#do you think he's thinking about his conversation with all might right now?

[goldfades]

family ties | chapter one, DAYLIGHT | burrow⁹

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MASTERLIST

⟢ ┈ 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭 | 3.7k

⟢ ┈ 𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲 | the youngest kelce has spent her whole life navigating the chaos of her famous last name, always lingering in the background while her brothers took center stage. but when travis falls for taylor swift, she suddenly finds herself feeling like a third wheel in her own family. and after your heartbreak with an nba player, you never thought you'd find love again.

⟢ ┈ 𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 | just normal prologue stuff! kelce family bantering, mentions of jayson tatum, olivia h mention (IT WAS FOR THE PLOT I SWEAR), heartbreak (but no graphic descriptions), nothing else!

⟢ ┈ ev's notes: okay listen guys i had to think of a random basketball player and the first one i thought of was jayson tatum. if ur not attracted to him, just like... imagine someone else but the celtics are not mentioned so... it's fine!!!!! it's a minor little detail but yeah!

also, i might change some stuff that was from the OG fic just because it doesn't fit the plot i've made LOL. enjoy!

You were an accident in every possible way.

Born an astounding eight years after Travis, nearly eleven after Jason, you weren’t exactly planned. By the time you came along, your parents had been convinced they were done, their hands already full with two loud, competitive boys who spent more time wrestling in the backyard than sitting still. And then—there was you.

A baby sister in every sense of the word.

Your brothers treated you like some kind of rare, delicate thing at first, unsure what to do with you other than stare into your crib and poke at your tiny hands. But that didn’t last long. Before you could even walk, Jason was letting you sit on his lap while he played video games, and Travis had appointed himself your unofficial bodyguard, glaring at anyone who so much as breathed in your direction.

You grew up surrounded by chaos—loud dinners, backyard football games that almost always ended in someone getting tackled too hard, and a house full of laughter. Your parents tried their best to raise you with the same principles that had shaped your brothers, but you were different from the start.

Where Jason was responsible and steady, you were restless. Where Travis was loud and the life of the party, you were observant.

It wasn’t that you were quiet—no one raised in a Kelce household could be described as quiet—but you learned early on how to move through the world a little differently. Being the youngest meant you had to be quick-witted, fast on your feet, and always ready to hold your own. If you didn’t, you’d get run over.

By the time you hit high school, you had learned how to use your last name to your advantage. It got you free drinks at parties, easier conversations with teachers, and a built-in reputation before you ever had to prove yourself. But it also came with expectations—the kind that lingered over you like a shadow.

People expected you to be just like your brothers.

Maybe a little wild, maybe a little reckless. Definitely athletic. Definitely loud.

And you were some of those things.

You were an athlete, sure—your dad would’ve had an aneurysm if you weren’t—but not in the way people wanted. You had a sharp competitive streak, but you never cared about being the best. You played because it was fun, because it was expected, because you liked the feeling of winning, but you never had dreams of making it big. Not like Jason. Not like Travis.

And as for being reckless? You were a Kelce, so it was in your blood. But you were also smart. Calculated. Where Travis would throw himself into anything just to see what would happen, you thought three steps ahead. You weren’t scared of getting into trouble, but you were good at avoiding it.

That was the thing about growing up the way you did—watching your brothers carve their paths before you. You learned how to navigate things differently. You let them be the loudest people in the room while you played the long game, slipping through cracks unnoticed until you wanted to be noticed.

You didn’t date much in high school—not seriously, anyway. Not because people didn’t try (being a Kelce came with its perks), but because most boys were too intimidated by the idea of dating Jason and Travis Kelce’s little sister. You never really minded. Most of the guys at your school weren’t worth your time, anyway.

But you did notice the way people looked at you.

The way guys wanted to say they had a shot with you, even if they never tried. The way girls sometimes whispered about you, speculating if you were actually as down-to-earth as you pretended to be. The way teachers expected you to either be a slacker or a prodigy, like there was no in-between.

You weren’t sure when exactly you started feeling like an enigma—like people had decided who you were before you even had a chance to figure it out for yourself.

Maybe it was when your friends started bringing you to parties just because your last name got you through the door. Maybe it was when people started assuming you were only where you were because of your family. Maybe it was when you realized that, no matter what you did, you’d always be compared to the brothers who came before you.

By the time you graduated, you had perfected the art of keeping people at a distance. You knew how to smile just enough to be approachable, how to joke just enough to make people like you. But you also knew how to keep things yours.

And so you did.

You left home with the intention of making a name for yourself—outside of football, outside of the Kelce legacy. You weren’t running away from it, exactly. You just needed something that was yours alone.

And for the most part, you succeeded.

You built a life that had nothing to do with your last name. You found your own friends, your own career, your own world. You managed to exist outside of the NFL bubble, despite how often it tried to pull you back in. And for years, that was enough.

You were nineteen when you met Jayson Tatum.

Nineteen and reckless in the way only someone on the verge of something monumental can be—when success feels inevitable, and the world hasn’t yet taught you how cruel it can be. You had grown up in the shadows of your last name, in the periphery of stadium lights, in the echoes of your brothers’ roaring crowds. But Jayson was the first person who made you feel like the center of something.

You weren’t naïve. You knew what it meant to love someone like him—someone whose name was already in the rafters, whose presence carried weight before he even walked into a room. He was smooth, confident, charming in that way that made you want to believe him. And maybe that was the problem: you did.

It started fast, the way these things always do. Courtside seats, late-night flights, whispered phone calls from different time zones. He made you feel special, called you his “genius,” said he had never met someone like you before. But love with him always came with conditions. He loved you, but he wanted you to fit into his world, to mold yourself into the spaces left between his career, his schedule, his life. And you tried. God, you tried. You sat in the stands, smiled for the cameras, learned the rhythms of his world even when he never bothered to learn yours.

And it was never enough.

It was always push and pull, a constant cycle of breaking and rebuilding. He would tell you he couldn’t do it anymore, that you were too much, that he needed someone who understood his life. And then weeks later, he’d be back, whispering apologies, promising he had figured it out this time. And you—stupid, hopeful, nineteen, then twenty, then twenty-one—kept believing him.

Until December 2022. The last time. The worst time.

You had always been careful, always known how to exist just outside the spotlight, but this time, the breakup wasn’t just yours. It was public. Messy. Everywhere. Headlines dissecting your relationship, tabloids picking apart your heartbreak like it was something they were entitled to. Your face plastered across the internet, grainy photos of you leaving restaurants, ducking into cars, standing alone in a crowd. Strangers speculating about you, about him, about what went wrong, about whether you were as heartbroken as they hoped you’d be.

And the worst part? You were. You just didn’t want them to know it.

You had never cared about fame—not like that, not in the way the world suddenly seemed to demand from you. You weren’t built for it, for the attention, for the scrutiny, for the way people suddenly decided you were interesting now that you were broken.

It was the lowest you had ever been.

After that, you buried yourself in work, in building something no one could take from you. You stopped trusting the cameras, stopped giving interviews, stopped letting people in. And love? Love became something you didn’t have time for. Something you couldn’t afford.

Not until Joe. But that was another story.

⟢ JULY 2023

The Kelces did the Fourth of July the same way they did everything else—loud, chaotic, and with enough food to feed an army.

The backyard was still a mess from the day’s events. Empty plates stacked on tables, beer bottles scattered across the deck, remnants of water balloons forgotten in the grass. The kids had long since crashed, curled up in the living room after a full day of running around, and your parents had finally turned in for the night. That left just the three of you—Jason, Travis, and you—lingering in the kitchen, picking at the last of the food and settling in for what was, by tradition, gossip hour.

Jason was leaning against the counter, arms crossed, looking half-exhausted, half-amused as he nursed what was probably his final beer of the night. Kylie had gone upstairs an hour ago, throwing a “don’t let him stay up too late” over her shoulder before disappearing. Travis was still riding the high of a long day—barefoot, tanned from the sun, and grinning like he knew something you didn’t.

You, for your part, were perched on the counter, sipping a Coke because you had a feeling one of you needed to remain at least somewhat coherent.

“So, uh,” Travis started, reaching for the last deviled egg on the platter. “Speaking of cool people, guess who I started talking to?”

Jason shot him a tired look. “Oh, here we go.”

You glanced between them. “What do you mean, talking to?”

Travis grinned. “Taylor Swift.”

You blinked. “What?”

Jason groaned, running a hand over his face. “Jesus Christ, Trav.”

“What?” Travis said, clearly enjoying himself. “It’s not a big deal.”

You snorted. “You just casually dropped Taylor Swift into the conversation like it’s the weather. That’s not normal.”

Jason pointed at you. “Exactly. Thank you.”

Travis rolled his eyes, shoving the deviled egg into his mouth. “It’s not like that. We’ve just been texting. I shot my shot, and what do you know? The Kelce charm works.”

Jason looked unimpressed. “Define ‘texting.’”

Travis chewed thoughtfully. “Like… texting.”

You narrowed your eyes. “Travis.”

He smirked. “Okay, fine. I invited her to a game. She didn’t come, but she thought it was funny. We started talking. She’s cool as hell.”

You stared at him, processing. “Hold on. You shot your shot with Taylor Swift—arguably the biggest pop star in the world—by inviting her to a football game?”

Travis shrugged. “I mean, yeah.”

Jason huffed out a laugh, shaking his head. “I hate that it worked.”

You leaned forward, intrigued now. “Wait, so what do you guys talk about?”

Travis grinned. “Oh, you know. Life. Music. Football. Friendship bracelets.”

Jason made a strangled noise. “I swear to God—”

“I’m serious!” Travis held up his hands. “She thought it was funny! That’s what started it, actually.”

You narrowed your eyes, skeptical. “And how often are you guys texting?”

Travis took a sip of his beer, clearly stalling.

“Travis.”

He sighed dramatically. “Every day. Okay? Happy?”

Jason looked at you, then back at him. “Holy shit. You like her.”

Travis scoffed. “Of course I like her, she’s Taylor fuckin’ Swift.”

“No,” you cut in, pointing at him. “Not just, like, ‘fan’ like her. You actually like her.”

Travis hesitated. And that was all you needed to see.

Jason whistled low, shaking his head. “This is gonna be a disaster.”

You grinned, tilting your head. “Or… it’s gonna be the greatest thing to ever happen to you.”

Travis gave you a look, something half-serious beneath all the usual bravado. “You think?”

You shrugged. “I think you have a long road ahead of you if you actually wanna date Taylor Swift. But if anyone’s got the balls to do it, it’s you.”

Travis sat back, considering that. Then he smirked. “Yeah. You’re right.”

Jason groaned. “Oh God.”

You hopped off the counter, stealing the beer out of Travis’s hand and taking a sip. “I can’t wait for Mom to find out.”

Travis laughed, shaking his head. “You’re evil.”

“You love it.”

And just like that, the topic shifted—because that was the thing about being a Kelce. No matter how big the news, how crazy the story, at the end of the day, you were just family. Talking shit in the kitchen, making fun of each other, and watching history unfold in real time.

The whole thing kind of unraveled in front of you.

One minute, Travis was dropping Taylor Swift’s name into a conversation like it was nothing, and the next, she was there. Not in a surreal, once-in-a-lifetime, see-her-from-a-distance kind of way—but in the real way. The kind where she was suddenly just… around. Sitting across from you at dinner, feet tucked under her on the couch, sipping a drink at the same backyard parties you had been going to your whole life.

It wasn’t weird, not exactly. It was just happening.

You had been close to fame before, obviously. Jason and Travis had built their careers in the public eye, and you had spent your whole life in and around that world, brushing shoulders with athletes and celebrities who treated your last name like a golden ticket. You knew how to navigate it, how to smile politely and act like it didn’t phase you.

But this was different.

Because this wasn’t just fame. This was Taylor Swift—and she wasn’t just a headline or a name on a stadium marquee. She was here, in your world, existing in it like she belonged. And the strangest part? She kind of did.

You liked her. She was easy to like. Funny, quick-witted, smarter than people probably even realized. She had this way of making everyone feel like they were the only person in the room when she talked to them. Even you, at times, when she wasn’t entirely preoccupied with Travis.

And, well. That was the thing, wasn’t it?

Because she was preoccupied with Travis.

That was the whole point.

She wasn’t your friend. She wasn’t coming around to hang out with you. She was here for him. And that was fine. It was great, actually. You had never seen your brother like this before—completely, stupidly, out-of-his-mind happy. He glowed around her, and you were happy for him.

But somewhere along the way, you started to notice it.

The third wheel feeling.

It wasn’t obvious at first. Not in the beginning, when everything was still so new and exciting and unbelievable.

But then came the dinners where you felt like a spectator to their conversations. The trips where you ended up walking three steps behind them. The inside jokes you weren’t a part of, the glances they shared across rooms like they were in on some secret that you weren’t.

And sure, Travis had always been larger than life. His presence had always been something you had to navigate around. But now? Now, there was them. And you? You were just… there.

It got to the point where even your nieces—who were still young enough to have no filter—started noticing. You’d barely sat down at one of your parents’ Sunday dinners when Wyatt, with all the innocence of a child, looked up at you and asked, “Where’s your boyfriend?”

You had laughed, mostly out of shock, but the sting was still there. And then it happened again. And again.

And that was how Elliot became your best friend.

At just over a year old, she was the only one who didn’t ask why you were always alone, or where your mystery boyfriend was, or when you were going to bring someone home like Travis had. Instead, she was just happy to exist beside you, happy to let you carry her around like a little security blanket when you needed an excuse to step away from them.

You spent more time with her than you did with the adults most nights, letting her babble nonsense at you while you tuned out the rest of the room.

--

Joe Burrow wasn’t born into greatness.

He was born into a world where nothing was guaranteed, where talent didn’t always mean success, where hard work didn’t always lead to the dream. He grew up watching his father grind his way through the football world, moving from coaching job to coaching job, never staying anywhere long enough to feel settled. He understood from a young age that football wasn’t just a game—it was survival. It was everything.

But for most of his life, Joe wasn’t the guy. He wasn’t the five-star recruit, the kid whose name carried weight before he even stepped on the field. He was good—great, even—but great didn’t always mean enough. Ohio State was supposed to be his shot, his moment, the place where he proved himself. Instead, it was where he sat on the bench, waiting for a chance that never came, watching other guys take the field while he tried to convince himself it wasn’t slipping away from him.

There were nights he thought about giving it up. That maybe it just wasn’t meant to be. That maybe football had already given him all it was going to. But he wasn’t built to quit, and when LSU came calling, he took the leap.

That was the moment everything changed.

LSU wasn’t just an opportunity—it was a resurrection. It was the first time he felt like the guy, like he wasn’t just taking up space on a roster but actually belonged there. The game slowed down, the doubt faded, and for the first time in his life, he thought: Maybe I can actually do this. Maybe I can be great.

Then came 2019. The season. The Heisman. The national championship. The moment his life shifted from maybe to inevitable. He went from overlooked to undeniable, from backup to first overall pick, from fighting for a shot to standing at the top of the football world.

And somewhere in all of that, there was Olivia.

She had been there from Ohio State, through the struggles, through the late nights spent questioning everything. She was safe, steady, someone who knew him before everything changed. And for a while, that was enough. They built a life together in the in-between spaces of his career—through the transfer, through LSU, through the draft, through the move to Cincinnati.

But something had shifted along the way. Maybe it was the fame, the pressure, the way football consumed everything in its path. Maybe it was the fact that he had spent so long chasing this dream that he didn’t know how to slow down, didn’t know how to be the kind of man who could put something else—someone else—first.

Or maybe they had just grown into different people.

The love had been real. That was never a question. But real didn’t always mean forever, and when the cracks started to show, neither of them could ignore them. The long distance, the late nights, the feeling of being together but not really together. Football had always been his first love, and Olivia had always understood that. But understanding didn’t make it easier.

By the time the breakup happened, it felt inevitable. A quiet ending, no messy headlines, no dramatic fallout. Just two people who had spent years trying to make something work, finally realizing it wasn’t meant to.

Joe had never been one for public spectacle, had never been the guy who wanted his love life picked apart. But that didn’t stop people from talking. From wondering when he’d date again, who he’d be seen with, what kind of woman would fit into the world he had built.

But he wasn’t looking. Football was still everything, still the thing that took up all the space in his life.

At least, until you.

[gf2bellamy]

lipgloss — spencer reid

pairing: spencer reid x fem!reader ( no use of y/n ) summary: you leave a lipgloss mark on spencer's cheek content warnings: nothing a/n: i malfunction when i see glasses spencer

You let out an exaggerated sigh, slumping forward as you rested your chin on your hand. Across from you, Spencer sat at his desk, completely engrossed in his work, the soft scratch of his pencil against paper filling the otherwise quiet bullpen. His brows furrowed in concentration as he made notes in the margins of his case files. 

“Spencer,” you whined, drawing out his name. “Do you think Hotch would say anything if I just went home?” 

Spencer glanced up at you, his honey-brown eyes softening the way they always did whenever he looked at you.

“I think he might,” he admitted, tilting his head slightly. “But you could always say you weren’t feeling well. Technically, boredom is a form of mental fatigue.” 

You let out another sigh, this one even more dramatic. “I’m just so bored,” you groaned, dragging out the last word. 

Spencer’s lips twitched in amusement before he returned to his notes. You stared at him for a moment, then perked up as an idea struck you. 

“I’m gonna make myself a coffee,” you announced, standing up and stretching. “Do you want one?” 

Spencer shook his head with a small smile. “No, that’s okay. But thanks.” 

He picked up his pen, going right back to his work. You lingered for a second before stepping closer to his desk, your lips curling into a small, mischievous smile. With no one else in the bullpen, you leaned down and pressed a soft kiss to his cheek. 

Spencer froze. His pencil slipped from his fingers, rolling across the desk. His head snapped up, his face already turning an unmistakable shade of pink. 

Your smile widened. “What?” you teased, tilting your head. 

“You—” He blinked rapidly, his blush deepening. “We’re at work.” 

“And?” You arched a brow, feigning innocence. 

Spencer opened his mouth, then shut it, clearly searching for a response. Finally, he huffed out a quiet laugh, shaking his head before picking up his pencil again. 

“You’re impossible,” he muttered, but the small, fond smile on his lips gave him away. 

You grinned. Mission accomplished. 

You made your way to the break room, yawning as you prepared yourself a much-needed cup of coffee. The scent of freshly brewed caffeine filled the air, and just as you reached for a mug, you heard loud voices echoing from down the hall. 

Garcia and Derek. 

As you poured your coffee, you caught snippets of their conversation—mostly Derek chuckling about something Garcia had said, followed by her dramatic gasp. They had obviously just come back from their little break.

By “little break,” they meant sneaking off to grab food somewhere without telling anyone. Classic. 

Once your cup was full, you wrapped your hands around the warm ceramic, only to immediately flinch and mutter a curse under your breath. Too hot. You blew on it a few times before deciding to just endure the heat, making your way back to the bullpen. 

The second you stepped inside, you were met with two pairs of wide, mischievous eyes locked onto you. 

“Oh my god, it is hers,” Garcia said, practically vibrating with excitement. 

You froze mid-step, raising an eyebrow. “Uh… what?” 

Your gaze flickered between them and Spencer, who was now sitting at his desk, very clearly avoiding eye contact. His ears were turning a suspicious shade of pink. 

Slowly, you walked over to your desk, setting your coffee down as you eyed them warily. Garcia and Derek were standing on either side of Spencer’s desk, arms crossed, looking like they had just cracked some kind of case. 

“Okay,” you said cautiously, dragging the word out. “Why are you all looking at me like that?” 

Silence. 

Spencer, still blushing, pretended to be very, very interested in his paperwork. Garcia and Derek, on the other hand, exchanged a knowing glance before Derek let out a low chuckle. 

“You sneaky little thing,” he teased, shaking his head. 

“What are you talking about?” You sat down slowly, still staring at them like they’d lost their minds. 

Garcia gasped dramatically. “Don’t play innocent! We know what you did.” 

Your heart skipped a beat. “What—?” 

Derek smirked, arms crossed over his chest like he’d just won the lottery. “Your lip gloss.” 

You blinked. “What about my lip gloss?” 

As if on cue, your lips instinctively pressed together, feeling the slight tackiness of the gloss you’d applied earlier. Garcia let out an exaggerated sigh, shaking her head. 

“You left a mark,” she said dramatically. “A very clear mark, right on Dr. Reid’s cheek.” 

Panic surged through you. 

Your eyes darted to Spencer, then to Garcia and Derek, then back to Spencer again. He was already looking at you, and now it all made sense—the blushing, the way he had been avoiding your gaze, and the way Garcia and Derek were practically bouncing with glee. 

Oh. Oh god. 

You leaned in slightly, taking a closer look. And there it was. A faint but unmistakable pink smudge on his cheek. 

Spencer huffed, finally speaking up. “She’s not letting me wipe it off,” he accused, nodding toward Garcia. 

Garcia gasped, placing a hand over her heart in mock offense. “Excuse you, Doctor! It’s called preserving evidence.” 

Derek chuckled. “Yeah, man. We gotta document this. It’s not every day you get physical proof that you two are—” 

“Shh!” you hissed, eyes widening as you quickly glanced around the bullpen. 

Your relationship with Spencer was still a secret, and the last thing you needed was someone overhearing this conversation. You shot both Garcia and Derek a glare, but they were absolutely thriving off of your reaction. 

“Relax, sweetheart,” Derek teased. “It’s just us.” 

You turned back to Spencer, who was looking at you expectantly, silently pleading for help. With a sigh, you grabbed a napkin from your desk, stepping closer to him. His eyes flickered to yours as you hesitated for just a second before reaching out, gently swiping at the mark on his cheek. 

His skin was warm beneath your touch. 

You tried to focus, but you could feel Garcia and Derek’s eyes burning into you. 

“There,” you murmured, inspecting his face. The lip gloss was gone, but his blush? Very much still there. 

Garcia clapped her hands together. “Awww, that was adorable.” 

Derek grinned. “Man, if y’all think you’re still fooling anyone—” 

Spencer groaned, pushing his glasses up his nose. “Can we please move on?” 

Garcia waved him off. “Fine, fine. But just know—this isn’t over.” 

She and Derek finally turned away, giggling to themselves as they walked off, no doubt already plotting their next round of teasing. 

You sighed, rubbing your temples before glancing at Spencer. He still looked flustered, but there was a small, barely-there smile on his lips. 

“You okay, genius?” you asked softly. 

He nodded, exhaling as he glanced at you. “You know they’re never gonna let this go, right?” 

You sighed dramatically, shaking your head. “Yeah. We’re doomed.” 

Spencer chuckled, and despite everything, you couldn’t help but smile too. 

Even if Garcia and Derek were onto you, at least work wasn’t boring anymore. 

[angelltheninth]

When Arcane Men Get Jealous

Pairing: Viktor, Jayce, Ekko, Vander, Silco, Finn, Marcus, Loris, Steb x Fem!Reader

Tags: fluff, jealousy, possessive behavior, being protective, kissing in public, biting, holding hands, public display of affection, canon typical violence, suggestive

Ko-Fi | Rules | Fandoms and Characters | Commissions

A/N: Would die if they were jealous over me. Melt into a puddle. Gone.

When Viktor gets jealous he gets a bit more withdrawn than he usually is. Not that he was ever a social butterfly, however he was always more open and happy to talk when it was with you. So his behavior is odd, he even seems to get quieter whenever you walk into the room. Like he's trying to remove himself from you with silence.

"I am not avoiding you. Look, there has been a lot to do for the past week, I'm sorry if you got a bad impression but I was simply busy. If you want more company, go ask Jayce, or Skye, I'm sure they will be more than happy to entertain you, darling."

Viktor is short with his answers, saying as little as possible to minimize the amount of time he spends talking to you. Not because he doesn't want to talk to you, he loves talking to you, but if he keeps talking there's a chance he might say something he's going to regret. And end up hurting you.

"There you go again with these ridiculous accusations. You won't leave it alone will you? So now it's my fault that your project is running late? I would have been happy to help but someone was too busy talking with... you know what, nevermind. You're right, we both have a lot to do, so let's just drop this conversation and focus on work."

If you keep getting in the way of his work, Viktor will eventually come to a breaking point. Him not being able to work is only adding to his emotions, and he's never been the best at dealing with them. While he doesn't exactly yell at you, it's very rare that he ever raises his voice there's a notable frustration in his words, and pain, fear that you'd leave.

"If I'm being so unreasonable then leave. Go. Have fun. I know it's not idea to be cooped up in the lab all the time. There are so many more things to do out there. if you... want to go with other people I suppose I can't stop you, nor can I stop my own jealousy. How am I being even more unreasonable? I know you wouldn't leave me without talking about it. Look... I do not... want you to leave, working is more fun with you. But am I truly all that you want? Me? This lab? Because you're all I want. All that I can think of."

When Jayce gets jealous he keeps invading your personal space when you're around the person or people he's jealous of. His behavior is nothing innapropriate or pushy. It's just his arm around your waist, just him bringing you that drink you wanted, just him bragging about you a bit too loud and saying how much he loves you.

"You really are great, babe. How in Runterra did I ever find a beauty like you huh? What's that bashfulness for now, I always praise you, and I'm never gonna stop. You're my girl right? I can be a proud boyfriend and talk you up every once in a while."

Physical affection a big deal to Jayce and a way he shows he cares but also a giveaway to his jealousy. He holds your hand longer, his eyes flicker between you and the one he's jealous off, his smile is a bit more nervous when he has to leave you alone. Then there are his kisses, not as gentle, not a little, quick peck on the edge of your lips but a real kiss, lips pressed against yours until you let him know you need air.

"Got a bit carried away there. Ah, sorry, I can't resist you sometimes. All the time. Do you expect me to when you wear lipstick like that? Makes your lips look like they're made to be kissed. By me specifically. I'd kiss you all night long, for the rest of our lives and never get tired of it."

Jayce keeps denying that he's jealous when you bring it up in a teasing way. Logically there's no reason to get jealous, everyone knows your relationship is doing great, in fact you're hardly ever fighting and even when you are it doesn't last too long. How does he turn that part of his brain off? How can he not get jealous when all those people look at you the way he looks at you?

"They're always looking at you. How can you not notice? It's so obvious. You don't notice because... you're only looking at me? That doesn't even make sense! Of course they're looking, you're breathtaking everywhere you go. I just hope that wherever you go, you'll always take me with you, because I want to be by your side forever."

Ekko often jokes about being jealous so you don't pick up on him actually being jealous. A little jealousy is fine but not when it's getting in the way of his missions and operations with his team. He'd been a bit distracted in the past, by one of the Firelights flying too close to you, so he pushed his way between you two.

"It was the formation! Which you would have remembered if you weren't too busy chatting. Come on, Firefly, get your head in this. Otherwise you're gonna make your leader jealous. Wouldn't want that right? What if... what if you get demoted for it? Hey! Ow! I wouldn't demote you, who would listen to all my plans?"

When you have free time together Ekko makes sure to spend as much time with you as possible. If you're together all the time there's less chance that someone else will swoop in and flirt with you. He would never describe his behavior as being clingy, all he wants is to spend free time with his girlfriend. That is perfectly normal behavior.

"What do you say we go out to get some food? We don't have to spend all our time here. Not like the tree is gonna burn down if we're away for a couple of hours right? Besides it's been a while since it was just you and me all alone. Miss being alone with you. Don't you miss it too?"

If the person he's jealous of ever puts you in danger in any way Ekko will go off on them. Harder than he scolded others in the past. He might let some of his jealousy show then, but he storms off, well flies off before you can talk to him. As much as he wants to be alone he also makes room for you on his hoverboard when you float down next to him.

"Shouldn't have went off on them like that. I know, you don't gotta say it, I'll say I'm sorry. Let cool off a bit. You'd think that if they were flirting with you that much they could have been looking out a bit better. I'm always looking out for you. Maybe a bit too much. Sorry if I've been weird about it lately. Would you forgive me if I took you on a romantic hoverboard ride?"

No one wants to piss off a big man like Vander by flirting with his wife. Everyone values their life and their bones too much. But... they stare at you. Quite openly actually. You see it, and you bet he sees it too. He sees everything that's happening at his bar and he won't stand for someone ogling his wife, even if he has to get aggressive about it.

"It's my damn bar, I've got the right to break the table with their heads when they're looking at ya like that. Tell ya what, a lot more people would avoid this place if I started beating up every asshole that looks at ya wrong. Only reason I don't is cause I don't want ya to be mad at me after."

He hasn't banned anyone from his bar in a very long time. Vander knows he tolerates a lot, this is Zaun, and some people don't have the best manners, that's not exactly their fault. But on the other hand if they start something with him then he will finish it. When he tells them to stop looking at you like you like you were one of Babette's workers and they get in his face he will pick them up and throw them out.

"Bastards had it coming. I tried to be nice, then they had to go and call ya names. Ain't no way in hell I'm gonna let anyone insult my wife. Not here, not on the streets, not anywhere. I went there and I wanted to talk to them, tell them to fuck the hell off, they were the ones who started getting violent. So I responded in kind."

Vander calls you over to the bar a bit more often if he sees a particular table is trying to monopolize you. He carries some of the drinks over, the food plates too, or he simply walks up behind you when one of the guys is getting flirty. Seeing his imposing, huge frame behind you, his muscles bulging, is enough to get most to back off you.

"See, darlin', I can talk things out just fine. When people are being smart about it that is. Might have to stop selling so much booze in this place, then they won't be so bold with ya. Ya are a pretty sight, I can't say otherwise. But ya are a pretty sight for me, not them, ain't that right? Mhm. I know, I'm all yer's too."

Silco never ever says he's jealous of anyone. He is the most powerful man in all of Zaun, everyone is scared of him and with good reason. As the Eye of Zaun he knows when people are looking, talking too, and might even try to touch you. Those people are often payed a not so nice visit by his men.

"I did hear about that gang, yes. It's very unfortunate that they don't know how to keep their noses where they don't belong. It's not that big of a loss on our end. There are a hundred people who can do their work, and better. All that matters is that they won't even have to think about not touching you again."

He rarely has to get his own hands dirty when he gets jealous. All it takes is him saying who the target or targets are and he makes them dissapear from Zaun. That doesn't always have to be deadly, but if they're really dumb it is. If Silco feels that you're in some kind of danger then he will keep you close by. He tries to distract you from seeing he's jealous.

"All I'm saying is that we could take a break from work. Sevika and Jinx can handle a week of it. And you and me can lock ourselves up in our home and not come out. The bedroom works perfectly fine too, if you'd rather spend our time in there. And what is it that I'm doing, darling? Jealous? You are an observant one. I wouldn't want you any other way."

The only time Silco will threaten someone in person is if that someone is bold enough to flirt with you in front of them. He can scare people within an inch of their life just by talking to them, he's not just a good businessman, and some people tend to forget that. He has Zaun in the palm of his hand, and everyone in it.

"He did not actually piss himself. Did he actually. Hm, I wasn't look at him anymore to be honest. He was spineless, surprising given he talked to you like he did. Guess he was thinking with his other head a bit too much for his own good. Why are you looking at me that way? Ah, I see. Looks like someone enjoyed watching me put a scumbag into his place a bit too much."

Since Finn isn't someone who would take anything lying down he will be damned before he sees someone coming onto his woman and not do anything about it. He might have a certain charm about him but that doesn't mean he's not ready to makes heads roll the moment when someone crosses any kind of line with you. Imaginary or otherwise.

"Hah, did you see that doll? As soon as I threw one punch he went down. All his buddies ran like rats. Left him all alone there. After all that tough talk and he couldn't even defend himself. Serves him right. He's lucky all I did was break his nose when he flirted with you. I wasn't even that far away."

Finn will make out with you in front of who ever he is jealous of just to prove a point to them. And while he has you moaning, has your head buried against his neck and your body running hot he will look at the other person and stick his tongue out at them, right before making a V with his fingers and putting his tongue between them. He's vulgar but it gets the point across very well.

"All these people looking at what's mine. Now, I can't have that right? I love that you're showing off your body, it's a great body, you know how much I love it. But sometimes I want to keep you away from prying eyes. And if I can't the least I can do is give them a show. Make them know I'm the only one who can touch you."

His jacket is a signature part of his outfit, but Finn will let you wear it. Hell, he will walk over and drape it over your shoulders while not even looking at whoever you're talking to. Sometimes they're not worth looking at when he can look at the pretty way you blush as you touch his hand that's lingering on your shoulder.

"Thought you looked a bit cold there. Keep this on all night. Later on I'll help you warm up my way, a much more fun way. Don't even worry about your perfume getting all into this, love having your scent all over me. And by tomorrow you're gonna be wearing all of my marks."

There are a lot of people in the Enforcers who tease Marcus about having such a pretty wife. He knows you're pretty, but he doesn't like that the department is noticing it so much as well. Not that there's any way for him to hide it, or that he wants you to hide it, that would be a real crime.

"I was not pouting. That is so childish. I was glaring at them. Well, they were the ones who stared first. You visit me at work, like that's such a big deal. We're married, honey, I pick you up from work too. Why is it such a big deal here? I think they're just trying to get a rise out of me."

Won't deny that he's feeling jealous or shy away from showing it. When Marcus notices any of his men flirting with you he makes them work extra hard that day, he gives them more paperwork, something that everyone hates there, or assigns them to the toughest jobs that he knows will take them days to complete. He can't help but chuckle when you visit again and they're too tired to flirt with you, they just say hello.

"What do you mean I'm picking on them? Of course not. You know how hard it is to deal with all these extra cases. Someone has to take on a few more. No, the fact that it's the same Enforcers who gave you flowers that one time has nothing to do with it. You think it does? And do you have evidence of this accusation?"

Marcus isn't shy about kissing you in front of the whole department. If that's what it takes to send them all a clear message to back off. It's always perfectly chaste kisses, but he does make sure that everyone hears him say he loves you when you leave. He smirks when eyes turn to him and he wishes them all a good rest of their day.

"Now you call me petty. All of these accusations and you still don't have any evidence. That's not a very good way to have a case. You've been keeping count have you? Oh. You... actually have been keeping count? I'm guilty? Fine, you got me, you got me. Maybe... that was a little petty of me, but I'm not sorry."

Every time Loris is jealous it's almost impossible for him to hide that fact. He's a big guy, nothing about him is easy to his, not even his emotions. And he's loud, so every time he huffs, mumbles something, or grunts you hear it. Your eyes meet and he looks away, his hand grasping yours and running his thumb over the back of your hand.

'They were staring at you a bit too much for my liking, pretty girl. If they were as tough as they pretend they were they should have held their ground more. Proves they were all bark and no bite. People like that really get on my nerves, and then they talk to my girl like she's single."

Loris invites you to have lunch with him quite often, even more often when he gets jealous of someone who works with him. Dealing with them in any other way would be unprofessional of him, and might get him in trouble. This way he gets to avoid that, avoid them, and spend a nice lunch date with you. No matter how you look at it he's the real winner here.

"Looks so good. But if you keep looking at me like that I might get hungry for something else besides the food. Just try shifting the blame on me when you know exactly how you're looking at me right now. I wouldn't risk it at work, but... if you showed up with a few hickeys on your neck it might get the rest of the department to stop flirting with you."

As much as he tries to make his jealousy go away it's not easy. Loris knows he should be an example for others, after all he had been an Enforcer for a long time, he can't just let his emotions get the better of him. Hard to keep those emotions down when they concern you. If nothing else works he will intimidate people. Easy enough for him. But he would rather that be a last resort.

"If he wasn't ready to throw fists and words at me then he shouldn't have thrown flirty words at you. He should be able to back himself up if he's gonna be saying stuff like that. All I did was pick him up and throw him outside. Hey, I might get in a bit of trouble for it, but at least he'll leave you alone from now on. I'd risk my badge for you if I have to, you know that."

Since he is the quiet type Steb shows his emotions and jealousy is one that he works hard to surpress. Every time he notices that someone is standing a little too close to you he walks over and looks at you, lovingly, then he looks at the other person with a glare, a deadly one. All the while he's standing shoulder to shoulder with you.

"Come now, angelfish, they weren't even worth your time. We both know they only had one thing in mind when they were talking to you. I could see it in their eyes. I don't appreciate that they looked at you like that. And I know you don't either. So I felt like I had to step in."

He is very physical with his jealousy. Steb lets his eyes and touches linger a few moments longer when he wants to make a point to someone. While he knows you don't hate it he also doesn't want to come off as too jealous or too possessive over you. You can take care of yourself and he loves that about you, he's watched you put people in their place often, but there are times where he can't hold himself back.

"I could feel your fingers interlocking with mine. You wanted me to stand close to you when they weren't leaving you alone. Would you have raised your voice if I hadn't walked over? It would be amusing to see it. But I think those kisses we shared also sent an equally powerful message. You didn't have to bit me though."

Steb nuzzles his face into the crook of your neck when he's feeling really, really jealous of someone. He makes it look less possessive than it is, pretending like he's overhearing something you have to say, and then pushing himself just a little bit closer. His cold lips make contact with your neck, sending shivers down your body before he brushes your lips with his thumb and leaves with a smirk.

"That ought to be enough. I could have done more but marking you in public might have been a step too far. We can enjoy things like that in private however. I enjoy being close to you in any context, and if it makes others realize you're not looking for anyone because you've already got a man then I enjoy it even more."

[jd-loves-fiction]

Requesting a Jade Leech thing where the reader and Jade have been broken up with, but he’s a manipulative bastard and fully intends on charming them back. Get as creative as you want with the prompt, I just wanna see him being all scheming lmao

(I’ve had “bad idea right?” stuck in my head on loop)

🌑I'm gonna make this a bit more comedic, hope you like it :))

𝐒𝐜𝐡𝐞𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐟𝐚𝐜𝐞

Jade seemed strangely unaffected when you told him you wanted to break up, accepting it easily with an oddly peaceful smile on his face. Just what is he up to?

You tried to steer clear of him for a while, in fear of what he might be scheming as well as for your own emotional stability, but he always just seemed to be there. 

Studying in the library? There he is, just standing around suspiciously, looking as effortlessly beautiful as always.

Enjoying a snack at the lounge? He’s the only one who brings it to you everytime, despite how many other workers there are, flashing a soft, gentlemanly smile and wishing you ‘bon appétit’ in a sugar sweet tone.

Talking to a cute underclassman stuttering through his attempt at asking for your number? Suddenly he seizes up like he’s being shocked and makes up some sorry excuse to run off in the other direction. When you turn around, there he is, smiling innocently and waving at you from where he stands �� no doubt having a hand in what just happened.

You quickly started to understand why he looked so unbothered when you were breaking up with him – that was his scheming face, already thinking up ways of driving you back to his arms.

Loneliness won't be what does it. You’re stubborn, damn it! And the more he tries the more you want to see how far he’s willing to take this little game. It shows effort, at least, it’s just a shame he seems so hellbent on making you give in instead of having an adult conversation. 

So you play his game. Jade is a jealous man – nothing makes him spring into action like envy, this you know for certain. Next time you pass by the lounge to study, you make sure to sit at the bar and never acknowledge him, instead making loud conversation with Floyd about… whatever it is he’s rambling about, though he seems to be in a happy mood which is good for you.

He talks so much at you that it’s barely a conversation, more like a sermon of some kind – especially so given his passionate tone, Though you know Jade pays little mind to those details while he’s boiling with jealousy behind the bar. And to anyone watching you two it sure looks like you’ve moved on from Jade and onto his brother.

You leave the lounge that day exhausted but pleased, knowing you’ve successfully riled Jade up more than he did you. Maybe this’ll be enough for him to let you move on… but then again… do you want to move on?

Caught up in your conflicting thoughts you fail to hear him approach until he’s breathing down your neck. Startling, your back bumps against a nearby wall as you quickly turn around, seeing Jade right in front of you with a strangely neutral expression on his pretty face.

“...Jade?” You try to sound casual, but you’re sure the fright seeps into your tone regardless of your efforts.

He calls your name softly in turn, a troubled look crossing his face for a moment, “Had a fun time listening to Floyd prattle?”

Lips twisting in indignation, you righten your posture, “Very much so! He's a surprisingly good listener – compared to a certain brother of his.”

“Oh, really?”

“Really.” You assure him disingenuously, arms crossed petulantly. Jade watches you silently for a moment, a familiar look of longing in his eyes – forming a tightness in your chest, before he sighs heavily. For a moment you think he might finally be honest with you, open up about how he truly feels and vow to be better – it’s all it’d take for you to take him back. But of course, it can't be that easy to change such a man.

For now, he settles for leaning in close, one hand against the wall behind you and taking a lock of hair between his fingers before bringing it to his lips. You hold in an undignified squeal.

“Just don't have too much fun with him. We both know he could never compare.”

You scoff, “I think you’ve been watching too many romance movies. You seem to be getting slightly delusional.” Shouldering past him you walk away without looking back to see his thoughtful expression. Not that you’d know what it means or care! Hmph!

If only you could both just talk to each other,  there’d be no need for these silly games. Though they sure are fun…

[star-41306]

How do y'all think the duffers are going to go about initiating Byler?

I've been thinking about this a lot lately and would love some thoughts on how everyone thinks Byler will progress. This is my opinion on the matter. (PS: this is a very mike centered analysis as I believe his perspective is the most beneficial to the conversation since he is at the center)

Mike is hiding his feelings for Will, but what benefit does this have for those involved? To us, the viewers, we can see the pain Will, El, and Mike experience through this situation. No party is receiving what they truly need to progress their happiness and growth.

El wants a boyfriend who will tell her that he loves her for who she is as a person, not her capabilities. At the heart of this is a need to be understood, but El herself doesn't really know who she is. Her growth is dependent on finding herself without outside influence.

Mike wants a girlfriend to seem/feel 'normal' and cool. He knows who he is but is repressing it. At the heart of this is a need to be desired. Sure, El wants him, but she does not know the truth about Mike. Mike's growth is dependent on someone finding comfort in the real him.

Will wants someone to treat him normal. He knows he's a freak and while he doesn't necessarily try to hide it, he wants the comfort of not being treated differently for it. Will's growth is dependent on the acceptance of those around him.

The existence of a romantic relationship between Mike and El goes against all of this potential growth. Mike idolizes El, never being able to see past her abilities. El is unable to find herself at the cost of being mikes cover. While doing this, he rejects his true self and affection for Will, because he believes he is doing what's right. Simultaneously, Will is left feeling dejected and alone in the disregard of his feelings.

I think Mike has very low self-esteem. It comes with the territory of being a nerdy queer teenager in the 80's. I also, however, believe that when he has enough faith in himself, or the stakes are high enough, he's good at taking charge of a situation. He is selfless, a kind of selfless where you can't always tell he cares for those around him, but he would sacrifice his own comfort and livelihood for the people he loves.

But if Mike is so selfless, why isn't he fixing the situation for everyone involved? Because of one simple fact: He is clueless. He has no idea what he's doing to El or Will.

He may know Will is upset about something while in the Van with him, but that boy has no idea what's going on in Wills head. He might not even realize the painting he got from Will is the one El was talking about in her letter. With everything going on, he probably still thinks will has a girl he likes back up in Cali and this is a completely different painting.

He senses El is upset and won't talk to him, but he thinks it's because she lost to Vecna. He has not even the slightest clue it's partially due to his conditional and untrue love confession. El believes that mike only said he loved her because she finally got her powers back.

Mike thinks he gave El and Will what they wanted. El wanted a love confession? check. Will wanted mike to move on and fix his relationship with El? check. done and done. At least that's what he thinks.

Now that we have motives and perspective out of the way, here's a general idea of how I think the Milkvan-Byler transition will pan out.

We have already established in the show that Will is too selfless to confess, thinking he's saving a perfectly healthy relationship that just so happens to involve the boy he loves and the girl who saved him. There is no way he would break them up on his own, or he would have done that already. The action relies on Mike and El. They both need to respectively decide a breakup is necessary for this to work.

The breakup cannot be prompted by one or the other, it must be prompted by both. Mike cannot be the only one desiring a breakup, because El needs to take her power back and make that decision by herself. At the same time though, El can't be the only one either, as mike needs to accept his feelings on his own and stop being someone he's not. Mike not initiating would also make Will seem like a second option and completely negate Wills growth of being accepted for simply being.

El will have distanced herself from mike tremendously. They may not have broken up officially, but she's realizing Mike is not what she needs right now. She will probably be spending time with Hopper and Joyce training to fight Vecna, and the reminder that that's the only thing mike seems to like about her will only push her more towards her own sense of self. Maybe she still has hope for her and mike, but that is not her focus right now.

While El is distanced, Mike and Will will fall into the same roles they did in season 2. Will will struggle with the supernatural aspects of the plot, while Mike takes care of him and keeps him safe. This will restore Mike and Wills friendship.

Mike simultaneously will realize how much happier he is away from El, because he can't help but act like someone he's not when he's around her. He will also realize the comfort he finds in being relied on by Will. This won't necessarily prompt him into the breakup, as he still believes dating El is the best way he can support her. He might want Will, but he still feels like he can't have him.

I Because of this, El will be the first to initiate, but it will be mutual. I think they will have a long discussion (maybe starting as a fight) about Mikes lies in his speech and the pressure he felt to conform to this relationship. El will share how his actions have not helped the relationship, but instead made them both feel miserable, trapped, and unappreciated. They will realize that the other is not what they need, and though they will both need platonic support through this journey, they just can't benefit each other this way.

While Mike and Will are reconnecting, El will finally notice... everything. The stares, soft voices, comforting, and everything will click. El might need some help understanding though, because even though she did not have a normal childhood, she is still subjected to heteronormativity even if she joined the game late. She will make the connection that that is how she should have been treated, and though they are both boys, I think a sit down with one of the other characters (Johnathan? Hopper? Joyce?) will help her connect the dots.

I think the painting and mikes feelings for Will may become an entirely different discussion later in the season, and this is what will push mike into feeling allowed to want him. The combined acceptance from El, and the implied reciprocation from Will could be the push mike needs for his own self-acceptance.

This will allow Byler to build up in a healthy way where all parties benefit and are able to build even stronger connections with each other. Through honesty, acceptance, and love, all of which have been lacking.

Thank you if you read all of this. Please let me know if you feel like this will go in an entirely different direction in ST5!!!

[heliosunny]

Bidding for trouble

Yandere!Sugilite x Assistant!Reader

Working under Sugilite was nothing short of an experience. It wasn’t the workload that drained you, no, you had handled more demanding jobs before transferring to his department. It was the way he worked. His approach was... unconventional at best, completely insane at worst.

And today?

Today might just take the cake.

“You’ve got to be kidding me…”

With a deep sigh, you set the paperwork down on his desk, rubbing your temples as if that would somehow soothe the headache forming.

Across from you, Sugilite leaned back in his chair, sipping his coffee with the usual, infuriating calmness. He had allowed you to be more casual with him—something few employees in the Strategic Investment Department could claim. But at this moment, you weren’t sure if that was a privilege or a curse.

“Unfortunately, I’m not” he said smoothly, placing his cup down with a soft clink.

Just moments ago, he had casually explained his new plan to deal with a planet in deep financial debt to the IPC. A plan that, for some ungodly reason, involved you.

“I have to be auctioned? Seriously?” You gave him an incredulous look, half-expecting him to say this was all some elaborate joke. “Boss… don’t tell me you’re already tired of me. Even so, don’t sell me like that.”

That earned a full, unrestrained laugh from him. A rare sight.

Sugilite was usually composed, his amusement measured, but you?

You always managed to catch him off guard. It was part of the reason he kept you around, despite the constant back-and-forth.

After all, work was far less dull with you in it.

“Who said I’m going to do that?” he said between chuckles. “You’re my precious employee. Just follow my orders.”

“But—”

“No but.” He waved a hand dismissively, already moving the conversation along. “Besides, what makes you think I’d sell you off to someone else?”

You hesitated. “Well… a few colleagues of mine said I’ll soon move under Opal—”

Sugilite nearly choked on his coffee.

“Okay, stop right there” he cut in sharply, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

You blinked.

“You can go home now.”

“But—”

“If you say one more word, I’ll cut your salary.”

That was enough to send you bolting for the door, offering a quick bow before making your escape. As soon as you were gone, Sugilite let out a long sigh, pinching the bridge of his nose.

Opal? Seriously? The nerve of those gossiping employees.

He wasn’t about to let that happen.

The Strategic Investment Department wasn’t known for taking the most ethical approach to problem-solving. But when it came to Sugilite, the term ethical might as well be optional.

Which explained why, after days of preparation, you now found yourself standing in the center of a lavishly decorated auction hall, as one of the items up for sale.

Sugilite’s plan was simple: infiltrate the underground elite of this debt-ridden planet by letting you play the role of an “exclusive product.” You would be the bait, drawing out the highest bidders—corrupt politicians, shady financiers, and the type of people the IPC wanted under control. Meanwhile, he would work from the outside, pulling the necessary strings to ensure the debt was paid back in full—in ways the bidders wouldn’t like.

And at first, it all went smoothly.

Sugilite played his role perfectly, making business deals, exposing financial fraud, and manipulating the planet’s economy in real time. He always had a sharp tongue and sharper instincts, and as you watched from your designated position in the auction lineup, you knew this planet’s leaders were already falling into his hands.

The moment his name was announced in the VIP section, the entire hall fell silent.

Then came whispers.

Nervous murmurs.

Everyone knew the IPC didn’t just send high-ranking officials to small, struggling planets without reason.

Sugilite took advantage of that fear, leaning back in his seat as if he owned the place already.

It was going well.

Until it wasn’t.

Sugilite expected you to be exactly where he left you.

But when the auction’s proceedings finally wrapped up and the planet’s debts were effectively handed over to IPC control, he turned to retrieve you—

And you were gone.

His eyes darkened, the casual amusement from earlier draining from his expression as he turned to one of his men.

“Find them. Now.”

The operative hesitated for only a second before scrambling to follow orders.

Sugilite tapped his fingers against his chair’s armrest, gaze sharp as he considered the possibilities.

Had someone figured out who you really were?

Had they seen through the plan?

Or—

His jaw tightened. Or had someone decided they wanted to keep you for themselves?

That thought did not sit well with him at all.

One way or another, he would track you down. And when he did, whoever dared to take what was his would regret it.

Your Perspective

You should have expected this. From the moment Sugilite suggested this insane plan, you knew things would go sideways at some point. You just thought you’d at least get a warning before that happened.

But, here you were—bound at the wrists, being dragged through dimly lit corridors by a man whose breath smelled like stale liquor.

“Didn’t think I’d be getting such a prize tonight” the bidder sneered, his grip tightening as he shoved you forward. “You were supposed to be mine from the start, but then that damn IPC agent had to get in the way.”

This guy had tried to bid on you earlier in the night, but Sugilite’s very presence had sent him and others into a panic, forcing him to back off. He must have gotten desperate.

You glared at him. “You really think you’re going to get away with this?”

The man scoffed. “You think the IPC cares about a single—”

A low beeping sound cut him off.

He frowned, reaching into his coat to pull out his comm device. The moment he glanced at the screen, his face paled.

CRASH. The wall exploded inward.

Dust and debris filled the air as a figure emerged from the wreckage, stepping through as if he had all the time in the world.

Sugilite’s Perspective

It took less than ten minutes for his men to track your last known location. And only five more for him to personally break through the underground facility’s defenses.

The moment Sugilite spotted you—alive, unharmed, but bound like a prize, his usual easygoing demeanor vanished.

“Ah… Boss!!” you coughed, waving at him weakly through the dust. “You’re early.”

He ignored you.

His gaze locked onto the pathetic excuse of a man still holding onto you, now trembling like a leaf.

“I—It’s a misunderstanding,” the man stammered. “I—”

Sugilite’s smile was slow, but there was nothing kind about it. “You know,” he said, taking a deliberate step forward, “I really hate when people try to take what’s mine.”

The man barely had time to scream before Sugilite grabbed him by the throat and slammed him into the wall.

You winced.

Someone was definitely dying tonight.

The man barely had time to sputter out another excuse before Sugilite lifted him higher, letting his weight dangle uselessly.

“You really thought this was a good idea?” Sugilite’s fingers pressed down with a slow, deliberate force, just enough to watch the bastard’s face turn shades of red.

“P-Please—!” the man choked out, clawing at Sugilite’s wrist.

Sugilite tilted his head, watching with mild amusement before sighing. He was already bored.

“Not even a minute, and you’re already begging?” His grip tightened. “Disappointing.”

“Boss” your voice cut in. “Maybe don’t kill him immediately? I’d rather not be classified as collateral damage.”

Sugilite flicked a glance at you, taking in your disheveled state, the dust clinging to your clothes, the slight tension in your shoulders. You were fine, but that didn’t change the fact that someone had dared to lay hands on you.

His grip tightened further.

You groaned. “C’mon, at least let me get out of the blast radius before you commit murder.”

Sugilite chuckled.

“Fair enough.”

And with that, he slammed the man into the ground hard enough to crack the concrete. The body twitched but didn’t move again.

Sugilite rolled his shoulders, satisfied, before turning his full attention to you. “Now, onto more important things.” His eyes scanned you from head to toe, sharp as ever. “Did he hurt you?”

You exhaled. “Not really. Just manhandled a bit.”

He nodded, then reached out, far too gently for a man who had just nearly crushed someone’s windpipe, to untie the bindings on your wrists himself. His fingers grazed your skin briefly, lingering for a second longer than necessary before pulling away.

“You really had me running around, you know” he said, stuffing his hands back into his coat pockets.

You huffed. “It’s not like I planned to get kidnapped.”

“Mm.” He tilted his head slightly, his gaze unreadable. “Maybe I should’ve raised you higher at auction. Then no one would’ve dared to touch you.”

You blinked. “That is not the takeaway here.”

Sugilite only smiled, his amusement evident as he gestured toward the exit. “C’mon, let’s go before the rest of the idiots show up.”

Later – Back at IPC Headquarters

You were so close to clocking out for the day.

But of course, Sugilite had other plans.

“You’re not going home yet” he announced as soon as you reached your desk.

You stared at him, tired beyond belief. “Why?”

“You still have paperwork to fill out.” He smirked. “You were technically ‘purchased’ tonight. We have to make sure you’re properly ‘returned.’”

You dropped your head onto your desk with a loud thud. Sugilite laughed.

At least one of you was having fun.

[covenofagatha]

Do I wanna know? (Part 1)

Sequel to But you're my stepmom!

Picks up a few months later after your dad and Agatha get divorced and you've started college

Word count: 3.8k

Warnings: fingering, mommy kink, slight angst

Fuck. You do not want to do this. 

It’s a Saturday night and you’re here. You should’ve said you had anywhere else to be, but instead, your car almost gets hit as you turn the corner in possibly the narrowest parking garage you’ve ever been in. It makes you swear and you stomp on the brakes so quickly you think you might have a bruise from the seatbelt. 

But luckily, you find a spot on the first floor and squeeze between two other cars, muttering a silent prayer that you don’t scrape against them.

You wipe your sweaty palms on your jeans as you get out and walk into the lobby of the apartment complex. 

It’s nice, although you hate to admit it. You would surely not mind spending more time here if it didn’t mean having to see—

“Hey, sweet pea!” 

Him. You look to your right and plaster on a fake smile when you see your father standing there, slipping his phone into his pocket. 

“Hey,” you say softly, awkwardly patting his back with a hand as he embraces you. 

He had been asking to get dinner with you at least once a week for the past few months since he and Agatha got divorced. You’ve always found an excuse to get out of it — you had homework, you had exams, you had to work over the summer and you were so tired — but now that it’s your first weekend in college and he knows that you don’t have anything going on, he insisted. 

Plus your mom had sort of asked for you to go at least once. Your dad has been sending you updates about his apartment search and random internet posts that he found funny, and having lived at home all summer, you’ve kept your mom in the loop. She is still obsessed with him, always finding ways to bring him up in conversation, and you wish you were brave enough to tell her to just move on. She was absolutely ecstatic when you broke the news about him and Agatha and she’s been pressing you for updates ever since. 

Part of the reason she wanted you to go see him was to scope out his new place and see if there was any sign of a new woman. There was still no sign about the lady he was having an affair with, so you weren’t sure if things had ended. 

And when he moved out the first time, he took your mom’s can opener and she still won’t let it go. Before you left, she texted you that if you saw it, you should steal it back. 

After the divorce went through, your dad had decided to sell the house and look for an apartment a little closer to his work, and he’s lived in this place for about a month now. 

“How are you? How’s it going?” he asks as he leads you to the elevator. He presses his fob to the button inside and then floor six. You remember him being so consumed with having one of the top floors, like that would make him seem more important. 

You shrug and pick at the peeling skin on your fingers. It’s a bad habit — one of your many. “Pretty good. Syllabus week has been a breeze. Made some new friends.”

“Classes seem like they’ll be fun?” he asks. 

“Yeah, I hope so.” 

And then a tense silence falls over the both of you. You haven’t actually seen him since your graduation, which was a whole other level of awkward with your mom there too, and you both know that the two affairs and two divorces has put a strain on your relationship.

It does hurt a little. You wish there was a way you could reach over the cold gap between you and go back to how things were when you were a kid, when you actually liked being around him. 

But too much has happened. 

“Well, I’m really glad you were able to come down for dinner,” he says and you smile tightly. “I can’t wait to show you the place and then we can get whatever you want to eat.” 

The elevator dings and you follow him to an apartment a few doors down and he unlocks the door and lets you go first. 

The floors are a laminate gray, the counters in the kitchen marble white with black pendant lights over the peninsula. The refrigerator is stainless steel and there’s a completely stocked wine cooler fridge built into the cabinets next to the stove. You walk past the kitchen into the living room where the couches from his and Agatha’s house are set up around an entertainment center with a fireplace and a blue rug under the coffee table. 

“What do you think?” he asks, stepping next to you and putting an arm around your shoulders to bring you in close to him. 

You take his fancy bachelor pad in again. “Yeah, it’s pretty nice. Maybe just pizza for dinner? We can order and watch a show or something?”

Staying in and having the television as a buffer is a much better plan than going out and having to make small talk that will end up with him on his phone anyway. He agrees and calls to order the pizza while you perch on the couch and scroll on your phone. You already have a text from your mom telling you to call her when you’re done and your chest tightens at the thought of all the shit she’s going to say. It’s fucking exhausting still being in the middle of this — you really thought it would get better, especially now that you’re in college. And yet, here you are. 

“So…” your dad starts, plopping down next to you with a groan once he gets off the phone. He grabs the remote and turns the TV on. “You like your roommate?”

Your roommate, Alice Wu, is a sweet girl from out-of-state. You think that you and her will get along just fine and you’ve already agreed on all the rules of cleaning and having friends over. The first week has gone well and you’ve gotten close. “She’s cool. I think she and I will be good friends.” 

He nods and turns on a show you watched awhile and the two of you sit in awkward silence until the pizza guy rings from downstairs. You excuse yourself to the bathroom after your dad rings him in. 

The bathroom is through the bedroom and you take careful note of the sheets still strewn all over the bed and the two pillows at the top. One nightstand is cluttered with a phone charger, earplugs, a lamp, and a picture of you on your graduation day in a silver frame. It tugs at your heart and you instantly look away, not wanting to feel any more nostalgia. 

However, on the other nightstand, there’s just a matching lamp. No hair tie, no other chargers or personal belongings. 

But that stuff is easily hidden, so you go into the bathroom. One toothbrush, one retainer case, one razor. You can’t tell if you’re disappointed or glad. 

At least you won’t have to listen to your mom talk endlessly about a new woman. 

Your dad already has a plate with two slices on it for you sitting in your spot on the couch and you dig into it, suddenly famished. The atmosphere does warm up over time, and it’s no longer uncomfortable silence and you do end up talking a bit about his work and more about your school while the TV plays.

He doesn’t bring up your mom or Agatha at all, and neither do you. In a way, it’s nice to be removed from them for a few hours. Your dad has been villainized by both of them — and obviously he fucked up — but he is still your dad, despite your complicated feelings toward him. 

After a few episodes of the show, you shift to get up, grabbing your plate. “You’re leaving already?” he asks and checks his watch.

“Yeah, it’s getting late and I should really be getting back to the dorms,” you say, trying to sound apologetic. Even if the bubble has been nice, you have somewhere you need to be. 

It’s hard for your dad to hide his disappointment, but he gets it and grabs his keys to walk you down to your car. 

“How’s, uh, how’s your mom doing?” he asks. Still putting me in the middle of all the imaginary drama she’s creating with you is what you want to say. But you know that he’ll call her out for it and you’d have to deal. 

“She’s pretty good. Work’s been keeping her busy.” A safe answer. A true answer. 

“Good,” he says and shoves his hands into his pockets and you know what’s coming next. “And Agatha? Have you seen her at all?” 

Imagines of her hot body on yours flash through your mind. Her rosy nipples, her pale stomach, the heat that swallows up her eyes. “Yeah, I’ve seen her around. She’s doing all right, too, I think.”

Your dad nods and stops at your car. “Well, I had a great time with you,” he says and holds his arms out for a hug. You mutter something in agreement and give him an embrace with two pats — the way you’ve done it since you were a kid. “Let’s do it again soon.”

He tells you that he loves you and after you say it back, you get into your car and he watches you as you drive away. 

Begrudgingly, you call your mom and put her on speaker and not even a second later, her voice fills your car. 

“How was it? Did you see anything? Is there another woman? Did you find my can opener?” she asks all in one breath and you take a silent, deep breath. 

You can’t wait to be home. “It was a pretty nice place actually.” Your mom snorts. “There wasn’t any sign of someone else there and I didn’t have time to look around. We just watched a show and ate pizza.” 

She makes a sound. “Wow, father of the year. Maybe he cleaned up the place before you came over.” You hum noncommittally. “What are you doing tomorrow? Want to come over? I’ll take you grocery shopping.” 

“Yeah, let me just check my schedule. Alice and I might be doing something, but I’d love to go there for a bit. Especially for groceries,” you tease and she laughs. 

“I bet your father didn’t even offer to do that,” she says smugly and your face falls. Sometimes you wonder if she does half the things that she does for you just to one-up him. 

“Okay, well I’m almost back now, so I’ll let you know when I’m coming over tomorrow,” you tell her, eager to wrap it up, and about to turn in. “Love you.” You hang up before she’s even done saying it back. 

Once you park, you text your roommate saying that you won’t be back for the night — staying with family — and walk up to the apartment side door, letting yourself in with the fob on your key ring. 

Agatha’s apartment complex is smaller than your dad’s, but just as nice, and you prefer it a lot more. 

After the divorce, she stayed in a hotel for about a week before signing a lease on a place about ten minutes away from where the house used to be. You had helped her pick out the furniture and spent more time here than at your mom’s house the last couple months of school and she gave you a key to it the day she moved in. 

It got harder over the summer to hang out with her, as you worked at an ice cream shop in the afternoons into the evenings and she was working her normal nine to five, but you made it work. 

Things are really good between the two of you. There isn’t exactly a label on it, per se, but you both know that it’s a relationship. And without your dad in the picture and with her not being your stepmom anymore, there isn’t as much of a need to keep sneaking around — so when she puts an arm around you while you’re walking down the street and kisses your cheek when you say something cute and ghosts her pinky against yours, it’s okay. 

You know things might change a little with you in college now, but you’re ready for it. And if you spend more nights at her place than at your dorm, so be it. It’s not like anyone’s going to know, and Alice will just think you’re staying with family. 

Unlocking the door, you can practically feel the tension seeping away from your body. Agatha makes everything feel better. Even the house you grew up in, the one your mom still lives in, doesn’t feel as home as this does. 

You don’t see her when you first walk in and you walk into the living room to see her typing something on her computer, brows furrowed, and you can just make out the glint of a document through the reflection of her glasses. 

“Hey, you,” you greet, kicking off your shoes. She startles and looks up before slamming her laptop shut and smiling. 

“Hey, honey,” she says and pats the spot next to her while she leans forward to place her computer on the coffee table. “How was it?” 

Agatha had emphatically listened to your incessant complaining about having to get dinner with your dad, but in the end she had also pushed you to go. You groan and flop onto the couch, situating yourself so that your head is in her lap and you’re looking up at her. “It wasn’t that bad,” you admit and she smirks. “Don’t even think about saying ‘I told you so’. I will leave.” 

She tosses her head back with a laugh and you play with the strands of hair that’s falling over her shoulder and teasing your face. “I would never, darling. But I’m glad it wasn’t bad. How is he?” 

Your nose wrinkles. “Can we not talk about my dad? Although, I was just thinking about how much of a reward I deserve for going.” 

“Oh, you think you deserve a reward, do you?” she ribs lightly, raising an eyebrow and poking you in the stomach. You giggle and twist away from her finger before sticking out your bottom lip as pitiful as you can and giving her doe eyes, nodding your head. She rolls her eyes fondly. “What were you thinking, honey?” 

You shrug like you’re just now beginning to think about it. “Well, mommy,” you say, a thrill running through you at her sharp gasp. “I think since I was such a good girl, you should give me an orgasm.” 

“Oh, just one?” she asks playfully, and you surge up out of her lap, turn over onto your knees to face her, and pull her in for a kiss. Your lips move against each other with familiar ease, her tongue licking hotly into your mouth and you moan — her hands slide up under your shirt and rest on your bare skin before you reach down and take it off. 

“As many as you’ll give me, mommy,” you pant, and she grins before starting to suck open-mouthed bites onto your chest. You’re wearing green lingerie but she barely even looks at it before unclasping your bra from behind and tearing it off, throwing it somewhere on the floor. 

She swirls her tongue around your nipple before suckling hard and you whimper, holding her head right against you. It feels like there’s a wire running straight from your boob to your cunt and you quickly feel yourself becoming soaked. Agatha switches to the other one and soon your entire chest is sticky with her saliva and you’ve moved onto her lap, squirming. 

Her teeth nip at the underside of your breasts and you can’t take it anymore. “Mommy, please,” you beg, grabbing her hand and leading it to the waistband of your jeans. Her fingers rest there while you quickly unbutton and unzip and then you shove her into your pants, your hand circled around her wrist to just feel her. 

Agatha chuckles throatily and moves her fingers experimentally against you while you try to grind down for some stimulation. You suddenly feel so empty, a molten heat between your legs, and Agatha crashes her lips back onto yours. She sucks on your tongue and tugs on your bottom lip as she finally presses against your clit and your hips jerk. “So wet for mommy, aren’t you?” she huffs and you nod and try to move against her harder. 

When she finally pushes your underwear to the side and runs her fingers through your folds, you keen and bury a hand into her hair, face dropping down into her neck. She sharply gasps when you start breathing heavily against her skin, content to just keep your lips planted against her throat. 

She slides a finger into you and your walls clench around her, trying to draw her even more in. Each time she fucks you, it feels like the first time — the same energy is there, the same electricity. But at the same time, she knows exactly what you need, maybe even more than you do. 

Her thrusts begin to pick up and heat is rising through your body and you can see little indents in Agatha’s skin from where your teeth have slightly sunk in. 

“Mommy, mommy — please, I need more,” you whine and she obliges by pushing another finger into you and curling them just right. A high-pitched sound leaves your mouth and you start riding her fingers the best you can, rolling your hips to match her and get her even deeper. You’re clenching furiously around her as sparks begin to fly in your lower stomach and you can feel the beginning tendrils of your orgasm start to build. 

Agatha’s thumb circles around your clit without actually touching it. “God, sweetheart, you look so hot right now, taking my fingers like such a good girl. You feel so good, too. Never wanna leave you,” she babbles, making you convulse even tighter. There’s a slight pink tint to her cheeks and her breathing has picked up and you know she’s affected too. Her fingers are moving faster and she pauses for just a moment, making you whimper, before she stretches you out with a third. 

“Oh, fuck,” you swear, your walls adjusting, and the slight burn only adds to the immense pleasure you’re feeling. “Fuck, fuck.” Your head is spinning, completely drunk with her and her perfume that’s been invading your nostrils the whole time, and you can’t even form a single thought. 

She presses harder on your clit and with the hand that’s not currently inside you, grips your hair and pulls you away from her neck. You can see red blotches staining her skin and the thought of her wearing your marks around gets you even closer. “Look at me,” she grunts, her thrusts becoming more sporadic and you stare right into her dark blue eyes with your pleading wide ones. Your breaths intermix and she looks like she might also cum just from this. 

Agatha lets out a strangled gasp when her gaze flickers from your eyes to your swollen lips to your breasts that are bouncing with your movements in her lap. 

“Mommy, I need — right there —” You can’t even string together a coherent thought and she scissors her fingers inside you, the pressure making you see stars. 

She looks you up and down again, drinking you in like she might never get enough, and her chest heaves with each breath she takes. “Fuck, baby, you’re so perfect,” she groans and your head falls back as you keep riding her. “I need you to cum for me, okay? Cum for mommy.” 

“Mommy, fuck, I’m gonna — fuck I love you,” you groan, not even realizing the words slipping out of your mouth, the words neither of you have ever said before, before it’s too late and your orgasm explodes through your body in a way it never has before. You feel it in every crack and crevice inside you and she keeps fucking you just as hard while rubbing your clit and it quickly becomes too much, tears springing into your eyes. 

Agatha’s fingers finally slow down and she coos sweet nothings in your ear and you wonder if she even heard you. It’s been a few months since you’ve been together, but neither of you has really acknowledged the depth between you. 

And you just did, in the middle of sex. 

“You okay?” she murmurs, pressing a kiss to your cheek and you nod before she pulls out of you and you wince at the sudden emptiness. You fall back out of her lap onto the couch. She must not have heard it. 

There’s a slight gnawing feeling that begins to grow in your stomach — if you said it for real, in a moment that couldn’t just be blamed on a dopamine rush, would she say it back? 

Does she feel the same? 

Agatha kisses you before sticking her three fingers into your mouth so you can clean them up. “Good girl,” she purrs in a low voice. “Was that a good enough reward?” 

You’re still a little out of it, but you nod dazedly. “Yeah,” you say softly and she gets off the couch and walks over to the fridge to get you a glass of water. “My mom wants me to go hang out with her tomorrow. What are you doing at night? Can I come over after?” 

She pauses for a fraction of a second and then glances at you over her shoulder. “Um, sorry, baby. I have to work all day tomorrow. Some last minute things I’ve got to get done.” 

You hum, a little disappointed, but graciously accept the water. “No worries. Maybe Monday or something.” 

“Yeah, of course. Just a second, I need to go grab something,” she murmurs and then walks into her bedroom. You’re exhausted and you get off the couch, stretching your aching muscles, and you’re about to follow her when her phone buzzes on the end table. 

Thinking it’s just a work email or something, you glance at it and your stomach drops, heart lurches. 

It’s a text message from an unknown number. 

Can’t wait to see you tomorrow. 

@lostbutlovely33 @diorrxckstar @whoreforolderfictionalwomen  @katekathry @onemansdreamisanothermansdeath @tayasmellsapples @natashashill @mybraininblood @mysticalmoonlight7  @cactuslover2600 @loveem0mo @readysteddiero-nance @lonelyhalfwitch @lesbiantortilla @crescendoofstars @sol-in-wonderland @ahsfan05 @gbab09 @sasheemo @agathaharness @live-laugh-love-lupone @chiar4anna @fuckedupforkhahn @lowlyjelly @sweetmidnights

[torturedtypewritersdept]

earning your stripes - part one

✯ pairing:

racer!rafe cameron x fem sports reporter!reader

✯ summary:

sports reporter, y/n edwards, has the opportunity of a lifetime - interviewing nascar driver, rafe cameron. But, it may be a little bit more than she bargained for.

✯ warnings:

rafe is a sexy cocky bitch, reader is a queen, sexual innuendos, eventual smut, mature themes, rafe low key is a bitch, etc.

✯ a/n:

nothing!! please don't engage if you have a hard time with any of these topics <3 this was origianlly posted on my old blog @/illicitfixations, @/lovelornanonymity back in 2021/2022 and i have rewritten + reshared it here :)

You made your way up the concrete clad driveway, eyes on your feet as your nerves sat at the back of your throat. You had dressed casually, boyfriend jeans and a Ramones t-shirt with white platform sneakers. Your makeup was minimal, but enough to make a good impression. You were nervous for many reasons, one of which being that Rafe Cameron had never done an interview with anyone and what set you apart from any of the other sports reporters who had reached out to him? Absolutely nothing. You pushed the question down as you made it to the top of his driveway and took it in, the open garage door of the mid-sized brick home. It was nice, but not what you’d expect for a multi-million dollar race car driver. 

“Hello?” 

You asked, stepping into the garage where you took in the sight of multiple empty containers of motor oil and dirty rags that sat on a ruby red toolbox much taller than you. Suddenly, you backed up as white converse sneakers peeked out from underneath the red mustang taking up most of the space in the garage. They slid out from underneath the car and into your shins. 

“Ow!” 

You yelped and he chuckled smugly and suddenly, you felt uncomfortable. His sly smirk captured you as you took him in. He laid there, head cocked sideways as his grin spread into a full blown toothy smile. You were captivated by the blue irises that were his eyes, they were possibly the most beautiful thing you’d ever seen and as your eyes moved down again, taking in the blue jumpsuit that was covered in oil and grease, you knew you were in trouble.

“Is this the Cameron house?” 

You asked, politely as you cleared your throat, awkward sexual tension looming in the air. 

When your boss told you to interview Rafe Cameron before his upcoming race, you were ecstatic, elated even. You’d imagined a lot of things about him, you thought maybe he’d be easy to deal with, that the interview might possibly go smoothly, but the one thing you weren’t expecting him to be was this kind of beautiful. His chiseled jaw had made your core warm and he rose from the rolling seat, wiping his hands on the pants of his jumpsuit before moving to greet you with a dirty handshake. 

“Well, it must be my lucky day.” 

He smiled brightly as he spoke. His southern twang was another thing you weren’t expecting, but you pushed that thought down quickly and gave him a soft smile. 

“What do you mean?” 

You questioned. 

“Well, you’re the escort Topper sent over, right? For my birthday?” 

He winked and you swallowed thickly, your face falling at the notion that you looked anything remotely close to a hooker and someone so beautiful thinking it – that made your insides churn. 

“Happy birthday”, you whispered before turning to walk back to the end of the driveway. 

“Oh, come on, darlin,’ I’m just kidding around. What’s your name? What can I do for you?” 

He moved toward you, grabbing your arm and turning you back to face him. 

“My name is y/n. I don’t know why I’m here now. This was a mistake. I should’ve known you weren’t any different, all you driver’s are the same.” 

You muttered, unsure why you had blurted those words out. The power he already had over you was sickening. 

“Sweetheart, I can promise you I’m not like any driver you’ve ever met.” 

He grinned smugly and you grimaced, watching him retreat from you to turn the key inside of the mustang he was previously under. You giggled as his large feet caught up in one another and he caught himself on the edge of the car. You found his clumsiness sexy and endearing and you were sure if you were that tall and lanky, you’d trip over your own feet too. As the engine turned over, you sighed in contentment, that familiar sound reminding you of your dad. 

“I gotta go, but hey, take that front fender off and those twin turbos will look and sound ten times better.” 

You cheekily said, winking in his direction before retreating to your car and driving away. The only thing Rafe could think was how impressed he was and how much he had underestimated you in the brief interaction. He needed to know who the hell you were and how the hell you wound up on his doorstep. 

taglist:

as always, if you'd like to be added to or removed from the taglist, please shoot me an ask or comment on this post so i can keep track <3

@maybankslover @inthelibrarybtw @luvrcndy @silkylovey @yagirlwrites @obxbabygirl @rafeecameronsbitch @klutzy-kay24 @roseczbalt @akobx @allsmilesreally7 @wtfdudesblog @urdreamgirl12 @hockeybabe87 @sereneera @annaconscience @pogueprincesa @bibissparkles @obxbigsis @jjmaybankmylovee @kulekehe

[yoyomomiko]

Could I pls request some cute luffy dating headcanons? Also your page is so cute<3333

pairings: luffy x female reader

cw: not proofread, probably contains grammar mistakes, english isn't my first language!!

— (a/n): tysm!! >.< i've actually been wanting to write something for luffy for quite a while now!! also i'm sorry this is short :(( -> m.list

Luffy is obsessed with physical affection. He constantly wants to hold your hand, hug you, or just lean against you!!

If you're sitting down, expect him to plop down beside you and wrap his arms around you.

He gives you random kisses all the time!!

Luffy doesn't really think about it. He just sees your face and kisses you. It could be your lips, cheek, forehead or even nose. If you look kissable (which is always), he's going for it.

He steals food for you!!

He'll steal some meat off of Sanji's stove just to share it with you. He thinks it's romantic, even if Sanji is screaming right next to him.

Will fall asleep on you. Whether it's your lap, shoulder, or even if you're standing, he has no problem with dozing off while leaning against you.

Whether you like it or not, dating Luffy means getting dragged into his stupid adventures. He doesn't want you to get hurt, but he likes it better when you're there with him.

He gets jealous and doesn't even realize it!! He'll complain to the rest of the crew about how you don't give him enough attention. Sometimes he squishes himself in the middle of the person you are talking with and inserts himself into the conversation, wrapping an arm around your waist, completely unaware that he's being possessive.

He talks about you all the time!! The crew is constantly hearing "Did you see what [Y/N] did?" "Isn't that impressive?" "Isn't [Y/N] so cool?" He's your biggest fan.

Despite him being an adorable boyfriend, he's got a few errors. He's terrible at keeping secrets!! He'll try to keep it a surprise, but he'll blurt it out seconds later.

Loves it when you play with his hair. He will instantly melt if you run your fingers through his hair. If you ever want to put something cute in his hair, like a little bow, do it. He'll wear it proudly.

Luffy is extremely food motivated, but he always makes sure you get a bite before he devours the whole plate.

He TACKLES you. I wanted to say that he tackles you when he's excited, but let's be honest, he doesn't have to be thrilled to jump on you.

If you've been apart for a while, prepare for a Luffy to collide into you at full speed the moment he sees you again.

He brags about you constantly!! He'll legit tell strangers how amazing you are.

Luffy wants you to wear his hat. He doesn't trust just anyone with his hat, but sometimes he'll put it on your head and grin, because you look pretty in it. His words, not mine.

He gets so easily distracted by you!!! If you're in the middle of battle and looking cool, he'll stop what he's doing just to admire you.

Always tries to carry you. Piggy back rides, bridal style, he just loves carrying you!! If you let him, he will never put you down.

Luffy hates it when you're sad. If you cry, he is panicking. He'll make the funniest faces, tell the dumbest jokes and even offer you his food just to cheer you up.

He falls asleep talking to you. You could be having a deep conversation, and all of the sudden you hear him snoring. He falls asleep mid sentence. You can't even get mad because he looks so peaceful.

He wants you to sit next to him at every meal. He'll save you a spot and glare at anyone who tries to take it. You're his favourite person, and meal time is sacred.

Luffy loves it when you wear his clothes!! If you throw on his vest or one of his clothes, his face lights up. He might even tell you to keep it!! Nami might genuinely turn pale if she sees you wear one of... Those vests.

★yoyomiko ★miko

[emsdevs]

As someone who's southern, yr thoughts about Luke and Nico w Appalachian reader is making my brain worms wriggle. Thinking abt Quinn with someone from the area and the memes of him staring on the bench during the games is him trying to decipher what the fresh fuck you just said to him. I have a Canadian friend and I always giggle at her slightly accent and trying to explain certain things to her that they just don't have. Quinn would be so lost about boiled peanuts and buying them off the side of the road🤚🏻

Boiled Peanuts

a/n: here to let everyone know that I'll write southern and/or Appalachian reader any time for anyone!! it's one of my favs!! sorry for the wait nonnie!!

masterlist | NHL Masterlists | Quinn Hughes Masterlist

Quinn was sitting on the bench in between shifts. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see the pictures being taken. He knew it wouldn’t be long before it was the latest “Quinn Hughes is seeing ghosts” picture, but he honestly didn’t care. Truly, most of the time when he was zoned out like this, he was trying to keep his focus on the game, even though he wasn’t playing, but right now, it’s something totally different that has him looking like he’s in another realm. He can’t get your conversation from earlier in the day out of his head.

~~

He was eating some lunch before going to take his pregame nap when he noticed you heading back to the stove, ready to cook something else.

“What are you making, baby? If you want more food, you could’ve just asked for some of mine,” he was a little hurt you’d try to make yourself something extra without telling him he was hogging all the food.

“I didn’t eat a lot because I was saving room for what I’m about to make, and I would’ve offered you some, but I don’t really think you’d like it,” you shrugged.

“Well, I still wanna know,” he was genuinely curious, wondering why you’re being secretive.

“I’m gonna boil some peanuts,” you laughed as you spoke, knowing Quinn would think that’s a weird answer.

He’s silent for a moment, and you can see the confusion on his face. “Why would you do that?”

“It’s good, Quinny. We used to buy them at stands on the side of the road all the time back home.”

“You WHAT?” Quinn couldn’t believe his ears. He was fully aware that the southern parts of the U.S. had a completely different culture from the northern part he grew up in, and that awareness had only grown since he began dating you. He had heard all kinds of stories from before you moved to Vancouver, and he swore each one shocked him more than the last. This one, though, might take the cake. “Babe, you can’t just stop at stands on the side of the highway and buy stuff. That’s so dangerous.”

“Sweetheart, everyone does it all the time where I’m from. I mean, Lordy, someone’s probably doin’ it right now. Besides, I didn’t say highway. It was a two-lane road, honey.”

~~

The shock hadn’t worn off at all. He spent every second he had on the bench concerned for your safety and wondering what in the world made you want to try boiled peanuts. He had heard you say some truly insane phrases, and he didn’t question the weird suspicions you grew up with. He doesn’t know if he can let this go, though. 

Boiled Peanuts??

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[laurentidal]

Catch

Easy prey for me, I'll admit. I enjoy a challenge more often than not, but I'm not so egotistical as to say I'll never eat low hanging fruit.

Lily struck me right away. Tattoos from neck to toe and dripping in Pokemon memorabilia. She was a sight. Not usually my type, to be sure. But the tits under that Squirtle. They were not to be ignored.

I introduced myself as the owner of the shop she'd wandered into. It wasn't legally true, but thanks to a little lady who was currently helplessly finger fucking herself in the back office, it would be by this time tomorrow.

She nodded politely to me and continued browsing. I followed behind a few paces. I didn't want to scare her off, thought I think that even the brief encounter would have been enough for her to stay nearby. I have a… way with people. They're drawn to me and naturally inclined to do as I ask. With a bit of concentration and the right prompting, I can get people to do almost anything.

"Which is your favorite?" I asked gesturing to her shirt as I pretended to cross her path again.

She looked down at her chest, breasts stretching the fabric wonderfully, and for a moment I thought she might have answered "left" or "right."

"Smeargol," she answered simply, and upon seeing my curious expression happily elaborated. "He's a painter."

"Ah so it's art-related. Makes sense with the tattoos. Mine is probably Hypno."

"Interesting choice," she said, taking a drink.

"I've always been obsessed with the mind. It's an incredible thing. It creates whole worlds for us to live in." I could feel her getting more and more comfortable with me. In a short time, she now considered us close friends.

"Yeah that's true. I like how something like a dumb cartoon can explore topics without getting boring."

"Pokemon has a lot of strange themes. One that always struck me was the relationship between trainer and pokemon. Are they friends? Pets? Slaves?"

She took a long pull from her drink as she thought about that.

"l mean you wouldn't make a pet fight someone else's pet. They seem a lot like slaves to me. Slaves that do whatever their owner wants."

Her lack of a bra was beginning to show more obviously as we spoke and she fell more and more into my field of influence.

"But," she stammered, "they can disobey if they aren't friends with their owners."

"Or if their owners are weak," I agreed. "But they often don't get a say on who their owner is. He just swoops in one day and uses his balls to trap them."

At the word balls, she audibly sighed, though I don't think she even noticed she'd done it.

"Are we friends?" I asked.

"Sure," she agreed a little too quickly.

"And I'm strong. I've steered this whole conversation. Leading you along on each point."

She nodded.

"And I've swooped in out of the blue and am trying to claim you. Are you going to let me? Or…,"

I pointed at her shirt again, "are you just a little wild pokemon who doesn't have a choice?"

"No choice," she whispered as she stared into my eyes.

"Now why don't you come into the back office and I can show you the thing that all captured pokemon need. And you can see the other specimen I've caught today. I think you're going to get along nicely."

She simply nodded, eyes lowering to look at the bulge in my jeans. Too easy.

Thanks for reading! If you are a fan of my work, consider buying me a coffee. Any contribution is insanely appreciated. 💖

[oh-no-its-bird]

Gonna ramble a bit here, sorry in advance for that

With the rise in worry about the permanence of online media (books / music / video content / art / online chat history / etc.) I've been thinking about wanting to print out some of my favorite fics, or catologue some of my longer (months and years long tbh) conversations about ocs. Or maybe try and learn how to burn cds so I can save my music and favorite shows / videos n stuff

Mm,, download a show online and burn it into a cd so I never have to look for it again,, easily accessible physical copy,, I love pirating things

Obviously, with printing out fics I'd want to ask for explicit permission from the author and then keep the printed volume to myself. Gotta be careful to be respectful ab that sort of thing.

I'd also be interested in printing out some of my own shit too, just for fun. Those old conversations about ocs won't last forever, discord will eventually fail and when it does I know I for one will be crushed to lose all that chat history.

Obviously, I'm an American, and like the current political state in America is uhhh. Deeply worrying for all of us over here. So I won't lie, that's also adding a layer of worry from that angle. Things are already looking ugly, and if they get uglier, you know, I for one don't want my information to be completley ripped away from me

Turning back to the fic thing again, there's also a good amount of American fic writers who have / are planning to / are thinking about taking down some of their fics, due to fear of potential laws that threaten to make pornography illegal, and alao laws that classify anything homosexual as pornography.

Now, to be clear, I don't think they'll really do this. I think that even if they try, there're literally no fucking way it would pass. The backlash alone would be insane. But that doesn't change the fact that people are scared— that people got scared, and some have already taken things down

So there's another layer of just, shit man, I don't wanna lose my fics. There's always a risk that even if you download it, you could one day lose it too.

Also printed and bound fics are just cool as hell. What do you mean I have a copy of my very favorite fics, right there on my shelf in physical form, which I can open any time to any page I want without fear of ao3 one day crashing?

The ideal world tbh

Besides that, there's also a sort of time capsule aspect to it.

The other day, my dad whipped out his old tape recordings he made when he was a kid, just of him rambling about shit to mail to a cousin. He put them in to a record player he apparently just had, and I lost my fucking mind seeing it.

Both of my parents were laughing at how excited I was to see both the tapes and the boom box— and to listen to my dad's tinny, muffled voice sounding just like the vintage tapes might be portrayed on TV. Faint static and old timey tv lilt in his voice and all.

To them, it was just a small, slightly nostalgic thing. To me, it was cool as hell and totally retro

The things I save today, that I print, that I burn into cds; Stories I'm scared might get deleted, conversations I dont want to lose, tv shows I could never afford to maintain a subscription to see, playlists of music I worried I'd lose; They may someday be some day be a real relic of the past, however many years in the future. If not for other people, than yeah, for me

So just, I dunno. It's important to save things in a way that they can't be taken away from you.

It's supposed to be the "age of information," isn't it? Well then, let me keep my goddamn information

[queensunshinee]

So sweet- part 2 || Patrick Zweig x reader, Art Donaldson x reader

Rating: Explicit (18+)

Warnings: SMUT (mention of p in v sex, oral sex), mention of an eating disorder, family drama, death in the family, cheating. It's a mess.

Word Count: 7.9k

(Part 1)

So sweet- part 2:

Art leaned against the doorframe as he looked at you. Since your back was to him, you hadn't seen him yet, and he felt like he had the upper hand. As if he didn’t need to be defensive. As if he was still part of your life. Your hair looked shorter than the last time he saw you. But then again, the last time he saw you, you told him you never wanted to see him again, so maybe he didn’t remember all the details as well as he’d like to.

Maybe he felt that "never" was subjective. That everyone could choose what to take from the word "never." That a year and a half without speaking to you was enough "never" for him, and you'd be a hypocrite if you said it wasn’t for you too. "Are you going to stand there much longer, Donaldson?" Your voice sounded the same. He'd recently discovered he hated a lot of things, but at the top of his list were all the times you called him by his last name instead of his first.

"You really do have eyes in the back of your head," he tried to joke, but he didn’t hear you laugh, not even a chuckle. He hadn’t seen your face yet, but he could guess you weren’t even smiling. "Aren’t you supposed to be in Atlanta?" you asked. If he didn’t know you, he might have thought you were fine. That this was just polite conversation between two acquaintances who hadn’t seen each other in a while and ran into each other by chance. "My first match isn’t for another two days. I couldn’t miss the funeral," he said quietly. "I’m really sorry for your loss, you know that, right?" He took a few large steps and sat on the bed next to you, hoping you’d give him this moment. Hoping you wouldn’t be angry. Not when he was trying so hard.

"She was a mean drunk," you muttered. "Not a huge loss," you added, glancing at him for a second, allowing yourself to surrender to the moment. He recognized the piercing gaze. Maybe a wrinkle that wasn’t there before, but your eyes were the same eyes. You were the same girl he used to love. Used to. Used to. Used to. Before he went on his path in life and you on yours. Before he made a decision, and then you made a decision, and then both of you made decisions. Before words were said. Before he left and you stayed. Before he opened up and you shut down. Used to.

"You’re a grown man, you should know how to tie a tie by now, don’t you think?" you asked, probably trying to lighten the sadness that filled your childhood room, located right across from his childhood room. He wanted to thank you for that. But he never knew how to talk to you honestly. Why would he start now? "Tashi usually does it," he said quietly, and you stood in front of him, starting to adjust the damn tie. You had no idea what you were doing to his heartbeat. "I’m sorry about your grandmother. I was at your parents’ house afterward. I don’t know if they told you," you mumbled.

He was so angry at you for not coming to the funeral. Because by what right did you take his tragedy and make him consumed with thoughts of you? About your absence. About your hand that could’ve held his tightly, just like you did when he was eight, and Jameson died. Instead, he held Tashi’s hand. She didn’t squeeze. She let go after a few minutes. He was so angry that at his grandmother’s funeral, more than anything, he missed you. So now, a few minutes before heading to your mother’s funeral, he squeezed your hand for a moment while you adjusted his tie, looking at him with big eyes filling with tears you refused to let fall. "Better," you said.

He didn’t think it was better. He didn’t want to argue. He just nodded. . . . Patrick couldn’t focus. Every time he hit that stupid ball, he thought about the fight he had with his dad a week ago and the dumb argument he had with you before leaving for Atlanta. He hadn’t told you yet that his parents decided to cut him off from the trust fund. He hadn’t told you that he was basically broke. Sometimes Patrick thinks you’re the only person in the world who looks at him like he understands something about life. Like he’s capable of pulling off magic at any given moment. Sparkling eyes and a smile. He wonders when was the last time you looked at him like that. It’s been a few good months. He can’t deliver. Not the damn ball and not in real life.

He hesitates. Everything he does comes with a certain delay. He knows that at 24, he’s expected to understand who he is and what he wants from life. But what he wants from life doesn’t want him back, and that’s something he’s not willing to accept. He blames his parents for the fact that he’s too spoiled. That he doesn’t know when to stop. That he can’t let go of dreams. That he has to be the best, even though he’s drowning in his own mediocrity. He moves too fast between knowing how good he is at what he does and the harsh slap of reality that comes with each of his failures. Every tournament he loses in the second round, every person who was once in his life and doesn’t want him anymore. They found something better. Something more put-together.

He saw Tashi from a distance for the second time in the last two days. Always alone, Art wasn’t with her. He wondered why Art wasn’t here. He knew Art was competing. Everyone knew Art was competing. The rising star of American tennis. Motherfucker. His dad screamed it at him when he lost it a week ago— “I wish Art Donaldson were my son, maybe then I wouldn’t be so ashamed.” Patrick won’t tell anyone that it hurt. Not because he cares what his shitty dad thinks of him. Not because he cares that Art is succeeding on an international level, breaking into the world’s top ten. Fulfilling all the dreams they once dreamed together. Patrick cares because he knows that at any given moment, he could beat Art. He’s better than Art. So how is it that Art is ranked eighth and Patrick is a nobody? No one takes him into account.

“You planning to embarrass yourself in another tournament?” Tashi’s voice crept up behind him. “You know that if he competes against me, I’ll win, right?” he asked. Overconfident. Always overconfident. “I know you’re ranked 243rd, and he’s ranked 8th. It doesn’t matter who wins this, you’ll still be a loser, and he’ll still get a Nike campaign. They asked us about a winter collection.” She was trying to hurt him. He couldn’t understand why it was so important to her—to hurt him. But he thinks only two people can: you and Art. Tashi isn’t on that list. He doesn’t think Tashi comes close to being on that list.

He thinks Tashi is beautiful. Maybe the most beautiful woman he knows. Maybe you’re the most beautiful woman he knows. He doesn’t really know- it’s blurry and messy. But hearing you moan or say his name softly, sweetly, is the most beautiful thing he knows. So maybe it’s the same thing. Maybe he measures beauty differently than he did four years ago. “Sounds good. I promise to buy a jacket with his name on it. Do you need anything, Tashi?” he tried to end the conversation. He didn’t want her to see the pathetic training session he was having with himself against a wall. “I don’t know, maybe to ask why you’re here?” She shrugged like it was obvious. Like she cared about the useless existence of Patrick Zweig. Like he mattered. “I’m competing, just like Art-” he started, rolling his eyes.

“Yeah, but Art’s not here. How is it that you are?” she cut off the monologue he was about to throw at her. “I don’t know why Art isn’t here, Tashi.” If it were possible, his eyes would roll so far back into his skull they’d get stuck there. “Because he’s at a funeral, obviously. She’s your girlfriend last time I checked- how are you not there?” The furrow of her brows showed she was genuinely confused. But now he stood in front of her, terrified too. Whose funeral? Who the fuck died? “What are you talking about?” he muttered, feeling his heart pound. Every muscle in his body tensed. “(Y/N)’s mom passed away, Patrick. How am I the first one telling you this?” She doesn’t understand. But he does. And right now he hates Tashi. And Art, who’s with you. And himself- mostly himself- because after four years, he’s still a selfish bastard who only cares about himself. . . . You’re not crying, and you suspect it bothers your father. He looks at you strangely. As if you’re making things difficult. Because this is an event. A funeral is an event, and you need to behave the way you're expected to behave. You just can’t seem to do it. Because you don’t think you have a warm spot in your heart for the woman you called Mom for the pathetic 24 years of your existence. To anyone else, it would sound sad. Pathetic. You don’t say it out loud very often. You don’t want to make things harder for anyone. You don’t want to make anyone uncomfortable. You considered cutting an onion before you left, just to save yourself from the weird looks from the extended family you haven’t seen in years, but Art fucking Donaldson hasn’t left you alone since the second he heard she kicked the bucket.

His hand held yours like his life depended on it. Maybe yours. Someone’s life depended on it. Definitely not your mother’s. She’s dead. You wonder if the need for sacrifice died with her. You wonder if your constant need to make everyone feel comfortable all the time died with her too. It’s exhausting. You wish you could be less like that. Your hand is sweating into his. He probably thinks it’s disgusting. He probably doesn’t like it. You miss the time when your whole world was making sure Art Donaldson was comfortable. His parents hugged you, and you’re pretty sure his mom left lipstick on you. He’s been staring at you for an hour straight. Maybe two. Maybe your whole life. You can’t know; it’s an emotional day.

You try to move your hand away from his; there’s no way this is comfortable for him. He grips harder. Doesn’t let go. Doesn’t leave you alone. Your father says the Kaddish, everyone responds "Amen" and cries. You don’t. Maybe you really are crazy, like she hinted at a few times when she got drunk and called you at an inappropriate hour. Maybe you really are the reason for every problem she ever had. Maybe you didn’t sacrifice enough. Maybe you didn’t love enough.

Maybe you just don’t know how to love, and then it makes sense that you don’t deserve to be loved. Not really. Not unconditionally. Not like your father loved your mother. Not like Art loves Tashi. Not like Patrick loved Tashi. Not like Patrick hated you. Maybe he still does- sometimes you’re not sure. Patrick isn’t here. Art’s hand keeps holding you both steady. You finally cry.

When you walk into the house, your extended family is already there. Uncles, cousins- you think you saw the grandfather of someone your father goes to synagogue with. All you wanted was to sit quietly in your room for a second. Take off the heels and the damn dress. You felt the thong digging into your ass. That’s what happens when you let a dead woman dictate what you'll wear to her funeral. A woman who had conditions for her own funeral. Who told you what dress to wear. What underwear to put on. Sometimes you wonder how many years ahead you’ll keep dragging her advice, her judgmental looks. The tongue clicks. The general dissatisfaction with the world, wrapped in fake smiles. Maybe that’s where you learned to fake so well. To fake who you are down to your core. To fake and fake until you don’t know what you want or from whom.

“You disappeared. I figured you’d be here.” Art walks into your childhood room like it’s his. Like he always did. “You’re still here?” you mutter, and he hands you a plate of food he picked up from downstairs. “Where else would I be?” he sighs. As if that’s the only answer that makes sense to him. As if you two were in touch. As if you know anything about his fancy life or he knows anything about your painfully mediocre one. “In Atlanta,” you answer and place the plate on the nightstand beside you. “When’s your flight?” you ask, not looking at him as he sits next to you on the bed like he did before the funeral.

“I can stay-” he starts quietly. You know he’s looking at you, almost begging you to see that he means it. "Ridiculous,” you mumble to yourself, but you know he hears. “When’s your flight, Art?” you ask, your voice steadier, looking at him with an almost hollow expression. One that doesn’t show any emotion or maybe shows all emotions at once. A look that scared him. A look that worried you. A look you’ll think about a month from now. You’ll sit at home, writing the structure for one of your classes, and you’ll think about Art Donaldson and the empty look you gave him when your mother died. Embarrassing. Everything is so fucking embarrassing.

“Tonight,” he sums up. You glance at your phone’s clock. Sixteen missed calls from Patrick. Instinct says to call him. But it’s 6 p.m., and his first match is at 8 in the morning. “Don’t you need to pack?” He rolls his eyes, ignoring your attempt to dismiss him. “What are you doing?” he asks quietly. “Excuse me?” you snap back, not understanding the direction of the conversation. “Now. In general. What are you doing?” His gaze surrounds you from every direction. You can’t look anywhere that isn’t Art Donaldson. He reflects off the damn mirrors in this room. “Trying to sit quietly in my room, clearly,” you reply stiffly.

You remember how all your conversations used to be warm. Soft. You’d talk about dreams. About books you’d write. About tournaments he’d win. You’d kiss. He’d touch you. You’d touch him. There was curiosity. There was love. Or at least that thing you’ve spent years believing was love. The thing where you become exactly what he wants and needs and disappear when he needs something else, something better. That was the unwritten contract between you. Lately, you’ve been thinking that’s the unwritten contract between you and everyone you know. A depressing thought. You try not to dwell on it too much. On the way you please people in your suffering. Please in deprivation. Please to the point of tears, and more tears, and more tears. You try not to think about all the dreams you had when Art Donaldson -maybe- loved you. You try not to think about the joy of life. About how much you loved seeing him happy, how much you loved making him happy. How much you loved being responsible for his happiness. "Why isn’t Patrick here?" He quietly asked what he really wanted to know. He wanted to understand if you’d broken up. If you were alone. If he could laugh and say he told you so. That he told you; you had no business being with Patrick Zweig. "Because he has a match tomorrow at 8 a.m., and he trained too hard to miss it," you said it coolly, without breaking eye contact. As if it made perfect sense that you hadn’t told your boyfriend, the person who was supposed to be your confidant, that your mother had died. "He didn’t want to come?" Art continued, confused. Ice. That look again. The immediate shift in his mood confuses you, but it doesn’t throw you off balance. You know him. For the past four years, every time he’s seen you, all he’s tried to do is confuse you, to knock you off balance. It never works, at least not in his eyes.

"Hedoesn’tknow," you mumbled the words as if they were one. Quietly, knowing that what you’d done didn’t make sense. Wasn’t reasonable. Wasn’t acceptable. Didn’t fit into the unspoken rules of a relationship. "You’re an idiot." He stood up and started pacing back and forth. "A fucking moron, really." He was angry, as if he was the one who hadn’t been told your mother had died. If it were up to you, he wouldn’t have known either, but his mother told him. Whatever. "I’ll tell him when he gets back from the tournament, it’s not a big deal," you said and shrugged. Art stopped and looked at you like you’d just fallen from the moon. Like you were some natural phenomena. "If you did that to me, I’d kill you. If you thought some shitty tennis tournament in shitty Atlanta was more important to me than you, I’d murder you and then die myself. I don’t like what you have with Zweig, God knows I hate it, but how could you not tell him? Do you even understand the concept of a relationship?" He let out this Shakespearean monologue while looking at you with a half-pitying, half-angry expression. Maybe he was sick. Maybe he thought you were Tashi.

"Art, I’m not your problem. Do you remember that?" You didn’t know what else to say, so you said the only thing you knew for sure in a defeated voice. Art Donaldson was not a part of your life. "You’ll always be my problem. You should know that by now," he said, half despairing at himself. As if wondering how you both got here. As if wondering if there was anywhere else you could be. . . . Patrick was beyond frustrated. He won his first match after two and a half hours, barely. It didn’t come easy. All he could think about was how nothing came easy for him anymore, and how everything used to be so easy.

The thought that you didn’t tell him your mother had died, and then didn’t answer his calls either, hovered over his head like a rain cloud focused solely on him. He didn’t know how to approach it. He knew why you didn’t tell him- because unlike what Art thought, unlike what your dead mother thought, he knew you. He knew how you thought. He understood the mechanics behind your strange decisions. He hated that he had become someone you had to overthink things for.

That afternoon, he went to one of the courts and caught Tashi and Art’s practice. They both saw him sit down. He thinks it made Art play better. He wondered if Art imagined his face when he hit the ball. He thinks he does. Because when Tashi checkmated his relationship with Art, Patrick wrapped his life around yours as if that was how it was always meant to be, while everyone involved knew it wasn’t. While everyone involved knew that you had embroidered Art’s name on bags from the moment you learned how to stitch. While everyone knew that Art Donaldson didn’t know how to exist in the world without you.

So, Patrick took you for himself. Most of the time, he didn’t think of it as something technical, as a game he was playing against Art. Most of the time, he looked at you, really looked at you. Most of the time, he tried to make you laugh and understand the world through your own eyes. Most of the time, he tried to protect you from complex emotions you couldn’t express, from hunger. He tried to protect you from yourself, the way you protect some helpless creature. In some way, you were. In his eyes, you were helpless.

When you first started sleeping together, Patrick treated you with kid gloves, in a way he had never treated anyone before. Like you were porcelain. Like you could shatter and crumble in his hands at any moment. You had gestures and habits, ones you thought no one noticed. But he always saw. You tried to please everyone all the time. You switched from a smile to a sad look in a second, for the sake of the feelings of whoever was in front of you, for the sake of what you thought they wanted from you.

But Patrick didn’t want anything from you. He wanted to give you all the orgasms that you missed and for you to eat at least three meals a day. Some days, he didn’t know how to make you do it. Some days, he raised his voice. When he was desperate, he cried. When he was really desperate, he asked you to eat for him, so that he would be happy. That was the easy way, it always worked. He exploited a destructive mechanism someone had embedded in you (he suspects your dead mother) and used it to get you to do something he thought would be good for you. He wanted to throw up.

Art was playing well. He was playing against Tashi in front of him, and he was playing well. Too well. Patrick no longer thinks he can beat him. Not something he would ever say out loud. He wanted to ask him how you were. He didn’t want to admit that you hadn’t answered his million calls. He didn’t want to admit that he was a loser who didn’t know where his life was going. Not when Art had been with you at the fucking funeral of your awful mother. He hated that woman with everything he had. More than he hated his own father, and that had to be some kind of record. Art looked at him for a moment. The moment passed. Patrick thinks Art won. He’s not sure. . . . Patrick finds Tashi alone in the evening. Completely alone in the middle of the lobby restaurant. She suddenly looks small and fragile to him, holding a drink he can guess is whiskey or cognac or whatever it is that Tashi Duncan drinks these days. He doesn’t know anything about her anymore. Only that a few years ago, he thought he loved her, and in return, she took his best friend away from him.

When he stands in front of her, he is like a streetlight- impossible to ignore. It dawns on him, belatedly, that he is wearing her shirt. She must think he’s pathetic. He feels pathetic. He doesn’t think he cares about being pathetic in front of her. Because he sees her for what she is right now, and she is miserable. She doesn’t have much in life. She clings to what Art has. Which is fucked up on so many levels, but that’s reality. They both cling to things they shouldn’t be clinging to, and his eyes wander to her ring. Massive. Flashy. A bit like her, like the woman she tries to be when she’s not half-drunk and pathetic in front of him.

He places his hand over hers just as she’s about to take a sip of her drink, stopping her. He doesn’t know what he wants. Not from her, not from himself, but his lips find hers within seconds, and she doesn’t resist. He knew she wouldn’t resist- he saw it on her face. She wanted him just as much as he wanted her. Maybe more. And what a thought that is- that Tashi Duncan wants Patrick Zweig more.

They exit through the back door of the restaurant, go up to his room. Naturally. As if more than four years haven’t passed since the last time he was with Tashi. He wishes he knew what he was doing; it would make this easier. But it’s not particularly difficult, either- otherwise, he wouldn’t be pressing Tashi against the wall. Otherwise, his lips wouldn’t be kissing every inch of her body he can reach.

Hunger. Patrick feels hunger. It’s the only emotion coursing through him as he looks at her. He thinks he wants to hurt Art. He thinks about how Art was there for you at your mother’s funeral, and that was supposed to be his role, but you didn’t call him. So he strips Tashi of her shirt. Only to discover she isn’t wearing a bra. He compares her to you every few seconds. You never go without a bra. He can barely convince you to just be at home, without clothes, without defenses. Just be. He doesn’t think you’re capable of that. He doesn’t think you know how to feel at ease. That worries him more than he’s willing to admit.

“You’re thinking about her?” Tashi’s voice is almost angry as she kisses his neck. “No.” A lie. A complete lie. He can only think about you. He realized that a few years ago and stopped fighting it. You and tennis, as if that’s all there is in the world. What else even exists? What else even matters? “You’re a terrible liar,” she mutters against him, and somehow, the ugly shirt he’s pretty sure was Tashi’s -he doesn’t even know why he wore it- ends up on the floor. ‘You’re not thinking about Art?’ he should have asked, but he’s not here to ask questions. He’s here because he’s angry. At Art, at you, at Tashi for telling him, at the world. So he’s here. And they’re both shedding more pieces of their clothing and maybe their souls, because what they’re doing now has no way back. No forgiveness. They are bad people. Patrick knows it. Tashi knows it.

And after he wrings a heavy moan from her, one that follows an orgasm, she quietly tells him she thinks Art loves you. Patrick stares at the gaudy ring stuck on her finger, the ring that, in another universe, Art would have placed on yours. “Why do you think that?” Patrick asks softly, because what else is left to do? “I didn’t want him to go to the funeral. I wanted him to stay and train, but he went anyway,” she mumbles. Patrick says nothing, just nods. He would have done the exact same thing, and that’s why you didn’t call him. He would have come. Despite the dreams. Despite the tennis. Despite everything.

And Patrick remembers all the times Art called you sweet. All the times Art never wanted to tell him anything about what happened between you two. All the times Art didn’t want to talk about you. And it wasn’t because it wasn’t good. It wasn’t because other girls were better. It was because there was depth Patrick can only put his finger on now. So much happened beneath the surface- so much that Art had no words to describe it. So much that Art drowned in his own emotions. Repressed them and kept them bottled up until he found something shiny to bury his feelings in. Until he found Tashi.

And Tashi is safe. With Tashi, you can’t get lost. With Tashi, there’s a plan. With you, he just has to be himself. He doesn’t know how to be anything else. And that’s terrifying.

For the first time, Patrick understands Art in absolute terms. He lies in a hotel room, stroking the hair of a woman who isn’t you, and understands everything there is to understand about life. Mainly, he understands again- that you are so fucking sweet. And that there’s no way he can win. . . .

You're going over tomorrow’s lesson when you hear the door open. Without turning around, you already know it’s Patrick. Who else could it be? His scrutinizing gaze doesn’t waver from you, even when he says nothing. “How was it?” You find yourself breaking the silence, lifting your head toward him with a smile. He doesn’t smile back. He looks exhausted. The message Art sent you lingers in the back of your mind; He’s cheating on you. -Art Donaldson- Art has his reasons to make something like this up, but you doubt he’d be cruel enough to lie about it. Not while you’re mourning your horrible mother. No matter how angry he is at you. No matter how angry he is at Patrick. You don’t think Art is capable of that. You want to believe he isn’t capable of that. Then again, you also want so badly to believe Patrick wouldn’t do it. That Patrick wouldn’t cheat on you. That he wouldn’t find someone prettier, better, more cheerful and do all the things with her that he probably can’t do with you. You don’t want to think about the possibility that you haven’t sacrificed enough. That you didn’t try as hard as you were taught to. Your fault, your fault, your fault. You don’t want to believe it’s your fault. That another love will slip through your fingers, as if you’re trying to hold water. So, you choose to say nothing, because even if it’s true, even if he was with someone else, he came home. And home isn’t big, to say the least, not grand, not dazzling. But he came back. He’s right in front of you. You’re not alone. He knows you. He knows such ugly parts of you that sometimes you’re scared to acknowledge they even exist. He knows what you refuse to recognize in yourself, and sometimes he reminds you that you deserve more than you think. Which is a bizarre thought in itself. But you let him think it, you let him believe it enough for him to believe it for the both of you. “I lost in the third round. To Peter Michelson,” he says shortly, and you nod. “No choice but to make a voodoo doll with Peter Michelson’s face,” you try to joke. He usually laughs. At least smiles. He does neither. He just stands there like a block of wood, with the same expression. “I’m sorry you lost. I wish I’d been there,” you mumble, not knowing what else to say. “What about you? Anything special happen this week?” he asks, his gaze never leaving you.

Now you could tell him your mother died, but there’s no way to say it without it turning into a fight about the fact that you didn’t tell him the moment you found out. “No, nothing special, you know. My routine is boring.” You shrug and shift your focus back to the lesson you’re supposed to teach tomorrow. The Great Gatsby. A shitty book. “Nothing special at all?” he presses. “If you count the fact that Mr. Grace forgot to put in his dentures on Monday -again- and I had to sub for his class, then no.” It’s a half-lie because the thing with Mr. Grace and his dentures did happen, just not this week. Most of this week, you were at your parents’ house, helping your father deal with shiva and all the people who came by. He was completely heartbroken.

You see Patrick shake his head slightly and close his eyes. You know this is something he does when he’s trying to restrain himself. When he doesn’t want to lash out. When something is bothering him, and he doesn’t want it to turn into the biggest fight in the world. He has a bad history with fights that spiral out of control. “No one was born? No relatives died? I don’t know, maybe the woman who gave birth to you?” he says, his piercing gaze back on you. “Shit,” you mumble. Because what else is there to say in this situation? “Yeah, shit,” he stays exactly where he is, making you feel like a child being scolded. Like you dropped a lollipop and won’t be getting a new one.

“I’m sorry-” you start. “My mom isn’t dead; your mom is dead. I think I’m the one who’s sorry.” Patrick hated when you apologized. He said it was irrational with you. That you apologized more than was normal and more than people around you deserved. “Patrick,” you sigh, scrunching your nose as you try to think of a good way to explain it. “I really need to understand this, (Y/N). When were you planning on telling me your living mother was no longer alive? Another month? Two months? Two years? What was the timeline in that head of yours?” His words drip with sarcasm, like the way he used to talk to you before you became you and Patrick. Before you learned to love who he was and before he started treating you like you weren’t the worst person in the world.

“I didn’t want you to withdraw from Atlanta. You trained for it so hard.” You sigh again, quietly. This time, you’re the one closing your eyes, not wanting to look at him- and in doing so, you miss the fact that he moves toward you in giant strides. “I wish you’d told me, Little Dove. I wish I’d been with you instead of being there.” His hands cup your face as he crouches in front of you, looking up to catch your eyes. “I’m sor-” You stop yourself mid-sentence when you see his displeased expression. “How do you feel?” he asks, and you shrug in response. Because what you feel isn’t something you can say out loud, not even to Patrick. It’s not okay to feel relieved. A lot of sadness, of course. But also, relief.

“Tell me,” he insists. He has a habit of knowing the things you don’t want to say. He can look at your face and catch the slight twitch of your left eyebrow to understand what you’re feeling. To see what you try so hard to hide. You can’t beat him at this. You can’t lie to him, not too much. Not about your feelings. Not when he spent years of his life learning what to hate about you, and then a few more years learning to love it. “She wasn’t the nicest woman in the world,” you murmur quietly, like you’re confessing the most forbidden secret. Like it’s a secret that could start a world war. Like Patrick would tell someone.

“She didn’t like me.” Patrick lets out a dry chuckle, his eyes glassy as if he’s remembering something. “She used to call me Art all the time and then correct herself, like it was an accident, but she did it on purpose. So I’d know she wanted me to be Art.” His jaw tightens slightly. You can see the anger and frustration behind the fake lightness in his tone. “I’m sorry,” you say because you don’t know what else to say, and he sighs. His large hands wrap around you in an almost crushing hug. Almost making it hard to breathe.

But that’s how Patrick is. Everything he feels is out in the open. Everything he thinks, he says. Everything he wants, he does. And most of the time, he wants to be present in your life, which is ridiculous because there is no one more present in your life than him. He still acts like he needs to prove something to you. “I wish you’d let me take care of you, Little Dove. It would be easier.” He whispers into your hair, not letting go for a second. You can almost feel him thinking, almost see him guessing what might help you. “I know you care about me,” you say, shifting slightly to look at him, to show him that he doesn’t need to prove anything. That you’re okay.

“Did you eat?” he suddenly asks, stepping back slightly, scanning you, then moving toward the half-empty fridge. “What did you eat?” he follows up. “I don’t know, Patrick. I don’t keep a journal,” you roll your eyes. “Don’t give me that bullshit. What did you eat, (Y/N)?” He doesn’t let up. “A sandwich,” you mutter the first thing that comes to mind. “Since this morning?” His eyes stay locked on you. “Patrick, my mother just died. Can we not focus on what I eat for one second? It’s exhausting,” you roll your eyes and cross your arms, turning your face to the side as he steps toward you and nods. . . . "What do you want to focus on?" he asked. Patrick felt guilty. He looked at you and saw nothing but the fact that just a few days ago, he had been with Tashi. While you were mourning your unbearable mother, he was busy fucking Tashi in a fancy hotel room, at a tournament he lost and that Art Donaldson would probably win. "You," your voice was small as you looked at him, almost pleading for a break from the interrogation and the anger. He hated when you made him the center of your focus, when you tried to do what you thought he wanted you to do. So he nodded and placed a small kiss on the crown of your head, knowing exactly what he needed to do.

Patrick felt like a man on a mission as he dropped to his knees in front of you. "Pat-" you tried to protest, to tell him he didn’t have to. You always tried. As if going down on you was a burden to him, as if all it would take for him to spend a lifetime just like this was for you to fucking ask. "Baby, can you take these off for me?" It was a question, but there was no question mark at the end. Not in that tone. Not when he was looking up at you like that, completely in control of the situation.

So you slid your pants down slowly, trying to hold on to the last bit of control slipping away with every second he stared at you like that. He took care of your underwear himself. Leaving you bare in front of him. "Fuck, Pat," you mumbled, closing your eyes for a moment, leaning back against the wall, making him look up at you one last time with a smirk stretched across his face. And then he got to work.

His lips explored you like you were his source of oxygen. Like his natural place was buried under you, his mouth inside you. "Baby, I’d eat you for the rest of my life. Every day. Every fucking day." His grip on your thigh was ruthless. Patrick felt like he was holding on for dear life, like this was all there was left to do. Like it was all he knew. "Sweet fucking pussy," he kept mumbling into you, until his face was coated with his own spit and your slick. He was ready to take it all, everything you gave him. In these moments, everything that was yours became his, and the little that was his became yours.

So he was milking it. He licked your clit in slow, agonizing strokes- for both of you. He took his time. The euphoria would come, but he was going to enjoy it until it did. Your small whimpers made him growl directly into you. "Patrick, Patrick, Patrick," like a prayer. He felt it. He felt divinity in all of it. He sped up and slowed down and sped up and slowed down. Merciless to the near-sobs escaping from you. "You're so sweet, baby. Do you want to come?" And he wasn’t asking if you wanted to come for him, because he wanted you to come for yourself. Because he wanted you to always, always come for yourself. He wanted to be a vessel. He wanted to erase all the stupid patterns in your head and make sure every orgasm you had was yours and for you. "Patrick." He thought that was the only thing you were capable of saying coherently, and he was fine with that. He was selfish enough to be satisfied if his name was the only word you could say forever.

And when you came with a moan he had learned to recognize and nearly worship, he told you how good you were. How rare you were. That he was yours and that he would always take care of you. He looked up at you from below, saw the tears slipping down your face, and pressed another kiss to your thigh. One that emphasized the word always. Because he didn’t think he could ever let this go. He was too selfish to ever let this go. . . . Art peeked through the door of the room every few seconds, searching for you among the guests. At this point, he didn’t even bother lying to himself about it. Because he didn’t know what else was left for him besides admitting the truth to himself- things he was never able to admit before. Lately, he’d been thinking a lot about the nights he used to lay beside you. When you didn’t even fuck. When you just lay in that rickety twin bed in his dorm room. He was willing to take that. He was willing not to fuck you if it meant you’d hold him again. More than that, he was willing not to fuck anyone ever again. But you were too sweet, you wouldn’t let him go through life without sex. The thought made him chuckle for a second. But he was nervous. So fucking nervous.

He was about to marry Tashi, and she didn’t cross his mind even once. He accidentally saw her dress, even though he told her that he hadn’t really noticed it was there. He knew she would be a stunning bride. That months from now, people would still be talking about Tashi Duncan in a wedding dress. He knew people would envy him, he knew everything. His mind knew everything.

But all he could think about was what kind of wedding dress you would have chosen. He was almost sure it would be something less extravagant; you’d try to draw as little attention as possible. But the Art he was today wouldn’t have let you. He would’ve told you that you deserved all the attention the universe had to offer. That you deserved to be seen. He hated himself for how long it had taken him to realize that. Only when you truly weren’t there. Only when you belonged to someone else. Only when you chose Patrick Zweig of all people.

Patrick Zweig, who hated you with every fiber of his being. Patrick Zweig, who Art was almost certain had cheated on you with Tashi. It should have hurt him much more than it did. But all he cared about was figuring out if this would be the thing that made you get up and leave. You had to know you deserved better. That if not him- if not Art, the guy you both knew you loved with all your heart- then at least someone who didn’t want anyone else. That was the bare minimum you deserved. For years, he’d wondered if he had something to do with how little you thought you deserved, with how low your standards were.

He convinced his mother- who probably loved you even more than he did- to take upon herself convincing you to come to his wedding. Which was almost sadistic of him. Maybe masochistic. Maybe both. But he had to see you. He hadn’t seen you since your mother’s funeral. Sometimes he dreamed about that day and how his hand held yours, he wanted it again and again and again. He wanted everyone to die if it meant he could hold you like that again. If it gave him an excuse.

He noticed that everything about you required an excuse. It hadn’t been like that when you were his. Except you were never really his. He didn’t even understand why it had been so complicated- why you hadn’t told him that’s what you wanted (though he could have guessed). And more than anything, he didn’t understand why he hadn’t known what he wanted. Why it hadn’t been clear to him that you were his person. That you knew the deepest parts of him.

He saw you walk in and texted you, almost begging you to come to the room where he was. You could tell him to go to hell, but that wasn’t your style. No, you were sweet. So sweet that all you did was knock on the door and push it open. Looking at him while he already had his eyes on your little black dress. While he was already studying the red nail polish. While he was already focusing on the lipstick he so badly wanted to wipe off of you.

“Your mother asked me to prepare a speech. Was that your idea?” you asked. There was no coldness in your voice, which made him happy. You stepped closer and started fixing his tie. He wanted to close his eyes, but at the same time, he wanted to see you. To remember you like this; in a little black dress, in heels, standing in front of him, helping him with his tie. “What can I say? You’re my best friend,” he said. And it wasn’t a lie, just as much as it wasn’t the truth. “That’s really sad, Art,” you said, probably referring to the last four years you spent apart. “Are you saying you have a better friend than me?” he asked, hoping you’d deny it because a yes might make him break down crying.

“It’s a mediocre speech. I didn’t know what to say at your wedding,” you sighed, confessing a secret. “Saying you don’t want me to get married would’ve been a good start,” he said, taking a risk. Because he calculated the timing, and you were late, so he had a very short window for this risk. “Don’t be ridicul—” you started, quietly. “If you tell me not to do this, I won’t get married. Tell me not to do it. Tell me it’ll be okay. That we’ll be okay,” he whispered. Not looking away from you.

The silence in the room was deafening, and the chuckle that escaped him was bitter. Fake. He felt pathetic and small and miserable, and maybe he was all those things because he never knew what he wanted in time. “I’m sorry,” you murmured. Not knowing what else to add, because what was left to add? He could see the wetness in your eyes. He knew how unfair he was being. “I’m sorry,” he echoed. He didn’t think he had ever told you that before, but he really, truly was. “Did you write something good about me?” he added. “That you’re my best friend. And that my soul will always love yours,” you said, letting a single tear fall as his rough hand wiped it away with whatever gentleness was still left in him.

It was a nice speech. Everyone applauded. Art cried. . . .

Here we are- the second part of So Sweet! Hope it turned out good enough. Thanks for stopping by and reading what I write, it means a lot. Let me know what you think. Love you guys, stay sweet! 💕

[slaaverin]

I was thinking with all the discourse on x about Jimins letter, and the cult and solos trying to scramble to debunk his own words, how they are this or that, just bros, they don’t sleep togetherness, don’t see each other before bed yadda yadda.

If it’s common practice in the military to be in group dorms, to shower together, why scramble to say that Jikook don’t do that, they don’t see each other?

Why the scramble to say they aren’t close?

What is it that people are so afraid of?

Because you’re not telling me if it was Yoongi and Jimin who enlisted, or Jimin and Tae, or Jin and Namjoon, or Hobi and Yoongi, etc etc, that people wouldn’t be celebrating it

So why not Jikook? What is it that has them so unhinged that they are literally resorting to calling them both liars, that Jimins letter was written by PR at Hybe, that cooks sleep elsewhere and have different bed times, when Jimin himself said ‘before bed’.

What is it that makes people shout ‘they are brothers!!!!!!’ Over and over and over again.

Because where is the line?

What would tip them over the more than friends category in SK skinship terms, or even say if they were a man and women?

Would it be the hugs? The constant need to touch, to be together? The cheek to cheek selcas? The spending special days together? The tones they use with each other? The teasing, bickering and flirting? The coy looks and smiles? The way they know what the other is thinking? The way they have their inside jokes? The way they are so domestic in the kitchen, JK cooks and JM being Sous Chef. The comfort and companionship they have sought out with the buddy system. The love they exude?

am I missing anything?

I mean I probably am, that’s the quick notes version of their bond. My point being that all of that alone is striking, means their relationship is specific to them and them alone, it stands out, it’s beautiful. It should be celebrated and cooed over, the very least it should be respected.

Is it then that this is what they fear? That they do in fact see all of that, see Jimin writing that he and JK are having (read: deep) conversations about life before bed, and think oh hell no, gotta make up a lie to stop that being true! As if that is how it works.

I don’t know what the futures holds, what the comeback will be like, I just actually hope everything will work out the way each of them want it to. That they are allowed to mature, that they can hold space for each other to grow, to be themselves more than ever. That boundaries are put in place and respected between the members themselves, and the fans. That this will be a new era, as they said in Festa and since; that they won’t hold back things they have wanted to say but couldn’t. It’s a reoccurring theme, JK has said it in lives, Jimin in his last live, now this letter.

I just want them to be loved, and to allow themselves to be love in return. They deserve it.

Anon, I truly feel the same way.

I think solos, antis and tkkers trying to disprove jikook's bond is for many reason. But the simple main one is that they don't want it to be true.

It all comes from desire, they want a different story, because they have this fantasy, because homophobia, and other reasons. They want something else, something that will never be true because it is just that, a story they told themselves because it makes them feel safer and more in control. It's their ego telling them "it should be another way instead!" "This isn't right" (homophobia again), and you know how powerful the ego can be. When someone wants something so bad, some people might go to extremes to get it, no matter the cost.

They believe their little scenario (that they don't like each other, that they are not close) for different reasons and each person think they are totally right about that. Each person thinks their perspective is the best one.

You know that wars have been fought over different perspectives?

Belief is a very powerful thing. Most people cling into some beliefs because it makes them feel more safe, their ego overcompensating over some internal lack.

At least with the scenario they can control the narrative. It is known and comfortable. Because the alternative is unknown, it's wild, it's unpredictable, it's scary. They might lose control, you see? it all comes from fear. Fear of something being different. And jikook ARE different. Their relationship stands out a lot within the group.

And you know what I don't think they actually see the same things as we do when they watch jikook.

Because they made up their mind already, they made up their own story, their ego doesn't care what's actually real! They watch the content through their already skewed lense, and they are so sure they are right. So every single detail will be used to reinforce their belief. To say, "See, I am right! He said this, so they are not close! They can't be"

Ohhh, to what extent the ego would go to be right. You know I don't think they are even aware they are twisting things and making up lies (well of course some of them do) but I think the majority genuinely believe what they see is true. It's true because they absolutely want it to be true. They don't want jikook to be close, to have this special bond, because it doesn't align with their personal selfish desires. "I want JK with Tae!" "I want jikook dating girls and not boys!" "I want my fave to be this way instead!"

I think jikook truly unsettle them to their core. It triggers something inside that they don't want to look at, because it's uncomfortable, so they reject it entirely. They choose something else to believe in, because that makes them feel better. It's less dangerous.

That's why many tkkers are also homophobic, weirdly. They have this ship idea in their heads, but since their ship never happens on camera, they believe it exist somewhat outside of camera, outside of reality. It's a pocket where they can project any types of ideas within the relationship, they can explore their inner fantaisies, let their imagination run wild, and create what they want instead of what is. It escapism, it's dreaming, and it helps them cope with reality that is different.

Because the reality is that jikook have this incredible bond, here, tangible, real, with a incredible depth, and it makes them scared shit. Because that's not something they can control, because it is different, and actually gay. Like for real. Not in a hypothetical "what ifs" scandalous and a little taboo way. No, it's real. But it's so outside of their scope of what's "socially acceptable" that they simply will never accept it. "Because it's BAD" mind you. It's bad and wrong and shouldn't exist. Because they think righteousness is something else entirely. Because they believe their sense of right from wrong is correct.

Of course it's not.

Trying to reason with them is absolutely pointless. It will always be a battle of ego, or different perspectives clashing. These people will not change, it would be too scary to them.

I'm afraid jikook will absolutely never be loved by them the way they deserve. And the hate and the lies and the toxicity is always going to be here. Because you know how much time it takes to actually grow in awareness? To change beliefs? To evolve towards more love? Guys it could take several lifetimes no joke.

I get your sentiment anon, I do.

I think jikookers in general spend too much time fighting with all of them, because it frustrates us so much that jikook are not loved.

But forget it guys, our frustration will only grow if we focus on them too much. They are where they are at, these people. They can't see anything else. I'm not even sure they are able to. Ego and beliefs are so strong, it's very hard for someone to go against it.

They will never see it our way.

Oh, in an ideal world, everyone would love jikook and celebrate them.

But we are in a world where we're thrown with people on different levels of consciousness, and it's just something we have to deal with. It's not comfortable. It can be horrible. But that's just the way it is.

It all comes from fear in the end. Fear of something being different than you, fear of losing control, fear of the unknown.

These guys, beneath layers of piled up beliefs and lies and stories within their psyche, are just scared, that's all. And they might not be aware that they are.

Fear keeps them from seeing things from their heart unfortunately.

And overcoming fear is one of the hardest thing to do in this world.

So, don't be too frustrated with them. It sucks, yes. Of course I wish it would be different. Of course I would want them to *see the light* at some point, but it's not very realistic or easy. None of this situation is easy. People are very complex.

These people will remain here, battling for their ego, burning twitter with their hate, twisting things, making up lies. There's nothing we can do about it, they are here to stay. The only thing we can control is how we react to them. Because I see so many times jkkers also using animal names and insults, battling them with their own ego and hate, and that's just not it. It is so futile. It will never change anything. And we can be better than this. I'm not saying I have a magical solution, I don't. I think it's up to each individual to discern what's right for them in their heart.

In an ideal world, we would all come together in harmony, and praise and celebrate jikook's bond for what is it, something wonderful, magical, beautiful, and see it with our heart and soul, and bask in love and share it between ourselves, and just revel in the magnificence. All of us. How great that would be. It would be a little bit like heaven, right?

Well we're not in heaven anymore, and if we wanted that we would have stayed there and not come here on this earth. Here things will inevitably be flawed, because humans are not and never will be perfect.

But the best we can do is stay within groups of like-minded people, people sharing the same love for love, and create our own little paradise here to enjoy jikook's bond and celebrate it.

It will not be the world's, but it will be ours. Which is already something, I guess?

I went on a long tengent I'm sorry

I can't wait to see what the members will say after military. It's going to be very interesting. Haters are gonna lose their minds (which is funny at this point XD)

Let's each of us love and support jikook, for the people who can't. Let's share their love so it might touch somebody else's heart.

And do our best to be good humans, right?

No matter what happens.

Love you my fellow jikookers 💜

[shin-kenooubu]

Confession Headcanons!

featuring: Ranpo Edogawa

(sfw, fluff, gn!reader, no content warnings)

• author's note: more ranpo because i love him.

Ranpo isn't used to being uncertain about things, in fact, there is nothing in the world that he is less accustomed to. He always has things figured, it's always taken him seconds and it somehow takes him Even Less Time to blabber out the answer.

But that certainty comes from cold hard facts. Feelings are far, far, faaaar trickier.

So obviously. Instead of figuring out a way to put his feelings into proper words and going through the grueling feeling of vulnerability and heat rushing into his face and down his neck.

He makes you do it.

Eventually, you won't be able to keep quiet about your feelings and he knows this. But at the rate you're going, it's going to take ages. So he's going to help speed up the process! Because someone needs to confess.

And its certainly not going to be him. For obvious reasons.

So heres now it goes:

- All up in your space. He knows you get flustered when he's near. Filing some paperwork? He's sitting on your desk. Taking a break on the couch? He's sitting down and draping his legs over your lap. You're taking your lunch break? He's hungry too!!! Buy him a treat!!!

- Makes you accompany him whenever he gets sent out. It doesn't matter if you can drive or not, he'll tell you everything he's already figured out about the case on the way there regardless! He's basically figured it all out already anyways. Isn't that impressive? Isn't he the best? Praise him, please and thank you.

- Compliments you. Indirectly. All the other members of the ADA always mention how highly Ranpo seems to think of you. It's clear that he values your input, he finds you incredibly dependable as well, y'know, he's even mentioned that you're pretty easy on the eyes. Don't tell him they told you that, though. (It's all part of his master plan.)

- Shares. His supply is dwindling even faster because of you! You should feel honored. Or maybe not. He doesn't actually mind, don't feel bad for taking anything. Hurry up and eat the damn thing already.

- Listens to you. Actively. He makes sure to show that he's paying attention to you because he knows that you appreciate it. He doesn't really get it, he's always listening even if it looks like he's busy playing around. But feelings are weird and fragile. He'll be a little extra careful with yours.

- Makes an effort to not insult your intelligence. Not that he ever actually means to, his wording is just off. Which is why recently you've found him growing quiet in conversations for a few seconds. A small pout on his lips as he considers his words before snapping right back into place and continuing whatever tirade he was going on. All without throwing out an indirect jab. It's cute, and also very thoughtful.

- Minimizes the opportunities you have to get hurt in his plans. Obviously some things don't come together as neatly as one might hope but damnit if he isn't finding a way to keep you safe. You can be useful And out of harms way.

He's obvious, he doesn't trust you to not brush off his vaguer advances as him simply being friendly. He wants you to get the hint. Needs you to, really, because he's sick of pining just as much as you are.

When you do eventually ask to speak to him privately, invite him into your space and sit him down, his heart pounds.

Ranpo knows the outcome of this, he's set it in motion for weeks, maybe even months, but theres still Doubt.

He can't see the future.

He can infer it, maybe. Can imagine a future where you and him are happy, where everyday, the two of you lay in bed together, and you smile at him as you run your fingers through his black hair and his mind grows muddy.

But this isn't like any simple murder case. He knows some facts, yeah, but none of it will ever, ever be enough to be Certain. Certain of you and him. Together. It scares him.

But when you take his hands in yours, a little clammy from nerves, and whisper your feelings to him, he can't help but surge forward and press his lips to yours.

A wide smile. A simple, "I know."

You can feel his quiet laughter on your face.

He's lucky he didn't wheeze it out, with how tight his chest feels from pure giddiness.

[ofstarsandvibranium]

To Have and To Hold: Part 13

Fandom: Marvel - Moon Knight (Mafia AU)

Pairing: Marc Spector x F!Reader, Steven Grant x F!Reader, Jake Lockley x F!Reader

Summary: To ensure you’re always safe even after his passing, your father, a mob boss, makes you marry his right hand, Marc Spector. You don’t necessarily hate Marc, but you don’t get along either. Therefore, this marriage of convenience may be a bit difficult for you.

Series Masterlist

When Marc wakes up, your side of the bed is empty. He hears the shower on in the en suite bathroom, so he knows you're in there.

He stares up the ceiling and lets out a pained, deep breath. He really can't catch a break. Everything with you has been fucked from the start. He never wanted things to go this way. He knew it was going to be difficult, but he didn't think it'd be this difficult.

He thought he'd have more time. More time to get to know you more, more time to process everything. Just...more.

But Marc's life has never been an easy one. He's never gotten anything easy, never gotten any peace. So he just has to roll with the punches.

But fuck, is he tired of getting beat down.

You step into the bedroom, towel wrapped around your body, "Oh, morning," you say with a hint of surprise, but cover it with a nonchalant.

Marc sits up with a grunt, "Guess we should talk."

You nod, "Yup. Let me change first," you walk into the closet, closing the doors behind you. Marc takes the few minutes to gather his thoughts.

He needs to apologize. He might even beg on his knees for you to believe him. From now on, he has to be completely honest with you from now on.

You exit the closet wearing leggings and a loose fitted t-shirt. You stand there, hip jutted out, and arms crossed over your chest. You're guarding yourself. Marc understands, but hates it nonetheless.

"So?" you ask with a raise of your brow.

He clears his throat, "So, yes, I intentionally didn't tell you certain things. Not because I didn't want to tell you at all, but because I didn't want to worry you. You've already been under a lot of stress and I was just thinking about you." You open your mouth to retort, but he cuts you off with a raise of his hands, "I know. I know. I still should have told you about it all: the arrangement, your dad, my now ex-wife. I fucked up.

"I truly am sorry though. I never want to hurt you, Y/N. I care about you."

You had a feeling the conversation was going to go this way. You thought about various scenarios of it while you took your shower. Despite you wanting to paint Marc to be a villain, you know he truly isn't. Despite his rough exterior and "tough shit" you know he has a soft heart. You've seen it first hand the days following your arranged engagement.

You let your arms, and your internal walls, slowly fall.

"I get it...still fucking hurts that you kept all of it from me. And-And I don't know how I'm supposed to trust you-"

"I won't keep anything from you anymore. I promise. Anything that could put either of us or this arrangement at risk, I'll tell you."

"I'll do the same," you say in agreement.

He slowly nods, "Do you...have questions?"

"Who was she?" you ask as you sit at the corner of the bed.

"Layla El-Fouly. I met her back when I was a mercenary...I was ordered to kill her father. I was supposed to get close to her, kill her too but-"

"But you fell in love."

"Yeah. Then she found out that I was the one who killed her father and she left. Didn't see or hear from her in years."

"Did you try looking for her?"

He shrugs, "Not really. I understand why she left. I lied to her," he lowly chuckles to himself, "Guess I really don't have a good track record when it comes to marriages. Both of mine rooting from deceit." He looks down at his lap in shame.

"But you finally found her."

"When your father came to me about the arrangement, he already knew of my marriage to Layla. He gave me contacts to help me find her so I can serve her the papers. She finally reached out a few days ago. She wanted to talk before signing the papers."

You think about when you saw them at the cafe, how he was holding Layla's hand, looking at her. You felt that twinge of jealousy and insecurity crawling into your heart.

"Do you still love her?"

Marc gives a sigh, "I think a part of me will always have some care for her, but I don't love her. Not anymore."

You feel a weight lifting off your shoulders after that. Because, dammit, you know you've fallen for Marc. Despite everything, you really care for him and you know he'd treat you well in this marriage.

It was your turn to release a deep sigh, "Okay."

"Anymore questions?"

"I should have asked about this earlier on, but how long did you know about the arranged marriage before my dad told me."

"Two weeks."

"Did you help create my dad's plan to take Harrow out?"

He shook his head, "I didn't know a thing. I asked him to let me in, so I can help but he told me my strict orders were to get you out of there. All I knew was that he had a plan and it was probably going to end in his death."

"How has Steven and.."

"Jake."

"How has Steven and Jake taken to this life?"

He snorts, "Steven hates it. He's a pacifist, so he's not around often when I'm out and about. Jake...he's a rare sighting. But he's the kind of guy that doesn't care about what measures you take, all that matters is the outcome."

"Aren't you the same way?" you ask him with a challenging tone.

"I do what has to be done, but I do also try to keep in mind the consequences and who I might be hurting. Jake doesn't care so much for that."

"He sounds dangerous."

Marc snorts, "You have no idea, sunshine." He looks at you with soft eyes, "Are we going to be okay?"

You reach out, placing your hand on top of his, "I think so. Just, no more secrets. Got it?"

He makes an 'X' over his heart, "Cross my heart and hope to die."

"No dying anytime soon, please," you murmur and crawl over, pecking his lips, "I'm gonna finalize wedding stuff."

"Let me know if you need any help!" he hollers as you exit the bedroom.

"Will do!" you respond, your voice echoing through the halls.

"That went a lot better than expected," Steven says in relief.

"You're telling me, buddy," Marc murmurs back with a scoff.

"So it'll be happily ever after for you after all?"

"We can only hope, Steven," Marc replies back as he stands from the bed, and heads to the bathroom to shower.