#but I wish someone else would do it because I can’t come home every night and just fucking cry since with every step and fall asleep

[cloudwisp]

✮ sylus x wife!reader

contents: fluff, suggestive. arranged marriage au. hints of slow burn. you like playing hard to get and he loves calling you his wife. 1.4k wc.

꒰ note ᰔ I had to deposit my messy thoughts somewhere and this headcanon post was the result.

part two here. ꒱

⭒ Arranged marriage with Sylus where he prefers to call it a “strategic partnership” as a means of appearances to flaunt that he has it all—an empire, riches, strength, influence and now a darling wife who waits for him at home. You’re not so much as a random choice, Sylus had been watching you from afar for a while and in exchange for his protection in the N109 zone he strikes a deal with you to play a simple role. You have every reason to be wary of him and know to keep your wits about yourself, but even you acknowledge that your chances are better with him. Though, if you asked him how he was so certain you��d agree to his proposal he’d admit that he wasn’t but he knew you’d consider it if he had an advantage over you.

⭒ He sets his terms and conditions—you reside in his humble abode, wedding ring always worn on your finger, and attend events with him as a pretty accessory on his arm to contribute to his image. But he’ll never admit that he actually enjoys your company at business functions that often feel dull to him. You are more than welcome to spend your days as you please so long you don’t cause him trouble, and that also means you have his black card privileges to spoil yourself rotten. Of course, he accommodates most requests you may have like sleeping in separate rooms if that’s what you wish (and redecorating because his furnishing decisions are quite bleak).

⭒ Luke and Kieran can sense that their boss feels something for you despite his nonchalance toward this little arrangement. It starts off small, it always does—Sylus takes note of your morning and night routine, your picky eating habits and has the chef make adjustments to your preference, how he sees you out in the gardens and come back with spring tulips to brighten the space and the next week he already replaced the slowly withering flowers with fresh ones. The twins whisper among themselves that he’s often less annoyed and irritated when you’re around, and their boss wouldn’t go through the trouble of being considerate unless he cares for you. It’s almost exciting for them both to witness a budding romance unfold before their very eyes and they do offer a helping hand here and there to keep things interesting.

⭒ Sylus thinks it’s adorable how you keep trying to resist him and that’s precisely the reason he loves seeking you out just to watch your resolve crumble under his touch. He finds you in the kitchen preparing a snack and cages you from behind with his hands planted on either side of you against the counter. “Hey kitten, I thought I’d find you in here.” You feel his hot breath down your neck as he pushes your hair aside just enough to lay a soft kiss on your shoulder. He chuckles when you comment that he’s being awfully touchy with you, and he purposely moves closer so that his chest is pressing against your back. “Perhaps I just can’t keep my hands to myself where you’re involved. Besides, you’re my wife now. I think I have the right to touch you whenever I like.”

⭒ You remind him that you’re his wife in title only, but that doesn’t discourage his flirtation and teasing as he allows you to nudge past him. He follows you into the common area and takes a seat on the couch, spreading his legs wide and taking up a lot of space. His gaze is settled on you as he pats his thigh and his lips curl into a smirk. “Come here, wife.” You naturally scoff meanwhile you place the plate of seasonal fruits on the side table and situate yourself closest to the armrest, taking a bite into a juicy red strawberry as you ignore his piercing stare.

⭒ For someone who always gets what he wants, Sylus isn’t used to being defied like this. And had it been anyone else his patience would wear dangerously thin, but he supposes that you’re a special exception because he seems to enjoy the chase and claiming its reward. With one small gesture, he drags you across the couch by a gravitational pull and you squeal when the swirling red easily turn and maneuver you so you’re forced to straddle him and your hands prop on his shoulders for support. “There, much better. Comfy? This is the best seat in the house.” His gaze locks with yours, and he thinks you huffing and frowning at him is simply cute. He firmly grabs your wrist with the bitten strawberry in your hand and lifts it to his mouth for a sweet taste.

⭒ “No fair… using your Evol against me like this.” You grumble under your breath as you gently trail your thumb from his chin to the corner of his mouth where the strawberry juices began to spill. Then an impulsive thought takes over and you pinch his cheek between your fingers, creating a sticky mess on his face. “I hope you’re enjoying yourself. That’s for treating me like a sack of potatoes.” He chuckles once more, his hand falling on your hip and he gives you a light squeeze. “Oh, I do have every intention of fully enjoying my wife tonight.” And by that, he means taking you out for a joyride on his motorbike and feeling your arms wrapped around him tightly as the engine roars through the streets under the night sky and sinking moon. Sylus would never engage in any intimate acts you weren’t ready for, but he loves seeing you fluster at his suggestive remarks.

⭒ As the weeks cross over into months, you never imagined that you’d be spending so much time with Sylus outside of your agreed terms. He’s everywhere in every waking moment of your life even when he’s not there physically. You’re learning new things about him each day and you (begrudgingly) like being around him—even when he can sometimes be a playful bully toward you. When he’s gone for long stretches of time to deal with negotiations and other important matters in the N109 zone, you can feel your heart yearning for him but you’d never say that you miss him out loud when you think he's still toying with you. But with the way he cares for you like you’re both in a real and genuine relationship, it’s hard to know his true intentions and keep your feelings buried deep inside your chest for long.

⭒ You accidentally confirm that Sylus does harbor romantic feelings for you when you carelessly bring up your replacement in a lighthearted joke. You’ve never seen his face falter so quickly at your words as he averts his gaze for a moment to collect himself—a hint of vulnerability in his crimson hues. “I wouldn’t have found a new wife.” He shakes his head and tells you, his voice a little rougher than before. You don’t know what to say, but you manage a soft “No?” that reaches his ears. “No. I wouldn’t have been able to replace you, kitten. You’re it for me. The only one. No one could fill the void you’d leave behind.”

⭒ You and Sylus have kissed before, but this is the first time you’re initiating it. As you brush your lips against his, there’s a softness you never noticed. His hand slips around the small of your back and he pulls you close against him, returning your kiss with the same tenderness as though savoring the taste of you. You lean back after a moment, your palm meeting his cheek in a sweet embrace. “You know, I'm still getting used to the idea that I’ve fallen for you.” You can see him returning back to normal when he offers you a cocky smirk. “And yet here you are. In my arms, with your lips on mine. I think you’re not being entirely honest, my beautiful wife.” Sylus has waited a long time to hear those words from you but you don’t need to know that right now.

[no-144444]

꩜ summary: he doesn't listen...

꩜ pairing: carlos sainz x fem! reader

Can’t wait to get you home tonight. You look fucking gorgeous preciosa. 

You couldn’t help the goosebumps jumping up on your skin. You didn't even know he was here but, of course he was. He was here, like always, and you would run back to him, like always. Your eyes lifted to the dance floor in front of you. You scanned the faces, searching for him, hoping you’d spot him before he found you. You couldn’t find those familiar brown eyes, at least, not with the lack of light and amount of people in there. 

Carlos was great, he was nice when he needed to be, a good fuck, and a guy who was into a bit of aftercare. He was… yeah. It was fine. You were looking for a relationship and had landed yourself into a fuck-buddies situation, which was fine. It just wasn’t what you wanted. And he didn’t want anything else. He just wanted someone to fuck casually, and you wanted a boyfriend who would listen to you, who would hold you, who would care. That wasn’t Carlos. Men like him didn’t settle for a girlfriend, much less you. He didn’t listen at the best of times, he only put the effort in when he was getting something from you, and it made you feel like shit. So, you kept planning on breaking it off, but then it kept going. You both kept going. You kept running back. You just wanted it to be over and bile rose in your throat every time you realised you’d actually have to try and speak to him about it, that you couldn’t just ghost him and have him leave you alone. He wouldn’t go so easily. 

The music in Jimmy’s was loud. Too loud. It always was. The lights were strobe, Lando was probably on the dj deck, and you really just wanted to go home. You stared down at his message again, and typed your own out, despite the bodies pushing up against you. 

Not feeling well. Raincheck?

He didn’t respond right away. You didn’t expect him to. It was usually him cancelling or calling, and you just followed. But tonight was different. You felt it. It was over, for real. You couldn’t take not being listened to. You were nearly at the door when he texted. 

Have something that could make you feel better. Wait for me. 

And you did. Stupidly, you waited a full twenty minutes for him to come out of the club, walking with you back to his apartment as your stomach twisted with regret. You didn’t hold hands. You didn’t smile at each other. You looked every bit the strangers you really were. 

You knew what he wanted by the looks he was giving you, by the way your ‘catch-up’ (he’d asked about your day) went in one ear and out the other. You could’ve screamed and he still wouldn’t have heard you, and it only broke your heart more, because you cared. You were there for him when Ferrari dropped him, you sat there with him for a whole weekend and held him close, listening to every late-night rant and early-morning sob session. You did it for him, and he didn’t want to do it for you. You were nothing to him. You were just a body. Something to be used. 

Carlos’s apartment was cosy. He had a big kitchen (which he never used), a big couch, and he was allergic to switching on the big light, so the small lamps placed around the rooms only added to the ambience. You liked it there. It smelt clean and he kept it tidy, though you wished you were coming for a date night, rather than a booty call. 

He surged forward and kissed your lips as you pulled your jacket off. His hands immediately ran to grope and grab at anything he could. He pulled down the front of your dress, revealing your purple lace bra. His favourite. Your favourite too, but he never seemed to care. He smirked against your lips. “Missed you,” he hissed. “It’s been shit without you. Want you to come to Miami-”

“Carlos,” you breathed out, pushing him back, hard. He stumbled into the counter with a surprised look. “I don’t want this.” 

Both of you were quiet. He just stared at you as you fixed yourself up, feeling every bit the idiot you thought you were. You had let it go on too long. You had no idea what you were going to say, but you knew you needed to say it. 

“What’s wrong, preciosa?” he asked, taking a tentative step towards you. You took one step back. He stilled. 

“This is what’s wrong. Us! I don’t want this anymore,” you cried, tears streaming down your face. “I’m fucking sick and tired of you just using me for what you want, without ever thinking about what I want!” you took a deep breath. “And I feel so fucking stupid because I keep running back! And I don’t know why! I guess I think that if I show you that I could love you like I want to, that maybe you’ll care too? Which is so fucking stupid, because you don’t love me. You’ll never fucking love me unless I’m on my knees.”

And the air sucked out of the room, replaced with a thick atmosphere. You’d said it. He had to respond. 

He cleared his throat. “Where is this coming from?” he asked, his eyes wide and surprised, he took another step towards you slowly. You didn’t step back this time. “You’ve never said this before?”

“I have,” you shook your head, a sad smile on your lips. Of course he didn’t remember. Of course he didn’t care. “I have asked you a thousand times to be my actual boyfriend, and every single time you just say that we’re ‘just having fun’. Carlos, I don’t want someone who doesn’t want me, and you don’t want me.” 

“I want you,” he shook his head. “Of course I want you, preciosa-”

“What does that even mean?” you scoffed. “You want me, you call me ‘precious’ , and yet you’d rather die than let me meet your friends or family, you won’t call me your girlfriend, and all we do is fuck.” 

He looked down. “It’s complicated-” 

“Is it though? Charles does it. Oscar does it. Esteban does it. Max does it. Liam does it. Kimi does it, for fuck’s sake Carlos. You don’t love me, just say it-!”

“I love you!” he shouted and you flinched. Suddenly his hands were gripping your waist, and hugging you. His chest was heaving “I love you,” he whispered again, his voice small. “I love you, of course I love you.”

You shook your head. “You don’t love me.” 

“I love you,” he shook his head. “I love you so much.”

“You don’t listen to me,” you cried, choking up against his chest, but making no effort to move him away. “You refuse to be seen with me in public. You don’t hold me. You don’t love me unless I’m warming your cock.”

He shook his head again, his grip tightening again. “I don’t- I love you. All the time. I love how when you smile, your nose creases a little bit. I love how you look in the mornings when the sun is coming through the windows. I love how smart you are. I love hearing you speak-” 

“Tell me what happened in my day,” you demanded, a test to see if he listened. To see if he cared. You pulled back to look at his face.

“You woke up late,” he started, you were already pleasantly surprised. “You went for a walk down at the marina, you went grocery shopping because you wanted to make cookies. You got some work done and got a call from one of your friends, and you met her for lunch. Her name is Freida. You had lunch at Café de Paris Monté-Carlo. She paid even though you tried to. You went home and got some more work done. Then Lotti, your friend, invited you out to Jimmy’s for a mid-week pick-up. And now you’re here, with me,” his eyes were wild as he answered your demand with perfect execution. Your mouth dropped open. 

You were quiet for a moment and he reached up and wiped away every tear that fell. “So why don’t you ever make me feel like you’re listening?” 

He sighed. “I’m sorry. I love you and I’m sorry. I’ll change. I’ll do anything, I just… I cannot lose you.” 

“I just…” you pushed back, his hands dropping from your figure. His face hardened. “I need time to think.” 

And you left, because what else were you meant to do? 

so close to what masterlist

pop queens mixtape

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[promenadewithme]

Twelve days of Christmas - Chapter 1

paring: bucky barnes x fem! reader word count: 733 words warnings: marriage, children, slight angst, christmas. let me know if there is anything else :)

part 1 part 2 part 3

He was late. Again. Bucky had promised he would make an effort, as he did every time, but Stark always had him busy with one thing or another. You guessed men were all the same. Once they had the girl, they stopped trying. You never expected that from your husband, though. Closed off as he might seem, James had a good heart, one that did all he could for your family. All except actually show up recently.

Unlocking your phone for the millionth time, you were greeted by your string of unseen messages sent over the past two hours.

Liv and I are already at the school.

I saved you a seat, third row to the left.

James, are you coming?

It’s about to start soon, are you still at work?

I can’t believe you’re doing this again.

James?

At any moment, your daughter would be going up on stage, adorably dressed as a sugar plum fairy for her school’s Christmas performance. And he wasn’t there. You could clearly picture Olivia’s face as she stepped into the spotlight, searching for her dad in the crowd, only to find his absence. The purse that sat where he was supposed to be served as a reminder of every seat you saved him that her never occupied. Every time it got harder. Both to place the bag as you sat and to remove it when he didn’t show.

“Where the hell are you, James?” you muttered under your breath.

During your relationship and beginning of your marriage, your husband was the most caring and present man that ever existed. Then Liv was born, and rent was due. Money made the world spin and the lack of it made your husband seek more work. You knew he was overworked. You knew he did it for your family. The thing is, you had already gotten a raise and so did he, a significant one at that. You were comfortable, there was enough money saved for months if not more than a year. That did not make James slow down.

You knew he did not care about the money. He wasn’t the kind of guy to delight in the luxuries this world had to offer. Practical to a fault, he would even wear the same ragged clothes until you secretly replaced them. So why did he do it? Work until 3am, miss birthdays and special occasions, pull away from your family. From you.

It made you wonder if all those late nights were truly spent working. Maybe he was slowly forgetting your family because he found himself in someone else. Maybe your worst fear, that you would never be enough no matter how hard you tried, was the harsh reality. Maybe he was better off without you.

“Hey, is this seat taken?” one of the mothers you usually saw during drop-off asked, steering you from your thoughts.

Was it? You gazed at the auditorium doors one last time, hoping to see your husband’s face as he searched for you. But there was no one. People were already settled down and the lights started to dim. He wasn’t coming. A fact you already knew but had not found in yourself to believe.

“All yours.” You replied, forcing a smile that didn’t quite reach your eyes.

As the woman sat down, something settled in your chest. Something you already knew you had to do, that you lacked the courage to. For your daughter, but mostly for yourself. You were tired of being the only one showing up, the only one fighting for a relationship that felt one-sided.

No. No more. You would rather be single again and truly be alone than to feel so lonely with someone by your side. So much for better or worse. He couldn’t even stay home for long enough to know if times were good or bad, to know you were falling apart.

Tears welled up in your eyes as the play began and you were grateful for the dark. Falling into its embrace, you wished one last time that your husband would show up. You wished he would realize that he was losing you. With all your heart, you wished he would do something, say something. Change. As much as you loved James, you wished he would change. By the time the lights turned on again, you realized that not all Christmas wishes come true.

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[ottocre]

˚✶ * wake up call w/ kuroo or you fall asleep at the office overnight (part two)

m.list / wc: 670

    every morning kuroo is the first one in the office. it’s not that he’s motivated to get there early, it’s just what he’s found works for him. he’ll turn on every light, hoping and praying someday they’ll buy motion activated lights. he starts the coffee pot, typically with a lighter roast because he knows the majority of the office prefers it that way. and it gives him plenty of time to let him off early in the evenings. 

  what he didn’t expect this particular morning is entering the office to the lights still on. puzzled, he carries through the many cubicles to reach his own, noticing the coffee pot filled with day old coffee. furrowing his eyebrows, he looks around the office, expecting someone else to have come in early.

  the cubicles are all empty, only small tokens of memorabilia linger within. photos or trinkets give each one a specific personality that kuroo can project onto. as he nearly passes the last cubicle without a thought, he steps back, looking down at your sleeping figure. your back rises and falls slowly with each breath. his heart skips a beat as he sees your lips slightly parted, head resting against your arms.

  your arms garner goosebumps, skin free due to the summer’s daytime temperatures. clenching his jaw, he pulls off his suit jacket, resting it on your shoulders and back. unsure what to do next, he looks up at the clock. thirty minutes until the rest of the office gets in. pursing his lips, kuroo begins to devise a plan to successfully save either of you from any embarrassment. 

  he starts with the coffee pot, making sure to quickly clean it and set it to start back up for the morning. kuroo then scours the fridge for any leftovers that you could eat to wake yourself up with. a lone yogurt rests within the condiments and occasional opened pickle jars. letting out a sigh, he grabs the yogurt and a spoon. 

  kuroo stands outside of your cubicle, unsure of what’s the best way to wake you up. he’s heard the saying that you should never wake a sleep walking person, however, he’s never quite known what to do with a regular sleeping person. at first he pokes your shoulder, only earning a pitiful groan. then he shakes your shoulder, hand resting like a proud father after a winning home run. 

  none of it seems to work, so he reverts back to what he knows best. he kneels down beside you, mustering only a quiet voice at first, afraid someone may walk in, “l/n.. y/n.. you slept at the office and people are coming in soon…”

  you begin to stir at the sound of his voice, eyes flickering open. “y/n, you fell asleep at the office-”

  “shit! no one else is here right? god i’m so stupid,” your eyes widen, fully taking in the words that kuroo was spewing at you, arms stretching outwards.

  his jacket nearly falls off of your shoulders, however, your hands move quickly to pull it back upwards. kuroo shakes his head as he sets down the yogurt, standing up as he does so. “yeah it’s just us. i just know there are nights that end a little later.. but i have coffee and yogurt so you can wake up some. maybe freshen up or something- sorry just trying to help.”

  your nose crinkles as you think about him seeing you sprawled out and possibly drooling. “thank you kuroo, wow this is embarrassing. i wish you could’ve never seen me like this,” you reach for the jacket again, finally seeing him without his, quickly realizing what’s resting on your shoulders.

  kuroo shrugs, knowing he can’t tell you that you looked gorgeous like that. knowing that you’d always look great to him and he’d never be able to do anything about it. “it’s fine, besides, i won’t tell a soul. my lips are metaphorically sealed. now, would you like a cup of coffee before they get here?”

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[initforthethrill]

CATE BOT WHERE WE’RE IN A MOVE THEATER??🤭🤭

you guys can’t request things like this (kidding!) because it automatically turns on the horny receptors in my brain and then i spiral and you end up with something like this...

oh, and bot at the end baby<3

coming soon aka torturing cate during a romcom and cate seeking revenge after tw: girlcock, g!p user, semi public sex, movie theater sex, car sex, vaginal fingering, sex in a moving vehicle (don't try this at home kids!), hand job, dick riding, established relationship 5.5k+ words

Cate had picked the movie, obviously.

A glossy, mid-budget romance set in Italy, complete with tragic misunderstandings, sun-drenched kisses, and a guy who looked like he’d been genetically engineered in a vineyard. It wasn’t award-worthy, not even close, but Cate had read the reviews. It was the kind of film designed to make you feel something soft and safe, the kind where no one got exploded or eviscerated. The kind of movie she didn’t get to see much of growing up—too frivolous, too emotional, her mother would say.

So she drags you to the Friday night screening because she wants this. Because she’s had a shit week. Because sometimes you just need to see someone get their heart broken under a Tuscan sunset and then kiss someone else in the rain twenty minutes later. And because you always come with her. Even when you grumble about it the whole drive there.

“She’s not even that hot,” you say, looking at the poster outside the theatre. Your fingers are laced with Cate’s, rings cool against Cate’s knuckles.

Cate doesn’t look at the poster. She looks at you. “You’re such a liar.”

You shrug. “Okay. Maybe a little hot. Like, librarian-hot. But still. That guy looks like he’s made of ravioli.”

Cate snorts. “You wish you were made of ravioli.”

“I wish you were made of ravioli,” you shoot back, tugging her closer. “So I could eat you.”

Cate rolls her eyes, blushing hard anyway. “You’re disgusting.”

“And yet you’re still holding my hand,” you sing, smug as hell, as you cross the lobby toward concessions. Cate doesn’t answer. Just squeezes your fingers tighter.

You do this every time. Play the reluctant tagalong in public, even though you’re the one who always gets the tickets ahead of time. Even though you already have the AMC app on your phone. Even though you remember Cate’s exact popcorn order without asking—extra butter, layered, just a sprinkle of parmesan cheese powder and a cherry coke slushie with two straws. So you can share. Duh.

“Need anything else, princess?” you tease while waiting in line, hips bumping together. Your hand slides down, casually tugging at the hem of Cate’s coat like you own it. Like you own her. “Maybe a soft pretzel? One of those little hot dogs you hate but always steal from me anyway?”

Cate hums. “Mmm. I think I just need you to behave.”

You lean in like you’re about to whisper something sweet. Then nip her ear instead.

Cate yelps. Shoves you off. “Babe.”

You’re already grinning, unapologetic. “Just making sure your senses are fully engaged for this cinematic masterpiece.”

They sit toward the back—you like the aisle seat, and Cate likes being able to lean on you without thinking. The theater is only half-full, mostly older women and bored couples. Cate settles into her seat, adjusts her coat, and lets herself exhale.

The movie starts with a sweeping overhead shot of Florence. Cate’s already misty-eyed five minutes in.

It doesn’t last long.

Because you?

You don't care about the movie.

Didn’t care when Cate sent you the link to the trailer earlier that week (“It’s not your usual thing, but it looks romantic…”). Didn’t care when you bought the tickets in advance. Didn’t care when you pulled into the theater parking lot and made your predictable chick-flick joke. Didn’t even try to pretend once you were inside.

Because you have exactly one thing on your mind tonight, and it’s sitting beside you in a peach cashmere sweater, smelling like overpriced perfume and kissing you between sips of slushie.

Cate looks so good.

Like, distractingly good. High ponytail. Gold hoops. The kind of glossy, smug mouth that begs to be kissed stupid. Really, you shouldn’t have been expected to pay attention with Cate looking like that.

The second the previews end, you’ve got a hand on her.

Not even sneaky about it—just spread your fingers over Cate’s knee like you belong there. Like this is your girl, and you’re bored, and your girlfriend is so warm and soft and bratty when she tries to pretend she’s annoyed.

Cate whispers, “Do not start.”

You don't even flinch. Just let your palm drift up, slow and deliberate, until you feel Cate stiffen beside you. Until her thigh tightens under your touch.

“I’m literally just sitting here,” you whisper back. “You’re so reactive.”

Cate grits her teeth. Keeps her eyes glued to the screen.

Fine, you think. We’re doing this the hard way.

You drape your arm around the back of Cate’s chair, casual and lazy. Twirl a piece of her ponytail around one finger. Then lean in until your lips are grazing the shell of Cate’s ear.

“You wore this little sweater on purpose,” you murmur. “Didn’t you?”

Cate exhales hard. Doesn’t respond.

You nuzzle lower, nose pressing into Cate’s neck. Your hand trails beneath the hem of the sweater, warm against bare skin now, brushing just below Cate’s ribcage.

Cate jerks slightly when your thumb swipes just beneath the wire of her bra. Her hips involuntarily shift forward.

“Tell me to stop,” you say, quieter now, lips brushing Cate’s jaw.

Cate stays silent.

And that’s all the permission you need.

You kiss her temple once, softly, reverently. Then mutter: “That’s my girl.”

You start small. Thumb rubbing circles beneath the cashmere. Pressing little kisses into Cate’s neck until you feel your girlfriend melt into you, breath hitching every few seconds.

Then you dip lower. Just a little. Palm flattening against Cate’s stomach. Your pinky grazing the waistband of her jeans.

Cate’s legs squeeze together.

“Baby,” she whispers, panicked and breathless. “You’re gonna get us kicked out.”

You kiss her again, slower this time. Right below the ear. “Then be quiet.”

Cate glares at you.

But she doesn’t move away. Not exactly. Just settles back in her seat with a sharp exhale, jaw clenched, eyes fixed on the screen like she can force her brain to absorb the plot through sheer willpower. She tries to ignore you. Tries to will her body into submission.

The couple is arguing again—something about a passport and a missed opportunity—but it sounds muffled, distant. Background noise to the growing heat pooling low in her stomach.

You shift beside her, palm still pressed against Cate’s stomach like it belongs there. Your fingers don’t move, not exactly—but they twitch, just enough to remind Cate they’re still there. Just enough to make her shiver. You’re not teasing anymore—you don't have to. The contact is maddeningly casual, like you’re completely unaware of the storm you’re stirring.

But Cate knows better.

She can feel the grin radiating off you without even looking. That awful, smug certainty. That particular brand of quiet mischief you wear when you know you’ve already won, when you can feel Cate’s pulse stuttering and hear the way her thighs press together for dear life. Like you know Cate is one more breath away from unraveling.

And still, your hand stays there.

Steady.

Unmoving.

Cate inhales slowly. Tries to calm herself.

She can do this. She can sit through the movie. She can ignore her girlfriend beside her. She can keep her composure.

Cate glares at you. But she doesn’t move away.

You take that as permission—of course you do.

You lean in again, slower this time, brushing your lips against Cate’s jaw. Then lower. Featherlight kisses beneath her ear, down the curve of her neck, each one lazier than the last. Like you’re not just trying to get a reaction—but collecting them. The way Cate’s breath catches. The way her hips shift, almost involuntarily. The way her hand twitches against the armrest, caught between slapping you away and pulling you closer.

And all the while, your hand drifts lower. From mid-thigh to just above the knee. Then back up, a little bolder. Your thumb strokes the inseam of Cate’s jeans, slow, like you’re testing how far you can go before Cate cracks.

It’s not far.

Cate jerks her shoulder, suddenly, hard enough to break the contact. “Stop,” she hisses, cheeks flushed, eyes wide. “Seriously.”

You pulled away, unbothered, lips still parted from where they’d just been pressed to her skin. “Touchy,” you murmur, mock-innocent. “Wonder what’s got you so worked up.”

Cate focuses on the screen again. Tries to pretend her heart isn’t slamming. That she isn’t soaked. That she hasn’t considered, in detail, how fast she could drag you into the bathroom.

But instead—because she’s civilized, and because her entire nervous system is short-circuiting—Cate shrugs off her coat and spreads it delicately over her lap.

She tells herself she’s just cold.

That’s it. Just a little chill in the theater. Climate control issues. Nothing to do with the fact that you’ve been slowly, methodically pressing your hand all over Cate’s body for the past thirty minutes like it’s some sort of fucked-up challenge. Like you’re not in public. Like Cate isn’t one well-timed touch away from breaking her own self-control.

She shifts in her seat, subtly. Her sweater rides up a little.

You notice immediately, a low sound escapes you, barely audible, and Cate feels it in her spine.

“Cold?” you murmur, lip brushing the curve of Cate’s ear.

Cate’s voice is stiff. “A little.”

“Mm. Lucky me.”

Cate glares. “Don’t.”

But it’s already too late.

Your hand slips under the coat like it belongs there. Like it’s not a goddamn crime scene waiting to happen. Your touch is light at first—just resting on Cate’s thigh again, no movement, no pressure. But it simmers. A quiet, devastating weight. Like a storm cloud behind the ribs.

Cate stares at the screen, unblinking, while her heart tries to claw its way out of her chest.

Onscreen, the couple is dancing in a piazza. There are twinkle lights. Strings swell.

Cate’s teeth sink into the inside of her cheek.

You shift beside her, ever so slightly, fingers dipping just an inch lower, ghosting over denim. Then circling. Then pressing—so gentle it almost doesn’t count.

Cate’s breath hitches.

She fists her hands in her coat and curls her toes in her shoes.

“Still cold?” you whisper, voice thick with amusement.

Cate turns her head, eyes glassy. “You’re going to hell.”

Your grin is all teeth. “You first.”

Cate lets out a sound. Just a little one. A soft, strangled whimper she immediately swallows down—but not fast enough.

Two rows up, a woman turns and shushes them.

Cate freezes.

Absolute mortification courses through her like electricity. Her ears go hot. Her vision swims. She tugs her coat higher over her lap like that’ll somehow erase the shame of getting felt up during a Tuesday night showing of some stupid rom-com.

You don't flinch. Don’t remove your hand.

Cate doesn’t make eye contact.

The two of you sit like that—frozen, guilty, burning—until the woman turns back around.

And then—then—Cate finally breaks.

She exhales. Closes her eyes. Whispers, “Fuck it.”

Your breath catches.

Cate turns her head. Meets your gaze. And that’s all it takes.

Your lips crash together—quick, messy, filthy. Cate kisses like she’s trying to shut you up, teeth catching on your bottom lip, hand curling in your shirt like an anchor.

You moan into her mouth, hand sliding fully between Cate’s thighs, and neither of you are watching the movie anymore.

Cate tries to keep quiet. Really. But your hand is still under her coat, moving slowly, and your mouth is hot and open and everywhere, and Cate is barely hanging on.

At one point, she whines—an honest-to-God whine. And you groan.

Cate slaps a hand over her own mouth.

You kiss her cheek. “Yeah. You’re so cold.”

Cate doesn't answer. She can’t. Her thighs are shaking. Her coat feels like a furnace on her lap. The screen is a blur of Italian countryside and romantic resolution, but Cate couldn’t follow it if her life depended on it. Her entire body is humming—tight and coiled and teetering on the edge of something that feels both humiliating and inevitable.

She needs a second. Needs to get away. Regroup. Pull herself together before she does something completely insane.

So she untangles herself.

Quietly. Carefully.

Cate tries to leave.

Tries to gather what little dignity she has left—sweater wrinkled, coat clutched in a death grip, thighs trembling—and escape.

The bathroom. That’s the plan. Five minutes of cold water, a locked stall, and a prayer. She doesn’t even need to finish. Just to breathe. Just to stop shaking.

But you don't let go.

Not when Cate tugs at your wrist. Not when she tries to sit forward. Not even when she whispers, "Please," low and wrecked and raw.

Your grip just tightens.

“You’re not going anywhere,” you say, voice velvet-dark and so, so smug. “You started this.”

Cate glares at you, cheeks bright pink, eyes shining. “You started this.”

You shrug. “And I’m gonna finish it.”

Your hand slips back under the coat like it never left. Like it was always there, rightfully and inevitably. You find Cate’s button, the zipper, the heat. Cate’s already soaked—has been for the last thirty minutes—and you moan under your breath like it’s hurting you not to taste.

Cate’s breath stutters. She turns her face away. “This is—this is—”

“Shh,” you whisper, pressing a kiss to her temple. “No one’s watching. Just let go.”

Cate squeezes her eyes shut.

And then you touch her.

Really touch her. Not just teasing anymore. Not gentle. Just perfect.

Two fingers. Slow circles. Pressure that builds and builds like a storm tightening in her spine.

Cate bites down on the collar of her sweater to keep from crying out. Her thighs snap shut instinctively—but you’re right there, murmuring filth against her ear, coaxing her open again, pulling her apart piece by piece.

“You’re gonna make a mess in your jeans,” you whisper, teeth grazing her earlobe. “You gonna cum for me, baby?”

Cate whimpers.

Her fingers clutch the armrest. Her chest heaves. And when she finally tips, it’s full-body and silent—eyes wide open, mouth parted in a soundless cry, hand clenched in your hoodie like a lifeline.

Her orgasm shudders through her in waves, slow and rolling and devastating.

She slumps back in her seat, trembling. Boneless. Gone.

You hold her the whole time.

The credits roll.

The lights come up.

Cate still hasn’t moved.

Her coat is wrinkled beyond repair. Her hair is a disaster. Her lip gloss is absolutely gone. She can feel the mess in her jeans. And you—God, you—are sitting next to her like you just aced a test, sipping at your shared slushie and looking very proud of yourself.

Neither of you remembers what the fuck happened in Tuscany.

Cate finally turns her head.

“Don’t,” she croaks.

You grin. “Don’t what?”

“Don’t say anything.”

You raise both eyebrows. “I didn’t even—”

Cate smacks your arm. “I swear to God, asshole.”

You snort, reaching over to straighten the collar of Cate’s sweater. “You’re so pretty when you cum.”

“Babe.”

“I mean it. Like, glowing. Post-credit scene worthy.”

Cate groans. Covers her face with both hands.

You lean in and kiss the side of her neck. “Wanna go home?”

Cate doesn’t answer. Just nods.

You take her hand and drag her out of the theater, trembling thighs and all.

The car is quiet.

Cate hasn’t spoken since you left the theater.

You keep sneaking glances over, expecting another half-hearted glare, a flushed reprimand, maybe a scandalized little "You’re the worst person I know." Something to feed your ego. But nothing comes.

Cate’s just…sitting there.

Face turned toward the window. Eyes unreadable. One hand in her lap. The other curled tight around the passenger door handle, knuckles white. Her lip is still swollen from being kissed too hard. Her thighs are pressed together like she’s trying to contain something.

You bite back a grin. “You okay over there, sunshine?”

Cate doesn’t respond.

Just shifts in her seat. Adjusts her coat.

Silent.

You chuckle to yourself, cocky and warm, fingers tapping the wheel like you’ve won something.

Which is exactly the mistake Cate’s been waiting for.

It starts with her hand.

Quiet. Casual. Sliding across the center console with feigned laziness.

She rests it lightly on your thigh.

You raise an eyebrow, amused. “What’s this?”

Cate still doesn’t answer.

Just squeezes.

You glance down. Then at her. “You good?”

Cate hums softly. Low. Dangerous. Then curls her fingers just a little deeper into the denim between your legs.

Your breath catches. “Cate—”

“I’m cold,” Cate says simply, repeating her lie from earlier with poisonous sweetness. “Just keeping warm.”

And then—before you can react—Cate pops open her seatbelt and leans over.

She steadies herself on the center console, hands already undoing your fly.

“Woah—what are you—Cate, baby, we’re in traffic—”

“No we’re not,” Cate murmurs, pressing her mouth to the side of your throat. “We’re on a long stretch of highway and there’s no one behind us.”

You open your mouth—want to say as if that’s any safer, want to object, or beg, or something—

But then Cate’s hand slides into your boxers, immediate, hot and sure and perfectly cruel.

You jerk the wheel a little.

“Holy fuck.”

Cate smiles.

For the next three miles, you forget how to breathe.

Cate is deliberate with it. Every stroke, every squeeze, timed to the rhythm of the road. She kisses your neck like she’s being sweet—like this is some romantic gesture instead of revenge. Her voice is sugar-soft, whispering filth against her skin.

“You made me cum in a movie theater,” she breathes.

You groan.

“You didn’t even let me leave.”

“Fuck—”

“Now you’re gonna finish in the driver’s seat.”

“Jesus Christ—”

“That’s not my name.”

“Could’ve fooled me.”

Cate nips at your ear. “Focus on your driving. We don’t wanna get pulled over.”

You whine. Actually whine. Your hips lift into Cate’s hand, helpless, desperate. You try to focus on the road—as if that was even remotely possible—but your vision keeps blurring. The lights of the city are a smear. Your knuckles are white on the wheel.

Cate licks at the curve of her jaw. “Gonna cum for me?”

You nod wildly. “Yes—yes—fuck, I’m gonna—”

“Good girl.”

And that’s it.

That’s all it takes.

You gasp—loud, broken, body tensing like a taut wire—and cum into Cate’s hand with a desperate whimper, the car swerving ever so slightly in your grip.

You barely make it to the exit.

Cate leans back against the seat, smug and glowing, wiping her hand daintily on a napkin from the glove box.

“You okay, sunshine?” Cate teases.

You practically slump over the wheel.

“I’m never letting you pick the movie again.”

Cate grins. “You say that every time.”

The red light that follows the exit stretches unnaturally long.

You’re breathing like you just ran a marathon—jaw slack, eyes wide, hands trembling slightly against the wheel. Cate, radiant and unbothered in the passenger seat, is still smoothing her hair like she didn’t just wreck her girlfriend while in motion.

You try to speak.

Fail.

Try again.

“…I think I died.”

Cate tilts her head, biting back a smile. “I’d say rest in peace, but you’re still gripping the wheel like it’s a crucifix.”

You whimper. “I almost crashed the fucking car.”

“But you didn’t.”

“Oh my God.”

“I told you to breathe.”

“You told me to finish in the driver’s seat.”

Cate shrugs. “And you did. You’re welcome.”

You make a strangled noise and veers off at the next turn, tires crunching over gravel as you pull into the nearest parking lot—a mostly empty strip mall glowing faintly under dead neon. The car lurches to a stop.

Silence.

Cate watches you, amused. “You good?”

“No,” you say immediately. “No, I’m not good. I just got jerked off on the highway like a fucking truck stop whore by the love of my life and I can’t feel my legs.”

Cate preens. “Love of your life?”

You groan. “Shut up.”

You slump forward, forehead against the wheel. “I saw heaven. I touched it. There was light and harps and an old guy in a robe welcoming me home.”

Cate pats her knee. “Aw. Baby’s first religious experience.”

You lift your head, eyes glassy. “What did you do to me.”

“Nothing you didn’t deserve.”

“Cate.”

“Hm?”

“I’m still hard.”

Cate cackles.

You slap her arm. “You can’t just do that to someone and then sit there like a Bond villain drinking from my slushie!”

Cate sips from the straw, completely unbothered. “Well technically, it’s our slushie, baby.”

You groan again. “I need a cigarette. Or a prayer. Or a sensory deprivation tank.”

Cate leans over, runs a hand through your sweaty hair, voice devastatingly sweet. “You need to pull yourself together so we can get back to your dorm. Because I’m not done with you yet.”

You make a sound that’s basically a whimper if it married a threat.

You shift in your seat. Wince. “You’re actually going to kill me.”

Cate just grins and sucks on the straw again.

You slouch deeper into the seat, still blinking like you just got struck by lightning. Your shirt is rumpled, your fly is still undone, and your thighs are visibly shaking.

Cate finishes the slushie with a satisfied little slurp.

You groan.

“I can’t feel my legs.”

Cate hums. “You said that already.”

“No but like—really. They’re tingling. My knees are soup. My bones are jelly. I’m fucked.”

Cate reaches out and squeezes your thigh, sweetly. “You’re fine.”

“I’m not fine. I’m unwell. I’m spiritually compromised.”

You groan again, dramatically, dragging a hand down your face.

Cate smirks, raising a brow in amusement. “So what—you’re just gonna sit here until your soul reattaches to your body?”

You blink at her. Slow. Wide-eyed.

Then she says it.

Voice all soft, mock-serious, the smirk already forming:

“…My legs are trembling. I can’t possibly drive any further.”

Cate narrows her eyes.

You shift in your seat, twisting toward the backseat. “Tragic, really. Guess we’ll just have to make do.”

Cate stares. “Make do.”

You’re already crawling back there.

“I’m literally still recovering,” you add, tossing a hoodie across the seat like it’s a mattress. “I think I need some help. Possibly a ride.”

Cate scoffs, heat already pooling low in her stomach. “You’re unbelievable.”

“You said you weren’t done with me,” you purr, now reclining across the backseat like a martyr, legs spread, hoodie under your head like a pillow. “Well, come on then. Do your worst.”

Cate shuts the glovebox. Unclips her seatbelt.

And climbs into the backseat.

With the slow, terrible grace of someone who knows exactly what she’s capable of.

She kneels over your lap, palms braced on either side of your shoulders, eyes flickering down to where you’re already half-hard again, breath shallow. The backseat isn’t built for this—too narrow, too cramped, too visible—but that only makes Cate smile harder.

“Oh, baby,” Cate murmurs. “You sure you can handle me twice in one night?”

You grin.

“You know I can, Dunlap.”

You stretch out. Jeans shimmed halfway down your thighs, spare hoodie bunched beneath your head, hair damp with sweat. You’re panting already, pupils blown wide, thighs parted like you’re begging—like you want Cate to take you apart.

Cate hovers above you, calm and collected. Rolls her sleeves up slow, like she’s clocking in for overtime. Like this is business.

Then, still holding eye contact, she reaches down. Unbuttons her jeans. Slides them down her legs inch by inch, deliberate and unhurried, until they’re bunched at her knees and kicked aside without a word. Her panties are still on—barely. But it’s enough to make you whimper as Cate straddles you.

She grinds down once, slow.

You gasp—head snapping back, hips bucking, voice rough with desperation: “God yes—you’re perfect—fuck, I love you—”

Cate smiles. Sharp. Sweet. Devastating.

“Oh?” she purrs, grinding again, this time meaner, dragging her hips down slow and steady while her hands pin your wrists above your head. “You love me now?”

You’re panting like a prayer as the soaked fabric of Cate’s panties drags agonizingly slow over your cock. “I’ve always loved you. Fuck.”

Cate leans in, teeth grazing your throat. “Say it again.”

“I love you.”

Cate reaches between you to tug her panties to the side and sinks herself down onto you with one swift motion. You try to muffle the sound—bite your lip, clench your teeth, something—but it still escapes you, a low, wrecked moan that fills the car like a confession.

The movements are harder now, rough and rhythmically cruel, as Cate uses the whole length of her body to ride. To claim. To break.

You shudder. Try to buck up, try to meet her rhythm, but Cate holds you down. Hands pressing into your chest, your shoulders, your hips. No escape.

“I said,” Cate growls, voice low and perfect and terrifying, “say it again.”

“I love you,” you gasp. “I love you—fuck, baby—”

“Louder.”

“I fucking LOVE YOU—”

Cate’s nails dig into your hips. She keeps moving—relentless, hips working in long, brutal strokes until you’re trembling, lip bitten raw, whole body thrashing beneath her.

And the sounds—the obscene slap of skin on skin, the fogged windows, the whimpering—it's all too much.

You grab at her—shoulders, thighs, anything you can reach—but Cate’s pace doesn’t change. She’s focused. Possessed. Riding like she’s got something to prove.

Like this is penance.

Like she owns you.

And you? You let her.

Let her take everything. Let Cate fuck you dumb. You’re whispering between gasps, voice shredded: “Please—please—don’t stop—need you so bad—I’m yours—yours—yours—”

Cate grabs your face.

Forces you to look her in the eye.

Then rides you through it—right to the edge, right to the trembling, shattered finish line—until you’re gasping, crying out, choking on your own breath as you fall apart for her again. And Cate just keeps going.

Because she can.

Because you love it.

Because Cate Dunlap doesn’t fuck around when she’s in charge.

And by the time you finally collapse—blissed-out and ruined, heart pounding against your chest, eyes unfocused—Cate is glowing.

Breathless. Proud. Possessive.

Cate leans in, presses a kiss to your collarbone.

Then whispers, smug as ever:

“Now that’s how you shut a butch up.”

For a moment, there’s only the sound of your joint breathing—shallow, shaky, uneven. Cate doesn’t move. Just stays there, pulsing with afterglow and pride, her hands braced on your chest, her body still slick with effort.

You’ve gone pliant beneath her. Eyes closed. Arms limp. Mouth parted like you’re still trying to remember how air works.

The windows are fogged straight to hell.

Cate’s still straddling you, but the motion’s long since stopped—her hips slowing, softening, until she’s just there, settled warm over your stomach, watching her girlfriend come back to earth in real time.

You’ve got one arm flung over your face, mouth slack, hair sticking to your forehead. Your chest rises and falls in heavy, uneven waves. You look wrecked—not just fucked out, but rebooting. Like someone shook your soul loose and you’re still waiting for it to settle back into place.

Cate leans down and kisses you once, feather-light, then pats your chest.

“Good girl,” she whispers.

You make a sound—not even a real word. Just a whimpering, hoarse little sigh of surrender.

Cate giggles.

And with the kind of catlike grace that should be illegal post-orgasm, she slowly climbs off, pulls her jeans back on, and shimmies up to the front seat.

You watch her go, dazed and still spread eagle across the backseat like an abandoned doll.

Cate flips the visor down. Smooths her hair. Reapplies her lip gloss with the precision of a sniper. She’s glowing. Effortless. Like she just stepped out of a spa instead of riding her girlfriend to apocalyptic ruin in a parking lot.

You groan into the hoodie beneath you. “How the fuck do you recover so fast.”

Cate clicks the lip gloss shut. “Hydration. Good posture. Ruthless efficiency.”

“You’re a demon.”

Cate turns slightly, admiring her reflection in the rearview mirror. “I prefer the term succubus.”

You groan again, dragging both hands over your face. “I’m still gonna haunt you for this.”

Cate raises an eyebrow. “Is that a threat, or a promise?”

You just glare. But it’s half-hearted at best.

Cate finishes fixing her hair, then reaches over and drops a fresh napkin onto your bare stomach like a blessing.

“Clean yourself up, sweetheart. I’m taking us to McDonald’s.”

You blink up at her.

“You mean drive-thru, right?”

Cate smiles.

“No, I mean I’m walking in there looking like a dewy little angel while you limp behind me like a lesbian scarecrow. Let’s go.”

They make it to the McDonald’s fifteen minutes later.

Cate’s the one driving now—of course she is. She’s fully recovered, sitting upright, hair re-clipped, lip gloss flawless, humming along to the radio like she didn’t just commit a sex felony in a public parking lot.

You, by contrast, look wrecked.

You’re curled into the passenger seat with your hoodie pulled over your head like a shroud. One sock is missing. Your jeans are still unzipped. There’s a faint red flush continuing to work its way down your neck, and every time the car hits a bump, you lets out a quiet, involuntary “fuck” like a ghost being exorcised.

Cate glances over at you. Smiles sweetly.

“How you doin’, sunshine?”

You groan. “I need ice cream.”

Cate arches a brow. “Oh?”

“A McFlurry,” you mutter. “Please. I deserve one. You owe me one.”

Cate bites back a laugh. “I owe you?”

“You assaulted me with your pussy.”

“That sounds like a you problem.”

“I’m begging you. M&M. Extra M.”

Cate smirks, turning into the drive-thru. “You’re so dramatic.”

“I’m dying.”

The speaker crackles.

“Hi, welcome to McDonald’s. What can I get for you?”

Cate leans casually out the window, eyes still locked on your glassy, half-lidded stare. “Hi! Can I get a large fry, six-piece nugget, and a regular Coke?”

You tug at her sleeve. “Cate.”

Cate glances at you. “And a small water.”

You practically screech. “CATE.”

The speaker is silent for a beat.

“Would you like anything else?” the employee asks warily.

Cate sighs, dramatically. “Fine. And one M&M McFlurry for the whimpering pile of post-coital rubble next to me.”

There’s another pause.

“…I’m sorry, what size?”

“Large,” you croak from the passenger seat. “Please. Please. I’m going to pass away.”

Cate hands over her card at the window. Taps her fingers on the door. “You know, this is the second time tonight you’ve said you were gonna die. Should I be worried?”

“I saw God and she had your face.”

Cate beams.

“I know.”

They pull forward. The poor teen at the next window does a double take when he sees the pair of you—Cate glowing like she just walked out of a Lush commercial, and you. A crumpled tangle of limbs and regret in the passenger seat, looking like you need a trauma blanket and an exorcism.

“Uh,” the cashier says, handing over the Coke, “you okay, man?”

You grab the McFlurry like it’s holy communion. “No.”

Cate sips her drink. “She’ll live.”

You moan into the spoon on the first bite, eyes fluttering shut. “I don’t deserve you.”

Cate hums. “Correct.”

The two of you park in the corner of the lot.

Not far from the building, just enough to be out of sight. Cate flicks the engine off and turns in her seat, legs tucked up, fry box resting in her lap like a prize. You’re still unraveling, slowly peeling back your hoodie like you’re emerging from hibernation.

“You look like you just survived a natural disaster,” Cate says, taking a fry.

You blink at her with red-rimmed eyes. “You were the natural disaster.”

Cate pops the fry in her mouth. “Aw. Flattery.”

You flop toward her like a corpse. “I need comfort.”

“Oh, now you want comfort?”

“You rode me to death. I deserve softness.”

Cate considers it. Then opens her arms.

You immediately crawl over the console—knees catching on the cupholders, limbs a mess—until you’re draped across Cate’s lap with a sigh like a dying Victorian widow. Your face buries into Cate’s stomach.

Cate smiles.

Runs her fingers gently through your sweat-damp hair, brushing it back off your forehead. “You really are so dramatic.”

“M’legs don’t work.”

“You’ll recover.”

Cate picks up a fry and holds it in front of your mouth.

“Say ‘ah.’”

You groan. “You’re insufferable.”

Cate wiggles the fry. “Open up, sweet girl.”

You grumble, but open your mouth anyway. Cate feeds you, smug and satisfied.

“You’re enjoying this way too much,” you mutter around the bite.

“I literally brought you back to life. You’re welcome.”

“I think I should sue.”

Cate pats your cheek. “You moaned my name like a dying prayer. That holds up in court.”

You hide your face in Cate’s lap, groaning.

Cate giggles. Twirls a strand of hair around her finger. “Okay, okay. Do you want to finish your McFlurry?”

A hand weakly emerges from her thigh. “Yes please.”

Cate hands it over, resting it carefully in front of you. You scarf it down like a child with a fever.

You sit like that for a while—windows cracked, soft music from the radio drifting around you, city lights painting faint halos in the windshield. Cate strokes your hair. You breathe in sync with her. The air smells like salt and sugar and sweat.

“Cate,” you murmur after a few minutes. “I really do love you.”

Cate looks down. Kisses your temple.

“I know.”

♡ | midnight matinee

[satorulovebot]

THE GREAT WAR.

♱ genre. tragedy, WWI au, 18+

♱ summary. in the midst of world war I, satoru gojou drafted and sent off to the western front, leaving behind the love of his life with the promise of marrying her when he returned. he clings to the thoughts of a future with her and the letters she sends him in hopes of reuniting with her.

♱ pairings. satoru gojou, fem!reader

♱ word count. 8k

♱ tags/warnings. violence, suggestive content, major character death, profanity, mentions of drug use, weapon use, + more

♱ notes. this wasn't meant to be long or anything or fully fleshed out but i decided to share it anyways. i lowkey hate this but what can i say. i also made myself upset because of course i did. anyways likes and rb's always appreciated :)

December 1, 1917

My Dearest Love,

I hope my letter reaches you before we move further down the front and getting letters out becomes harder. I hope you’re sound asleep in our bed, enjoying dreamland with Charlie. 

I wanted to let you know that I think of you every day. I keep replaying our last night together in my mind. It was so precious, and I wish I could be there with you now. We talked about our future together. Even now, even here, I still dream of that future. It’s the only thing that keeps me going.

This war has shown me things I can’t forget, things I’ll never forget. I worry for Suguru too as he’s losing himself. Baby I can’t lie to you, it’s hard out here. If something happens to me and I don’t make it back, please remember how much I love you. I love you more than words can say. 

Please stay strong for me, my love. I’ll hold onto the hope that we’ll be together again someday.

With all my love,

Satoru

May 18, 1917

The radio crackles faintly as you twist the dial, trying to find the right station. The sound of distorted voices filled the small living room of your home. You are sitting on the worn couch that you and Satoru had spent countless nights on, talking about everything and nothing. Satoru sits beside you with his arm draped over your shoulders, his hand resting on your upper arm, fingers tracing slow, absentminded circles on your skin. It’s a small gesture, one that he’s done a thousand times before, but tonight it feels… different.

You finally find the station you’ve been looking for, and the voice on the radio comes through, clear and steady.

“…the President has announced that the United States will be joining the war in Europe. All eligible men between the ages of 21 and 30 are to be drafted into military service…”

You freeze at the words, like a winter chill had seeped into your bones. You feel a sharp, involuntary intake of breath, your hand tightening around the knob of the radio as if holding on to it will somehow keep the world from spinning out of control.

“They’re really doing it,” he murmurs.

You swallow hard, your mouth suddenly dry, and force yourself to speak. “We talked about this, but…” The words feel strange on your tongue as if they belong to someone else. “Hearing it…hearing it makes it real.”

Satoru nods, but he doesn’t say anything.

Finally, he speaks, his voice barely more than a whisper. “What are we going to do?”

The question hangs in the air, unanswered, because you don’t know the answer. How could you? You want to say something, anything, to reassure him, to reassure yourself, but the words would not come. Instead, you reach for his hand, lacing your fingers with his, holding on as tightly as you can, as if it might somehow keep the world from falling apart.

Satoru’s grip tightens around yours, and for a moment, you can feel the fear in him, the uncertainty. You’ve always known him as strong and always in control, but now, in this moment, he’s just as lost as you are.

“We’ll figure it out, baby. I promise,” He whispered.

Satoru pulls you closer, wrapping his arms around you as you buried your face in his chest. You breathed in the familiar scent of him, trying to memorize every detail as if it was the last time you would ever get to hold him like this. His lips press against the top of your head, a gentle, lingering kiss that speaks of promises made and promises that will be broken.

June 3, 1917

Tomorrow is the day that Satoru is set to leave for the Western front.

The golden light of the late afternoon filtered through the windows, casting long, melancholy shadows across the bedroom. It was a room you had filled with so many memories—laughter, love, late-night conversations that had lasted until the early hours of the morning. But now, the only thing that seemed to be there was a half-packed duffel bag lying open on the bed.

You stood in the doorway, leaning against the frame, watching as Satoru moved about the room gathering the the last couple of items he would need. He was quiet the entire time he packed his bags. You could see the way his shoulders were stiff and the subtle tremor in his hands as he reached for another piece of clothing.

Between the two of you, Satoru had always been the strong one. The one who could face anything with a smile, it was the thing that had drawn you to him in the first place.

“You don’t have to do this alone,” you said softly, your voice barely more than a whisper.

He paused at the sound of your voice, his hands hovering over the duffel bag. Slowly, he turned to face you, His eyes met yours, and in them, you saw the fear he was trying so hard to hide.

“I don’t know how to do this,” Satoru finally admitted, his voice rough, like it had been scraped raw from holding back so much. “I don’t know how to leave you.”

His confession broke something inside of you like a dam of emotions had finally been let loose. Before you knew it, you were across the room, wrapping your arms around him as tightly as you could, burying your face in his chest. His arms came around you instantly, pulling you close, holding on as if you were the only thing keeping him grounded.

“You don’t have to be strong all the time,” you whispered. “Not with me.”

“I’m scared,” he admitted, the words muffled against your hair. “I’m so scared, and I hate that I’m leaving you and Charlie like this.”

Your heart ached at his words. It was a side of him he rarely showed anyone, even you.  You pulled back just enough to look up at him, your hands cupping his face, your thumbs brushing away the tears that had begun to fall.

“I’m scared too.”

“Do you remember the first time we talked about the war?” Satoru asked suddenly.

You nodded, remembering the day that the news had broke about the conflict in Europe. It was just another story on the radio, something that had felt so far away. The two of you had been sitting in the same room, listening to the same radio, with your hands entwined talking about the life you wanted to build together.

“It felt like something that could never touch us. Like it was happening in another world, to people we’d never know.”

Satoru sighed, “And now, it’s all too real.”

When you looked up at him, you could see the same look in his eyes that you had seen when the draft letter first arrived.

You felt your tears start to fall as you reached up to touch his face, your fingers tracing the familiar lines of his features, trying to commit them to memory. “So do I,” you whispered, your voice choked with emotion. “But no matter what happens, I’ll be here when you come back. I’ll be waiting for you.”

​​Satoru closed his eyes, leaning into your touch. I’m going to miss you so much,” he murmured. “Every single day.”

You pulled him down into a kiss, slow and lingering, pouring all of your love, your fear, your hope into that one moment, trying to convey everything you couldn’t put into words. Satoru’s hands came up to cup your face, his lips moving against yours with a desperation that made your heart ache once more.

“I love you,” you could hear him say as he continued to latch his mouth onto yours. “I love you. I love you. I love you.”

Without breaking the kiss, Satoru guided you towards the bed, his hands moving to your waist as he lifted you, laying you down gently on the mattress. The duffel bag was pushed to the side, forgotten for now, as he climbed on top of you, his body pressing down against yours, relishing the taste of his buttery lips on yours.

June 4, 1917

“Are you ready?” His voice broke the silence.

You turned to face him, your throat tight with the words you wanted to say but couldn’t find. Instead, you nodded, though nothing about you felt ready—least of all your heart.

Satoru approached you slowly as if he wasn’t sure how to comfort you without breaking down. His warm hand reached out and cupped your cheek, his thumb brushing away the tear you didn’t realize had fallen.

“You know I have to do this,” he said, his voice soft. “It’s my duty. I can’t—”

“Please don’t go,” you interrupted, the words spilling out before you could stop them. Your voice cracked, you were desperate to make him stay. You knew you were asking the impossible, that no matter how much you begged, he couldn’t stay. But the thought of losing him, of not knowing if he would ever come back, was too much to bear.

He pulled you into his arms, holding you close as if he could shield you from the reality you had both come to face.

“I wish I could stay,” he murmured against your hair. “More than anything, I wish I could stay here with you. But I have to go. I have to.”

You clung to him, your fingers gripping the fabric of his uniform as if you could keep him there, with you, if you just held on tight enough. “But what if you don’t come back? What if—”

“I will come back.” He pulled back just enough to look into your eyes, the look almost pleading. “I promise you, baby, I will come back. And when I do, I’m going to marry you, and we’ll have that life we always talked about. We’ll have a family, a home...everything.”

“What if something happens?” you whispered, your voice barely audible. “What if—”

“Hey,” Satoru’s voice was gentle, and soothing, as he cupped your face in both hands, his thumbs brushing away the tears that were now streaming down your cheeks. “Nothing’s going to happen to me. I’ll be careful, I’ll keep my head down, and I’ll come back to you. I promise.”

His words were meant to comfort you, but they only made the pain worse. Because deep down, no matter how much he promised, there was no guarantee that he would come back. But you couldn’t bring yourself to say that. So instead, you nodded, forcing yourself to believe, if only for his sake. “Promise me you’ll write,” you said, your voice trembling. “Every chance you get.”

“I will,” he assured you, his eyes never leaving yours. “Every chance I get, I’ll write to you. And I want you to write to me too, okay? Tell me everything, don’t leave anything out. I want to know everything that’s going on with you, no matter how small it might seem.”

You nodded again, a small, shaky smile tugging at the corners of your lips. “I will. I promise.”

Satoru sighed, his breath warm against your skin as he pressed a lingering kiss to your forehead. “I have to go.”

You didn’t trust yourself to speak, so you just nodded, swallowing hard against the lump in your throat. Satoru gave you one last, long look as if trying to memorize every detail of your face before he finally turned and picked up his duffel bag.

You walked the man you love to the door, your steps were slow, each one feeling like a goodbye. When you reached the threshold, Satoru stopped, turning to face you one last time. “I love you.”

“I love you too,” you whispered, your voice breaking.

He leaned down, capturing your lips in a kiss that was full of everything you couldn’t say—fear, hope, love, and the desperate need to hold on to this moment, to him, for as long as you could. When he finally pulled away, you could see the tears in his eyes, tears he was trying so hard to hold back.

“I’ll see you soon.”

And then he was gone, walking out the door and down the path that led to the street, where a car was waiting to take him to the docks. You stood in the doorway, watching as he walked away. When he reached the car, he turned back one last time, raising his hand in a small wave, a sad smile on his lips.

You raised your hand in return, your vision blurred by tears, your body shaking with the force of the sobs you were holding back. And then he was gone, the car driving away, taking him further and further from you, until he was just a speck on the horizon, and then nothing at all.

Finally, when you couldn’t stand it any longer, you sank to the floor, your body shaking with sobs that you could no longer hold back. You cried for what felt like an eternity with Charlie at your side, your tears soaking into the wood beneath you, your cries echoing in the empty house. 

When you finally had no tears left, when your body was too exhausted to cry anymore, you lay there, curled up on the floor, clutching the memory of Satoru close to your heart, the only thing you had left of him.

“I’ll be waiting for you,” you whispered into the silence, your voice hoarse from crying. “No matter how long it takes, I’ll be here when you come back.”

September 7, 1917

My Dearest Satoru,

I hope this letter finds you safe and well. I wish more than anything that I could be there with you, to hold your hand and tell you that everything will be okay. But since I can’t, I’m sending you all the love I have, wrapped up in these words.

Life here is quiet without you. The days seem longer, and the nights feel emptier, but I’m doing my best to keep busy. I’ve been tending to our plants you always loved, you won’t believe how much they’ve grown! The roses have bloomed beautifully this year, and I think of you every time I see them. I imagine you coming home and us standing together in the kitchen, just like we used to, with Charlie at our feet.

Speaking of Charlie, he’s been such a comfort to me in your absence. He’s still the same playful pup, always chasing his tail and trying to catch the birds that come too close. But I think he misses you just as much as I do. Sometimes, he will sit by the door, staring out as if he is waiting for you to walk through it. I take him on long walks, and every time we pass by the places we used to go together, he pulls at the leash, looking around as if he expects to see you there. I can’t help but smile and cry a little at the same time. He’s such a good dog, Satoru, and I know he’ll be so happy to see you when you come home.

I dream about the day you’ll come home, the day we’ll finally be together again. I dream of the life we’ll have, the family we’ll build, all the things we talked about before you left. And until that day comes, I’ll be here, waiting for you, loving you with everything I have. I’ll keep writing to you, and I hope that these letters bring you some comfort, some reminder of the life waiting for you here.

Please take care of yourself, Satoru. Stay safe, stay strong, and know that I’m counting down the days until you return. I love you more than words can say, and I’m so proud of you. Come back to us soon.

With all my love,

Y/N

October 12, 1917

The train clacked along the tracks, the noise doing little to soothe the nerves of the men inside. Satoru was sat by the window, his thoughts a thousand miles away.

Satoru’s hand slipped into his pocket, fingers closing around the worn edges of a small, creased photograph. He pulled it out, his eyes softening as he looked at the image of the woman who had captured his heart. Your eyes held all the warmth of a summer day, and your smile—oh, that smile—was the beacon that guided him. He could almost hear your voice, talking about the latest gossip or news.

As the train jolted along the tracks, Satoru’s thoughts drifted back to the last time he had seen you, the way you had clung to him, the way your tears soaked his uniform as you begged him not to go.

A soft voice broke through his reverie, pulling him back to the present. “Is that your wife?”

Satoru glanced up to see the soldier sitting next to him, a young man barely out of his teens, with wide, innocent eyes. He was looking at the photograph in Satoru’s hand with curiosity.

Satoru managed a small, bittersweet smile, his thumb brushing over the face of the woman in the photograph. “No,” he replied softly. “We never got the chance to marry.”

The young soldier’s brows furrowed slightly in confusion. “Why not? If you don’t mind me asking.”

Satoru sighed, leaning back against the hard, uncomfortable seat. His gaze drifted back to the photograph. “I was going to,” he began, his voice distant as he spoke, almost as if he were talking more to himself than to the young soldier beside him. “We talked about it, even picked out a date... But then the war came, and everything changed. I didn’t want to leave her, but there wasn’t enough time.”

He paused, his eyes clouding with the memories of that fateful day. The tears in your eyes as you pleaded with him to stay to marry you. But he had refused, not because he didn’t want to, but because he couldn’t bear the thought of leaving you a widow, of making you wait for a man who might never come back. It had been the hardest decision of his life, and now, as he sat on this train bound for the front lines, he wondered if he had made the right one.

“She must be something special,” he said quietly.

“She is,” Satoru replied, his voice softening as he thought of you. “She’s everything. The strongest, most loving person I’ve ever known. She’s the reason I’m doing this, the reason I’m still standing.”

He fell silent, his mind drifting back to the countless nights the two of you had spent talking about your future. You had dreamed of growing old together, maybe moving out to the countryside and live in a little house.

“What’s her name?” the young soldier asked, his voice pulling Satoru back from his thoughts.

“Y/N,” Satoru said softly, a smile tugging at the corners of his lips as he spoke your name. “She’s waiting for me to come back.”

“You’ll make it back to her. I know you will.”

Satoru nodded, though deep down, he wasn’t so sure. 

The train jerked to a stop, the shrill whistle signaling their arrival at the next station. The soldiers began to stand, gathering their gear as they prepared to disembark. Satoru carefully folded the photograph and slipped it back into his pocket, close to his heart, where it belonged.

​​As he stepped off the train, the cold air hit him like a slap in the face. The station was a bleak and desolate place filled with soldiers. Satoru pulled his coat tighter around him, his eyes scanning the crowd, searching for something, anything, that would remind him of home.

But there was nothing.

He glanced back at the train, at the young soldier who had spoken to him. Their eyes met for a brief moment, then the young soldier raised his hand and, in a small almost hesitant wave said, “Take care of yourself!”

Satoru nodded, though he couldn’t bring himself to say the words in return. He turned and began walking, the weight of his rifle heavy on his shoulder.

The journey to the front lines was grueling, to put it lightly. It was something that tested the physical and mental limits of every man in the company. The landscape was a reflection of the war: the fields now lay barren, scarred by craters and the remnants of past battles. Trees stood like charred skeletons against the gray sky, their branches reaching out like twisted fingers. It was a place that seemed to exist outside of time, where the seasons had no hold.

Satoru walked near the front of the column, though his thoughts were universes away. He had stopped trying to make sense of the war around him, instead, his mind clung to the thought of his girlfriend and his home. Every so often, his hand would drift to his pocket, where the photograph of his beloved remained safely tucked away. It was his anchor, the one thing that kept him grounded in a world that seemed to have lost all meaning.

Throughout the journey, there were brief breaks from the march. Moments where men could catch their breath and rest their sore legs. During these breaks, the sliders would drop to the ground wherever they could find space. Some lit cigarettes, the tiny glowing embers flickering in the dim light, while others simply stared into the distance.

Satoru usually found a spot a little apart from the others, leaning against the trunk of a withered tree or sitting on a flat rock. Once on a break, the company rested by the narrow road that cut through a ruined village. Satoru found himself staring at the crumbling remains of a church. The steeple had collapsed, the once-proud structure now reduced to a pile of rubble. A few scattered graves dotted the ground nearby, their markers leaning at odd angles as if they, too, had given up the fight against the ravages of war.

He was pulled from his thoughts by the sound of voices approaching from down the road. Another company was making its way toward them, the soldiers’ weary faces reflecting the same one that Satoru saw on his men. 

Satoru glanced around, his gaze sweeping over the unfamiliar faces. Most of the men looked just as worn and weary as his own comrades, their uniforms stained with mud. But then, out of the corner of his eye, he saw a figure that made him pause, his heart skipping a beat. 

It couldn’t be—but it was.

Suguru Getou stood a little apart from the rest of his company, his back against the remnants of a low stone wall. He was staring off into the distance, seemingly unaware of the world around him, lost in thoughts that Satoru could only guess at. His face was thinner than Satoru remembered, his features more drawn, but there was no mistaking those sharp, dark eyes, or the way his long, black hair fell in loose strands around his face.

For a moment, Satoru was frozen in place. He hadn’t seen Suguru since before the war before they had been sent away from their families and to different parts of the front. Suguru had been sent to the front lines before Satoru did and Satoru had often wondered if he was even still alive, if he had somehow managed to survive on the front lines. 

Now, seeing him here, in the flesh, was both a shock and a relief.

“Suguru,” Satoru called out, his voice breaking the silence between them.

Suguru’s head snapped up, his eyes narrowing as they focused on Satoru. For a moment, there was no recognition in his gaze, just the cold, hard stare of a soldier who had seen too much. But then something shifted in Suguru’s expression, and his eyes softened, a faint smile tugging at the corners of his lips.

“Satoru, you bastard,” Suguru replied, pushing himself away from the wall and making his way over to where Satoru stood. There was a moment of hesitation as if they weren’t quite sure how to greet each other after all this time, but then Satoru reached out and clapped a hand on Suguru’s shoulder.

“Still alive, huh?”

“Barely. It’s good to see you, Satoru.”

“And you,” Satoru said.

Suguru’s gaze then drifted to the photograph clutched in Satoru’s hand. “Is that her?” he asked quietly, nodding toward the picture.

Satoru followed his gaze, his expression softening as he looked down at the image of the woman he loved. “Yeah,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. “She’s the one keeping me sane out here.”

Suguru nodded, his expression unreadable as he looked at the photograph. “You’re lucky, you know,” he said after a moment. “Not everyone has someone to go home to.”

“And you? How are you holding up?”

Suguru shrugged. “I’m still here,” he said simply. “That’s all that matters, right?”

Satoru wanted to say something, to offer some kind of comfort or reassurance, but the words wouldn’t come. What could he say that would make any of this easier? What could he offer that would ease the burden they both carried?

After a while, the call to move out came, and the soldiers began to gather their gear, preparing to resume their march to the front lines.

“Take care of yourself, Suguru.”

“And you, Satoru,” Suguru replied, his expression softening for just a moment. “We’ll see each other again. We have to.”

As the two companies parted ways, Satoru glanced back one last time, watching as Suguru’s figure grew smaller and smaller in the distance. He slipped the photograph back into his pocket, his fingers lingering on it for just a moment too long.

December 1, 1917

The trenches were a whole other world themselves. They were a labyrinth of mud, blood, and despair that stretched across the landscape like a festering wound. Satoru had been there for weeks now, but time had lost all meaning. Day and night blurred together into an endless cycle of fear and exhaustion. The air was thick with the stench of death and decay, a sickly smell that clung to everything, seeping into the very pores of his skin. 

Satoru had never imagined that war could be like this. He had heard stories, of course—everyone had—but nothing could have prepared him for the reality of life in the trenches. The constant threat of death, the gnawing hunger—it was a living nightmare, a hell on earth from which there was no escape.

He had lost count of how many men had fallen, their bodies left to rot in the no man's land between the trenches. Friends, comrades, men he had shared laughs and meals with—they were all gone now, their lives snuffed out in an instant by a stray bullet or a well-placed shell. And with each death, a piece of Satoru died with them, his heart growing harder, his soul more numb.

At first, he tried to keep up the letters, pouring his thoughts and fears into the carefully penned words he sent back to you. He had written about the camaraderie among the men, the small moments of joy they found amid the horror, and the hope that one day, this war would end and they would be together again. He had clung to that hope, letting it buoy him up when the darkness threatened to swallow him whole.

But as the days turned into weeks, and the weeks into months, the words had become harder and harder to find. What could he possibly say to her now, after all he had seen, after all he had done? How could he put into words the horrors that haunted his every waking moment, the nightmares that chased him even in the few moments of sleep he managed to get?

He had started a dozen letters, each one more difficult than the last. He would sit in the dim light of the trench, his hands trembling as he tried to hold the pen steady, the paper before him smudged with dirt and blood. But the words wouldn’t come. Every time he tried to write, the memories would flood back—images of shattered bodies, of men screaming in pain, of the deafening roar of the guns that never seemed to stop. And then he would see your face, smiling up at him from the photograph he kept tucked inside his jacket, and the guilt would crash over him like a wave, drowning him in its icy grip.

How could he write to her about any of this? How could he tell her about the nightmares that kept him awake at night, the fear that gnawed at his insides like a rabid dog? How could he explain that he wasn’t the same man who had left her behind all those months ago, that the war had changed him in ways he could never have imagined?

Satoru had never felt so alone.

The men around him were suffering just as he was, but there was a wall between them now, an invisible barrier that kept him apart from the others. They still laughed, still shared stories and jokes to pass the time, but Satoru found himself withdrawing more and more, retreating into the silence of his own mind. He couldn’t bring himself to join in their conversations, couldn’t find the strength to pretend that everything was okay when nothing was okay.

It was during one of these quiet moments, when the guns had fallen that Satoru found himself staring at the photograph again. He traced the outline of your face with his thumb, the edges of the picture worn and frayed from being handled so often. You looked so happy, so full of life—everything that he wasn’t anymore. He wondered if she would even recognize him when this was all over if he ever made it out of this hell alive.

The thought made his chest tighten, a sharp pain stabbing through his heart. What if he didn’t make it back? What if this was where his story ended, in a cold, muddy trench on the other side of the world? Would she remember him as the man he used to be, or would she forget him altogether, moving on with her life as if he had never existed?

He shoved the photograph back into his pocket, the thoughts too painful to bear. He needed to write to her, to tell her how much he loved her, how much he missed her, but the words refused to come. The pen felt heavy in his hand, the paper staring back at him like an accusation.

The sound of footsteps approaching pulled him from his thoughts, and he looked up to see one of the other soldiers, a young man named Thomas, standing over him. Thomas had joined their company a few weeks ago, fresh-faced and full of energy, but the war had already taken its toll on him. His eyes were sunken, his cheeks hollow, and there was a haunted look in his gaze that Satoru recognized all too well.

“Hey,” Thomas said, his voice rough from disuse. “You alright, Satoru?”

Satoru nodded, though he didn’t trust himself to speak. He knew that if he opened his mouth, the words that would spill out would be anything but alright.

Thomas glanced down at the paper in Satoru’s lap, the empty lines stark against the dirty page. “Having trouble writing?”

Satoru sighed, running a hand through his tangled hair. “Yeah,” he admitted. “I don’t know what to say anymore.”

“It’s hard,” he said quietly. “Hard to find the words when everything around you is…” He trailed off, gesturing vaguely at the trench, at the world beyond it. “But maybe it doesn’t have to be about all this,” he continued after a moment. “Maybe just…tell her you miss her. Tell her you’re thinking about her. Sometimes, that’s enough.”

“I don’t know if I can,” Satoru whispered.

Thomas crouched down beside him, placing a hand on his shoulder. “You can,” he said firmly. “You have to. For her. For you.”

He knew Thomas was right—he had to find the strength to write to her, to keep that connection alive, no matter how difficult it was. Because if he lost that, if he let the war take that from him too, there would be nothing left.

With a deep breath, Satoru picked up the pen again, his hand still trembling. He stared at the blank page for a long moment, his thoughts a jumble of emotions and memories, before finally, the words began to flow.

They weren’t perfect, and they certainly didn’t capture everything he was feeling, but they were honest. He wrote about how much he missed her, how he thought of her every day, and how the memory of her smile was the only thing keeping him sane. He told her about the men he was serving with, about the small moments of kindness and he told her that no matter how dark things got, he would find his way back to her.

By the time he finished, his hand was aching, and the paper was smudged with dirt and sweat, but the weight on his chest had lifted just a little. It wasn’t much, but it was enough.

The war had taken so much from him, had stripped him of his innocence, his peace of mind, and so many of the men he had called friends. But it hadn’t taken her. Not yet.

And as long as he had her, as long as there was still a chance that he could hold her in his arms again, he would keep fighting. He would keep going, one day at a time, one step at a time, until this nightmare was over.

Because he had to believe that there was still a future out there, a future where the two of them could be together, away from the mud and the blood and the death. A future where they could build the life they had dreamed of, where he could make good on all the promises he had whispered to her in the dark.

Satoru clutched the letter to his chest for a moment, closing his eyes and letting himself imagine that future—a small house, a warm fire, your laughter filling the air. It was a dream, maybe a foolish one, but it was all he had left to hold on to.

When he finally opened his eyes, the trench seemed a little less dark, the air a little less suffocating. And for the first time in what felt like forever, Satoru allowed himself to believe that he would make it through this, that he would survive this war and return to the woman he loved.

December 25, 1917

My Dearest Satoru,

Merry Christmas, my love. I wish I could say that it feels like the holiday season here, but without you by my side, it all seems so different. The tree in the living room is smaller this year, just a simple little thing I picked up from the market. I decorated it with the old ornaments we’ve collected over the years, though they don’t shine as brightly without you here to admire them.

Charlie and I spent the day together. He’s grown so much since you last saw him, you wouldn’t believe it! He still waits by the door every evening, his ears perked up like he’s expecting you to walk through any moment. I think he misses you almost as much as I do. We went for a long walk this morning, just the two of us. The air was crisp and cold, and there was a light dusting of snow on the ground. It reminded me of the first Christmas we spent together when you insisted on making snow angels and pulling me into that ridiculous snowball fight. I laughed so hard that day, and I haven’t laughed quite the same way since you left.

I cooked a small dinner tonight—nothing fancy, just some of your favorite dishes. I set a place for you at the table, even though I knew you wouldn’t be there to fill it. I like to think that, wherever you are, you can feel the warmth of home and know that you’re always in my thoughts. The house is quiet now, almost too quiet. I find myself talking to you sometimes, as if you were still here with me, sitting in your favorite chair with that mischievous smile of yours. I can almost hear your voice, teasing me, comforting me, telling me that everything will be alright.

But it’s hard, Satoru. It’s so hard being here without you, especially on days like this when the world seems so full of love and joy, and all I can think about is how much I miss you. I try to be strong, for you, for us, but there are moments when the loneliness is overwhelming. I lie awake at night, staring at the ceiling, wondering where you are if you’re safe if you’re thinking of me as much as I’m thinking of you.

I know I shouldn’t burden you with my worries, especially when you’re facing so much over there. But I promised you that I would always be honest with you, and the truth is my love, I miss you more than words can say. I miss your laughter, your touch, the way you would pull me close when the world felt too big and frightening. I miss the sound of your voice, the warmth of your arms around me, the simple comfort of knowing that you were near.

I don’t know what this Christmas is like for you, if you’ve had a moment of peace, or if the war continues to rage on, even on this holy day. But I want you to know that I’m here, waiting for you, loving you with all my heart.

Until that day comes, I’ll hold on to the memories we’ve made, and I’ll keep you in my heart, always. I’ll keep sending you my love, in every letter, in every thought, in every prayer. And I’ll be here, waiting for the day when you come home to me.

Merry Christmas, Satoru. I love you more than words could ever express.

Yours always and forever,

Y/N

January 1918

The flickering light of the oil lamp cast shadows on the rough, earthen walls of the trench as Satoru unfolded the letter with trembling hands. The cold bit at his fingers, but the warmth of her words was all he felt. He leaned back against the wooden planks, his breath visible in the frigid air, and began to re

He could almost see her, sitting by the small tree, Charlie at her feet, the house filled with the scent of pine and home-cooked food. The image was so vivid that he could hear the crackle of the fire, feel the softness of your hand in his, and taste the warmth of the cocoa you always made too sweet.

When he finished the letter, he folded it carefully, placing it back into the envelope before tucking it into his jacket, close to his heart. He closed his eyes and rested his head against the wall, trying to hold on to the image of her, of home, for just a little longer.

"Someday," he whispered to himself, "I’ll go back to you."

But that "someday" felt so far away.

Satoru was exhausted. He was so exhausted. And despite the cold and the ever-present danger, Satoru found himself drifting off to sleep. He dreamed of you and Charlie, of a small house and a garden, a real one, and maybe a little one.

But that dream was shattered all too quickly.

The ground shook violently, and Satoru was yanked from his sleep by the deafening roar of artillery fire. The once-peaceful night had erupted into chaos. He scrambled to his feet, the world around him a blur of noise and confusion. Mud and debris rained down as shells exploded nearby, turning the trench into a hellscape of smoke and fire.

"Satoru! Get up!" A voice yelled from somewhere in the darkness, but it was nearly drowned out by the barrage.

His heart raced as he grabbed his rifle, instincts taking over. The letter, the warmth of her words, the image of her waiting for him—all of it was shoved to the back of his mind as survival became his only focus. He could barely see through the smoke, but he knew what was coming.

"Over the top! They’re coming!"

Satoru fought desperately alongside his comrades. The world had become a blur of smoke, fire, and the metallic scent of blood. He barely felt the cold anymore—only the burning need to survive, to push through the horror and get back to the life he had left behind.

But even as he fired his rifle, the enemy pushing ever closer, a gnawing fear settled deep in his chest. It wasn’t the fear of dying, though that was always there, lurking beneath the surface. It was the fear of breaking his promise to her, of never seeing her again, never holding her in his arms, never telling her one last time how much he loved her.

Suddenly, a blinding light flashed to his right—a mortar shell exploding far too close. The force of it threw him to the ground, his head slamming against the hard earth. Everything went dark for a moment, and when he opened his eyes, the world was spinning. He could barely hear over the ringing in his ears, his vision blurry as he struggled to push himself up.

But before he could regain his bearings, he felt a sharp pain in his side, followed by a searing heat that spread across his body. He looked down, his hand coming away sticky with blood. Panic surged through him as he realized the wound was deep, too deep.

"Satoru!" someone shouted, but it felt distant as if it were coming from another world.

He tried to move, tried to fight, but his body wouldn’t respond. His strength was draining away, the edges of his vision darkening as the pain grew overwhelming. He reached for the photo in his pocket, fumbling with weak fingers until he could pull it out. The edges were crumpled, dirtied from being carried with him through every battle, but her face was still there, smiling up at him.

"I’m sorry baby…" he whispered, his voice barely audible over the sounds of battle. He wasn’t sure if the words were meant for her or himself, but they were all he could manage.

As he lay there, the sounds of war fading into the background, another soldier—a younger man from his company—dropped to his knees beside Satoru. The man was injured, blood seeping from a wound in his leg, but his focus was entirely on Satoru.

"No… no, no, no," the soldier muttered, his voice choked with panic. He saw the wound, saw the blood, and knew there was nothing he could do. "Satoru, stay with me, please!"

Satoru’s grip on the photo loosened, and the young soldier gently took it from him, his hands shaking. He saw the woman in the picture, the one Satoru had talked about so often, and his heart sank. "Is… is this her?"

Satoru nodded weakly, the effort taking everything he had left. He tried to speak, to say her name, to tell the soldier to take care of her, but the words wouldn’t come. His chest felt tight, every breath a struggle.

"Don’t worry, I’ll… I’ll make sure she knows," the soldier promised, though his voice cracked with the weight of it. He fumbled with Satoru’s jacket, pulling out the dog tags, and pressed them into his own pocket, along with the photo. "I’ll tell her… everything."

Satoru’s vision darkened further, the world slipping away from him. All he could see was her face, all he could think about was the future they had dreamed of. But that future was fading, slipping through his fingers like sand.

"I’m sorry," he whispered one last time before the darkness took him completely.

Weeks passed, though they felt like an eternity. The war continued on, but Satoru’s company was eventually pulled back from the front lines, many of them injured, exhausted, or worse. The young soldier who had taken Satoru’s photo was among those who were discharged, his leg injury severe enough to send him home. But the physical pain was nothing compared to the weight he carried in his heart.

When the company finally reached the docks, it was a scene of bittersweet reunions. Families and loved ones gathered, waiting anxiously for a glimpse of their soldiers. You were among them, your heart pounding in your chest as you scanned the crowd, searching desperately for Satoru’s familiar face.

But you couldn’t find him.

The minutes dragged on, and panic began to set in. Where was he? Had something happened? You tried to reassure yourself, telling yourself that he would appear any moment, that he was just delayed, that everything was fine.

Then you saw a man hobbling toward you on crutches, his face pale and drawn. You recongnized the man as in the letters Satoru had described him as a friend, a comrade. But where was Satoru? Why wasn’t he with him?

Your breath caught in your throat as the soldier stopped in front of you, his eyes filled with a sorrow that made your blood run cold. He reached into his pocket and pulled out the crumpled photograph, the one you had given to Satoru before he left. And then, with trembling hands, he held out Satoru’s dog tags.

"I’m so sorry," the soldier said, his voice barely more than a whisper. "He… he didn’t make it."

The world around you seemed to crumble, the ground shifting beneath your feet as the words sank in. You stared at the photo, and the dog tags, unable to comprehend what he was saying. It couldn’t be true. Satoru had promised you. He had promised he would come back.

"No…" The word fell from your lips, your voice breaking as tears welled up in your eyes. "No, he… he promised…"

The soldier reached out, placing a hand on your shoulder, but the gesture did nothing to comfort you. "He loved you so much," he said softly, his own eyes filling with tears. "He… he talked about you all the time. Right up until…"

You didn’t let him finish. The pain in your chest was too much to bear, and the sobs broke free, your body shaking as you clutched the photograph to your chest. The world around you blurred, the sounds of the docks fading away as all you could think about was him—his smile, his laugh, the way he had held you that last night before he left.

He was gone. Satoru was gone.

The soldier stayed with you, his own heart breaking as he watched you fall to your knees, your cries of grief echoing through the crowd. But there was nothing he could do, nothing anyone could do to ease the pain of your loss.

And so the war took one more life, one more love story cut short by the horrors of battle. The future you had dreamed of, the life you had planned, was gone—lost in the mud and blood of a distant country.

All that remained were memories and the cold, hard reality that he would never come home to you.

© satorulovebot 2024 please do not repost, plagiarize, or translate my work.

[whatdoeseverybodywant]

TORN - Chapter 4

Synopsis: One night, that’s all it took for Josh and India to fall for each other. One night was all it took for her life to turn upside down. She thought she had found the one. Then he had told her the truth… he had someone waiting for him… someone whom he had betrayed to be with India.

I do NOT give permission for my work to be translated or reposted on here or any other site, even if you give me credit. DO NOT REPOST MY FICS

Reblogs, comments, likes, and feedback ALWAYS appreciated ❤ 

All OC Characters belong to me

Warnings: Manipulation..

Talisua Fatu could never be disappointed in her four children. Whatever paths they chose, they succeeded and made a name for themselves. None ever found trouble with the law—they were upstanding citizens, reflecting the values she instilled in them. So no, she could never be disappointed in her children. 

But in this moment, she didn’t know how to feel as she looked at her second eldest. 

“You’re marrying Janae?” She asked, eyebrows pinched together in confusion. 

Across the room from her, Josh nodded, his eyes cast downward, focused on the marble countertop. “Yes,” he replied, and Talisua inhaled a sharp breath. 

Why? She wanted to ask. Why would you want to do that?! She wanted to yell at him, demand to know what spell Janae had cast over him.

But instead, she said nothing. She just stared, her jaw tight, her mind reeling.

Josh shifted under her silence. “I know what you’re thinking.”

“No, you don’t,” Talisua said. Don’t get her wrong, she loved her grandchild Micah. She would never wish any harm or pain to him, but Janae? Talisua never trusted her, not since the first time Josh brought her home. 

“How does she feel about Egypt?” 

Josh inhaled a sharp breath, his shoulders tightening. He couldn’t bring himself to look up. 

“She don’t…” He started, his voice wavering. “She don’t really want Egypt around.” 

Talisua’s heart clenched. Her eyes narrowed ever so slightly, but her voice remained calm. “Come again?”

“Not unless I have full custody.”

Talisua blinked slowly, her heart heavy as the words settled over her like fog.

“Full custody,” she repeated, her tone measured but laced with disbelief. “And you think that’s right?”

Josh flinched, finally lifting his eyes to meet hers. The guilt in them was unmistakable.

“I ain’t say it was right,” he murmured. “I just… I don’t know what else to do, Ma’. If I don’t, Janae’s gone. She said she’s taking Micah and leaving.”

“And what, you’re just going to let her use your child like a pawn?” Her voice trembled now, not from anger but heartache. “Micah is your son, Josh. He’s not leverage. And Egypt? She’s a baby. An innocent baby who already lost her father for months. Now you’re going to take her from the only person who's never left her side?” Talisua stepped around the island and gently touched his arm. “I raised you better than this.”

He swallowed hard, the sting of her words cutting deeper than any lecture.

“I know,” he whispered.

“Then act like it,” she said, placing a hand under his chin and lifting his head to meet her eyes. “Trying to do right by Janae doesn’t mean you have to do wrong by Egypt, or her mother.”  

“She wants me to choose Ma,”  Josh said, his voice barely above a whisper. “She told me it’s either her and Micah or Egypt. That’s the deal.”

Talisua’s eyes searched her son’s face, looking past the guilt to the fear beneath it. “That’s not a deal, Joshua. That’s a demand. And love don’t come with ultimatums.”

“I can’t live without my son.” 

“So what happens when Egypt grows up and asks why her father never fought for her?” Talisua asked softly, but the question hit like a blow.

Josh flinched, his body going rigid as he stared at his mother. “Don’t do that, Ma’. I think about it every day.”

“Then think harder,” she said, her voice quiet but firm. “Because this ain’t about Janae. It’s about your children. All of them. Micah, Egypt, Jeremi. They’re watching, Josh. And one day they’ll understand every decision you made.” Talisua sighed. “You’re not a bad man, Josh. But you’re about to make a bad decision. And I won’t stand by and watch you sacrifice one child for another.”

“So what do I do?” 

Talisua’s heart softened as she heard the pain in her son’s voice. She could see the exhaustion in his eyes, the weight of the world pressing down on him. She’d raised him to be strong, to think before he acted, but in this moment, it seemed like the choices before him were too much to bear.

“Go see Egypt,” she said quietly. “You’ve spent so much time trying to fix things with Janae, trying to make her happy, that I think you’ve forgotten about the little girl who needs her father just as much. Maybe more.”

After his talk with his mother, Josh raced back home with one thing in mind. He had to be a better father to Egypt. It wasn’t fair that Micah and Jeremi got him at full capacity while Egypt had been sidelined, only getting the pieces of him that were left. She deserved more than that. 

He parked his car and stormed into the house, breezing past Janae, who immediately stood from her seat on the couch and followed up the steps to their bedroom. She watched as he grabbed his duffle bag out of their closet and started to pack. 

“Where do you think you’re going?” she asked, her voice laced with irritation.

Josh didn’t even look up as he rifled through his drawers, tossing clothes into the bag with swift, sharp movements. He wasn’t in the mood for this. He wasn’t in the mood for anything.

“I’m going to see Egypt,” he said flatly, his voice tight with resolve.

Janae scoffed and walked over, blocking him from entering the bathroom to grab his toiletries. 

“Nae, move.” Josh sighed. 

Janae stood her ground, her arms crossed tightly over her chest. “You think you can just drop everything and go see her? What about us, Josh? What about Micah?” 

Josh felt his patience thinning. “What’s the issue? I’m tryna be a good fuckin’ dad and you tryna make it seem like I’m abandoning you and Micah!” 

Janae’s eyes narrowed as she stepped closer, not backing down. “You didn’t give a damn about being a dad when Egypt was born. Don’t act like this is some noble, selfless move now.” Her voice was cold, biting.

“I’m not gonna ask again, move.” 

She stared at him for a long second, the weight of his words hanging in the air like thunder before a storm. Then, slowly, she stepped aside, but not without one last barb.

“You’re making the biggest mistake of your life.”

Josh grabbed his bag and brushed past her, his voice low but firm. “No. I made that mistake already. This is me fixing it.”

Janae narrowed her eyes as she watched him pack the rest of his overnight bag. He said nothing else as he brushed past her and out of their room. She heard him walk into Micah’s room. She waiting until he came back out to start her mess again. 

“So that’s it?” she asked, voice low, laced with disbelief. “You kiss your son goodnight and just walk out like everything's okay?”

“Everything is okay.” He stressed. “You making me going to see Egypt a bigger deal than what it is.” 

Janae folded her arms, leaning against the hallway wall as Josh closed Micah’s bedroom door gently behind him.

“Everything is not okay,” she shot back, her voice sharper now. “You running back to that girl and her baby like you some kind of savior.”

Josh turned slowly to face her, his jaw tight. “That girl is Egypt’s mother. And that baby?” He pointed toward the floor as if Egypt’s presence could fill the space between them. “That baby is my daughter. Just like Micah is my son.”

“Oh, now she’s your daughter?” Janae scoffed, eyes flaring. “Where was all that energy when she was born?”

Josh scoffed. “I’ll see you Sunday,” he muttered and walked past her. 

Janae’s voice dropped, low and sharp. “And if you don’t?” 

Josh stopped walking and turned back around to face. “Why you making this such a big fuckin’ deal? You wanted me to get India to sign the papers right? How imma do that without going there?” 

Janes scoffed. “You think i’m stupid, nigga? I know why you’re really going to Dallas.” 

Josh looked at her like she had just grown three head. “Yeah… to see my daughter.” 

Janae gave a short, humorless laugh. “Nah. You going to see her. Don’t play me, Josh.”

“She’s Egypt’s mother. What the hell else am I supposed to do?”

Janae stepped forward, eyes hard now, but her voice stayed steady. “You think I don’t see it? The way you talk about her. The way your whole mood shifts when her name comes up. You didn’t move like this for no damn one-night stand.”

Josh’s mouth opened, but nothing came out. He knew India wasn’t just a one-night stand. He didn’t want her to be a one-night stand. 

“I could deal with a mistake,” she continued, arms folded. “What I can’t deal with is you pretending like she don’t still got a piece of you.” 

“Janae… i’m going to Dallas to see my child. That’t it nothing more.” 

Janae said nothing. She just watched him. Watched as he gripped the strap to his duffle bag. He cleared his throat. “I’ll see y’all on Sunday.” He hesitated before turning his back to her and walking down the steps and out of the house. 

Janae stood at the top of the stairs, her arms folded tightly across her chest as she listened to the sound of the door slamming behind him. Her stomach twisted with something cold and unfamiliar, a mix of anger, betrayal, and fear.

She didn’t move. Didn’t even blink.

She knew what she needed to do next. She needed to get India out of their lives.

Author's Note: Sorry this took so long. Now that graduation is over, hopefully I can start writing more! I hope you all enjoyed this chapter and shit.. things are about to get messy 😬

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[slimybeth69]

"i'll be here."

rating: explicit- for drinking and joel's dirty thoughts. This is pure fluff NO SMUT and it's probably kinda corny but I DON'T CARE.

summary: Joel wants to make sure your New Years Eve isn't lonely.

tags: jackson!joel, Joel's POV, no use of y/n, no physical description (just an outfit) fluff, so much fluff, pining, age gap, him being handsome and perfect, mentions of food, drinking, being intoxicated so maybe dub-con (but not really)

w/c: ~3.6k

a/n: the holiday was hard as hell this year and it really didn't feel like christmas at all, so i wrote this for myself because i was sad. i hope any of you all that needed Joel to come and sing you songs and play gui-tar find some comfort in this.

thanks for @creepycorbeaux for reading this over. thanks to @thelastofgala for those beautiful gifs and thanks to @saradika-graphics for the dividers.

Joel wasn’t exactly sure what he was doing walking to your house with a bottle of whiskey in one hand, and his guitar in the other, but he couldn’t stop thinking about what you had said last night on patrol. 

“Whaddya end up doin’ f’Christmas?” 

The face you make when you look over at him almost makes Joel smirk for a split second. The way your nose scrunches and the corners of your mouth turn down slightly. Like you’re confused and upset with him ,and all he did was ask you a simple question.

Then you respond, “Whachya mean?” 

Joel doesn’t know how to answer that because… what do you mean? Your eyes are still squinted— like there is some sort of distrust in your soul. Like Joel is playing a joke on you right now.

“Uh, well… Ellie and I went to Tommy and Maria’s...” Joel is uncomfortable suddenly; he forgets that not everyone is as lucky as he is to have family here in Jackson. He doesn’t know you nearly well enough, so now he feels like an ass. He shouldn’t be asking you anything like that.

Or anything at all not pertaining to patrol. 

You don’t say anything for a while, you just hold onto the strap of your rifle over your shoulder, and then adjust your grasp on the reins with your other hand. “I just stayed home,” you answer him quietly, almost like you don’t really want him to hear you. “Made myself a nice dinner, read a book and went to bed.” 

That ‘put your foot in your mouth’ feeling creeps into Joel’s stomach and he wants to ask if you’d like to give him a nice rocket to his left jaw. He doesn’t stay quiet for too long, he doesn’t want you sitting in this awkward smog he’s created. “That doesn’t sound t’bad, honestly. Whaddya make?” 

Joel watches you out of the corner of his eye as you once again adjust the reins in your hand, waiting for you to either respond to his question or tell him to shut the fuck up. 

He wishes you would tell him to screw off because he never tries to make small talk, and this is why! He always regrets it!

“Just a venison roast with veggies from the greenhouse.” You finally tell him with a little more life in your voice this time, like you were actually proud of what you cooked yourself. “What did you and Ellie do at Tommy and Maria’s?” 

“Had a few drinks, ate some food. Nothin’ crazy.”

Joel didn’t have the heart to tell you that Tommy and him spent most of the day drinking and reminiscing, laughing about being young, stupid kids. Or that Ellie and Maria baked all day, listening to Christmas music someone had found a while ago. He didn’t wanna subject you to all that, knowing now you were home alone.

Since that night on patrol, Joel can’t get the image of you sitting at home on a holiday all by yourself. 

Probably being sad. 

There isn’t any particular reason why he feels so compelled to come knock on your door, there are plenty of other lonely souls that spend every holiday with no one else around. 

There was just a pull. Something inside of him that said go go go. 

Go to her.

He doesn’t really even know what he’s going to say to you if you decide to open the door for him. Hell, he’s not sure you’re even going to let him in! You’ve only ever gone on two patrols together. Y’all never really talk outside of that, but that’s mostly because he doesn’t see you around.

Not like he’s looking for you, or anything. 

When he knocks, it’s like his heart might hammer right out of his chest. Why is he so nervous? He’s just here to offer you a couple drinks so you don’t have to ring in the new year all alone. 

Ellie was with Dina and the rest of her friends, Tommy and Maria wanted to call it an early night because of the baby, and so Joel had two options: the bar, or sitting at home alone. 

It’s not that Joel didn’t like being alone. He had been alone since Tess, and that was still something he didn’t like to think about too much.

Too much loss for not enough of — whatever they had been. Losing her had almost been the final nail in the coffin, and if it hadn’t been for Ellie -

Don’t think about it.

Now Joel finds himself on your front porch, holding the screen door open with his large frame, and knocking lightly with the ass end of the bottle of whiskey.

From inside he can hear you moving around. His breath hitches in his throat when you finally open up for him. Joel watches your eyes scan him very quickly, taking in the picture in front of you. Your eyes go wide for a second like you don’t understand why he’s here.

Joel Miller on your front porch with a bottle of whiskey and his guitar. 

“Whaddya doin’ here?” 

Joel holds the bottle up for you to inspect closer as you wrap your arms around yourself like you’re trying to hide from him. 

Joel’s never seen you without your winter jacket, hat and gloves. Right now in your house, you have on a blue sweater, a pair of tight elastic tights that Joel wishes he could see you in more often, and the warmest looking socks he has ever seen.

His eyes scan the length of your body again involuntarily. His gaze lingers on your pants once again– so tight and they hug your curves (that Joel didn’t even know you had) in all the right ways.  

“Well, I reckon I came over here hopin’ you had cooked another roast, since it sounded so damn good when you told me ‘bout it on patrol–”

Joel continues his bullshit rambles about why he came over here as you start to smirk, and take a step back so the door can swing open a little wider and he can make his way in.

“The guitar?” You ask as Joel toes off his boots so he doesn’t track snow through your house. He hands you the bottle of whiskey, shifting the guitar between his hands as he takes off his jacket. 

“Figur’d if you wanted to share any of the food you made– I could share the whiskey… maybe play a lil gui-tar for ya.”

The last time he played the guitar for anyone besides Ellie– Sarah was still alive. 

Who is this man?

There was just something about the way you said ‘I just stayed home’. Joel was thinkin’ maybe you didn’t read a book and go to bed. 

Maybe you cried a little, missing whatever you remember from home. 

Joel knows all about that, all about the sleepless nights when you just can’t turn your brain off. You can’t stop thinking about the people that are no more, about how different things are now and how you’d give anything for them to go back to the way they used to be. 

Joel has Ellie and Tommy. Who do you have?

“You’re in luck because I did cook tonight,” you’re smiling at him and he thinks this is the first time he’s ever seen you smile, too. 

So many firsts for Joel, he feels like a teenager as you lead him further into your house - which is clean and smells phenomenally good - and into the kitchen. 

Joel hadn’t expected you to actually offer him food, he didn’t know if you cooked dinners like that for yourself all the time, or only on special occasions. 

You take the guitar from him and pull out a chair at your kitchen table. For a moment he feels like his brain malfunctions and he’s not sure how to react. 

“You can sit,” You’re already in your living room. “I’m just gonna…” Then you trail off. 

When Joel peers around the corner to check on you, you’re very carefully leaning the guitar against the wall, holding your hands out to catch it in case it leans too far one way or the other.

Joel feels heat creeping up his chest and neck as he watches you, slightly bent at the waist. The tightness of your pants— 

Nope.

Once you’re satisfied that the guitar won’t fall, you turn around and smile at him, even though he’s just standing there watching you like an idiot– blushing!

Blushing?

Part of him thinks this was the worst idea he ever had. How could you be doing this to him and you’ve done absolutely nothing? 

He should go home. 

“Sit!” You urge him to take a seat at the table while you basically prance into the kitchen to start serving him a plate. Everything is still sitting on the stove in the pots you cooked in.

You explain that you already ate because you weren’t expecting company. 

Joel almost tells you not to worry about the food, but then what would he do? Play guitar for three hours? Getting drunk and talking all night seems like a terrible idea. 

What the fuck was he thinking? This was the dumbest thing he’s ever done, it really was. 

He shuts his mouth though when you set down a plate of steaming food in front of him. 

“Dig in! I have more than enough if you want a second plate.” 

The way you talk so casually, like you’ve known Joel your whole life while you walk back into the kitchen makes him jealous. 

How are you so nice? Sweet? 

You haven’t even been here for four months and this is the first time either of you have said more than ten words to each other that didn’t have to do with patrol. 

It’s the way your body moves when you walk without all your winter gear on. You sway… almost like you’re floating.

Knock it off, old man. She’s half your age. 

Joel has to squeeze his eyes shut for two seconds until he hears your feet padding back to the table. When he opens them, you’re pushing one of the glasses in his direction.

“You brought the booze, so you have to pour it.” 

The smile on your face makes Joel feel a mix of pride and guilt. 

What are you expecting of him? He can’t give you more than just tonight. He knows that, he hopes you know that too.

Joel opens the bottle and pours each of you a decent, sippable glass.He should have poured himself less. 

Probably should have poured you less.

The food tastes better than Joel’s had in years. He even finds himself asking for seconds, something he rarely does.

You’re making small talk as he eats, asking about his travels and how long he’s been in Jackson. If he likes it here, how old is his daughter.

Joel decides not to tell you that Ellie isn’t really his daughter, because biologically she isn’t, but it hasn’t felt that way in a long time.

As he eats, and you chat, Joel starts to relax a little. Your presence is calming, and he finds himself enjoying your company more than he thought he would. He pours both of you another drink, his regrets of pouring less last time completely forgotten.

The food is gone and you’ve cleared his plate. But the two of you are still sitting at the kitchen table. He’s not sure if it’s the fact that this is another first— seeing you up close like this. In the light of your kitchen Joel can really take in your features; your cheeks when you smile, and the way your eyes light up when you laugh at some dumb joke he tells.

You ask him about his life before the outbreak, and Joel hesitates before giving a very brief summary of his past. He doesn’t like talking about it all, and he avoids bringing Sarah up completely.

Not tonight. Probably not ever.

You listen attentively and ask Joel questions that show you’re actually interested in what he’s saying.

Joel continues to pour the two of your drinks each time your glasses are empty and you never tell him to stop. You suggest moving to the living room where it’s more comfortable, and Joel agrees without hesitation.

Go home. This is going to end badly.

There is a fire going in your fireplace, and Joel can’t sit down until he puts another log or two on, and he has to move some things around to get it going again.

“I can do it myself,” you say from directly behind him, sounding a little offended.

Joel doesn't even look at you when he responds, "I know you can. Just helpin'."

When he finally turns around, you quickly look away. Joel can’t help but smirk and feel that familiar in his lower belly.

Had you been staring at him?

Joel watches as you sink down into the brown leather couch, curling up with your feet underneath you. He settles beside you with just enough distance to be polite.

“What songs do ya’ know?” Your voice is soft and your words are slightly slurred. The alcohol has definitely started to affect you, but Joel doesn’t think you’re that drunk yet.

Joel looks at the clock on your wall and it reads 10:45 PM. He can do this. An hour and fifteen minutes left, then Joel can escape.

Not that he wants to. He has to or something bad is going to happen. Something he regrets. 

Something you might regret. 

But when you ask him about songs, he can’t help but smile. The alcohol is going down too easily, way too easy for both of you.

Joel clears his throat. "Whaddya wanna hear?"

You shrug, your cute blue sweater sliding off one shoulder. Joel has to fight himself to keep his eyes on your face as you mindlessly tug the sweater up. It’s like you didn’t even realize it happened. You kept your eyes on him the entire time.

"Somethin' that makes you happy."

The fact that you’re moving your feet to tuck your toes underneath Joel’s right thigh is sending electric shocks to his brain. He leans and grabs the guitar off the wall– careful to not move too much so he can keep the contact between the two of you. 

Shit. What is he getting himself into?

Joel holds the guitar, fingers tracing the old wooden curves. It's been a while since he's played at all. The strings feel ice cold under his calloused hands.

Joel strum a couple cords, “Know a few songs,” he says, clearing his throat. “Might be a lil rusty though,” he smirks at you and gives you a sideways glance. 

You smile from behind your whiskey glass and Joel feels something shift inside him. Something he hasn't felt in a long time. 

Something dangerous.

Your eyes are glittering in the firelight— different than they had looked in the artificial light of your kitchen. It casts a warm glow across your face, softening the edges that Joel has only ever seen sharp and alert on patrol.

He clears his throat once again and continues to move his fingers along the frets. The first few notes come out slightly off-key, but Joel quickly finds his rhythm. He starts with a Garth Brooks song.

Joel knows he’s not the best at the guitar and he doesn’t play it nearly as often now that Ellie is so busy with her own life. 

You don’t seem to mind, and sometimes Joel misses a chord or messes up completely because he can’t stop glancing over to watch you watching him.

He starts to sing, his voice low and gravelly. It's not a perfect voice - never was - but there's something raw and honest in the way the words tumble out.

… Blame it all on my roots, I showed up in boots And ruined your black tie affair The last one to know, the last one to show I was the last one you thought you'd see there

You shift slightly, your toes still tucked under his thigh, and Joel catches you watching his hands. Even as he continues to sing. You never take your eyes off of him. Not once.

… 'Cause I've got friends in low places Where the whiskey drowns and the beer chases my blues away And I'll be OK Yeah, I'm not big on social graces Think I'll slip on down to the oasis Oh, I've got friends in low places

Joel's voice falters for a moment when he notices the concentration of your gaze. His fingers momentarily stagger on the guitar strings, creating a clashing note that lingers in the air for a moment before he continues.

You don't seem to notice, or care. Your eyes are locked on his hands, watching how they move across the guitar with a kind of reverence that makes Joel's breath catch. 

Joel finishes the song, letting the last chord ring out softly in the quiet room. For a moment, neither of you moves. You're still watching him, your eyes heavy-lidded from the whiskey, but there's something else there too.

Joel’s eyes fall on the clock on your wall and it’s only 11.

He’s completely fucked.

Joel becomes acutely aware of how close you are.

Your toes are still tucked under his leg, and the warmth of your body seeps through the denim of his jeans. Joel swallows hard, trying to ignore the way his heart is racing.

"Another song?" you ask, your voice soft and slightly husky from the whiskey.

Joel clears his throat. "Sure," he manages, repositioning the guitar.

Joel starts strumming again, this time a slower, more mournful tune. His fingers find the familiar chords of an old country ballad, something he used to play for Sarah when she was real little. Before the weight of being a single dad started to apply pressure.

The memories threaten to overtake him, but he forces them down, focusing instead on the way the light flickers across your face. He can feel the heat of your body against his leg, the whiskey making everything feel soft and blurry around the edges. His voice is lower now, almost a whisper, like he's singing just for you.

Joel sings a couple more songs, a few at your request.

"That was really good," you say softly, your eyes meeting his. There's something in your gaze that makes Joel shiver - it’s a weakness, a longing that mirrors something deep inside himself.

When he looks at the clock again it’s 12:30.

“We completely missed new years,” Joel points to the clock and chuckles. He had completely forgotten that’s why he came over here originally. Once the music started, everything else kind of faded away. 

It was just the two of you while the rest of Jackson, and possibly the rest of the world stopped existing in that short time. 

“I was havin’ a good time,” you’re still smiling at him and now he can see how glassy they are from the whiskey. 

“Y’look like y’were havin’ a good time, darlin’.” Joel smiles and starts to stand up from the couch. It’s not until he’s standing directly in front of you realize what’s happening, Joel watches your eyes shift and change. 

Are you panicking?

“Are… were–” you cut yourself off and shake your head, waving a hand at Joel dismissively. “Nevermind. Thank you for coming over.” When you turn to look at him, your eyes are rimmed with a glossy sheen. The whites of your eyes had turned a hazy shade of red.

“S’wrong?” 

You shrug your shoulders, your sweater falling off your shoulder again. You don’t notice and twirl your whiskey glass in your hand slowly. “Nothin’. I had a good time… just sad you gotta go.” 

Joel knows he shouldn’t, but he gently replaces your sweater, his fingers lingering on the warm skin of your collarbone for a moment before he pulls away. “I’m all outta songs, sweetheart.” 

“You don’t wanna stay?”

Joel swallows hard and then cuts you off, “For what?” Joel whispers it and you snap your head up to look at him, almost as astonished as he is. Joel knows that the liquor and the way you had been looking at him all night is a recipe for disaster. 

Make me leave, please. Kick me out. Don’t ask me to stay again because I won’t be able to say no.

You finish the last of your whiskey before setting your glass down on the coffee table in front of your couch. 

“You know what.” 

“I do… but we’ve been drinkin’... ‘n I don’t want ya’ regretti–”

“What is there to regret?” you whisper. Your hand snakes into his and Joel doesn’t pull his away or nothing. “You gotta know more songs.”

Joel sits down beside you again, sighing loudly like this is a giant inconvenience to him, but a part of him knows that this isn’t going to end–

Not at all. 

Once he takes you upstairs, it’s over for the both of you. It’s like he can taste it in the air. 

“One more,” Joel nods his head at you. “Then I’m leavin’.” 

He and you both know that’s not true. 

His fingers find their holds on the neck of the guitar and he looks over at you before he strums the first note. 

You shy away from him, tucking your toes back under his thigh. Joel lifts his leg slightly so you can slip them deeper under his leg. 

There's no stronger wind than the one that blows Down a lonesome railroad line No prettier sight than looking back On a town you left behind There is nothin' that's as real As your face that's on my mind

Joel changes the lyrics just a little, and he doesn’t know if you notice, or even if you know this song. He's not ready to sing about love, not at all.

He confidently sings you the next part though.

Close your eyes I'll be here in the morning Close your eyes I'll be here for a while

hopefully y'all had a better time than I did.

love you all so so much

[nameless-jamie]

Hiiiiii, we got Jamie's birthday, can we get PA's?

Shoebox

Masterlist

Jamie Tartt x fem! PA reader

A/N: I love it! Have been thinking about this hard and wanted to do this in a very emotional way because I felt like PA is a person that wants nobody to know her birthday.

TW: cursing, innuendos, fluff

Jamie Tartt doesn’t remember dates.

He barely remembers his own birthday half the time, much less anyone else’s. Anniversaries? Forget it. Holidays? Only when someone reminds him. It’s never been his thing.

That's why he has Y/N, his personal assistant, to remember them for him.

So when he glances at Y/N’s phone screen—purely by accident, obviously—and sees a message from her mum saying, Happy early birthday, love. Hope you have a lovely day tomorrow—he has to read it twice.

Tomorrow?

His gaze flickers to Y/N, who is sitting on the other end of the couch, legs curled up, scrolling through something on her laptop. She doesn’t react. Doesn’t so much as blink at her phone. No excitement, no mention of plans.

And that’s when Jamie realizes—she’s keeping it a secret. She's keeping her birthday a secret.

He doesn’t understand why. Y/N is the most organized person he knows. She’s the one who reminds him of every single birthday, arranges gifts for his teammates when he forgets, keeps track of every little thing. But her own birthday? She’s just… ignoring it?

Jamie locks his jaw, turning his attention back to the telly, pretending like he didn’t see a thing.

But he did. And now it’s rattling around in his head, sticking there like a song he can’t get rid of.

That night, Jamie lies in bed, staring at the ceiling.

He could just say something.

But if she wanted people to know, she would have told him.

So instead, he does something different—something that makes his heart hammer against his ribs.

He gets up, pulls out the shoebox from the top of his closet, and dumps the contents onto his bed.

A mess of ticket stubs, polaroids, receipts, and random scraps of paper falls out. He sifts through them, picking up a blurry photo of them at a team dinner, a crumpled note she had once left on his gym bag (Don’t be late today, Tartt. I mean it.), a matchday program where she had circled his name in blue ink.

Jamie doesn’t know why he’s kept these things. He’s never been sentimental like that.

But somehow, without even realizing it, he’s been keeping her.

The next day, Jamie acts normal.

Or at least, he tries to.

It’s harder than he expects. Every time he looks at her, he wants to say something. But he doesn’t. Instead, he pays extra attention—watching for any sign that she might, at the very least, acknowledge her own birthday.

Nothing.

No one at the club knows. No one wishes her. She doesn’t act any different.

And for some reason, it pisses him off.

At lunch, he slides into the seat next to her, nudging her arm. "You, uh, doin’ anything later?"

She shakes her head. "Nah. Just gonna go home."

Jamie frowns. "Borin'. "

She huffs a quiet laugh. "Not everyone needs to be constantly entertained, Jamie."

"Yeah, but—" He stops himself. Shrugs. "Dunno. Just seems like a waste of uhm— day."

She tilts her head, narrowing her eyes. "What do you mean? Why are you being weird?"

"I’m not."

"You are."

"Oi, shut up."

She laughs, shaking her head, and Jamie forces himself to act like it’s just another day.

But it isn’t.

That evening, Y/N comes home to find a small, wrapped package sitting on her coffee table.

There’s no note. No indication of who left it.

Frowning, she picks it up, carefully peeling back the paper.

Inside is a shoebox filled with random stuff.

She stills, fingers tracing over the outside of the box, heart pounding for reasons she doesn’t quite understand. Slowly, she skims through the contents—and her breath catches in her throat.

It’s them.

Photo after photo, little notes, ticket stubs from games they attended together, receipts from coffee shops where they’d sat for hours going over Jamie's schedule. There’s a picture of her laughing at something stupid he’d said, a doodle he’d made on a napkin that she had long forgotten about, a torn page from an old match program where he had scribbled, bet you a tenner I score today (and she had, indeed, owed him ten quid after that game).

She swallows hard.

Near the bottom of the box, in Jamie’s unmistakable handwriting, there’s a note.

"Dunno why you don’t tell people it’s your birthday. But I remember things when they matter."

Her breath catches.

Because Jamie Tartt doesn’t remember birthdays. He doesn’t remember dates.

But somehow—somehow—he remembered hers.

The knock on her door comes late.

Too late for anyone but him.

She opens it to find Jamie standing there, hands in his pockets, rocking back on his heels.

"Hey."

She blinks at him, still holding the shoebox in her hands. "Jamie, did you—?"

"Like it?" He grins, but there’s something softer behind it. "Spent fuckin’ ages collecting that stuff, y’know."

She lets out a breathless laugh, shaking her head. "Jamie, I—"

"You don’t have to say anythin’," he interrupts, then gestures behind him. "But, uh, you do have to come with me."

She raises an eyebrow. "Why?"

His smirk deepens. "You’ll see."

She should say no. She should protest, tell him she doesn’t want a big deal made out of today.

But she doesn’t.

Because Jamie Tartt, of all people, remembered.

And for once, she thinks, maybe her birthday is something worth celebrating.

Y/N stares at Jamie for a long second, her fingers tightening around the shoebox.

He’s grinning at her like he hasn’t just completely dismantled her entire sense of reality—like he hasn’t just remembered something she never even told him.

She wants to ask how he found out. Wants to ask why he went through the effort when he forgets literally everyone else’s birthdays.

But instead, she exhales, tilts her head, and says, “You’re not gonna tell me where we’re going, are you?”

Jamie smirks. “Where’s the fun in that?”

She doesn’t protest when he leads her outside. Doesn’t roll her eyes when he opens the car door for her with an exaggerated flourish. Doesn’t even question the way he hums under his breath as he drives—some aimless tune, his fingers tapping against the steering wheel in time with the rhythm.

It’s… nice.

Too nice.

Because Jamie Tartt has always been in her life like a storm—loud and chaotic and everywhere all at once. But this? This is different. It’s steady. Purposeful.

And that’s what scares her.

They don’t talk much as he drives. He makes a few comments about some knob on the pitch today, how Roy nearly had an aneurysm over something someone did in training. She nods, hums in agreement, but her mind is elsewhere.

Because no matter how hard she tries to focus on the words coming out of his mouth, her gaze keeps drifting back to the shoebox in her lap.

Jamie had kept all of this.

Ticket stubs, stupid notes, photos she didn’t even know existed.

She doesn’t know what to do with that.

Doesn’t know what it means.

But before she can spiral too hard, Jamie pulls up in front of a familiar place.

Her brows furrow. “The Dogtrack?”

Jamie flashes her a grin, hopping out of the car. “C’mon.”

She follows him, still utterly lost. It’s dark, but the entrance is lit up. The usual bustling energy of match days is missing, the stadium eerily quiet.

Jamie pushes open the door and gestures for her to step inside. “After you.”

She gives him a suspicious look but walks in.

And stops dead.

Because standing there—right in the middle of the locker room—is the entire AFC Richmond team.

And they’re all grinning at her.

There’s a giant “HAPPY BIRTHDAY” banner hanging from the ceiling, a table filled with snacks and a cake, and—oh god, is that Roy Kent wearing a bloody party hat?

There’s a beat of stunned silence before Keeley comes bounding over, throwing her arms around her.

“Happy birthday, babe! Jamie said you were trying to be all sneaky about it, but absolutely not.”

She barely has time to process that before she’s being passed from person to person—Rebecca giving her a warm hug, Sam beaming at her, Dani nearly lifting her off the ground in excitement.

She hears Isaac loudly exclaim, “Wait, I knew we were missin’ someone’s birthday this month!”

Colin laughs. “Mate, you did not.”

In the middle of it all, Jamie watches her.

She meets his eyes across the room, her heart hammering in her chest.

He doesn’t say anything. Just smirks and nods toward the table like go on, then.

And Y/N, for the first time in a long time, thinks that maybe—just maybe—her birthday is something worth celebrating after all.

The party is chaos.

Good chaos, the kind she never would have planned for herself but can’t help smiling at. The team is in full celebration mode—Dani is leading a conga line around the locker room, Sam is passionately debating cake flavors with Rebecca, and Roy has miraculously kept the party hat on despite muttering curses under his breath every time someone points it out.

Y/N lets herself enjoy it. She laughs when Colin hands her a drink, shakes her head fondly when Keeley insists on taking selfies with her, and even joins in when Isaac starts up some ridiculous drinking game involving half the squad and an alarming amount of tequila.

But eventually, it all becomes a lot.

Not in a bad way, just in an overwhelming way.

So she quietly slips outside.

The air is cool against her skin, a welcome contrast to the warmth inside. She leans against the railing overlooking the training pitch, letting out a slow breath.

She still doesn’t know how to process all of this.

Jamie—who forgets every birthday, who once confidently said the Queen’s Jubilee was in March—had remembered hers. And not just remembered. He had planned.

And the shoebox…

Her fingers tighten around the railing.

She doesn’t know how long she stands there before she hears the door open behind her.

Footsteps. Familiar ones.

Then Jamie’s voice, soft but teasing. “Oi. You ditchin’ your own party?”

She huffs a laugh but doesn’t turn around. “Just needed some air.”

A beat of silence. Then, “Too much?”

She finally glances over her shoulder. Jamie is standing there, hands in his pockets, watching her with that unreadable expression of his—the one that isn’t quite cocky, isn’t quite soft, but somewhere in between.

She exhales. “A little.”

He nods like he understands, stepping up beside her. They stand there for a moment, the sounds of the party muffled behind them, the cool night air settling around them.

Then, quietly, she says, “Thank you.”

Jamie tilts his head. “For what?”

She turns to face him fully now, and god, he’s so close. Close enough that she can see the flicker of uncertainty in his eyes, like he doesn’t quite know how to respond.

“For everything,” she says, voice softer now. “For remembering. For the shoebox. For… all of this.” She gestures toward the stadium.

Jamie shifts on his feet, like he’s trying to play it cool, but there’s something vulnerable in the way he rubs the back of his neck. “Yeah, well. You were bein’ a right weirdo about it, keepin’ it a secret and all.”

She smiles. “I just don’t really celebrate it.”

“Yeah, I figured,” he murmurs, watching her carefully. “Just thought… dunno. Maybe this year, you should.”

Her throat feels tight.

Because Jamie Tartt—who is meant to be selfish, who is meant to be thoughtless—has seen her in a way no one else has.

She doesn’t know what to say.

So she doesn’t say anything.

Instead, she steps forward and wraps her arms around him.

Jamie stills for half a second before his arms come around her in return, pulling her in. He smells like expensive cologne and whatever shampoo he swears by, and his body is solid and warm against hers.

But then—just as she thinks about pulling away—Jamie shifts.

And suddenly, his arms tighten, and he tugs her even closer, pressing his forehead to the top of her head.

Her heart pounds.

Slowly, his hands move—one settling on her waist, the other slipping up her back.

Then, just when she thinks she’s hit her limit of feeling too much, Jamie shifts again—this time turning her towards the pitch and hugging her from behind, resting his chin against her shoulder, his chest pressing into her back, his arms locked around her like he’s keeping her there.

She swallows hard.

“D’you like it?” he murmurs against her skin.

She closes her eyes. “Yeah.”

Jamie exhales, his breath warm against her. “Good.”

Jamie’s expression shifts, something warmer settling in his eyes.

And then, because she can’t let him have the last word, she smirks. “But, y’know… If I wouldn't have liked it there would always be your plan B present..”

Jamie frowns, confused. “What?”

She bites back a grin, tilting her head at him. “Jamie, I distinctly remember you saying on your birthday that your dream present was me, wrapped in only a bow. What if I wanted the same?”

Jamie blinks.

Then, his lips part, and something dangerous flickers across his face.

“Can be arranged,” he says smoothly.

Y/N snorts, shoving his arm. “Oh, shut up.”

Jamie laughs, but there’s a look in his eyes—one that’s both playful and something else, something deeper.

Something she doesn’t know what to do with.

They stay like that for a long time.

Long enough for the noise of the party to fade into the background. Long enough for her to forget anything else exists.

Just her.

And Jamie.

And this.

[angelxsturns]

PERFUME - M.S.

IN WHICH… reader still thinks about matt, and matt still thinks about reader, even after they break up.

WARNINGS - angst, cursing, use of y/n

“i can’t fucking deal with this anymore, y/n.”

“how the hell do you think i feel, matt? can you not see that this is hurting me too? i stay up every fucking night, waiting for you to come home. you’re always working!”

“what do you expect from me?! you want me to quit my job for you?! god, you’re so fucking clingy! i can’t get a second of peace. i get home from work and have to deal with this bullshit.”

“matt, it’s not bullshit. you don’t even care about me anymore. you say you’re gonna come home and spend time with me, but then i get a text saying you’re gonna be working late and you don’t come home until, like, one in the morning!”

“maybe i don’t care y/n!” he screams. tears well in your eyes, and you feel a lump form in your throat as you try and stop them from streaming down your face. you watch as a wave of guilt washes over matt. “wait, baby, i didn’t mean it like tha-”

“don’t, matt. if you didn’t care, you could’ve said something instead of wasting my time. this isn’t working anymore, i’m done.” you start walking towards the door.

“wait, y/n, don’t do this-”

the door slams shut behind you. you finally let go. tears stream down your face as you get in your car. you can’t process it. he isn’t yours anymore. he isn’t a part of your life anymore. you try to collect yourself before you drive to your apartment. you’d been staying with matt the past few months, only going back to yours when you needed space from each other. as soon as you step foot in the door, you call your best friend, amelia.

“hey y/n, what’s up? it’s like, 1:30 in the morning”

“sorry, were you asleep?” amelia instantly knows something’s wrong, just by the sound of your voice.

“no i’m awake, what’s going on? why are you crying?”

“matt and i broke up.” you break down again.

“i’m on my way, and im bringing ice cream.”

now you’re here. two months later, living on your own. it’s weird not having him around. you miss being able to just call him whenever you get good news anymore. you miss being able to go to his place when you need someone to hold you and tell you everything’s gonna be okay. but more than anything, you just miss him.

you’ve been trying to move on. you’ve been on two dates, but both have been horrible. you know that nobody’s gonna beat matt. he set the bar above the moon. how the hell are you supposed to move on?

while you’ve been trying to move on, so has he. he’s been going on dates too, but all he can think about is how badly he wishes he were on the dates with you. he still keeps your photos in a folder in case you come back.

you didn’t expect to miss him the way you did.

you thought you were prepared for the silence, the empty space in your apartment, the quiet mornings without Matt’s humming in the kitchen. You thought that walking away would bring relief.

but grief doesn’t always show up in obvious ways. sometimes, it smells like your own perfume on someone else’s skin.

the first time it happened, you were standing in line with amelia at a corner café, reaching for your wallet when a woman brushed past you. the familiar scent hit you like a bullet train—the perfume you would always wear. your knees nearly buckled.

back then, you’d worn that perfume for him. you’d never say that out loud, but it was true. you picked it because matt once said the scent reminded him of wildflowers and rain—it also reminded him of you. you used to love the way it lingered on his pillows, on his hoodie after you borrowed it and forgot to give it back for weeks.

when you left, you left the hoodie behind. you told yourself it was just a hoodie, but some part of you knew better.

you wondered if he ever wore it again. if he noticed the way the scent faded, week by week, until there was nothing left of you but fabric and static. maybe he washed it. maybe he threw it out. maybe he buried his face in it and tried not to break. you would’ve done the same.

some nights, you’d open your closet and pause, catching the faint echo of that perfume on your coat sleeve. it made your throat tighten. you hadn’t worn the perfume since you left. you switched brands. something cooler, sharper. less like love. less like him.

but forgetting isn’t about changing bottles. it’s the way his name still sits heavy in your mouth. the way you sometimes dream of him sitting at the foot of your bed, smiling like nothing ever broke. the way you wake up reaching for him. and the way you never go near that café anymore. you tell amelia it just changed owners.

but really, you’re afraid the scent will be there again, waiting in the air like it always is, proof that some pieces of love never leave clean. some stay lodged deep, soft and cruel as perfume on someone else’s skin.

it was raining the day you saw each other again. not the cinematic kind of rain. no thunder, no storm, just a soft, steady drizzle that made the sidewalks shine like mirrors. you hadn’t planned to be in that part of the city. you were cutting through old streets on autopilot, avoiding the busier blocks. you didn’t even realize where you were until youpassed the bookstore, the bookstore you and matt would always go to.

you slowed, heart lurching like a reflex. the display window hadn’t changed much—same old wooden shelves, the occasional handwritten recommendation taped beside a spine. your hand hovered near the door. you almost walked away.

but just then, from the corner of your eye, you saw him.

matt was standing under the awning of the coffee shop next door, shaking rain from his hair. he was wearing the hoodie. the one with your perfume. he hadn’t noticed you yet. he was staring across the street like he was looking for something. you watched him breathe deep. and that’s when it hit you.

he still wore it. the hoodie. the one that smelled just like your perfume—faint, but there—lifted on the rain-heavy wind between them like a ghost coming home. his eyes found yours just as the memory did. he didn’t smile. neither did you. but neither of you looked away.

a moment passed. long and delicate, like holding a fragile thing in trembling hands. you stepped forward, uncertain. he didn’t move. his hands fiddled in the pockets of the hoodie absentmindedly, as if he only now remembered why he’d never been able to let it go.

you both stood like that. silent, soaked in the weight of something unfinished. no dramatic reunion. no apologies. just two people staring at a mirror of the past in each other’s face.

eventually, the light changed. a car passed. the moment broke. you gave the faintest nod. he returned it. then you turned and walked on, the scent of wildflowers and rain following you down the street. he watched until you disappeared around the corner, and this time, when he breathed in, it was just the rain.

your perfume no longer lingered.

a/n: this is my first story so let me know how i did! i promise ill have less angsty stuff out soon, i just felt like writing this one today 😀😀😀

[disarmd]

please when when you are better more of the very sad very horny oscar/mark sex slave verse it’s like you lighted a match in mind now i can see

here you go, nonnie!

In Abidance, 1200 words (including the first 200 that I already posted), Oscar/Mark currently. Same content warnings for non con sex slaves chastity belt verse, and this one is also going to include themes of self-injury and suicidal ideation. Neither is present in this section, but letting you know now so you can make an informed reading decision. As always, I'm happy to answer any questions about content or provide more information.

Mark’s wife, beloved, had not been in the ground three weeks when Oscar arrived. He wasn’t beautiful like Lando, and he knew Zak had despaired about selling him at all and had pushed hard on the widower to see the sale through at more of a premium than anyone had anticipated. Oscar hadn’t been involved, but he’d come to learn the information quickly as he realized the frosty reception was not simply a matter of being received by a grieving household. 

Not even Mark was glad to welcome him, exhausted and silent and suddenly much more grey, from the whispers Oscar heard from the staff through the walls. No one spoke to Oscar directly about it, but it took him a few months to realize it was because they’d thought he’d been part of the plotting, and at that point it was far too late to try to defend his ignorance. 

Mark knew the truth, Oscar had thought, but if he did he never mentioned it to others and he waited until he was very drunk to fuck Oscar for the first time – Oscar’s first time ever – and it hadn’t felt like he’d known. It’d felt like he wanted Oscar to hurt as badly as he did. 

–

Oscar had his own room. He could have had three. Mark’s estate had nothing but space. When Oscar first arrived, there was a bin filled with firewood, but as he burned through it, it was never refilled. There was a huge shed filled with wood round the back of the estate, but Oscar didn’t know if he was allowed to use it. Everyone still made comments about his exorbitant price. 

He walked around the wooded lot – Mark’s lands, still, for they were Mark’s lands as far as the eye could see – and picked up fallen branches. The first was too wet and wouldn’t light. The second, covered in dried moss, went up in flames but smoked like nothing else. It’d caused such a stink that three people came running into Oscar’s room to fan the smoke away. 

“They really didn’t teach you even one useful thing,” one of them said, not even meanly, just perplexed. They didn’t say what he was supposed to do instead.

–

It was difficult to sleep. Even wearing every single item of clothing, he couldn’t cut the chill, and he never figured out a good way to cover his face without restricting his breathing. The icy tip of his nose kept him awake and dragged out the nights as endlessly as the days. There were warmer bedsheets, Oscar knew, a cupboard full of scratchy woolen blankets, but he didn’t want to ask and be told he wasn’t allowed to use them. He imagined someone saying that he should earn his warmth in Mark’s bed, but Mark had shared that bed with his wife. Oscar had not so much as seen the room. 

–

Mark was kind to his children, who were adults with their own families but still came around to visit him often. It was clear the staff admired him. Even when he was gone, no one spoke an ill word. The whole house awaited his return. 

“It’s too bad you can’t make it worth his while to stay,” said the butler, not cruel, just a statement of fact. Oscar also wished he could do something that would make Mark want to spend more time at home. 

He tried. Waiting for Mark to emerge from his den, Oscar thought maybe it was a matter of timing, if he could just catch Mark freshly drunk instead of slow and tired with it. 

“Why are you lurking about?” Mark asked, and it had sounded teasing, almost, something so close to an invitation. 

When Mark stumbled, Oscar reached for his arm, but Mark shoved him away, annoyed, and in the darkness Oscar tripped and caught both a sharp metal corner to his side and the wooden edge of the credenza to his thigh. A small framed painting of Mark’s wife fell to the floor. He hadn’t liked that. 

–

Still, Oscar knew he was lucky. Lando told him every time he came for a visit, riding over himself on horseback and meeting Oscar round the back gardens where he could tie his horse to a tree and they could visit unmonitored. 

Daniel was even worse than he’d known, Lando said, even more cruel. He tugged off his loose shirt so Oscar could help with new bandages for the lashes on his back that had split open during the ride. Dreadful Daniel who only knew violence. 

None of Oscar’s bruises were deep enough to require it, but he bared his skin for his turn with the ointment when Lando offered, just to drag out the visit. 

–

Mark didn’t want to fuck him often, and only ever after he’d imbibed, which made it even more difficult for him to stay hard. Oscar tried to make it nice anyway, kneeling in front of Mark, keeping his soft cock warm. He tried to show Mark there were still things they could do together, but Mark rarely took him up on it, just pulled his trousers back in place and sent Oscar on his way. 

Oscar was rarely naked. Mark had either forgotten he was caged or didn’t care. At McLaren Manor, they’d taken him out of his cage weekly, for cleaning, and milked him once a month. Oscar hadn’t enjoyed any part of that, so he didn’t miss it. 

He cleaned around the metal bars in the bath. He didn’t think his cock even tried to get hard any more, but it was difficult to say. His cock didn’t hurt but sometimes his whole body did, this abounding swell of agony that seized him head to toe, like he’d been plunged into a vat of boiling oil, but of course he hadn’t been. He hadn’t been touched at all. Nothing hurt in a way that had a cause or a cure. 

–

It was unrelentingly cold that first winter, but Oscar told himself he was learning. In the spring he gathered fallen wood and laid the logs out in a patch of hard dirt where the rock was too close to the surface for anything to grow. 

Every day he’d walk out and rotate them. He didn’t know how to tell when they’d dried sufficiently. He didn’t have an axe, so he used his fingers to pry the wood open where it was naturally split, or rocks, or other sticks. He refilled the bin in his room, and the empty cupboard in the corner of the room, and then tried to find a place in the yard where the rest would be sheltered when the rains came. It felt like he was being chased by spiders, who spun fluffy white webs between his logs and were not deterred by his breaking them with a stick. 

It was difficult to work the wood without gloves or tools. Oscar’s hands ended up badly scratched, but he liked the look of the scabs: reassurance of his efforts. When others were around, he kept his palms neatly folded in his lap. But mostly no one was around.  

–

Part Two

[a-ikus]

134 “THE UNSENT PROJECT” PROMPTS

disclaimer: i do not own any of these prompts, i compiled these from the unsent project

01 — i keep wondering what my life would’ve been like if you had chosen me instead of her. 02 — i have a lot of hope for us. too much. 03 — i still stay up hoping you’ll call. 04 — i was so angry for so long. 05 — i think about you everyday and i’m sorry i didn’t say more when we said goodbye. 06 — i’ll always have a place for you in my heart. but i need to accept you’re happier without me now. 07 — i hate that i always have to think of what we never were when i’m remembering you. 08 — it’s scary how much you haunt me even after so long. 09 — every time my phone buzzes i hope it’s you missing me, but it never is. 10 — sometimes i wish that you chose me. 11 — happy birthday, i miss you so badly, i wish you’d given me more time. 12 — i’m over you. 13 — please come back. please. 14 — i know i can be better to you than he is. please give us a chance. 15 — i can’t love you the way you wanted to be loved. 16 — if you asked me, i’d say yes in a heartbeat. i’ll wait for you until whenever. 17 — i love you so much but i hate being just a friend. 18 — i never missed you until you were someone else’s. 19 — maybe if we loved each other less we would have realised it needed to end sooner. 20 — i miss you so much, i wish we didn’t break up. i loved our life together. please come home. 21 — you remind me of snow, falling quietly at midnight. 22 — i can’t just be friends with you because friends don’t DO what we did. 23 — is it sad i’d wait forever for you? 24 — you aren’t allowed to look at me like that anymore. 25 — i dreamt that we kissed and goddammit i wish it was real. 26 — i still get butterflies whenever you hold my hand. 27 — i can honestly say that i can’t stop thinking about you, please get out of my head. 28 — i get this feeling in my stomach when you text me and i love it. 29 — why is letting go so hard? if you can do it, then why can’t i? 30 — we blamed distance, we blamed youth. i think i was just scared of having something real. i wish we tried again.

31 — i sat next to someone on a 6 hour bus journey and told him our story. 32 — i miss the days when i woke up to a morning message. guess i’m not the first thing on your mind anymore. 33 — you didn’t love me. you just loved the fact you weren’t alone. 34 — over a year and i still haven’t met anyone worthy of replacing you. 35 — i still have the heart next to your name in my phone. 36 — you’ll marry him in two weeks and my heart will die that day. 37 — what was the point of everything just to be strangers in the end? 38 — I HATE YOU WITH MY WHOLE HEART WHY DO I STILL CARE ABOUT YOU?? 39 — your music always sucked and i’m so glad i don’t have to act like it’s good anymore. 40 — we were supposed to have a happy ending. 41 — i guess we had different definitions of love. 42 — you were all that i could think about when i was with him. 43 — i know you don’t feel the same and that’s okay. 44 — i hope she makes you happy. i hope she was worth it. i wish i’d never met you. 45 — i think i really like you but i’m scared of what others would say about us. 46 — i think i’m in love with you and when you kissed me today i didn’t know what to do. 47 — i still wish you fought a little harder that night, i still love you. we can always try again. 48 — i’m getting really tired of tearing up all our photos. 49 — how terrifying it is to know you completely and not at all. 50 — i love you, sorry i didn’t say it back, i was scared. 51 — sorry i blocked you. i just couldn’t stop thinking about you. 52 — i based a character in my book after you. 53 — i felt a different kind of love with you. a quiet, calm one. 54 — does your girlfriend know we still hook up? 55 — marry her. it’s okay. 56 — i’d trade 7 years of stability for 7 hours with you. 57 — i know you reused the playlist you made me with another girl. 58 — i remember you soft, even if you never were. 59 — i drive down different roads but they all lead back to you. 60 — i left, and look how you’ve grown. i told you so.

61 — just date me bro, it’s not that hard. 62 — happy late bday i didn’t forget, trust me, hope you’re doing good. 63 — i’m glad i’ve forgotten how good it was. 64 — i thought you were going to leave me, so i left you first. i’m sorry. 65 — OKAY FINE I LOVE YOU! I CAN’T STOP THINKING ABOUT YOU! 66 — i know it’s a lot to ask but please just wait for me. 67 — i love you in a way i’m not supposed to. 68 — come visit my dreams tonight. i miss you. 69 — last week i was with the girl i told you not to worry about. 70 — sometimes i read all of our old conversations to feel something. 71 — our story deserves a better goodbye… maybe someday. 72 — everyone told me they thought we were going to get married. 73 — you miss him don’t you? 74 — i noticed when you fell out of love… i just never said anything. 75 — you promised me. 76 — give her everything you never gave me. 77 — it’s not fair how you can kiss me like that and feel nothing. 78 — you wouldn’t leave if you had something you wanted to stay for. 79 — i wish we could’ve been something. anything. 80 — i saw so many shooting stars on the bridge that night. i should have wished to see you again. 81 — your name is like a lump in my throat. i’ve never yearned this desperately for anything. 82 — i stay up late in case you wanna talk. 83 — you’re the first person i ever showed my heart to and you’re the reason no one will ever see it again. 84 — you’re in every song, in every sky, in every star, you’re in every dream. 85 — i miss you every time my keyboard suggests your name. 86 — you look like the rest of my life. 87 — there is not a single song on my phone that doesn’t make me think of you. 88 — won’t you at least hold my hand in public? are you ashamed of me? 89 — i still smile when you call. i know i’ll be a guest at your wedding someday. idk how i’ll bear it. 90 — he’s so good for me, but i miss you.

91 — hope life brings us back together sometime. coincidences exist… you were my favourite one. 92 — you see me differently than everyone else does. thank you. 93 — i want you so fucking bad!! 94 — sometimes its the ‘what ifs’ that torture me the most. 95 — i love you so much that i typed it all out and it wouldn’t fit. 96 — i have about two failed talking stages left in me before i start casting spells for you again. 97 — i love you so much, i pray every night that i get to keep you. 98 — i remember every detail of what you told me that night. i doubt you even remember my last name. 99 — i wish you knew how much i wish we had worked out. 100 — sometimes i wonder what would’ve happened if it were you. if it were us. 101 — i stare at my ceiling trying to figure out what went wrong. i’d like to think you do too. 102 — i wanted you to fight for me. 103 — when you find your way back, don’t call, i’m finally happy. 104 — i never thought i’d meet someone like you. thank you for saving my life. 105 — i miss you but don’t ever fucking come back. 106 — i can’t believe i never told you how hard i fell for you. i would’ve done anything to be yours. 107 — still you. 108 — i am terrified i will never feel such an intense connection to someone again. 109 — god knows i tried my best with you. 110 — i keep seeing you in everyone. i wish i didn’t. i don’t know if i know you anymore. 111 — happy would-have-been 4 years… all those fragments still cut me. 112 — i look forward to the day that every time i see an astrology article i don’t check yours. 113 — you broke your arm and i just want to call you. it’s weird that i don’t know everything about you anymore. 114 — why did i have to find you at the wrong time? 115 — do you ever wear the necklace i gave you? i still wear my half… 116 — i cried tears of happiness when i realised i was finally over you. 117 — i miss how easy things used to be between us. 118 — we didn’t grow apart. you gave up. 119 — are you as head over heels as i am? 120 — all i can do is sit here and watch you grow into the wonderful person i once called mine…

121 — i don’t want to just love you. i want our souls to merge. 122 — you deserve the world and i wanna be the one to give it to you. 123 — can we just go back to how it was in the summer? 124 — you only miss me at night. 125 — thank you for being my place to go when i can’t go home. 126 — if you’re that lonely, come be lonely with me. 127 — just say you miss me and i’m all yours. 128 — will it always be like this between us? 129 — tell me you love me. 130 — it’s your loss. 131 — i sometimes wonder if i was just a rebound to you. 132 — my finger hovers over the send button every night. i just can’t hit it. 133 — you gave her the love i begged you to give me. 134 — why not me? WHY not me? why NOT me? why not ME?

[m1ssunderstanding]

Get Back Rewatch 55 Years On: Day 20

I literally got second-hand anxiety hearing, “How many numbers do you think you’ll have by tomorrow?”. I was like. TOMORROW? They are Not ready. The only reason the rooftop works out is because they’re the fucking Beatles. No one else would pull that out of their butts so well. 

If only John could’ve listened to Glyn about Klein. smh

Classic Paul. Starts out saying “us” ends up just talking about John. “The best bit of us always has been, and always will be, is when we’re backs against the wall and we’ve been rehearsing, rehearsing, rehearsing. And he knows it’s a take on the dub. And he does it great.” It’s okay, Paul. We all know you like to get him up against a wall. No but seriously, Paul is not okay about John. 

Takes every opportunity to flirt, doesn’t he?

“I can’t wait to work here, you know . . . I mean, here in our life, it’s like home.” It’s the gentleness, yeah. But it’s the focus, too. Most people (I know I would) would be so done with him and his anxiety spirals and his neuroses and over-thinking on and on and on by this point. John probably is, but he shows no sign of that fatigue at all. He is zeroed in on working him through this. He’s done it a million times before, and he’s ready to do it as many more times as Paul needs. Ugh, they make me into such a sap!

“Yeah, well that’s why I’m talking to John, not you.” If Paul can talk like that to George Martin, one of the most respected men in his life, when he’s in the middle of a thing with John, imagine how he must’ve bullied other people that tried to worm their way in. 

That smile he gives George though! That’s how he got away with all his shit, isn’t it? So fucking cute.

“I agree with you, I think it’s disappointing, but all right, we only got to seven. Let’s do seven.” The tone of voice, man. So. Fucking. Gentle. No wonder Paul can't stand the projected "acerbic, tough Lennon" shit. If that was how someone treated you and took care of you? And then everyone acts like that part of them just didn't exist, and emphasizes the parts of them that they themselves hated and actively worked against? Yeah I'd be pretty pissed too.

Glyn reassuring Paul that there’s no reason they can’t come back and do a TV show later. Yeah, fifty years later. 

John’s eyes constantly flicking back to Paul as George is talking . . . 

George really does take so much better care of himself than the other three at this time. Pictured here, silently begging viewers like you to chip in just ninety-eight cents toward his freedom.

I actually think, though, that if Ringo had said he didn’t want to go on the roof either at that moment, that they wouldn’t have done it. I think they look to him for common sense in their decision-making, and Ringo saying he didn’t want to do it really might’ve broken the whole thing.

George’s reaction to Ringo voting for the roof VS John. It’s giving tragic heroine VS villain origin story

Honestly heartbroken at the “I love you, blue”. How many times did John just straight up say those words to Paul only for Paul to be completely unresponsive? That genuinely hurt to watch.

The tiny little looks they give each other. “Okay. We got this.”

“Fuck all that. I’m just gonna do me for a bit.” Good for you, baby. 

“I had a good dream last night, you’re black or you’re white, you want equal rights.” I know some people say it’s hypocritical or preachy or whatever, but I ADORE this John. Look how fucking happy he’s making Billy right now and then talk to me about how John’s political side is meaningless. I think it’s beautiful.

I think it’s actually too embarrassing for them at this point to sing Two of Us without being insane.

“We’re all sleeping at Georgie’s tonight. Get in the mood.” Oh how I wish they actually had. I mean, maybe they did. Someone write the fic!

Oh, the “who knows, Yoko,” moment. It’s so embarrassing. The fact that there was just no response whatsoever. Yeesh. 

So many nerves when I saw the camera zooming into that circled date with “Rooftop Concert” written on it. What is wrong with me?

[thelesbiandeli]

I wish I could have ALL the lgbtq headcanons for Monty and Charlie… but, whichever ones you feel like doing are fine too

You’re my new favourite person this is exactly the ask I wanted :D

1. Sexuality headcanon

Monty- Pansexual <3

Charles- Gay

2. Gender headcanon

Monty- Trans man! 

Charles- Cis Man

3. When did you start having these hcs?

Monty- Both the Trans and Pan thing came from reading fics, so probably a month after seeing the show?

Charles- I knew he was gay the first word he said. That little giggled ‘I know’ when he meets Monty,,,,,,,, Sean gave me the easiest headcanon ever

(I would like to note that during the interval I had to pull up Ao3 to make sure I wasn’t delusional because I was SO SURE they were gonna kiss at some point)

4. Has your headcanons changed? What did you have as a hc before? 

Monty- I saw him as Gay, then as Bi, before settling on Pan 

Charles- he’s been gay from the moment I laid eyes on him <3

5. When did they realize their sexuality?

Monty- Probably during a night out, ended up in a gay bar by accident and just rolled with it. Had a crisis in the morning but oh well <3

Charles- Has the realisation while Monty has his tongue down his throat. Also had a crisis in the morning

6. If not cis, when did they realize this?

Monty- Very early into childhood, because he’s from a rich family his parents did the thing of ‘our daughter? She died of influenza, very sad very sad. On another note, I don’t think you’ve met our other son, Ewen. He’s been staying with family abroad, but he’s back home now :)’

7. Has there been some early signs in their childhood? 

Monty- Had a shoebox of pictures of men ‘for research’, and definitely had many magazines that were not age appropriate 

Charles- never considered that he may be gay, but was bullied by most the boys he knew and wasn’t interested in the girls so he hung out with his sisters and researched animals he liked instead of talking to people

8. Did someone else know before they knew themselves? 

Monty- Ivor and probably some of the men at MI5 knew before he did (watching him go after every man he found hot at a bar was a hint) but only Ivor really thought about it properly

Charles- most of the Mincemeat team figure it out before him (he ignores it for AGES then the realisation hits him like a truck)

9. Who did they come out to first? 

Monty- Probably Ivor (who used all of his efforts not to go ‘no shit’ in return)

Charles- Either his sister (Victoria), who hugged him and sat with him all evening (she knows how much internalised homophobia he’s full of)(it’s the 1940s and self loathing is my favourite thing to give to a character) or Jean (explained in the next question)

10. Was there anyone they “accidentally” came out to? (they just casually mentioned it and forgot the other didn’t know, or someone overheard when they said it)

(Both of them accidentally came out to Jean to me. She’s so fed up with these two)

Monty- came out to Jean on one of their nights out (either getting receipts for Bill or while she’s trying to get information out of him). He got really drunk and ended up babbling about how he wished Charlie was there too

Charles- Got in a massive argument with Jean just after she gets kicked off the team where she goes ‘god, how can you even STAND him, he’s arrogant and selfish and a narcissistic asshole-‘ and Charles yells ‘BECAUSE I LOVE HIM’ and they just stand there in silence while they both stand in shock about what he’s just said

11. The easiest person to come out to?

Monty- Ivor (can you tell that I love them being brothers)

Charles- ????? Honestly idk (I can’t imagine a scenario where it’s easy for him)

12. The hardest person to come out to?

Monty- His parents :D (they’re not happy with it but they’re supportive in the way of putting a lot of money and effort into keeping it under wraps as to not ruin their social standing. Monty has thousands of pounds worth of perfectly tailored suits)

Charles- Himself :)

13. Someone they never came out to?

Monty- the rest of the lads at MI5. None of them talk about ‘personal’ stuff (which also means they don’t pry when one of them runs off with someone they ‘shouldn’t’)

Charles- His mother!! (I’m torn because I always imagined him living alone with his mother, but I recently learned that he was likely living in an apartment with his cool as fuck lesbian sister, so I’m still deciding)

14. Do they have an LGBTQ+ role model? (could either be a celeb or a person they know personally that they look up to)

Monty- He’s got this idealised version of himself that he’s been creating in his head since he was 10 that he desperately wants to be

Charles- also Monty

15. What is their favorite queer movie?

Monty- if asked he would say Brokeback Mountain, but it’s actually But I’m A Cheerleader

Charles- The Half of It (he would love a partner who’s an intellectual equal like Ellie and Aster are, but unfortunately he’s attracted to Ewen Montagu instead)

(Can you tell I mainly watch lesbian films)

17. How good of a gaydar do they have?

Monty- it’s not that he has a good Gaydar, he’s just a magnet for queer people

Charles- Average Gaydar, but overthinks it too much to be sure

18. Another sexuality headcanon you think can make sense for them?

Charles- I feel like AroAce Charles (specifically George!Charles because I get the Vibes off him) would be so fun because of all of his eye rolls and being fed up at Monty’s flirting with Jean

19. Another gender headcanon you think can make sense for them? 

Monty- well Cis man seems obvious but eeeh

Charles- I feel like you could fit a decent amount of gender fuckery into him but I cba lol

20. What would they wear at a pride parade?

(I’m taking this to mean in a modern au sense)

Monty- Modern au Monty would be an absolute peacock of a man, would go all out with a mesh shirt and body paint, and his outfits would correspond with various pride flags

Charles- as much as I love David’s extravagant slutty outfits, I think Charlie would be into some subtle rainbow button ups or Hawaiian shirts. Someone would hand him a flag too. He would have a great time for about an hour then leave because the crowd stressed him out <3

Thank you so much for this ask!! Literally the dream question for when I’m being especially insane about this show rn

[tojiwrd]

4: fate is fickle ; gojo satoru

pairing gojo satoru x fem!reader

summary when satoru breaks off your engagement, you understand and accept it. but when he marries someone else, you don't understand because he didn't want to be tied down.

content warnings family problems, bad, sad, emotional infidelity, dangerously short chapter im sorry getting you ready for the next one &lt;;33 flashback flashback y did satoru end it with u??

word count 1.3k

a/n i'll beat both of them up i promise

send thoughts ↞ prev next ↠ to be added to taglist

People said promising yourself to someone you love was euphoric; it was a feeling you couldn’t achieve through any other form of happiness or drugs. Satoru believed that because when he asked you to marry him and you said yes, he felt as though he could rearrange and hang every star in the sky to spell your names for the rest of eternity. It was electric, the feeling, and he couldn’t get enough of it.

But Satoru wasn’t somebody who was ever in the midst of two lines; if he was happy, he was so fucking happy, and if he was sad, he was so fucking sad. 

Growing up in his home hadn’t taught him many things, but he’d come out of it with two lessons he’d always abide by:

Never, ever make promises you can’t keep.

If you can go against Gojo Takayashi’s wishes, do it.

He knew that he should wait to tell his parents about his engagement with you until you were with him, which is why he didn’t let it slip during the first dinner he had with his parents since he put a ring on your finger. When his father said he’d invited a guest over, Satoru felt more at ease to keep his mouth shut because, even though his parents were not his favorite people, he was itching to see their reaction. The little boy that lived somewhere in the abyss of his mind expected them to pop champagne, for his mother to immediately call each and every one of the people she knew to tell them the good news, for his father to pat him on the back with a gleeful smile that made him feel like he’d at least done one thing to make him proud.

And, even though his second rule was to always strive to go against his father, he felt it would be some sort of a twisted poetic number for his father to be proud of him for loving you. For you loving him back.

Kimura Hana was pleasant, and her parents even more so. Despite that, both children on the dinner table that night had a hard time trying to entertain themselves with the dull conversation. Their fathers droned on about their next upcoming business ventures, constantly toasting to the point they’d made a toast to the art of toasting, claiming that it was the best excuse for people to down more alcohol with good intention. 

Hana kicked his leg underneath the table from beside him and Satoru, Y/N-loving, elated-over-his-engagement-in-private Satoru, almost sent her a glare for being so close to him. But he covered it when he noticed a small napkin she passed his way, a small giggle leaving her lips. 

He opened it, and there he read, in pretty and small handwriting with red ink:

this is sooooo boring.

He looked around and patted his pockets subtly when her lithe fingers reached out, right above his lap, and offered him a pen. He gave her a small smile before replying:

If i have to hear another stupid toast, I’m going back to my room

She scanned his reply, and he noticed her lips curve up upwards as she did. Satoru leaned back, fork mushing the leftovers of his desert as he waited for her. Her hands reached down, and placed it right on his thigh and he almost jolted at the slight hint of her fingers against his jean-clad thighs.

He shakily opened the response, a misplaced sense of guilt ravishing his brain.

what about me???

He tried not to think much before he replied, reminding himself that this was friendly. She was being friendly.

You can come up too. I’d hate to leave you here with the wolves.

“Gojo,” Hana said, her voice loud enough for the entire table to hear. Satoru turned to her, raising his brows. “You wanted to show me that book, right?” She turned to her mother. “Ma, do we have enough time for me to go up and check it out?”

Her mother smiled a very specific kind of smile, and Satoru once again reminded himself that this was friendly. 

“Oh, of course. With the way things are going, I think we have about twenty more toasts to go.”

Satoru glanced back at his father who, in his drunken stupor, paid him no mind while his mother barely looked his way, eyes focused on the empty plate below her. 

When Hana went through his small bookshelf, something he didn’t think she’d actually do, he sat on his messy bed and watched her. She stopped at one of the books and pulled it out, a small smile on her lips as she turned back to look at Satoru. 

“What is this?” she asked, plopping down on the bed as she scanned a CD he’d placed in the middle of all the books. It was something Geto had given him once after a fight he’d had with you two months into your relationship, and if he remembered correctly, he’d written, on top of the case with a thick, black marker: move on bro!! Geto had brought it up in one of your recent conversations and said he wasn’t right in the head to think either of you could ever move on from the other, and followed that statement by saying you were meant for each other.

“Uh, my friend gave it to me after I had a… well—”

“A breakup?”

It was a small falling out, but he didn’t correct her because it was so long ago. So, he nodded. 

“Breakups are so—they’re so annoying.”

Satoru chuckled, curious. “Got your heart broke or somethin’?”

She shook her head vigorously, as though she hated that statement with every fiber in her bones. “No, at least not recently. Probably because I hate the idea of meaningless relationships.”

Meaningless relationships? “Elaborate.”

“I don’t know! Like, I’ve thought about it and I just don’t see the reason to tie myself down to someone, you know? I’m young and I have a lot of time to get serious and have joint bank accounts but now? I feel like if I ever tied myself down, it’d end sometime because we end up hating each other for holding each other back while we’re so young.”

He tried not to think about her words too much, but it was hard. He was sure she’d say something completely different were he to tell him about you and your engagement, sugarcoating her words and saying stuff like not you! I’m just talking about me, of course. And that was what he didn’t want. He appreciated her brutal honesty because she was unknowingly giving her perspective on something he hadn’t thought about before getting engaged. 

You love her and you’re her fiance, a part of his mind told him, holding him back from probing further. But another part, the part of him that was always scared over one thing or another pushed him to ask her more. 

And he did, he asked until he was unconsciously convincing himself that the two of you shouldn’t go through with this, but not enough for him to break it off with you. 

What did convince him to break it off with you was something that happened around a month later, after he and Hana had hung out plenty of times due to the increasing closeness of their parents. It was because he found himself shifting his chair closer to hers during dinner. It was because he unconsciously raised his thigh everytime she passed him a note and didn’t reach out his hand so her fingers would graze over it. It was because he was texting her more than he was texting you, and a part of him didn’t seem to mind it. 

He knew it was wrong, despite the plethora of times he tried to convince himself that it was platonic. He couldn’t deny that there was something so utterly wrong about how he didn’t want to tell Hana that he was engaged to you. He didn’t end it with you after doing something that would instantly cross the line he’d been teetering over the edge of for a month, he ended it with you when he felt like if she would cross that line unknowingly, he wouldn’t stop himself from giving in. 

And Satoru didn’t want to cross that line.

[blank-potato]

Close To You

Gif credit: @bonniebirddoesgifs

Pairing: Jason Stackhouse x Reader

Summary:

“I’m back,” You say weakly, thankful that you’re able to hold back the tears. Blood streaming across your face would definitely ruin the moment. “You… Where on earth have you been? I– we all thought something happened to you.” He reaches out to pull you into a hug, but he doesn’t get the chance as an invisible barrier stops you, slamming into your chest like a wall you can’t break through. Or After disappearing from his life you come back as a vampire and Jason doesn't know how to deal with it.

A/N: I'm watching True Blood for the first time (on season 7 now), and I'm obsessed with Jason Stackhouse, he's one of my favourite himbos, so I had to write something

⋆⋆⋆

You never would’ve imagined that you and a vampire would ever be in the same sentence. Unless, of course, it was some tragic tale of how you took a wrong turn down a dark alley and got drained dry by one.

You were no fool, but you preferred to stay clear of them for obvious reasons. But one fateful night changed everything. You woke up underground, alone, clawing your way out like something out of a horror movie. Your maker had left you in the dirt, forcing you to fend for yourself.

When you tried to go home, you couldn’t even step past the front porch because your body refused, like some invisible force had slammed into your chest, keeping you out. You were locked out of your own house, your own life. So now, you were staying in a house you glamoured your way into, feeding off strangers, trying to figure out what the hell to do next. 

You opted to disappear off the face of the earth to everyone, including your best friend, Jason Stackhouse. You and Jason were thick as thieves, partners in crime even; you were the brains, and he was the brawn. Your reckless idiot with a heart of gold, always diving headfirst into trouble without a second thought. It was a pattern, him dragging you into dumb situations only he would find himself in, like bar fights over girls he barely knew.

He was Jason Stackhouse—quarterback turned town hunk, charming to a fault, and capable of sleeping with anyone he wanted. It’s not like you ever expected him to want you. You were his friend, his sidekick, the one who took care of him when he was hungover and listened to his wild stories, not an object of affection.

When vampires first came out of the coffin, the world shifted overnight—news reports, debates, protests, and fascination consumed every conversation. Some embraced it, others feared it, but no one could ignore it.

“I’d rather be dead than one of them… well, you know what I mean.”

“I just don’t want it to change our lives. I like how things are,” you remember Jason said, and he pulled you in to kiss your forehead like he always did. You know that he meant nothing by it, but your heart still fluttered all the same. 

Of course, you thought about going to Jason after you were turned, but the fact that you had no idea how he’d react scared you. He was everything, the last link to your human life. If you lost him, what would you have left? It was better if he thought you were gone or dead than to hate you. And technically, you were dead.

Especially with how things left off. Especially since the last thing you told him was that you loved him. 

It was a typical night, Jason dragging you to some party at a house you didn’t recognise, filled with people you barely knew. Same as usual, just Jason being Jason. Flirting with every cute girl his eyes landed on, flashing that easy grin that always got him what he wanted.

But that night was different. After so many years of pining for him, it was like the dam finally broke. It felt like you were just an afterthought, a shadow trailing behind him.

He had invited you there, but he spent the whole night with someone else. You had learned not to take it to heart, to understand that friends were all you guys could ever be. No matter how much you wished otherwise.

You stormed out of the party, your chest tight, frustration bubbling over before you could stop it. The cool night air did little to soothe the heat rising under your skin.

A few moments later, Jason followed, his footsteps quick, but unhurried like he knew you'd run, but he also knew you'd stop.

Without a word, he draped his jacket over your shoulders as if it were second nature, the lingering warmth of his body seeping into your skin.

"You okay? You sick? I can hold your hair back if you need," Jason offered, his voice softer than usual, laced with something close to concern.

You were quiet, too quiet for his liking. He didn’t like not knowing what was going on in your head, especially when you looked like that.

“I’m fine.”

“Then what happened?”

“It’s just… I got jealous.”

“Of what?" he replied then claps his hands over his mouth as if he's got it, "Oh damn, I didn’t mean to hog the drinks." But alas, he was as dense as ever to what was actually going on.

“Not that, Jason… I was jealous of her.”

“Her?” He blinked, confusion flickering across his face as he tried to piece it together.

“The girl you were talking to, she was all over you, and…”

“Why would that be a problem?” Jason asked, brows furrowed in genuine confusion.

“Because I like you!”

He let out a short laugh. “Of course you do, we’re best friends.”

His simple way of thinking had always been equal parts endearing and infuriating. Even now, when you were practically screaming how much you liked him to his face, he still didn’t get it.

“No, Jason. I like you. I love you. I’m in love with you,” you say, making sure there’s no possible way he could misunderstand this time. 

He’s silent, his gaze distant as he processes everything you've just laid out, but the quiet stretches too long. You feel your heart tighten with uncertainty, the weight of your confession pressing down on you.

As you turned away, your steps slow, your mind racing with the fear of rejection. You heard him call your name, soft and uncertain, but you don’t turn back.

You kept walking, each step harder than the last. If you knew that you’d die that night, maybe you would’ve stuck around to hear what he had to say. 

⋆⋆⋆

The weight of your thoughts was unbearable; you couldn’t keep running anymore. So, you finally decide to go see Jason. How could you live your eternal life without confronting the one you left behind?

You knock on his door, your heart pounding in your chest, the anxiety rising as each second stretches longer and longer. Hearing him approach from behind the door makes your breath hitch, the sound of his footsteps all too familiar, your heart racing in anticipation.

When the door opens, you come face to face with Jason. You thought of him every night, replaying every moment, every smile, every word you’d shared. His messy blonde hair, his strong yet gentle presence, and those kind, brown eyes that always seemed to see straight through you.

The moment he sees you, alive and well, his face lights up, a flicker of disbelief crossing his features before a wide grin spreads across his face. It’s as if the weight of the world lifts off his shoulders, and in that one look, you can see the relief, the joy, the longing that he’s been holding back.

“You’re… you’re really here?” he asks softly, his voice tinged with awe and something deeper, something you can’t quite place.

“I’m back,” You say weakly, thankful that you’re able to hold back the tears. Blood streaming across your face would definitely ruin the moment.

“You… Where on earth have you been? I– we all thought something happened to you.”

He reaches out to pull you into a hug, but he doesn’t get the chance as an invisible barrier stops you, slamming into your chest like a wall you can’t break through.

Jason’s face twists in confusion before realisation dawns, his expression shifting from shock to something heavier.

“You’re a… fanger.”

“Jason…” his name barely leaves your lips, a plea wrapped in regret. You see the look on his face, the look you had been dreading ever since vampirism became your new reality. He was looking at you like you were a stranger, like you weren’t the girl he ran wild with, the girl that comforted him after his parents died, like you weren’t his best friend.

“I didn’t ask for any of this!”

“I… I don’t know what to say, okay?” His eyes flicker with a mix of confusion and pain. “You’re still you, but you're not the same. I never thought I’d see you like this.”

“But you said it yourself, I’m still the same me.”

“With razor sharp fangs and a need for human blood! I just… I don’t know how to be around you when you're like this.”

“Jason–”

“You should go. I don’t… I can’t see you anymore,” he replies quickly, his voice cracking, and before you can respond, he slams the door in your face. As you walk away, you hear him try to stifle his tears, cracking open a beer to numb the pain. You wonder if you’ll ever be the person he could love again.

⋆⋆⋆

You wander around the streets of Bon Temps all night thinking about him, your mind racing with a thousand thoughts, each one more painful than the last. You always find yourself outside his house at one point or another, out of sight, listening to him, watching him. Never in your life did you think you’d lose your best friend and end up becoming his stalker.

But little did you know he was thinking about you too. How much he missed you, how long he had wanted to see you again after you disappeared from his world. But things were different now, you were different, and the vampire you are now and the girl you once were were clashing with one another.

You needed a second opinion, you needed Sookie.

When you got to her place, she was a calming presence, inviting you in with a warm smile and hugging you tightly, like you hadn’t felt in such a long time. Her arms felt like home, which is something you gravely missed. After everything you’d been through, a moment of comfort was like a breath of fresh air.

Over a cup of tea and a bottle of Tru Blood, you let the silence hang between you for a moment, the quiet only broken by the occasional clink of your mug. You had so many questions, so many things you needed to understand.

“With you and Bill, how does that work? How can you love someone that’s dead?” you ask, your voice filled with uncertainty.

Sookie looks at you thoughtfully before answering. "It’s the same as loving the living, just... different. There’s a depth to it, something you can’t explain unless you feel it. It’s not about life and death, it’s about connection."

You nod, absorbing her words. You wanted to believe it. But then, the frustration bubbles up. “Can you tell your boneheaded brother that? No offense, but–”

“No offense taken,” Sookie interrupts with a small smile, before her expression softens. "But trust me, he’ll come around. He loves you, truly. Sometimes, the hardest part is just letting people see that part of you. Especially when they’re scared of what’s changed."

Her words hit you harder than you expected. The weight of her understanding, the way she accepted both her reality and Bill’s, made it feel like maybe, just maybe, there was still hope for you and Jason even if it didn’t look the way you imagined.

⋆⋆⋆

You show up at his door, your heart pounding in your chest, anxiety and fear mixing in a tight knot. You’ve been waiting for this moment, gathering the courage to face him after everything that’s happened. You need him to understand, to hear you out, and maybe, just maybe, let you explain.

“Please talk to me, Jay,” you say, your voice fragile, trembling just slightly as you stand in front of him, your eyes searching his, hoping for some sign of recognition, some flicker of the connection you once had. He opens the door slowly, his eyes meeting yours. “Hey.”

“I’m happy you opened the door,” you say, your voice soft, accompanied by a small smile. He returns it, though it’s a bit uncomfortable, like he's unsure of where this conversation is heading.

“Sook said you came by. She talked a little sense into me and I…” He trails off, unsure how to continue, but before he can finish, the sound of footsteps behind you breaks the moment.

You both turn in shock as the door bursts open violently. A vampire, eyes glowing red, snarls, lunging toward Jason with lightning speed. The man sniffs the air, his sharp gaze locking onto Jason, a twisted smile spreading across his face.

“What do we have here?” the vampire sneers, his voice dripping with malice. 

Instinct kicks in. You rush forward, knocking the vampire away before it can try and glamour him with all the force you can muster. The vampire recovers immediately, his eyes narrowing as he takes a step closer, the sinister smile never leaving his face. He inhales deeply, his sharp nostrils flaring. “Why won’t you share? He smells delicious.”

“He’s mine. Back off.”

The other vampire snarls at you, his eyes flashing with fury. With a swift motion, he pulls out a silver chain from beneath his jacket; no wonder he was wearing gloves. You don’t have time to react before he wraps the chain around your neck, yanking you toward him, cutting off your breath and burning your skin. 

You gasp for air, struggling to break free, but it’s useless. Your hands claw at the chain as it tightens, but then, you feel another sharp, burning pain. Looking down, you notice a silver dagger plunged into your abdomen, the cold steel slicing through your flesh with brutal precision. Pain rips through your body, and your vision begins to blur. 

Jason’s shout rings out, breaking through the chaos. You hear footsteps rushing towards you, but you can barely register anything through the overwhelming fog. You can only feel the hot rush of blood spilling from your wound, the cold metal searing into your flesh, and the pressure of the chain around your throat.

“Get your damn hands off her!”

Jason steps out onto his porch with a fury in his eyes, and in an act of anger, he breaks the wooden chair on his porch and rushes over to you. Too focused on killing you, he barely notices Jason sneak up behind him.

“I’m hers, dead fuck.”

Before the vampire can react, Jason drives the makeshift wooden stake deep into his back, piercing straight through his heart. The creature crumbles to the ground with a tortured screech, exploding into a bloody pile of mush, but you barely have the strength to register it.

Jason drops to his knees beside you, pulling the silver off of you. “You need to stay with me,” he urges, his voice desperate, but the words are slipping through your consciousness like water. Whatever the silver dagger was laced with is taking its toll. Every inch of your body feels cold, heavy, like you’re being pulled under.

He lifts you into his arms with a cry of urgency, holding you close. "I... I invite you in." His words are shaky, but clear, and for the first time, there’s something in his voice you can’t ignore, the fear of losing you.

With trembling hands, he crosses the threshold of the door, pulling you inside. You feel the strange sensation of crossing the boundary, and you allow yourself to pass through the doorway as your vision grows dim.

He gently lays you on the couch, and the room tilts. "My blood," he mutters, his voice full of hope and fear. "That’ll heal you right up, right?"

“I…I shouldn’t…”

“You’re weak and hungry and I don’t want you dying on me...again.”

Cute. If you had more energy, you would’ve laughed. 

“I can’t…I won’t lose you, I’ve lost too many people. I need you to feed on me.” The raw desperation in his voice, the vulnerability, the way he's looking at you, how could you resist? It’s like he’s offering himself, willingly, to you, and it shatters the last of your restraint.

You run your fingers down his skin, feeling the warmth, the pulse of his blood rushing just beneath. Every beat of his heart is like a whisper calling to you, urging you closer. Your fangs come out, and he flinches involuntarily, his neck exposed to you, and you could smell it, that beautiful nectar, flowing through his body.

You graze his neck, delighting in seeing him shiver before you bite down. The moment your fangs sink in, you hear a loud moan escape his lips, but you’re too consumed by the hunger, by the craving that’s been gnawing at you for so long. His fingers grip your waist, like he didn’t want you to go anywhere. 

But, as the rush of blood fills you, something inside pulls you back, and you reluctantly pull away, your breath shaky, eyes filled with guilt. He’s panting, his hand still resting on your waist, but there’s confusion and a hint of desire in his gaze.

“Why did you pull away?” he asks, his voice low, a hint of pleading beneath it.

“I don’t want you dying on me either, what if I took too much?” you say, your voice cracking slightly. The last thing you want is to hurt him because you couldn’t control yourself. Jason smiles, his goofy little grin tugging at the corners of his lips as he offers you his neck again. 

“I trust you.”

You hesitate but go back in for more, suckling at the bite marks you had left, and as more blood fills your mouth, you feel your energy and strength return to you. 

“So…I’m yours now? Same as Bill and Sookie?”

You pull back from him and look deeply into his eyes, “If you want to be.”

“I wanna be.”

Without hesitation, you bite your wrist and hold it up to his mouth, “Hold on now, if this is some freaky vampire sex shit…I’m in.”

You roll your eyes because, of course, that’s where his mind went. 

“It’s just so that if you’re in danger, I’ll be able to find you. You’re a hot commodity, Jason Stackhouse.”

He puffs up with his usual “Jason Stackhouse” confidence and trademark smirk, “Why yes, I am.”

Taking your wrist gently, he drinks deeply, and you shiver at the sensation. Sharing your blood with each other was unlike anything you had ever done. It felt raw and intimate, like the two of you were now connected in a way that went beyond words.

“You taste good,” Jason murmurs, simply a little dazed from the intensity of the moment.

“So do you,” chuckling at his breathless smile.

He leans his head against the top of yours, and you almost cry at how familiar it all feels, how domestic. 

“Holy shit, I guess that means I love a vampire now.”

“You love me?” You say softly, your heart leaping in your chest. This was all you had wanted him to say after all your years of fawning over him. You feel like everything could finally fall into place.

“Of course I do, and I mean I’m in love with you. I think it took you telling me to finally realise it. Then you disappeared, and it was like I was empty.”

“I was empty without you, too. I wanted to see you so badly, but I was scared.”

He pets your head and pulls you closer, making you feel safe and secure. The gentle rhythm of his hand in your hair calms you, and you feel the tension in your body melt away.

“We’re on the right track now, at least.”

You wipe a trace of your blood off his cheek and smile, “Yeah, yeah we are.”

“We should probably clean up the body outside, though,” You comment, glancing nervously towards the door. 

“And we will, but first, how about a little celebration?” Jason says with a wiggle of his eyebrows, and you would never turn down a celebration with him.

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