#every time im like maybe i remembered this heavier than it is and every time its not. and now in the context of a full rewatch. jesus chris

[c-kiddo]

aeor arc sucks they gave caduceus depression

[formulaonecrumbs]

hi!! i’ve just like binge read all of your stuff and it’s so beautifully written

do you think you could do a charles fic with the co-parenting to lovers trope? like their kid helps them get together or like he flys out to see their kid and realizes that life is so much better with them? i have a whole like plot im sorry 😭

stay a little longer 🕯️

Charles Leclerc x ex(?)!reader

summary: co-parenting finally turns into something more when their daughter decides it’s time for a date.

warnings: co-parenting to lovers, kid matchmaker, suggestive content, kissing, car makeout, implied smut, love confessions, second chances

A/N: thank u anon for the requuessttt!!! i feel like i still don’t write charles very well 😭 like yes i believe the guy is romantic but i think i made that his whole personality in this WHOOPS. random but i love when drivers have girlfriends cuz now i got sm material for the mood-boards. i hope u enjoy it and as always love u ❤️

༻ ❤︎︎ ༺

you never expected him to show up.

not like this, not without warning, not with that soft look in his eyes and a suitcase in his hand.

it’s been almost six months since you saw charles leclerc in person. six months since he kissed your cheek at the airport and promised he’d try to visit more. six months of facetime calls with your daughter holding your phone too close to her face, grinning with her tiny teeth and telling him she lost another one. six months of you pretending that you were completely fine raising her mostly alone while he chased podiums around the world.

but now he’s standing on your porch like it’s nothing. like he’s not the father of your child and also the person who once broke your heart in the softest, most unintentional way.

“hi,” he says.

you blink. “charles? what—what are you doing here?”

he looks down at his shoes. he’s wearing sneakers that used to live in your hallway. the ones your daughter would trip over every time she tried to run to the door. “i had a week off. i wanted to see her.”

you let him in because you always do. because she misses him even when she doesn’t say it, and because you’ve never been able to fully close the door on him.

your daughter screams ‘daddy!’ the second she hears him. he drops his bag and catches her mid-run, spinning her around in the tiny living room you’ve made your home. you watch from the kitchen, hands still on the mug you were making, heart doing something stupid and warm and dangerous in your chest.

“you’re not leaving tonight, are you?” she asks him, small hands on his cheeks.

he shakes his head. “not tonight. not for a few days, actually.”

and you swear, you see her little face light up with something more than excitement. something like hope.

it’s not supposed to be easy, but it is.

charles fits back into your space like he never left. he sleeps on the couch and does the dishes after dinner. he drives her to school in the mornings and makes up silly songs about brushing her teeth. he folds laundry while you’re at work and lets her paint his nails on the weekends.

and you keep waiting for it to feel like a mistake. to feel like a tease, like you’re slipping back into something that already ended.

but instead, it feels like healing.

like late nights where he sits across from you, whispering stories about races she’s too young to hear. like laughing over wine after she’s gone to bed, both of you tipsy on nostalgia and something heavier. something that tastes like maybe.

he doesn’t flirt. not really. but sometimes, he looks at you like he remembers every moment you ever shared. and sometimes, when he thinks you’re not paying attention, he stares at you like you hung the stars.

it happens on a tuesday.

you’re rushing to get out the door for work. your daughter can’t find her other shoe and you’ve already yelled twice, which always makes you feel like a terrible mother. charles is standing in the kitchen, packing her lunch like he’s done it every morning for the past year instead of the last five days.

and then she says it.

“daddy, are you staying forever now?”

you freeze. so does he.

“because i think you should,” she continues, completely unaware of the tension she’s stirred up. “you make mommy laugh again. and you’re really good at pancakes.”

charles doesn’t look at you. he kneels down and kisses her forehead. “i love you, chérie,” he says quietly.

you don’t talk about it.

not until later, when she’s asleep and you’re both sitting on the back steps with a blanket around your shoulders and the sky full of stars.

“she wants us to be a family,” you whisper.

charles’s voice is soft. “i do too.”

your chest tightens. “charles…”

“i know,” he says. “i know i left. i know i haven’t been here like i should have. and i’m not trying to ask you to just forget it. but i want to be here now. not just for her. for you, too.”

you stare at your hands. your heart. the little cracks that never quite healed after he left.

“why now?” you ask.

he takes a breath. “because every time i see her smile, i see you. and every time i talk to her, i wish you were beside me. and because… i thought i was doing the right thing. giving you space. letting you live your life without the mess of mine. but i’ve never been more wrong.”

you look at him. really look. and he looks scared. vulnerable in a way he never is behind the wheel. and you realize, in this quiet moment under the stars, that maybe you’ve been scared too.

you don’t say anything. you just reach out, take his hand, and let your fingers intertwine like they never stopped knowing how to.

he moves in slowly.

a toothbrush at first. then a drawer. then he’s picking her up from school without you asking, buying groceries like he knows the list by heart. you fall back into love like it’s muscle memory. slow, steady, familiar. this time, without the fear.

your daughter starts calling you her “mommy and daddy house.” she draws pictures of the three of you holding hands, all smiling with the sun in the corner.

one night, she asks if you and daddy are married again.

charles chuckles. “not yet, chérie.”

you shoot him a look. “not funny.”

he leans in, his voice low against your ear. “it could be.”

and you feel it again—that dangerous, stupid hope that maybe this time, it’s real.

because he came back. because he stayed. because your little girl believed in love enough to put it back together. and because this time, you’re ready to believe in it too.

༻ ❤︎︎ ༺

she catches you holding his hand in the kitchen.

it’s not a big deal, really. just fingers brushing as you pass him the milk. but charles catches your pinky with his, gives it a gentle squeeze, and you smile in that way you only ever do with him.

your daughter sees it all from her seat at the table, eating cereal like it’s the most important meal of her life.

“are you guys in love again?” she asks, spoon halfway to her mouth.

charles pauses, milk almost spilling over the edge of his glass. “what?”

“you heard me,” she says, chewing dramatically.

you shoot charles a look. he shrugs, trying not to laugh.

“i think you are,” she continues, totally unfazed. “you look at each other like the people in mommy’s movies. and you sleep on the couch together sometimes. and daddy made you pancakes in a heart shape.”

you can’t even deny that one. he really did.

“okay,” she says, pushing her bowl away. “it’s time.”

“time for what?” you ask, even though you already know.

“you’re going on a date.”

charles raises an eyebrow. “we are?”

she nods. “yes. i’ll stay with mamie. and you two can go somewhere fancy. with candles and music. and then you’ll kiss.”

you laugh, shaking your head. “what is it with you and kissing lately?”

she grins. “uncle pierre says it’s how people fall in love.”

charles makes a face. “i’m going to block his number.”

you get ready while she helps charles pick out a shirt. you hear her scolding him for choosing the boring grey one and insisting he wears the one with the tiny flowers because “mommy likes when you look like a soft boy.”

you come out in a dress that hasn’t seen the light of day in years and charles just stands there, looking like he forgot how to breathe.

“wow,” he says softly. “you look…”

you raise a brow. “like a soft girl?”

he laughs. “like the girl i’ve been in love with since before i even knew it.”

you blink.

he smiles, nervous and sweet and very charles. “too much?”

“no,” you say, cheeks warm. “just enough.”

you drive to a little italian restaurant tucked away in the quieter part of town. it’s dimly lit, with fairy lights above the patio and old music playing inside. it’s romantic in a kind of unintentional way. the kind of place that doesn’t try too hard because it doesn’t need to.

charles pulls your chair out for you and keeps glancing across the table like he’s still trying to figure out if this is real.

“this feels weird,” you say, sipping your wine. “in a good way. but weird.”

he nods. “like we’re pretending we’re not already a family.”

you smile. “yeah.”

“but i want this too,” he adds, eyes soft. “the dating part. the butterflies.”

you meet his gaze. “you still get butterflies?”

he reaches across the table, lacing your fingers with his. “every time you look at me like this.”

and god, you feel it too. that flutter. that full-body warmth that only ever comes when you’re really, really falling.

after dinner, he takes your hand and suggests a walk. it’s chilly but not cold, and the stars are out like someone painted them just for tonight.

“this is the part where we kiss under the moonlight,” you joke, bumping your shoulder into his.

charles stops walking.

“what?” you ask, turning.

he steps closer. “i was waiting for the right moment.”

your breath catches. “is this it?”

he nods, eyes flicking to your mouth. “yeah. i think it is.”

and when he kisses you, it’s slow and soft and everything you’ve been missing for years. it’s full of promises and apologies and second chances. it tastes like wine and laughter and home.

you stay like that for a long time, under the stars and the streetlamp, kissing like you’re twenty and just discovering how good it feels to be wanted.

when you get home, the lights are low and the house is quiet. your daughter is asleep, curled up in her bed with her stuffed giraffe and the nightlight glowing faintly beside her.

charles shuts the door gently behind you.

you turn to him, heart racing, still a little breathless from the night.

“so…” you whisper.

he walks toward you, slow, eyes locked on yours. “so.”

“was this the part where we’re supposed to kiss again?”

he nods, grinning. “definitely.”

he backs you into the couch and kisses you until you’re both laughing and gasping and tangled in each other. his hands in your hair, your arms around his neck, the world spinning just slightly off its axis in the best way.

“we probably shouldn’t wake her,” you mumble against his mouth.

“then we’ll be quiet,” he whispers back, kissing down your neck.

you end up in the car—because it’s late and you can’t quite make it upstairs, and also because there’s something wildly thrilling about being wrapped around each other in the dark leather seats, trying not to fog up the windows too much.

his hands on your thighs, your lips tracing every freckle on his collarbone, his voice low and hoarse as he says your name like a prayer.

after, you sit in the front seat, legs curled into his lap, his hand resting gently on your bare knee.

“we should do this again,” you say, grinning against his shoulder.

charles kisses your temple. “i plan on it.”

and you believe him. completely.

because this time, he’s not just here for the night. this time, he’s here to stay.

THE END :>

[honeyncherry]

all good things ii - joe burrow

summary you thought you'd mastered the art of letting go, turns out you'd just gotten really good at looking the other way

content angst, fluff, idk what im talking about in half this

part one

"Why are you here?"

You don't look up from the glass you're drying when you ask it, but you can feel him settling onto the barstool across from you. Same spot as always—third from the left, close enough to the corner that he can see the door but far enough from the other customers that conversation stays private.

"For a drink," he says, and there's that familiar hint of amusement in his voice, like he knows you already know the answer but enjoys the routine anyway.

Without thinking, your hand finds the bourbon, muscle memory from months of the same dance. The bottle feels heavier tonight, or maybe it's just you. Maybe it's the report waiting on your laptop at home, or the way certain thoughts have been circling back when you least expect them.

“How was Denver?” you ask, sliding the glass his way.

He catches it without looking, thumb brushing along the rim before taking a sip. “Great. Got a good win.”

You lean in, resting your elbows on the bar, giving him your full attention now. "Yeah? How good are we talking?"

"Really good." He grins, the kind that reaches his eyes and makes him look younger than he is. "Like, career-defining good.”

You laugh before you can stop yourself, the pride bubbling up quicker than expected. “That’s incredible. I’m so happy for you.”

He drops his gaze a little, almost shy about it. Compliments still make him weird. But you can tell it means something—coming from you, maybe, or maybe just being heard out loud.

“Actually,” he says, reaching into his jacket, “I got you something. Well, two things.”

That makes you pause. He's holding out a small wrapped box, the kind that comes from hotel gift shops or airport stores. The paper is slightly wrinkled, like it spent the flight home pressed against other things in his carry-on.

"You didn't have to do that."

"I know." He places it on the bar top between you and then grins. "But I saw it and thought of you. Plus, I have some news." There's something sweet about it, the casualness of the gesture with no hidden agenda. 

You peel the paper back carefully, and inside is a snow globe, tacky and perfect in the way only tourist gifts can be. Denver’s skyline is centered in the middle, suspended in that fake snow that never quite swirls right.

“It’s terrible,” you say, but you're already smiling.

"Absolutely hideous," he agrees, sipping his drink. "But you collect weird shit, so I figured you'd appreciate it.”

He’s right. Your apartment’s full of it—odd little trinkets that don’t belong anywhere but somehow belong with you. Salt shakers shaped like ducks. Postcards from places you’ve never been. That cracked ceramic owl from your grandma that you still won’t throw out. 

"Thank you," you say, setting the snow globe on the shelf behind you, next to the register where you can see it while you work. "Okay, so what's the news?"

"Remember that California project I mentioned? The sports coverage thing?" He's trying to play it cool, but you can see the excitement barely contained behind his eyes. "I got you the spot."

Your heart stops. "What?"

"I put in a word with the hiring manager. Told them about your work, how good you are with people." He leans forward slightly. "They want you to fly out next week. Production assistant role, technically, but it's exactly the kind of experience you need."

You stare at him, mouth slightly open. "Are you serious?"

"Dead serious. You're going to California." Quinn's fingers drum once against the bar, a nervous habit you've taken note of over months of Thursday nights. Sometimes Tuesdays too, when his schedule allows it. He'd started showing up around the time you stopped flinching every time you heard calls of a certain name, when you could make it through a shift without checking your phone for messages that never came.

That was just over a year ago now, right when everything felt like it was crumbling—when you'd left that hotel room and came home to an apartment that felt too quiet and a life that suddenly seemed smaller than it had before. You'd been serving drinks like you were underwater, going through the motions of existing without really living in any of it.

The first few times, Quinn was just another regular. Bourbon, two fingers, splash of water. He was the best tipping regular you’ve ever had and never lingered too long. But then one night you'd been particularly frustrated, slamming glasses a little too hard after another rejection email, and he'd asked if you were okay.

"Just job hunting," you'd said, the bitterness leaking through despite yourself.

"What kind of work?"

"Anything that uses a communications degree, apparently." You'd laughed, but it came out hollow. "Four years of college to be really good at serving drinks."

He'd been quiet for a moment, then: "My company's always looking for interns," he'd said, casual as anything. "Might be good experience."

That conversation lives in your mind now, growing roots in the spaces between doubt and possibility. Three months of showing up to offices that smelled like expensive coffee and ambition, of learning that your degree wasn't worthless after all, just misplaced. Quinn had opened a door you didn't even know existed, and now here he is, trying to push it wider.

"I don't know what to say."

"Say you'll pack a bag." He finishes his drink and leaves cash on the bar, always exact change plus fifty percent, never more or less, and stands to go. "They'll email you the details tomorrow."

He hesitates for a moment, like he wants to say something else, then seems to think better of it. Instead, he just nods and heads for the door.

"Thank you," you call after him. "Really. This means everything."

"You earned it," he calls back over his shoulder. "I just made sure the right people knew." 

When he's gone, you’re left with the rich smell of bourbon and the snow globe that glimmers under warm spotlights. Underneath it all lies the strange, fluttering feeling that comes with being cared about in small, uncomplicated ways.

───

The folder hits your hands like something dropped from a height, thick enough that the pages buckle under their own weight. Sarah's already talking, words streaming past in that efficient way people have when they've explained the same thing a dozen times before.

"So you'll be handling athlete transport today," she says, gesturing vaguely toward the folder while her attention drifts to her phone. "Everything's in there—pickup times, studio assignments, the usual."

You flip the cover open to pages of schedules and headshots, names printed in blocks that your eyes catch without really processing. Sarah keeps talking about the logistics and backup plans, but her voice becomes mumbled as you scan down the list.

Micah Parsons - 9:30 AM pickup, Studio A 

Lamar Jackson - 10:45 AM pickup, Outdoor Setup 

Cooper Kupp - 12:15 PM pickup, Studio A 

Tua Tagovailoa - 1:30 PM pickup, Studio B

Names that mean little to you, faces that melt together in professional headshots. You're half-listening, trying to make sense of time slots and meal breaks, when Sarah's voice sharpens.

"—and Quinn should be here any minute with an early arrival."

The sound of voices approaching makes you glance up from the folder. Quinn appears in the doorway, that easy smile already in place, talking to someone just behind him. You look back down automatically, eyes finding the next line on the schedule.

Joe Burrow - 3:00 PM pickup, Studio B

Your stomach drops like you've missed a step in the dark. The letters blur, then sharpen, then blur again. You blink hard, certain you've misread, but the name sits there like something burned into the page.

When you look up, he's standing three feet away.

And he's already looking directly at you.

The folder stays open in your hands, but the words might as well be written in a language you don't speak. Everything else in the room—Sarah's voice, the hum of equipment being tested, the distant sound of someone setting up lights—fades into white noise. There's just him, standing there in dark jeans and a jacket that probably costs more than your rent, looking exactly like he does in your memory of that morning in the hotel room, except somehow more solid. Real this time.

His expression doesn't change when your eyes meet his. No surprise, no recognition he'd let anyone else see. Just that steady, unreadable look that used to make you feel like he could see straight through you.

"Perfect timing," Quinn says, completely oblivious to the way everything seems to have tensed up around you. "This is our impromptu production assistant I was telling you about." He gestures toward you with the kind of enthusiasm that makes you want to disappear. "She'll be handling your schedule today, making sure you get where you need to be."

Quinn turns to you, still smiling. "Joe got here early—his flight landed ahead of schedule, so I figured we'd get him checked in now instead of making him come back later. Hope that's okay?"

You force yourself to close the folder, to stand up straighter, to remember that you have a job to do. That you're not the same person who used to fly across the country for crumbs of attention.

"Of course," you manage, extending your hand in what you hope looks like professionalism and not the careful choreography of someone trying not to fall apart. "Hi."

Joe's eyes flick down to your outstretched hand, then back to your face. For a second, you think he might not take it. That he'll let you stand there with your arm extended like an idiot while Quinn watches.

But then his hand closes around yours, warm and familiar in a way that makes your chest ache.

"Nice to meet you," he says, voice perfectly polite like you're a stranger. As if he's never traced the curves of your body with his tongue in the dark.

The handshake lasts exactly as long as it should and no longer, nothing that would make Quinn raise an eyebrow or Sarah look up from her phone. But his thumb brushes across your knuckles once before he lets go, so quickly you almost think you imagined it.

"She's fantastic," Quinn continues, either missing the tension entirely or choosing to ignore it. "Really knows her stuff. You're in good hands."

The irony of that statement sits heavy in the space between you and Joe. You've been in his hands before and you know exactly how that story ends.

"Alright," Sarah pops her head up suddenly from beside you. "Let's get you set up for hair and makeup first, then we'll run through the shot list." She's already guiding Joe toward the door with the kind of practiced authority that doesn't leave room for argument.

Joe follows, but his eyes find yours once more before he disappears into the hallway. The look lasts maybe two seconds, but it's long enough to remind you of every sleepless night you spent wondering if he thought about you at all.

"Ready for Micah?" Quinn asks, already checking his watch. "He should be set by now." You nod, grateful for something to focus on. Something that doesn't involve navigating the minefield of seeing Joe again.

Quinn studies your face for a moment, "you good?"

"I'm good," you say, forcing a smile that feels more convincing than it probably looks.

"Good. Because we had to shuffle things around. Lamar's flight got delayed, so we bumped Joe up to right after Micah." He pats your shoulder in that paternal way that makes you remember why you trust him. "You've got this, kid."

───

Micah Parsons turns out to be exactly the kind of interview subject that makes your job easy. Charismatic without being overwhelming, thoughtful in his answers, the kind of natural storyteller that probably makes every journalist he talks to feel like they're getting something special.

You escort him from hair and makeup to Studio A, making small talk about his off-season training while mentally taking in the way he carries himself—confident but approachable, the kind of details that might matter for the piece you're supposed to be writing.

Because that's the thing Quinn arranged that makes this more than just a production assistant gig. You're not just managing logistics; you're also shadowing the main journalists, taking notes that will help with a behind-the-scenes article to accompany the video content. It’s what manages to turn this little side gig into real experience that could actually matter for your future.

It had been Quinn's idea, pitched to his partners as a way to get more comprehensive coverage without stretching the budget. "She's sharp," he'd told them, according to what he'd shared with you later. "Give her the PA duties but let her gather material too. Two birds, one stone."

He'd stuck his neck out for you in a way that meant something. Which is why you're sitting in the back of Studio A with a notebook, jotting down observations about Micah's interview style and the way he deflects certain questions with humor while being surprisingly vulnerable about others. 

Quinn had been right—you were good at this. At reading people, at catching the moments between the soundbites that revealed who someone actually was.

Which is exactly why seeing Joe again feels like such a potential disaster.

By the time Micah wraps up, you've filled three pages with notes and feel like you're truly starting to understand the rhythm of this kind of work.

"Joe should be ready now," Quinn says, appearing at your elbow as you escort Micah to his next location. "Studio B."

Your stomach tightens, but you nod. This is your job. This is the opportunity Quinn fought for you to have and you can't let seeing Joe ruin it.

The walk to Joe's dressing room feels dreadful. Each step is like walking through quicksand, carrying you toward something you're not ready for but can't avoid. When you knock and push the door open, he's sitting in the chair by the small mirror, scrolling through his phone with careful focus.

"Ready?" you ask, the word coming out more clipped than you intended.

He looks up, nods once, and stands with no acknowledgment beyond basic professionalism.

The hallway to Studio B stretches ahead of you both, and the silence that follows is different from anything you've experienced today. Not comfortable like it had been with Micah, who'd filled the space with easy conversation. This quiet feels intentional. Measured like you're both working very hard not to disturb something that might break if handled wrong.

"Studio B," you say when you reach the door, gesturing unnecessarily.

"Thanks."

He disappears inside, and you take your position in the back corner. Notebook ready, pen poised. The same setup as for Micah's interview; professional and focused, gathering material for the article.

But something shifts the moment Joe starts talking. His voice carries that familiar cadence, the one that used to lull you to sleep during late-night phone calls when distance felt manageable. You find yourself leaning forward, pen moving across the page in ways that have nothing to do with journalism.

The little things catch your eye. The way he touches his jaw when considering an answer. How his shoulders settle when he's comfortable with a question. The pause before he responds to anything about pressure, weighing what's safe to share versus what's true.

You catch yourself, redirect your attention to actual content. This is work. Quinn's faith in you made everything tangible, you can't let this pull toward someone who used to matter ruin what you've been given.

But it's difficult to ignore the familiarity, the way certain moments remind you of hotel rooms and conversations that felt bigger than they were. 

This is likely the only time you'll see him again. A one-off encounter that doesn't have to mean anything beyond coincidence. You've made progress, moved forward. You can't let a single afternoon undo the work it took to get here.

When the interview wraps, you've filled two pages with notes—half meaningless observations about Joe rather than context about the content. You close the notebook as he thanks everyone with practiced grace, then finds you in the corner.

"All set?"

"All set."

The walk back is similar to the walk there in every way. By the time you reach his dressing room, you're almost convinced you can end this cleanly. You open the door and stand to the side.

"You're done for the day. Someone will coordinate transport when you're ready."

Joe settles back into the chair by the mirror, phone already in hand. You should leave now. You've completed your assignment, same as with Micah. But professional courtesy demands you ask. The same question you'd posed to Micah, the same standard you'll maintain.

"Is there anything else you need?"

Joe hums to himself then looks up, and for the first time all day, really looks at you. Not the careful glances he's been offering, but the kind of direct eye contact that used to make your heart race.

"Just curious," he says, voice level but edged with something sharper. "Are you supposed to say that, or am I just special?"

The question hits hard. You feel it in your stomach first, then spreading outward, a slow recognition that you're not getting out of this room without acknowledgment. 

Because that’s the thing: he was special.

In the way you still dream about his voice. His hands. 

In the way you never really got around to donating the shirt he left behind, even though it stopped smelling like him months ago.

In the way you still scan for his face on the screen when a game is on at work, even when you tell yourself you’re not supposed to.

Something shifts in your face, you can feel it happen. The twitch of your eyes, the press of your teeth into the inside of your cheek, just a second too long. Like your body is betraying the careful neutrality you’ve been maintaining all day. 

He catches it, of course he does.

"Just part of the job, Mr. Burrow." The formality tastes wrong in your mouth, but you need the distance it creates and the reminder of where you are, what this is supposed to be. 

You're already turning away before the words fully settle, hand reaching for the door handle like it might save you from whatever comes next. "Have a good rest of your day."

───

The wine tastes expensive in a way that makes you hyper-aware of everything. From the conversations flowing around you that you can't quite step into, to the way everyone else seems to belong here without thinking about it.

"Market yourself," Quinn had said earlier, straightening his tie in the mirror of his hotel room. "There are some serious people here tonight. Network. Make connections. This is how careers get built."

Easy for him to say. He moves through crowds like he was born into them, shaking hands and remembering names and making everything look effortless. You feel like you're wearing a sign that says imposter in flashing neon letters.

The venue is exactly what you'd expect from Quinn's company—all exposed brick and elegant lighting fixtures, floor to ceiling windows, the kind of casual that costs more than most people's rent. Servers weave between clusters of well-dressed people holding wine glasses that catch the light just right. 

You take a sip of wine and scan the room for someone who might seem approachable. Someone who won't immediately see through whatever facade you're trying to maintain. The conversation nearest to you is about market projections and quarterly reports, which makes your experience feel even more inadequate than usual.

"Why are you standing by yourself?"

The voice comes from beside you, close enough that you feel the words more than hear them. You don't have to look to know who it is, you've been hyperaware of his presence since the moment he walked in twenty minutes ago.

"I'm supposed to be marketing myself," you say, not turning toward him, voice dry with the kind of sarcasm that feels bitter. "Networking. Making connections."

There's a pause. You can feel him looking at you.

"Well, you shouldn't have any problem doing that looking like that."

Your fingers tighten around the stem of your wine glass. The comment slides under your skin in a way that makes you feel uneasy. It’s like you're back in some hotel room where his opinions about you mattered.

You turn to look at him and something in your expression must give you away because his face changes immediately.

"No, no, that's not—" He stops and runs a hand over the bottom half of his face, looking genuinely panicked. "That came out wrong. I just meant you look good. Like, really good. Not that—fuck. That was all wrong."

And despite everything, despite the way your jaw is still tight with irritation, you have to bite back something that feels dangerously close to a laugh. Because Joe Burrow, who takes hits from three-hundred-pound linemen without flinching, who never seems rattled by anything on or off the field, is standing here stammering like a teenager who just got caught red-handed.

You compose yourself, finding that professional tone again. "Okay. Well, thank you." You set your wine glass on the nearest table, already turning away. "Have a good night."

His hand catches your wrist before you can take a step, gentle but insistent enough to stop you. "Wait." You follow his gaze to a quieter corner near the windows, away from people. 

“Can we talk?”

Part of you wants to say no, to keep walking and maintain whatever distance you've managed to create. But a bigger part knows that if you don't do this now, you'll spend the rest of the night, maybe longer, wondering what he would have said.

"Okay," you say, and let him guide you toward the windows.

The space feels more intimate immediately, the noise of the party fading to background hum. Joe runs his hand through his hair, a nervous habit you remember, and looks out at the city lights for a moment before turning back to you.

“I was an asshole,” he says. The bluntness of it surprises you, how he doesn’t sugarcoat it or try to spin it. "This afternoon, I mean. And just now. I was just—I was doing what I always do, being defensive because seeing you here threw me off, and I didn't know how to handle it."

You wait for him to continue, watching the way he struggles with words that don't come as easily as the ones he uses for interviews.

“I was hurt,” he says, a little softer now. “When you left. Not just because you did. But how fast it felt. Like one second we were figuring things out and the next... you were just gone.”

There’s a long pause where neither of you says anything. You’re not sure what breaks you down first—his voice or the fact that it’s not angry in the way you last remember it. 

“I didn’t leave because of that night,” you say eventually. “If anything… I stayed because of it.”

Joe finally looks at you and your hands tighten around your arms.

“I meant what I said,” you continue, slower now. Like the words are heavy in your mouth. “I believed you. What you said. How it felt. I don’t think I’ve ever seen you like that before.”

The words keep coming even though your mind is already starting to regret opening your mouth. You should stop. You should just stop.

“I think part of me was already bracing for the quiet,” you say. “For things to go back to normal the next day. I don’t know. It’s like… the moment was everything I wanted, but it didn’t feel safe.”

You see the flicker in his eyes. You almost backpedal, almost say never mind, but you’ve already gone too far.

“It's not that I didn’t trust you,” you continue. “I just didn’t trust that version of us to last. And I didn’t want to stay long enough to watch it fall apart again.”

Joe’s silent. You shift your weight, suddenly aware of how exposed you feel, how fast your heart is beating now that the words are out there.

“I didn’t stop feeling it,” you murmur, eyes darting toward the window. “That was the problem. I finally let myself feel all of it. And once I did, it felt like too much to carry alone.”

He exhales slowly, like your words knock the wind out of him.

“So it wasn’t just the night,” he says eventually. “It was everything before.”

You nod. “Yeah. It was the before. The buildup. The silence. The feeling like I was always one step ahead of you.”

There’s a pause. Then, almost like a reflex, you add, “I know you meant what you said. I really do.” He looks at you then, something raw behind his eyes. “But I think I’d spent so long waiting for you to mean something,” you say, voice tightening, “that when you finally did, I was already halfway through learning how to let go.”

“I get that,” he says. You nod, surprised by the relief you feel at being understood. "So you left because you had to," he says, not a question.

"Because I had to."

The silence that follows feels different from all the others today. Not loaded with tension or unspoken accusations, but something closer to understanding. Like you aren’t standing on opposite sides of it anymore.

Joe straightens up slightly, and something shifts in his expression, still serious but with a hint of something lighter around the edges.

"So," he says, extending his hand toward you with a small, almost shy smile. "Hi. I'm Joe."

The gesture is so unexpectedly dorky that you feel a laugh bubble up before you can stop it. "Are you serious right now?"

"Starting fresh," he says, hand still extended. "New note."

You look at his outstretched hand, then back at his face, and despite everything—despite the history and the hurt and the complicated mess of what you used to be—you find yourself smiling.

"This is ridiculous," you say, but you take his hand anyway. "Hi, Joe,” you introduce yourself in the same manner.

The handshake lasts longer than necessary this time, in comparison to the one you shared earlier. When you finally let go, your fingers feel warm where his touched them.

"Much better introduction than this afternoon," you say, and Joe laughs—a real one this time.

"Yeah, well, I was trying to play it cool earlier."

"How'd that work out for you?"

"Terribly," he admits, grinning. "Clearly not my strong suit when it comes to you."

"Well," you say, and there's something softer in your voice now, something that feels like a door opening instead of closing. "There's plenty of time to get better at it."

The words hang between you, simple but loaded with possibility. Not a promise or a plan, just an acknowledgment that time exists now where it didn't before. That this new beginning, this fresh start, doesn't have to be figured out tonight.

Joe's smile changes, becoming something quieter. "Yeah," he says. "I think there is."

In that moment you realize the difference between starting over and starting fresh. One erases everything that came before; the other builds something new on a foundation that was always there, just waiting for the right moment to matter again.

[nouvxllev]

Request!!

Jenna Ortega x Reader

Summary: Jenna and R are like on ldr cuz of her work, after mooonthhss, J surprises R by going back home early to her. J gets so worried cuz R isn't in the house, and she can't contact her. R gets home wasted, J confronts her, R breaks down, rambling about how she just misses Jenna, not knowing it is actually Jenna who she was speaking to... she mistakes her to be Emma..😭🙏🏻

unbearable uncertainty

Pairing: Jenna Ortega x Fem!Reader

Summary: request! ^^

Words: 3.3k

Warnings: slight angst? maybe? bittersweet??

a/n: wrote tara carpenter smut then dipped. oh my god, i truly apologize for going on an unknowingly and unbearable hiatus from writing. but on the bright side, i met someone whos truly so special and i cherish the most on here :] thank you for the request and im sorry if ive been holding it back for months!

(ps. ive forgotten how to write entirely, please be patient with me)

Long goodbyes were never easy.

How could Jenna ever forget the last piece of comfort she felt in your arms as you held her for the final time before she boarded the plane? The warmth and security she found when you whispered "I love you" was something she couldn't find elsewhere.

You hugged her so tightly, Jenna felt as if you were trying to fold her into your very being.

You always did that, always have.

But you held her a little longer. Closer, tighter. As if it'll be the last time Jenna falls in love with you. It felt too surreal when she heard your voice started breaking in tears like there was a cloud over your heart Jenna used to bring life in.

She tried to memorize every detail of your face, every line and shadow, every crease and every feature like you were a past lover she's been searching for, she wanted to hold onto each imperfection and perfection as if capturing this moment in her heart could somehow lessen the pain of parting.

When you reached out, gently brushing a stray tear from her cheek, and she leaned into your touch, savoring the warmth that would soon be gone. It was a gesture so tender, so full of love, that it made her heart ache even more.

Would she have done something differently? Perhaps tell you she got it all wrong, tell the producers and chosen to live in peace with you and frolic in some field of flowers like a coming of age movie.

No, she could only swallow the lump in her throat and urge her heart to stop grieving for something that wasn't even dead but merely distant.

Vermont proved to be a cold comfort, like winter for a thousand nights without somebody to hold on, stark contrast to the warmth she'd known for all these months.

The first night was the hardest—cruel, even. As she unpacked her bags in the apartment paid for b the producers, it was a far cry from the home you had shared. Despite its charm for space, it felt emptier than it should've been. A shell.

Jenna remembers lying awake that night, unable to find solace even in the darkness. Each thought weighed heavier than the last, fearing you would grow to resent the fame she would have declined in a heartbeat if given the choice, that loving her had become more of a chore than a joy.

The frequent overseas flights and constant altering of time zones only added to the strain, affecting even how her heart would beat. Conversations became shorter while days grew longer, and only letters and distant updates from you brought reassurance. She missed the moments of quiet intimacy, the laughter shared, and the smile she could reach up and kiss, the comfort of knowing she was always there for you.

It was a constant routine of staring at the ceiling, desperate to imagine your arounds around her and your warm breath against the neck. The loneliness was a crushing weight, far more realistic than a mere idea it was. Unbearable.

She found herself wanting for the familiar warmth and solace that only your presence could provide her. She would watch herself listening for your voice, remembering how you would tell her if she's been overworking, half-expecting to hear your laughter or even a slight tone or maybe even the sound of your footsteps.

She always found small ways to feel connected to you.

The letters you sent were her lifeline. She would read them over and over as if it were new ink, tracing the words with her fingers that carried your thoughts and reassurances, imagining your voice speaking them. Each letter was a piece of you, a reminder that you were thinking of her, missing her just as much.

The voice calls were both a blessing and a curse.

Hearing your voice brought her comfort, but it also made the distance between you feel even more unbearable. She would stay up late into the night, talking to you, laughing with you, sharing her day and listening to yours. But when the call ended, silence would descend, and the emptiness would return with a vengeance. She would lie in bed, clutching the pillow, trying to replay the sound of your voice.

So it was a huge, pain-in-the-ass problem for her, the amount of calls and thousands of sleepless nights with her arms wrapped around a pillow instead of the love of her life was a step away from insanity. It seemed dramatic, but can you blame a girl!? Love always had a way of making seem things insignificant in comparison.

Another grueling month without the love of your life? She couldn't and wouldn't even bear it, you would have to finally cut the two parts of her brain in half and throw away the other one to endure that kind of torture.

So what started as a joke with her finger hovering over the "book flight" button while on the phone with you turned out to be, surprise surprise, not even close to a silly little joke.

She clicked it impulsively, without a second thought or even a first one.

Her heart raced faster than ever with the thought of seeing you again. Feeling your arms around her, hearing you laugh, smile, and talk was all the motivation she needed. It was like a recurring dream you’d betray another day for to live in.

And here she is now, at your place, luggage in hand in the dead of night, looking like she fled the country, with that familiar airport scent still clinging to her clothes and hair. She smelled like whatever hit-terminal coffee it was that day and recycled air.

Jenna's been muttering to herself all evening, "Pick up, pick up, pick up, oh my God, who leaves their house unlocked!?"

Her phone, balanced on her shoulder, was one slip away from hitting the ground, and she was one missed call away from losing it. She imagine the look on your face when you saw her standing there, unannounced yet so desperately wanted, not like wanting to send out a search party for you!

It was voicemail after voicemail, a ring before a cruel tone that mocked her for seconds, the unknowing certainty that something had happened to you.

You’ve been M.I.A ever since she arrived, and the last text she received from you was a breezy, "I’m going out tonight with co-workers" followed by a thousand kisses. The gesture was sweet, but it’s not helping now that it’s 12 fucking a.m. and you’re nowhere to be found.

She paced back and forth in your living room, the anxiety gnawing at her insides and the sharp pain from her palm to her heart had never been so severe.

Every creak of the floorboards made her thoughts race, hoping it was you finally coming home. The silence of the house was deafening, broken only by her thoughts replaying your voice. She glanced at the clock on the wall that displayed digits she seriously did not want to see.

She knew she wouldn't be able to sleep until she saw you with her own eyes, until she could touch you and confirm that you were truly safe.

Her hands immediately went back to her phone, wondering if your co-workers would even answer a distress actress concerned about her girlfriend if there was a high and 100% chance they were wasted with you. Obviously, each call went straight to voicemail.

Why is being sent on delivered the most humiliating ever!?

"Fuck," Jenna cursed under her breath, her head lowered in defeat as she stared at the countless of messages she sent to your friends, co-workers, shit even your family!

The only thought going through her head is "thank you for birthing Emma Myers."

emma

just said goodbye shes round the corner

sent one attachment

going back to her place

Even light couldn't travel as fast compared to how quickly Jenna reacted when that attachment processed in her brain. It was a photo of you (thank fuck), looking a bit tipsy, sure, maybe knocked in the head, but you were unharmed, waving goodbye to Emma.

The wave of relief that washed over Jenna felt like an overall baptism—a splash of water to commemorate coming back to a harsher reality than she didn't expect, but reality nonetheless.

She almost wanted to laugh at the absurdity, but she shoved the thought aside. Her focus was on you, and getting to you as fast as possible.

If you weren't going to come back home sooner or later, she'd come to you. Geared up and mentally preparing everything to combat the cold weather, plants of how she would take care of you, and a surprise. Aka, her.

Is what she would've followed through if she didn’t hear the unmistakable sound of a key turning in the lock.

The sound was so abrupt. Too sudden and swift it nearly made her jump out of her skin unlike any scare people tried on her.

Her heart pounded as she turned towards the door, hoping, begging, and nearly willing the universe to grant her at least one moment of sanity. She watched the door creak open, and there you were—alive. You stumbled in, eyes bleary but safe, and Jenna felt the tension drain from her body as if it had never been there.

"Y/n—!" Jenna's sudden movement was a blur, barely having time to embrace yourself before she collided with you, the force of her embrace nearly knocking out the ragged breath you had left.

You could've noticed the slight tremble in her frame, heart pounding against your chest, and a hand clinging onto your shirt that pulled you closer if you weren't drunk.

“Daaamn, girl, you walk faast! I swear we dropped you at your street?? Why are you in—shit—in my house??” Your voice slurred and you stumbled as if the very act required more effort than you could muster, mind sluggish and your sense dulled, voice thick and unsteady.

You were undeniably and completely fucked. To say the least.

Drunk, Intoxicated. Mentally impaired. Right, how could Jenna even forget that?

You barely managed to step inside when your legs gave out, sending you tumbling to the floor.

The world tilted and spun around you as if you were a sun blinded by its own solar system. Your vision blurred and you struggled to make sense of the swirling images and a familiar blobby brunette girl in your home.

To no surprise, Jenna was at your side in an instant, crouching down with her face filled with concern as she looked you over, her arms reaching out to steady you. "Y/n… Why on earth do you have a huge straight bump on your forehead?"

"I…" you mumbled, blinking up at her. Her face looked like one of those spiky and blobbed images you see through a rain-streaked window. "I was—I was watching one of those 'how to be a good girlfriend in an LDR relationship' videos on the way home. And—and well, there was a pole."

Jenna's expression shifted, concern to curiosity. "What… What? What do you mean? Why? Why are you searching those—"

You felt like your chest was closing in on you, your throat mimicked those of a barren wasteland, and embarrassment washed over you like a tidal wave. You wanted to shrug it off, to laugh and tell her you were just curious, that it was nothing. But you couldn't.

"Because!" you burst out, voice trembling as you looked away from her eyes, "How else am I supposed to believe that I'm good enough when Jenna's halfway across the world? When every time she touches me, it's like she thinks I'm everything you've ever wished for in a star, and I—"

You faltered, your breath catching, the words threatened to slip away from you, but the emotions, doubt and fear—they had been building up for too long. You couldn’t stop now, even if you wanted to.

"I don't deserve it, I'm not enough for her. There's something more that i should be doing, something more I could be, because how can I be enough when she's there and I'm here? I can't hold her, I can't comfort her when she's stressed, I cant show her how much I care every day like I want to. How am I supposed to truly feel that I'm doing fine and she's feeling loved? Every time she tells me that I'm enough, I try to believe her, but—but there's this voice in my head that keeps saying, 'What if she's just saying it? What if one day, she realized she was wrong? That I'm not great, that she's just loving a version of me she created in her head, that she finds a fatal flaw in me that keeps her away from loving me? What if I'm not who she thought I was?"

You can't speak anymore, but your mouth persists in words like a machine. Your eyes already welled up, you bit your lip to stop it from trembling and forming a frown.

"I want to be perfect for her. I want her to feel like she's never missing anything from me or feel like she's falling short from the love she gives me and I give her. But I don't know how to do that. I don't know anything. So I watch those stupid videos to hope I'll find a way to be enough, to finally feel like I am. But no matter what I do, it feels like it'll never be. How can I be it when I'm not with her? How can I be enough from so far away?"

Tears blurred your vision as you tried to reach out, "I just miss her, Emma. I just miss her so damn much. I thought I could handle it, you know? That I could be strong, that I could keep it together until the next time I saw her. But it's been too long, I keep feeling like I'm falling apart. That my relationship is falling apart for her. I thought maybe if I just stepped back, she'd find what she needed without me getting in the way."

"I try to keep things feeling normal. I try to tell myself that the distance is temporary, that we’re strong enough to make it through, but what if we’re not? What if the longer this goes on, the more we rip apart? I don’t want to lose her, but I feel like I’m losing pieces of us every day."

"I'm scared, Emma," you admitted, your voice barely above a whisper. "I'm scared that one day, she'll take all her words back, she'll realize it's not enough. That every text she sends me is in complete dread, that she's just staying for the hell of it. That she finds a better relationship than what we have now."

Your gaze was locked on the floor, but Jenna's eyes were on you, wide and creased with confusion. The words you've thrown at her just echoed in her mind, looping relentlessly until they became the only thing she could hear along with the race of her heart thudding so loudly. She had been silent the whole time, listening to you pour out your fears, insecurities, on how much you've missed her.

She shouldn't have. She wasn't Emma.

Jenna's eyes flickered to you, your eyes was stuck on the floor, your shoulders slumped as if you were carrying the weight of the world. And in that moment, despite the ache in her chest, all she wanted was to hold you. It's the only thing that felt natural for her.

She closed the gap between you two, close enough that her knees brushed yours, and slowly enough as if she were afraid that you might pull away. The contact felt like a connection, barely there, yet it grounded you and your worries. It felt familiar.

Jenna's breath as she looked at you, her eyes searching your face for any sign that you were uncomfortable, that you were still here with her.

Without a word, she lifted her arms and wrapped them around you at last. Her touch was tentative, she was unsure you wanted her there, but as her hand rested on your back, she felt the subtle rise and fall of your breathing. You were relaxed in her arms, you became yourself underneath her hands. She pulled you in closer like she was trying to shield you from the weight of whatever thought you had put on yourself.

"Y/n," she spoke, you knew that voice. it wasn't distant or abstract, it was real, present, and undeniably her. You knew this. The fact that you didn’t pull away. You didn’t flinch. In fact, the moment her presence reached you, it was as if a piece of you had been anchored to the ground again.

You knew her.

The warmth of her skin, the gentle rise and fall of her chest as you let yourself pull in her, it was familiar, comforting. You hadn't even realized how tightly you've been holding onto your fears and worries. But now, with her, they're no longe the loud and consuming force they had been before.

"Jenna?" you whispered, your voice was barely audible, trembling as it left your lips and hope it gets through with her.

It was the first time you had said her name aloud in her presence. You could feel her heartbeat against her chest, the steady rhythm that took both of you off. You pulled away from her embrace, looking at her as if you saw a ghost.

"I'm back home," she whispered back, her voice soft like it never changed.

Her words settled into your bones, offering a comfort that you didn't realize you've been craving so desperately. And for the first time in what felt like a long time, you allowed yourself to believe them. She wasn’t just saying it—she meant it. Jenna was here, she wasn’t going to leave.

You didn’t care what she had to say; it felt impolite, selfish even, but all you wanted was to crash into her arms like you had before. You were no longer standing at a distance. You didn’t think, you didn’t hesitate, you just moved.

With a sudden rush, you wrapped your arms around her as if she were the only lifeline you had in a world that felt like it was spinning out of control.

You clung to her as you murmured her name over and over again as if it was a prayer the heavens needed to hear. Your fingers gripped the fabric of her shirt and every part of you was aware of her. How her body felt against yours, the way she held you felt like a promise saying she wouldn't let you go in her life.

“I’m so sorry,” you choked out, your voice shaking as you pulled back just enough to look into her eyes, your tears blurring your vision. "I'm sorry for everything. For doubting you, for pushing you away when you clearly didn't want to.

"You’re finally here," you murmured, as you looked up at her, "You’re back with me."

Jenna's grip around you tightened, and you could feel her smile that always made you float in the air, even though you couldn't see it. "I missed you," she said softly, "I was so worried about you and I kept thinking about all the things we used to do together. I missed the way you laugh, the way you always know how to make me feel better. I just wanted to hear your voice again, to feel close to you. Don't worry about falling short, I'm already standing on a mountain of love that you've given me."

It was her, she was the same Jenna you've always loved. How she held you in your arms, how she kissed you after apologizing countless of times, how she feels in your arms, how she moves, how she laughs, how she makes you feel like you're safe and secured. Uncertainty washed away from you.

[navyiera]

All the Things I Love about You

pairing: caitlyn kiramman x fem!reader

synopsis: sometimes there are bad days when things don't go your way but luckily there's caitlyn who can turn everything back to the way you like it.

for anyone who's having a bad day :( keep going, im proud of you!!

You don’t mean to say it out loud.

It’s just one of those days—one where your mind feels cluttered and restless, where the smallest things seem to go wrong, and suddenly, everything feels heavier than it should. You don’t know when it started, but now you’re moving around the room, absentmindedly mumbling under your breath, listing every little thing you don’t like about yourself.

“Too indecisive… get flustered too easily… always messing things up…”

Caitlyn looks up from her book across the room, her gaze sharp and steady as she watches you move. At first, she doesn’t say anything, just quietly observing. But when you sigh and mutter something about being “too much of a burden,” she closes her book with a quiet thud.

“Well, I suppose I should chime in,” she says matter-of-factly.

You blink, turning toward her. “What?”

She stands, smoothing out an invisible wrinkle in her blouse, and takes a step closer. “Since we’re listing things, I’d like to add a few of my own.”

Your stomach tightens. “Caitlyn, that’s not—”

She doesn’t let you finish. Instead, she reaches for your hand, lacing her fingers through yours. Her grip is firm but gentle, grounding. “I love the way your eyes light up when you talk about something you’re passionate about.”

You freeze. “Caitlyn—”

“I love how thoughtful you are, how you notice the smallest details about people and remember them,” she continues, as if you hadn’t spoken. “Like the way you always make my tea just how I like it. Or how you remember which side of the bed I prefer, even though I wouldn’t mind switching.”

Her voice is calm, unwavering, and she’s looking at you so intently that it’s impossible to brush off her words.

“I love how you get excited over the little things—how you squeeze my hand when you see a cat across the street, or how you gasp at the first snowfall of the year, like you’re seeing it for the first time.”

A lump forms in your throat, but she isn’t finished.

“I love how expressive you are. How I can read your thoughts just by watching your face.” She tilts her head slightly, studying you with fond amusement. “Like right now. You’re trying to figure out how to change the subject.”

You let out a small, shaky laugh, dropping your gaze. “Maybe.”

She squeezes your hand before letting go, only to cup your face instead, tilting it back up so you have no choice but to meet her eyes. “I love how much you care, even when you try to downplay it. How you always notice when I’m tired and bring me tea before I even ask. How you listen—really listen—when I talk, even when I ramble.”

You swallow hard, struggling to hold her gaze. “Caitlyn, I…”

She leans in just slightly, pressing her forehead against yours. “I love your laugh,” she murmurs. “I love the way you hum when you’re focused, and how you tilt your head when you’re curious. I love how you always reach for my hand, even when you’re half-asleep. And I love how you try to hide your smile when I’m being too sappy.”

You let out another breathless laugh, one that turns into something closer to a soft sniffle as you blink rapidly. “This is unfair.”

She smiles, brushing her thumb over your cheek. “It’s the truth.”

A few seconds of silence stretch between you, warm and quiet. Then, she whispers, “And I love you.”

You squeeze your eyes shut, inhaling slowly before opening them again. “I don’t always feel like I’m worth all that.”

Caitlyn doesn’t hesitate. “You are.”

The certainty in her voice makes something ache deep in your chest.

She tilts your chin up slightly, eyes full of quiet affection. “I don’t care how long it takes for you to believe me. I’ll remind you every time.”

You nod, unable to trust your voice, and she takes it as permission to close the last bit of space between you, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead.

She lingers there for a moment, her lips warm against your skin, before pulling back just enough to press another to your cheek. Then another, slower, against the corner of your mouth, her breath fanning against your lips.

You exhale, tilting toward her instinctively. “You’re really unfair, you know that?”

Caitlyn hums, brushing a stray lock of hair behind your ear. “Mm. But you’re smiling now.”

You roll your eyes, but the warmth in your chest refuses to fade. “Okay, okay. I get it.”

She raises an eyebrow. “Do you?”

You let out a small laugh, shaking your head. “I’m trying.”

Caitlyn’s expression softens even further. “That’s enough.”

She pulls you into a gentle hug, and you let yourself sink into it, letting her warmth chase away the last lingering shadows of doubt.

[hoshinasblade]

im going to need you all to send me happy thoughts please because i am having a very bad week and it's only monday lol anyway here's some angst. i know i have written a lot of stuff here already but so far this one is my favorite (despite me literally drafting this in my phone so expect some grammar errors or spelling mistakes), so if you can, let me know what you folks think. likes, replies, and reblogs are appreciated but i will bonk you in the head if you repost or copy any of my writings. THANK YOU ANON FOR THIS ASK!

you could bring a numbered kaiju into submission but it seems that your heart is an entirely different monster.

you should have known better than to fall in love with a colleague, and you should have known better than to fall in love with the third division's vice-captain. your own commander, gen narumi, threw you a dirty look when he found out about your intimate relationship with the bowl cut bastard, and as much as you want to come up with a good enough excuse, the best thing you were able to give is a cliched the heart wants what the heart wants. narumi scoffed at you upon hearing it, following it up with a personal vow to never be romantically involved with anyone in the force.

it didn't have to be said but hoshina still did the honors - there's not a lot of ground rules in your relationship but the first one is this: you and he are soldiers first, lovers second. you pondered if it was supposed to hurt you, and you asked yourself what the hell is wrong with you to say yes to such a set-up: all those love advice by your family and friends about how you should not settle with the bare minimum flew out the window. "i have a responsibility to my division. but i also know i love you," was what hoshina told you. in hindsight maybe you did not care about anything else he said except the part where he confessed he loves you.

you convinced yourself that nothing is more important than being loved by hoshina soshiro. and you persuaded yourself that if he could place you second in his priorities, you would be able to do so too. "i mean, i was a defense officer before i became your girlfriend," you agreed with him.

but there's no worse lie than the one we tell ourselves, you realised too late.

hoshina soshiro took you to dates almost every weekend although he is also almost always late. but you guess being one of the highest-ranking official in an anti-kaiju division burdens him with a heavier obligation than the rest of the officers so you did what a good girlfriend would do: you tried to understand his situation and offered him comfort whenever you catch him overly stressed or fatigued in his tasks. "i'll make it up to you," he would promise, and you would kiss him on the lips.

but after a while he stopped asking you out entirely, blaming it to his busy schedule - and yours - and a month after that, you would see hoshina soshiro only when there are inter-division conferences. narumi gives you his ugliest frowns everytime he spots the vice-captain walking towards you. "get a room," the first division commander rolled his eyes at you and your boyfriend one time.

to be fair, hoshina is good at making you disregard his misgivings. may it be with his tongue or his fingers, even for just a fraction of an hour, you cannot deny that hoshina makes you feel loved and taken care of. hoshina would tell you he loves you and nothing else matters again in your world but those three little words.

you could have perfectly proceeded in your charade of being fine if hoshina only remembered your anniversary. the straw that broke the camel's back, disappointment and frustration and heart wrenching pain consumed you when it came clear to you that hoshina was not planning for some surprise for you after not giving you a single greeting throughout the day - he simply forgot.

"so it skipped you that today's supposed to be our day, but you had time to go to lunch with okonogi," you accused him, feeling a bit guilty that you are involving another person in the argument. the trip to tachikawa base was not short, and your muscles are already killing you, but you made the effort to see hoshina in hopes you can salvage the occasion. the guilt died down after several seconds when hoshina replied.

"how is okonogi-chan a part of this?" he defended her. it did not escape you how he seemed to not be answering you at all.

"okonogi-chan?" you mocked hoshina. "jesus, i am so tired of this!" you did not recognise the sound of your voice when you shouted. "i - i know what i signed up for when i compromised with you, soshiro. you said duties first, i just did not expect i would be at the bottom of the things you care about. that's if i was even in that list at all."

"that's not fair -"

"what's not fair," you gritted your teeth, "is that you keep treating me like shit." you held back your tears; you refused to cry in front of hoshina - you had already given him the power to hurt you, it would have been to much handing him the knowledge that what is happening is effectively breaking you from you within. softly, you determined to get the bottom of things - fuck your dignity, the most you can get from this scenario is hoshina's honesty. "do you still love me?"

"you know i do," he declared too quickly. hoshina strode towards you, crossing the three, four feet distance to reach you. grabbing your cold hands and attempting to cradle it with his own warm ones, hoshina looked sincere and sorry, and you regret that you cannot for the life of you remember the last time he was this tender with you.

"actually i don't." you did not know how you're supposed to bridge the sea between you and hoshina as you withdrew your clammy hands from his touch. you chose to ignore the sudden sadness that crossed his face when you stepped away from him.

the loud ring of the alarm announcing a kaiju attack echoed in your ears. "i have to go, we'll talk more later," hoshina offered, his stare at you was surely meant to glue you in your spot but you did not let it so. "i love you."

"no, wait." you are a defense officer, and a good one at that, and you thankfully did not have to remind the third division vice-captain of that. "i'm going with you." even on the verge of heartbreak, your response is to stand beside hoshina. you almost winced at the implication.

you did not wait for his approval. narumi will be pissed, he joked after seeing you in a battle suit, helping you out a bit as you pick your weapon of choice. "hey." his grip on your elbow distracted you. "be careful out there," he whispered.

bodies break in the strangest of ways, you found out while fighting a considerable strong honju alone in the sector where you were assigned. you weren't officially in the area to be on duty, and protocol says you cannot be under hoshina's command so you had to be borrowed as a back-up to another platoon. your tenure and experience could easily place you as a team leader, that is why you were confident to face a number of those monstrous creatures at once. that is until the suit you were wearing - just a spare one that hasn't been used yet by a recruit - overheated.

"retreat to somewhere safe," you heard hoshina in your in-ear comms, out of breath. "that's an order." you wanted to assert that he isn't really your commanding officer, that he is not upon him to command you in any way but air feels like liquid in your lungs, the exhaustion catching up to you. in a minute or two the suit will lose its integrity after overheating, and you will be vulnerable to attacks of even the smallest yojus. "stay there and i'll send someone -"

you hoped you were not making a habit of interrupting hoshina as you mustered your strength to speak in a firm sentence - "the mission, is to neutralise the kaiju, sir." you screwed your eyes shut, ignoring the searing sensation of the wound in your shoulder.

throwing caution in the wind, hoshina did not relent. "i will come get you."

"soldiers first, soshiro." the static in your in-ear comms was deafening after you had called the vice-captain by his given name, and knowing that whatever you say will be broadcasted to the other officers, you continued. "to hell with what happens to us, right?"

you couldn't say you recall what happened next. dizzying darkness claimed you as your suit gave out, your combat release putting your body to too much pressure. when you came to consciousness, it was at a hospital - in a white room too big to cater to only one patient. tubes were attached to you, needles poking at the delicate vein in your wrist. it hurts to move, it hurts to discover you woke up alone.

the hours passed, each tick of the hands of the clock racing against your own thoughts. a nurse found you awake while in a roaming duty, and alerted the doctor. it was not after that when you saw hoshina again.

"how are you feeling?" you could sense his awkwardness from across the room. you saw his hesitation to come close to you; you cannot decided whether to feel satisfied that he seems to be in pain seeing you like this.

"i can't do this anymore, soshiro." your throat was dry from not speaking in ages, and your words sounded hoarse, as if you had to scrape yourself for them. "i almost died, and i can't do this anymore."

a piece of you wanted for him to tell you to shut up.

"i could have died, and you weren't there. and my god, this entire time i had to assess if i am just selfish, or greedy, and i know there are people to save, but soshiro, it's tiring to be the one who loves the other more," you exclaimed. "maybe it's my mistake that i am in a relationship with the third division's vice-captain but i fell in love with hoshina soshiro."

"i'm sorry." you didn't miss the slight tremble in hoshina's voice, and your chest tightened because after everything, he couldn't say you what you needed to hear.

"i would have died trying to save you, you know," you added weakly.

"i'm sorry," he repeated like a chant, like some mantra that would cure everything damaged for you and for him.

"me too," you replied, because there was nothing else left to say.

[n0vazsq]

Forgotten wishes | AL65 x Reader

pairing . . . arthur leclerc x ex!reader

summary . . . After you meet Arthur, your ex, at an empty parking lot, you decide to try to talk to him about your relationship. In the end, you have a hope that maybe it isn't all over yet

request . . . yes! based on this request!

word count . . . 1.2k+

warnings . . . angst angst angst all the way angst and one use of y/n

faceclaim . . . N/A

alexavia yaps . . . haha i totally didn't cry my ass off writing this!! IM SO SORRY ( @barcapix ) BECAUSE IT ENDED LIKE THIS

part 1 | part 2

. . . You didn’t expect to see him. Not here. The spot overlooking the harbor had always been a safe a space; a place to breathe, to watch the stars reflect off the water and pretend the world wasn’t falling apart. It had been yours, once. Yours and Arthur’s.

Leaning against your motorbike, you sighed. The loud thrum of his car engine were unmistakable, the red colour of his Ferrari flashing everywhere, even in the soft glow of the streetlamp.

As the engine softened, the door opened and he stepped out. You held your breath, heart skipping a beat as if it was playing hopscotch. He hadn’t noticed you yet, leaning his body against the railing, eyes fixed on the horizon.

The wind tugged at his hair, but he didn’t seem to feel it. His shoulders were tense, his hands shoved deep into his pockets. You knew that look.

You almost turned to leave. Almost. But something held you in place, the same something that always brought you back here, nights when the silence was too loud and your chest felt too heavy.

He turned, eyes widening when he saw you. For a moment, neither of you spoke. The wind carried the scent of salt and distant rain, and the night stretched out between you, filled with ghosts of conversations you never had.

"Didn’t think I’d see you here," he finally said, his voice barely carrying over the sound of the waves below.

You shrugged, trying to ignore the way your heart twisted and started beating out of your chest. "I could say the same."

He looked back out at the water, the tension in his jaw easing just a little. "Still come here when it gets too much?"

"Yeah." The word felt small. Too small. Yet, the space between you was as vast as a thousand canyons combined.

The night sky was a patchwork of forgotten wishes, each star a memory you and Arthur couldn’t hold onto. It wrapped around you like a blanket of thorns, each moment of silence another prick.

You both stood there, the space between you filled with everything you weren’t saying. The air felt heavier than it should, every breath a reminder of what you’d lost.

When Arthur finally spoke, his words were like cracked porcelain; delicate, but also sharp, cutting you deep.

"We stood in this same space once, remember?" His voice was quiet, almost lost to the wind. "Laughing about how empty it was. Now it feels too big… just like the distance that is between us."

You remembered. The way his laughter had echoed, the way he’d pulled you close and whispered promises you both believed at the time. It felt like a lifetime ago.

"You broke us, Arthur." The words slipped out, raw and bitter. Your hands were shaking

He flinched, eyes meeting yours for a brief, painful moment. "I know, (Y/n)." His voice was soft, almost drowned by the crashing waves. The way he said your name made you melt, like it always did. "I thought I was doing the right thing."

"Walking away? How was that right?"

He ran a hand through his hair, frustration seeping into his voice. "You think it was easy for me? Every fight, every silence… it felt like we were drifting. I thought… I thought letting go would save us from breaking completely."

"But we did break." Your voice cracked, the memories crashing over you; the late night arguments, the slammed doors, the quiet moments where you both reached for each other but missed.

"You were always somewhere else," you continued, voice trembling. "Your job, your friends… I felt like I was barely a part of your life. Like I was unimportant, just a distraction."

Arthur’s eyes hardened, his jaw clenching. "And you were perfect, right? Every time I was late or distracted, you shut down. You wouldn’t talk to me."

"I tried!" The words came out sharper than you intended. "But you weren’t there to hear it. You were too busy with everything else."

He took a deep breath, the fight draining out of him. "I know. I prioritized the wrong things. Thought I had time to fix it later."

"Later never came, Arthur."

The silence stretched again, thick with everything you couldn’t say. The stars above seemed to watch, each one a distant reminder of what could’ve been.

"I still come here," you whispered, more to yourself than him. "When I miss you. When it hurts too much."

His eyes softened, the walls around them slipping for just a moment. "Me too."

The wind carried your silence, filled with words left unsaid. You could feel it, the love that hadn’t faded, buried under layers of hurt and regret. But love wasn’t always enough.

Arthur shifted, his voice barely above a whisper. "I don’t know how to fix this."

"Neither do I."

The night wrapped around you both, the harbor stretching out below like a sea of broken memories. There was no resolution here, no easy answers. Just two people standing in the ruins of something beautiful, still attached to a past they couldn’t let go of.

The wind picked up, swirling leaves and fragments of old conversations around you. You remembered the nights you’d spent here together, wrapped in each other’s arms, talking about dreams that seemed so close you could touch them. Dreams that had slipped through your fingers like sand.

Then, you remembered your first kiss. You and Arthur. Tangled in each other's arms, the sound of the waves soothing you to a state of relaxation. It seemed as if that happened millenniums ago.

"You think we could’ve done it differently?" Arthur’s voice was almost lost in the wind.

"Maybe." The word hung between you, fragile and uncertain. "But we didn’t."

He stepped closer, just enough that you could feel his warmth. "Do you regret it?"

The question lingered in the air, heavy with meaning. You thought about everything you’d shared; the laughter, the pain, the quiet moments that felt like they would last forever. "No. Do you?"

He didn’t answer right away. When he finally spoke, his voice was soft, almost broken. "No."

As Arthur turned to leave, he hesitated, his eyes lingering on you. "Maybe… maybe this isn’t the end."

You stood there, your heart heavy, the words caught in your throat. "You don’t get to just walk away, Arthur. Not like this."

His steps faltered, and for a moment, you both just stood there, staring at each other across the distance that had grown between you. The wind tugged at your hair, but neither of you moved.

"I still love you," you whispered, barely audible. "But I don’t know if that’s enough anymore."

Arthur’s eyes softened, and he took a step closer, but stopped short. His voice was thick with emotion when he finally spoke. "I don’t know how to fix this. But I’ll never stop caring about you."

The ache in your chest didn’t ease, but deep down, beneath the hurt and the silence, a flicker of something remained.

It wasn’t over. Not yet. But it wasn’t healed, either. Just a patchwork of forgotten wishes, waiting for a second chance that may never come.

And as the night wrapped around you, you realized some love stories don’t end, they just take time to heal, if they ever do.

[draculasintern]

Letters to a Councilman

Okay chat, let's get this straight, I'LL BE ON BREAK STARTING NEXT WEDNESDAY WOOP WOOP!!! I'll be posting more often too. SO expect the victor fic to get done, I want it to only have like 20 parts maybe less, I'm bad at writing really long slow burns. And Im slowly getting bored of this.. so if you guys do want more, tell me.. or give me ideas for the next part. Anyways!

Chapter 4: Paperweight

The letter arrived in the rain. Not just during the rain but with it. Folded tight, corners damp, the ink smudged just slightly like it had been caught mid-thought and dragged through a storm.

Jayce found it stuck against the threshold of his office door, held in place by nothing but wind and timing. The hallway had been quiet when he opened it. Quiet in that unnatural way buildings get when they’ve forgotten how to be alive. And for a moment, he almost didn’t notice the envelope at all. He almost stepped on it.

But there it was. Still.

He didn’t reach for it right away. Just stood. Water beading on the window in the far left corner of the room, thunder shaking something loose inside his ribs. He looked at the letter like it was a mirror. A threat. A question he already knew the answer to.

It was heavier than it should’ve been, once he picked it up. Not in weight. In intention. Like the paper had been steeped in something thicker than rain. Ink, maybe. Or memory.

He didn’t open it until hours later.

Not because he was busy. Not really. The work that day was all faceless—petitions, signatures, staged smiles. His pen moved, his voice answered, but his mind stayed elsewhere. Every document he read blurred with the edge of the envelope burning cold in his coat pocket. Every signature felt forged. Fake.

It wasn’t until night bled in through the tower windows that he sat at his desk, alone again, and tore it open with steady hands. There was no greeting. No apology. Just this:

You didn’t write back. You answered. A difference. I ask you a question that sinks its teeth in and you write back like you're afraid it’ll draw blood. You’re scared of being a disappointment. I get it. You don’t want to become them. But guess what? Not wanting to be them doesn’t make you not them. You built the wall, Jayce. You stood in front of it and told Zaun to wait. Told us it was for the greater good. I watched it happen. I watched you do it with hands that once held the things you used to believe in. So here’s what I wonder: When did protecting the city start meaning protecting the parts that only look like you? When did silence become a safer currency than action? And if you’re really not like the rest of them, why do you sit there every day, wear the same suits, speak the same hollow words, and pretend that this—this cold council mask—is who you were always meant to be? You want me to believe you haven’t shut the door. Fine. Then open it. Let us in. Make room. Or don’t bother writing back. —No One Important (And you don’t get to forget me this time.)

Jayce’s eyes didn’t lift from the paper for a long time. Not even when the wind picked up outside, screaming through the tower like it was trying to rip the city in half. He read the letter again. Then again.

And each time, it pressed harder. Like a hand against his chest. Like a scar reopening.

It wasn’t just anger. That’s what struck him. It would’ve been easier if it was. But no, underneath it, there was something worse. Something aching. Not a stranger throwing rocks, but someone who once thought he was a shelter. Someone still angry enough to write. Still hurt enough to expect more from him.

It made him nauseous.

Because he remembered what it felt like to build things that mattered. He remembered the spring-loaded joy in the joints of his first hextech gauntlets. The kind of wonder that made your hands shake.

And now?

Now he wore gloves to shake hands with people who wanted votes, not change. Now he drafted policy that looked good on paper and failed in practice. Now he measured his words before he said them, because the wrong sentence could cost him leverage.

And that wasn’t who he wanted to be. But maybe, maybe it was who he’d become.

The paper trembled slightly in his hand. From the wind, maybe. From his grip. He didn’t know. The silence crept in again. A deeper one, now. The kind that doesn’t just surround you—it settles in.

He didn’t reach for a pen.

Not yet.

He just sat there, with the storm outside and the storm inside, and let the weight of the letter pin him in place. And for the first time in a very long time, Jayce Talis wasn’t sure which side of the wall he was standing on anymore

This might feel rushed, cause it is. I'm crunching time rn. Wish I had more but classes are eating me alive rn. If you want more, comment to tell you do. Cause if not, I'm not going to keep doing this fic, I'll do another character or fandom.

[comirendezvous]

Chapter 1 › Ghost Mode

Fanclub for Your Heart! , prev masterlist next

You waited until it was late. Later than usual, past the time anyone would check on you. The halls were quiet. You kept your head down, hoodie up, mask snug on your face. You hadn’t spoken to anyone in three days, maybe four. It’s hard to tell time when every day felt the same after that. And you surely didn't want to open up social media.

You really didn’t have a reason to leave that night, but staying still hurts. If anyone asked, you could just say you wanted a breath of fresh air, couldn’t you? Managers wouldn’t care and no ones going to notice an non active idol is even gone. You just wanted to move. To feel something isn’t the dorms stuffy air or the pressure of your guilt.

You ended up at the same place again. The convenience store with buzzing lights and too many snack aisles, you couldn’t remember the name though.

You pushed the door open quietly and stepped inside. He was there again.

The boy behind the counter. Green eyes, soft smile, kind of looks like he got hired just for being pretty. Is that mean? He glanced up and greeted you with the same stupid little smirk that makes your shoulders tense and chest rise up. Yet, he never offered anything but a comforting smile. Until that night, it seems.

“Midnight snack?”

Ugh, it’s so bright it here I can barely see… wait, is that a guy? Why does she look so familiar?

You didn’t say anything back. Just continued to drift your head toward the drink aisle and stare for seemingly too long. Your hands shook when you reached for the small bottle of liquor. You weren’t sure why you would even grab it. You’ve never done this before. Never bought alcohol. Never wanted to. You placed it on the counter like it might explode if you’re not careful. Glass bottle, fragile. He didn’t flinch. Just scanned it, slowly, like he was giving you time to change your mind.

“You sure that’s all? Weve got melon soda. Or sad looking sugar cookies. Two for one! If you wanna cry with a friend.”

You almost laughed.

“Or you could have them both! No judging of course!”

“Im fine.”

You sounded like you’d forgotten how to talk, you’ve never really had a reason to talk to this guy. Yet, you managed to give a slow nod back as you kept all your thoughts to yourself.

You walked out the brightly lit store, hidden in your sleeve was the bottle, like your guilty of some crime. While you slowly walked in the midnight air, you could feel your phone vibrating with notifications, probably from them. Definitely from them.

But you didn’t want to go back to that cramped building just yet.

The streets are mostly empty, save for the quiet hum of streetlights. You found a bench near a vending machine, the kind that seems to flicker slowly, making too much noise in the quiet street. You sat, fingers sweaty as you pulled the bottle from your pocket. Just a small sip. It wasn’t good. Really, you weren’t even sure if you liked it. But it shut your brain up for a second. And that’s just what you wanted tonight. You rested your head back against the bench, eyes fluttering shut beneath your hood. You took one more sip, then tucked the bottle away.

If you went back now, surely everyone would be asleep. They’ll definitely bring up everything. How you’ve been ignoring them and haven’t told them about your, probably now, ex. It’s a little scary in the dark, but for now, you’re just someone on a bench.

Your legs felt heavier on the way home. You kept your hood up and head down. Your building glows faintly at the end of the street. You wonder if anyone saw you leave, wonder if anyone even cares. Then again, it’s probably just the alcohol getting to you. First time drinker, right? You passed by the practice rooms door without looking as you finally reached your room. Closing the door softly, you drifted your eyes to sleep. It’ll all feel better after you let it soak in.

SYNOPSIS › After the popular idol of Skyward Sonnet, YN, falls into a hiatus after a dating scandal, many of her fans are worried and some feel betrayed. However, none of them are as worried as the head on her online fan club, Venti himself. Going out of his way to cheer her up, he ends up finding his pictures flooded over the internet. "YNs cute fangirl syndrome affects her the most.." In which, YN finds his efforts cute, but? Fangirl? He's no girl!

NOTES › um none bye lols i feel like this is ass already

TAGLIST › @thingforxiao, @devosin, just comment/send an ask if u want!!

[zestylim3s]

[Hey guys, so this is that hyun-ju spore story I was talking about, I was gonna write more, but lost motivation, I probably won't post until squid games 3 cones out but who knows, maybe I'll add to it if I feel like it, also I wanna say im open to criticism,but if you don't like it I'll cry]

Bloomed

The spores came without warning, silent, invisible, and fast. They spread like wildfire, drifting through the air and into the lungs of the unsuspecting. Humanity barely had time to understand what was happening before half the population was wiped. Scientists rushed for a cure, desperate to develop vaccines, but nothing worked. The disease was faster. smarter. The world was swallowed whole by the airborne plague.

Those who survived weren’t lucky,they were cursed to witness the collapse. Civilization crumbled. Laws dissolved. Morality became a luxury no one could afford. The sick were doomed the moment they breathed it in. Death came in three minutes… or three days. And the slow ones suffered most.

Mushrooms bloomed from the flesh of the dying, tearing through skin, feeding on the rot within. It always started in the lungs, where the spores took root like seeds in rich soil, growing until the body split apart.

There was no order left. Only silence, spores, and the stench of decay. The world had changed, and it wasn’t ours anymore.

Hyun-ju was a survivor, though it never felt like a gift. The military had trained her for disaster, for collapse, for the unthinkable. But nothing could have prepared her for the end of the world.

Continuing on felt pointless. There was nothing left to fight for. No orders to follow, no one to protect.

She had tried to end it, afew quiet, half-hearted attempts in the sterile silence of empty rooms. But death was heavier than she could bear. Overwhelming. Final. Paralyzing.

So she waited.

Maybe one night, the spores would slip in through a crack in the wall, nestle into her lungs, and she’d simply bloom in her sleep. Silent. Painless. Beautiful, even.

Until then, she stayed inside.

A single spore was fatal. And she wasn’t ready yet.

Thankfully, the water was still clean. That small mercy kept her going.

Sometimes, she would stand by the window, not for hope, not for safety, but just to remember the world still existed. To remind herself there was something beyond the suffocating stillness of her shelter.

Outside, the city was transforming. Buildings once cold and gray were now alive with color and rot. Veins of red mushrooms and orange mold crawled up their sides, weaving through cracks like living wounds. The sky above was stained a deep rust, a burnt orange haze that painted the world in the pigment of collapse.

It was haunting. And somehow… beautiful.

But beauty was deceptive.

The statues of the bloomed were everywhere now. frozen echoes of their final, agonizing moments. Some sat slumped against walls, others lay sprawled mid-stride, caught in the motion of life’s last breath. They looked like red stone at first glance, but they weren’t.

Mushrooms had erupted from where their heads once were, splitting skulls from the inside out. Thick stalks and fungal caps pushed through eye sockets and jaws, blooming in place of thought, of memory, of identity.

Hyun-ju had seen it happen once. too close for comfort.

A man, maybe in his early thirties, had wandered near the edge of the safety zone. She hadn’t noticed him at first. He barely moved. Just twitched. And then, with a sickening, wet crack, his chest tore open, and the bloom began.

She couldn't look away.

It haunted her for days. Not just the sight, but the sound, the squelch of bursting ribs, the raw, choking scream as his body convulsed and crumbled, the silent horror as his lungs were devoured from within.

She imagined the pain. The terror. The moment when breath becomes poison… and life becomes soil.

It was horrific in every sense. But it was also a warning.

No one was safe. Not really.

And she wasn’t ready to become a statue. Not yet.

[ah0minecchi]

𝐌𝐈𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐊𝐄𝐒 𝐋𝐈𝐊𝐄 𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐒 - eren j. ࿐˚ . ✦

A/N: OKAYYY so i wrote this back in 2021, so it MAY OR MAY NOT be shitty asf, but pls bear with me while i write smth better (ノД`).

CW: use of alcohol, mentions of nsfw, angst

NOW PLAYING! 💿 mistakes like this - prelow

<𝟑.𖥔 ݁ ˖

he never voiced whatever was in his mind. that is something i will never be able to stand about eren.

things haven't been the same for months now, we barely spoke to each other when hanging out with friends, and our apartment lived in a constant and cold silence.  it's almost like every breath i took just annoyed him even more. i've tried convincing myself that maybe i was just confused and things were just complicated that day, and the next day, and the next day. but no. im not confused, i haven't been for a while now.

the only times we would direct minimum attention towards each other was on fridays when we would hang out with armin, mikasa, jean, sasha and connie. that was the only day of the week we could forget whatever that was going on between us. get drunk, have fun then go home and have the only type of interaction that worked between us, even if we weren't even really conscious about it.

i wanted to know what has been holding him back from being the way he used to be around me. i wanted to know what crossed his mind whenever he thought about me. what was he dreaming about. what was he whispering to himself when i was asleep. maybe i have taken something from him, something i don't know how to return. i hoped he didn't care, but whatever was lost between us clearly did matter.

this friday wasn't any different from the previous ones. all six of us were hanging at armin's , laughing at some stupid joke jean would say or making fun of connie for boxing himself, not like i'd remember anyway, i was too drunk. everyone was. i decided it was a good idea to get some fresh air so i went to the apartment's balcony. i noticed how all voices and noises from inside would shut down and be drowned by the sound of wind and cars driving around at least 30 meters below my feet as i closed the door.

suddenly i started feeling heavier, my senses started to feel more real and i started to perceive everything that was happening around me. for the first time in the last months i was able to realize what was going on in our usual friday hangouts.

we were here just trying to pretend that everything was still the same, that we were the couple we've always been. i felt the urge to drink something, anything that could make me go back to my careless state, but what did i win from that? what did we win from that? i wondered if i should just tell eren that we were leaving, but how could i take from him the only thing that makes him happy nowadays?

maybe that's all i have been doing this whole time, holding him back. even if i still wanted him to be with me, i was more concerned for what he'd leave if he stayed. it killed me to know that what we had wasn't enough to make him happy, in fact, that it was was what taking his happiness away. watching us get so drunk we wouldn't know where we were even standing made me want to take the bottle away from his grip and hug him so tight until he sobered up.

i asked myself what was the reason for me to do this to him. why did i still want him around me physically if he wasn't able to be around emotionally? i felt like some lost puppy, what would i do without him? was letting him go the best thing i could do? maybe we didn't work together and that was it. but it felt a lot deeper and complex than that. i started to see some of our memories together in my mind. how we would talk hours on end without getting bored. at some point i used to think eren was the only person that was able to understand what happened inside my twisted mind (and the only one willing to), but now it felt like he was the type of person that would never be able to empathize with me.

suddenly i heard the glass door being opened and a very drunk eren asking me to go home. we said our farewells to armin, sasha, mikasa, jean and a passed out connie as we exited the apartment. on our way home eren had his arm losely around my waist and would giggle at something random every 10 seconds or so. he would also leave happy kisses on my cheek now and then. is this really how things have been every time we did this? was getting drunk what we needed to be around each other the way we used to?  it felt impossible to believe that at some point we would do the same things without the necessity of alcohol. tears started rolling down my cheeks as i listened to eren's laugh. all my makeup's running by now. everything felt so fucking fake and empty.

as soon as we entered our own apartment he pressed his lips against mine desperately as he pulled me to our shared room. he gave me that look. the same look he gave me everytime we would trust the other with something so intimate. but for the first time i didn't give him the look i would usually have on my face in that occasion. i did want him, but it didn't feel right. i looked at him with my tear stained gaze to which he just stared at, his eyes drowning with desire. i hated being like this, feeling so weak for him. all i could think about was him, and his lips. i kissed him with every drop of passion that was left in me, because it would be the last time i'll be doing it. it surely didn't feel as every other time we did this. i won't make the same mistake again. i was too damn sober for mistakes like this.

and i soon as he fell asleep i packed my bags and left our apartment silenter and colder than ever.

tysm for reading, likes & reblogs are appreciated!! <3

[japblogs]

❦ I DIDN'T ASK FOR YOU - 001

inspired by: culpa mia

warnings: step-sibling relationship, descriptive language, vulgar language, angst, tension.

word count: 473

written by: @japblogs

read 002 here.

you didn’t cry when you left the old house.

you stared out the car window the entire drive instead. watching your life blur into trees and street signs you’d never see again. your mom was talking beside you. something about new beginnings. something about how “they’re good people, you’ll like them.”

you didn’t listen.

you were moving into a stranger’s house because two adults decided to fall in love. simple as that. you didn’t ask for this. you didn’t want it.

especially not him.

you met him once. briefly. in a restaurant. he didn’t say much. just nodded. barely looked up. you remembered messy curls and cold blue eyes and a voice that barely carried. he hadn’t smiled at all.

his name was christopher.

now he lived down the hall.

you were dragging the last box into your room when you heard footsteps. slow. lazy. you didn’t look up until he spoke.

“you need help with that?”

you turned.

there he was. leaning against the doorway like he’d been there for a while. hoodie sleeves pushed up. one hand in his pocket. eyes flicking around the room. never really landing on you.

“i’m good,” you said. setting the box down.

“you’re the new roommate, then.”

you raised an eyebrow. “step-sibling. technically.”

he smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “right. forgot. we’re family now.”

something about the way he said it made your stomach turn.

“do you always hover in doorways, or is this just a special occasion?”

he shrugged. “you looked like you hated it here. figured i’d come see for myself.”

you didn’t answer. you were too busy trying not to look at him. you didn’t like the way he made the air feel heavier.

he stayed there another few seconds. then turned.

“dinner’s at seven,” he said. already walking away. “you probably won’t like that either.”

you sat across from him at dinner.

your mom was glowing. his dad talked too much. the table was covered in food that smelled better than it tasted.

chris didn’t say much. neither did you.

but every time your knee brushed his under the table, you felt it.

not the touch.

the tension.

he didn’t move. you didn’t either.

you walked past his room later. heading to the bathroom. the door was cracked.

light on. music low.

his voice. soft. almost a whisper. talking to someone over the phone. laughing, maybe.

you paused for half a second. then kept walking.

but, fuck. your chest ached in a way it hadn’t in a long time.

this wasn’t just a new house. and this wasn’t just a new life.

this was the start of something else.

and deep down, even if you didn’t want to admit it, you already knew:

you weren’t going to hate christopher sturniolo. not even close.

and that was going to be a problem.

AUTHORS NOTE 💋

this is like really bad cause its my first time writing on tumblr and im starting with a series.

© japblogs

taglist:

@gigiii1sblog

[eucharist-eulogy]

All’s Fair in Love and War

Because SOMEONEE jumped me… unacceptable, i must jump back. im GONNA GET YOU, NAVI /lh. i rattle you!!!!!!!!!!!! unlike some of my other friends you are a plane ticket away. almost physical rattle distance even. This is way too late but SHUSHHH let me have my moment!!

Featuring: Tribe Nine au of Shiloh Monroe and Adalyn Adlere (@navxry)

It was not an uncommon occurrence for the investigator to work herself to sleep. The bed in her small house was almost dusty from disuse. Her true bed was the sofa, next to the coffee table with all her case notes. Ever since Zero took over Neo Tokyo, it wasn’t easy to earn a simple living, not with those 24 Tribe goons wandering about. She was, however, lucky to have the support of a group that called themselves the “Trash Tribe”. Though, she didn’t get to see them often. She wanted to live a rather simple life, at least, at first. It seemed that fate frowned on her, throwing that…actor at her, time and time again.

Her body was rudely awakened by the faintest gust of a misty night wind, the foreign smell of stew suddenly greeting her nostrils. She was still drowsy, eyes barely able to open, but opened enough to see someone with brown hair cooking in the kitchen, and the window wide open, if smashed to near smithereens counted as open. If she could groan, she would.

“Did you break in? Again?” Adalyn’s voice was still raspy, her body feeling heavier than the ocean.

The sound of chopping stopped, as Shiloh turned to smile at the other. “Ahh, you’re awake. Surprisingly early, might I add.”

Adalyn scoffed. That smile definitely meant he was up to something. But then again, he was always smiling… Which was not any more reassuring. Adalyn tried to lift herself up, but found her body weighing her down, as if she completely lost control of her muscles.

“Did you—?”

“Yes, I did.” Shiloh resumed cutting… whatever was on the chopping board, his slim figure was still sufficient to cover the food from her sight.

“Again?!” It was an expression of annoyance rather than surprise. He never changed, but… neither did she.

“Haha, so?” That chuckle was almost proud, earning a scoff from the red-haired investigator.

“Bastard.”

“Maybe get some proper rest and maybe, just maybe, you don’t need to get drugged every week you have a deadline.” Shiloh was done chopping, sliding what seemed to be vegetables into the stew. “You know, it’s so troublesome to have to keep upping your dosage when you wake up too early.”

“…And how long do you think this paralysis medication will last?”

“With the current dose? Maybe an hour or two. If it were up to me? Forever.” With his words, he did a cheeky twirl of the chopper in his hand. It almost felt like a threat. “Buuut, it wouldn’t be as fun, now would it? Go on, get your Zs. Don’t make me give you a second dose.”

Adalyn seemed surprised, but decided to… heed his advice. Closing her eyes. It was not easy when she remembered the man cooking, with a cleaver mere feet away was a criminal, but… they knew each other a bit too well. If he wanted to kill her, she wouldn’t have the chance to open her eyes, or admire that stew… She never knew he was a decent cook. One more question to the many mysteries of Shiloh Monroe…

However, she knew that if she wanted to, she could expose his laundry list of new crimes, ever since they both came here. Not that it was an easy life worth toying around with, but to the law, a crime is a crime. It felt illogical, keeping so many secrets of his from the eyes of others. It felt indulgent, even. They held secrets of the other deep in their hearts, where no other could see.

Her mind wandered. Even now, after all this time, Shiloh felt like a puzzle she had yet to solve. In their greener days, they had an intense rivalry, yet, rivalries were wars, not tangos.

To describe their back-and-forth as a dance was the most accurate description she could plaster on it.

Yet now, when they were both out of water, one would expect them to tear each other apart. Yet, they did quite the opposite. They still took and took from each other, like hungry wolves from deer corpses, but… it was as if they started to give back too.

“Your boss sounds annoying… No one would suspect anything if I killed him, right?”

“Wh— you can’t just—! Ugh. Do you WANT to go to jail?”

“Aww, look at your face~ it’s not that bad to be a criminal, you know?”

“Seriously, work’s enough. I don’t want to deal with the Numbers and the other tribes as well.”

“Tch, booooring.”

Adalyn remembered the amused chuckle she gave after the actor’s resignation, her lips curling up as she slept. Her dreams were rarely so tender and sweet… It would be good to enjoy them while she could.

[hereghostslive]

last book i ...

thanks for the tag @lemonlyman-dotcom

idk why im deciding to do this because my book buying habits and my reading habits are so far out of alignment with each other that this will be interesting, i think.

so ...

BOUGHT:

Something Fabulous by Alexis Hall. I really like Alexis Hall. I have not read this yet. Purchased last summer.

BORROWED:

Seven Husbands of Evelyn Hugo. Funnily enough, I've bought this book three times, all as gifts, but have never read it. Someone I bought it for let me borrow it so I could read it. But I have not yet.

WAS GIFTED:

This is How You Lose the Time War. Dad called me earlier in the year while he was out of town to tell me he was at the bookstore and wondering what book I wanted as payment for watching the dogs. At first, I was annoyed because I'd rather be paid to watch the dogs but then I remembered this book going viral on twitter so I told him this one. Haven't read.

STARTED:

Mexican Gothic. Literally just started this week. Reading for my work's book club and while that sounds like I have a very good excuse to finish reading it, I have not been able to finish a single book club book since I started participating late last year. Determined for this one, though.

FINISHED:

Glitterland. Again, I really like Alexis Hall. I've read multiple Alexis Hall books. This one I read early last year. I'm not entirely sure it is the last one I finished but I don't think it bodes well that it's the only one I remember finishing recently.

I really liked Glitterland. Pretty easy read. Characters were complicated and amazing. I remember liking it because it touched on heavier themes than some of the other Alexis Hall books I've read.

DIDN’T FINISH:

Delilah Green Doesn't Care. Technically almost every book I've listed can fall under Didn't Finish. But all the ones listed above I started and was really liking and have every intention of going back to them. But Delilah Green Doesn't Care ... yeah, I really wasn't liking this one at all. And I got fairly decently into it. I tried really hard, but something about the writing I wasn't vibing with.

This is probably the last one I really sat down to read with the intention of finishing in like, two days, but I just couldn't do it.

not really sure why I did this but it is more clear to me now how little reading of books I actually do. kinda depressing because I used to read constantly. i buy a lot of books because i always love having them on hand and always want to dive into them. but then i just ... don't. maybe i should do a post of all the books i've started and will one day finish, even if i started them years ago. and then i can make my way through that check list. we'll see.

no pressure tagging: @liminalmemories21 @alrightbuckaroo @paperstorm @rmd-writes @bonheur-cafe

@lightningboltreader @reyesstrand

[its-no-biggie]

okay i said before that i didnt have a lot to say about banana fish but i lied. i have thoughts about the ending (spoilers ahead!)

because holy shit. like. ash deciding not to see eiji?? and eiji knowing that hes doing it for his own good, and trying and failing not to get his hopes up, and giving the letter to sing to deliver? and sing yelling at ash to go see eiji and ash still not budging? and then ash reads the letter and THATS what changes his mind, so he gets up and starts running and its all priming you for the dramatic reunion at the airport. something something love can overcome anything, happily ever after, the end, right?

but then ash gets stabbed. by someone who had obviously been tailing him and wasnt particularly skilled. someone who never shouldve been able to sneak up on him. and its such a forceful reminder that eiji is ashs weakness, which we've known from the start, but the danger was supposed to be over! it specifically waits for you to let your guard down, to really slam it home that everyone was RIGHT. that eiji makes ash let his guard down, and that it would one day get him killed.

and like. okay. we know this from very early on. the narrative is perfectly clear that what they have is doomed. that its going to cause a lot of pain for both of them and can never end happily. you want to believe that they can overcome it, that once the fighting is over they can be happy together, but the story keeps telling you over and over that this isnt going to go that way, no matter how much either of them want it. BUT. the point is that it was worth it anyway.

ash lowers his defenses around eiji, and thats a GOOD thing. being together puts them both in danger, but its better than being apart. to love is to be vulnerable, and having someone that you can trust, that you can let your guard down around, is something worth fighting for. worth losing everything for. worth DYING for. ash is CONSTANTLY presented with chances to fix everything if he can just let go of eiji. but he chooses eiji every time and even though it always makes his own life worse, his own burden heavier, he never once regrets it. theres nothing he wouldnt do to keep eiji safe. to keep eiji nearby. he sabotages his own allies to save him. he risks getting caught just to see him one more time. he drops everything for an opportunity at happily ever after and pays the ultimate price for it. but he NEVER EVER REGRETS IT. he dies because of his love for eiji and he does it with a smile on his face. and eiji goes back to his peaceful and happy life with tears in his eyes because hes doing it without ash.

i dunno. maybe im reading into it too much, or maybe this is an extremely surface level analysis and everyone got it the first time but me. but i just remember the first time i watched it, being so shaken by the ending. i thought they deserved a happy ending, and was hoping they would finally get it, but when it didnt happen i didnt feel betrayed or frustrated by it. just shaken. it felt like a really good ending, but i couldnt pinpoint why. because all i could think is that it seems so unfair to rip away their happy ending like that. and it took this second watch through to really figure out why it works.

also side note but. as much as i respect the asheiji shippers (because like. yeah. literally the most resonable ship ever) im really glad that its platonic in the show. they love each other very deeply, and thats what the show is about, but it doesnt HAVE to be romantic to be meaningful. and i like that! i can certainly see the shipping potential, and i can even see how it could be interpreted as queer-coded, but i also just like it as a story about friendship. its really nice. anyway 10/10 i love this show so much

[whenyoulosesmallmind]

the more i go over this drama, the more i am amazed at how theatrical it looks; as i said before, the camera work is very simple, may it be because it was 1969, may it be because it was made for tv, maybe it was even a conscious choice - but! the camera movements are so fluid in the way they follow the actors, focusing on the character's emotions and body language or distancing itself from the action to include thematics particulars from the set and give the scene more breath - im enamoured with how the kitchen scene with alyosha, ivan, smerdyakov and fyodor in the second episode is shot; first, the scene is set with a larger shot where grigory and smerdyakov are setting the table and fyodor and ivan are eating - might i add, giving ivan a cigar to smoke in this scene was chef kiss - then alyosha comes in and as the discussion progresses into more heavier themes the camera pans nervously from smerdyakov to ivan, the frame getting closer still, until it settles unto smerdyakov as he maniacally empasises his final points.

it seems like nothing, but i love this production's earnestness.

some more sparse notes:

absolutely mad props to the costume department; it's not exactly period accurate, but it's just so fitting - ivan's cunty coat he wears meeting with father zosima needs his own separate analysis post

i don't remember if this happens also in the original text - i will check - but even if in italian there's a semantic distinction between the kinds of "i love yous", "ti voglio bene" for familial/platonic love and "ti amo" for the romantic kind, for the adaptation is mantained the latter for every instance and it is making me insane and i need time to elaborate

speaking of semantic decisions, i don't know if it was more commonly used at the time, but they refer to grusha as "la grushenka" and the brothers call fyodor "babbo" instead than "papà" and it's so funny bcs putting the article before female names and referring to ones father as "babbo" are notorius quirks of the tuscanian dialect so-- the karamazovs have become tuscanians

also, "babbo" is used as a way of saying "dad" only in tuscany - and maybe other central/southern italian regions? idk i can only speak for tuscany - bcs in other dialects "babbo" is used as a synonim for "idiot/dumb". lmao

im not hundred percent sold on carla gravina as katerina, she has a bit more of a... manic? feel that i got from the katya from the book, more nervous, but we'll see, i wasn't completely sold on corrado pani as dmitrij as well initially and now im respectfully biting him, so -- though i loved her close up when she's calling dmitrij "villainous". v nice

that said, lea massari absolutely owned the hand kiss scene and i have no words to describe my emotions

another aside about corrado pani, his decision to play dmitrij just cuntily leaning on stuff and get into peoples' faces when he's talking to them was something i wasnt expecting to be so into but here i am

literally no one's doing it like him. later in this scene he asks alyosha if he was falling asleep while he was recounting his military adventures