the coffee table, silently unlocking it before placing it in his open palm.

He takes it without a word. And for the next minute, all you hear is the soft sound of his thumb scrolling across your screen. His jaw tightens with every flick–his eyes scanning your messages, your calls, your apps.

Silence stretches.

When he finally speaks, his voice is different–deeper, quieter. “There’s nothing here.”

“No shit,” you whisper, staring down at your knees.

He exhales through his nose, tosses your phone onto the couch beside you. “So who the fuck was it?”

Your head snaps up. “I didn’t cheat on you.”

“You are covered in hickies,” he growls, taking a step closer. “You didn’t come home. You didn’t answer your phone. And now you’re acting like I’m the one losing my mind?”

“I didn’t cheat.”

“Then tell me what happened,” he snaps. “Because I’m trying, okay? I’m fucking trying not to lose it right now–”

He cuts himself off, fingers raking through his hair. “You left with that guy last night, didn’t you? The one on your friend’s story. I texted you so many times and you just–disappeared.”

You flinch at the sharpness in his voice.

“I thought maybe you got hurt. Or maybe…” he trails off, swallowing. “I didn’t want to think this. But then I saw those marks, and you just looked at me like I was some kind of asshole for asking.”

“I wasn’t looking at you like that–”

“I need you to tell me the truth,” he says, and this time, it’s almost a plea. “Please. Just say it. I’m going fucking insane here.”

You stare at Thanos, throat tight, fingerings gripping the edge of the cushion beneath you.

You don’t say anything.

You just sit there–frozen on the couch with your knees drawn up, eyes locked on him like he’s made of smoke and might vanish if you blink too hard.

But he’s not disappearing.

He’s getting louder.

Thanos scoffs, pacing in front of you now, hand dragging through his hair in agitation. “You know what? Fuck this. I come here at three in the goddamn morning because I’m worried, and you just sit there like a fucking ghost. Do you want me to think the worst? Because right now, I am.”

You flinch.

Still, you don’t speak.

He stops in front of you again. Voice sharper now. “You think I can’t see it? You’re not even looking at me–”

“I didn’t want to go with him,” you whisper.

His rant screeches to a halt.

Silence.

Thanos blinks, stunned. “What?”

“I didn’t…” you swallow, voice paper thin. “I didn’t want to go with him.”

The words hang there. They feel heavier than the walls, heavier than the hours you’ve carried them. You can feel them sitting in the center of the room now–ugly and raw, taking up all the air between you.

He stares at you.

And then his expression starts to change like he’s seeing something different now–like he’s finally noticing the stiffness in your body, the way your hands are trembling in your sleeves.

His voice drops to a rasp. “What the fuck did you just say to me?”

You don’t answer. Can’t answer.

“Take off the hoodie.”

You look at him–wide-eyed.

Thanos steps closer, gaze dark and deadly serious now. “Take it off,” he says again, quieter. “Show me what he did to you.”

You hesitate–everything in you screaming not to, not to relive it, not to look at it. But your hands move anyway. Slow. Mechanical. Like you’re watching yourself from somewhere far away.

You pull the hoodie up and over your head. It drops beside you.

And you can feel the change in the room instantly.

Thanos doesn’t say anything.

His eyes roam across your skin–your collarbone, your chest, your arms. The marks are all over you. Some purple and yellow as they begin to fade. Some darker and angry red. Finger-shaped bruises around your waist. Dark spots trailing down your ribs like they were put there on purpose.

He clenches his jaw so hard you swear you hear it crack.

And he just stares–like he can’t believe what he’s seeing. Like every second he looks is another second closer to losing control.

The silence doesn’t last.

Thanos rips a hand through his hair, turns away like he can’t stand to look at you–or maybe because he’s afraid of what he’ll do if he keeps looking.

And then it hits. The explosion.

“Fuck!”

He slams his fist into the wall. The sound ricochets through the apartment, making you jump.

“You let me think you cheated,” he growls, turning on you. “You let me sit there, drowning in it–thinking you chose someone else.”

“I didn’t–” you start, but he cuts you off.

“You didn’t tell me.” His voice cracks. “You let me think it was just some fucking hookup! You hid it from me!”

You flinch, guilt tightening your throat. “I’m sorry…”

“Don’t–” He stops short, chest heaving, face twisted in something between grief and rage. “Don’t fucking apologize to me.”

You don’t know what else to say. It spills out anyway, desperate and cracked. “I’m sorry you’re upset. I didn’t know what to do–I didn’t want you to see me like this. I didn’t want to ruin–”

“He ruined you.” His voice drops into something dangerous.

Your lips press together, eyes stinging. You look down at your lap, ashamed, raw. “Yeah…”

“No.”

The word slices the air. You look up.

And the look in his eyes?

It’s lethal.

Thanos storms toward you, crouches in front of the couch like he wants to shake you, like he doesn’t know whether to scream or gather you in his arms and never let you leave again.

“No one ruins you.” His voice is low now. Deadly calm. “No one ruins you.”

Your mouth parts. His gaze is burning into you, all fury and heartbreak and something else–something that coils down your spine and makes you ache in a different way.

His hand comes up, gentle, grazing your jaw where there aren’t bruises.

“No one ruins you,” he says again, softer this time. Then, voice rough as gravel: “Except for me.”

The breath leaves your lungs.

Your hands tremble where they rest on your lap. You don’t even realize you’re crying until he brushes a tear away with his thumb.

“Don’t hide from me,” he murmurs. “You think I can’t handle the dark parts of you? You think I can’t hold them?”

You blink at him.

“You’re mine.” His thumb presses under your chin, tilting your face up. “And I don’t care how broken you think you are. You’re still mine.”

You don’t remember when you crawled into his lap.

Maybe it was after the third apology. Maybe it was when your voice broke on the words I didn’t know how to tell you.

But the moment Thanos sat back on the couch, jaw clenched and hands twitching with rage, you slipped between his knees, reached for him like it was the only thing you knew how to do–and then collapsed into him.

And he let you.

He let you cry into his chest, his hoodie soft and smelling like him. He let your hands curl into the fabric, bunching it in your fists like you’d fall apart without the weight of him grounding you. He held you–arms steel around your body, his voice low and steady in your ear.

“I’ve got you.”

“You’re okay now.”

“He’s not coming near you again.”

You lost track of time like that. All you knew was the rhythm of his heart against your cheek and the way his fingers traced your spine like a silent promise: I’m here. I’m not going anywhere.

The next day, you hardly left his side.

Everywhere he went, you were right there. Quiet. Watchful. Clingy in a way that surprised even you.

When he went to the kitchen–you followed.

When he sat on the floor to fix something–you dropped next to him, thigh pressed to his.

When he got up to take a call–you held onto the hem of his shirt, like maybe he’d vanish if you didn’t.

He didn’t say anything about it. Not once.

Just slipped his hand into yours, or touched the back of your neck in passing, or glanced at you like he could feel the pull too.

That night, curled up on his couch with a movie playing low in the background, you shifted in his lap. You were wearing one of his hoodies again–something oversized and soft and safe smelling. His hand rested on your thigh, thumb drawing lazy circles.

And you said it.

“I want you to mark me.”

Thanos paused.

You looked up at him, voice steadier this time. “I want you to make me forget his marks. I want to remember yours instead.”

He stares at you for a moment. Long enough that your heart fluttered in your chest like a warning bell. You almost backtracked–almost took it back.

But then he shook his head slowly. “Baby girl…”

Your throat tightened.

“I don’t think that’s a good idea right now,” he said gently. “Not when you’re still hurting.”

You looked down. “But I trust you.”

“I know,” he murmured. “And that’s exactly why I’m not gonna touch you like that. Not tonight. Not when part of you still feels like you’re trying to erase something.”

You swallowed hard. It wasn’t rejection–it didn’t feel like rejection. It felt like him protecting you from yourself. And still…there was that ache. That need to feel something else–anything else.

“Can I at least sleep with you tonight?” you whispered.

His arms tightened around you. “You don’t even have to ask.”

A few weeks later–Club Pentagon

Thanos has barely taken his eyes off you all night.

It’s been weeks since that night you first clung to him like he was the only thing keeping you from sinking. Weeks of slow, tender moments. Of healing. Of his hands on your back, your waist, your thighs–but never lower. Never past what you were ready for.

You wanted to be ready.

You wanted him to take you apart with those same hands that held you so gently.

But he waited.

Patient. Protective. Frustratingly in control.

And now? With the thump of the bass vibrating under your feet, and your dress riding just a little higher with every sway of your hips–you could feel the tension radiating off him from across the room.

Thanos was leaning against the wall near the bar, drink untouched in his hand, watching you like he wanted to devour you right there on the dance floor.

You smiled.

And then your heart stopped.

He was here.

The guy from that night. Laughing with a group of people, beer in hand, like he hadn’t done anything wrong. Like your skin hadn’t been covered in his bruises. Like he didn’t destroy a piece of you.

You froze mid step. Your drink sloshed a little.

The music faded into white noise.

Thanos noticed.

He was next to you in an instant. “What’s wrong?”

You couldn’t answer. Your eyes were locked. Adn Thanos followed your gaze. His whole body went rigid.

His hand shot out to rest on your lower back, possessive and grounding. “Stay here,” he growled.

“No–wait,” you whispered, catching his wrist. “Don’t.”

He was already moving toward the guy.

“Thanos.”

You chased after him, grabbing at his arm, trying to pull him back. You caught up just as he squared up in front of the asshole.

“Got something to say to me?” Thanos asked, voice full of hate.

The guy blinked. “Do I…know you?”

“Yeah,” Thanos snapped. “You hurt my girl.”

Confusion flickered, then something uglier. A smirk. “Your girl?”

Thanos shoved him–just hard enough to knock his drink out of his hand. “Say it again. I fucking dare you.”

You squeezed between them, heart pounding, hands pressed to Thanos’ chest. “Please, not here.”

His chest was heaving. Jaw clenched. But when he looked down at you–he saw it. That fear. That ache.

And he backed down.

For you.

Thanos grabbed your hand and pulled you through the crowd. Past the pulsing lights, down a hallway near the bathrooms.

He slammed the door behind you both, locking it.

You barely had time to speak before his mouth crashed into yours.

Finally.

The kiss was brutal. Heated. Weeks of restraint bursting all at once. His hands tangled in your hair, yours fisting his shirt.

“You should’ve let me kill him,” he breathed against your lips.

“I didn’t want to ruin tonight,” you whispered.

His hands were on your thighs now, lifting you onto the bathroom counter. “You didn’t. But I’m gonna fucking ruin you now, baby. Got it?”

You nodded, breathless. “Please.”

Thanos groaned low in his throat.

Your fingers undid his belt, your mouth at his neck, tasting the salt of his skin. He cupped your cheek, gaze searching yours one last time.

And then you were on your knees.

He hissed your name when your mouth wrapped around him, one hand on the back of your head, the other gripping the counter behind him. Every groan, every curse, was laced with need. And affection. And possessiveness.

“You look so pretty like this,” he panted. “Fuck baby girl…that mouth.”

It was messy. Desperate. Cathartic.

When he came, it was with a low growl and a string of praise tangled in your hair–so good, fuck, that’s it, baby girl.

He pulled you into his arms after, still half dressed, kissing your forehead.

“You’re mine,” Thanos said again. Quieter this time.

You nodded against his chest. “Yours.”

The apartment door barely shuts before Thanos has you pressed to it, mouth crashing into yours like a storm finally given permission to destroy. His hands are everywhere–palming your hips, gripping your thighs, sliding beneath the hoodie he’d let you borrow in the car.

“You shouldn’t look at me like that,” he growls against your lips. “Like you want me to fucking devour you.”

You whisper back, breathless and already aching, “What if I do?”

That’s all it takes.

Thanos spins you, walking you backward down the hallway with that dark, hungry look in his eyes, like he can’t decide whether to kiss you or throw you down. When your back hits the bedroom door, he opens it and pushes you through, lips never leaving yours.

“Take it off,” he commands, voice low and feral, tugging at the hem of your hoodie.

You obey, pulling it over your head, bare underneath. His eyes darken at the sight of you–his girl, trembling with need, still flushed from what just happened in that club bathroom.

He steps closer, sliding his hand up your ribcage, thumb brushing the underside of your breast. “You’re mine,” he says, not a question. A statement. A promise. A warning.

You nod, breath catching in your throat. “Yours.”

He kisses you again–rougher this time, bruising. Teeth and tongue. He backs you toward the bed and you fall back with a gasp, watching him pull off his shirt, then climb over you like he’s starving.

His mouth is on your neck, trailing down to the places that man marked you weeks ago. Thanos bites. Sucks. Lingers.

“I’m gonna cover every fucking inch of you,” he growls. “So you never forget who this body belongs to.”

Thanos works you open slow–but not gently. Fingers curling inside you, lips never leaving your skin. When he finally pushes into you, you moan like it’s the only sound your body remembers how to make.

“Fuck,” he hisses thorugh clenched teeth. “So tight. So fucking wet for me.”

Every thrust is a promise. Every kiss, a vow. He takes you hard–rough enough that the headboard bangs the wall, fast enough that your back arches off the bed, fingers clutching the sheets.

But he doesn’t let go. Not for a second. His mouth is on yours, his hand gripping yours, like he’s anchoring you to the moment, like he needs you to feel it.

“I’m gonna ruin you,” he growls against your neck. “So no one ever thinks about touching you again.”

You gasp his name, over and over again, until your moans break into whimpers, until you fall apart beneath him–shaking, wrecked, owned.

And only then does he let go, with a guttural groan, spilling into you with a shudder and a low curse, his mouth still pressed to your skin.

It’s quiet afterward. Heavy breathing, tangled limbs. You’re still clinging to him when he shifts up and kisses your shoulder, gently this time. Like the storm has passed.

“You okay?” he murmurs, brushing your hair out of your face.

You nod, eyes glassy. “Yeah. Are you?”

Thanos helps you sit up, pressing a kiss to your forehead, then disappears into the bathroom. When he returns, he’s holding a warm washcloth, carefully wiping the sweat and makeup from your skin like you’re something fragile.

“You’re so pretty,” he whispers, thumb brushing against your cheek. “Even like this. Especially like this.”

You smile, soft and sleepy, and he pulls one of his shirts over your head. It falls to your thighs, smelling like him. Familiar. Safe.

Thanos helps you into bed and slides in beside you, strong arms wrapping around your waist as you press your cheek to his chest.

Neither of you speak for a while.

Until he kisses your hair and whispers, “Next time you see him–I want you to look him in the eye. And know that you’re mine.”

You close your eyes, fingers curling into his side. “I already do.”

#thanos x y/n #thanos smut #thanos x reader #t.o.p x reader #t.o.p fanfic #t.o.p bigbang #thanos #thanos squid game #thanos imagine #choi su bong x reader #choi su bong #squid game x y/n #squid game #alternate universe #player 230 x y/n #player 230 x reader

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voidofthevoidmv · 18 hours ago

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TAKING SHIFTS- A classic Stanley Pines adopts the shapeshifter AU-> Little info dump

Basic gist of it is that post portal accident, Stanley is trying his damndest to get his brother back by fixing the portal- Which logically requires that Stanley get all the journals so that he actually has a full blueprint to look at.

However, in his search for any of the journals, he discovers some kind of top secret tree bunker- Classic Ford antics. He investigates the bunker, only to find some kind of kid monster, who is under the impression that Stan is his own brother and tries to kill him. The only thing that convinces the creature that Stan is NOT Ford, is the fact that Stan has a mullet and his brother does not. Would you be surprised to discover that the mullet would play a deeper role in things than at first glance? Not me, but I think it’s very funny anyways.

The monster kid is revealed to be some kind of alien shapeshifter thing, and upon realizing that Stanley is some kind of Ford doppleganger, the shapeshifter suddenly becomes the most clingy kid ever, following Stan around throughout the bunker like a lost duckling. Stanley tries to be chill about it, but the memories of being attacked are still pretty fresh in his brain.

After a bit the two will leave the bunker, yadda yadda yadda dialogue, and Stanley will be concerned to find that this kid hasn’t had the best upbringing in the world so far- If the limited English and big eyed staring at the sky was anything to go by. While Stan has half a mind to leave this monster kid to the wild, he apparently has these weird issues with abandonment. Something about seeing himself in the little monster kid. So he takes him back to the shack, helping the shapeshifter pick a name that isn’t a weird number. They eventually land on Simon, which is a play on Simon Says, because of course any name idea Stanley has it just HAS to be a pun.

And of course, taking in this shapeshifter will trigger changes to the timeline that will affect how things will go from here on out. A lot of wholesome, father kid bonding and found family stuff.

Other unmentioned information and idea snippets:

-The journals are found much sooner than in canon, which means Ford is brought back sooner than in canon. Journal 2 is found first, due to the fact that Stanley has Simon (Shifty) enrolled in elementary school, which just so happens to be were one of the journals are hidden. Simon finds it and recognizes it- And Stan is so proud. Meanwhile, later on journal 3 is found by Soos in a situation similar to canon, but like- Soosified.

-Stanley is constantly wracked with guilt as time goes on, because he will hear about of make a realization about the poor treatment of Simon by Ford and his assistant in the past- All while Stanley is still actively working to bring him back. Simon doesn’t know that it’s FORD that Stan is trying to bring back, which will only result in some betrayal later on when Ford inevitably returns.

-Simon, Tate, and Soos act almost as siblings, due to circumstances that bring them together at different points in time. Tate is Simon’s best friend, a friendship which had blossomed when Emma-May showed up to the Pines cabin door, demanding that she see her ex husband and that she has some WORDS to say to the homewrecking scientist who ruined everything. Stanley had never been more confused about anything- But while Stanley is trying his best to save the situation, Tate and Simon hit it off quickly despite the broken language barrier. Meanwhile, Soos come in later when both Simon and Stan are a bit older. Stan and Soos’s relationship is similar to how it played out in canon, but Simon gets really jealous. May or may not try to kill Soos because of it- But it’s ok cuz once Soos’s natural charm infects Simon, the big brother little brother dynamic is born.

-Simon practically idolizes Stan, and makes it a point to have his human form reflect that. He has a mullet, and it reminds him that Stan is Stan- Even after Stan cuts the mullet off so he could be a bit more business appropriate. Simon also has little freckles cuz he saw the little baby Boyish Dan and just immediately was like- Oh I want those too-

-The shapeshifter will also have his own little book of “forms” he could take. He has photos and information of various creatures, things, and people- I want you to envision how this book looks and is treated like a Pokémon card collection binder. The shapeshifter may get into photography. By the time the little twins Dipper and Mable show up, it’s not the journals that they find- But Simon’s shifting scrapbook. Which is how they find themselves getting involved in the spooky stuff in the first place.

-Because of Simon and Fords earlier arrival, the younger Pines twins adventures in Gravity Falls are a tad bit tweaked. Simon is a very powerful shapeshifter who is plenty protective of his little niblings- The Mcguckets are somewhat healthy with the whole divorced situation, and Bill is not an issue alongside Gideon… Everything else is free game though. Pretty silly.

- The way that Fiddleford is introduced to the duo is that at some point, Stan gets his memories of Simon wiped causing severe emotional distress- And it’s lowkey kinda heartbreaking. (The blind eye sees Simon shifting in front of Stan and assumes the worst.) Once Stan gets his memories back, it’s the beginning of a warpath. (And also the end of Fiddlefords crazy cultist arc- Which is good for Tate who really likes hanging around his bestie.)

-Hijinks WILL ensue, especially after Ford comes back. Probably some other tidbits I’m missing, but that’s a problem for another day- If this interest you folks anyways- Lemmy know if this is interesting or anything and feel free to ask questions. I haven’t thought so much as to how Bill gets defeated earlier and everything- But if anyone has any cool ideas I’d be open to it. Unsure if I’ll ever get to writing this one 😂

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sylusjinxedpaw · 1 day ago

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One coin, two faces

tags: young!Caleb love and deepspace, angst with no comfort, mentions of trauma, slight mentions of bullying, young!mc love and deepspace, mentions of mental health struggles, mention of C-PTSD symptoms on an early age.

notes: this is my first fic, so pleasee don't be harsh on me, my anxiety does it for me don't worry. It's funny how the first one ended up being around Caleb when he's my least favorite, maybe is because I did a Spotify playlist about him because I kept bumping around songs that made me think "this is so Caleb coded..." lol. Anyways, my first language isn't english, so if you see mistakes that's why. Also I apologize if I made Caleb ooc, I tried to keep it as close as the game as I could, but also diving into how I imagine he would act as a kid being taken care of from his abuser. Constructive criticism is appreciated.

Edit: This is now on ao3, if someone prefers to read it there.

word count: 1,775

—🍎—

Caleb always knew how a two-faced person looked like. After all, he was one of those. In order to survive and maintain peace for their household — and for mc, mostly — he had learned how to facade a mask of endearment and politeness around their "grandma" . He didn't really like it, but for the sake of the love and protection he held for his "pip-squeak" he would do anything it takes to see her happy.

But for some reason, his mind and brain didn't quite comprehend that their caretaker was also a two-faced kind of person. For Caleb, the person who took his beloved's life without thinking it twice many times in a cold-blooded manner, just to see her come back to be exploited again on their shared tests of their experiments wasn't the same as the person in his life.

How could someone do that to them since they have memory — since he had memory, because mc didn't remember anything that happened in their early ages, for better or for worse — treat them now as if they were part of a warm, kind-hearted family without a dark past? That torned him inside, almost making him feel like his organs twisted between each other in a nauseating way.

What made it even worse was the moments of tenderness started by Josephine herself. That was the most surprising thing that he has experienced from her; the warmest meals that she prepared for lunch, the hugs she gave both of them before sending them to school, the adoration in her eyes when she brushed mc's hair every day. Even how she tidied up their beds.

A bold contrast compared with the cold environment that they lived in that old laboratory, surrounded by researchers that gave them the cold shoulder even when they were distressed after the rough examinations they received, or when his love cried, pained and tired after long scheduled researches — more like torture, but they never named the practice as such, despite its gruesome practices and procedures.

Because for them, it was for the sake of mankind. Something that was worth crossing the lines of morality, even with kids — or laboratory rats, there was no difference and they were no different from them in terms of life expectancy and quality.

Until the non-expected consecuenses caught their tormentors, and everything went downhill for them, leading to the events of today's doubts.

Even if he remembered everything, Josephine didn't act on it like he expected her to do. At least not in front of mc. When she was around there were no difference between them and how she cared for every single one. When for some reason mc wasn't around but Caleb was, things changed in a weird way.

She started to act like she was walking on eggshells around him, her act was more distant but she still tried to care — on a certain way — for the oldest kid on her care.

When he wasn't really around her on those moments of uncertainty, he could feel her gaze over him, when she passed through the hallway and the door of his bedroom was slightly open. She would watch him through the gap between the doorframe and the door, with a look of caution and a serious expression, like she was expecting something from him.

Caleb thought, in one of those days, that she saw him as a tickling bomb that could explode at any moment and destroy everything. He wondered if she saw him as a threat to the stability she was trying to build around their lives after everything she did in the past. After all, he still held the memories, as opposite of the girl that wasn't around at that moment. He knew and remembered the real face that hid behind that tender and caring old lady that had put a roof above their heads, and tried to act like nothing has happened.

He also felt like he was about to explode at any moment; his body was always tense, jaw clenched, and he was always keeping an eye over her when she was spending time with mc. Part of him wanted to rest and leave the memories behind, and wanted to feel hope around having a stable life with his beloved, but another part, sometimes a voice in his head — aggressive, resentful and insecure, like a harmed dog on a defensive pose — told him that those were foolish thoughts, and that he should be alert of any changes around mc. He was the only one that still carried the heavy burden of what Josephine did to them, so he had the role of protecting her no matter what.

Even if that meant sacrificing any type of peace or slight happiness for him.

It was like that before, in that cruel and nightmare fuel place, and it wasn't going to change any time soon. That's a vow that he made to himself, and to that voice that kept him alert when he dared to daydream of a simple life with no worries. When for a single second he made the mistake of lowering his guard around them, and started seeing her in a different light, thinking she had changed.

Truth is that old habits die hard, and he could feel that she hadn't changed when she had half her mask on when it was just both of them present on that house.

Josephine couldn't maintain her full disguise when it was just the two of them — not that she didn't try — but she stopped trying soon enough she saw that her treatment wasn't well received or reciprocated.

How stupid of her thinking that he would do the same, acting like nothing happened and that it didn't mark his mind, body and soul for the rest of his life.

"Hey, can I ask you something?" Caleb approached mc, watching his surroundings to verify that they were alone.

"Uh, sure? What's wrong? You kinda have a long face..." said the girl with the two ponytails on both sides of her head, looking at him with those big eyes full of worry.

"Do you sometimes feel... Like all of this, our lives and peace, will crumble down at any second?" Caleb fidgeted with his own hands, nervous about daring to say those words aloud instead of keep it to himself like he always did.

Mc looked at him with confusion on her face, not knowing where those fears came from. Everything was alright, and even if she had difficulties at school because of some bullies, he always took care of it without difficulty. But even then, that kind of problems didn't mean that the world would fall apart at any second, therefore she couldn't understand the source of his fears.

"What do you mean? Caleb... Have you been having those nightmares that you won't tell me about again?"

"No. It's nothing. Forget what I said." Caleb ended the conversation there. She didn't try to budge for more context, when Caleb didn't want to talk or share some of his thoughts with her, there was nothing that could make him do it. It was like trying to open a safe without knowing the combination of it.

She was right in one part: It was half related to his nightmares. He used to have recurring ones with different scenarios but every single one shared one similarity, that he was abandoned, left behind. Either in a crowded place, when he let go of mc's hand and got lost, and they didn't come back to look for him; or Josephine left him on an unknown place on purpose, to get rid of him.

Sometimes it was just him trying to find them both by walking long distances in what he thought was the path they took before they disappeared of his sight, or just him on distress, trying to navigate on a obscured laboratory after he woke up with no one around.

And that made him fear that one day he would be left behind, that for some reason Josephine would snap out of fear and would manage to get rid of him just like she tried when they had to leave in a hurry from that place, but couldn't do it because of his efforts of not letting go of mc's unconscious body. The fear that he felt at that moment never left him.

But it also had something to do with a creeping anxiousness that came of out nowhere, when everything was nice and quiet. Peace never felt like it should have been enjoyed. His body was even more rigid and alert on those moments than when he was under pressure, he preferred to have to fix mc's problems, deal with her bullies and keep an eye on Josephine than do nothing. Doing and resting felt like a forbidden thing to do, and he always expected to be punished for it eventually.

And Josephine existence in the present — and her contradictory behavior — didn't make it any easy. Caleb felt like he needed to keep an eye on her at all times, just to prevent a catastrophe of her going to her old ways, dragging mc back. In case some of the cables in her head that made her run away disappeared and she decided that what she was doing wasn't worth the time.

But then the interactions with mc happened, and she reciprocated them back with so much eagerness...

And she looked so happy, almost like she have had a change of heart or was replaced with someone who looked like her, but was so different than the old laboratory researcher that did almost took their lives for good many times...

Caleb knew how a two-faced person looked like very well. And there was nothing that he abhorred more than having to deal with one, who tried to amend what she did by trying to act like a caring parent now.

But what he hated the most was himself, and his two faces, how they fought with each other. One being disgustingly hopeful that let him believe that act, and the other, who had so much resentment that he couldn't let go of the past and couldn't rest, working non stop on looking for any kind of signal that meant he had to flee away with his most precious person.

And he hated so much how he was just a kid, oh how much he did hate to have to depend on his past — and present, if he had to be honest — martyr.

Caleb always dreamed of being and adult finally, fulfilling his duty of becoming a pilot, and taking mc out of that place to never to come back and for once, being safe and sound.

Because in his world, it could only exist one two-faced person, even if being one made him even more disgusted with himself.

—🍎—

ay dioh so with this, I did a big jump into doing something that I was postponing for a long time haha. Might write more in the future, but it might past a long time until I publish something again and have the inspiration that possessed me yesterday. Be kind to me please and my chicken heart. I know it's not the usual Caleb x mc everyone does, but I had to put it out of my chest since I started to feel so bad for this man recently and everything he went through.

It makes me laugh how I did end up writing angst with no comfort when I avoid reading about it.

#lads #love and deepspace #lnds #love and deepspace caleb #lnds caleb #lads caleb #caleb #caleb fanfic #fan fic writing #caleb angst

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alicelillianshaw · 3 days ago

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Alice nods in confirmation— she probably could. There was something about moms that gave them a special edge. An intuition, a secret power that could only be gained through motherhood.

Was it something Alice would inherit, if she had children? She imagines herself standing in a kitchen— colorful tile, an island to set a bowl full of pancake batter upon — and skillfully catching them in their mischief, dishing out orders and commands as she arranged the chocolate chips in the crescent of a smile.

...It was a nice thought.

An appealing one.

'Well, I think your mom would find it very easy to give me special treatment when she found out I had a crush on you.'

Alice starts at that— accidentally dislodges a rock with her hand, watches it fall to the bottom of the falls with a clatter.

Crush?

She bites viciously at the inside of her cheek, willing her face into something neutral.

'Like, back then? Oh yeah. I would’ve totally had a crush on you. Would’ve found every way to annoy you in class. And your mom would've let me off the hook because of that.'

Oh. Oh. Again, this all seems very Jack— saying whatever he pleased with a breezy, confident sort of delivery. As if it were obvious he would have had a crush on Alice in high school. As if it were only right.

"So my mom would like you because you pestered me?"

Alice turns her head to study Jack— it's impossible to keep the smile from spreading on her face now, but she tries anyway, biting at her bottom lip in attempt that probably just makes her look all the more flustered.

"I would probably throw erasers at you."

Alice taps her free hand against her thigh.

"Like if you were annoying me— I'd buy a whole pack just to toss at your head." A beat. "And then if you stopped trying to annoy me I'd also throw erasers at you."

A snort, followed by a smile, followed by some of the most heated warmth flooding her cheeks. Well. Jack was right, wasn't he? This is exactly how it would have played out. Alice feels certain of that— and was certain that she would have had an even bigger crush on Jack.

It's very funny, very wild, that he's already admitting all this, on day two, here at the falls, but then again—

Jack seems like the kind of person to dive directly into everything.

"Would you have asked me to the dance?"

Alice's eyes narrow. "I would have asked you, if you didn't. I'd ask you because of ...."

A pointed beat. Surely he knew what came next.

"...Personal reasons."

Alice was definitely right. Her mother could likely read her mind, the same way that Jack’s could read his. Jack wondered if he’d have that same type of intuition whenever he became a father.

“I bet she could read your mind,” Jack answered. He could still picture Alice’s mom — just an older version of Alice. Maybe with a few strands of gray in her hair, but more or less, the same. Same smile, same eyes.

"You think you would have been her favorite because I—"

Jack’s ears perked up. He suddenly became hyperaware of their palms touching. He didn’t want to let go for any reason. She’d stopped herself, but Jack desperately wanted to know what words came next.

"I should have known you'd want special treatment. For personal reasons."

Jack wanted to revisit her earlier statement. Because you… what?

“Well, I think your mom would find it very easy to give me special treatment when she found out I had a crush on you.”

Jack tilted his head, stared up at the tree limbs hanging over their heads as if he’d just said the most casual thing in the world. But they were beyond casual now — with the handholding, the kiss on the cheek, the reward of going to New Mexico together.

“Like, back then? Oh yeah. I would’ve totally had a crush on you. Would’ve found every way to annoy you in class. And your mom would've let me off the hook because of that.”

#LKJSDFLKJDSKFDSFSDFDF

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olderthannetfic · 2 days ago

Note

https://www.tumblr.com/olderthannetfic/780835363641049088/httpswwwtumblrcomolderthannetfic779889755795

Apathetic meta humor is the absolute worst kind. Like if your characters don’t care about the plot, why should I? Shrek would not be so good if all Shrek did was snark at fairy tale creatures and mock tropes.

It’s only because Shrek very much cares that he does not fit into the idealized trope of prince charming and cares about how this affects his life, that Shreks one and two were so good.

I once saw this comic dedicated to this apathy, about a straight dude trapped in BL world, and trying not to be in a BL story and maybe get a girlfriend. Literally every single character in the comic other than

Sorry my ask got cut off. I was talking about a straight dude in BL world. Anyway that comic was so boring because of its protagonist, literally every single character, even single panel characters, were more interesting than him. Drunk guy passed out in the street? More interesting. Random guy at bar who drinks too much, more interesting. Random Crossdresser? Boy who mistook crossdresser for a girl? More interesting. That’s because these are all in-universe setups for stories that these characters will be having that the main character makes it his mission to not be part of for no real reason. The writing is so obnoxiously “self-aware” that it crosses the line from mocking minor BL tropes like the sensitive neck, to mocking straight up conventions of storytelling. Guy who sticks out from the crowd is probably an important character? Wow I would have never guessed. That’s so insightful. BL stories often start with a guy finding someone passed out in the street? A lot of stories start that way it’s a strong narrative hook. What’s the point of parodying these cliches? Do you have something to say? At this point a parody where the straight guy gets stalked by a creepy Seme because “BL is rapey” would be better because at least that would be a story about something, with something to actually say about BL other than “it sure does exist and have tropes”. Because what you have is literally a story about a guy who is dedicated to his goal of not doing anything that might make him part of the narrative because he doesn’t want to be gay. There’s a reason why “that happened” and “she’s right behind me isn’t she” are painful cliches. Boiled down, they’re both meta jokes that are like “ah yes the events from the story we’re in are in fact occurring right now, how funny” no it’s not, it’s really not. I don’t need to be reminded that this is a fiction story with tropes.

What, like A Man who Defies the World of BL?

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soluversworld · 3 hours ago

Text

Jelly and a Wish - REDACTED x G.N Reader

Genre: Fluff

Summary: — It's your birthday, REDACTED wants to do something for you, (This is a gift for Render!!!) Thank you for being nice towards me since day 1! It means a lot to me!

Please everyone wish happy birthday to Render,

( Reader is a g.n!)

Content Warning : Nsfw jokes so </3

Did not proof read/Rushed.

It was 12:08 AM when you heard it.

The distinct, unmistakable clatter of something metallic hitting the kitchen tile. Followed by a very soft, very specific curse:

“…motherf—fuckin’ hell, that was glass—”

You sat up instantly, blinking into the dark. You weren’t exactly afraid of the dark. Not really. Just… mildly unnerved by the whole unknown-space-no-lights-possible-ghosts vibe.

But more concerning: the cold, empty space next to you in bed.

Your arm reached out instinctively, brushing over rumpled sheets. “...Redacted?”

No answer.

You frowned, grabbed the small heart-shaped pillow you kept by your side—for comfort, obviously—and tiptoed your way into the hallway. The floor was cold under your feet, and the glow from the kitchen spilled into the dark like some mischievous spirit.

You crept closer, pillow clutched like a weapon.

"Don't be a demon," you whispered under your breath. "Don't be a burglar. Don't be a—"

You turned the corner.

And froze.

There, in the middle of the kitchen, stood Redacted.

Shirtless. Hair messy. Covered—and covered—in streaks of dark, glossy chocolate glaze. Their tongue poked out the corner of their mouth as they tried, with one spoon and absolutely zero grace, to scoop what remained of a shattered dessert into a bowl.

They paused mid-scoop when they noticed you.

"...Shit," he muttered.

You blinked. "Are you okay?? What are you—?"

"I was bein' quiet." They frowned like you were the problem. "Y’weren’t supposed to hear that."

"I heard you drop a glass bowl."

"...It was ceramic. But yeah."

You snorted.

They stared at you, shirtless and sticky, chocolate streaked across their tattooed arms and torso like they had lost a very dramatic battle with a pastry. Even had a glossy smear on the curve of their collarbone, glinting in the overhead light.

You tried not to laugh. Failed. A giggle slipped out.

"Oh my god," you whispered. "You look like you got into a fight with a donut."

They deadpanned, a chocolate-smeared brow lifting. "Y’think this is funny?"

"Very much so."

That earned a low, boyish huff from them—the kind that was all fondness, no real heat. The kind that always made your chest ache a little because it was so them.

Still, his eyes didn’t leave yours.

They gleamed. Intense. Obsessive. That fierce, unmistakable affection he never quite hid when he wasn’t playing pretend as Ren.

You took a tiny step closer. "You okay?"

"I didn’t mean to wake you."

"You didn’t. The chaos did." You hugged your pillow tighter. "...If you needed something sweet, you could’ve, I dunno, ordered cake? Or woken me up?"

They smiled—slow, a little giddy. "I was plannin’ to."

"Waking me up?"

He stepped closer. "Eventually."

You tilted your head. "Then why are you already covered in—?"

"C’mere."

You blinked. "What?"

"Come closer."

"...Why?"

They grinned. "I’m not gonna bite you."

"That's a lie."

They laughed—low, dark, devastating—then crooked a finger at you. "Angel."

You sighed but stepped forward anyway. He met you halfway, plucking the pillow from your hands and tossing it to the counter with casual ease.

Before you could even ask another question, they kissed you.

It was soft at first. Slow. Sweet.

Then it deepened—sticky and warm, tasting of chocolate and midnight, the kind of kiss that made your toes curl and your head spin. Their hands slid up your back, tugging you closer, their mouth smiling against yours like they'd been waiting all night just for this.

When they finally pulled back, you were flushed, breathless, and very confused.

"...What was that for?" you whispered.

He brushed his thumb along your cheek.

"Happy Birthday, Angel."

You blinked.

"...Huh?"

Their grin widened, boyish and smug. "You forgot."

You just stared at them, dumbfounded.

They leaned in, voice a soft, sinful whisper against your ear. "It’s midnight, sweetheart. That means it’s officially your birthday."

Your jaw dropped. "I—oh my god."

"Yeah." They kissed your cheek, the corner of your mouth, the tip of your nose. "Was gonna surprise you with chocolate cake in bed. But, uh... gravity disagreed."

You laughed, burying your face in their sticky, chocolate-smeared chest. "You idiot."

Their arms wrapped around you, pulling you tight against them. "Guilty."

You sighed into their warmth, peeking up at their face. "So this whole mess was for me?"

"All of it." They cradled your jaw in one big, sticky hand and kissed you again, soft and slow. "Y’don’t even know the rest. There’s balloons in the closet. A playlist. I was gonna wear the ribbon."

You choked. "What ribbon?"

He smirked. "You'll see."

You shook your head, giggling. Unhinged. Completely unhinged. And so sweet it made your heart hurt.

"You could’ve just woken me up, you know."

He nuzzled your temple, murmuring against your skin, "Didn’t wanna ruin the surprise. Besides..."

He kissed the chocolate from the corner of your mouth, voice low and rough, almost a growl:

"...Wanted to see that look on your face when you realized."

You melted.

"You’re such a sap."

"I’m obsessed," he corrected, without shame. "Hopelessly. Helplessly."

You smiled, threading your fingers through their messy hair.

"Happy birthday to me," you whispered.

They hummed, pressing another kiss to your lips like they couldn’t stand to be away from you for more than a second. "Y’better make a wish."

You kissed them back, slow and sleepy and covered in chocolate, and whispered:

"I already got it."

You couldn’t stop giggling.

The sheer sight of them—covered in chocolate glaze, shirtless, smeared in sugar like a walking dessert disaster—was enough to send you into a breathless, joy-drunk fit of laughter. They stood there, eyes narrowed, watching you laugh with your whole chest, hands braced on the counter as they sulked dramatically.

"Y’really think this is funny?"

"You look like a feral toddler that broke into a candy factory."

"Wow," they deadpanned.

"Love of my life, everyone. Cutely covered in chocolate..!"

You were still grinning as you grabbed their wrist and tugged them toward the hallway.

"Where’re we goin’?" they asked, still trailing chocolate with every step.

You turned, walking backward, still holding their hand. "To the bath. You’re dripping.."

They groaned, low and theatrical. “But I had plans, Angel…”

You laughed again and kicked open the bathroom door, flipping on the light. "Yeah, well, now your plans involve hot water and soap."

“And you?”

You smirked. "Maybe."

They sat on the edge of the tub while you leaned over to start the water, steam already beginning to curl from the faucet. The water warmed, you turned back to them—messy-haired, Blue-eyed, looking more like them than ever.

Chocolate streaked across the ink on their chest, making the black lines of their Japanese-inspired sleeve gleam wetly. The “angel” tattoo on their neck peeked from behind a smear of cocoa, looking almost like it was inked there just for you. You caught sight of the binary code along their ribs, smudged with icing, and smiled as you reached up to brush a bit off their collarbone.

Your thumb hovered over the tattoo on their hip—your name, delicate and lowercase, tucked just under the hem of their sweats.

They watched you the whole time. Quiet. Barely breathing.

You flicked a bit of chocolate off their cheek. "This is already the best birthday gift I’ve ever gotten, you know."

They huffed. “You say that, but I wanted to give you—fuckin’ hell, Angel—I had a whole thing planned. Music, ribbon, goddamn frosting roses—”

You giggled again and pushed at their chest lightly. “Into the tub, Birthday Disaster.”

They groaned as they stood, stripping off their sweatpants, still muttering curses under their breath. The piercings on their chest caught the light as they moved—both nipples adorned in silver hoops that glinted as you helped them step into the tub.

You caught a glimpse of more metal as they sank into the water—Jacob’s ladder, shining and wicked—and tried very hard not to get distracted by that particular detail.

“...Y’just gonna stare?” they teased, smirking up at you from the water.

You stuck out your tongue.

They grinned. “I’d die happy.”

You laughed again—really laughed—and knelt by the tub, dipping a washcloth into the warm water and gently wiping the chocolate from their arm. Their eyes fluttered shut at the touch, mouth parting just slightly.

It was 12:30 AM. The house was quiet. The world was asleep.

But here you were—carefully washing streaks of dessert off their inked skin while they melted beneath your touch like you were the warm water.

"Y’do this so easy," they mumbled, voice raspy. "Like I ain’t just been a fuckin’ mess since I met you."

You wiped the chocolate off their neck and smiled softly.

"You are a mess."

They snorted. “Thanks.”

You leaned in close, brushing your lips just under their ear. "But I still adore doing this for you."

Their breath caught. You felt it in their chest—tight, almost pained.

They cursed again, soft and sharp under their breath. "I wanted to do it right. Wanted to make it perfect for you. And here you are, takin’ care of me. Again.”

Your fingers trailed over their collarbone, over the silver ring in their nipple. They shivered, jaw tightening.

"You don’t have to be perfect," you whispered.

“But y’deserve it.”

"And you deserve to be loved exactly like this."

Their eyes opened, golden and glassy, staring up at you like you’d just carved your name into the stars.

You dipped the washcloth again, brushing it over their tattooed chest. "Besides," you added with a teasing grin, “I really like my chocolate-glazed feral donut lover.”

They choked on a laugh. “Angel.”

You kissed their cheek. “You’re sweet even without sugar.”

Their arms wrapped around your waist, pulling you close against the edge of the tub.

After toweling them off and shoving a shirt over their head—one of yours, because they absolutely refused to wear anything clean when they could steal your scent—they flopped onto the bed with a dramatic groan.

“You should sleep, Angel,” they mumbled, already sprawling like a cat in a sunbeam. “I ruined your birthday.."

You, very calmly, threw a pair of socks at their face.

“You didn’t ruin anything. In fact,” you said, tilting your head playfully, “I think we should bake a cake together.”

They blinked. “...What.”

“Yeah! Like a proper celebration. You, me, some ingredients, maybe a fruit thing or like—an ice cream cake? Angel food cake?”

They squinted at you. “You just wanna see me set the oven on fire.”

“I want to beat you at baking,” you clarified, grinning wide. “And maybe rub a little whipped cream on your face if you keep looking at me like that.”

Their gaze narrowed, glittering. “That a threat, Angel?”

You leaned in, devilish. “That’s a promise.”

“...Fuck me.”

You smirked, grabbed their wrist, and pulled them out of bed.

—

The kitchen was quiet except for your soft humming and the distant whir of the fridge. The world was still dark, but inside this little bubble—just you and them and the chaos of your shared sleep-deprived energy—it felt like morning sunlight.

They sat on the counter, legs swinging, licking a spoon like it had personally wronged them.

“What kinda cake are we even making?” they mumbled around the spoon, still suspicious. “Can’t just say ‘angel food’ and expect me not to spiral.”

You turned, sticking your tongue out. “Vanilla base. Berries. Ice cream layer. Whipped cream. Something we can eat at 2 AM while watching trash TV.”

They tilted their head, thoughtful. “...You really are tryin’ to kill me, huh?”

You just grabbed the mixing bowl and handed them a whisk. “You’re gonna cream the butter.”

They blinked slowly, mouth twitching. “...You say that like it’s not the dirtiest sentence you’ve ever spoken to me.”

“Redacted.”

“Yes, Angel?”

“Whisk.”

They grinned and did as they were told, muscles flexing subtly under the thin fabric of your shirt. You didn’t look—okay, maybe you looked a little—but you mostly focused on cracking eggs and not falling in love all over again at 12:45 in the morning.

Eventually, the bowl was passed back to you, and you handed them the sifter with flour.

“Don’t you dare sneeze.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” they muttered, only to accidentally puff flour in their own face like a curse.

You snorted.

They looked at you, deadpan, face powdered like a failed Victorian ghost. “Y’think you’re real cute, huh.”

“I know I am.”

You reached up with a dollop of whipped cream and tapped it right on the tip of their nose.

They didn’t move.

Just stared at you.

Dead. Silent.

And then you leaned in, pressed a soft, lingering kiss to that same whipped-cream-smeared nose, and whispered, “Gotcha.”

Their exhale was audible.

Like a man trying not to combust on the spot.

“You’re testin’ me,” they muttered, voice low and fraying, “God, you’re testin’ me. You put a collar on me next-"

You giggled and turned back to your mixing, unfazed. “You can’t even beat me in baking, love. What makes you think you can handle me? Second, We will do that later! Not Now!”

Behind you, they groaned into their hands. “I can’t. That’s the problem.”

You poured the batter into the tray, already lined and prepped. Redacted helped—begrudgingly, like it was the most intimate act of worship they could perform—and then hovered behind you while you slid it into the oven.

“You’re warm,” they mumbled against your back.

“You’re clingy,” you replied, but you didn’t push them away.

Instead, you leaned into them, letting them wrap their arms around your waist.

Their chin rested on your shoulder. You felt their piercings brush your skin—cold against your warmth—and you smiled.

“You smell like sugar,” they muttered, kissing your neck. “You’re sweeter than anything we could bake. S’not fair.”

You turned in their arms and pressed your forehead to theirs. “Maybe. But I still like it when your hands are covered in batter and you sigh like I just sentenced you to death.”

They closed their eyes. “You did. A delicious death. My dignity’s buried in the flour bag.”

“Your dignity died when I caught you licking chocolate off the counter.”

They opened one eye. “Still tasted better than my soul ever did.”

You burst out laughing again—soft, helpless, in love—and their arms tightened around you like a reflex.

“You really mean it?” you murmured after a beat. “You’d bake with me every year? Even if..."

They looked down at you like you’d said their name in the voice of a god.

“Angel,” they said softly, “I’d bake with you every night, every year, every timeline. Even if it kills me. Even if it burns. I don’t care. Long as it’s with you.”

Your smile softened. “Then it’s already a perfect birthday.”

You were just placing the final swirl of whipped cream on top of the cake when you heard them rummaging behind you. You didn’t think much of it—he was always up to something weird in the kitchen. But then he turned around…

With a single candle clutched delicately between two tattooed fingers.

You blinked.

“…Is that from the junk drawer?” you asked, a laugh tugging at your lips.

“It’s technically birthday-colored,” they replied solemnly, inspecting the little pink-and-white wax stick like it was an ancient relic. “And not expired. I checked. S’got like—half a wick left.”

You almost lost it when he stuck it into the cake like it was a ceremonial sword. It tilted a bit, like it was too shy to stand up straight.

“Really went all out, huh,” you teased, grinning.

They lit it.

And then everything paused—soft candlelight flickering across his features, catching the metal of his piercings like tiny stars, the tattoo on his neck peeking out above the collar of your borrowed shirt: angel, inked into a crooked little heart.

His eyes glimmered.

Like you were something sacred.

He cleared his throat once, then said, voice almost shy, “Happy birthday, Angel.”

You laughed—but it caught in your chest, tangled up with something warmer, heavier. It wasn’t even the candle, not really—it was the way he looked at you. Like you were the whole sky and he would’ve kissed the ground you walked on if you asked.

Before he could say anything else, you crossed the kitchen and threw your arms around him.

They made a soft, surprised noise—like you’d punched the air out of their lungs—then immediately hugged you back, tight, strong hands splaying across your back like they could anchor you there forever.

You whispered into the side of his neck, “I’m glad I got to spend my birthday with you again.”

You felt them stiffen, just for a moment—like your words hit deeper than intended.

When he pulled back to look at you, his eyebrows twitched like he couldn’t decide whether to smile or fall apart.

“Angel…” he said, voice low and cracking, “y’don’t gotta—fuck, don’t say it like that. You’re gonna make me—”

He broke off, biting the inside of their cheek like it hurt to hold it in.

You were tearing up too, now.

It was stupid. It was just a cake, a candle dug out of a junk drawer, a night at 1 a.m. in a messy kitchen with your unhinged, obsessive, pierced-up weirdo who pretended they didn’t have feelings—but fell harder for you every damn second.

And it was perfect.

He kissed your cheeks—both of them—in quick, desperate little pecks that tasted like whipped cream and held back tears.

“No cryin’,” he mumbled against your skin. “Not tonight. Not on your birthday. Y’hear me? Don’t cry ‘cause then I’m gonna fuckin’ cry and then we’re gonna be pathetic and sticky.”

You giggled wetly. “That sounds kinda romantic though.”

“Tragic,” they muttered, eyes shining, “but so goddamn hot.”

You kissed the corner of his mouth, still smiling. “Then let’s be tragic. But happy.”

“Always.”

You both ended up sitting cross-legged on the floor, cake between you. You insisted on cutting it—he insisted you shouldn't be trusted with knives, so naturally you cut it anyway.

You fed him first—because it was your birthday and you said so. He leaned forward obediently, mouth open like some bratty prince demanding to be served.

“Say ‘ahhh,’” you teased.

They rolled their eyes like you were the biggest nuisance alive, then bit the spoon dramatically. “Ahhh, fuck yeah.”

You snorted. “That’s not what I meant.”

“Tasted like heaven,” he said, licking frosting from the corner of their mouth. “Bet your fingers taste better.”

“Stop being needy for two seconds.”

“Genuinely impossible.”

You popped a bite into your own mouth—sweet, cold, melting—and he watched you like it was a religious rite he was privileged to witness.

And then—deviously—he dipped a finger into the whipped cream and booped your nose.

You gasped. “You did not.”

They grinned like a devil who absolutely would.

“Oh, it’s war now.”

You lunged, dragging a swipe of cream across his lips.

He licked it off without breaking eye contact. “You’re flirting with death.”

“You like it.”

“God, I do.”

The air between you changed—charged, heavy, slow. His hand cupped your jaw. Your fingers still sticky with sugar. He leaned forward and kissed you—soft, slow, sweet, tasting like frosting and sugar and something impossibly tender.

“I ever tell you I love you?” he whispered against your mouth.

You nodded, breath catching. “Every day.”

“Good,” he murmured. “Gotta remind you. You forget sometimes.”

You shook your head, smiling so hard it hurt. “I never forget. You’re unforgettable.”

He nuzzled your cheek, his piercings cool against your flushed skin, but his body solid and warm as ever.

“Still wish I did more,” he mumbled.

“You did plenty.”

He kissed your forehead. “I’m gonna do more. Every birthday. Every night. Every fuckin’ lifetime. 'Til you're sick of me.”

“Impossible,” you whispered.

You beamed up at them, warmth bubbling in your chest like sunlight.

Both of you—messy, covered in cake crumbs, sleepy-eyed—adored each other so hard it almost hurt. It was the kind of love that made everything else in the world irrelevant.

You barely made it to the bed before passing out. Redacted curled around you like a human blanket, arms and legs tangled in yours, breathing against your neck like you were the only oxygen they needed.

It was perfect. Until—

"Angel," they mumbled, nudging you insistently. You groaned, burying your face into the pillow. "Five more minutes..."

They snorted, low and amused. "Yeah, nah. Up y'get, sweetheart."

Before you could argue, Redacted just scooped you up—like you weighed nothing—and slung you over their shoulder like a smug, tattooed gremlin.

You shrieked, half-laughing, pounding your fists weakly against their back. "Put me down, you menace!"

"Nope," they said with way too much glee, "You forfeited your rights when you declared war with whipped cream last night."

You laughed so hard you almost slipped from their hold, but they caught you without hesitation, muttering, "Gotcha. Always gotcha."

You ended up perched on the bathroom counter, while Redacted—still looking far too proud of themselves—started running a warm bath.

"Supposed to be takin' care of you," they grumbled, fussing with soap and towels like it was serious business.

You just watched them with your heart melting into syrup.

When they turned back around, you smiled mischievously. "My turn to take care of you, dummy."

They scowled, but the tips of their ears turned pink. "M'not a dummy. S'posed to be pamperin' you. Birthday rules."

"Yeah? Well," you said, hopping off the counter, "the real rule is we take care of each other."

They stared at you—just stared—like you’d hung the constellations just to light their way home. Then they let you tug them into the tub without a word.

The bath was slow, dreamy. You traced their tattoos with soapy fingers—the chaotic art scrawled across their skin, from the massive Japanese sleeve inked down their arm.

You kissed the "angel" tattoo on their neck, nuzzled the wings inked low on their back, whispered your love against the curve of their hipbone.

And they just... melted for you.

Every brush of your hands, every glance of your eyes—they were falling apart and being stitched back together by your touch alone.

Later, after you’d managed to get dressed (despite their pitiful whining about "c'mon, birthday privilege"), Redacted muttered about "plans" and practically dragged you out the door.

The first stop?

The little cafe.

Your cafe.

The one you and "Ren" went on your first date into like two idiots pretending you weren’t already hopelessly, irreversibly entangled.

Redacted didn't say a word—just pressed a hand to the small of your back and led you in.

The second the barista spotted them, they lit up. "Hey, welcome back! Got it ready!"

They handed over a small, perfect vanilla angel food cake—soft white icing, strawberries, and a single candle flickering like a tiny heartbeat.

Your throat closed up. Tears blurred your vision.

Because you knew.

You knew how much this meant. How hard they must have worked to pull this off, in the quiet, in the background, just to make you smile.

This wasn’t just a cafe. It was your place.

The place where they lied to you—and where you loved them anyway. The place where you learned the truth—and loved them even more.

They pulled out a chair for you, fidgeting nervously, tattooed fingers twitching.

You sat.

They sat across from you, that familiar crooked grin softening their sharp features.

The candle flickered between you.

"Go on," they said, voice rough with feeling. "Make a wish, birthday.."

You closed your eyes and whispered two wishes into the candlelight.

The first:

"Insert your wish!"

The second—

You opened your eyes, locked your gaze with theirs, and said it aloud:

"My second wish is to stay with you forever, Redacted."

They blinked.

Once.

Twice.

And then—

[REDACTED.EXE HAS STOPPED WORKING]

You watched him short-circuit, visibly struggling not to combust on the spot. His mouth opened, closed, opened again. Their piercings caught the candlelight like tiny, desperate stars. Their hands spasmed on the table like they didn’t know whether to grab you or worship you from afar.

They made a broken little noise—half laugh, half sob.

"You—you fuckin'—" they stammered, face flushing crimson from the tips of their ears down to the tattooed curve of their throat. "Y'can't just say shit like that, Angel, fuck—!"

You laughed, radiant, drinking in the rare sight of them absolutely speechless.

Redacted groaned loudly, dragging their hands down their face.

"You're gonna fuckin' kill me," they muttered. "Swear t'god. Death by Angel. Fuckin' death by love."

You stood up, circled around, and hugged them from behind, resting your chin lightly on their shoulder.

"I hope so," you whispered. "If I’m gonna kill you, it might as well be with love."

They turned their head, pressing a kiss into your temple, breathing you in like you were the first real thing they'd ever tasted.

"I love you so fuckin’ much," they rasped, voice cracked open and bare.

Together, you blew out the candle.

And somewhere in the spaces between heartbeats, you both understood—

You weren’t just celebrating another year alive.

You were celebrating every messy, beautiful, wild day you had survived to reach each other.

Every birthday after this?

Would only get better.

Because you weren’t just growing older.

You were growing together.

You cut a small piece of the cake first, hands a little shaky because Redacted was staring at you like you’d personally invented gravity.

You snorted under your breath. “Stop looking at me like that, weirdo.”

They leaned back in their chair, arms crossing lazily, smirk tugging at their pierced lip. “Can’t help it. Lookin’ at my whole fuckin’ world. Sue me.”

Your face heated so fast you almost dropped the fork.

"Shut up and eat," you muttered, cheeks burning, but gods, the grin stretching your mouth was unstoppable.

You held out the bite of cake to them, and Redacted—ever the menace—leaned forward, catching the fork between their teeth, humming low in their throat like it was the best thing they’d ever tasted.

“Mm. Good,” they said simply, but the way they looked at you, like you hung the stars crooked just to make them smile, nearly did you in.

“Your turn, Angel.”

They grabbed a piece—way too big—and shoved it toward your mouth with a grin so chaotic it should’ve been illegal.

"Be nice!" you gasped, trying not to choke, giggling around the mouthful.

"Was bein’ nice," they teased, flicking a smear of cream off your lip with their thumb—and then licking it clean without a shred of shame, like they wanted you to combust right there.

You fed each other back and forth, no hope of staying clean, laughing harder with every swipe of frosting across a cheek, every clumsy bump of noses.

At some point, you both gave up on dignity.

There you were—at this tiny, cozy cafe—feeding each other like absolute gremlins, icing on your faces, table rattling under your weight as you leaned too close, your laughter bubbling so loud it turned heads.

(You noticed the college kids trying not to stare. You noticed the old couple smiling fondly from the corner. You noticed the barista behind the counter giving a thumbs-up. None of it mattered.)

Because in that moment, Redacted wasn’t the figure from the shadows. Wasn’t the myth or the secret.

They were just yours.

Yours, yours, yours.

Your beautiful, punkish, messy partner, silver jewelry glinting in the warm light, tattoos curling along tan skin, their eyes crinkled up from smiling so damn hard.

"You’re so fuckin’ pretty when you laugh," they muttered, like it physically hurt to keep the words in. Their voice rough and low and wrecked in the way that made your stomach do dangerous things. "Swear, Angel. You fuckin' kill me."

You dipped your finger into the icing and dabbed it onto the tip of their nose.

They blinked at you, unimpressed.

“You gonna clean that, or am I wearin' it forever now?” they asked, all dry sarcasm barely hiding the absolute adoration bleeding off them.

You leaned in and kissed their nose—soft and sweet—and pulled back just far enough to see the way their eyes fluttered shut at the contact.

"There. Perfect," you whispered.

Redacted exhaled like you’d punched the air out of them—arms wrapping around your waist, dragging you into their lap despite the tiny table squeezing you both.

"...S'too fuckin' early for me to be this gone for you," they mumbled into your shoulder, nuzzling there like a sleep-drunk cat.

You laughed, heart splitting open inside your chest. "You're always gone for me, dummy."

After you finished most of the cake—and wiped about half of it off each other—Redacted leaned back in their chair, lazily draping an arm across the back of your seat. Their thumb brushed idly against your shoulder as they stared at you with a look that made your heart skip hard enough to ache.

Then they smirked. "Got somewhere else I wanna take ya, Angel."

You tilted your head, curious. "Where?"

They just chuckled low under their breath— sound that made your stomach flip—and stood up, ruffling your hair//

"Trust me."

(You did. Always.)

Outside, parked by the curb under the humming streetlights, was Redacted’s beat-up black motorcycle. The thing gleamed, battered but proud, the kind of vehicle you could tell had survived more chaos than it should’ve. (Kinda like him.)

He popped open the small storage compartment, pulled out a matte black helmet, and shoved it gently onto your head, securing it with exaggerated care.

"Safety first, Dear Angel," they said, tapping the top of the helmet. "Ain't lettin' you crack that pretty head open today."

You stuck your tongue out at them, and they laughed—full, rough, and delighted.

He looked so damn smug about it too, like he lived for these moments. Big, bad Redacted... spoiling you like it was built into their DNA.

They swung a leg over the bike, movements easy, confident, then patted the seat behind them.

"Hop on, Angel," he teased, flashing a sharp grin. "Unless you're scared."

You climbed on—only wobbling a little (which you would never admit)—and wrapped your arms tightly around his middle. You felt his quiet laugh vibrate through you right before the bike roared to life beneath you both.

And then— You were flying.

The city blurred around you, neon and headlights bleeding together, the wind clawing at your jacket and stinging your cheeks. You pressed closer against him, feeling the solid heat of his body through his layers, your heart hammering not from fear—but from exhilaration.

It was terrifying. It was electric. It was perfect.

At a red light, you caught sight of a few familiar faces on the sidewalk—people from before. People you used to know.

Their gazes snapped to you instantly, Wantin to talk, Especially your friend. But You got into a small fight..

You felt Redacted tense beneath you.

He noticed. Of course he did.

"Ignore 'em," he muttered over his shoulder, voice low and dangerous.

Still, you couldn't pretend it didn't sting a little—the way they looked at you, the whispers that seemed to curl in the back of your mind.

You shifted slightly, clutching a little tighter.

"You mad?" he asked, head tilting slightly toward you.

"...Little," you admitted, trying to keep it light, trying not to let it ruin tonight. "But I don't care. Not right now."

You pressed your forehead between his shoulder blades, breathing him in—leather, smoke, and that grounding, fiery scent that was just him.

"I just wanna be with you today," you mumbled against his back. "That's all that matters."

For a moment, he didn’t say anything.

Then his hand left the handlebar just long enough to find your thigh—fingers curling tight, steady, grounding.

"Y'got me, Angel," he said roughly. "Always."

And you believed it.

With every beat of your heart against his spine. With every mile tearing past under the bike’s tires. With every breath you dared to steal from the night sky.

You had him.

Always.

The light turned green. The world roared back to life.

He drove faster now, just a little reckless, taking sharp turns and speeding down empty roads until you were laughing breathlessly against his back, clutching him like a lifeline. (He loved it. You knew he did. You could feel it in how he relaxed under your touch.)

Redacted looked way too proud of himself. That smug little grin didn’t leave their face as they tugged you along the street, their hand warm and rough around yours.

"Keep 'em shut, Angel," he said, sliding his hand over your eyes as you giggled, stumbling a little, trusting him without question.

"Where are we going?" you whined playfully, trying (and failing) to peek.

He just snorted, steering you carefully. "You'll see."

You could feel how giddy he was. His steps were practically bouncing, like he couldn't decide between rushing or dragging it out just to hear you squirm a little longer.

He led you inside somewhere—cooler air, a faint sound like distant bubbles rising. The smell of salt, that deep, watery echo of a place full of life.

You realized where you were a second before he dropped his hand.

When your eyes adjusted— Your breath hitched.

The whole room shimmered in soft blue and purple hues. All around you, massive tanks glowed, full of drifting jellyfish—luminescent and ghostly, pulsing like slow, sleeping hearts.

Big ones with long trailing tendrils. Tiny ones, bright as sparks, moving in lazy spirals. The ceiling was mirrored, throwing a hundred more stars above your head.

It was like stepping into a dream.

A whole exhibit, just for jellyfish. Just for you.

You turned, overwhelmed—and found him already staring. Not at the lights. Not at the tanks. Only at you.

Tears welled in your eyes before you could stop them, blurring the entire world into a wash of color and light.

He stiffened instantly. Panic flickered across his face. "Shit—Angel—? I—"

You grabbed his hand before he could spiral, squeezing tight.

He flinched, confused—but you just smiled through the tears, that helpless, wrecked kind of smile that cracked him clean open every time.

"You’re confused...?" you choked out, half-laughing. "I'm just—I'm so happy. You—"

You broke off, overwhelmed, and pressed a kiss to the back of his scarred, calloused hand. Right over all the little marks he tried to hide without even realizing it.

"You're beautiful," you whispered. "Even with everything. Especially because of everything."

He swallowed hard, their fingers twitching slightly against yours like he didn't know what to do with the feeling burning through him.

You saw it—that tiny, trembling crack in his armor. The one he only ever let you see.

He blinked fast, looking up sharply like he could force the emotions down if he just didn't look at you.

You laughed, wiping your cheeks clumsily—and they finally let themself smile. Crooked. Warm. So, so soft.

He reached out, lacing his fingers with yours and tugging you closer until your shoulder bumped theirs.

"Let's go, Angel," he said gruffly.

You wandered the glowing paths together, hand in hand. Jellyfish floated like dreams on every side of you, casting your joined shadows in strange, beautiful shapes across the floor.

Every so often, Redacted’s thumb would stroke absent-minded, slow circles into the back of your hand. Little soothing touches he probably didn’t even realize he was giving.

And every once in a while, you’d catch him sneaking a glance at you.

Like he couldn't help it. Like he needed to memorize you right here, glowing and real and holding his hand like you’d never let go.

You caught him once—and grinned. He immediately muttered under his breath, "'S your fault for bein' so fuckin' pretty," and refused to meet your eyes for a full two minutes after that.

(You smiled like a saint anyway. Like a fool in love. Like a fool who knew he loved you back.)

The jellyfish floated like a galaxy caught in water. Slow, deliberate pulses moved them through the glowing blue all around you. Some were tiny, no bigger than your fingernail, bobbing like fragile paper lanterns. Others had long, trailing tentacles like ribbons pulled along a gentle current.

You jumped slightly, a tiny gasp slipping out, full of wonder and joy. The sound made Redacted glance sideways at you, a crooked smirk tugging at his mouth— but it was the kind of smile that ached with how much he loved seeing you like this.

The jellyfish changed colors, shifting from pale moonlight white to soft pinks and delicate lavenders, and then into deep, royal blues that mirrored the midnight sky outside. You stood there, struck silent, mouth parted in awe. Your hands tightened in his without even realizing it, squeezing, needing something to anchor you against how unreal it all felt.

Redacted leaned down a little, his breath brushing against your temple. "Y'know..." he murmured, voice low and rough, fond in a way they hardly ever let slip, "I coulda brought you anywhere, Angel. Anywhere in the fuckin' world. But you... you get like this over some floatin' fishbags."

You laughed, wiping at your cheeks again, still damp from earlier tears. "They're beautiful," you whispered, bumping your shoulder lightly against his. "You're beautiful for bringing me here."

He snorted, trying to act unaffected, but you caught the way his ears turned pink under the silver piercings.

("Fuck," he muttered under his breath, low and ragged, like even he couldn’t believe how soft he was for you.)

You let go of his hand for a moment and spun slowly under the shimmering glow. The reflections of the jellyfish swam over your skin—rippling blues and silvers along your arms, your cheeks, your lashes. You looked like something not meant for the earth.

And Redacted was ruined by it.

"Fuckin' ethereal," he muttered, rough and reverent. (Probably meant for you not to hear. You definitely heard.)

You came to a stop in front of him, smiling shy and warm, eyes still glassy with wonder. And he was just—looking at you. Like breathing hurt a little.

You reached out, curling your fingers into the collar of his jacket, tugging him closer. The corner of their mouth twitched up in something like amusement, but his gaze softened completely, molten and unguarded, and he let you pull him down to you.

The kiss was feather-light at first. Soft. Tentative. Almost like you both feared breaking the delicate moment spun between you.

His hands hovered at your waist, not grabbing, not demanding—offering. Waiting. Letting you lead.

You deepened the kiss just a little— And he melted.

Their hands slid over your hips, slow and reverent, their thumbs drawing tender little arcs against your sides. You parted your lips with a soft, unthinking sound, and Redacted shuddered against you like you’d pulled the air straight from their lungs.

When you finally parted, he leaned his forehead against yours, breathing rough, breathing you in.

"Happy fuckin’ birthday, Angel," he rasped, his voice scraped raw with feeling. "Hope it's not... y'know... too much."

You opened your eyes and stared at him. At him, this beautiful, feral, breakable thing trying so hard to be good enough for you.

You shook your head and smiled, radiant and aching. "It's perfect," you whispered. "You're perfect."

Redacted cursed again, low and almost helpless, like he couldn’t handle the way you looked at him like he had strung up the stars himself just to impress you. (And he had. In his own way. He'd given you a whole ocean tonight. Salt was not needed)

The two of you drifted through the exhibits for what felt like hours. You pointed out your favorite jellyfish—the tiny ones that looked like miniature fireworks, and the giant ghostlike ones that drifted by like slow, dreaming spirits. Every so often, Redacted would brush his thumb against the back of your hand, or bump his shoulder into yours—quiet little reassurances, little touches that said I'm here. I’m still here.

At one point, you leaned into him, resting your head against his shoulder—and he just... let you. No teasing. No pretending to be tougher than he was.

He tilted his head to lean lightly against yours, closing his eyes for a moment like soaking in you was the only thing keeping him tethered to the earth.

And honestly... It felt that way for you, too.

When you finally wandered out into the cool night air, hand in hand, you could still see the jellyfish behind your eyelids— like the whole world had been changed and made softer just for the two of you.

Redacted tugged you closer against their side, slipping his arm easily around your waist like he couldn’t help himself anymore.

You didn't even try to hide the grin breaking across your face.

"You keep lookin' at me like that," he grumbled, though there was no heat to it at all.

You laughed, soft and light as the night around you. You leaned up and pressed a kiss to the corner of his mouth, catching on the little silver hoop you always secretly adored.

"I do like you, dumbass," you said sweetly. "Love you, actually."

He froze. Just for a second.

And then he was tucking you tighter against him, nearly crushing you to his side, desperate and sure all at once.

"Yeah," he muttered into your hair, voice thick and shaking a little. "Love you too, Angel.

The day had been blessed—there was no other word for it. It felt like walking through a dream stitched together by Redacted’s own hands.

After the jellyfish, he hadn’t stopped. He just kept going, pulling you from one hidden gem to another—tiny cafes tucked between buildings, old bookstores with cracked spines and friendly ghosts, cozy little shops where you used to window-shop and dream about “someday.”

He bought you new anime merch you’d been eyeing—sneaking it into a bag behind your back with the subtlety of a gremlin—and picked out fresh drawing supplies, too, without you even hinting. He just knew. The right pens, the exact brand of sketchbook you always lingered over but never let yourself buy. You loved art

Every time you gasped or smiled or shyly murmured a "thank you," he just shrugged and muttered something like, "'Course I fuckin’ know what you like, Angel. Don’t act all surprised." But the tips of his ears still turned pink every damn time.

The day had been filled with laughter, soft teasing, stolen kisses you tried to sneak—and kisses Redacted didn’t sneak at all. He wanted it known. Wanted everyone to see: you were his, and he was yours.

Now, it was almost midnight. The motorcycle purred under the both of you, the city lights blurring into molten streaks of gold, violet, neon pink.

You clutched the back of his jacket, resting your forehead against his spine. Even through leather and fabric, you felt the steady beat of his heart. He didn’t ride fast tonight. It wasn’t about adrenaline. It was about being close—for every last second of your birthday.

You caught sight of a clock on a passing building—11:58 PM. Almost over. Your chest ached with the bittersweet of it.

Redacted must’ve felt it too. Because the next quiet overlook he spotted, he pulled over, cut the engine. The world slipped into a hush, nothing but the far-off hum of the city and the sigh of the wind.

You climbed off, legs shaky from more than just the ride. He followed, tugging off his helmet, silver piercings catching the moonlight, messy hair falling into his eyes.

He stared at you. A long second—like he was trying to memorize you. Brand you into memory so deep even death couldn't steal it.

Then he smiled. Small, crooked, a little tired. Overflowing with a love too big for him to carry alone.

"Happy birthday," he rasped, voice rough-edged with all the feelings he wasn’t good at naming. "Thanks for... y'know. Thanks for fuckin' spendin’ it with me."

You opened your mouth—ready to tell him there was nothing you would’ve wanted more—but he beat you to it, gaze flickering away like he couldn’t stand to see your face when he said it:

"I really don't fuckin' deserve you, Angel."

Your breath hitched. No. No way were you letting him think that.

You stepped close, cupping his jaw between your hands, feeling the rough scrape of stubble under your thumbs. Grounding. Real.

"Thank you, Redacted," you whispered, voice thick with everything you couldn’t fit into words. "I love you."

Something shattered behind his eyes. Like a dam cracking open.

You leaned up and kissed him—desperate, trembling, crying—and he kissed you back like you were the air he’d been choking for.

His hands gripped your waist, careful and reverent, holding you like you were something holy, something breakable and precious and his.

When you finally pulled away, his eyes shone in the dark. He wasn’t crying—he was too stubborn for that—but you knew. You saw it.

You pressed your forehead against his, breathing each other in as the clock ticked over.

12:00 AM. Your birthday was officially over.

But you didn’t feel sad. Because you still had him. And he still had you.

Maybe that was the real gift all along.

The city lights blurred in your periphery, a soft, pulsing halo. But nothing was brighter than the way Redacted looked at you.

You smiled through your tears and pressed a kiss to the corner of his mouth, brushing against the little silver hoop you adored, then another kiss under his jaw, where a faint scar lived.

"You’re the best thing I got today," you whispered against his skin.

He snorted wetly, the sound rough and choked with barely-held emotion. He squeezed you closer, until it felt like you were pressed heart-to-heart, soul-to-soul.

"Fuck’s sake, Angel," he muttered, voice cracking just enough for you to hear it. "How the fuck am I s’posed to top that next year?"

You laughed—a bright, breathless sound—and wrapped your arms around him tighter, like you could stitch yourselves together if you just tried hard enough.

"I guess we’ll just have to keep trying," you teased, grinning against the curve of his neck.

Redacted chuckled under his breath—low and warm—and then kissed you again. Slow. Deep. Like a vow.

Again and again. As long as you’d let him.

Hey... Angel.

Happy birthday. I'm glad you're here.

I'm fuckin' lucky I get to see you smile, lucky I get to touch you, laugh with you... It means you’re here with me.

You're the best thing that's ever happened to me, y'know that? If it were up to me, I'd wrap you in my arms and never let you go. You deserve everything good, and better than good. You deserve heaven, Angel.

So... yeah. Happy birthday. Thanks for stickin’ around, even when I don't make it easy. Thanks for lettin' me love you the only way I know how—messy, loud, real as fuck. Thanks for choosin’ me, when you coulda had anyone else.

I ain't gonna pretend I'm good enough for you. But I am gonna spend every goddamn day tryin' to be someone you can keep smilin' at. Someone you can love without regret. Someone you can come home to and know—fuckin’ know—that no matter how fucked up the world gets, you got someone who’ll always, always choose you.

And if you ever want it, I'll build it for you. Brick by fuckin' brick.

Happy birthday. I love you more than I'll ever be able to say right.

-RENDACTED

Reblog is okay!

#14dwy #14dwy x reader #ren 14dwy #14dayswithyou #14dwy ren #14dwy redacted #14 days with you #ren 14 days with you #redacted x reader #ren x reader #14dwy redacted x reader #14 days with you ren x reader #14 days with you x reader #14 days with you redacted #14 days with you ren

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thistlerock · 21 hours ago

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The Bad Kids Are all multilingual because hey dnd characters always are. Fun to think about. Update from later Fabian kinda hijacked this post at the end my bad. All I can think about is the character ™️

Fabian and Adaine speak a different dialect of Elvish than Fig but like it's still the same language. I'm not sure what Kristen and Riz would have learned — maybe Kristen the wood-elven dialect and Riz the high one? Cause people who would have maybe influenced church camp vs what Riz might have gotten in some elective at school or learned by himself via dictionary like the nerd he is. But maybe not that relevant, I don't think it makes too much of difference.

Gorgug writes most of his notes in Gnomish. And while all of the Bad Kids kind of do it because, well, multilingual moment, I think Gorgug does the thing the most where you're talking and you're like what the fuck is this word in English. Uhm. Uhm. Scheibenwischer. And he speaks the one language that none of his friends speak so they're all just idk man you're on your own. Also personal hc Gorgug starts learning Orc (Orcish?? Dnd languages so straight forward and yet so confusing to me.) after meeting his bio parents. Riz also knows Orc and I'm gonna assume Ragh would so um green bonding time. Also also personal hc Goblin and Orc are similar in the way German and Dutch are (I can only go off of languages I know so this is gonna be my only example. Lmao.) because yeah.

Anyway Fabian is I think the one who mixes them up the most on purpose. You know how teenagers in non English speaking countries will inject random English into every sentence because internet. And it's just a thing now. Fabian does this over in Kei Lumenera with the other elves and common (common being English just for clarification). He's fluent in elvish it just doesn't feel right man. BUT. SPEAKING OF HIM BEING FLUENT IN ELVISH. His accent in it is very distinctively Solesian and you can only hear a little bit of Fallinel in certain words. Which isn't that big of a deal but it's notable. Because Hallariel doesn't sound like that and she's the one who taught him. Let me word. Eugh.

She was obviously very. Negligent. But I think that up until Fabian was like, idk, three or four? He did spend a lot of time with her. Like she wasn't taking care of him or doing anything with him but he'd be in the room with her as long as he wasn't being "bothersome" (normal kid "annoying". crying, loud, needs help with everything. etc.) because then Cathilda had to come and get him. But she would talk to herself a lot and/or rant about things little baby Fabian really had no chance at understanding lol, and it's not like she wanted him to respond. But this would be in elvish because it's her native tongue, and because kids are sponges he learned elvish. They didn't raise him multilingual on purpose it just happens. Side note i think she talked to him in the womb a lot I do. There is something to me about her focusing a lot on this child until he was born / until he started becoming a proper person. (It was so easy to love him when he was just a part of her and wasn't a separate entity that she needs to actively try to pay attention to what who said that that's. Crazy.)

So yeah Fabian is fluent as a kid, but then as he gets older he really doesn't have an opportunity to converse in Elvish for years, so he. Forgets a little bit? And he'll still read stuff in the language but he doesn't speak it with anyone until the Bad Kids start to use it for secrecy reasons (which I actually think is really funny and inefficient because I'd assume this is one of the more common second languages in solace. But I digress.) And at that point he's conversational but gods he's rusty, but between Gorgug not understanding it all, Kristen's being super broken, and Riz clearly only knowing it through reading/writing and having trouble with pronunciation because this isn't a language he's used to speaking it's not that noticeable? Idk. Adaine probably clocked it but didn't think much of it.

It comes back to him pretty quickly, (and by Sophmore year he has no trouble in Fallinel + probably started speaking more elvish at home again now that his mother is kind of talking to him and Gilear is there) it's just that now his accent shifted. (And it's still the language he feels the least "at home in" or comfortable speaking. It's common -> halfling -> elvish for him. I think.) (Yes I know that his wiki says he also knows tornado. I think he understands it but can't speak it. I don't think he can make the required sounds I'll be real.)

#I have. more I'll reblog this later I'm tired #rambling into the void #fantasy high #meta madness #dimension 20 #the bad kids #fabian aramais seacaster #riz gukgak #headcanons #kristen applebees #fig faeth #figueroth faeth #gorgug thistlespring #adaine abernant #hallariel seacaster

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skyloftian-nutcase · 22 hours ago

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Dang even the freaking charge nurse told me to stay home. Ugh. Fine.

Thanks lovelies <3

Ok, I need an opinion because I'm spiraling about this.

I called out from work because I felt like crap and threw up. But now I feel better! I can still go in for work! But I already called out! But I'd feel bad leaving them short staffed because I called out late when I can work! But my body probably needs some rest! But the only reason I got sick was probably the antibiotic, not the infection!

...I don't know, y'all. I hate this lol. I should go to work.

#it was honestly kind of funny #just the vibe #one neighbor: has music on to party because it's Friday evening #another neighbor: has a birthday party going on #me: sobbing in my yard because I hate all of this LOL #I'm so pathetic lol #ANYWAY enough of my problems on this site I need to figure out what fun we can have this evening since I'm stuck here

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woradat · 2 days ago

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Dear, memories #3

<- back — PT3 (here) — next ->

Tarn had always been the patient one. Patient to a fault, some might say. Even back in the good old days—if by “good” we mean “a flaming dumpster fire of verbal abuse and unchecked ego”—he kept his composure. You, meanwhile, were busy running your mouth like you were auditioning for “World’s Most Punchable Face” But now? Now Tarn doesn’t even get angry. He just… laughs

Because really, it’s hilarious how small you look from where he’s standing now—so far above the mess you’re still wading through

It’s funny how power changes the taste of old insults. Once upon a time, your words might’ve stung. Now they’re just noise. Background static. Like a mosquito trying to heckle a dragon. He knows what he’s capable of. He knows who he is. And unlike you, he’s not desperately clinging to a persona built on sarcasm and secondhand bravado. He doesn’t have to try anymore, he simply is the superior force in the room

Is this what you used to feel like? That smug sense of control, the power to bend the game to your will? If so, congrats. Tarn gets it now. And honestly? It’s intoxicating. Knowing he could end you right here and now—at the bar, no less, poetic as hell—and nobody would lift a finger. Maybe they’d even applaud. But no, that’d be too easy. Too quick. And Tarn? He’s not in the business of easy

No, he’s thinking long-term. Strategic. Because if he’s going to settle the score, he’s going to do it with flair. He’s going to make it art. Besides, the hit list has been thinning out lately—an occupational lull, really—so what better way to kill time than to toy with the past?

And look who stumbled back into his life like fate’s idea of a joke. You. At the perfect moment. The stars must really like him this week

How fortuitous - How gloriously convenient

They say revenge is a dish best served cold—but Tarn prefers his with garnish. Something theatrical. A little extra seasoning. After all, why just win when you can humiliate?

Now, he’s not saying he’s been lying in wait all this time like some cartoon villain with a tragic backstory and a monologue problem. He’s not that petty (Okay, maybe a little petty)

But still—just because this is coincidence doesn’t mean he’s not going to wring every drop of satisfaction out of it. You’ve practically handed him the opportunity on a silver platter, and it would be rude not to accept. Tarn's not just going to take advantage of this—he's going to enjoy it

Maybe a bit too much

Just imagining your expression when he makes his move—when you finally realize how much the tables have turned—makes him nearly giddy. Not that he’d ever admit that out loud. That would ruin the mystique. And if there’s one thing Tarn values more than revenge, it’s looking cool while exacting it

“Tarn! Are you even listening to me?”

“Hm? Sorry, Nickel. Mind repeating that?"

“Never mind. You wouldn’t do what I tell you anyway. You’re good to go”

“Much appreciated”

And with that, he strode out of the infirmary, unaware that he’d been spacing out. That kind of lapse was rare for him. He was usually razor-focused, disciplined, cold

But maybe—just maybe—he was looking forward to this little reunion more than he cared to admit

Can you blame him?

So many possibilities. So many delightful, calculated ways to turn the tables. Tarn liked to say he never took things personally when it came to work. But the truth? He was a masterclass in professional hypocrisy

Still, it’s like they always say: love what you do, or you’ll go mad

And Tarn? He’s thrilled

It had been hours since that loud, messy night at the bar — long enough for the artificial buzz to wear off and reality to hit you square in the face. And reality, in this case, meant dragging yourself back to the ship before your teammates found you and decided to haul your shiny ass back up themselves. The last thing you needed was to scratch the fresh coat of paint — the seventh this week — courtesy of their oh-so-gentle method of transportation

“Hey! One second later and we would've left without you, you know that?”

“Chill out. I was totally gonna hitch a ride on some random ship parked out back. You think I was gonna beg you? Please”

“Now that everyone’s here, can we not start a fight? Pack up. We're heading out soon”

Supreme Red’s calm voice cut through the snark like a soothing AI meditation loop. He was, without question, the most mature out of the three of you. No one really said it out loud, but you all silently accepted him as the unofficial captain — because, let’s face it, he had the emotional range of a functioning adult and the leadership skills of someone who'd survived multiple near-death space fiascos without screaming

Then there was Hardwire…

A walking headache with a mouth that could probably violate intergalactic decency laws. Half the time you couldn’t tell if she was quoting some ancient Earth drama or making it up just to sound cool. (Probably both.) Still, she was like the sibling you never asked for and definitely didn’t order, but somehow ended up stuck with. The universe had tossed you three together in its usual chaotic style, and weirdly enough, it worked

Hardwire had been pushing you to grow up from the moment you met her — mostly by being the most immature person you’d ever encountered. Her chaos taught you patience. Supreme Red, on the other hand, passed down actual knowledge — survival tips, repair hacks, and that unshakable cool in a crisis. He was kind of a legend, in your book. Not that you’d say that out loud. But yeah, you respected the guy. Which, for you, was saying a lot

Three bots. No backup. No reinforcements

But somehow, nothing felt missing. This was perfect

“The board’s actually fixed? I thought the whole thing got fried”

“Are your optics working or are you just pretending again? I fixed it. I’m a genius, in case you forgot”

“Oh wow, look at you. So smart, very humble” you rolled your eyes, your voice dripping with sarcasm. This was the usual dynamic — biting remarks, endless teasing, and enough banter to confuse anyone who didn’t know better. Outsiders might think you two hated each other. In truth, you were just… siblings in denial

“Too bad your frame didn’t grow to match your ego”

You added the jab with a smirk

“HEY!”

Supreme Red didn’t intervene this time. He just watched the exchange with a quiet smile, a glint of amusement in his optics. Maybe, just maybe, if this moment could last forever – it wouldn’t be such a bad thing

Fate operates in silence, cloaked in secrets no mind can predict

Five hours ago, the ship buzzed with life, laughter, casual banter, the soft humming of circuits and camaraderie. Now, it lies shattered and smoking on the surface of a nameless planet, twisted like a carcass devoured by unseen jaws

You were lucky to remain conscious. Or maybe that’s the curse. Disoriented and bleeding coolant, you dragged yourself through the mangled corridors, ducking under collapsed beams and searing sparks, eyes scanning through the black smoke for any signs of the other two bots. Maybe they were still alive. Maybe…

Then a scream

Not just any scream. Supreme Red. His voice - mechanical yet painfully tears through the wreckage like a razor across steel

You ran. Without thinking. Without breathing. Hope screamed louder in your mind than the fires did in your receivers

You turned a corner

— and the world stopped

It wasn’t silence. The fire still crackled. His scream still played. But time itself seemed to freeze, trapping you in the moment of horror that refused to pass

His optic just one hung loose from its socket, swinging slightly as if it, too, had tried to escape. The rest of his face had melted into the wall, metal fused with metal in a grotesque sculpture of agony. The scent hit you then — scorched alloy, burning insulation, and something else. Something organic. Sickly sweet and wrong. Your systems lurched; you nearly purged on the spot

energon: thick, bright, and slick – coated the floor in erratic patterns, sprayed from what was once his arm, now torn from the socket and left twitching, sparking weakly. And then the scream… that endless, awful scream kept going. Even as you stared into the hollow cavity where his throat should’ve been

It was a recording

His voice module had been torn open, left to loop the final cry. A cruel echo embedded in the ruin of your teammate’s body, still active, still screaming even though he was long past pain

Torn wires hung like veins from his chest. Shattered plates bent inward like broken ribs. Everything about the scene felt wrong, obscene — like you’d stepped into someone nightmare and couldn’t wake up

This wasn’t just an accident

Something.. someone did this

Your steps faltered, retreating instinctively in a futile attempt to distance yourself from the tragic spectacle before you, only to be met with a wall of presence as your back collided with someone standing behind. You must have been too consumed by the gravity of the moment to notice the silent approach of the enigmatic figure. Judging by the hand that now settled upon your shoulder - broad and firm enough to nearly envelop it entirely, they were clearly much larger than you

“Quite the sight, isn’t it? We’ve invested considerable effort in tracking him down. Remarkable, really… how fortuitous this moment is”

"I afraid I must ask you to accompany me aboard the ship, Y/N, for questioning regarding your involvement with and support of the former Decepticon, Supreme Red. He has forfeited his right to speak – but you still have the chance to prove your innocence. I urge you to cooperate for your own sake" His voice was soft, his words carefully chosen—elegant and melodious. Yet this bot wielded them in the worst possible moment. To mock? To assert dominance? Perhaps both

And to refuse…

would be to invite death

Or worse—something far more unforgiving than death could ever be

#transformers idw publishing #transformers x reader #tarn x reader #tarn/damus x reader #damus x reader #reader insert #cybertronian reader

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batsplat · 3 days ago

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hi bat! haven’t talked about vale & casey with you in a while. do you think every time casey brings up 2015 or the whole vale vs marc thing, he’s really just talking about the events themselves with no personal agenda? or is there a bit of projection going on, like maybe he’s actually talking about how he was treated by vale, or maybe he just wants to call vale out…

this popped back into my head cuz i saw last year’s ducati diaries on my dash today: https://www.tumblr.com/kingofthering/781610034120491008/casey-stoner-and-neil-hodgson-talking-about-how

ducati diaries episode!! icl did have my first proper #moment with this website when the only thing i saw shared from that podcast was the ninety seconds he talks about sepang 2015 and not him low-key gunning for his parents for twenty minutes in a pretty marked change to his past rhetoric, but nevertheless. we persevere. go listen to the whole thing

anyway yeah lol obviously idt his motivations are pure here, people treat him like a sort of neutral arbiter for agenda purposes and because he gives them nice valentino-bashing quotes. also because they don't care enough about casey or his career to really assess what he's saying on merit. i find his actual opinions on sep '15 not all that interesting but i DO find the REASONING behind them compelling. i'm not going to rehash my 'casey is a competent media operator who is pushing his own narrative' schtick here, but as ever i just find it really strange when people treat him as a reliable narrator. 'blunt' does not equal 'truthful', a veneer of authenticity does not equal openness

so. here's what i think is going on when casey talks about that rivalry. first off, yes, he does dislike what valentino did at sepang, both in the press conference and on the track. i feel like this bit should be obvious but just so we're all on the same page here: this stance was definitely born out of enmity towards valentino more than it was from any real affection for marc - after all, this takes place during the exact period of time in which casey is also (according to him) being pushed out of honda by marc's team. in early 2016, casey quite directly accuses marc of feeling intimidated by him - which given the media climate of early 2016, to me would suggest he wasn't feeling too concerned with marc's personal well being. but casey didn't like what valentino did, he doesn't like that kind of aggressive riding anyway, i can't imagine he likes how either party conducted themselves in that race (cf casey in 2013 saying he felt marc was trying to 'humiliate' his rivals, to me humiliation is one of like. the key emotions to understanding casey so u gotta pay attention when it comes up) but he especially didn't like it from valentino

then, there's the fact that at this stage he just generically dislikes valentino. sepang 2015 is basically a free hit because. you know. valentino loses that championship. not a fun time for him. it's like casey is being presented with a knife on a table in front of a chained up valentino wearing a sign that says 'stab me', like man he's only human what's he going to do. not stab him???? i feel this one's straightforward enough, casey is right up there with valentino as 'aliens most prone to gross displays of schadenfreude' and it was basically casey's whole thing in 2011-12, to the point where it did get a wee bit obsessive. i think casey in retrospect tries to frame this period as a lighter 'whoo boy did i have fun laughing at that idiot!!' vibe, but u probably shouldn't downplay how bitter and dark it became... casey talking in 2012 how he'd stopped enjoying winning in 2008-09 and basically the only way he could still motivate himself was the idea that winning pissed people off, casey talking WAY more about valentino than any of his actual title rivals, casey finding himself so thoroughly disillusioned with the sport and using valentino as a lightning rod for all that resentment... sure, most of it's funny, but when valentino said in 2012 casey was winning and doing great and needed to Get Over It... i mean, yes, look who's talking, but was he WRONG? eh! idk! with a little distance + no longer being able to talk to the press about valentino every week, casey had cooled down a bit by 2015, but i reckon sepang did bring some things back for him. especially how he feels valentino should have been black-flagged and the suggestion of inconsistent stewarding - casey's all about unfairness, including in officiating, so it's another broad theme he's linked to valentino in his mind. so then, that incident becomes another expression of a more general grievance

okay so everything up until now in this post i think is pretty straightforward, hard to argue with. the other reasons i will provide are a little more conjecture, though i still very much believe i am correct here. first off, i think there's another slightly more complicated source of schadenfreude here: seeing valentino and marc's relationship fall apart. this is mostly based on a holistic assessment of casey's character and being so familiar with casey's output i trust myself to read his tone quite well, but i'll try to explain my reasoning here

casey obviously has a Massive Persecution Complex, which may very well be justified but nevertheless manifests itself in quite striking and/or ugly ways. pay attention to how he stresses in his autobiography that he had a worse bike than dani in 2005 - and the suggestion that this hardship taught him about riding shitty bikes (something that dani didn't learn). how he'd have a tantrum when losing to dani in 2006, how the internal hierarchy within honda really bothered him, how he never forgot being used as a guinea pig by michelin while the factory riders got the very best. how post-2006 he'd slip in all these patronising comments about dani ...

... how he consistently talked down jorge in early 2008 and then had a bit of a case of headloss over jorge engaging in fairly mild trash talk, the way his autobiography descriptions of jorge's rookie season kinda make it sound like he thinks all the injuries were karmic punishment ?? and (allegedly) accused jorge of faking his need for a wheelchair. we could go on here but..... the point is, casey has a bit of a golden child problem. dani and jorge both entered motogp with considerably more hype than casey did, and it bothered casey, and he didn't always handle himself with huge amounts of grace

hey, you know who else was hyped coming into motogp? that's right, marc! now, look, to the extent that casey is aware of this trait within himself, i don't think he likes it because it kinda jars with his self-perception in a quite unflattering way. he wants to be gracious, he really prides himself on the idea that he can recognise his rivals' good performance and can be happy for them in a way those filthy europeans can't. sometimes it just... slips out of him, sometimes his compliments have a few too many caveats attached, but he wants to believe he is a person who doesn't resent the good fortune of others. but...

well, idk man! casey watching 2013 motogp - you really think he never not ONCE thought 'well i would've beaten him if i were there' or 'well that sure is a bike i developed very well' or 'well dani and jorge had championship winning machinery in their first seasons (literally, since their teammates won the title in both cases) but EYE didn't so maybe i could have done what marc did'? casey thinking about how marc is being celebrated for his brilliance when 'everyone' was deeply unenthusiastic about his own dominance in 2007 (mainly because it coincided with the racing becoming worse for non-casey-related reasons but that doesn't make it better !!) and it's just... marc winning the first ten races in 2014 and shouldn't people constantly be talking about how boring it is, after all the things they said about casey ?? again, i freely admit there's some conjecture going on here - post-2012, casey hasn't had a microphone stuck in front of him often enough for him to really let these thoughts slip but. idk. it's kinda there in how he says at the end of 2012 he won't be paying attention to what marc does in the test because he Did Not Care. i think some part of him would have found it frustrating

and then!! of course, there's valentino. now, look, i think casey's recollections of 2007 valentino are a bit... idk. not quite correct. but the truth doesn't matter so much here - as far as casey's concerned, he became valentino's rival and valentino immediately switched up towards him. and we know from that ducati diaries podcast that casey was very much aware of valentino and marc being friendly with each other pre sepang 2015. and now, again, i do think casey is maybe exaggerating the difference to valentino's treatment of him in his head, but i also reckon a part of him looked at 2013-14 marc and valentino and went ...? casey's Valentino Thing as ever acts as an extension of his Thing With The Whole Sport, so valentino being nice to marc IN MY OPINION kinda maybe acts as symbol for how the sport as a whole was way nicer to marc than it had been to CASEY. and obviously casey in general very adept at projection,,,,, but imo he did also provide some circumstantial evidence that this might be the TYPE of projection he engages in with his post-ranch visit interview, where he was talking about how he would have liked to ride with valentino like that when he was young in the same breath as talking about what a great job valentino had done teaching all his little brats... idk i do think there's some part of his heart going.... why couldn't it have been like that for me... bittersweet yearning. what if CASEY wanted valentino to be super nice to him and give him head pats whenever he needed them, has anyone ever thought about that ??

plus you've got like. the laguna situation. idk man call me #crazy but i don't think casey vibed with that... really doesn't like feeling like he's being made fun of... and the distinction between that vibe in 2013 and how he felt like his hero worship of valentino had been the butt of the joke (cf the 2007 championship shirt with valentino's name on it that valentino made a gag about). now again none of this is 100% rational from casey, obviously the main reason why the marc rivalry was initially nicer was because it wasn't really a rivalry at all, everyone thought valentino was washed, valentino had just gone through a hellish stretch and needed to get his head back in the game. completely different vibe from 2007 valentino wounded but not out of it having to *for the first time* deal with a young super talented rival snatching his chain. like in 2013 valentino is asked about marc dethroning him and valentino kinda goes ?? what throne ?? idk if u've noticed but it's not been going great !!

and also i think casey misinterprets some stuff about 2007, like he's sort of simplified that time period in his memory, his emotions towards valentino at the time were super all over the place, at a certain point valentino maybe was just kinda in a bad mood about losing all the time and worried about not going to prison and not trying to DESTROY casey or be actively cruel but whatever!! the point is, in my opinion casey did not vibe with valentino being nice to marc. and then in 2015, he got his most significant post-retirement jitters, really really REALLY wanted to replace dani at cota and got mad he couldn't do it to the extent that he shadily tweeted about it aND cut off contact FOREVER with one of the most significant allies he'd had in his career aka livio suppo. and casey blamed marc for that, and then he watched valentino revert to type and torch that particular relationship and prove definitively that marc was in no way different, that valentino was always going to do the same thing to him when marc presented an active threat. and i think !! casey found that extremely fucking satisfying

the last motivation underlying casey's sepang 2015 rhetoric is what it helps him do with his own career narrative. this one's actually quite fun for fans of propaganda, i think casey genuinely has done a superb job with this and it's the sort of sleight of hand i'm very much into. but if you properly go through his oeuvre, close read it like a freak, you notice something kinda interesting about how his rhetoric regarding valentino changes post 2015. in his autobiography, casey expresses frustration that people thought valentino had 'broken' him at laguna 2008, this persistent perception that a) valentino was capable of using mind games to break rivals, and b) casey was particularly susceptible and 'mentally weak'. casey argues, obviously, that this isn't true - and goes one step further by saying he didn't pay attention to what his rivals were doing at all. which is a dubious claim if you're being generous, pretty hilarious if you aren't, but nvm that...

what's interesting is that post 2015, he's made a small but significant alteration: not only did valentino's mind games not work on casey, but they backfired. the DD podcast is quite a good succinct summation of the case he makes: valentino might have had rivals early in his career he could intimidate, but then dani jorge and casey showed up and were tougher and better and didn't fall for that. and if you look at sepang 2015, you can see how that cost valentino a championship. so, as casey says in the slur name podcast, valentino's worst ever mistake was making enemies of marc and casey. in a separate interview, casey says after laguna he wasn't going to be valentino's friend or help him out when he was trying to fight for championships (yeah, no shit) - in another, he doesn't name valentino but talks more generally about how mind games can backfire because they expose the rivals' weaknesses. so then: not only were valentino's mind games morally wrong, not only did they not work on casey, but they actually backfired. valentino hurt himself by making an enemy out of casey

now, you can critique this argument on several grounds. you can query whether valentino really lost himself the 2015 title through his mind games - especially since casey has directly contradicted himself on this and said elsewhere valentino would have lost anyway. you can poke holes in the idea that valentino set out to make an enemy out of casey... when by all accounts the most significant turning point according to casey himself was laguna 2008. a race from valentino that you can disagree with on moral grounds, say didn't decide that year's title..... but would struggle to argue was driven by a pathological need on valentino's part to chat shit about casey for no good reason, given that it was an on-track escalation of the rivalry. you can start getting into arguments about what a 'mind game' even constitutes and whether it makes sense to treat this as a part of valentino's game he could have simply done away with. but there's another more fundamental problem with casey's argument here: it's bullshit. even if valentino deliberately antagonised casey, it did not competitively cost him. look, for the sake of the argument, for this post alone, let's concede the point that all of this behaviour didn't help valentino. but at worst, it was a complete net neutral. maybe it cost valentino in that casey was extra rude to him 2011-12, maybe it just damaged his soul or something, but that's not what casey is asserting. the assertion is that it competitively cost him. which. again. hm

what would it have cost him?? valentino WON the 2008 and 2009 titles, fucked up various body parts in 2010, then moved to a bike he was never going to win on in 2011 and 2012. it sure didn't cost him a title!! even if you want to say that the decision to switch to ducati was in some way prompted by underrating casey (not really and also you're stretching the definition of a 'mind game' here), then that's not even the most important rivalry in motivating that switch - that honour goes to jorge/valentino. so, no championships lost. let's try something else: casey mentions in the slur name podcast he'd always push valentino wide when overtaking because that's all that valentino ever did to him. so did valentino lose any RACES because he'd antagonised casey? well, hm, idk man! his brushes with casey at indy 2008 and motegi 2008 and jerez 2009 and sachsenring 2009 went pretty well!! maybe casey was more motivated to beat valentino at mugello 2009 or estoril 2009, but he finished two positions ahead of valentino in both races during weekends valentino was lacking a lot of confidence for non-casey-related reasons so.... a phillip island duel in 2009 could've gotten dicey - but valentino had a championship to secure and didn't take too many risks, casey had him covered, so that duel didn't even really happen. of the two actual duels valentino and casey had in 2011-12, valentino won le mans 2012 and jerez 2011 just kinda didn't go great for either of them

the only - the only time i feel confident that casey's personal feelings towards valentino deprived valentino of a better result is sachsenring 2010, valentino's comeback race post-leg break where casey after an extended and quite vicious duel denied valentino a podium at the final corner. valentino himself seemed to think this was the result of casey's feelings towards him, ~joking~ after the race that maybe he should wear another rider's colours next time because casey only races him like that. and then of course post motegi 2010 casey inserted himself in the valentino/jorge situation by saying if valentino tried to laguna him again, he'd get it back tenfold. which, speak your truth king, your revenge fantasies are VALID - but it's worth noting that (unfortunately for everyone), valentino nuking his competitiveness for two years meant that casey never really got the chance to try and murder valentino. it didn't happen!! it would've been fun if it had happened, but it didn't!!

so when casey says that valentino made a mistake of antagonising marc and him, it's quite a clever rhetorical trick he's playing. think of how that clip was circulated completely uncritically on this website - like, yeah, totally, valentino made a mistake pissing off marc so then surely he made a mistake pissing off casey too and that really did cost valentino!! idk i guess it's been just about long enough either people haven't watched those seasons or don't remember them? and it is quite a funny experience for me because, again, obviously i listen to that and immediately go 'lol nice try but that's bullshit' and then see it get parroted by pretty much everyone from fans to journalists for months. like, you can just say stuff! whatever man

obviously casey's done a good job by linking his own story to This Thing Nobody Can Shut Up About and nicely played into a few prevalent stereotypes that exist about valentino, making it easier for people to buy into this narrative... but if people thought about this for two seconds you should be able to tell he's not being entirely honest here. you should figure out he's talking more about what he would have LIKED to happen after the horror that was laguna than what actually happened. you should perhaps wonder whether he's not being a teensy bit cynical in his motivations. it's so obviously bullshit! like it genuinely does remind me of the stunt valentino has played with the sete rivalry, casey really did learn from the best here, you can simply make people believe in whatever if they'd already been inclined to believe something kinda similar anyway. you will just get away with it! nobody is ever going to call you up on your inconsistencies! nobody's going to fact check you! lying is fun and free and easy, go forth my friends

anyway. in conclusion. basically valentino gave casey a crash course in media studies. casey said once that valentino was more talented than him in dealing with the media as part of a more sophisticated insult he was cooking up - and yes, obviously he is, but casey's no slouch when he puts his mind to it. sepang 2015 is such a discourse black hole that you kinda know if you say something about it, you can guarantee crash dot net headlines for the next seven months minimum. it's opportunism, plain and simple, it's using this Big Talking Point as a way to conveniently twist the narrative of his own career into something a bit more palatable. kinda like u say in the ask, anon, it's also just a bit of an excuse... if sepang 2015 comes up, casey can talk about valentino hurting HIM and people will care about it !! but he doesn't actually have to say he was hurt because he can go 'well valentino and marc were friends !! so MARC was HURT' yes ofc whereas you mr stoner just thought of valentino as a guy who happened to be your rival oh i'm SURE. casey is obviously invested in the general perception of him, he really wants to be Understood, he wants to have the right narrative about him out there - cf him flirting with the idea of writing another autobiography (many Thoughts on that). so for all that casey genuinely doesn't like what valentino did at sepang 2015, that's obviously not the ONLY thing going on. he can get a free hit in of valentino, he can indulge in a sort of resentful schadenfreude, he can exploit it to edit the narrative of his own career in a more favourable direction. and it works

#like with the sete stuff it's all a bit buffy season five spike is everyone here very stoned #but in a way fandom reaction to this sort of thing is kinda funny on a meta level so #the ducati diaries stuff was pretty mild tbf like u can tell the hashtag detente very much in progress #i should say i didn't actually check the post anon linked to so maybe there's some well thought out discussion in the notes #i am simply missing out on that treats casey as a three dimensional human being who has his own history with these people

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