#but even then on my end i feel like i have to lie down on my back at some point when trying to fall asleep so

[dukeofankh]

I was considering this the other day, and now, oh hey, a relevant prompt. I'm gonna chat about interesting aspects of religious worldbuilding that have caught my attention and/or imagination as someone with religious trauma.

I find it deeply fascinating to imagine a god that is not, actually, all powerful. Who didn't craft the universe, who is on some level a sort of cosmic RA. Who can lie and/or be successfully lied to. A merely very powerful being. The Traveller from Critical Role is a very good example of this. What is the result? Well, religion ends up coming across as a slightly absurd pyramid scheme/grooming scenario with a deity that nonetheless can and does offer supernatural powers to it's adherents. A god in such a scenario is the equivalent of a mob boss, or local politician. There is power available to be had, but at what cost? Not just in the realm of physical or resource-based sacrifice. What does it look like, emotionally and/or psychologically, to worship a being that's just as flawed as you are but just significantly more powerful?

It's fascinating to imagine a scenario where a god legitimately can't solve all of someone's problems. Like, they're doing their best but either a more powerful deity is in the way, or your life just sucks on a level that is outside of the scope of what this god can actually help with. What does communion and personal support from a supernatural being look like when that being...can't actually fix a lot of your problems, and can just say "uh, well, that sucks. Wanna make that fire purple? I can do that for you anytime." That's interesting to me. Abstractly.

But--and I hope I've tagged appropriately so that anyone who feels this even more strongly isn't exposed to this conversation--it should be said that everything I have said I have said with my hackles fully up. I can't, actually, engage with this topic with my emotional walls down. This is fully a conversation that in practice often boils down to "guhhh, what, you have a trauma response? What are you, an internet atheist circa 2009?" I'm a homeschooled pastor's son. I doubt I am ever going to have a discussion about like...sincere expressions of religious belief in a positive way, that isn't going to on some level be something I'm going to be discussing through a clenched jaw. That's not an accusation. My experiences are not meant to serve as an implicit criticism of the concept of faith. It's just a reminder that a hell of a lot of people avoid emotionally engaging with religious topics for reasons that you would probably find a lot more respectable if religious belief wasn't an inherently privileged position. Even nonreligion comes in flavours of "I have never actually believed in a god, so it's kinda novel and meaningless to explore the concept of the divine in fiction" all the way down to "I know full well what can be done to someone's psyche when the concept of reality itself is only accepted through a web of theological conditions; when certain people have the power to invoke the weight of the arbiters of the entire universe in support of their personal opinions about what kind of pants I should be allowed to wear, or who I'm allowed to be or love. It isn't cute."

Recovery for some people is not going to ever look like being able to engage casually with religious topics. And that's fine. The ability to be relaxed about religion is not, actually, some morally neutral position which people have the obligation to fulfil.

[polarisjisung]

ꨄ ME AND THE KITCHEN WITH DIAMOND RINGS

COOKING KISSING W/ BF!MARK

wc: 0.5k warnings: uhh they makeout ig notes: i can't believe mark released 200 a whole year ago | LIBRARY

Mark can't cook. It's a simple fact that everyone knows.

But Mark isn't stupid. Anyone can follow a few instructions and throw a few things into a pot, stirring every once in a while to make sure things don't stick, and he's no different. He's done it a thousand times before and as long as he doesn't lose focus or slip up, which unfortunately happens a little too often for his liking, it goes pretty well.

So maybe, it's not really that Mark can't cook, more that he shouldn’t.

You can though, and your cooking, if you do say so yourself, isn't too bad, pretty good in fact.

So Haechan, cannot for the life of him understand why, when you and Mark are in the kitchen together, the food always turns out a little caramelised. Burnt, if he wasn't trying to protect your feelings.

He walked into the kitchen last week to the smell of something a little charred, noticing how you and Mark were already sighing and groaning about how difficult it'd be too clean the pot.

“You burned the food again?” he couldn't even act surprised, “What even happens in here when you two cook together.”

He should've figured from the way your cheeks flushed over and the tips of Mark’s ears turned red, but Haechan was too focused on hunting for something to satisfy his hunger from your fridge.

And you couldn't have been more glad that he didn't push any further, because God knows how you'd live it down.

But Mark doesn't seem to care. Not about being caught, and definitely not about the stew bubbling away on the stove on one end of the kitchen, because he had his arms looped around your waist, placing kisses to your cheek even after you'd both agreed to actually cook this time.

“Mark.’ You warned.

Your voice wasn't exactly intimidating or anything, so with a grin, he only continued to place kisses across your face, eventually trailing down your neck, in hopes he would change your mind.

But your grip on the spoon was firm, for all of maybe five minutes.

Soon enough your back was against the counter and your lips were moving against his, a hand pressed against his chest.

“Mark, we should really–”

He cut you off, “Kiss some more?” He smiled, taking in your features for a moment, “Yeah I agree.”

“Mark the food.”

He shrugged, pulling you into for another kiss, “Just one more.”

That was a lie if you'd ever heard one.

Because soon enough, Haechan had come through the kitchen door with two fingers dramatically pinched over his nose. You didn't notice of course.

“Guys I really don't understand how you manage to—.”

You froze, barely processing his words as Mark stumbled back, his hands halfway under your shirt.

“Oh my God.”

All you could do was clear your throat and smooth your hair down, leaving Mark to deal with Haechan, who stood in the doorway, mouth agape.

“I should've known you didn’t burn the food by accident.” He muttered, running a hand through his hair.

“Dude we were um, multitasking?”

Haechan scoffed, “What trying to start a family while making dinner?”

tags: @nebularsung @suzayaaa @nanawrlds @sinisxtea @dearlyminhyung @flaminghotyourmom @jisworlds @jenobubbles @nctdreamchaser @lotties-readings @mystverse @chenlezip @blondemrk @17ericas @ayukas

[norristrii]

hellooooo, i fear we need some good angst with greenlight and lando 😔🫵🏻 like RIGHT NOW 😭 tyyy <3

GREENLIGHT.

“I’m still waiting at the greenlight, to tell you what I feel like, but I can’t go.” — You liked Lando, but never truly saw him as someone meant for you. Fear kept your feelings buried—until one night, everything came crashing down, forcing you to face what had always been there.

pairing. Lando Norris x fem! reader.

warnings. misunderstanding, angst (happy ending), mention of partying. I haven’t wrote anything in a while, so sorry if this is shit.

babs’ notes. I’m back!! This is my first fic of the 800 event. I chose greenlight as the premiere bcs it’s my fav song, thank you for joining <3

music. Greenlight by Tate McRae.

800 event // event masterlist.

LANDO WAS STILL RELATIVELY A NEW PRESENCE IN YOUR LIFE. You’d met him at a club—where else? That chaotic blur of lights and music had somehow carved out a space for something that felt different. From the moment you saw him, you were drawn in. It was hard not to be. He was fit, young, effortlessly cool, and rich in that casual, enviable way that made heads turn. He was everything most young men wanted to become—and everything most young women wanted to be with.

You’d been talking for about two months now. Long nights filled with laughter, inside jokes, and the kind of comfort that crept up slowly and surprised you with its depth. You liked him—a lot. But somehow, despite all the time spent together and the closeness you’d grown into, it had never moved beyond friendship.

Best friends. That’s what you were.

At least, that’s what it looked like from the outside.

Because no matter how badly you wanted to tell him how you felt, something always held you back. Maybe it was the echo of past relationships that had started with hope and ended in silence. Maybe it was fear—fear that if you said the words out loud, it would all come crashing down. That you'd lose him, too. And this time, you weren't sure you'd recover.

“Oh my god, Y/n, why are you so jealous?!” Lando rolled his eyes, his voice laced with frustration.

You hadn’t meant for the night to end like this. It was supposed to be fun—just the two of you, dancing, drinking, laughing like always. But instead, here you were, caught in the middle of an argument with the one person you didn’t want to fight with. Your best friend. Your crush. Whatever he was to you tonight.

“I’m not jealous,” you snapped, cutting him off.

Of course, you were.

You could lie all you wanted, but the truth was written all over your face. It had started the moment you saw him tangled up with some random girl on the dance floor. Or maybe she was all over him. Did it really matter? Not when the jealousy burned this hot. Not when your chest felt like it might cave in with the weight of everything you couldn’t say.

This night was supposed to be yours. Just the two of you. But suddenly, you weren’t enough. Or maybe you never were.

“You are!” he shouted, his voice cutting through the chaos around you. “Maybe if you weren’t so scared to tell me how you really feel, you wouldn’t even be jealous!”

You froze.

What did he mean? Did he know?

Your heart thudded in your chest, louder than the music, louder than the mess of thoughts unraveling in your head. Had he known all this time? The glances, the lingering touches, the nights you stayed up talking like it meant something more—had he seen through you?

And maybe… maybe you should have told him earlier. Maybe if you’d had the courage, he would’ve been yours by now. You would’ve been the one in his arms tonight, not some stranger in the crowd. Maybe this—this ache in your chest, this night gone wrong—would never have happened at all.

But you didn’t.

And now, it might be too late.

“What do you mean?” you asked, your voice barely rising above the music, thin and uncertain. The question hung there between you, raw and trembling. It was a stupid thing to say—you knew what he meant. You weren’t clueless. You’d felt the weight of your own emotions building for weeks, maybe months. You just never thought he saw it. Never thought he’d call you out like this. Not tonight. Not like this.

But still, part of you needed to hear it. Needed the words spelled out, because if you acknowledged it—if you admitted what was really going on—it might make it real. And real things came with risks.

Lando stared at you, and the frustration in his eyes shifted, softened. It was like he saw straight through you, through all the denial and fear and half-finished confessions. He stepped closer, his voice quieter now, but every word landed with force.

“I mean,” he said, slower, more careful, “it’s so obvious you like me. And… I like you too.”

The breath caught in your lungs. Your heart stuttered, like the whole world had just tilted off balance.

Had he really just said that?

Your mind scrambled to process his words, but they echoed over and over, drowning out everything else. He liked you. The one thing you had convinced yourself was impossible—the one scenario you hadn’t dared to hope for—was suddenly standing right in front of you, looking you in the eyes.

You stared at him, searching for a joke in his expression, some sign he was messing with you. But it wasn’t there. There was no smirk, no teasing glint. Just him. Honest, vulnerable. Waiting.

And all at once, the weight of everything you hadn’t said came crashing down. Maybe if you had told him earlier—if you’d pushed through the fear instead of hiding behind friendship—this moment would have come sooner. Maybe he would’ve been yours already.

“And why didn’t you say anything earlier?” you asked, your voice cracking under the pressure. It came out choked, nearly a whisper, and your throat burned with the weight of everything you'd been holding back. You could feel the sting of tears threatening to spill, blurring your vision as you looked at him. It wasn’t anger in your voice—it was hurt. Disbelief. The quiet ache of wondering what could’ve been if only things had gone differently.

Lando’s eyes widened slightly, taken aback by the emotion in your voice. “I thought you knew,” he said, almost helplessly. His brows pulled together, frustration melting into something more vulnerable. “I thought it was obvious.”

You shook your head. “No… I didn’t,” you whispered, blinking rapidly as a single tear escaped down your cheek. “I didn’t see it. I saw everything but that.”

Because the truth was, you hadn’t let yourself see it. You didn’t notice the way he looked at you when he thought you weren’t paying attention, or the way his hand always lingered just a little too long when he touched you. You ignored the late-night texts, the protective glances, the way he always seemed to find his way to your side no matter where you were.

Instead, you saw every worst-case scenario. Every possible way it could all fall apart. You saw rejection, awkwardness, distance—another heartbreak added to the list of disappointments you carried like armor. You didn’t dare believe something so good could actually be real. Not for you.

He stepped closer, the distance between you shrinking until you could feel the warmth of him, smell the faint trace of his cologne through the haze of alcohol and sweat. “Y/n,” he said gently, his voice softer now, almost aching. “You could’ve just told me earlier.”

The words were simple, but they cut deep.

You looked up at him, blinking through the emotion welling in your eyes, and for a moment, all you could do was stand there, silent. Because how could you have told him?

You never healed right. Not from the things before him. The people who made promises they never kept. The late-night heartbreaks masked behind forced laughter. The relationships that made you feel small, unworthy, like love was always something just out of reach.

Every time you started to rebuild yourself, someone else came along and tore it all down. So you stopped trying. You learned how to smile through the ache. How to be the “best friend” instead of the person someone chose. You convinced yourself that loving him in silence was safer than losing him completely.

So no—telling him felt impossible.

You swallowed hard, looking down at the floor because meeting his eyes felt too raw, too vulnerable. “I wanted to,” you said quietly. “I really did.”

And then, barely louder than a breath, “I was just… scared.”

And for the first time, it felt okay to admit it.

Lando didn’t say anything at first. He just stepped forward and wrapped his arms around you, pulling you into his chest with a quiet urgency, like he’d been waiting to do it for far too long.

And you let him.

You melted into the warmth of him, the solid feel of his embrace, the way his hand slid gently up your back like he was trying to hold all the broken pieces of you together. It wasn’t just a hug—it was something more. It was safety. It was forgiveness. It was the answer to all the silent questions you’d been too afraid to ask.

And God, you needed it. You needed him—this steady presence, this boy who somehow saw through all your walls and didn’t run.

“I love you,” he whispered against your hair, voice low and steady. “I’m here to show you not every guy is an asshole.”

The words hit you harder than you expected. Not because they were perfect, not even because they were exactly what you wanted to hear, but because they were real. Simple, true, unpolished—and everything you never let yourself believe someone would say to you.

You closed your eyes, burying your face into his shoulder as the tears finally came, quiet and full of something you hadn’t felt in a long time.

Hope.

You didn’t say anything at first. You couldn’t. The knot in your throat was too tight, the flood of emotion too overwhelming. But in that moment, words weren’t necessary. Not when he held you like that—not when his arms said everything you’d spent months trying to silence in yourself.

You clung to him, afraid that if you let go, this would all dissolve into the air, like a dream you’d wake up from too soon.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered into his chest, barely audible. “For not telling you. For pushing you away.”

Lando pulled back just enough to look at you, his hands still resting on your waist. His eyes found yours, softer than you’d ever seen them, full of something quiet and real.

“Don’t apologize,” he said. “You had your reasons. And I’m not going anywhere.”

The way he said it—so sure, so steady—broke something open inside you. Not in a painful way, but in the way that happens when something long frozen finally starts to thaw.

“I didn’t think someone like you would ever feel the same,” you admitted, your voice shaking with the weight of your own doubt. “You’re… you. And I’m just—”

“No,” he cut in, gently but firmly. “Don’t do that. Don’t talk about yourself like you’re less. You’re everything, Y/n. I’ve known it since the night I met you.”

You stared at him, heart pounding, his words settling into the cracks you’d tried to hide for so long. You didn’t know what tomorrow would look like, or the day after that. But right now, here in this moment—held together by the arms of someone who chose you—it felt like something was finally beginning.

You leaned into him again, this time not because you needed comfort, but because you wanted him. Fully, openly, finally.

And for the first time in what felt like forever, it didn’t feel like falling.

It felt like flying.

[tsunodaradio]

a thousand cuts ⛐ 𝐈𝐇𝟔

“you said fighting is all you are good at,” you say, voice cracking with each word. “but you are wrong, isack hadjar. i think you are very good at loving me, no?”

ꔮ starring: underground fighter!isack x girlfriend!reader. ꔮ word count: 7.5k. ꔮ includes: angst, romance, hurt/comfort. alternate universe: non-f1; descriptions of a fight, blood, injuries. isack is a loverboy, established relationship e.g. childhood best friends -> lovers, google translated french. title is from taylor swift’s death by a thousand cuts. this happens directly after afterglow, but you don’t have to read that to understand this! ꔮ commentary box: i swear i’m going on my little writer’s break,, right after this (lol). this one goes out to @amyelevenn, who inspired me to finish this second part! 🤍 𝐦𝐲 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

The gym is colder than usual. 

Isack wraps his hands in silence. The tape stretches tight across his knuckles, over skin that’s more scar than flesh. His fingers tremble slightly. Not from fear, but from wear. 

He doesn’t look up when Christian mutters something about the odds, about the crowd, about how the other guy hasn’t lost in six fights. How they’re expecting a show. How the purse will be heavier if it lasts more than three rounds.

None of it matters. Not really.

Isack’s knuckles are already aching from the last round. Skin split where it hasn’t healed. Bruises stacked on bruises, like someone painted him in layers of violence. He flexes his fingers, breathes slow. 

In. Out. 

He pictures the locket. Gold, delicate, shaped like a heart. The glint of it against your collarbone. The way you smiled that day in the market, soft and shy like maybe you could already imagine it on you. He remembers thinking, in that moment, that he’d give up a lung just to keep that look on your face.

Three days. Your birthday is in three days. 

Isack just needs this one match. One last time. One more set of punches to buy the memory of cake and candlelight and your arms around him, warm and proud and safe.

“You good?” Christian asks from the corner, towel slung over his shoulder.

Isack nods once. Tight. “Yeah.”

He doesn’t feel good. He feels like a lie wearing gloves. Like a man walking to the edge of a cliff with his eyes open. Isack exhales, rolls his shoulders, slaps his face lightly twice. Starts toward the ropes.

And then—

He sees you.

You’re standing at the edge of the crowd, near the entrance, framed by peeling walls and harsh lighting. You look like someone who’s taken a wrong turn and ended up in a nightmare. 

You don’t belong here. Not with your cardigan sleeves pulled past your palms. Not with your wide eyes and trembling mouth. Not in this world of blood and teeth and bets scribbled on paper napkins. Not with people yelling odds and someone already drunk in the corner.

Isack freezes mid-step. Your eyes find his instantly. There’s a beat of stillness. The noise dulls. 

He watches your face crumple, slowly, like paper in a fist. And God, he wishes the ground would open beneath him. He wishes he could undo the morning, the call, the hoodie tugged over his sore body. The lie he left you on a Post-It, the one claiming he had errands to run. .

“Amour,” he breathes, stepping down off the mat. He’s across the room before he even realizes he’s moving, fists still wrapped, gloves half-dangling. It’s like instinct, like his body knows it’s you before his brain does.

You don’t say anything. You don’t have to. Your silence says enough; your eyes do the rest.

He reaches for you. Stops short. Drops his hands. They’re weapons he’s too ashamed to hold. “Chérie,” he mumbles, flinching around the pet name. It’s not something he feels like he can say. Not now. Not here. “What are you doing here?” 

Your expression flickers like you’ve been slapped. Last night, he had held you, had said no more fights for your birthday. Had sealed it with a kiss to your forehead. 

“You promised,” you whisper, and Isack’s heart kicks against his ribs. 

“I know. I know I did,” he says despairingly, “but—”

“You looked me in the eye, Isack. You held me. You said no more.”

He can’t look at you for too long. It burns, the same way being called Isack feels like being lit up and not in a good way. Shame sinks hot into his chest. 

He sees your face in the mirror again, that night in the bathroom. Hears the way your voice cracked when you said you didn’t want anything but him. Isack’s voice breaks when he tries again. “I thought I could keep it from you. Just one more. For you.”

“You think I want this? You think I want you bleeding for me?”

Your voice isn’t loud, but it cuts through the noise like a blade. Around you, the crowd shifts. Christian looks away. Isack’s opponent pretends to be busy with his taped. No one wants to watch this part—the part where a heart breaks without blood.

Isack shakes his head. “I didn’t know what else to do. I can’t give you nice things without this,” he says. “I can’t give you anything without this.”

You blink hard, once, and it’s like something inside you cracks wide open. “You could’ve just come home.”

He steps closer. His voice is a prayer now. “Please. Just wait for me after. We can talk. Je vais réparer ça. I swear.”

You stare at him for a long, breathless moment. Isack turns back to the ring. A part of him hopes that you’ll turn around, that you’ll walk away from it all and wait for him at home. Another part of him knows that’s not about to happen. 

He climbs between the ropes. The bell rings. You’re still standing where he left you, and it’s his worst nightmare come to life. 

Isack doesn’t move right away. He stands still for half a breath, staring across the ring where Pierre Gasly waits—stone-faced, shoulders taut, already bouncing slightly on the balls of his feet. They’ve known each other too long for this to feel like anything but personal. 

Once, they trained under the same roof. Shared bruises, shared meals, shared silence after losses that hurt too much to name. There was a time Pierre had watched Isack ice a broken wrist in the dark, and Isack had patched a gash above Pierre’s eye with shaking hands and duct tape.

Now they’re opponents. Chosen not by rivalry but by circumstance, by desperation.

Pierre gives a short nod. Not a greeting. An apology. But there’s no softening in the way he steps forward. No pull of the punch. This is the deal they made when they entered this world.

No mercy. Not here.

Isack exhales through his nose. His body starts moving before the next breath. He shifts left, keeps his guard high, leads with a jab. Pierre blocks, counters. A low hook, almost too fast to see. They fall into rhythm like a memory: jab, dodge, step back, strike. They know each other’s timing like old dance partners, every hit echoing with familiarity and fatigue.

The crowd presses closer to the ring, shouting and hungry for blood. Beneath the roar, Isack hears the wet thud of fists on flesh, the grunts, the shuffle of feet. His ribs still ache from the last match. He feels the bruises bloom deeper with every strike. 

Pierre’s knuckles land against his jaw, his side, his shoulder. He returns the favor with punishing jabs to Pierre’s midsection. A clean shot to the temple. Pierre hisses through the haze, his left eye beginning to swell.

Isack sees you in pieces, between dodges, in the periphery. You’re standing just beyond the ropes, by the far post. Your eyes are wide, mouth parted like you forgot how to breathe. There’s something trembling in your hands. Maybe it’s your fists. Maybe it’s your heart.

You shouldn’t have come.

Isack falters, just for a beat. Pierre doesn’t miss it. He ands a blow to the ribs that knocks the wind from his lungs. Isack reels, coughs, steadies himself. Shakes it off.

He tells himself to focus. Focus on the fight. Focus on what’s at stake. The locket. The cake. Your smile, if—when he gives it to you. If he can just win—this one match, this one night—

He drives forward with renewed force. His fists are a blur, punch after punch. One. Two. Three. Pierre stumbles back. The crowd erupts in a wave of noise. Christian is yelling something, voice hoarse with urgency, but Isack doesn’t catch it. He’s locked in, tunnel vision.

Until he looks at you.

Just for a second.

Your eyes meet. And time fractures.

You look so hurt. Not angry. Hurt. 

And that’s all it takes.

Pierre sees the shift. The opening. He lunges.

A low sweep. Isack’s leg buckles. His body crashes to the mat, the breath knocked clean from his lungs. Pain blooms up his spine. Before he can roll away, Pierre is on him, all weight and muscle, pinning him to the floor.

His arm snakes around Isack’s throat. Tight. Controlled. There’s no malice in it—just necessity. “Sorry,” Pierre murmurs against his ear. Quiet, genuine. A friend knowing what is at stake; a fighter who can do only that. Fight. 

The final hit is swift and precise. 

Isack’s head drops to the mat. His vision swims. He thinks he sees you running, but not towards him. Leaving. Out of here. Away. 

His fingers twitch as if he’s trying to reach out. But then the dark claims him, and all of it fades.

The morning light is too bright.

It slices through the blinds like a blade, sharp and merciless, stinging Isack’s eyes before he even manages to open them fully. It aches everywhere. Deep in his ribs, dull behind his eyes, coiled around his spine like regret. He blinks up at the unfamiliar ceiling, cotton-mouthed and heavy-limbed, the taste of blood still clinging to the back of his throat.

“Look who’s alive.”

Ollie’s voice comes from nearby, warm with mockery but laced with relief. He’s perched backwards on a kitchen chair, elbows draped over the backrest, holding a half-eaten sandwich in one hand. His wild curls are tied up haphazardly, and he’s got the look of someone who didn’t sleep much but still chose to stay.

Across the room, Kimi leans against the window frame, arms crossed, an unlit cigarette hanging from the corner of his mouth. Kimi doesn’t even smoke. He’s just the youngest among all the other fighters, which means he’s always desperate to prove he’s worth his salt. 

“Thought we might’ve lost you for a minute there,” Kimi deadpans.

Isack groans, trying to shift upright, but the fire in his side stops him halfway. “Putain.”

“Yeah, don’t do that,” Kimi mutters, pushing off the wall and stepping closer. He picks up a glass of water from the nightstand and hands it over. “You’ve got bruises layered like sediment. Pretty sure one of your ribs is cracked. Might be two.”

Isack takes the water with a mumbled thanks, sipping slowly. It tastes like metal and pain. Every breath feels earned. The room is quiet except for the sound of Ollie chewing and the faint creak of old floorboards.

“Gasly didn’t hold back,” Ollie says after a moment, voice softer now. “Didn’t think he would, but still… je suis désolé pour ça. Real close, man.”

Isack tilts his head back against the pillow and closes his eyes. “Doesn’t matter. ‘Close’ doesn’t pay rent.”

Kimi exhales sharply, lips twitching like he wants to argue but won’t. “Depends what you were really fighting for,” he says with faux sageness. 

What Isack was really fighting for. Rent, sure. That’s where most of the cut went. But your birthday, too, and you—

Isack jerks upright. Pain splinters through his ribs, but he’s already halfway to sitting. “Merde!”

“Whoa, whoa, hey!” Ollie’s on his feet in an instant, breakfast abandoned. “What the hell are you doing?”

“I have to get back,” Isack gasps, clutching his side. “I just… left. She saw the fight. I didn’t say anything. I—I have to explain. I can’t just—”

“You can barely stand,” Kimi interjects. “You really think she wants to see you like this?”

“I don’t care,” Isack snaps. His voice is frayed at the edges. “I need to go.”

Ollie swears under his breath and snatches Isack’s jacket from the back of a couch chair. “Fine. But at least wear this before you pass out again. And don’t even think about running.”

Isack struggles into the jacket, every movement stilted and painful. His hands shake as he fumbles with the zipper, and he winces as it brushes the bruises blooming across his chest.

“You think she’ll forgive you?” Kimi asks, quieter this time. He’s watching Isack closely now, no judgment in his voice—just honest curiosity. Maybe even concern.

It’s an open secret. You’re Isack Hadjar’s sweetheart, his darling. Every fight is for you, one way or another. “I don’t know,” Isack murmurs. “But I have to try.”

There’s a rustle of movement. Ollie steps forward and presses a few folded bills into Isack’s palm. It’s heavy, heavier than the payout that Christian would give for a loss. “For the gift,” says Ollie, because they all knew why Isack was desperate to get back into the ring. “Go, before you convince yourself to stay.”

Isack’s heart swells. “I’ll pay you back,” he croaks. 

“You won’t,” Ollie says simply. “But get out of here anyway.”

Kimi tosses his unlit cigarette out the window. He advises, “Don’t screw it up worse.”

A faint, crooked smile tugs at Isack’s lips. “No promises.”

And then he’s moving—limping, really—each step a vivid reminder of last night. Of failure. Of the weight he still carries. The hallway feels endless, the stairs even more so, but his mind is already blocks ahead, racing back toward you.

All he wants now is to make it home to you, even if he doesn’t deserve to. 

The key sticks when Isack tries to turn it.

For one heart-stopping second, he thinks maybe you’ve changed the locks. Maybe this time, you’ve really gone. But then the door gives way with a click, swinging open to reveal the same apartment he left what feels like a lifetime ago. 

Except there’s something off. The quiet is louder. The stillness, tense. It smells like vanilla and stale air, and there’s no trace of warmth. Isack’s vision is swimming, so he nearly misses you. 

You, already by the door, shoes on, keys clutched in your hand. Bag slung over your shoulder.

Isack freezes in the doorway. Suddenly, he feels like he’s intruding in his own home. You blink at him, stunned. Then your eyes well up so fast it steals the breath from his lungs.

“I—I was going to look for you,” you whimper, your voice is already breaking. “You didn’t come home. I didn’t know if you were—”

You can’t finish. Your throat closes around the words. You shake your head as tears spill freely down your cheeks, and Isack takes a step forward, reaching for you.

But you flinch back.

That hurts more than the bruises. More than Pierre’s fist to his jaw. More than waking up somewhere he shouldn’t be. “Please,” Isack says hoarsely. “Don’t—don’t do that. Don’t look at me like I’m someone you don’t recognize, amour.”

You’re already moving. Toward the bedroom. Toward the closet. Isack follows you helplessly. Your duffel bag hits the bed with a soft thud. You open drawers with shaking hands, stuffing clothes in without folding. You won’t look at him.

“Please,” he tries again. “Let me explain. Just talk to me. Please.”

You don’t speak. Don’t pause. The sound of hangers clattering is louder than his heartbeat. You move like you're running out of time, like if you stop, even for a second, you’ll break entirely.

“I did it for you,” he says, desperate now. “For your birthday. I wanted—”

“You lied.”

The words slice through the air, quiet and final. No raised voice. No yelling. Just something cold and irrevocable. You still don’t face him. You keep packing, sniffling, swiping tears from your face with the back of your hand, your breath catching every few seconds like it hurts to even exist in this moment.

“I know,” Isack breathes. He takes another step toward you, wincing. “I know I messed up. I know what I promised. But I thought—I thought if I could just get through it, if I could give you something beautiful, then maybe it would make up for—”

“Being unconscious on a concrete floor?” you shoot back, finally whirling around. Your voice cracks like thunder. “Do you even know what it felt like to watch that? To see you bleeding and limp and—”

You choke on the memory. Your hands tremble at your sides. Isack moves closer on instinct, but you hold a hand up, stopping him in his tracks. “I thought you were dead,” you whisper.

He swallows hard, guilt clogging his throat like smoke. “I’m not. I’m here. I came back.”

You let out a broken laugh. “You came back after disappearing all night, after lying to me, after breaking the only promise I asked you to keep.”

You zip the duffel. He watches your hand shake on the pull. Watches your shoulders hunch like the weight of this love has become too much to bear. “I’m still me,” he says quietly. “Still yours. If you’ll let me be.”

He’s a mess. Bruised, battered, eyes bloodshot and pleading. He’s never looked smaller. Never more afraid. He’s holding onto hope like it’s a thread about to snap. “Tell me what to do,” he pleads, “Just tell me. I’ll do it.”

You press your lips together, the duffel still hanging heavy from your shoulder. For a moment, your gaze flickers to the window. The streetlight catches in your lashes, makes your tears shimmer.

“Quit,” you say.

The word is quiet. Still. But it cracks like lightning.

“Quit like you said you would,” you repeat. “We will make do with what we have.”

Isack closes his eyes. The fire behind his ribs burns worse than any bruise. The silence after your words feels like a verdict. He drags his calloused hands down his face. “It’s not that easy.”

“It should be.”

His breath catches. “You don’t understand. That fight money… I could buy you something nice. Pay rent for two months. I could make sure you wake up to something good. Something new. Not just me.”

“I don’t want new,” you say fiercely, all fire and sinew despite the tremble in your voice and the tears in your eyes. “I want you.”

He shakes his head. “You want me, but you don’t want the part of me that gets us fed. That keeps us warm,” he says, trying to keep the accusation out of his tone. He fails. You hold him accountable. 

“No,” you say. “I don’t want the part of you that dies a little more each time you climb into that ring.”

“Are you really going to make me choose?”

You look at him long and hard. And then you say, softly, simply, “It should not be a choice at all. And yet…”

And yet.

He looks at you like he’s dying inside.

It shouldn’t be a choice. He loves you better than anything in the world, and all he wants is to put a ring on your finger and a baby in your belly and live in happiness forever. He knows it’s how it’s supposed to be.

But something’s holding him back. Something’s refusing to let him walk away from the fights. Something’s forcing him to stay.

“It’s one of the only things I’m good at, amour,” he whispers, his voice desperate. He’s pleading with you now, the words coming from some deep, dark place in him that he’s never bothered to look at. 

He knows it’s not a fair justification. He knows that it’s a piss-poor reason to keep fighting when there’s a pretty future with a pretty girl waiting. But he doesn’t want to give it up, he can’t, not when there’s a lifetime of birthdays ahead. Not when this pays more than any dead end office job, not when you have dreams and all he wants is for you to get to follow them. 

“That’s not true.”

He laughs, low and breathless and bitter. “It is. You think anyone bets on me because they like me? I get punched for a living. I win. I get paid. That’s it. That’s the only thing that works. Se battre est tout ce que j’ai.” 

Fighting is all I have. 

You move past him towards the closet. He sees the way your hands tremble as you pull another hoodie from the rack, the exact same one that he’s grown so used to seeing on your body in the mornings. It feels wrong. It looks wrong. 

You’re supposed to be making breakfast in the kitchen tomorrow morning wearing that hoodie and absolutely nothing else, covered in love bites and laughing at his offkey singing. He wants to grab you in his arms. He wants to drag you back to bed.

You don’t look at him once as you continue packing, like you’re trying your damned best to detach from the apartment you’ve shared for years. And God, does it hurt. There’s pictures of the two of you all over. 

Pictures from your childhood, high school graduations, that one trip to the beach in Plage de l'Amour. Pictures on the windowsill, next to the couch, on the fridge. Pictures of you and him, utterly in love and fated to be so forever. 

They feel like a taunt now, like they’re laughing at him. Mocking him for all the joy and happiness and love he’s about to throw away. He tries to focus on something else, anything else, but his gaze lands on the bookshelf next to the bed. Your books and his, mixed together in a chaotic mess of genres and languages, the spines all touched and loved. Isack feels sick.

The bookshelf was the first thing the two of you had bought for the apartment. You’d spent an entire weekend putting it together. He remembers the way he’d kiss your knuckles when you nicked a finger. He remembers the way you’d laugh when he got annoyed with the instructions. He remembers how exhausted you were, and how you’d crawled under the sheets together to make love for the first time in this apartment that was now officially yours. 

Isack takes a step forward, then a second, and stops next to the bookshelf. His fingers twitch as he reaches for one of the books. It’s one of your favorite novels, one that you’ve read time and time again, and he can feel the way the spine is bent. Like it’s been loved and worn so much by your own hands.

He doesn’t even notice you’re looking at him, watching him, until he hears your voice. “You can keep that,” you say. 

The first proper book you’d ever read. One Isack’s own mother had gifted you some time ago. You took it with you from your childhood home to your college dormitory to here, this shared apartment with Isack. Dog-eared, highlighted, with yellowed pages and underlined passages. 

It feels like that’s the last thing he wants left of you. He looks up from the book—your first book, your favorite, your gift—and he looks like his entire world is collapsing. “No,” he chokes out. “Don’t.” 

He lets it fall from his hands, ignoring the clatter when it hits the ground. He wants to hold you against his chest. He wants to kiss you until neither of you can breathe. He wants to lock the front door and pretend everything is as it’s always been, with you and your books and your picture-perfect smile. He wants to love you to the point of no return.

This time, he tries to approach you; he stops in his tracks when you pull back your arm and hit him with the metaphorical gut punch. “You said fighting is all you are good at,” you say, voice cracking with each word. “But you are wrong, Isack Hadjar. I think you are very good at loving me, no?” 

The sound that comes out of his chest is something painful. Something anguished and desperate and heartbroken. 

He is good at loving you. He knows that. 

He’s good at waking up early to see the way you’ve somehow tangled yourself in all the sheets in the night, good at getting you coffee just how you like it, good at kissing you when you’re still waking up. He’s so, so good at loving you. You’re right.

Isack face crumples, and before you can stop him, he’s on his knees. He’s used to this sort of thing, to being so battered that he’s keeled over and trying to remember all his mother’s old gods. But tonight, the only god he knows of is the woman that owns all of his heartstrings. 

“I’ll do anything,” he pleads, palms flat to the wood. He’s just short of clinging to your ankles like a child. “Anything to make you stay. Just please don’t leave me. Please.”

You drop your bag. “Isack,” you chide breathlessly, kneeling beside him, hands grasping at his arms. Despite it all, despite everything, you are not cruel. You could never be cruel to him, and that only makes him want to grovel his way to the countryside and back.  “Get up. En haut. Don’t do this.”

He doesn’t move an inch. 

“It doesn’t suit you,” you sob. “You’re not supposed to beg.”

“I will,” he says, voice raw. “If it means I get to keep you. If it means you don’t walk out that door. I don’t care what I look like. I don’t care if I break. Just don’t go.”

You pull at him, trying to lift him, but he stays. He sees your frustration mixing with your sadness, sees the way that old irritation bubbles at the surface. “I have told you what I wanted,” you bite out. “Quit fighting. S'il te plaît—can’t we be enough?” 

He thinks for a moment, his mind working overtime. He thinks of the fights he’s had. The ones he’s won and the ones he’s lost. He thinks of the money he’s earned, of the way it felt to go home to a full pantry and a full wallet. He thinks of the adrenaline and the blood pumping through his veins. The taste of sweat in his mouth and the sounds of the crowd roaring his name. 

He thinks of all of it. And, in the end, it takes so little time to make up his mind.

He breathes you in like incense—slow and sacred, a ritual he doesn't yet know how to unlearn. Your hands on his arms are small and warm. He can feel it in your fingertips, that you don’t want to go, that you’re still hoping. That hope burns brighter than any arena floodlight.

He lifts his head, eyes red and bleary, his breath hitching. A prayer stalling in his throat. “Okay,” he says, barely louder than a heartbeat. “Okay. I won’t fight anymore. For you.”

The words taste like iron, like surrender, like something torn from his ribs. But he means them. He has to. Because you were always the line in the sand, and he’s been foolish enough to toe it for too long. 

Your eyes widen, and he sees something flicker there. Relief, maybe, or sorrow. Perhaps both. You watch his face, and he wishes, for a moment, that he was not the type of man who had to ask for more than one chance. 

Your voice breaks open like spring frost. “I want you to stop fighting for yourself, mon amour,” you mumble. “Because you want to be alive, and whole."

Whole. 

He has never been whole, not really. Not since the first time he learned that bruises bloom faster than flowers and that applause fades faster than pain. But he sees it now—a life in your gaze, the soft promise of shared mornings and quiet rooms and laughter that doesn’t echo from a crowd but from the kitchen, from a bathtub, from a bed where no war follows him home.

It’s a life he wants. It’s a life worth fighting for. 

Isack lets out a long, shuddering breath, something between a sob and a vow. He nods, and your fingers curl into the fabric of his shirt like they’re trying to root there. He imagines the long years stretching ahead like a road with no end. No spotlights, no referees. Just Sundays and thunderstorms and the gentle noise of your life tangled with his.

He reaches up and touches your face, reverent. “We’ll be enough,” he rasps. “I’ll make sure of it. Je promets.” I promise. 

When you get up from the floor, you take him with you. He goes, because there isn’t a place in the world where he wouldn’t follow you. 

You don’t unpack your bag. You move like someone still halfway out the door, but Isack figures he deserves that. You’re here. That’s all that matters as of now. 

The bed sheets are cool and smell faintly of lavender and detergent, but it’s your weight beside him that finally makes the bed feel real again. Isack lies still for a moment, eyes tracing the ceiling like it might spell out what to do next. The silence is not heavy, just uncertain. A silence that waits. That breathes.

He shifts slowly, wincing at the sharp pull of bruised ribs, the throb in his joints like old songs with too much history. You notice. Of course you do. You always notice. And before he can say a word, you’re sitting up, turning on the soft light by the bedside.

“Let me,” you murmur.

Your hands are careful, as if every wound is a story you’ve read too many times. The salve smells like mint and eucalyptus. It stings where it meets broken skin, but Isack doesn’t flinch. Not with you. Not when your touch means kindness, means care, means love.

You smooth the balm into the bruise at his side, your thumb brushing bone. He watches you work with the quiet awe of someone witnessing a miracle in slow motion. “This is the last time,” you whisper, though it’s unclear if it’s a question or a promise.

He nods anyway. “It will be.” 

He wants to tell you how sorry he is, how many nights he’s counted the bruises instead of blessings, how long he’s been bargaining with higher powers he doesn’t believe in just to keep you within arm’s reach. But the words stay trapped somewhere behind his teeth, crowded by all the others he’s never said.

Instead, he reaches for your hand when you finish, pulling it gently to his chest. “Come to bed,” he says, voice so low it barely crests the air. “Stay. Just stay.”

You do.

You lie beside him, still careful, still guarded. But your hand remains on his heart like it’s keeping time. Isack knows what it is to count small wins. A breath that doesn’t hurt. A room that doesn’t echo. A you that hasn’t left. 

Isack watches you as your eyelids grow heavy. He wonders what it is that makes you stay, even now. When he’s all fractures and fury, stitched together by regret. When your love has bent and bent and bent beneath the weight of his choices.

He thinks maybe it’s because your love is one for the ages—the kind sung about in places where language fails, where only feeling remains. The kind that writes its own myths.

When he finally falls asleep, it’s with your warmth beside him and that thought tucked gently beneath his ribcage.

This time, he dreams of growing old.

Isack wakes before you and watches, as though still needing to convince himself that this isn’t some sweet trick of his mind. 

Even now, even here—after everything—he’s afraid to breathe too loudly, as if the quiet might break and you might vanish with it.

It’s the day before your birthday.

He remembers this like a tether around his ribs. Something tender, something tight. A date marked not just in his mind but in the marrow of him. If he were a better man, he thinks, he would have gotten it right the first time. But he’s learning that sometimes, love isn’t clean. Sometimes it looks like this: mending the tattered edges, weaving something stronger through the unraveling.

So today, he resolves to get it right.

He dresses quietly, pressing a kiss to your temple before he leaves the bed, the scent of your skin still clinging to his form. In the kitchen, the kettle whistles like a bird too eager for morning. He makes your coffee just how you like it—hot, a little sweet, with milk warmed just enough that it doesn’t scald the porcelain cup. 

He slices strawberries for your toast, arranges them like flower petals, and sprinkles just a hint of sugar over the top, the way he’s seen you do when you think no one’s watching. He hums, almost nervously, as he works. Like a husband trying to apologize without words. 

When you emerge, sleep still clinging to your lashes, he smiles. “Bonjour, mon ange,” he says gently. “Happy almost-birthday.”

You blink at him, surprised, touched—but wary, too. The stiffness hasn’t quite left your spine. But you take the coffee with both hands. You drink. And you stay.

You stay.

It is not everything, but to him, it is a cathedral.

By midday, the sun is high and the apartment smells faintly of citrus and linen. He watches you from across the room, curled into a corner of the couch with a book. The light catches in your hair, turns you to something out of a painting. There’s something unbearably quiet about the moment, something fragile. He knows he has to go—just for a bit. It feels like leaving something precious unattended. Like placing a dream on a windowsill and hoping the wind won’t take it.

“I’ll be back soon,” he calls out to you, slipping on his coat. “Promise.”

You look up, eyes sharp with something that feels like mistrust. A wound reopened. A question you don’t ask. He sees it all in the way you hold your breath.

He falters. Just for a second. “It’s nothing bad,” he adds, trying to smile. 

“Take care,” you mumble, fingers tightening around your book. Wondering, no doubt, if he will come home tonight. 

Your silence follows Isack down the stairwell, heavy as iron. He wants so badly to do right by you. 

The little shop off Rue de la Liberté smells of polished wood and velvet and time. Dust motes float through a beam of light like memory. He picks the locket quickly—no hesitation, no doubt. He’s seen you glance at it in the window more times than you think. 

He runs his thumb over the etching on the front before passing it over the counter. He pays with the cash from his last fight and the rest of what Ollie pressed into his palm with a look that said, don’t make me regret this. Isack won’t. Isack can’t.

After, he stops at Monsieur Yuki’s bakery. The bell over the door chimes. The shop is warm, full of sugar and soft-spoken music. The scent of caramelized butter hits him like childhood. Yuki, dusting flour from his apron, raises an eyebrow when Isack walks in.

“You’re early,” the older man greets, eyes twinkling.

“I want the chocolate gâteau, s’il te plaît,” Isack says.

“A slice?”

“No,” he replies, a little breathless. “The whole thing.”

Yuki smiles, then, a little amused. “Someone is trying to make up for something.”

Isack just nods, hands him the money. The box is heavy with promise.

While he waits, he sits at the counter and watches a little girl press her face to the pastry display. Her mother gently pulls her back and offers her a pink-frosted éclair. There’s a softness in the air, a stillness that feels like maybe the world will give him a second chance.

When the cake is ready, it’s carefully boxed and tied with a satin ribbon the color of early dusk. Yuki even gives Isack pretty matching candles for it.

As he walks home, Isack looks up at the sky. A little too blue, a little too bright. He hugs the cake box to his chest and tries not to imagine your eyes still unsure, still waiting. He hopes—hopes that when he returns, when he lays the locket in your palm and the cake on the table, when he kisses your wrist and says, je t’aime, je t’aime, je t’aime—you’ll believe he means forever this time.

Here’s the thing: Forgiveness does not arrive like thunder. 

It comes in gentle footsteps, in breaths and half-laughter and borrowed time. It slips in through the cracks of the day, through the pauses in conversation, through two people begin to trust the quiet again.

That evening, the apartment is hushed in the way homes get when two people are trying very hard to be gentle with each other. Every movement feels intentional. Cautious but not cold. The fridge hums in the corner like a third presence, bearing witness. The silence isn’t sharp anymore. It has softened into something almost warm.

You catch Isack glancing at the cupboard above the fridge for the third time in as many minutes, and a small, knowing smile tugs at your lips. He’s terrible at hiding things. You’ve known this for years; he has the subtlety of a street performer and the patience of a child waiting for dessert. Still, he tries. And still, you catch him.

“What’s in there?” you ask, leaning against the counter, your tone light but your gaze unwavering.

“Rice,” he says too quickly, voice going up a note like it always does when he’s bluffing.

You raise an eyebrow, not even bothering to press. He fidgets.

“Okay. Maybe something,” he concedes, the corners of his mouth twitching into a sheepish grin. “But you’ll see later.”

You shake your head, pretending exasperation, but the laughter escapes before you can swallow it. That sound—your giggle—makes something inside him settle. 

His phone buzzes with calls; he rejects them all. Today, there are only two people in the world. You and him. He will prove that. 

Later, the two of you curl together on the couch, a tangle of limbs beneath a blanket still faintly warm from the dryer. A single lamp casts golden light onto the floorboards and your open book, though you’ve been stuck on the same paragraph for ten minutes. He’s pretending not to count the minutes. You’re pretending not to notice how he keeps checking the time on his phone.

You glance at the clock. “Five to.”

He feigns innocence, lounging dramatically. “Five to what?”

You nudge his knee with yours, barely containing your smile. He returns it, all crooked teeth and fluttering nerves. He still can’t believe he’s allowed to have this moment, this version of you—soft, teasing, here.

When midnight strikes, he rises so quickly the blanket falls from his lap. “Stay here,” he says, voice urgent but smiling, and he disappears into the kitchen. You hear him moving around. The rustle of tissue paper, the clink of ceramic, the opening of a drawer. Then, the soft scrape of a match, the tiny hiss of flame. The warm glow precedes him.

He returns cradling the cake. Eight slender candles flicker atop it, their flames trembling as he walks. The light catches in his eyes and softens every edge of him. For a second, you see him as he once was. Before the fights, before the fractures. The boy you met all those years ago, and the man you’re still trying, bit by bit, to understand and forgive.

He starts to sing. A party of one; a tune that has carried you both through your childhood and teenage years. 

Joyeux anniversaire. Joyeux anniversaire, mon ange. 

Isack kneels beside you, one knee pressing into the carpet, and holds the plate steady with both hands. “Make a wish,” he says, barely above a whisper.

You do. You close your eyes, draw in a breath that carries every weight and every hope you have for the two of you. For the life that awaits. And when you blow, the flames vanish in one breath. The room is hushed in the light’s absence.

You don’t tell him what you wished for. But when you open your eyes and look at him—really look—he knows. Because in the quiet aftermath, your gaze says everything.

He lets you have the first forkful of cake. You’re so damn happy about it, so lit up by the sweet thing that’s such a rarity in this household, that Isack can’t help himself. He leans in carefully, brushing his lips against yours like a question. You taste of sugar and strawberries and the promise of trying again. Something sweeter still—hope, maybe. Or redemption. You kiss him back, softer than he expects, and the cake is forgotten for a moment.

The second kiss is longer. The third, slower still. The fourth is just a smile shared between breaths.

Eventually, the two of you turn back to the gâteau, cutting it into generous slices, your fingers brushing as you pass the plates. You eat quietly at first, but soon, you’re laughing again. About the crooked candles, about Isack nearly dropping the lighter into the icing, about the frosting smudged on the tip of your nose that he kisses away without a word.

In the quiet that follows, the two of you sit shoulder to shoulder, licking forks and murmuring half-thoughts about birthdays past and years ahead. He tells you about the time he accidentally set fire to a paper crown as a child. You tell him about the birthday your father forgot. 

Nothing is fully healed. Nothing is perfect. But the night is kind. And that kindness, you both learn, is a kind of balm.

He watches you as you lean your head on his shoulder, your eyes fluttering closed, the slow cadence of your breath syncing with his own. You are still here. You are trying. That is what matters.

Isack moves quietly through the apartment, barefoot, careful not to wake you just yet. You’re already up, but he still moves as though the day shouldn’t begin until you say so.

You’re humming in the bathroom, half in and half out of the shower, hair tied up in a hasty bun. Steam curls from the open door like the breath of a sleepy dragon, warm and fragrant with soap and your shampoo. Jasmine, he thinks. 

You’re wearing the locket. He notices it before he hears you call out.

“I’m not taking it off,” you say from behind the half-drawn curtain. “It can survive the water.”

He walks in slowly, arms crossed, leaning against the doorframe. You’re peeking out, defiant and glowing, droplets clinging to your shoulders like beads of light. “Mon coeur,” he says, gentle but firm, “please. Not even a day old and you want to drown it.”

You pout. “You’re ruining my rebellion. I want to wear it all the time.”

“I’ll give you something else to rebel against,” he murmurs, stepping closer, pressing a kiss to your wet temple.

You sigh, dramatic, but eventually unclasp it and hand it over like a truce. He takes it carefully, cradling it in his palms like it might melt. The chain is warm from your skin, the metal catching the light like something divine. 

He wanders off to the living room and, absentmindedly, opens the locket with a soft click. Inside, the picture—a grainy, haphazardly cut photo of the two of you, taken with a timer on his phone ages ago—is already a little crooked.

You’d slipped it in without telling him. That knowledge unravels him a bit.

The photo is small, but it holds so much. His arm slung over your shoulder, your smile slightly smudged by movement, his own expression caught mid-laugh. A moment suspended in amber. Proof, perhaps, that even he can be happy.

There’s a knock on the door. 

“Must be Charles,” you call out from the bathroom, your voice muffled by the running shower. “Mon amour, could you—” 

“I’m on it!”

Isack brushes a thumb across the locket before setting it carefully on the coffee table. He heads for the front door, still half in the dream of the morning—of Dieppe, of salted wind and the way your hair will tangle in the breeze, of sand and shared towels and sun-warmed skin. The beachside town you had wanted to go to, now within reach.

Your neighbor, Charles, was always so kind to lend his car to Isack whenever the two of you needed it, as long as the vehicle was returned unscathed and with a full tank of gas. 

But when Isack opens the front door, it isn’t Charles with the car keys.

It’s Christian.

The man’s silhouette cuts a sharp line against the hallway light. He’s wearing that coat that smells faintly of expensive cologne and second chances. His eyes scan Isack like a dossier.

“You haven’t been answering my calls, Hadjar.”

Just like that, the salt in the air is gone. The morning folds inward.

Isack stands there, still barefoot, the scent of jasmine trailing behind him, the locket he had bled for sitting only a few feet away. 

The distance between who he is and who he might become suddenly feels ocean-wide. ⛐

[wolfbluebird]

The Tape we Erased

Natasha Romanoff x Female!Reader

(The Making of the Tape)

Summary: After a drunken night neither of them remembers, you and Natasha wake up in bed together — naked, marked, and silent. Best friends. Supposedly straight. You agree never to talk about it. But the footage doesn’t lie. What started as a mistake slowly unravels everything you thought you knew about your feelings for her — and hers for you. Avoidance turns to longing, silence turns to ache, until one quiet confession finally breaks the tension. This time, you’re awake for it. And this time, it’s not a mistake.

Word Count: 5.8k

Warnings: brief angst, avoidance/miscommunication, internalised confusion about sexuality, mentions of weight loss, mild deceptions of emotional withdrawal, first time wlw (r)

(WLW content- Men and minors Dni)

You wake up to a familiar scent—lavender and leather, something sharper underneath. And not your own shampoo. Which is weird, because this is not your pillow. Not your room. And definitely not your bed. You blink into the soft cotton, blinking away the crust of sleep, the throb of a hangover pounding at the inside of your skull like it’s trying to get out. Something’s wrong. Not oh-I-drank-too-much wrong. Not where’s-my-phone wrong. Something more serious.

Because you’re naked.

Fully, absolutely, no-socks-even naked.

And this is Natasha Romanoff’s room.

You sit up slowly. Very slowly. Like the world will tip over if you move too fast. The sheet slides off your bare shoulders and—yep. There they are.

Marks.

Everywhere.

Your collarbone. Your chest. Down your arms. Even lower. You don’t look too long, but your inner thigh looks like someone made out with it like it owed them rent.

You stare at nothing for a long moment.

Then say, very quietly: “…fuck.”

The door to the en-suite creaks open and Natasha walks out in a towel, hair wet, face flushed from steam, skin glowing like she’s walked off a runway and not, presumably, done unspeakable things to you while you were blackout drunk. You don’t know what expression you expected her to have—maybe smugness, maybe regret. But the way her eyes widen when she sees you says everything.

She doesn’t remember either.

“Shit,” she mutters.

You echo it, because there’s nothing else to say.

✯¸.•´*¨`*•✿ ✿•*`¨*`•.¸✯

You end up in the kitchen twenty minutes later, both in your worst loungewear like you’ve regressed to hungover uni students. You avoid looking at each other. She cooks eggs. You make the toast, which you promptly burn, because your hands are still shaking. Coffee helps. A little. But there’s still this massive, smothering tension in the air.

And you’re still so naked under this hoodie.

“So,” Natasha finally says, chewing like the eggs offend her. “How drunk were we?”

You poke at your plate. “Drunk enough that I remember literally nothing. Like… not even vibes. Just darkness. Brain gone.”

She makes a noise. Not quite agreement. Not quite relief. You steal a look at her, try to gauge if she’s freaking out as badly as you are. She’s got that blank expression on, the one she uses in briefings and fights and when people get too close. You’re best friends—you know her tells. You know she’s quietly imploding.

Your mouth moves before you can stop it. “I mean, judging by these—” You pull the collar of your sweatshirt down slightly to show her the edge of a very angry-looking hickey. “—I think at least one of us had a hell of a time.”

Her face goes scarlet. “Please never say that again.”

“I’m just saying,” you mutter, laughing weakly, because humour is your default defence mechanism when your reality starts cracking like old paint. “Someone was enthusiastic. I have a bite mark on my ass. My ass, Nat.”

She makes a strangled sound like she’s swallowing a laugh and a scream at once.

Then the thought hits you, and it lands like a rock in your chest.

You look up. “Wait… doesn’t the common room have cameras?”

She freezes. Doesn’t answer.

“Oh my god,” you say. “It does. You’ve said it before—Tony has them everywhere. Even here. Are you telling me there’s a recording of us—?”

“Absolutely not,” she says, eyes wide. “We’re not doing this.”

“Come on,” you say, already reaching for your phone. “Aren’t you just a little curious?”

“No. I want it to stay a mystery. Like a blackout horror movie.”

“Natasha.”

She closes her eyes like she’s trying to will you out of existence. “Fine. One look. Then it gets deleted. Forever.”

You nod, trying to hide your grin. You’re totally chill. Completely unaffected. Just curious. Because you’re straight. Obviously.

✯¸.•´*¨`*•✿ ✿•*`¨*`•.¸✯

You sit beside her on the couch, legs pulled under you, blanket around both your laps like that will protect your friendship from the trainwreck about to happen. The screen flickers on.

“JARVIS,” you say, too casually, “can you pull footage from last night’s common room? Starting around… 9 p.m.?”

“Confirmed,” the AI responds. “Shall I begin playback?”

“No,” Natasha says immediately.

“Yes,” you say over her.

She sighs like she’s aged five years.

And then it begins.

✯¸.•´*¨`*•✿ ✿•*`¨*`•.¸✯

It starts tame. You and Natasha sitting on the couch, drinks in hand. Laughing. Loud. Leaning into each other. You’re close. Too close. You remember this part, maybe. Sort of. The way her hand brushed yours. The way you nudged her shoulder. The way she was already a little too comfortable curling her legs into your lap.

Then you start touching. Hair. Knees. Her hand slides up your thigh and you don’t push it away.

Then your shirt’s gone.

Then hers.

Then she’s on top of you. You’re in her lap. Your mouth is on her neck. She’s laughing, breathless, flushed. Your hands are under the waistband of her sweats. Her hips roll up. You hear a moan and only realise it’s you when Natasha makes a noise next to you on the couch.

You pause the video.

Silence.

You turn to her very slowly. “We made a sex tape.”

“This is not a sex tape,” she says through gritted teeth.

“This is a CCTV sex tape in Tony Stark’s common room,” you whisper. “That is worse. That is so much worse.”

You stare at yourself on the frozen screen. Sweaty. Shirtless. Looking like you want to devour your best friend.

You’ve never slept with a woman in your life. Never wanted to. You’ve said that. Repeatedly. With confidence. With certainty.

So why does your stomach flip like that?

Why are you still kind of dizzy from the sight of her mouth against your throat, her hands on your hips, the sounds you were making—

“JARVIS,” Natasha croaks, “delete all footage from 9 p.m. to 2 a.m., yesterday. Immediately.”

“Footage deleted,” JARVIS confirms.

You exhale. Collapse into the cushions like your bones have turned to liquid. You feel nauseous. You feel high. You feel like you’re falling backwards into something very large and very dangerous.

“We can’t ever talk about this,” you say.

“Agreed.”

“Like, ever. Not even in passing. Not even jokingly.”

“Especially not jokingly,” she says.

There’s a pause.

And then you both start laughing.

It’s too much. It’s hysterical. The kind of laughter that comes right before a full-blown panic attack. You double over, face in your hands, wheezing. Natasha’s shaking beside you, shoulders hunched, hands over her eyes.

“I bit you,” she gasps. “Why would I do that?”

“I moaned,” you groan. “Like, actual softcore levels of moaning.”

“You straddled me in pyjamas.”

“You pulled my hair!”

“You liked it!”

“Stop!”

More laughter. Collapsing into each other, gripping your sides.

And then, slowly, breath returning, the laughter fades.

✯¸.•´*¨`*•✿ ✿•*`¨*`•.¸✯

You stare at the blank TV screen. Something silent settles in the room. Not awkward. Just… delicate.

You break it first. “We’re best friends, right?”

“Yeah.”

“And we’re gonna keep being best friends?”

“Of course.”

“So that was… an accident.”

“Drunk mistake.”

“Cool. Cool cool cool.”

You nod. Like if you say it enough, it’ll become true. Like it’s not still sitting under your skin, all heat and confusion and maybe a little bit of longing.

“Pinky swear,” you say, offering your finger.

Natasha stares at it like it’s a grenade.

Then, with a sigh, she loops her pinky through yours.

“Deadly secrecy,” she says.

“Bury-it-under-a-shallow-grave secrecy.”

You both nod.

It’s a pact.

It has to be.

✯¸.•´*¨`*•✿ ✿•*`¨*`•.¸✯

Later, Bucky sees you limping slightly down the hall and raises an eyebrow.

“Yoga injury,” Natasha says smoothly, passing him.

You nod too hard. “Yep. Definitely yoga. Bad downward dog.”

Bucky shrugs and keeps walking.

Natasha smirks.

You glare at her.

✯¸.•´*¨`*•✿ ✿•*`¨*`•.¸✯

You never talk about it again.

Not once.

But sometimes, she’ll glance at you in the middle of a movie night, and you’ll see her eyes flicker down to your neck. Like she’s remembering. Like she’s not supposed to.

And sometimes you still hear the echo of her voice in your ear, that slurred Russian endearment you didn’t even realise you knew.

You’re still straight. Obviously. Totally. Mostly. Probably.

You don’t talk about it.

You don’t even think about it.

Except when you do.

✯¸.•´*¨`*•✿ ✿•*`¨*`•.¸✯

Natasha’s good at burying things. Lives, missions, guilt. Feelings.

She tells herself she’s buried this, too.

Except she hasn’t.

Because it keeps coming back in flashes. Not even the good parts. Not the sex. Just the look on your face when you paused the footage—laughing, half-horrified, half-gleeful. You looked at her like you’d won something. Like you’d stolen a secret. And maybe you had.

Maybe you’d stolen her.

She can’t stop thinking about the way you touched her. Not even the memory of the touches—just the look in your eyes on the screen. Like you were starving. Like you meant it.

That’s what haunts her.

Because Natasha has always been attracted to women. She’s known it since she was twelve. She’s dated them. Slept with them. Loved one or two, even if she never said the words. But she never let herself think of you that way—not seriously—because you were you.

Straight. Untouchable. A little reckless, a little clueless, always warm, always there.

You flirted with everyone, but it was always harmless. Always safe.

She thought.

And now she can’t stop thinking about the way you said ours. “Our sex tape.” Like it was a thing you’d made together. Like it mattered.

You said you were straight. Again and again. Drunk, sober, laughing over dinner. “Not my thing,” you’d say when she teased you about some actress, brushing it off like it wasn’t even a question.

And yet.

And yet.

Natasha wakes up three nights in a row thinking she feels your mouth on her throat. Her hips jerking against phantom fingers. Your voice in her ear, slurred and aching: God, you feel so good, Nat.

She’s not imagining that.

She knows she’s not.

But she can’t say anything. Because you’re still doing the thing—playing it off, being casual, being you. Still laughing about it when it comes up in the smallest ways. You elbow her at breakfast when someone on the news says the word “tape” and go, “Not ours, though.”

And she laughs. She does. She laughs because that’s what she’s supposed to do.

But she thinks about the way your hips rolled down onto hers like you’d done it a thousand times before. Like it wasn’t the first time. Like it wouldn’t be the last.

And then she starts wondering—was it? Was it your first time?

You said you were straight. But you didn’t act like it. Not that night. Not with her.

Maybe that’s what’s ruining her.

✯¸.•´*¨`*•✿ ✿•*`¨*`•.¸✯

She tries.

She really tries to forget.

She throws herself into sparring. Takes extra missions. Works through lunch. Avoids the common room unless it’s empty. Watches you from corners and shadows like you’re a threat she hasn’t decided how to neutralise.

You’re not even doing anything. That’s what makes it worse.

You’re just… being you.

Messy hair, too-loud laugh, feet on the furniture, casual as ever. You joke. You poke. You steal fries from her plate. You fall asleep with your head on her shoulder during movie nights like nothing happened.

Like your teeth were never in her shoulder.

Like you didn’t whimper her name against her throat.

Like you didn’t grab her face with both hands and kiss her like she was air.

She’s drowning in it.

And you don’t even seem to know.

✯¸.•´*¨`*•✿ ✿•*`¨*`•.¸✯

It finally cracks on a night when the compound is quiet and the hallway smells like rain.

You find her in the gym, well past midnight, hitting the bag like it owes her something.

You watch her for a while before saying anything.

“You’re mad at me.”

She doesn’t stop. Doesn’t turn. “No, I’m not.”

You walk in anyway. Drop your bag by the wall. “You’ve been weird.”

She keeps punching. Keeps not looking at you.

You fold your arms. “Is this about that night?”

Nothing.

“Because you’re acting like I killed your dog.”

That gets her. She snorts, stops, breathes heavy. Lets the bag sway.

You step closer. “I get it. It was a mistake. You don’t have to keep punishing me like I ruined your life.”

She turns slowly. Wipes sweat from her brow. Her eyes are dark. Dangerous.

“You didn’t ruin my life.”

“Could’ve fooled me.”

There’s silence. Long. Tight.

Then she says, low and rough, “You kissed me first.”

You blink. “What?”

“That night. You kissed me first. I watched the tape.”

“I—” you falter, “I don’t remember doing that.”

“Well, you did.”

She steps toward you, slow and deliberate.

“You kissed me first. And then you said my name like it was the only word you knew. And then you looked at me like you wanted me.”

“I was drunk.”

“You were you,” she says sharply. “You were you, and you knew what you were doing.”

You back up a step. Not from fear. From the weight of it.

“I didn’t mean to—”

“To what?”

You bite your lip. “I’m not… I don’t do that.”

“You did.”

“Yeah, but I’m not—”

“Not what?” she demands. “Not gay? Not into girls? Not into me?”

Your mouth opens. Closes. Nothing comes out.

She softens then. Just slightly.

“It’s not about labels,” she says quietly. “I don’t care what box you think you fit in. I just know how you made me feel. And I don’t want to pretend it didn’t happen anymore.”

You swallow. “Why now?”

She looks away. Her voice goes smaller. “Because I can’t stop thinking about you. And I’m tired of pretending it didn’t mean something.”

You stare at her.

And it hits you all at once—how close she is. How wrecked she looks. How scared.

Not of you. Of what she’s saying. Of being wrong.

You could lie.

You could say it didn’t mean anything. That you were drunk and stupid and it was a blip, a hiccup in time.

You could say you’re straight and you always will be.

But the lie sticks in your throat.

Because your body remembers.

You remember the feel of her hands gripping your thighs, her mouth dragging open-mouthed kisses across your chest, the low growl she made when you pulled her hair.

You remember thinking, mid-kiss, God, this is Nat. This is my Nat.

And it didn’t feel wrong.

It felt like falling.

So you don’t lie. But you don’t confess, either.

You just say, “I don’t know what I’m doing.”

And Natasha exhales. Not relief. Just… release.

“Me neither,” she murmurs. “But I’m still here.”

She steps back. Gives you space. Doesn’t push.

“I won’t bring it up again,” she says. “But I had to say it. Just once.”

You nod. Almost imperceptibly.

And she leaves the gym, sweat-soaked and silent, like she just handed you her heart in a body bag.

✯¸.•´*¨`*•✿ ✿•*`¨*`•.¸✯

Two weeks.

Not a word. Not a glance. Not even a pity-like on your stupid sarcastic meme in the group chat.

Natasha Romanoff, former best friend and maker of your “not-a-sex-tape,” has gone dark on you. You know she’s still in the compound—JARVIS told you when you asked if she was on mission. But it’s like she’s erased herself from your orbit.

You’re not sure if you’re supposed to be mad. Hurt. Guilty. Relieved.

You just feel hollow.

You try to tell yourself it doesn’t matter. You weren’t together. You never were. You were friends, drunk, confused—nothing more. You’ve had meaningless flings. You’ve had blurred lines before. But this is Natasha.

You’ve never had silence with Natasha.

You think maybe that’s what’s killing you.

✯¸.•´*¨`*•✿ ✿•*`¨*`•.¸✯

The final straw comes on a Sunday.

You pass her in the corridor.

Or rather—you don’t.

You hear her voice at the end of the hall, laughter in it, soft and easy. You freeze. You wait. You hope she’ll see you. Say your name. Even scowl. Something.

But she doesn’t.

She turns the corner, laughing with Sam, eyes shining, and never even looks your way.

And something in you shatters so quietly it doesn’t even echo.

✯¸.•´*¨`*•✿ ✿•*`¨*`•.¸✯

You don’t go to Wanda right away.

You sit on it. Let it curdle. Try to swallow it down like spoiled milk and pretend it’s still edible.

It takes you three days.

And then you knock on her door like a ghost.

She opens it barefoot, wearing an oversized hoodie and leggings, hair messy, no makeup—so soft and real it makes your throat ache.

“Hey,” she says, gentle as wind. “You okay?”

You don’t answer. Just step in and sit on the edge of her bed like your body is moving without permission.

She doesn’t push. Just closes the door and sits cross-legged across from you, waiting.

And you break.

“I think I fucked everything up.”

Her expression doesn’t change. “Tell me.”

So you do.

You tell her about the night. The drunkenness. The tape. The moaning, the biting, the laughing, the pretending.

You tell her about the fight. The hallway. The way Natasha said “You kissed me first” like it meant something.

You don’t cry. But your voice wobbles.

“I told her I didn’t know what I was doing. And I meant it. I still mean it. But she’s been avoiding me ever since, and I feel like—like I’ve lost her. And the worst part is, I don’t know if I’m more upset because I lost my best friend… or because I think I wanted more.”

Wanda doesn’t speak. She lets you fill the silence.

And you do.

“I always said I was straight. I believed it. Still kind of do. Or did, I guess. But that night…” You laugh—shaky and bitter. “That night didn’t feel like a mistake. And not just because the sex was good, which it was, obviously, I mean it’s Natasha—but because it was her. And it felt like—”

You pause.

Wanda’s voice is quiet. “Like something that was waiting to happen.”

Your eyes snap up. “Yes.”

She nods. “And now she’s gone.”

You nod back, helpless. “And I don’t know what I’m supposed to do with this feeling. I keep thinking maybe I made it up. Maybe I wanted something she didn’t. Or maybe she wanted something I couldn’t give.”

“She wanted you,” Wanda says gently. “I saw it. I’ve felt it. For a long time.”

Your stomach twists. “Then why is she avoiding me?”

Wanda’s eyes are sympathetic. “Because you said you didn’t know what you were doing. Because you never told her if you regretted it. Because she’s scared she misread you.”

You shake your head. “That’s not fair. I didn’t know. I still don’t know. It’s not like I woke up the next day suddenly into women. It’s not that simple.”

“I know,” Wanda says. “But hearts aren’t logical. And Natasha… she doesn’t risk them often. You’re not just someone to her.”

You flinch. “Then why won’t she talk to me?”

Wanda gives a small, sad smile. “Because she thinks talking to you might hurt more than silence.”

You let that sit. Heavy. Dense.

“She looked at me like I mattered,” you whisper. “Like I was hers.”

“You are,” Wanda says.

You shake your head. “I’m not ready.”

“You don’t have to be. But you do need to tell her you’re still there. Even if it’s messy. Even if it’s nothing more than that.”

You nod slowly.

Feeling unprepared and even more confused than before.

✯¸.•´*¨`*•✿ ✿•*`¨*`•.¸✯

It’s been a week since you told Wanda.

You haven’t really left your room since.

Not in any meaningful way, anyway. You go out once a day, at most, grab something from the kitchen that barely qualifies as a meal, then disappear before anyone can talk to you. Sometimes you reheat leftovers and let them go cold in your hands. Other times you just stand at the counter until your chest starts to ache, then walk away. The others have stopped trying to stop you. You suppose they think you’re busy. Or brooding. Or just being you.

You’re not.

You’re… stuck.

Wrapped in a knot of thoughts you can’t undo, spiralling slowly inward.

You’ve never been good at sitting still with feelings, and now they’re the only thing left in the room.

✯¸.•´*¨`*•✿ ✿•*`¨*`•.¸✯

You keep trying to rationalise it, make it make sense.

You and Natasha were always close. You’ve shared beds after missions. You’ve fallen asleep with your head in her lap more than once. She used to let you paint her nails while she complained about Clint. You used to steal her hoodies, and she used to steal your fries.

It was always touchy. Soft. Familiar.

Comfortable.

It was never supposed to hurt.

But now it does. It hurts every time she walks into a room and doesn’t look at you. Hurts every time you hear her voice down the hall and your chest clenches like it’s trying to keep itself from saying her name.

Hurts to realise you can’t un-know what she tastes like. Or what she sounds like with your name in her mouth like a secret.

You thought it was platonic.

You wanted to think it was platonic.

But you keep dreaming about her.

Keep waking up flushed and guilty and alone.

And that doesn’t feel very friendly.

✯¸.•´*¨`*•✿ ✿•*`¨*`•.¸✯

You haven’t messaged her.

She hasn’t messaged you.

She hasn’t been in the same room as you since that morning in the kitchen—since you both laughed awkwardly about your accidental sex tape and agreed, without saying it directly, to pretend it never happened.

You don’t think she meant to cut you out of her life.

But she has.

She’s been avoiding you so obviously it’s almost funny.

You catch glimpses of her sometimes, in passing—leaving the gym as you walk toward it, stepping into the elevator just before you round the corner. A shadow of her in every doorway you’re too slow to reach.

But she’s not ignoring you.

Not really.

Because she’s still looking.

✯¸.•´*¨`*•✿ ✿•*`¨*`•.¸✯

You notice it in the little things. You left a mug in the kitchen—one you always use, the chipped ceramic one with the whale tail handle—and the next day it was washed and back in your cupboard. You’re the only one who ever bothers to clean up after you. No one else would’ve cared.

A few days ago, you passed Steve in the hall. He gave you that tight-lipped smile of his and said, “Natasha mentioned you’ve been keeping to yourself. You alright?”

You shrugged.

He didn’t press.

You think she’s been asking around.

You think she’s been trying to spot you without seeing you.

It should make you feel better.

It doesn’t.

✯¸.•´*¨`*•✿ ✿•*`¨*`•.¸✯

You spend hours sitting on the floor of your room with your back to the bed, your knees pulled up and a hoodie wrapped around you like armour. It’s hers—dark grey, oversized, still faintly scented like something warm. She gave it to you two years ago after a mission in the Alps, when you’d taken a fall through thin ice and come out shaking and soaked to the bone. She tossed it over your head like it meant nothing, said, “Don’t freeze to death before debrief, dumbass.”

You never gave it back.

You told yourself you liked the way it fit. That was all.

Now, it feels like the only thing keeping you from falling apart.

✯¸.•´*¨`*•✿ ✿•*`¨*`•.¸✯

You’re not sleeping much. Or at all.

The thoughts won’t shut up long enough to let you rest. You cycle through the same ones on repeat, trying to make them mean something. Trying to figure out when exactly things changed.

Was it in Prague, when she kissed your forehead after a night op?

Was it in that bar in Berlin, when she danced with you like you were the only one in the room?

Was it on movie nights, when she always pulled you into her side before the opening credits even rolled?

Or had it always been like this?

Had you just been too afraid to look at it straight on?

✯¸.•´*¨`*•✿ ✿•*`¨*`•.¸✯

The worst thing is you still want her here.

Even now, even after everything, you miss her.

You miss her laugh. You miss the way she teases you, always two steps ahead. You miss the way she used to throw popcorn at you during bad horror movies and tell you to shut up when you overanalysed the plot.

You miss your best friend.

But now you’re not sure if that’s all she was.

You don’t know what she is to you anymore.

You don’t know what you are to her.

And that unknowing—that—is what’s undoing you.

✯¸.•´*¨`*•✿ ✿•*`¨*`•.¸✯

The knock comes just after eight.

You’re sitting in the dark again, curled up on your bed with your back to the door, wearing her hoodie like a second skin and cradling a half-finished mug of lukewarm tea. You haven’t spoken to anyone in days.

The knock is soft.

Hesitant.

You freeze.

A second passes.

Then another.

Then a voice, low and uncertain: “It’s me.”

Your heart stumbles.

You don’t move. Don’t speak.

You think maybe if you’re quiet enough, she’ll go away. You’re not sure you can handle this. You’re not sure you can breathe with her in the room.

But the knock comes again.

“Please.”

When you open the door, the light from the hallway stings your eyes.

Natasha stands there in a faded tank top and joggers, barefoot, arms crossed tightly over her chest like she regrets this already. Her hair’s up in a messy twist, her jaw tight. But her eyes—they soften the second they land on you.

You know what she sees.

The tear-burns drying at the corners of your eyes. The sleeves of her jumper pulled down over your fists like you’re hiding in it.

You don’t say anything.

Neither does she.

She just stares for a moment, taking you in, like she wasn’t expecting you to look like this.

Like it hurts her to see it.

Then, quietly: “Can I come in?”

You nod without meaning to.

She follows you inside like she’s holding her breath.

You sit down on the edge of your bed, legs folding under you automatically, and she hesitates before lowering herself beside you—close, but not close enough to touch. She doesn’t look at you. Her hands rest between her knees. Her body is angled slightly away, like she doesn’t know if she’s welcome here.

You want to touch her so badly it aches.

You want to pull her close and feel her settle into your side like she used to. You want to bury your face in her neck and inhale the comfort you’ve been missing for weeks.

But you don’t move.

And neither does she.

“I’ve been worried about you.”

It’s quiet. Careful.

You nod again, eyes fixed on your knees. “I’ve been fine.”

You haven’t.

She doesn’t push. Just hums, soft and non-judgmental.

“I was going to check on you sooner,” she says, fingers playing with the hem of her shirt. “I kept meaning to.”

You wait for her to say but I didn’t. She doesn’t. She doesn’t have to.

You look at her from the corner of your eye. The low light of your bedroom makes her look smaller than usual. Her posture’s curled in on itself, defensive. Or maybe nervous.

Natasha Romanoff. Nervous.

It would be laughable if it weren’t so fragile.

“What changed?” you ask quietly. “Why now?”

She shrugs, like the answer is obvious. “I didn’t see you all week.”

“You’ve been avoiding me.”

“I know.”

And that’s it. Just that. I know.

She doesn’t excuse it. Doesn’t explain. Just owns it.

You almost wish she’d lie about it.

You don’t want to believe she had to choose to look for you.

You want her to have missed you.

You want her to—

“I missed you.”

You blink.

She’s looking at you now. She says it like it’s nothing.

Like it’s just a fact.

“I missed you,” she repeats. “Every day.”

You say nothing.

Your chest is filling with something you can’t name, something trembling and sharp at the edges. Something that wants to burst free.

✯¸.•´*¨`*•✿ ✿•*`¨*`•.¸✯

“I kept thinking about that night,” she says, voice softer now. “Trying to make sense of it. Wondering if I should’ve stopped us.”

You glance at her. Her brows are drawn in like she’s been stuck in this thought for days.

“I wasn’t that drunk,” she murmurs. “And neither were you.”

You feel your throat close a little.

“I think—” She breaks off. Sighs. “I think I wanted to believe we were more gone than we were. So I could tell myself it didn’t mean anything.”

The ache in your chest flares.

“And it did,” you whisper.

She nods.

You stare at her, stunned at the honesty in her face. No mask. No joke. Just… her.

She’s laying the pieces out for you.

All you have to do is say it.

“I’m in love with you.”

It comes out raw. Desperate. You didn’t mean to say it like that, like your ribs were cracking under the weight of it.

But maybe that’s the only way it could’ve come out.

Natasha freezes.

You stare down at your hands in your lap, blinking back heat in your eyes. You wish you’d eased into it. Said it pretty. Said it soft. You wish—

Her hand brushes yours. Then finds it. Her fingers curl around yours like they belong there. Your heart stutters. You look up. And she’s already leaning in.

The kiss is gentle. Quiet. Full of hesitation and history.

Her lips find yours like they’ve done it before—like they remember you.

There’s no firestorm this time. No drunken frenzy. No bite, no grab, no frantic unzipping of clothes. Just lips and hands and a slow ache in your chest that says home.

Her hand cups your jaw and your eyes flutter shut. You melt into her without a second thought, without even a choice. Your breath catches. Your fingers tighten around hers.

And it feels… right. Uncomplicated. Like this has always been waiting.

When you part, she keeps her forehead pressed to yours. Her breath warms your cheek.

“I knew,” she murmurs.

You frown faintly. “What?”

“I knew. Not that night. Before.” She breathes out a little laugh, short and self-deprecating. “I think I always knew.”

You want to ask why she never said anything. But you already know. The same reason you didn’t. You thought it was platonic. You wanted it to be platonic. Because that would’ve been easier. Because this? This changes everything. And somehow, it feels like you’ve never been more okay with that.

She kisses you again.

But it’s not gentle, not this time.

There’s something desperate in it, something deeper — not rough, but urgent. Like she’s only just allowed herself to want this, and now she’s starved.

You respond without thinking.

Her mouth moves against yours with more meaning, more ache, and when her hands find your waist, your ribs, the side of your neck — you let her. You open to her like it’s instinct, like your body remembers her even if your memory pretended to forget.

Clothes come off slowly.

Not in a frantic way, not like last time. You take your time now. Eyes on each other. Lingering touches. Bare skin unveiled like something sacred. Her fingers trail your spine. Your breath catches. She whispers your name like it’s a confession, and when you tilt your head back and exhale, her mouth finds the hollow of your throat like it belongs there.

You melt for her. You burn.

Your bedsheets get ruffled. Pillows shoved out of the way. Her hands never leave your skin, not for a second. You’re not drunk this time — you feel every press, every kiss, every moment with aching clarity.

You give yourself to her like it’s the first time.

Because it is.

This time, you’re awake for it.

✯¸.•´*¨`*•✿ ✿•*`¨*`•.¸✯

You sleep tangled up in each other. Her arms around your waist. Your head buried in her collarbone. Her heartbeat against your ear, steady and human and soft.

There’s no shame. No dread in your gut. No fear of what tomorrow will mean.

You don’t stay up all night replaying the footage in your head.

Because this time, there is no footage.

No witness.

Just her. Just you.

✯¸.•´*¨`*•✿ ✿•*`¨*`•.¸✯

The morning sunlight is softer than it was three weeks ago.

It bleeds across your floor in gold, catching on the outline of her shoulder where the covers have slipped low. Her skin is marked — lightly scratched and bitten in places where you’d been too caught up to think. And you know you match her now.

You wake in a bed full of heat, skin to skin, and you don’t flinch.

You don’t panic.

You just… lie there. Still. Warm. Whole.

Your cheek is pressed against her bare shoulder. Your legs tangled under the duvet. Her breath stirs your hair every so often. She hasn’t woken yet — or if she has, she’s pretending not to.

It’s peaceful.

It’s right.

✯¸.•´*¨`*•✿ ✿•*`¨*`•.¸✯

You lie like that for a while, unmoving.

Your muscles are sore. Your throat’s dry. Your heart feels raw, but not in a bad way. More like you cracked open last night, and now everything else feels sharper. Realer.

Natasha shifts a little behind you and her arm curls around your waist without needing to be asked.

You close your eyes.

You wonder if she’s thinking the same thing you are — that this is where you were always supposed to end up. That maybe, despite everything, despite the silence and the fear and the three weeks of pretending… this was inevitable.

Maybe you both just needed to get out of your own way.

✯¸.•´*¨`*•✿ ✿•*`¨*`•.¸✯

You don’t speak yet.

There’s no need.

Not now.

Last time, you woke in this bed naked and marked and full of questions. You spent the whole day terrified that it meant nothing. That it was a mistake.

This time, you don’t even need to look for answers.

She gave them to you last night.

In the way she touched you.

In the way she looked at you like you weren’t a secret.

In the way she kissed you like you belonged to her.

✯¸.•´*¨`*•✿ ✿•*`¨*`•.¸✯

You shift a little, slow and careful, to face her. The duvet slips off your bare shoulder. She blinks awake at the movement — or maybe she was already awake, just like you.

Her eyes meet yours. She doesn’t say anything. Neither do you. You just smile, small and honest. She mirrors it.

Then her hand reaches to brush a strand of hair from your cheek. The touch is feather-light, but it sends a full-body warmth curling through your chest.

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

And she meets you halfway. The kiss is soft this time. Not frantic. Not desperate. Just real.

[Masterlist]

[juicerca]

“scratch me instead,, ⋆˚𝜗𝜚˚⋆

sylus x reader ₊˚⊹ ᰔ

MDNI

author note: this is a horribly, horribly self-indulgent fic idea i had for any who have eczema, or generally itchy skin with little scabs everywhere. my eczema has been sooooo annoying recently (˚ ˃̣̣̥⌓˂̣̣̥ ) so the mc kinda yaps (whines) a lot...

synopsis: sylus body worshipping you (🙂‍↕️🙂‍↕️) after you finish getting out the shower.

content: cat-like behaviours from MC (purring, mewing), lots of kisses, bounded wrists by inappropriate usage of evol (to stop u from scratching!! not because he wants to bind you or anything... okay maybe a little...), penetration, a smidgen of cockwarming, soft!sylus, affirmations!!! the sex is soooooo slow, so many check ins, so much fluff, a little plot, will need to scroll for smut, reader is receiving!! but no genitalia specified (lots of lube instead kekekeke) :]

pet-names: kitten, sweetie, darling, love

word count: 2,8k !! the first 1.3k is just fluff tbh

the reader's gender or pronouns aren't specified so i hope all us eczema people can enjoy hehe.

₍^. .^₎⟆ ⋆ 🐾 °

every time you finished taking a shower, you had a little routine that sylus had started picking up on. it would first be to apply a moisturiser, and this special ointment that the doctors prescribed to you ( you swore it didn't work, but you didn't really have any alternatives ), before ending it with this 'bio-oil' that was meant to heal scars ( which at least it smelt nice even if it didn't work ).

sometimes you would ask him to buy products for you when your prescribed creams ran out, and sometimes he would get the privilege of applying it for you if you were a little too tired. he always delighted in being of use to you, and spending money on you was second nature to him.

after your shower, you sat down on the bed huffing and puffing as you slathered the cream onto your drying skin. sylus adjusted himself to sit up at your little sounds, looking up from his book of gun maintenance. a large hand softly held your arm as he nestled his nose into the nook of your shoulder. his robe was open (shameless) and he was wearing only his black boxers.

"are you running out of products? i can get you an unlimited supply if you decide to join the onychinus. i am a very generous boss, i'll have you know." he chuckled.

that beautiful, small, husky sound you would usually feel so much happier to hear. in truth, he would get boxes of your prescription even if you wouldn't join onychinus ( through illegal means if necessary ), if you would just tell him what to get.

usually you would just let it roll off your back and snort at him, but for some reason your skin had been extra irritable recently, and it was starting to get to you. it was obvious to sylus who had noted your sudden insistence on long sleeves, and the subtle scratching that turned into little slaps on the parts of your skin that were especially irritating you.

"i'm fine," you felt that was a bit snippy so you correct yourself, sighing a little, "thanks though..."

he tilted his head, pulling you in with his arm around your waist to lie against his broad chest.

"sweetie? is something the matter?"

"i don't know...it's stupid."

"it's not stupid if it regards you."

you teared up a little, before deciding to be honest and said this in one shaky breath,

"it's just...i keep bleeding on all the sheets and my skin is just so dry and flaky...and i have these scabs just everywhere. and you just have perfect skin...not to make this like a competition or anything it's just a bit like...i don't know... stupid. it's stupid."

you started scratching at your shoulders and arms, just irritated and frustrated. only feeling that tiny bit of reprieve when it started to sting and bleed.

he sat up properly, turning your body to face him and holding your hands gently to stop you from scratching.

"i could use my evol to heal these scabs over for now, if that's what you want...but personally," he kissed your knuckles, trailing his lips up your arms and then softly whispered against your bloodied scabs in that utterly honey-like voice that just pooled heat in your tummy, "these little scars of yours? i think they're cute, kitten. you've become your own scratching post, hm?"

"it's nothing that cute..." you blushed a little, and that rich laughter seeped out of him, oh so generously.

"shall i help you kick the habit?"

he suggested with a wide, foxy smile as he generously lathered his hands in cream, casually applying it for you.

"how would i do that?"

"why don't you let me show you a few tricks i have up my sleeve? it might not be a long-term fix...but it should make you feel better for the night. if you feel like scratching, you can use my back. a lot more surface area, hm?"

"that's not going to work."

he smiled, hearing a little sass in your voice always perked him up. knowing you weren't as upset as you were before made him feel so alive. after all, when you lived as you selfishly pleased his heart would sing.

"you'll still indulge me won't you?"

"mm...okay, sure." you replied, reaching to scratch the little scab on your arm.

hm.

your habit was more persistent than he realised.

he took your hands and held your wrists together gently. you could break away easily, but your own curiosity would be the end of you.

"kitten, would you like to try something? how about i keep your wrists together so you can't scratch? something like this."

he snapped his fingers, his evol forming a pair of cuffs around you that he could manipulate at will.

"nostalgic, no?" he chuckled and you couldn't help giggling as well.

"that evol linkage was a little miracle. i'm glad it happened."

his eyes softened,

"yes, i am too...you always were persistent, my love."

"how was that my fault? i didn't make the cuffs." you pouted, forgetting temporarily about your itchiness.

"well it certainly wasn't my fault. though i'd be willing to accept partial blame," he cocked an eyebrow with that smirk you came to grow so fond of, "so, my predator? would you be willing to be my captured prey for tonight?"

you hummed, wondering whether you should tease him further, but honestly you wanted someone to bind you from ruining your skin further so badly. and he was just the perfect person to do it.

"here," you pressed your wrists together in front of his face, and joked, "i offer myself to you. your prisoner for the night."

he tightened his evol around you so your wrists were practically glued together with an amused huff.

"i will cherish this. though, if i had it my way... you'd be my prisoner for a much longer time than just tonight..."

his hands reached for the bottle of lube kept in his drawer, slathering his hands just how he does when he applies your creams for you. something about his fingers and the way they curled so naturally was just utterly sinful.

he realised midst slicking up that you hadn't finished your little skincare routine and he freezed.

"sy?"

"sweetie...we didn't finish taking care of your skin."

"oh..."

"one second."

he undid the evol cuffs and went to wash his hands, before coming back and taking care of your skin with the utmost care. you really did feel like a masterpiece when under his hands. even utterly naked and vulnerable in front of him, sitting on your fluffy towel, you felt so safe and loved.

"you know what kitten?"

"hm?"

"you don't have to have perfect skin. you are enough. just the way you are. and not to mention you're the most breathtaking person i know, even with your marks you don't seem very fond of."

he talked with such sincerity. like every word was his last and all he wanted to remain in the world of him was his devotion to you.

"you shouldn't be ashamed of them, rather...these little scars are endearing. though you should be making use of me more often."

you heart panged with a tenderness only he could bring to you.

"use you?"

"yes," he chuckled, "buy more things with my account, make me apply your skincare products for you. anything. you should be more greedy."

his hands massaged your body so tenderly, cooling all of your heated itching points.

"you don't want enough from me, and it pains me... especially since i ask for so much of you, and want all of you...a little greed is good for your soul." he said with that lazy smile.

you could laugh at how untrue that was. sylus was always giving. so, so generous and it made you feel utterly spoiled.

"is that so?"

"i'd like to think i know quite a fair amount about your soul. trust me on this one darling."

he finished off with the oil, and then proceeded by pressing a kiss to each little scab and bloodspot on your skin. you giggled as his lips and nose brushed against your skin ever so lightly. like the brush of a feather on your skin.

your dove.

you ruffle his hair, pressing a kiss to his cheek in gratitude. he exhaled through his nose in amusement, thoroughly basking in your affections and giggles.

"if i get to kiss these every time you feel upset, i think these little scars of yours might be my favourite part of you now," he chuckled, "perhaps you should even invest in even more of them, so that i have even more to adorn in my adoration. to show you how grateful i am for everything that encompasses your existence."

he then linked your wrists behind your back.

"so allow me to pay my respects..." he gently parted your thighs and you invited him in almost immediately. shamelessly.

his large hand ran down your tummy, the red glint of desire stirring silently and with an intensity that stole your breath every time. he once again lubed his hands up, gently circling your entrance with his bony middle finger.

it was so slicked up that it slid in with ease, down to his knuckle. not enough to make you moan, but your mouth formed a small 'o' shape as it pushed against your plushy spot. his lips pressed up your collarbone to your neck, ending just below where your pulse point is.

"feel good sweetie?"

"mhm..."

"good..." he prodded at your tight hole with a second finger, "how about a second?"

"mhm, please..."

"oh wow...kitten has good manners, hm? don't worry...i'll make you feel as perfect as i see you tonight."

he slides in the second finger, stretching you open on his thick, slicked up digits. the sounds are obscene when he starts stirring your insides with them. pumping in and out against the rough texture, circling right on that spot that just made you feel so good.

"so clingy...you just won't let my fingers go..." he groaned softly with that smirk you loved to love, "not that i'd want to leave."

"mmh...more..." you breathily gasped, aching to feel him deep inside to dull this longing.

your arms burned with an urge to itch, you couldn't help it, but this was definitely helping. not to mention, no matter how much you thrashed, his evol held your hands firmly away from scratching territory.

"wanna forget everything but you sy..." he startled a little. you could tell by the way he jerked a little.

"...what a cute request. it would be unwise to decline such a generous offer." he scissored you wider, trying to prep you for the inevitable burning his girth would bring you.

he watched the way you mewled and rubbed your face against your own shoulder, knowing you had a little itchy spot there. he smiled. he couldn't help it. he found everything you did so cute.

"just a bit more kitten. you're being so good, doing so well..." his third digit edged in.

"feeling good? not too much?"

"...full but in a good way. like it. like you. your fingers feel good." you rambled, too horny to stop yourself. he groaned in response. pulling his boxers off with one hand, his pretty length revealed itself as he fisted it. pumping it slowly and with intent as he stared into your eyes.

"can't wait much longer kitten... need to feel you."

you rocked into his fingers in anticipation with a soft purr that sent blood straight to his cock. his fingers pulled out, a sticky string connecting them to your entrance before he licked them off. the stickiness sticking to his lips.

"reminds me of your birthday..." you said hazily and he grinned, a canine popping out so charmingly.

"is this the part where you kiss me then?"

you puckered your lips at him as if to invite him to do so and he chuckled, pressing a deep kiss to your lips. starving you of air as he hungrily devoured you, scouring your mouth with his tongue. the tip of his cock rubbed against your willing entrance, inching in ever so slowly. god, the burning stretch was always a surprise. he was just that thick.

"do your wrists hurt? want them up top?"

"mm..." you managed to groan out as your mind got deliriously full with thoughts of his cock.

"words, sweetie."

"up top. a little uncomfy."

his evol expertly manoeuvred your wrists above your head and he pinned them there, as his hands started to wander up your body. deciding to land on your chest where he thumbed your nipples.

"how's this?"

"goood..." you slurred out, rocking your hips against his still member. why wouldn't he just fuck you? always such a tease...

"look at my kitten purr... want more don't you?"

you nodded, whimpering and nuzzling into his neck.

"m'kay, let me ease it in...let me know if it's too much."

and when he finally bottomed out after what feels like centuries, you are so utterly blanked out and stuffed that you couldn't imagine the thought of him fucking you anymore. this was already so, so delicious on top of the masterful way he handled your body with those perfect hands of his.

your arms were around his neck, gripping at his hair as you whined about just how fucking full his cock made you feel.

"i can pull out." he teased and you hissed at him like a kitten being denied their meal.

"just...stay like this...for a second." you grunted and he complied ( typical ). he helped you onto his lap ( being the chair he was ), eliciting a soft mewl as it somehow sank his blunt head right into your needy spot. he just knew your body too well.

"ah..."

"don't rile me up sweetie... you know i can hardly resist your cute little sounds." he smiled against your skin, gently raking his fingers across your back in little scritches. meowing for him when he would scratch just right. your hips rolled into his, as the dull ache in your heat began to consume you into a burning desire for him to rail you into the bed.

but that just wasn't his style, if he could help it. sylus moaned into your ear at your needy rocking. despite asking for him to not move, you just couldn't help yourself could you?

"fuck...kitten... you want it? want me to fuck you good? want your sylus' cock to fill you up nice and properly?"

you whined in agreement and that was all he needed. he laid you down on the bed, propping your hips up with a pillow as his hands anchored on your hips. his cock dragged out slowly and it entered just as slowly. this slow motion drove you crazy as he repeated it over and over.

"this isn't enough..!" you sulked, kicking your legs petulantly into the sheets.

he chuckled.

"i suppose i did tell you to be greedier. you're a quick learner sweetie. very well, as my darling demands."

once his hips started picking up speed, the room resounded with the wet plap plap plap that echoed from your skin slapping against his. you squeaked when his evol moved your hands to his back, basically begging for you to scratch him and who are you to deny him? you grinded as much as you could on his hard cock with an insatiable appetite and he was only returning the favour after all...

you had orgasmed and came all over his cock several times by now, but he had shown no signs of slowing down. evil villain that he was, he did it all with such ease.

"i'm all the way...deep inside you," he pressed a hand on the slight bulge of your tummy, cooing with total reverence, "such a pretty kitty...taking my cock so well."

your hole leaked with white cream which he dragged out every time he thrusts. what a shame. he'd have to plug you up after filling you again.

"i'll cum so deep inside so you can feel me for days...maybe that'll distract you from your itching hm?" he chuckled. you tried to growl back, but it came out more as a pitiful moan.

"so sensitive...just can't stop cumming. can't even talk to me anymore? what a pity..." he moaned through a cocky grin, kissing your body endlessly, "don't worry, your limbs will be so weak you won't be able to scratch even if you want to."

and so, he insistently fucked you that night.

but, to be honest, you weren't in a mood to stop him.

your throat would be hoarse, your lower back aching and your hole would feel raw for a week after this, but you just couldn't bring yourself to care. it felt incredible and you just knew it meant you'd be pampered like royalty by your favourite person in the whole world.

"you're more than what you see in the mirror, my beloved... you are my entire meaning in this universe...and nothing will change that. and it definitely won't be affected by you bloodying my sheets because of your scabbed and scarred skin."

he whispered in your ear so tenderly as you curled up into his arms post-sex and post aftercare ( where he thoroughly cleaned you with his gentle hands, and even fed you chocolate-covered strawberries as you lazed around as his perfect kitten ). pressing a soft kiss to your forehead as you drifted to sleep in complete comfort.

[spidybaby]

La Liga |Barca Boys

Summary: The moment afte they won La Liga.

Warnings: cursing

Pedri

"We are champions!"

Thats the only thing you hear Pedri yellinto the phone. The following were the screams and chants of the team in the dressing room. You blow your nose, happy for him. Even when you are sick to the core, you feel a little better.

The sight of him being so happy and jumping around with his teammates makes you smile.

"Guapa, we won!"

You can barely speak from how much your throat hurts, but you got everything in you to reply to him.

"Campeones!" You say. He didn't hear it, it was more than obvious thanks to the yelling in the background.

"I'll call you later, te amo." He says, smiling and hanging up.

You text him that you are proud of him, asking him to take his time because you don't want to intrude into his celebrations.

You take this time to drift back to sleep, the medicine you took earlier is making you feel dizzy.

You woke up by the sound of your phone. It was Pedri riding a bike. "Vamoooos!"

"Are you on a bike?" You ask, sounding like you are whispering. "I'm happy for you!"

"Espera, we are about to get to the hospital." He says, moving the camera. Now you can see his feet. "Eric, Dani, and Iñigo say hi."

"Hola" You hear different voices. You smile at the sound of his friends. You can hear in their voice, you notice on the way Pedri's eyes shine and his smile never leaves his face.

You wait for a moment, watching him get the bike locked so nobody can take it. You can hear Iñigo cursing that he forgot the shark he got Ferran.

"Go on, l'll walk behind you guys." Pedri says, staying still for a moment. "How do you feel?"

"My happiness overcomes my sickness congratulations, champ." You smile

"Ala, I'm just so excited.'" He smiles. "Can you believe it? La Liga is blaugrana!"

"I can, barca is so lucky to have the best midfielder in the world."

"Buaf, you are making me blush." He says, moving the phone so he can hide his face.

"I can go around and tell everybody my boyfriend is a champion."

"Tell that to your neighbor, the one who keeps winking at you." He smirks. "I'Il check on Ferran, and then l'Il go to your place to check on you.

"Tell Fer to get better, and that I'm happy he's fine." You smile. "See you in a little bit, champ."

"I like that nickname." He smirks. "Champ."

Gavi

You walk behind Gavi, he is jumping happy as he does his typical dinosaure yell. He knew that they were going to win, but he was still bursting out of excitement.

You feel happy for him. He was back from a big injury that got him out for so long. Even with his slow comeback, he was a big part of the team.

"Los del Espanyol son chuches." He says, turning to where you are and walking towards you. (Espanyol's are losers)

He wraps his arms around you, lifting you while jumping. You laugh at his exciment, gripping your arms around him to hold yourself.

"Gavi, stop." You laugh.

"They didn't even win the fight." He smirks. "Chuches, a bunch of them." He laughs.

He finally outs you down, giving you a kiss. "Let's go, champ, you need to change for the party."

You grab his hand, walking to the car. You feel him pull your hand, making you crash on his chest. "I was thinking of a better celebration." He smiles, lifting his eyebrows.

You smile, grabbing his face in your hands. "That sounds so amazing." You kiss him, Gavi moves his hands to a dangerous zone.

"Gavi, you are taking us!" Araujo yells, Lamine walking with him.

Gavi's grip grew tighter. "To Be continued." He jokes, pecking your lips. "Vamos." He yells to them

Ferran

"Pita, hijo de puta." He yells. "Pita!"

"Ferran!" You shush him. "This is a hospital, not the local pub."

"But this hijo de puta. He needs to end this-" He fights, but the goal of Fermin. "Gol, joder gol!"

You can't lie that you yell out of exciment, both of you. Ferran grabs your hand while he is yelling.

"Mister Torres, Miss, you are bothering the whole floor."

"Somos campeones!" Ferran yelled at the nurse. "La Liga es nuestra!"

"Mister Torres, congratulations. But I'm not repeating myself again, one more complain and we are taking the tv privileges away from you." The nurse warns him.

"Que putada." He whispers, putting his hand on top of his mouth.

"We are so sorry," you say, grabbing Ferran's hand. "We are going to be quiet and behave. Verdad, Ferran?" You ask him.

"Si." He smiles. "Also, can we get a pudding?"

The nurse can't help but roll her eyes. "Yes, but please be quiet."

You wait for her to close the door to grab Ferran from the cheeks, giving him a kiss. "Champions!" You whisper to him.

"When we out of here. We are so celebrating." He hugs you. "I need to call Pedri." He looks for.his phone.

To his luck, Pedri was calling him. "Campeones!" Pedri, Dani, Iñigo and Eric yelled into the phone. "Tiburón, we won."

"Vamooooos!" he yells.

"Mister Torres!" The nurse says, opening the door with a pudding on her hand. "No pudding for you!"

"Joder, my pudding." He pouts.

Fermin

"They cancel my goal on the clasico but they can cry me a river, we won!"

"Calm down, champ." You laugh, grabbing his hand. "Let's go with the rest to the party.

"Form 10 to a 100 how much would you rate my goal?"

You humm, thinking just to tease him. "Maybe a 1000." You smile.

"Joder, I'm on fire." He smiles proudly.

You give him a hug, he needed this goal more than people think. After the var called the goal invalid, he was beating himself.

"Your parents were jumping like crazy." You tell him. "Your dad was like < this is my son, he's the best! > it was so cute."

He hugs you, lifting you and jumping happy with you. "Fuck, this feels good. Do you feel good? I feel lightheaded."

"You are okay." You smile, grabbing his cheeks. "I think I'll need to rest to do all that walking tomorro-"

"Thank you for being here." He pouts, giving you a peck. "You are my biggest fan, and I love you for that."

"Te amo, Fer."

"Nono, champ!" He smirks. "That's my nickname from now on."

[dreamersparacosm]

jeon jungkook - if we were us (part one)

warnings ; none

prompt ; in which life gives you and Jungkook one more chance to hold on.

note ; AH. IT'S HERE. i won't lie, finding where i wanted this story to start was extremely difficult and took me way longer than i want to admit. but after 2939393 cups of coffee and 393949 emhen inspirational quotes i made it. i have never been more excited about a piece of writing in my life!! for context, i began writing when i was 12 and have written numerous works over 200k words, but once i got to college, diverted to only one-shots and shorter fics to give myself time to live. now that i'm way too old to be on this app, i have time on my hands to actually enjoy writing stories and it both terrifies and excites me if you could see the notion file i have on this story you'd prob understand my anxiety a little more. on the bright side though, this is basically me signing a contract to stay on tumblr for at least another 6-8 months (or however long this story will take to complete.) all this to say, this story is incredibly nuanced and every character has flaws, trials, tribulations, yada yada. i hope your world is just as chaotic, devastating, exciting and messy as theirs. this is for all the lovers in the world who want a second chance. may it be sweeter than the first.

playlist here

series masterlist here

[YOUR POV]

You’ve always liked the rain. 

There’s something oddly comforting about it. The quiet hush of the droplets. The way it softens the edge of the world, but follows no pattern to its madness. 

Pretty much all your firsts have happened in the rain.

The first time you were dropped off for a playdate without crying, your shoes squelched against the pavement, raincoat sticking to the backs of your knees. The first time a friend hugged you was in middle school, outside of a 7-Eleven. The sky had opened up without warning, and you both laughed through it, soaked to the bone. Your first kiss was under a shared umbrella that kept tipping sideways, clumsy and warm and like two puzzle pieces that wouldn’t fully fit together but gave the illusion they might for a moment in time. He tasted like cherry gum and a thunderstorm that was gone too quickly.

The rain reminds you of beginnings. Unlike endings, they require no permission. They simply appear, uninvited, leaving behind fertile ground for whatever comes next. 

Morning light creeps in between the cracks of the blinds. A familiar heaviness weighs your eyes down, the air in the room cold in the way it always is when it rains outside. You shift slightly beneath the comforter, legs stretching out until your toes hit the edge of the mattress. Behind you, his arm tightens instinctively around your waist. 

You feel a soft groan rumble against your spine, breath fanning the back of your neck. Your body pauses its movement for a second, suspended between comfort and obligation. 

Outside, the rain taps against the window louder now. A familiar sound that makes you want to follow his actions and bury yourself into the thick sheets, pretend you have nowhere else to be. 

You really don’t want to get up. Clearly, neither does he. 

The pads of his fingers shift against your hip, digging into the bare skin. You can’t help but smile a little, even though it’s tired and small. 

“Joonie,” you murmur, voice thick with slumber. “I need to get up.”

That earns you another groan. A little louder, more dramatic. His face presses into your shoulder. “Mm. Five more minutes,” he mumbles. “World won’t end if you’re late.”

You want to believe him, but the kids in your class would say otherwise. 

You appease him, stay for one more breath. Maybe two. Normally, you wouldn't give yourself the extra grace. But it’s raining and beginnings are easier this morning. Plus, your boyfriend seems to be the human version of a teddy bear right now and you’re finding it quite endearing. 

Five more minutes, that’s what you give yourself. You don’t look at the clock or count the seconds. Time slips past slowly as you turn over and press your face into the side of his, kissing his cheek, jaw, the patch of skin just below his ear that’s always so soft. 

He doesn’t react much besides a sigh. His hold on your waist loosens as he recognizes your signal, your quiet touch that says you’re getting up. 

You slip out of bed carefully, trying not to shake the mattress too much. His t-shirt is bunched around your hips, creased and bunched from sleep. When you stand, it falls low to your thighs, brushing against your skin. 

The hardwood floor is cold under your feet. Rubbing at your eyes with the back of your hand, you drag yourself back into consciousness the best you can at 7 AM in the morning. 

You cross the room, flip the bathroom light on and begin your routine. It’s nothing glamorous, but when you work with children all day, this is the one part of the day you get to yourself. The version of you that isn’t constantly giving, fixing or soothing. Some mornings, it’s the only thing that keeps you sane. 

Your reflection in the mirror blinks back at you, fogged at the edges by the sleep still lingering in your expression. Halfway through brushing your teeth, you hear the creak of the mattress followed by the shuffle of feet across the floor.

Namjoon appears in the mirror, hair poking in ten different directions, leaning against the doorframe like his weight is too heavy to carry upright at this hour. 

“You look serious,” he teases. 

You glare at him sarcastically through the mirror and shrug, mouth full of minty toothpaste. 

“Deep thoughts?” he asks, stepping closer. He places a warm hand on your waist, his thumb dragging lightly across his shirt you’re still wearing. “Existential crisis already, and it’s not even 7:30, baby.”

You hum in acknowledgement around your toothbrush, raising an eyebrow. He presses a kiss to the side of your head. 

“What does your day look like?” he questions, reaching around you to grab the floss on the counter. 

You spit the foamy paste, wipe your mouth with the sink water. “I’ve got this new lesson plan I’m trying out. I’m hoping it lands well but knowing my kids, they’re going to make a mess.”

“Mess?” He cuts the piece of floss. 

“We’re using paint to help solve math problems.” Not your best idea. In hindsight, it sounded like it would heal your inner child but in practice, it’s definitely going to end with you cleaning paint off your jeans for the next two weeks. 

“Sounds exhausting,” He leans into the mirror to see his teeth better.

“And you?” You meet his eyes in the reflection, smiling briefly. 

“Mm,” he pauses to run the floss between his teeth before speaking. “Work call at 10. Then coding a shit ton of our new website features. Jin also asked me to look at paint samples with him, which will take approximately four more hours than it needs to.”

You snort out a laugh, “That’s what you get for agreeing to help with his kitchen.”

“Thought I was being a good friend,” he throws out his floss, grabbing his toothbrush out of the holder. “Kinda also wanted the free lunch.”

“Jin already thinks you’re a great friend, baby,” You splash some cold water on your face, trying to liven up your skin. “You know that.”

You’ve known Jin since college. He was always loyal — the kind of friend who showed up with takeout boxes when you were sad, who knew your exam schedules better than you did, who cracked your shell before others even brought out the hammer. You don't talk everyday, but when you do, it always feels like you’re picking up mid-conversation. 

Back when you and Namjoon were just hooking up, seeing where life took you, you introduced Jin to him. He was overprotective like an older brother in a sitcom, side-eyeing Namjoon between bites of ramyeon. Now, the two of them argue about kitchen appliances like they’re married and have a shared spreadsheet for wine recommendations you’re not allowed to edit. 

Sometimes you wonder if Namjoon fell in love with Jin and you were an afterthought. 

Namjoon chuckles while putting paste on his toothbrush, “He better. I sat in his house for two hours last week listening to him talk about that new guy he’s seeing and I… heard things no one should have to hear.”

“I thought we agreed not to talk about Jin’s sex life with him,” You poke his side as you lean against the sink, watching your boyfriend with amusement. 

He spits out the toothpaste, waving the brush in the air animatedly. “You agreed. I tried to agree and got roped into it anyway.”

Rolling your eyes, you push yourself off the sink with your palms and go, “Breakfast?” 

He nods at you, and you disappear down the hall, arms wrapped tightly around your body to block off as much of the cold air as possible. 

Your mornings have always been trivial. Insignificant in the grand scheme of the universe. You move on autopilot: pan on low heat, fridge door creaking open, eggs gathered in one hand, butter in the other. The coffee machine gurgles in the corner. His favorite mug  — the one with the chipped rim and the ugly cartoon bear on it  — is already out on the counter. You know he likes his eggs over easy, toast not too burnt, coffee with a splash of creamer. 

You barely think about these things anymore. 

It’s not like he ever asked you to be this way in the morning. Never said a word about it, or gave any sort of hint, never played helpless in front of the stove. But it was an invisible task that folded in on your routine without ever being discussed. 

It’s what love looks like, you remind yourself. The quiet dig of learning each other’s habits, small sacrifices piling up like layers beneath your feet. 

It doesn’t bother you. You like to give. You remember birthdays without setting calendar reminders, refill the Brita before it’s empty. And it’s not that people don’t love you back. You're just always a few steps ahead, already halfway into caring before anyone else even notices there was something to do. 

Namjoon walks in as you’re cracking the eggs, eyes still droopy with sleep. He’s no longer shirtless, now in his forest green hoodie he always wears when he works from home, which these days, appears to be more often than not. He yawns into his fist before grabbing two plates from the cabinet and setting them down beside you. 

“You beat me to it,” he taunts, gently bumping your hip. 

You hum, flipping the eggs with the new spatula his mom got you last week. “Didn't know it was a race.”

He chuckles, rubbing a hand across the back of his neck. “I was gonna offer. Technically, last week, I made the coffee.”

“Mm. The machine made coffee, baby. You pressed the button.”

He doesn’t respond to you.There’s not much more to say to that. Instead he leans down and presses a kiss to your cheek. It almost feels like punctuation. Like a period that stops any other words from leaving your mouth. 

He’s quiet for another second, then breaks the silence in the air, “We still good to go to that baby shower on Sunday?”

You vaguely remember him telling you about his coworker’s pregnancy. All you know is it was an event that showed up on your shared calendar in the kitchen, circled in red and scrawled in messy handwriting. 

You nod as you plate the eggs, “Yup. Two o’clock, right?”

“Precisely.” Namjoon runs a hand through his unruly dark brown hair. “Seo-yeon mentioned something about a bouncy house?” 

“A bouncy house?” you repeat incredulously as you hand him his plate. “At a baby shower?” 

“She said the baby can’t use it but the adults should still have fun.” He shrugs like it makes perfect sense. Seo-yeon, his coworker at the tech startup he works for, has always been an eccentric female. You’ve met her a handful of times, but that was more than enough to understand why Namjoon refers to her as an ‘old soul.’ A bouncy house at her baby shower doesn’t even crack the top ten on the list of things that surprise you.

You giggle under your breath, passing him the plate. “If you catch me in the bouncy house, just know I had one too many mimosas.”

Namjoon rounds your tiny kitchen table, settling down in the chair. “Do we need to bring anything?” 

You hesitate for a moment. You don’t really have the heart to tell him you went down to the market last week to pick up a blanket and bear set for her. But you know if you dodge the question, he’ll ask again in a few days. “I already got the gift.”

You hear him start to chew, fork scraping against the plate. “Cool. Thanks, baby.” 

You think he’ll ask you what you got Seo-yeon, but he doesn’t.

You walk over to the coffee machine, pouring out the dark liquid into your respective mugs. Splash of cream for him. Three sugars and milk for you. You set his cup in front of him, ceramic clinking softly against the table, before heading back to the countertop and retrieving your own plate and mug to match.

When you settle in front of him, he peers into your mug. “I don’t know how you drink that.” 

To further prove his own point, he takes a sip, immediately wincing. “God,” he mumbles. “That’s not coffee. That’s dessert.”

“I like it sweet.”

“Offensively sweet.” He deposits your mug back down on your side of the table as if quarantining a biohazard. He’s a broken record at this point, always reminding you that one day, you’ll get a cavity from how sugary you prefer your drinks. Like a ghost that haunts every breakfast table discussion about your choice of beverage. 

“Well.” You tuck a piece of toast into your mouth. “Not all of us are fueled by burnt beans and overpriced creamer.”

He laughs at that, the sound ricocheting across kitchen surfaces. He’s always been easy to talk to, to sit beside in the stillness of early mornings where the world hasn’t quite remembered it exists yet. 

“One day, I’m going to get you to drink black coffee,” he teases. “Whatever it takes.”

“Don’t hold your breath,” you laugh as you cut up another piece of your eggs. 

“You still doing the bug project with your kids?” he asks, and you feel a wash of gratitude for the change in conversation topic. 

You nod, sighing, “Day three. Which means today’s the day someone accidentally steps on an ant farm and cries about it like it was their childhood pet.”

His mouth curves upward, eyes crinkling, “Weren’t you the one who said this year’s class was your most emotionally stable?”

“They are,” you insist around a mouthful of toast. “However, they did stage a protest yesterday when I tried to throw out a dead butterfly. Held a moment of silence and everything. I’m pretty sure they’re building it a grave out of popsicle sticks.”

Namjoon nearly chokes on his eggs. “I’m impressed.”

“You should come by sometime. Meet the little fuckers who take up all my time.” You’re half-joking, half-not. The last (and only) time he visited your classroom was the holiday party where you first met, when he was someone else’s reluctant plus one. You often watch other teachers partners’ appearing at classroom doors, bearing lunch and casual affection. 

He shakes his head. “I barely survived kindergarten on my own.” 

Between bites, he adds, “Got that deployment to push through today. Something’s breaking in the new UI, but I can't tell if it’s the framework or the entire infrastructure.”

You blink at him, chewing thoughtfully. “Wow. Sexy.”

“I know,” he smirks. “Almost as sexy as your bug project.”

You place a hand over your heart, sarcastically swooning. “God, nothing gets me going like scalable infrastructure.” Words harvested from his work calls — incomprehensible things you say without understanding the origins.

He lifts a hand in mock warning. “You better pray I don’t start talking about data streams before you finish breakfast.”

You snort, taking another sip of your coffee. “Enjoy your precious code. I’ll be elbows deep in glue and paint by 9 AM.”

Namjoon finishes his coffee before you do, setting the mug on the sink. When he passes, he kisses your temple, hand grazing your back like water over stones, “Have a good day, baby.”

You nod, already pushing your chair back once your eyes catch on the kitchen clock’s accusatory hands. “You too.”

He disappears down the hall towards his makeshift home office, leaving behind the scent of coffee and the cologne you bought him last Christmas. You stay at the table a second longer. Long enough to sip what’s left of your coffee, now lukewarm and overly sweet. Long enough to listen to the rain tapping against the windows like it’s trying to say something you can’t make out. 

Long enough for you to wonder when sweet started tasting like something you needed to apologize for. 

“An iced mocha latte? Did anyone order the iced mocha latte?” 

Your favorite barista's voice rings throughout the quaint coffee shop, bystanders perking up in hopes of hearing their order called. Everyone collectively deflates when they see a frantic woman barrel past apologetically, reaching for a drink that clearly isn’t theirs. 

You don’t bother lifting your head up. Poor Jiwoo. She’s been manhandling the coffee shop by the school you work at since the day you started, and she might be the only barista who understands how much sugar you typically prefer in your coffee. 

If she ever leaves the shop, you’re pretty sure you’d have to transfer school districts out of grief alone. 

You prefer to leave early for work, leaving ample time to collect your candied coffee, run through your lesson plan, and gossip with the other teachers for at least ten minutes in the lounge.

Unfortunately, today, you might have to exclude the gossip session you enjoy so much. A tragedy in three acts. 

There are two new students starting today, and while you normally enjoy fresh faces in the classroom with different personality types to tame, you already have your hands full between the bug project and the ‘paint your 2+2’s’ activity you very ill-advisedly volunteered to lead. 

“Hey, [Y/N],” Jiwoo solemnly leans over the counter where you're perched, waiting patiently as any good samaritan does if they don't want their coffee spat into. Her hair is frizzing at the edges, apron already stained. “I’m so sorry for the wait. Normally I put a rush on yours, but this Monday is really kicking my ass.”

She looks so stressed you almost want to go back there and put on an apron, maybe start whipping up some Iced Americanos.

“It’s no problem,” you wave her away. “You know I always come way too early.”

She gives you an appreciative smile, rushing back to the counter to take more orders. You turn your back to the crowd, enjoying the view outside. There’s a few kids clutching their mother’s hands, businessmen holding briefcases while fighting with umbrellas, a teenage boy hopping puddles like he’s in a video game. Against the windowpane, the rain sticks to the glass, slowly sliding to make space for new ones. 

“Hi, can I get an iced vanilla latte?”

You’re close enough to the counter that you’ve started eavesdropping on other’s orders without meaning to. Honestly, an iced vanilla latte sounds pretty good. You once got an iced caramel macchiato before 9 AM though, and you were vibrating like a tuning fork until your last kid went home at 2 PM. The girl’s voice is distressed as she taps her card against the reader, probably running late to work now from the long line. 

“Hey, can I get a black coffee? Hot?”

The second voice is different. 

It’s a man’s. Can’t be older than mid-30s. It’s lower, calmer. Unrushed. Like honey poured over gravel. 

Everything in your body stops functioning. 

It’s as if someone snipped the film reel mid-scene. The cafe around you doesn’t gradually fade. It’s replaced by a silence so loud you can hear your own blood rushing through your veins. The clink of cups, the hiss of the milk steamer, the shuffle of feet becomes background collateral, dissolving into white noise. 

Your hands clench around nothing. Lungs forget their one job. Your heart reverberates against your ribs like it’s trying to signal an emergency to anyone within radius. 

No, that second voice is a voice you haven’t heard in ten years but would recognize in a burning building. 

The second voice is a voice that has set up permanent residence in your bone marrow, lingering even after you thought you’d evicted every last trace of him from your system. 

You don’t dare turn around.

You stand there, statue-still, staring out the rain-streaked window as if memories don’t curl up and hibernate in your throat, waiting for precisely this moment to wake and stretch. 

Your eyes close for a brief second. 

When you open them again, the world outside continues its persistent motions. But you, you remain perfectly still, a pause button pressed in the center of the city. 

Seoul is a big city. You’re 32 now and far too old to believe in ghosts.

He wouldn’t be here. He made that very clear a decade ago. 

You hear another voice begin to recite their order. He’s probably off to the side, somewhere in the shop that is now dwindling down the number of patrons inside as work hours creep up on the clock. You’re too scared to breathe, to even glance one foot in the other direction. 

Your eyes instead train ahead on the bag of coffee beans untouched on the counter. 

“Iced coffee, three sugars and milk?” Jiwoo comes running over to you, a triumphant grin on her face as if she just defeated the morning rush. “God, I’m so sorry for the wait. Yours is on the house next time.” 

“No, it’s no problem,” You lean over and pat her hand, like you’re trying to prove your heart hasn’t actually stopped and you’re still a live human, even though it feels like it might. 

You shuffle over to the side station where the honey, tiny wooden stirrers, and other small distractions meant to keep your hands busy are. You grab a few napkins for yourself. You can’t trust your grip right now. In the distance, Jiwoo rattles off some other orders you can’t make out. One of her coworkers comes rushing in, red-faced and apologetic. 

You glance up at the clock on the wall. 8:30 AM. You’ve made great time despite the numerous coffee mishaps. And clearly, you need to sit in your chair and take a moment to yourself, because you’re now hallucinating the ghost of college’s past, and it’s too early to do that. 

You stir in some honey into your coffee. Taking a slow, deep breath, you turn a half-step with coffee in tow. 

And then, because the universe has a spectacular gift for comedic timing, you collide with someone. 

Your shoulder meets theirs, your cup shifting in your hand and sending a small wave over the lid’s edge. 

“Oh god, I’m so sorry—”

Your eyes are already tracking the damage, focusing on white sneakers now marked with a small splash of brown. Nothing ruinous, but your body finds itself crouching, napkins in hand, some deeply ingrained instinct to make things right taking over.

“No, it’s okay,” the voice says.

It’s the second voice. Gentle. That same calm. 

You know this voice the way you know the road home in the dark, the way plants know to grow toward sunlight. 

Slowly, you lift your gaze upwards. 

He’s older, of course. More settled into himself. The lines around his eyes weren’t there before, shoulders carrying the weight of ten more years of living. His eyes stare into yours, somehow still reading every inch of you despite the decade-long gap. 

Reality blurs at the edges. The rain against the window falls silent. The coffee shop with its morning bustle recedes. Your heart hangs suspended from one beat and the next. The napkins fall to the floor, your wobbly legs struggling to stand upright. 

On a rainy Monday morning, where beginnings are endless, your ex boyfriend from university, Jeon Jungkook, stands in front of you holding a cup of black coffee in his right hand. 

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[ayuthedemon]

For another eternity

not proof read we die like the Amphoreus cast!, sexual tension but no smut, fluffy and angsty, hurt/comfort but not really??? ~5200 words fem!priestress!reader x Phainon (+Stelle mentioned ヽ(^□^｡)ノ)

Phainon is head over heels for you however you seem reluctend to indulge him at times. Your visions of the chrysos heir's future and your duties as a priestress hinder you to commit to Phainon and make you question the valdity of your feelings until you lose it all.

＊•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙˚˚•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙˚＊＊•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙˚˚•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙˚＊＊•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙˚˚•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙˚＊＊•̩̩͙✩•

Far on the outskirts of Okhema is a tiny temple; the sun blesses it and the golden treads in an act of diplomacy have sworn to protect it too as part of the city of the heroes.  In it women in white gowns scurry around trying to get every task of the day done while the new young head priestess walks slowly by the white haired knight through the gardens, adored with grape vines and peach trees. “You come here ever so often - every 24 days to be exact - in an attempt to gain the insight about the future from my visions. You should know by now that this is futile, deliverer.” “It’s worth the try, no? Someday I might catch you in a good enough mood where you willingly spill all your secrets.” Phainon laughs, showering you in warmth that if it wasn’t for shade you’d point your finger to the sun above. 

“Either way I’m happy to dismiss my duties for a chat. You should start bothering me every 12 days atleast. The temple would be much safer in the presence of a chrysos heir too.” you joke back sitting on the stone bench overgrown with moos with a view on the tiny pond filled with ducks and their ducklings - it’s the middle of spring after all where life starts to blossom, a new beginning to the cold end before it. “See, my presence only has benefits!” The heir joins by your side and tries to sneak glances when you push back your veil from your face. Like a young pup he can barely mask his excitement, curious to know every corner of the world but naive would be the wrong descriptor. His middle finger drums on his tigh anxiously, his eyebrows are frowned together and his tongue pushes against the side of his cheek - he wants to say something. “It’s unlike you to hold back your words. What’s on your mind Phainon?”  

“Oh. -Just the same old. It’s - well, are you withholding the truth because something bad will happen?” Sometimes it’s best to stay silent and drum your finger but instead you gently stop his fidgeting with your own gloved hands and opening your lips and inevitably strumming the tune of the forbidden song even as you try to hush them down, push them deeper in the prison of your lungs; “The prophecy does mention that the path of the chrysos heirs is filled with death and causualties, no? Bad things will happen no matter.”

“But there is something else, right? The prophecy is just so vague and you must have found something. something maybe worse than death even.” It’s like watching a big stone rolling down to hit a village - how could you let him hurt so much, maybe not knowing the truth is worse than the truth itself.

“You should stop. There is reason behind my decision to withhold it from even the rest of the heirs much less you.” Fingers squeeze around his before they retreat completely leaving them cold to the springbreeze. Leaves shake under Aquila's breath and you haven’t succeed in calming the blazing flame of the sun’s son. 

“It’s that bad? Does it mean the Flame-Chase will be fruitless in the end.” Blue eyes desperately search for reassurance in your own but you can’t - you can’t lie neither can you point him to the clear path your world strides on - and so you breath out the air in your lungs, your tongue moving on acord - a reflexive action one would fall under when a familiar melody, so entwined and etched into the brain, would play that it forced you to sing; “No. O Kephale no, but nova era’s face might differ from the mask we put on it.”

Have you been put under a spell? Have the golden treads found a way to squeeze out your heart and poison your mind? Quickly you stand up pained betrayal painted across your features. You are disappointed in yourself; How did you slip in a dance that grew so familiar over the years, one that is burned into your muscle memory? stupid. careless. “I’ve said too much. Excus me.” 

A hand stops you with a strong grasp around your wrist - of course the heir wouldn’t let you flee when he just cracked you. “Please don’t leave. Forgive me, I shouldn’t have pushed on but please don’t make our time together end so abruptly.” You turn back to face him again, those pleading  blue eyes have seemingly become your weakspot however you can’t seem to calm down. He takes your other hand hanging by the side of your hip, clapsing his hand around yours in a secure ball, thumbs massaging over the back of your hands, traveling up and down from your wrist to your fingertips. “I enjoy the presence of my savior beyond my mission to feed my curiosity.”

“Phainon of  Aedes Elysiae, I trust you know that the head priestess is off limits even to one of the heirs. Beside I thought I told you on multiable occasions to stop calling me your savior I was merely fullfilling my then duties as a maiden of the holy temple by patching you up that day.” Hot pink color adores his cheeks but he doesn’t stop touching you and you don’t fight against it when he pushes under your gloves, slowly peeling them off you, tracing shapes into your skin. 

“I know. But won’t you give me a chance before I inevitably lose myself to the role of a demigod? Or will you only be allowed to have me once I reach this status? Maybe a look in the future will assure you that I’ll surely succeed in this milestone set by the propehcy?” Phainon gulps down a big lump in his throat but his determination doesn’t falter, his longing overwhelms you and you don’t fully register your actions when you reach out to cup his face in your now bare palms - you’ll relish in this skin to skin feeling till your death bed. “We have time. If you truly long for my love it’ll stay with you even as a demigod, I’ll stay with you. Don’t rush dear delieverer, the worldbeares gaze is set on us two.” A gentle chaste kiss presses to his forehead, white lashes flutter close not daring to watch it end; deep down he knows he'll lose you to the prophecy or your stubbornness. 

“I don’t want to wait.” His hand finds the way to yours again, once more holding you in place. “You’ll live.” you chant, slowly slipping away. Even in the absence of physicality you know that mentally you’ll never be able to leave him, escape him because you have grown to miss his ways every night that followed your meetings in the gardens, his voice, his warmth, those eyes that never knew how to look in any other direction than yours. Titans you hope the rest of the maidens are always occupied enough not to observe the charming knight following you to all your favorite spots near the temple. 

“Tomorrow moring, once the first sunshine greets Okhema, wait for me by the gates. I always wanted to try the baths and what better opportunity than to enjoy the hot waters after a meeting with Aglea mhm?” Your form comes to sit again and you playfully hit him with your elbow as he collects your gloves from the ground, tucking them away into his coat. A sad smile is plastered across  his face - the kind that feels off, the kind that his face isn't sculpted with the purpose to do. "Yeah. I'll be waiting for you there.”

Pinky fingers brush against each other, ghost touches and unspoken promises linger in the air. “How about I escort you directly from the temple?” He grins wide like a cat, excited at his own idea, proud he came up with it. 

“ Oh I wouldn't dare to ask, you must be a busy person after all.” You try to throw the bait, hoping for more enthusiasm to come.

“Not all! I’d be honored to!” his fist connects with his chest and he somehow looks more like a noble knight than he did before. 

“ Why, if you insist, then I shall meet you here first thing in the morning. Goodbye, Phainon of  Aedes Elysiae until then.” You make your way back giggling girlishly - the kind that would be unfitting for a woman of your status and age. The man watches on, hexed by you and addicted to your sweet laughter.

.

.

As it has been for an eternity the sunny skies stay clear with only speeks of fluffy clouds ; it makes you want to thank the sky Titan in a prayer. Today you leave your chambers dressed more casual: a chiton cloth is wrapped over your head to your arm, silver jewellery compliments your simple choice, a bag hanging from the shoulder carrying your light toga for the baths. It was a hassel dressing searching left and right, down and up for your gloves only to remember that he still had them  - both the bareness and the reason for it leaves you a little bashful. How unbecoming of you. 

Amidst the many pillars the white haired hero is waiting, leaning his back against one of them,  practicing a nonchalant way to greet you. “Shall we get going?” Phainon flinches, surprised at your voice echoing through the still empty halls. “Y-yes! Of course!” 

He sticks out his arm for you to grab and you don't hesitate to indulge - it's just a polite gesture after all. On the way to the holy city you start to chatter lightheartedly; reminiscing your past together as two students of the Grove of Epiphany. “You really fought bravely for my attention.” “I might have made a fool of myself but it was worth it in the end, no? “ Yes, yes it was; nowadays you can't imagine a world without his presence in your life, appearing routinely to squeeze out the truth within the prophecy out of you but ending up spending the day casually like two friends. Maybe there is a possibility you failed to consider that could lead to your happy ending. 

Phainon is left by himself for at least an hour; the meeting with Aglea is successful yet leaves you in a sour mood. As usual he's waiting for you by doors already, noticing the little frown you wore. “Is everything okay? Should I go in and talk to Aglea for you? Bet if I vouch for you some more, she'll be convinced in no time.”

“No, that won't be necessary. I guess I just got a little sad with the matter at hand.” Phainons head tilts to the side as if he is a confused puppy and you observe as his mimic mirrors yours into an upset pouty face. “What was your discussion about then if you don't mind? “

“I, We, the Temple will have to move to the city. The black tide is too grave of a danger and not even the golden threads can guarantee our safety anymore. It's just such a shame to leave a place that is considered by so many souls as ‘home’, it's my home, always been. How am I supposed to break the news? This has always been a possibility yet this-“ a big hand comes down your shoulder; a quick flinch then reality frees you of the dark spots inside your mind. When did you start sweating? Shaking? And where has your breath gone? “Easy there. We'll find a way. Together. But today is all about your leisure so let's cast the worry for tomorrow and take that bath you wanted. It certainly always helps me unwind my nerves. " 

It's funny how the tables between you two keep turning; one second you are his comfort, the next second you're in need of his soothing words and small touches. “O-okay. You're right.” Fingers snake up your shoulder to find hold onto his solid form, in hopes that you could share some of his strength. “Together.” you repeat, you pray so that the weight of your responsibility seems lighter, even if just for the moment. “Together.” Phainon affirms squeezing your hand, guiding you slowly to the private bath area exclusively for the chrysos heirs. 

In between you slip away to change since you weren't as shameless as your companion to undress right in the middle of the room, in front of you. Eventually you reapproach his figure, deep into the hot waters already, back relaxed against the edge of the pool. Slowly you sit yourself down at the edge next to him, only allowing your legs to dip in. You let a surprised gasp when a head of white hair leans against the plush of your thigh followed by a satisfied sigh from his side. “How come that you never allow yourself to fully dive in even with the little things?”

Your fingers itch and twitch to run through his hair and scratch the back of his nape but you don't because you know better not to indulge, otherwise you might spiral down further. However you let him continue pressing his cheeks against your bare skin. “I tend to believe that it makes them so much better when I finally allow myself to.” He nuzzels his head so that his nose hits the side of your thigh, eyes closed in ecstasy. 

“But, for me to do that I'll need you to let me, my lord.” With two gentle taps at his head he lifts himself off you, looking up at you with those blue eyes like a cat that is offended that you have hushed it off your lap to do chores. Yet it doesn't just stop with an innocent glare, now you feel muscular arms wrap around you pushing you down into the water by force causing a big splash around you. 

“Phainon!” You exclaim going from clawing at him for dear life to slapping him across his chest. He laughs, satisfied with going through with his impulsive idea. “Well I just thought; why just let you when I can out right help you? “ His eyebrows wiggle funnily and his touch still lingers around your waist. “You're impossible.”

He doesn't move, you're trapped within the marine blue as he stares back intensely at you. “You're really pushing it today, aren't you?” 

“A little, yes. Can we hug properly at least?” his point finger taps in a rhythm against your waist, his eyes sparkling in anticipation as he switches left to right from his feet causing the water to move with him. “I guess, if it doesn't go beyond a hug.” With a swift move of your arm you pull him against you, pressed chest to chest, one of your hands guides his head against your shoulder and the other squeezed the upper back muscle. Phaninon needs a few seconds to steady himself from the surprise; he probably should've seen it coming but there was something devine and unreal about this moment - a moment in which you so rarely actively touched him back without him needing to balance the fine line you have set. Gently yet firmly his arms wrap around your form, his nose inhales the flowery scent on your neck which consequently earns a small yelp from you at the hot breath on the sensitive spot of skin. The two of you sway with each other,  neither wanting to let go, to let this moment fade into the passage of the past. 

Just when Phainon’s fingers turn wrinkly from under the water do you stop and decide to spend the rest of the day differently. You feel his gaze running up and down your form, hungrily admiring your naked legs just before you would disappear to change back into your casual clothing and you aren't much better either trying to memorize every hard earned muscle of his upper body. If someone demanded you to sculpt his statue you'd have no problem deciphering the placements of the many battle scars without the need of the model. 

Right at the entrance to the bath house Phainon is already waiting for you, conversing with an oddly clothed silver haired woman. Something unpleasant churns in your stomach when you watch the pair laugh with each other. Are you jealous? You shouldn't be after all Phainon isn't yours nor are you his - you don't owe each other anything of the sorts. Besides, it's unfair the way you get all possessive whilst being the one pushing him away from you. You should be glad Phainon is taking interest in others. 

To avoid being caught standing awkwardly and staring, you approach, trying to force on a little polite smile. “Ah! There you are, let me introduce you to one of the Travelers from afar. This is Stelle. “

She takes your hand gently pressing it against her lips as if you're a noble lady. “The galactic baseballer at your disposal miss.” Cheeks flushed you sheepishly  answer with your own name letting the trailblazer hold your hand in hers before remarking smugly; “Phainon wasn't exaggerating at all when he described how amazing you are. Maybe I'd even go as far as to say that he didn't do you justice.” You just might faint, burying yourself deep in the ground. Seriously you don't know what exactly has your heart racing more; that the handsome traveler who has become this world's hero seemingly overnight is showing interest in you or that the white haired heir is talking about you to others in such manners. 

“Oh my, you flatter me, Stelle.” Quickly you fan your face to get rid of the heat accumulating on your face making Stelle's grin grow prouder. “Well, a mission is waiting! Have fun you two! -but not too much fun. “ They shot finger guns at you two before sprinting off somewhere. 

“She really is something.” You watch her sprint with a finger to your lip, amused by the travelers strange antics. “Sure.” It comes out more monotone than Phainon would've liked to, a little salty and bitter even making you physically recoil at this unfamiliar tone of voice. Could it be that Phainon was being jealous too? It shouldn't surprise you since he is plainly obvious and direct about his liking towards you yet it stirs something in your guts nonetheless. 

Instead of consoling him with words or teasing him you decide to hook your arm around his, smiling assuringly;”Why don't you lead the way? Amphoreus must have more to offer than just baths I assume.” Though you doubt anything would beat the view of Phainon bathing.

“Yes! Of course!” He beams, warmth coursing through the atmosphere as if he were the sun and Titans your poor heart wasn't getting a break. Once more the moral hammer slams down your desires and the two of you continue on a stroll through the holy city. Every now and then your companion would point something out (mostly places he and Mydei have had one of their competitions, describing each fight in great detail. Though you doubt he was as often victorious against the crown prince as he claims. ) 

Like the gentleman he is Phainon escorts you back all the way but not until you two make a stop at one of spots claimed by the black tide on the outskirts to gaze upon the starry skies together. You try to rub the exhaustion out of your eyes smiling to yourself. “Thank you for the day. However I don't think you should become a city guide professionally any time soon. You're horrible.”

“You're so mean. I would do amazing.” Immediately you shot him a raised eyebrow watching his pouty face turn more thoughtful over time, really thinking about your current exchange. “T-though it wouldn't be a job I would look into in the first place anyway, I guess.”  and you start laughing at that. 

Lazily you let yourself fall into the comfort of the grass, petting the soil beneath in small motions, humming content to the song of the night. “Will I-” he plops down next to you, eyes on him, his hands over his chest, thumbs playing nervously. “Will I ever get to hold you the way I’ve always wanted?”

Is he trying to rip your heart out? Break its fragile porcelain shell and leave it to pieces? Ripping muscle tissues ring in your ears - something is torn, something is hurt. Is this path of pain really worth it to upkeep your sworn faith? To fight your inescapable fear? Something that seems so distant and abstract compared to the directness of the admiration towards the man you'd possibly even find loopholes to give into. The Titans have forsaken you, sending you the man who is prophesied to end up lonely and longing for more into your life. Tears stream down your face, a total opposite to the expression worn before. But why? Are you sad? Frustrated? The day has been so great, no? 

“Oh, Phainon. I don't know what to do anymore. What I want. What I should do. I just don't know. I really hope someday you will be able to.” 

. 

. 

Truth always finds a way, catching up to you as if you were prey, the stone on the clear path that makes you trip and fall flat on your face. It's embarrassing and you haven't even lied, only withheld it. Maybe silence wasn't gold after all. You stand on in the crowd of people still and frozen as Anaxagoras points his finger at you exposing that you could confirm his thesis that the world was a never ending cycle of reincarnations. However again you withhold the details only ever agreeing or disagreeing; the people don't need to know that their supposed savior has failed approximately 40 cycles before. They already know that your fortune isn't the future but your memories of the past that allow your foretelling, which is bad enough. 

Don't look at him. For the twentieth time you chew at the flesh of your lips, this time too hard making blood drip down your chin. You gulp down the metallic taste with the ball of salvia accumulating down your throat leaving your mouth dry. And yet nonetheless you find yourself looking at him anyway; he isn't looking back at you at all, seemingly finding the rest of his surroundings much more interesting than his professor's grand performance. 

Your silence is pardoned in the great scheme of democratic justice with a slap on the wrist compared to Anaxa's death sentence yet the process stays humaliting, degrading even, as you are forced to give up your title of a priestess in front of everyone to be rid of your sins. By then your head is buzzing and ears are ringing whilst you bite off the loose skin around your fingernails, dizzy from the situation, angry that all along you have always denied yourself the temptation to uphold some greater moral values only to be robbed in every direction. 

Titans, where are you even supposed to stay the night? You can't just go back to the place assigned to your sisters of the holy temple that you no longer are a part of. Your body shakes, the view from the garden of life gets blurrier by seconds and it can't be helped as you start to hysterically cry into your palms. Everything is lost; your title stripped, the friendly temple maidens now a distant fairytale, your dignity trampled on and him…

Oh, Phainon. It will take awhile till you’ll win him back. The yelps are muffled by your hands closing around your mouth tightly, back hunched to quell the ache in your belly. 

A big hand comes down your shoulder causing you to jump in surprise; “Oh I'm sorry I must have been crying so loud. I won't disturb any further.” The same voice you have grown to associate with the sunny days at the pond calls out your name in a quiet manner you'd use to soothe a startled animal. You recognize the blur of white hair in your vision and everything comes down crashing all over again, repeating small apologies in his direction. 

He pushes you against his chest wrapping his arms around you. “Hey, I’m not mad… maybe a little upset still sure -but I think you had enough unfair punishment for today, no?” He says with a sad smile, his fingers comb through your hair in great comfort and his grip around you doesn't flatter. The heir allows himself to bury his nose at the crown of your hair, his lips ghosting over your forehead. “I already asked Lady Aglea to prepare a room for you. You'll be just fine.” He pushes the small of your back, guiding you inside, his larger statue shielding you from the eyes of onlookers. Still you were sniffling, snot running down your nose and your eyes puffy and red from the crying. Every now and then you get a pitiful pat or rub on your shoulder. 

When he opens the door to your presumingly new temporary home you can't help but grab at his sleeve like a child looking for attention. “I know I'm not exactly in the position to ask but- can you stay a little longer?” You lightly tap away the liquids on your face with the bell sleeve of your free hand, trying to regain some dignity. 

“I wasn't planning on leaving.” black leather boots invite themselves in, letting the action speak for itself. Slowly not to cause more noise than you had done before you close the entrance door admiring both the nice interior and the man sitting on the bedding. “Thank you.” You stay there back pressed against the door, putting distance between you two. 

He stands up again taking a step closer but keeping the space you have created as it was - he wouldn't dare to overstep, waiting till you decided to cross the line you drew. His mouth opens but other than a surprised noise doesn't come to be as you dramatically half limp throw yourself into his arms. For a second you flinch at how hesitant Phainon seemed, hands only respectfully supporting enough weight that the both of you wouldn't come crashing down the ground but it lacked what the embrace during the baths had. And then finally as if he had read your mind he pulls you closer, holding onto you as if you could fade to dust any second, in need of being held together. But how could you judge his neediness when you both are so deprived of each other. 

A kiss to your forehead causes you to push out a content hum out your throath. Phainon tests it out again; kissing the tip of your nose making you chuckle quietly. Your finger hooks around the black choker on his neck pulling him down so you could peck his lips. 

“Do it again.” He commands as you pull back, only for you to slot your lips against his for the second time. And then a third, a forth until you urgently tap his chest. Phainon continues to look excited however there is a mixture of concern lying under. “What is it?” 

“I-I think we need to talk first. I want to make it right this time - tell you everything. There are some things that were left unspoken during the trial that you should probably know. It'd be only fair.” Nervously you twist whatever fabric you can grab from under Phainons armour in your fists, eye contact becoming increasingly hard to hold. 

“It's fine really. I mean whatever happened to ‘there is a reason behind my decision to withhold’? Besides, I think you had a point; some stones are better left unturned.” Phainon kneads the skin around your hips, tilting his head to find your eyes somehow. 

“You'll be okay knowing since Anaxa’s findings haven't scared you off much either.”

“But what if this will?” He's right, what if THIS will? You'd probably freak out if someone told you that you have lived through every existing cycle before as you do now and the woman you love is molded out of the memories of his past lover(s). It's weird, too confusing. Something you might read in a romance novel and sigh over dreamily however this isn't a book but the reality in which you two live. 

“Then let's keep it silent for now. Maybe the two of us need time processing the big bite of today's events before diving into the deep waters.” You're determined to one day spill it all out tell him how scared you are to lose him and your life to the prophecy, to be reshaped again with the world's memories and doomed to live for a tragic love story between you and the deliverer. From the first moment deep down you always knew there was no avoiding fate, death is as certain as the yearning in your heart for the loneliest man in the universe in every lifetime you are given. 

“Yes. Let's do that.” Phainon agrees playing with your hair around his finger, melting you away with his charming smile like a flame to a wax candle. 

You shake away whatever spell he had casted on you, pulling him into another kiss; much more intense, much longer than your little stolen pecks from before. It was his time to sigh pleased into your lips. When you pull away you don't even get to catch enough oxygen before the heir tilts your head at your nape slightly gripping into your hair to bestow you with an open mouth kiss, licking at your underlip for permission. 

Of course you give him whatever he wished, it'd be cruel not to at the moment. It's strangely intoxicating as the tips of your tongues press against each other and your lips move to an unheard rhythm, a rhythm no matter if it turned louder would be overwritten by the thuds of your heart slipping out your chest. 

Again you pull away after what both feels like eternity and mere milliseconds at the same time, slightly biting down at Phainons lips to bask in his small pants. “This won't be the last time we do this right?” You almost laugh at how desperate he sounds with those big round puppy eyes of his. “Titans I hope not. Someday you'll be the end of me but until then I'll let you hold me however you desire.”

He is the end of you and funnily your beginning too. You're a star, molded into perfection by his hands and you wonder what woman you'll be in the next life, if you'll fight tooth and nail against life to mayhaps someday reach your happily everafter or whether you'll give up and embrace the tragedy to live for the fleeting moments with your star crossed lover. For now you don't know, which leaves you to shoot wild guesses whilst putting your head on your favorite sturdy shoulders, breathing in the scent of mint and firewood. 

Today, this version of yourself selfishly decides that the tragic ending to your title and the breath of your lungs is a worthy price for love, for the man who'll feel the consequences the most. Like you must have done a million times before, you speak to make it reality, to make it the truth that can be traced back and its impact be felt from the outside too; “I love you.” you crave into stone, burn into his heart and tie the final knots of fate for another eternity. 

[hrrtshape]

(reposting this message because I'm worried it didn't reach you) dear emma, i could go on about how much i love your blog, how thoughtful and insightful you are, and all the kind things you absolutely deserve to hear (because you really do). but today, i’m coming to you with a selfish plea. consider this my confession. you’re the priest, and i’m stepping into the booth with my existential crisis. grab a cigarette, light a candle, or burn some incense because this is going to take a while to unravel. i've been a shifter since i was young. i've manifested countless times and shifted to better versions of my current reality. i even feel like i'm reliving this life because of all the déjà vu i experience constantly since I was little. but i can't seem to shift to a more "unrealistic" reality. and before you say “just assume you have” or “decide that you can,” please let me explain. even before i knew shifting existed, i was already doing it in my own way. at night i'd lie there imagining this whole elaborate world where my SO is literally my childhood friend who turned into this super controlling person who keeps kidnapping me and i'd hide under this magic blanket because i was basically a witch on the run, and it was my only protection because i had all these complicated feelings about him that i couldn't deal with. and it didn't stop when i got older either. i genuinely considered myself a fairy/witch while everyone else thought i was just being weird or whatever. i'd watch all these videos about getting ice powers like elsa or wings like the winx girls. i’d point to the leaves spinning in a tiny whirlwind and say that was me. i’d speak affirmations out loud, write them down, and end with, “so mote it be,” like a sacred ritual. i had this whole plan to open a little grocery shop in the middle of nowhere countryside. i even waited for an owl to leave my hogwarts letter by the window. and the thing is that there was no concept of limiting beliefs or doubts back then, so what gives? it wasn't pretend. i visualized EVERYTHING. i felt like i was actually there. i believed with every part of me. but… nothing ever physically happened. It still feels like such a letdown. what confuses me is that i know i have power. i’ve had prayers and manifestations come true. so when i learned about shifting in 2019, i thought: “this is it.” i listened to subs, i scripted, i read advice - i swear i've consumed every piece of shifting content that exists. but all i've been good at is manifesting better circumstances here. i know everyone's journey is different and it's all on me but like... what’s going on??? i guess what’s killing me is that i’m doing everything people say to do. i’ve been there, done that, got the t-shirt. i visualize, affirm, beg the universe or my higher self, shadow work, refresh shifting accounts obsessively, create my own methods and subliminals, half-ass techniques, let go, ignore the 3D, treat it like a game, live as if, restart my journey/mindset. i even tried shifting to a reality where i already am a master shifter. i acted like someone who’s done it a thousand times, revising old attempts and thinking, “that one didn’t work because of this specific reason, but it’s fine, i’ve got it now.” i tried to move like someone who had already figured it all out. sometimes i’d take full-on breaks from doing methods or even thinking about shifting. i would just live like i had already shifted or like i had come back from a visit like, “yeah, i just got back from my dr, and now i’m resting here for a bit.” i hoped that would make it click, like my brain would finally sync up with that version of me who has it all. but clearly, if that worked, i wouldn’t be writing this. and lately, i keep i keep circling back to the same thought: maybe there’s a reason i haven’t shifted. like i have some kind of mission here and am experiencing everything again for some important reason. things also always seem to get better, so it makes me wonder if that’s somehow keeping me from wanting it enough to actually shift to my dr/s.

sorry for this long vent session, i’m just really curious if any of this sounds familiar to you or if you have any theories or advice. like what do you think could be behind all this? if i need to reprogram my mindset, how am i supposed to do that? and how do i stay patient and keep acting as if when nothing seems to be happening? if anything comes to mind, i’m all ears. and if others want to chime in too, that would mean a lot. with love, angie

angie baby. i get it, believe me, i too had done every method, every mental gymnastics routine, i too had been the girl who made subliminals and then cried when they didn't work. so here's the real answer. stop waiting for proof. stop watching for signs. stop checking if you're close

so what do you do? you shift anyway. you don't wait for the click. you don't wait to feel ready. you pick a method, or none, and just do it. like brushing your teeth. affirm and mean it (i am there. i shifted. this is done.) and then go do something else. don't sit in the silence waiting for sparkles. go listen to music, fall asleep, stare at the ceiling

you've already done the hard part, you built the world, you believe it's real

[goodnighttheysaid]

distant morning.

title: distant morning

rating: T

pairing: frank langdon/you, frank langdon/reader (or abby langdon/frank langdon if you're into that)

words: 1672

warnings: reference to and discussion of addiction, angst

notes: inspired by this prompt. (full prompt list here.)

See the end for my indulgent author's note. 

⊰⊱⊰⊱⊰⊱⊰⊱⊰⊱⊰⊱⊰⊱⊰⊱⊰⊱⊰⊱⊰⊱⊰⊱⊰⊱⊰⊱⊰⊱⊰⊱⊰⊱⊰⊱⊰⊱⊰⊱⊰⊱⊰⊱⊰⊱⊰⊱

The clock is ticking, and there’s a far-off siren outside, and the water heater is clicking in the wall, and your heart is beating loud and unrelenting in your ears, and the world hasn’t stopped — not yet — but it still feels like it’s ending. 

His fingers won’t stop moving. He’s fiddling and tapping and it’s like all of the nervous, sickened energy that’s pent up inside of him is trying to spark out the ends of his fingertips. 

His chest is rising and falling, rising and falling, and that’s something, you think, but it’s still not enough. Because his breath is coming in too fast and hard, and he’s trying to control himself, and it’s barely working. And it’s a theft, is the thing — the way you can’t look at him now without wondering which parts of him belong to the addiction, and which ones are yours to have, and to hold. Because watching the steady rise and fall of his chest used to be the surest thing in the world, to you. And now it was a motion that churned at you, and left you unmoored. 

He might be talking — he’s probably still talking — but you can’t hear him. You’re underwater, the world an echoey hole — big and black and unending, just like the universe intended — and all you know for sure is that he can’t stop moving and you don’t know why you’ve never noticed it before. 

Why haven’t you noticed it before?

How could it be that this was happening, right there, in the spot beside you in bed every night, and you never knew it? How could he have been so hurt, so unwell, and you never realised?

How could he have gotten so good at lying to you, and when did that happen? 

How much of your life together has been a lie?

‘Can you say something, please?’

Frank’s voice is so small, and it’s such an oddity in and of itself that your body lurches at the sound of him, your eyes peeling from the blank spot on the wall they’ve been glued to for the past ten minutes while you tried to quell the tide in your eyes and the burning sick rising in your throat. 

What are you supposed to say? Is there anything that’s right, or enough? 

You want to know everything and nothing, both at once. You want this night to be over, but for tomorrow to never come. You want it to be the before, again — before it all — whenever that might be. Most of all, though, you just want to make it better. But how to do that or even where to start, you don’t know. And so, that’s the problem. 

‘When?’ Your voice doesn’t sound like your own, and Frank winces at the sound of it. 

‘When I hurt my back,’ He’s already said this to you — you can tell by the look on his face. But it doesn’t matter, because that’s not what you meant. ‘After I hurt my back.’

‘No,’ There’s a feeling inside you like motion sickness, and in a way, you suppose that’s apt — that the sudden, unexpected impact of your life coming crashing down around you might make you a little woozy. But when you shake your head — shake it harder and more with each new word that slips from his chapped lips — the world tilts, and you come crashing down with the rest of it all. ‘No…’

That’s not what I meant — those are the words you don’t get to say. There’s no space left for them in your mouth, no time between you catapulting up from the chair and it clattering to the ground, between you rushing to the kitchen sink and the wave that finally crashes over the edge of yourself, petering down the drain. 

You don’t mean to sob once you’re done and there’s nothing left, but still, you do. You can’t help it. And with it comes a moment — a jolt of Frank’s feet across the kitchen tiles, his hands opening and closing by his sides — and a choice. 

He wants to reach out to you, to try and make anything somehow better, and to reassure you with his touch. But the problem with that, is that he’s the one who caused this, and so he’s worried that it might be selfish — worried he wants it more than you, to gather you against the wreckage of himself — and you both know he’s had his fill of being selfish, come lately.

So in the end, he doesn’t. He just stands there instead, and looks at you with his big, wide, terrified blue eyes. He waits for you to pull away, to yell and scream and tell him to get the fuck out — to leave, and never come back. And in a way, no matter how much the thought of loosing you and your life together and everything that entails makes him want to let his legs finally go out from under him so that he can just sit on the floor and cry, despite himself, he makes the right choice. For the first time in a long time, he just does. Because it’s you, and amongst everything, he’s still him. 

What’s right is making sure you know he knows he’s fucked up, but that he wants to stay, wants to fix it all and then some. And what’s not, is forcing you to touch him or be close to him if that’s not what you want — not if the look in your eye that shines like fear, or the softness of your body lost in the rigidity of hurt, is anything to go by. 

‘When did you start lying to me about it?’ You wipe your mouth with the dish towel then throw it on the floor, the fluttering, cushioned impact of it deeply unsatisfying for all of the anger that pours out of you with the motion of it. ‘That’s what I meant.’

For the first time all day, since all of this started — since Robby in the locker room, and Santos everywhere, and Dana in the break room, and Robby again in the darkness — Frank doesn’t have an excuse. He’s not ready for the plainness of the betrayal and fear in your eyes, or the way he can see the love behind it all still, which should make him feel better but only serves to make his heart ache even more.

‘I—’ Frank starts, then stops, trying to think of the words for it. ‘I don’t…’ And those, the ones that spill from his arid mouth, aren’t the right ones. 

‘I thought I had it under control.’

But then, finally, his last words are the most honest he’s been with anyone in months, including with himself. Because he did think he had it under control. But this morning, he had a job and a purpose and a smile that he’d proudly put on your sleepy, beautiful face. And now, he had nothing. 

‘And do you still think that?’ 

The life had been sapped out of your voice, your being. You were slumped on your feet, the exhaustion and sudden devastation of the world a weight piled high on your shoulders. You were an echo of who you’d been only hours ago, and to Frank, that was a reality more harsh than maybe anything else that had happened today. Because, he’d hurt you. And long ago, when everything between you was still sweet and new, he’d made you a promise that he never would. 

There’s a part of himself that just wants to lay down at your feet — to tell you everything he’s done or thought, everything he could yet still do. He doesn’t want there to be any part of himself that you can’t see anymore, as if maybe the lightness of you shining on the darkness that was him, would help. But then, he thinks, telling you that he’d considered not coming home at all, tonight — whatever the shape of that might have been — would only hurt you more. And that’s something he just can’t stand, not anymore, even despite himself. 

‘No.’ He says the word, even if he doesn’t fully believe it, yet. 

He says it because it’s the right thing, and maybe, he thinks, if he just knows that — what the right thing is, and that he wants to reach for it — then he might not be as much of a lost cause as he feels he is.

‘So what are we gonna do about it, then?’

We — what are we going to do about it — the word, tiny and inconsequential in any other moment, is the thing that finally breaks him. And at first, all he can manage to do is look at you with wide, watery eyes.

At first, he’s sure he only wished the word into existence, but that you didn’t actually say it, not really. Because, how could you? How could there even still be a we after what he’s done? But then you don’t move, don’t falter, don’t leave him. You’re just you, there — as scared as he is, and as hollowed out and disbelieving, too — and when he falls, the floor finally meeting his knees, you’re there, too. 

You sit beside him on the cold, hard tiles, the wreckage of your life together mounted up around you like a sick and twisted fortress. And he wants to hold your hand, he wants to say the right words, he wants to turn back time, but impossible is so much of who he is now, and what counts will be what he can rebuild of himself in the face of it. 

So he has to earn your hand back in his, and he has to prove himself to deserve his job, and he has to commit himself to the hard work it will take to get it all back, and to keep what hasn’t already slipped though his sweaty, shaking fingers. And, he will. 

He will try, and he’ll meant it. 

note: I'm reluctant participant in fandom these days, but even just dipping my toe in, I've noticed a certain way people are talking about addiction in general, and as it relates to this character. But here's the thing —

Addiction is an illness, and anyone who has seen the suffering of it up close knows that amongst the confusion and helplessness, what is real — what feels like a salve on the open wound of it all — is empathy. The world is big and scary and anyone one of us can end up at the pointy end of it. And so oftentimes, the best we can do, for anyone, any time, is to give a little grace. 

Everyone is accountable for themselves, their actions and mistakes, but hardly anyone is beyond saving. And so considering the people around you with a little compassion — be them fictional reflections of what’s real, or flesh and blood at the end of your outstretched hand — ultimately costs nothing. And in the mess of it all, it really can make a difference. 

You're not too cool, too high and mighty or better-then, to be kind to people who are struggling. Because you will struggle — someday, somehow — and it will be then that you will understand, and wish for kindness and grace, too.

[plasticflowersinahistorycemetery]

⋆✮spn convention story time✮⋆

aka: the time i went to a supernatural convention and left with a new religion, five spinal readjustments from jared padalecki, and lifelong emotional damage.

i know, i know. y'all been waiting, and i've let you down, so for that i am so sorry. but i'm here now, ready to deliver. so strap (on heheh) in, and get a snack or something because it's time for me to tell y'all all about the con.

thursday: pilgrimage begins i rolled up to the birmingham hilton metropole like a tiny, caffeinated prophet dragging a suitcase full of outfits and deeply repressed feelings for sam winchester. while i was checking in (barely keeping it together), mark sheppard walked in behind me like the physical embodiment of sarcasm and sin. crowley himself. i peeked. i fled. i ironed my blouses like i was preparing for judgment day.

later, i went to the “newbie meetup,” which turned out to be the kindest little cult you’ve ever met. i got paired with kim, who instantly became my convention fairy godparent. they told me everything—con etiquette, survival tips, layout of the hotel, emotional buffer strategies. literal angel. castiel has got nothing on kim.

then someone named kaia pulled out a bag and said “lucky dip.” i pulled a tiny black duck with green eyes and a red handprint. they gasped. apparently i’d pulled the rarest duck of all—the dean duck. my very first duck. my precious. i gave it to kim, who didn’t have a dean yet after three years of attending. they were so touched they gave me a bracelet in return. i almost cried.

we played supernatural trivial pursuit after that. i wasn’t gonna join in at first, but slowly i started answering questions. before i knew it i was being dragged into the circle like i’d been chosen by god. turns out i know far more than i should. my brain is full of lore. i am a weapon.

at the end, kaia told me to look around the hotel for more ducks because they made sams, crowleys, castiels, and some others. i said that i gave my dean to kim because it's the only one they needed to complete the collection... kaia reaches back into their duck-bag... pulls me out their last dean duck and puts it in my hands, tells me that i am such a nice person for doing that, and that they can't let me leave without a dean.

after that, i went out for a cigarette. mark sheppard was outside. so was billy moran. i made a joke. mark laughed. i floated upstairs. this was just day one.

friday: initiation woke up to a text from kim. we went out for snacks and ice lollies like gremlins. came back to the hotel to find it absolutely heaving—registration had opened early. as a gold ticket holder i got to skip the queue (thank god), but kim didn’t. i waited with them anyway because loyalty comes before lanyards.

when i picked up my autographs, a staff guy told kim they could stick with me for the rest of the weekend because i was new and nervous and, apparently, adorable. free pass unlocked.

then came the gold/platinum table talks. we sat at round tables while the guests made their way around to chat with us for ten minutes at a time. we met:

⋆ mark sheppard (hell king energy) ⋆ ruth connell (ethereal) ⋆ julian richings (death personified) ⋆ matt frewer, lisa berry, samantha smith, alicia witt ⋆ and finally... osric chau, who i vibed with on a molecular level

we talked about insomnia, toddlers, bluey, and jiu jitsu. he said he didn’t believe i had a four-year-old. i told him i did. we laughed. he told me he watches bluey even after his nephews go to bed. i forgave him for being too pure. i hogged his time and honestly? i regret nothing. i went to bed floating.

saturday: ascension woke up at 6am. practically a lie-in. got showered, got dressed, and headed straight to my first op: osric.

as soon as i walked around the partition, he beamed and said “hey, it’s you! sleeping better without the four-year-old, huh?” i nearly died. we took the photo. i grinned so hard my face hurt.

then came ruth, who is genuinely too pretty for this earth. she looks like stained glass and fairy wine. she said hello and i blacked out.

then… the wait for jared. i queued for an hour and forty minutes. worth every damn second. when i got to the front, he looked down at my thigh tattoos and said “oh! those are so cool!” and i, like a complete idiot, said “you’re so cool.” he laughed. held out his arms. said “can i hug you?” i nodded. “yes please.” he hugged me like he meant it. i melted.

later, during autographs, he remembered me again. asked me about my tattoos. i told him one was for sam and one was for dean, and that i’d be a pretty useless meatsuit since a demon would have to take off both legs to possess me. he laughed.

then he said: “i hope they didn’t hurt too much.” and for reasons known only to god and my self-sabotage, i replied: “oh no, i’ve got a really high pain tolerance.” he made a face. you know the one. i wanted to die. kim tried to reassure me. i could still hear the face. i was haunted.

sunday: full possession woke up shaking. first op was mark sheppard, and i was shaking so bad he literally asked if i was okay. i said yes, like a liar.

next: misha. i asked, “do you mind if i stand the other side of you?” he smirked. smirked. gestured for me to come around. wrapped his arm around me. after the photo? he winked. i skipped out of the room. i was dizzy. misha winked at me. i needed to sit down forever.

then came jared, round two: redemption arc. i walked in. he smiled so wide. “it’s you again! how are you?” i took a breath. “i need to apologise for yesterday.” he tilted his head. “what for?” i said, “because i told you i had a high pain tolerance, and then spent all night thinking, why the fuck did i brag about that to jared padalecki?” he burst out laughing. told me, “you have nothing to apologise for! i thought it was funny!” then asked, “can i hug you again?” i nodded. he hugged me so tight my back cracked in three places. it was euphoric.

after that, we got more autos. osric chatted with me like we were old friends. asked about my job. i said tattooing and music. he asked where he could listen. i told him my insta. he said “follow me and message me.” i blacked out. he hugged both kim and i. we are now spiritually married. he also followed me back!!!!!

we watched "a good idea" live, and misha broke me. i laughed, i cried, i dissolved. he is a genius. i left my body again.

epilogue: i am not the same i left that convention with:

⋆ 6 photo ops ⋆ 7 autographs ⋆ 1 dangerously soft wink ⋆ an accidental pain brag ⋆ osric chau’s blessing ⋆ and confirmation that jared padalecki hugs like a chiropractor with a vengeance

if you’re thinking of going to a con: do it. be cringe. be weird. collect ducks. make friends. brag about your pain tolerance to your fave and then spiral about it. it’s sacred.

if you read all this: i love you. we are bonded now. see you at the next one <3

[glubglubgurgle]

bruised apples (CHAPTER 13-14)

reunion and rewards :3

CHAPTERS 1-9

CHAPTER 10

CHAPTERS 11-12

pairings: caleb/unnamed afab mc

tags: fluff and love, sex SEX SEX SEX, bjs, p in v action, fingering!, they're both switches and theyre both super desperate !! reunion sex, reward sex

word count: 6k

a/n: ending! i'll upload an epilogue tho :3 im really bad w endings bcs i have attachment issues but i hope this is okay TT also im still new to writing smut so pls be nice !!! enjoyyy

chapters 13-14 below!!!

chapter 13

“Caleb…” she gasped. Her face was pressed against the pillow while her hands gripped at the fabric besides her head. Her ass was up in the air as Caleb continued to mercilessly pound in and out of her. “It’s been…” She let out a moan as he continued to hit her at an angle with his cock. “...five times…how is this even possible…?” Her right hand moved to her mouth, as if she was attempting to hold back her noises.

Caleb instantly grabbed her hand and put it behind her back, “I can’t…help myself. You look so pretty for me.” He grunted. His worries of being a one-pump-chump dissipated as he magically gained the stamina and strength to go for over an hour. “Don’t bother holding your pretty sounds back either, you don’t wanna hurt my feelings now, do you?” His left hand reached underneath her to play with her clit as he continued to go in and out of her. “Can’t you come one more time for me, baby? I wanna feel it again…just one more time…I promise.” He had been promising the same thing the past two times,  but he was sure he was going to pass out soon. He couldn’t help himself. He didn’t know if he was making up for lost time or making sure they both had enough memories for the next few weeks that they wouldn’t be together. 

Both, he thought.

“I’m going to kill you…once we’re done. So help me god…” She stuttered out. Despite her words, she pushed herself back onto him to meet his thrusts. The knuckles gripping onto the sheets turned a paler color, and her breath quickened. 

“Fuck…” Caleb’s breath hitched as she moved with him. “Your words are so mean, yet you’re still being so good for me.” The pace of his fingers turned faster as he felt the familiar pressure around him. “I’ll be done after this last one, I promise it this time…” He leaned down to lick a stripe up her back towards her ear. “I just want all of you to remember me.” He whispered to her as he came with her. Caleb was sure nothing was coming out of him anymore, but he pulled out regardless. Even though he already finished inside her the first time, he just didn’t know how birth control really worked and how much of him it could really handle.

He collapsed beside her as they tried catching their breath. He felt sticky and sweaty. The room’s air was thick and warm. Nonetheless, he was in a pure state of euphoria. His legs felt like jelly and he was seeing stars, but he got up on his feet to grab a towel and water for the both of them. 

She threw a weak punch at his leg. “Once I get the energy again…I’m going to kill you.” She mumbled against the pillow. “I’m so tired.” 

He chuckled, kneeling down by her face. “Was it good at least?” He held her hand in his and kissed her knuckles. “You can lie all you want, but I felt you.” Caleb said, smirking. She turned her face to the other side to hide her reaction, eliciting another breathy laugh from him. “Stay awake just a bit longer, we need to rehydrate.”

“Hold on.” She said, pushing herself up from the bed before raising her arms to Caleb. “I need to pee.” 

He carried her bridal style into the bathroom, her head slumped against his chest. He pressed a kiss to the top of her head before setting her down on the toilet. “I’ll get us water while you do your business. Do you want to take a bath or…?” He asked.

She shook her head. “Later.” And then pushed him away.

While she was in the bathroom, Caleb wiped himself off with a damp rag and drank water. He put on bottoms before grabbing one of his shirts to give to her. “Are you done yet?” He called out to her before pushing the door open. He found her slumped on the toilet. 

“I’m so mad at you, right now.” She muttered, still awake. 

Holding back his laugh, he knelt down in front of her and flushed the toilet. He then slipped the shirt onto her, before grabbing the wipes beside the toilet. Caleb lugged her over his shoulder like a sack of rice and cleaned her up, making her twitch under his touch. He was surprised there wasn’t any argument coming out of her as he walked her back to the bed. He gently laid her back down on the bed as he went over her exposed body with a new damp rag. “I’ll be more gentle next time, Pipsqueak.” He said, moving the hair stuck on her forehead. He could’ve sworn there was a flash of disappointment in her eyes, but he didn’t dwell on it. “Now get up and drink water, and then we can sleep in.” 

-

He woke up, sore all over. He never experienced the ache he felt in his private area. Caleb wasn’t sure if was going to ever recover. He stretched his arm out and grabbed his phone from the nightstand to check the time. He managed to sleep in until eleven in the morning, something he hadn’t done since he was in middle school. Caleb was always up early in the morning to prepare the day for everyone in the house. 

He looked beside him to find her snoring in her sleep. He wanted to let her sleep longer, but he also wanted to spend more time with her before she had to go home later that day. He traced her facial features softly with his fingertips, tucking stray hairs behind her ear. Caleb then moved the hair that covered her neck to look at the damage done from their night of fun. He admitted to himself that he went too far with marking her. And this was just from what was visible from the shirt. He knew there was much more underneath. Despite it looking a bit alarming, multiple reddish-purple splotches around her, he couldn’t help but smile. 

“Stop staring at me.” She mumbled, peeking at him with one eye. “You’re buying me a new concealer, by the way.” She scooted closer to him, wrapping an arm around him and nuzzling her cheek against his chest. “Do I have to go home today?”

Caleb frowned. “Maybe you should just drop out and I can hide you here until I graduate, yeah?” He was only half-joking in his heart. If she agreed, he would have made the call to her school in the following second. He would have gone on apartment finders and applied to three jobs to be able to pay for a home for her. 

She sighed, “How about YOU drop out and come back home with me. You can be a househusband and I can be the Hunter breadwinner.” 

His heart swelled with the word husband. He thought he was the only one who was thinking that far ahead. Ever since he knew that she was the one he wanted to marry, he had the wedding venue, menu, and children's names already listed in his mind. “Anything you want, Pipsqueak.” He kissed the top of her head. 

His phone began to ring. Gideon’s name and face was plastered on the screen and he answered, rolling his eyes. “Hey, she’s going home today, right? Do you wanna take her to that soup place near the train station? My treat.” 

“Soup?” If her ears could, Caleb swore they would have perked up like a dog hearing the word ‘treat.’

“Yeah, soup sounds good. Meet at the gate around one?” Caleb agreed.

“See you.” And Gideon hung up.

Caleb set his phone down and wrapped his arms around her, squeezing her closer to his chest. “Now that you’re mine, I don’t know how I’ll let you go this time.” There was a little sting in his eyes, as he thought about how much emptier his bed was going to feel. 

“Just do your best to come back to me as soon as possible. I’ll be patient if you will.” She mumbled against him. “Now let me sleep a little longer, just keep holding me.”

-

At the restaurant, they all ordered the same thing since it was what the restaurant was known for. Once they received their bowls, Caleb made a face towards the piled up cilantro. 

“So, what did you think of Skyhaven?” Gideon asked as he passed her the sauces.

“Campus is cool. Your guys’ dorms look really sick. I’ve heard horror stories about the dorms at Linkon U so I wasn’t sure what I’d walk into.” She nodded. She then reached over with her chopsticks to Caleb’s bowl, picking out the cilantro to move to her bowl. “I had a lot of fun at the shooting range, by the way. Thanks for letting me come!” She smiled at him as she continued to clear out every leaf from his bowl.

Caleb felt warm inside because of her thoughtfulness. He always knew that she was as caring and genuine as she was pretty, but just the fact that he was finally able to call this angel his was making him blush.

“Yeah about that…how did you do that?” Gideon asked her, dumbfounded. “I’ve been shooting there since the beginning of the semester but you outscore me on your first time?”

She shrugged, mixing up her soup before taking a bite. “I feel like it was just beginner’s luck. I hope it continues to be good in the future though.”

“Oh, Pipsqueak. When do you hear back from the Hunter’s Academy?” Caleb asked.

“Next month, I think. I’m terrified.” She shuddered. “I don’t know what I’d do if I don’t get in.” She let out an exasperated sigh before taking another bite.  

Caleb reached over to take her free hand under the table. “They’d be stupid to not let you in, Pip. Don’t worry too much.” 

“Yeah, with that shot. You’re definitely gonna do great.” Gideon agreed. 

Gideon finished first and had to go back to school for another club meeting. “It was really nice meeting you, I didn’t appreciate the whole bed incident but…you’re cool. Hope to see you again soon.” He said to her, making her turn red, before waving his goodbyes.

The two of them continued to eat, slowly. As if to savour the time left they had together before she had to go back to Linkon. A comfortable silence settled between the two. Stolen glances from each person, fingers still interlocked under the table. 

chapter 14

Although it was a rough transition, they were able to survive the time apart from each other. Caleb normally waited for her to call first, but as time went by and his patience became thinner from the distance, he ended up being the one blowing up her phone. She had random crying spells when he was unable to come home for the weekend and Gideon had to always talk him out of dropping everything to go see her. 

The first week was the hardest because once she returned to school, they both realized that she never reached out to Eric. She came home that Monday frantically ranting to Caleb with how awkward it was. Thankfully for her, and thankfully for Caleb’s temper, they coincidentally had a seat change the following week. Caleb wondered if he’d ever tell her that about the phone call he made their grandma make to her teacher, but he thought it wasn’t necessary. 

He was finally able to go back home a month later. He made sure that weekend was free for her, because it was the weekend that her results came out to see if she made it into the academy she wanted. Caleb was sure she was going to make it, but the days leading up to the decision, she was irritable and nervous. Caleb knew that even if she didn’t make it into the academy, he would work two jobs to keep her comfortable during the gap. He just wasn’t worried because even though she could come off as clumsy, she’s hardworking and smart. It’s what he admired about their relationship. The fact that he felt like she still needed him to protect her, yet of push comes to shove, she’s fully capable herself. One of his big flaws is that he has a hard time showing it to her, which may have led to her being more irritable. Caleb has always treated her to be softer than she actually is, which could have led to her lack of confidence. He couldn’t help but be protective of her. 

Caleb secretly didn’t even want her to be a hunter, fully. He wants her to follow his dreams, but knows what the job entailed. Even as strong and smart as she is, casualties still occur. And he knows that she felt the same about him and his dream. He just hoped that the luck he had received from being close to her in this lifetime, would stretch out to protect the two of them for a long while. 

On his way home to her, he picked up a bouquet of her favorite flowers and her favorite drink. He prepared his speeches for either scenario of her getting in or not. He had no reason to be nervous, yet her emotions made him a wreck. His palms felt sweaty holding the bouquet and his chest felt tight. Yet the moment he saw the front of their home, every weight left his shoulders because he was back home: her.

He walked in to find Gran preparing to leave the house. “Oh thank god you’re here. She’s in her room constantly refreshing that page. I would stay…but honestly she’s been scary this past week. I’m going to the mountains this weekend…I trust you to take care of her.” She held up her suitcases and patted him on the arm. “I know she’s going to make it in, I’m not worried…I do worry about you, though. Be careful.” She gave an apologetic smile and then went on her way. 

Although it was a bit weird for Gran to leave on such an occasion, it was no surprise that she was heading up the mountain. It’s been a common occurrence ever since the two of them were able to stay at home alone. Caleb just shrugged it off and set his own luggage by the front door before walking to her room.

Her door was closed and he knocked before walking in. Her eyes were still glued to the screen, refreshing every now and then. “Babe?” Caleb called out softly so as to not scare her.

Her head turned around quickly enough to concern him. Her eyes were wide and she instantly got on her feet to walk towards him, wrapping her arms around him. “Caleb…” Her face nuzzled into his chest as he reciprocated the hug as best as he could with full hands. “I missed you.” She rested her chin on his chest to look up at him. “Thank you for coming.” She said, smiling. Eyebags were present under her eyes, yet they still twinkled when they met with him. 

She was in a nightgown that he had never seen before. It was silk with spaghetti straps and the neckline hung low enough to display her cleavage. The dress stopped right above mid-thigh and had a slit on the side. He wanted to be shocked but was too enamored by her presence itself  in front of him.

Caleb couldn’t help but lean down to kiss her. Something he had been craving for weeks while watching her talk through his screen. He kept it short and sweet because if he went any further, he knew he would not have been able to stop. He pulled away and smiled at her, backing up far enough to show her his presents. 

“Hehe, thank you.” Her mood seemed to have perked up as she saw and she instantly grabbed the two before going back to her desk. Taking a sip of her drink, she promptly refreshed her page. 

“Do you know the time window they release the information?” He asked, walking behind her. He softly placed a kiss on the top of her head, inhaling the scent of her.

She sighed, “Maybe in the next hour? But I’ve seen online that sometimes they release it an hour earlier or an hour later.” Her knee bounced up and down from being anxious. 

His fingers played with the strap of her nightgown. “Is this new?” Curiosity filled his head as he was finally able to fully look at her. The dress rode up her thighs as she was sitting down, making Caleb feel all sorts of things.

She smirked up at him, raising her eyebrow. “Wondering who bought it for me?” She joked, instantly earning an angrily confused look from Caleb. Laughing, she rolled her eyes. “You’re too easy…I bought it a while back, but I just felt like wearing it today.” She shrugged, turning her attention back to the computer screen. 

He pursed his lips, humming an acknowledgement. Nodding, he said, “Let me change and then I’ll wait with you here.” He didn’t want to sit on her bed with the clothes he had been sitting on in the train so he went to his room. Things seemingly untouched until he opened his closet. He chuckled softly realizing that a lot of his hoodies had gone missing. 

The images of her wearing his hoodies made his head spin. He wondered if she wore it out in public, or even while she was at home. If she wore them while she slept when she missed him. And if she had anything underneath while she wore them. 

He bit his cheek trying to break himself out of his indecent thoughts, wanting to be pure and present for her while she stressed through the decisions. He also did not want to come too forward to her physically, afraid that she’d get an idea that that’s all he wanted from her.

He wanted every part of her, but he didn’t want to give any idea that it was only for physical needs. Caleb wanted to hold himself back until she made the move first. He was having a harder time than he realized so he opted to take a cold shower. 

With a clean towel and change of clothes, he walked by her room to announce his new plans before stepping into the bathroom. Even the shower wasn’t working for him. Each time he would try to think different thoughts, flashbacks of her underneath him and visions of her in his clothes overtook each and every one of them. 

Caleb sighed in defeat, exiting the shower, still half-hard. Her existence and their distance apart for a month was impossible to take care of on his own. He just hoped he was strong enough to get through the next couple of hours without pouncing her. After drying his hair with the towel, he wrapped it around his waist to steal her skincare. He didn’t really care to have his own routine, but he always loved the smell of her face whenever they kissed, he couldn’t help but use the same moisturizer to mimic it on himself. While he was rubbing it on his face, the door opened up, bumping into him. 

“Pipsqueak? Did something happen?” He stepped back to let her in. His face felt warm from being in just a towel, despite having been seen fully naked before. 

She peeked her face in, a wide smile plastered on face. “I got in!” She jumped up and down, hopping up to wrap her arms around his neck. “I got into the academy!” 

He was filled to the brim with happiness and pride. He lifted her up by the waist and spun her around, setting her down on the bathroom sink counter after a few laughs. He rested their foreheads on each other, smiling. Tears spilled out of her eyes, and he brought his thumb up to wipe them away. “I’m so proud of you, baby. I never doubted it for a second.” He kissed her tears away and looked at her with pure amazement. “You have worked so hard for this and I know you’ll keep doing your best. You’re a strong woman, and I am so happy to be able to call you mine. Soon-to-be world’s greatest hunter.”

She held onto his face, smiling ear to ear, before pulling him into a deep kiss. When she pulled away, Caleb could see there was a hint of worry in her eyes. “When I’m at the academy, and you’re also at your academy…we’re both going to be busy.” She stated, her words laced with uncertainty.

He brought his hands up to hold hers on his face, “And I will wait as long as I have to. No amount of time apart will ruin what we have. I promise.” He nuzzled his cheek into her hand, reassuring her. 

“You can’t find someone else at your academy.” She pouted up at him.

He smirked. Her jealousy lit something inside of him. He knew that if he thought about the opposite scenario, he would go absolutely insane. But he found it cute when she was jealous. “You worried, honey?”

There was a slight shiver that he barely noticed from her. 

“Do you like it…” He leaned in closer to her, tilting her chin up with his right hand, “When I call you that…honey?”

A smile grew on her face, a mischievous smile. “Uh-huh.” Her hand trailed down from his face, down his bare chest, and then sat on his cock, growing through the towel.  “Are you gonna give me my reward yet, or does your honey….have to beg for it?” 

Caleb’s face turned red. He’s always surprised by her dominance and confidence, it made him fold like a paper airplane. A nervous chuckle bubbled out of him and his knees wobbled. “What reward do you want?” He tilted his head, nuzzling his nose into her neck. “Tell me, please.” He ended up being the one to beg.

Her fingers rubbed on the tip of his covered cock, making him grow even harder in her hands. “Maybe I will…Take me to bed first.” Her fingers went from his bulge over to his hip and unraveled the towel around him. “Oops…” She feigned innocence. 

Caleb’s dick stood straight up in the air, the draft from the open bathroom door prickled his bare skin. Even though she had already seen him naked, he was still embarrassed being seen in such a brightly lit room. Once he regained his composure, he got closer to her to wrap his arms around her waist while her legs locked around his. Her arms linking each other around his neck as he scooped her up from the counter. He was expecting his dick to meet her underwear, but instead was met with slick bare skin. His breath hitched. “Are you not wearing underwear…?”

She giggled, nestling herself closer to him. Sinking herself a little further down to rub against him. “I guess I forgot to,” she tilted her head, peppering kisses up his jaw to his ear. “Hurry, please. Can’t you tell how impatient I’m getting?” A small whimper escaped her lips right into his ear as she rubbed her naked sex on his cock. 

His grip around her waist tightened as he felt her attempt to push him over the edge, mentally. He wanted to stop her hips from moving, because he knew that his control was nowhere near pristine after being away from her for a month. “Pip, please. If you keep doing that, we won’t—I won’t make it to the bedroom.” He corrected himself, trying to put all his focus on not coming on the spot. He freed his other arm to turn the bathroom lights off and then walked across the hallway into her room. 

Caleb wanted to set her down more gracefully onto her bed, but his own impatience was getting to him. As he plopped her down onto the bed, her slick folds wrapped over his dick for a split second as she slipped off of him, making Caleb hiss. 

Her hair was splayed out on her pink sheets. Her legs were spread apart, the nightgown ridden all the way up to her hips, exposing every crease and crevice to him. Glistening with sweat and arousal, it made Caleb salivate. “God, you’re so pretty…” He leaned down, getting on the bed by holding his weight with his arms. 

She tutted at him, “Nuh-uh.” She propped herself up with her elbows and used her left foot to push him away slightly. “Isn’t this my reward?” She asked, cocking her head at him. “You had your way last time, Caleb.” Pouting at him, she moved to the side of the bed and patted the spot next to her. “It’s my turn now. Lie down.”

Caleb was nervous and impatient. Yet her being in charge made him even hornier. He couldn’t tell if he liked being under her control or the idea that her being in charge really showed how much she wanted him. Whenever he was around her, it was hard to keep the confidence he normally had. Every bit of resolve he had faded to dust when he was in this state of vulnerability with her. And when he was able to take control, he felt like it was some completely different person taking over him. 

He lied down beside her like he instructed, and leaned towards her face, wanting a kiss. She seemingly obliged, bringing one of her hands up to his face to guide it closer to him, only to nuzzle their noses together. Stopping right before their lips touched.

A small whimper came out of Caleb as she pulled away, making her smirk as she pushed him flat down to the bed. She swung herself over his legs, her warm heat hovering right above his shins. “You didn’t let me do this last time…” Her eyes were wide as she wrapped both her hands around his cock, her elbows resting on his thighs. 

“Baby…please.” His hips bucked into her hands, attempting to relieve some sort of pressure. Her touch was soft like feathers and was nowhere near enough.

She dropped one of her hands onto his hips to keep him from moving, “Wasn’t I so good for you before? Can’t you do the same for me?” She furrowed her brows at him. 

Caleb was a bit worried as to how she looked and felt so confident, but when he took a closer look at her, he could see the slight hesitation and embarrassment after she said some things. He wanted to chuckle at how cute she looked but the heat in his lower stomach and all the blood rushing to his dick made it hard for him to do so. He nodded, attempting to keep himself in check as she moved her fingers up and down his length. 

Moving her hair to one side, she leaned down to lick a stripe on his tip.

Caleb groaned in her hands. “Fuck…” He wasn’t sure if she allowed it, but he propped himself up onto his elbows so he could watch her do what she wanted to.

While making eye contact, she dipped the tip of her tongue on his leaking slit, teasing and tasting him. Caleb’s moans and whimpers seemed to have egged her on, her eyes widening with curiosity. She continued to lick his tip, hesitant yet explorative. The hand that was on his cock was gripped at the base, her thumb curiously moving around. And then she opened her mouth wide, taking in his length. 

Caleb dropped his back to the bed again and threw his head back. Gripping at her pink sheets, he attempted  to keep himself from grabbing her head or thrusting into her. “Oh my god, baby.” His other hand raked through his still-damp hair. “I know…you just started but I don’t think I’ll last…You’re driving me insane.” As much as Caleb wanted to watch her, he was taking all of his willpower to not come inside her mouth without any warning.

She attempted to fit more of his length into her mouth, her other hand pumping him from his base to cover what she couldn’t. A few pumps and she pulled her mouth away, breathing heavily. “You’re so big…I can’t fit it all.” She pouted at him.

He peeked at her through his fingers, her pupils blown wide and her face was desperate. She placed kisses on his tip, moving it towards her with her hand. He pushed himself forward, taking the hand from his face to comb it through her hair. “You’re being such a good girl already, you don’t have to…” His thumb caressing her cheek. 

“I want to.” She mumbled against his tip, her words vibrating on it. “Guide me…even if I choke a little. Let me take you.” She gave him puppy dog eyes, thumping his tip on her lip, making him flinch in her hands. 

“Honey…I’m not going to last.” He was desperate to trade places now, desperate to make her feel good first. 

“Just try but I don’t mind…” She looked away sheepishly. “If you finish in my mouth, I mean.”

His dick twitched in her hands and she opened her mouth to take him in again. His fingers still raked through her hair. “Fuck. Please, baby…” He groaned. A string of moans and her name with other praises spilled out of his mouth as he softly moved her up and down his own cock.

She moaned as she took more, making him vibrate in her mouth. And he knew he was a goner. “I’m gonna…” He announced, trying to pull her off of him, but she gripped onto his thighs and kept her mouth on his cock as he came. 

Curses and praises came out of Caleb’s mouth as he emptied himself in her mouth. Both his hands held onto her head. As if he was afraid that if he let go, he was going to ascend into the deepspace. 

She pushed herself up slowly, her lips still tight around him. He let go of her head, letting her sit back up. Her lips shut, attempting to keep everything in before swallowing. The scene being completely euphoric to Caleb, he didn’t let himself catch his own breath before moving up to grab her face into a kiss. He could taste himself but he didn’t care. 

Once they pulled away to catch their breath, she looked at him with a smirk. Her hands reached up to wipe the tears from his eyes. “You’re crying again.”

Caleb turned red, burying his face into her chest. “I can’t help it…you feel too good.” His hands roamed up and down her thighs that were straddling him. Resting his chin on her breasts, he looked at her with pleading eyes, “You’re trying to make it harder for us to be apart.”

Her hand held one of his, guiding it under her dress to her heat for him to touch. Biting her lip, she shook her head. “Giving you more of an incentive to make it home to me, safe.” She pushed one of his fingers into her own entrance, groaning at the slight stretch. “Can’t you feel how much I need you, Caleb?”

He nodded, slipping another finger into her leaking hole. He scissored his two fingers in and out to be able to fit another as he watched her face scrunch with pleasure. His cock still hard and leaking even after he just came. His stamina reignited once he heard his favorite words. “Say it again…say you need me, please?” His free hand slipped down one of her straps to droop one side of her dress, so he could lick her nipple. He felt her shiver and tighten around his fingers. 

She moaned, her hands gripping his shoulders. “I–hnghf…I need you, Caleb.” She lifted her hips up and down to meet with his own hand movement, pressing her chest into Caleb’s mouth. Whimpering, she said, “I need you so much…everyday. I always need you.” She threw her head back, saying his name like a mantra in between whines and moans. 

Releasing her nipple from his mouth, he cursed as he watched the scene unfold on top of him. He curled his fingers inside of her, earning a yelp from her. “You’re driving me…fucking insane.” He groaned, growing rougher with his movements inside of her. “Come on my fingers. If you need me that much, come for me.” He commanded. His free hand kneaded her boob, the thumb moving in circular motions around her hard nipple. “Please, baby. I need you to mean it.”

She nodded, unable to form words as he continued to mercilessly go in and out of her soaking hole. His thumb rubbing on her swollen clit as he curled his other fingers inside of her. “I do…I mean all of it–Fuck!” She had an iron grip on Caleb’s shoulders as she rode out her orgasm on his hand. 

“You’re so fucking pretty, baby. I need you on my cock, please? Can you be a good girl now and take me?” His tip was as red as his ears. “I’ve been good for you, haven’t I? Please, I want to feel you.” He left no room for her to breathe after her own climax out of complete and utter desperation. 

Breathing heavily, she pulled his fingers out of her by his wrist. Then she scooted forward to hover herself over the tip of his cock, reaching down to move it up and down her dripping folds. “Say you love me…” She panted.

His breath hitched as his hips jerked upward. “I love y-”

Before he even finished, she slammed herself down his cock, instantly bottoming out with a squelch. The two groaned loudly in unison. “Oh my fucking god, you’re so big.” She tilted her head downward to crush their lips together, a kiss driven with hunger.

Caleb thought he died. The pleasure was searing hot throughout his whole body and his vision turned white as she took all of him in. He could barely kiss back. She took his tongue into her mouth, sucking on it like it was his cock a few minutes ago. He knew that if he wasn’t in such a state of bliss, he could have passed out. His hands gripped at her hips as she bounced up and down his length at a steady pace, assisting her. He pulled away from the kiss, keeping their lips touching as he praised her. “You’re so good to me…You’re so perfect…” He grunted as he felt her tighten around him. “I fucking love you..”

“I love you, Caleb.” She whined into another kiss. “Oh god, I’m gon-”

Her hips slowed down as he felt the familiar tension inside of her. He leaned back on the bed so he could fuck into her, “I know, baby…let go for me, I got you…I always do.” He groaned, taking control as she came on his cock. “You’re so perfect for me, like you were made for me.” He spewed, continuing to thrust into her.

She fell forward, her hands on his chest as he plowed into her from underneath. “Just for you…” She stuttered out as she spasmed with her orgasm.

Caleb flipped the two of them over so that he was on top, his cock still inside of her. “You can keep going, right? We have a lot of lost time to make up for.” He smirked, looking down at her, thrusting into her.

-

Caleb lost count of how many times he came that night. She was fast asleep in his arms as he rubbed circles on her arm with his thumb. As exhausted he also was, he wanted to admire the scenery in the moonlight. A scene that made him think he was in a world where it was just the two of them.

He was still in awe that he was deserving of such a life. What he once thought was a hopeless unrequited love, became the greatest real life fairy tale. Despite the small bumps in the road of their future, he knew that with her by his side, they’d get through anything.

[21wanderer]

Secrets (Part 3 of 4)

Part 1 - The Prelude

Part 2 - The First Project The new week started, and I was back at school, everything seemingly like the week before.

"Hey Damien, thanks for driving me home from the party," Lucas said completely oblivious. I smiled innocently, trying to hide my feeling of guilt, but Lucas seemed to be completely unaware of the whole thing, so it seemed like I could relax. "It was no big deal," I replied. "Yeah, I'm not exactly sure what happened, usually I can handle it… Maybe I didn't eat enough that evening or trained too much the day before, but anyway, thanks for being there," Lucas responded and went back to his seat. As my gaze followed him as he got back to his chair and continued to joke around with some of the others, I couldn't help feeling… something, excitement?

I envied Lucas and his body, but the very fact, that I had a copy of his skin, stashed away at home was surreal, if not outright unbelievable. I could look like him if I wanted - I really could. And looking around at my classmates… I could become any of them too… and honestly, I was quite eager to play around some more with the BodyPlast, and I already knew who to use it on.

Still for the time being I had to lie low - I wouldn't risk arousing too much suspicion, and I probably would, if I drove a new unconscious guy home every weekend. There was still a whole school year in front of me, but this was the last one, so by the end of next summer I had to be done. I couldn't believe I was trying to rationalise this, and yet here I was. The Lucas-suit had been stashed away in my room, I hadn't dared to wear it for the fear of my parents walking in on me, it remained hidden and secret, but soon it would get company.

I had waited three months before I attempted making my second suit; Kevin.

Kevin had dyed his hair striking platinum blonde, and while it did suit him, I didn't want my BodyPlast replica having that hair colour, fortunately by the time I dared taking action his hair had almost reverted to its original dirty blonde.

Guilt-ridden I watched Kevin slowly collapse, and once more I could present myself as the reliable and responsible designated driver, and shortly after I had brought Kevin to my house, had him stripped and laid on the floor so I could add the miraculous mixture.

This time I coated the entire body with the exception of the head. The vibrant pink colour began to fade as I waited, holding my breath. Kevin was not as muscular or athletic as Lucas, but his body was still toned, and I marvelled as the BodyPlast took his exact appearance. Peeling off the suit was surprisingly easy, I could stretch the area by the neck wide enough to get both Kevin's shoulders free at once. It was almost like a wetsuit, and I was at a loss for words, when the skin slid off his feet and I held it up in front of me. But I wasn't quite done yet, carefully I painted Kevin's face with the BodyPlast and dipped his hair in it. In fifteen minutes I had a perfect imitation of Kevin's face.

Checking the time, and carefully listening for any footsteps from outside, I began to tidy up, I needed to get rid of my equipment, the BodyPlast skin and get the real Kevin dressed and home safely. The rushing frustrated me, but the more time I spent, the higher the chance of something going wrong. Once I had Kevin delivered to his parents' apartment, I headed down the stairs. But just before I exited the building and wandered back into the night, I stuck my hand in my pocket and pulled out the freshly made Kevin mask and slipped it on.

[lune-moon-nuit]

Up until recently I’ve headcannoned that both Will and Mike realised they loved each other romantically in the end of s3 when Will leaves Hawkins, but then i started thinking that maybe Will realised the night he destroyed Castle Byers…?

THEN i saw a post where someone pointed out Will’s excited face and suspicious behaviour in the beginning of s3 when Lumax + Byler were at the cinema and Will realised he was seated next to Mike… there were some screenshots of the faces he made and that made me believe that he was aware of his crush all the way back then

What are your thoughts?

It’s complicated to pinpoint exactly when Mike and Will fell in love with each other, because nothing is ever explicitly stated in the show—so we can only make assumptions based on what we see on screen and the logic of the narrative. In my humble opinion, Will fell in love first, but Mike ended up falling even harder (not that Will doesn’t love him deeply too, but I’m not quite sure how to explain it).

Obviously, in seasons 1 and 2, they’re still children or early preteens, so the concept of true love feels distant. But I believe that even in season 1, Will was already feeling something for Mike—without really understanding what it was. As for Mike, I think he was genuinely caught off guard by what he felt when he saw Will dancing with that girl at the Snow Ball, especially after they had spent the whole season growing even closer through protection, danger, trauma, and emotional support. The fact that Mike is so emotionally vulnerable during his “do you remember the day we met?” monologue isn’t meaningless.

But I do think all the feelings Will and Mike developed for each other—especially in season 2—were completely unconscious at the time. Mike started to feel jealousy, and it unsettled him, so he repressed those emotions right away by getting together with El.

And then we reach season 3: Even though Mike is officially dating El and spending most of his time at Hopper’s cabin making out with her, the rest of his free time is spent going on so-called “double dates” to the movies with Lucas and Max… and Will.

The fact that Steve says “again” and the group finishes his sentence when he says something like “if you guys get caught, I’ll kill you,” along with Lucas automatically grabbing the food Will hands him from several rows back without even turning around, proves that these movie outings have happened more than once—they’ve become a routine.

Mike and Will watching a movie side by side (while Max and Lucas, the actual couple, are seated on a different row) clearly became a regular thing that summer. And the fact that they both blush, and that this is the moment when we first see Mike look at Will’s mouth in a meaningful way, is definitely not insignificant in my eyes.

With this daily ritual of seeing El—who mostly stays hidden away in the cabin for her safety—Mike maintains the image of “I was late because I was busy making out with my girlfriend, see, I have a girlfriend, I’m just like everyone else, LOOK, I’M STRAIGHT”… but at the same time, he shares these private (if not romantic) moments with Will at the movie theater.

It’s like he’s trying to have his cake and eat it too.

The balance he was trying to keep started to fall apart when he had to lie to El, which eventually led to their breakup. Once El broke up with him, he lost his “boy with a girlfriend” status, and from that moment on, he became obsessed with patching things up just to regain that balance— —but in doing so, he ignored and neglected Will, which brings us to the infamous fight in the rain.

I really believe that this argument was the moment when Will realized he had been in love with Mike all along. That would explain why he called himself stupid while tearing down Castle Byers.

As for Mike, it’s clear to me that the ending of season 3—specifically El’s love confession and kiss—was his moment of realization. He feels nothing when El tells him she loves him. He still feels nothing when they kiss. And even though his ego is clearly bruised when she breaks up with him, the moment she’s back in his arms telling him she loves him again… …he realizes that this isn’t what he missed, and this isn’t what he’s truly longing for.

So yes, to answer your question: I think they’ve always loved each other, but it remained mostly unconscious— —until the rain fight, for Will, and El’s love confession, for Mike.

Which means that, yes, there was already a lot of tension in that movie theater scene.

Not to mention that season 3 is literally the season about puberty (the Duffer Brothers themselves said it).

[verygaynerd]

457 fic idea: an AU where Gihun either knows Inho's identity because he works with Junho, or figures it out himself BECAUSE COME ON HE IS 001!!! AND HIS NAME IS ZERO ZERO ONE!!! Maybe doesn't even figure out the identity but just the fact he's in on the games, probably one of the higher ups.

So Gihun goes all like "oh you wanna play? Let's PLAY." And goes into a fake relationship with Young-il.

It's both to let his guard down and let him think Gihun is oblivious, and also a way to keep him close and study him and manipulate him back until Gihun figures out a plan to use it to his advantage. And also it's revenge: Oh, you wanted into my inner circle? Well I'll let you into my innermost circle, you asshole. How do you like having to pretend to be in love with the person you hate the most? Little does Gihun know that Inho doesn't hate him, more like fascinated by him and this new unexpected move only sparks his curiosity even more, but in Gihun's mind Inho is miserable every second of it and Gihun gets off on that. It also has another purpose- Gihun sees Inho in the games and thinks he will be like player 100, constantly sabotaging him. But he's the exact opposite, being really helpful and tries to gain Gihun's trust. So Gihun suspects he might turn on him when the time is right, so he makes sure that if he does - none of the players will take him seriously, since he would just look like the crazy ex boyfriend trying to get revenge on Gihun.

They have deep conversations and discussions most of their free time, Gihun really wants to understand what goes on in the frontman's brain and prove him wrong and of course the same goes for Inho so they talk a lot about morals, especially in the games, and philosophy and whatnot. They end up talking (almost) all night every night, bonding and laughing, feeling happy for the first time in forever.

Then of course these idiots accidentally bond and fall in love for real.

Also, maybe Gihun refuses to sleep at night because he doesn't trust anyone except for Jung Bae, but after the second day when he figures out Inho's identity he knows Inho won't just let him die, no, He would want to make his death special, make a big reveal of his identity probably, take off his mask dramatically and go 'it was me all along'. So ironically, Gihun feels the safest only sleeping next to Inho or when Inho is on watch.

Also maybe Gihun misses having intimacy (I'm talking cuddles and forehead kisses) but he doesn't date anyone because how can he when all he does is hunting the game makers, but Inho is just perfect for this and they both lie to themselves it's not real but Gihun is so touch starved and he has this special connection with Inho he might not even realize it yet, he genuinely enjoys the intimacy, even if it's "fake".

In the end, Gihun looks at the frontman and goes "Want to know what was my favorite game this time?" As the frontman nods he says "It was that weird relationship-chicken you and I played with each other."

I have SOOOO many more ideas for this but I think it's already long enough for one post, someone PLEASE write it into a 500 chapter fanfic