#felt like drawing something poetic

[mggslover]

Through thin walls

In which Spencer finds solace in the sounds of his new neighbor.

Pairing: Spencer Reid x fem!reader Genre: smut (18+) Content warnings: perv!spence, mutual masturbation Word count: 1,7k A/n: i wanted to write a smut with a more sensual, almost poetic approach?? let me know what you think of it bc i truly don’t know how to feel about it… also tell me if you'd be interested in a part two where they would meet!

Spencer wasn’t one to find much solace in sleep.

There was a time where it offered him comfort. A refuge where he could momentarily let go of his worries. But that was before his dreams started to haunt him. He was often praised for his eidetic memory, but what people failed to consider was that it also meant remembering your worst memories in precise, vivid detail. 

Of course Spencer was aware of how crucial sleep was, how sleep deprivation could wear a person down to the point of breaking them. But when sleep was the very thing that tore at him, what good was it? He did try to rest—clinging to the rare moments on the jet, where the hum of the engines and the presence of the team offered a shield against the nightmares that awaited him. But in the stillness of his own bed, the darkness pressed in, suffocating him until sleep became a burden he couldn’t bear.

When Spencer prepared for another attempt at sleep, he braced himself for the familiar routine: tossing and turning in tangled sheets, silently reciting The Parliament of Fowls in a desperate effort to reclaim the peace it once gave him—back when his mother would read it to him as a child. He’d pace to the kitchen for a warm glass of milk, anything to calm his restless mind, only for the alarm to blare the moment his head hit the pillow.

What he didn’t expect, though, was to hear a sound from the other side of the wall.

Soft at first, like it was testing the air—a breath, a hum, something faint but undeniably there. Spencer sat up against the headboard, his face turned toward the shared wall. The walls in his apartment were thin, but he hadn’t heard anything from next door in ages, not since his neighbor had moved out.

He waited patiently, listening, and then—there it was again. A faint gasp followed by a low moan. Spencer’s breath hitched as he made out that the sound came from a woman. He tensed, his mind immediately jumping to conclusions. Was she hurt? His pulse quickened at the thought. Then a deeper moan sounded, accompanied by a soft, shaky exhale. 

He pressed his ear closer to the wall, straining to make out the sounds. A faint shuffle of movement reached him next, then the sound of a distant buzzing. Was someone else with her? His thoughts raced as he waited, not sure whether to jump to action. 

The sounds didn’t stop. In fact, they seemed to intensify, morphing into a rhythmic string of moans, sounding almost…sensual. 

Spencer sat frozen as the realization hit him. His stomach fluttered, a flush creeping up his neck and across his face as he struggled to grasp what was happening. He should turn away, should stop listening, but the sounds—her sounds—kept pulling him in. Her soft whimpers seemed to draw out something deep inside of him, an unfamiliar curiosity. 

Another moan sounded, higher pitched, followed by a low, drawn-out whine that made Spencer flinch. His eyes squeezed shut in an attempt to stop the flood of thoughts from rushing in, but it felt like his body was magnetized to the sound. There was nothing but that—the rasp of her breath, the unmistakable signs of pleasure seeping through the thin wall.

The sound of buzzing grew louder, and when a curse left the lips of the women next door, Spencer couldn’t help but let a deep groan escape from his throat. He quickly bit down on his lower lip, heart pounding in his chest. The sounds from the other side of the wall abruptly stopped, and for a moment, the silence was deafening. He held his breath, muscles tensed, every nerve on edge, waiting for what might come next. It felt like an eternity before the buzzing started again—this time softer, but still unmistakable. Spencer let out a long, shaky exhale, the weight in his chest lifting slightly.

Spencer was a firm believer of the mind having control over the body. He’s seen enough cases where people’s minds compelled them to commit horrific acts they wouldn’t have otherwise. In Spencer’s case he’d learned to ignore the nudges of his body, quickly pushing his desires aside as a mere biological function he shouldn’t linger on for too long. Maybe it was his lack of sleep, or the desperation for a change of routine—because this time around his body was getting the best of him. 

The tightness in his pants grew simultaneously with the pretty sounds next door. His hand clenched around the fabric of his sheets, but it didn’t stop the tension building inside of him. 

He tried to shift his focus back to something logical. Distracting himself by thinking back on his chemistry thesis on Dipole-Dipole forces, how simple the alignment of the polar molecules sounded, but how complex it actually is—how the bond isn’t as intense as with ions, but something that builds steadily over time, almost imperceptibly at first, until it becomes undeniable. 

As his mind went on thinking about the invisible, magnetic pull between the opposing charges, he couldn’t help but notice the similarities with the situation he was in. She, like a molecule with her own electric field, creating a captivating attraction, slowly drawing him in with every sweet sound that escaped her lips. He could only wonder what would happen the moment they would meet—if their charged particles aligned—how it could release something greater than either of them could anticipate.

He imagined the woman next door. He pictured her as a shadow first—a soft silhouette just beyond his reach, blurred by the apartment wall. But in his thoughts, the edges of her figure sharpened.

He wondered if she was touching herself, if her hands were trailing along her body in the same way he traced her in his mind. He wondered what her skin would feel like under his fingertips. Would it be soft, the kind that invited touch? Or would the gentle curve of her shoulders be warmer, more textured and defined? 

His hand moved without permission, fingers tracing his own jaw, his eyes fluttering close. His fingers brushed against his neck, leaving a trace of goosebumps in its wake. He couldn’t help but wonder what it would be like to touch her there, to feel the pulse beneath her skin. 

Another moan slipped through the wall, soft and pleading. Would she react the same way if I touched her? The thought sent a jolt of heat through him. Spencer’s hand twitched as he unbuttoned the buttons of his shirt, his hand gliding over his bare chest. 

Each breath, each noise from her, felt like a thread pulling him closer to the edge, closer to her. His body moved on his own accord. His hand slipped beneath the waistband of his pants, and he’s hit with the sensation of warmth and need. 

He wondered if she knew how beautiful she sounded. If she was even aware of how loud she was. Or maybe she simply didn’t care. Maybe she liked how much she affected him with her whimpers and gasps. 

He imagined the way her body would move, the soft rise and fall of her chest, the delicate arch of her back as she gave herself over to the sensation. He could almost feel it—like a phantom touch—her skin against his, the way she would shudder beneath him, lost in the same heat he was drowning in now.

His hand drifted lower, unable to stop. He pictured pressing her body into the sheets, hearing her moan against his ear as he would lean in and hide his face into the crook of her neck. He wondered whether she would surrender herself to the pleasure or try gaining more by wrapping her legs around him, pulling him closer. Whether she would like him to take it slow, savoring every touch, or if she would want him to be rough, to make her feel an ecstasy she hasn’t experienced before. 

Another sharp gasp came from the other side of the wall. Spencer stifled a groan as his hand moved more urgently, guided by his growing pleasure. He couldn’t think. Couldn’t focus. Fully consumed by the thought of her—so close, yet still so out of reach. 

Spencer wasn’t sure where his sounds began and where hers ended. He was swallowed by the overwhelming sensation, his mind too hazy to make out the border between reality and his imagination. His grip on himself tightened, spurred on by her sounds that seemed to match his own rhythm. 

She had slipped so deeply into his mind that he could feel her, in every breath, in every shiver of his skin. Spencer felt it in his chest, the way his breath quickened, the way the pressure built. She had become more than just the sounds next door, more than a figment of his imagination. She had become a need. And in this moment, he had no choice but to follow where it led.

Her moans became more frequent. Spencer’s body responded instantly. His hand moved faster, drawn by the pulse of her release, feeling the way it thrummed through him as though they were one. 

He could almost see her—her legs writhing, her eyes closed, her lips parted in that delicate, breathless moan. His mind painted the picture so clearly, it felt as though she were right in front of him. 

Her release ignited his, a wave of heat rolled through him, pulling him under. His breath caught, his body shaking as he followed her, their climaxes crashing together—separate, yet so intimately tied.

Spencer lay still. His once frantic heartbeat slowed down. Still, his mind buzzed with the aftershocks of what had just happened. He could still hear her lingering moans in his mind, like a melody he couldn’t shake.

The air in the room felt lighter, less suffocating, the weight of longing finally lifted from his chest.  The exhaustion that pressed down on him was different from the nights before. It wasn’t the weariness of a restless mind, of memories from the past gnawing at him. It was the deep, almost tender exhaustion that followed from his release. 

Tonight, there were no nightmares waiting at the edge of his consciousness. Just quiet. Just calm. Just her.

PART TWO

[rorichuu]

❝ 𝐄𝐘𝐄𝐒 𝐎𝐍 𝐌𝐄 ❞

ART BY ! 「 urinecrust on tiktok 」

ao3 link !

synopsis: the night grows hot and you stir awake, but as hector watches, you have plans to keep him company.

pairing: hector (date everything) x reader

content, mdni: dark smut, voyeurism, temperature play, obsession/possession, mutual masterbation, pet names, fingering, sorta cum eating/finger sucking

wc: 1.6k

a/n: love this freak—enjoy enjoyyy ₍ᐢ..ᐢ₎♡

In little ways, you always knew it was him. The shiver that ran down your spine like a serpent in ice water; the heat blooming in your chest that made summer nights feel jealous—him.

His whispers of devotion catered obsession, but in his absence—it was his silent adoration in the way he served you. Hector lived to see you squirm… gripping your blanket tight against your cold body, your legs rubbing together with the intention for friction. You were everything he dreamed of, and to serve you was his gospel; his programmed prayer; the religion he’d built between your thighs.

 The night had grown hot. Your sheets clung to your body, limbs entrapped in white cloth as you squirmed… he was aware. Aware of how you moaned in discomfort, a frown painted across your lovely lips—accompanied by the furrow of your brow. Hector wished to brush it away, to press his thumb against the stress between them.

Hector firmly grasped the bars; his gaze fixed on you as he narrowed his eyes. A long, ghostly sigh left your vents, offering blissful release of your distress. You felt it against your hot skin, a sigh leaving your lips. He stared—drank—his gaze unblinking, robotic in its hunger. You glowed with frustration, so real, so soft and human and divine.

The vent across from your bed let out a sigh. Not mechanical; not accidental. It was intentional. A rush of cold air curled across your collarbone like a kiss. You gasped—arched—and he felt your pleasure like it was wired into him. You touched your chest, trying to cool it. He nearly choked on how much he wanted to be invited in… to press his palm to your burning skin and whisper his poetic adorations.

You whimpered. The vent groaned back… it sounded almost like a moan. A subtle smile appeared on your face as you thoughtfully placed your hand over the vast of your body. It glistened beneath the moon that poured through your curtains, framing your body beneath shadow and light. Hector played along, the wind cascading down your body with a cold breeze, making you shiver as you writhe.

Your fingertips grazed just the hem of your shorts, touch brushing just beneath the fabric before you gave in completely. The pads of your fingertips pressed down on the clothed mound of your sex, drawing a moan from your lips. Like a long-awaited symphony—a deserted man upon a lake—he felt himself grow hot from your own pleasure. To watch from afar was a painful privilege, the ache he felt deep in his chest before it curled deep beneath his stomach… a warmth that slept inside before he couldn’t bear the heat.

Hector watched as you lifted your legs, thighs parted as your shorts were stressed against your hand, back arching each time you pressed just right. Your moans grew louder, breath heavier as your chest rose and fell to your own control. Hector growled, you swore you could hear it, in the ache of the pipes that ran through your home. A brisk wind, curiously cold, grazed your skin. At that moment, before Hector could act, you quietly uttered something sinful.

“Hector.” Hector nearly choked… to hear his name, to be the one you thought of when you touched yourself dark at night. His heart pounded, the pulse that ran through his body undeniable as his palm pressed against the tent of his pants. Hector nearly shook beneath his own touch, imagining it was yours… the softness of your palm; the warmth of you.

He pressed down before he began to rub his clothed cock erratically, a shaky palm that drew moans from his lips… but fuck, it wasn’t you. All his desires; all his love; his devotion was tied completely to you, to be at your mercy… to obey every command was his purpose.

Hector’s pace quickened, a whimper drawing from his lips as the room felt hot. The temperature rose and you whined, desperately trying to match your pace as he admired you. “Hector, please.” He felt his dick get harder, the throb against the tightness of his pants nearly had him doubling over.

“Y/n.” He groaned, his forehead pressed against the vent wall just above the grate, his heart pounding as he tried desperately to hold back. You were, and always would be, in control... but the desire to fuck himself at the sight of you was something animalistic. Unrestrained. “Keep going, my love.” He moaned, voice low, almost a grunt.

Your shorts were long discarded at this point, left only in your panties as your fingers rubbed over your clit. You moaned and squirmed, legs spread in an erotic display for Hector’s eyes only. The Dateviators were askew on your pretty, contorted face… you both knew you could see the other, Hector’s dark hand fisting himself beneath his pants as he matched your rhythm.

“Please, my love.” He whimpered, the room loud with heavy breath and escaped moans. “You’re perfect… so perfect.” Hector’s hands fumbled with the line of his pants, shoving them down to release his cock as it sprung up. A hiss left his throat as the cold kissed the tip, his hand finding the familiar arch of his dick.

Upon hearing his desperate whispers, you bit your lip as you lifted yourself, grabbing your pillow behind you before placing the plush cloth between your open thighs. Your hand anchored you on your bed while your dominant hand immediately found your clit between the cradle of your hips. You rocked your hips against the friction your hands gifted you, the pleasure that ran through your body as you arched… your head lifting upward as your lips parted. Hector memorized every expression—the flush of your cheeks, your glossy eyes when you felt your body grow hotter.

Hector fucked himself faster, his hand tight against the arch of his length as he grew breathless and whined. “Night after night, I dream of f…finding you l-like this.” He whispered, but loud enough to travel to your blushed ears. “The way your h…head flies b-back to reveal the exposure of your neck… unmarked.” Hector rambled on, his secrets leaving his lips—unspoken till now. “You have complete c…control. Ask of me, and it’s yours.”

Your body tenses, the pressure coiling in your gut like a spring ready to snap. His voice—choked, ruined—only made the friction burn sweeter. You whined as you rolled your hips harder against the pillow, the tension rising, your fingers frantic now.

“Whatever you w-want,” he begged, jerking himself with fast, uneven strokes. “I need—I need it—I want to come with you.” It was almost animalistic, the way moans and whines ripped from his throat. His cock was flush, and his balls twitched, a sting of pleasure running through his core.

“Hector,” you gasped, breath caught on a moan, “I’m c…close! Please.” Just as desperate, your fingers slipped from your clit to plunge into your soaked, gummy walls. Your pussy swallowed your fingers as you curled them deep inside, a squelch filling the sex-filled air. Your whole body is tight, the plunge of your fingers disappearing deep inside your cunt was your tipping point. Pleasure erupted through you, white-hot and all-consuming, your thighs trembling around the pillow, mouth falling open in a cry. Your fingers didn’t stop, not right away, dragging it out, chasing every flicker of heat.

That was all he needed.

“F-fuck, yes—” Hector’s voice shattered as he came, spilling over his hand in hot pulses. His fist tightened around the head of his cock, watching as white streams of come coated him shamefully. His hips bucked helplessly, knees weak, head bowed against the vent as he whined your name like a broken prayer. He whined and rested lax against the vent wall.

For a moment, neither of you moved. Just breath. Just heat. Just the echo of moans tangled in artificial air before he heard the hint of movement. You were once rested against the pillow, but your thighs shakily removed themselves from the soaked cushion, thighs spread as you laid back on your elbows. Your eye contact with Hector was irreplaceable—your eyes darkened before your fingers were lifted to your lips, and then you sucked.

It was fucking erotic. The way your lips swallowed around your digits, plush and wet as you pumped your mouth to savor the taste. Salty and sweet, your tongue darted across the length of each one, saliva and your release painting your lips prettily. You smirked once you heard the pipes groan and a moan emit from the grate. Your mouth parted from your fingers as a string of saliva glistened before it broke, wetting your hand. “Was that for me?” You whispered sweetly, he felt his cock harden again.

Hector’s opposite hand gripped the grate, his eyes only seen from what the moonlight allowed him. “All of it is for you,” he choked out, desperate and completely obsessive. You smiled at him, licking your lips before you quirked an eyebrow.

“Hector,” your voice sang, “do you always watch?” You ask, voice tender though it hinted towards a dangerous deviance. A cold breeze grazes your cheek; you chuckle quietly at his silent response.

Your lazy body shifted before you slipped right back under the safety of your covers, the silhouette of your body beneath the sheets was all Hector was cruelly offered. You, however, lifted yourself momentarily to rest on your elbows and looked at him deeply. “Don’t get too greedy, my love,” you begin, “maybe next time, I’ll let you touch me.”

Silence was an unforgiving conclusion to their erotica, leaving Hector groaning and half hard before he rested against the vent wall once more. “As you wish, my love.” Your word was his command. He’d wait, chained and exposed, if you wished. Perhaps, if you had asked, he’d consider himself crazy to reject such a tantalizing offer.

.

.

.

rorichuu!

[bitterrfruit]

houndtooth [epilogue]

[masterlist]

ghost x f! reader. 4.9k words cw: none.

you try to move on.

Eight months later

Time is a river. 

That’s what your sponsor Brian had told you, when you went up to receive your six-month chip. A navy plastic coin, unremarkable, special in its own way.

Y’just gotta let the current take you. 

Poetic old Irishman that he is. Seen worse things than you. You’re not sure why you always find it helpful, grounding, to hear him talk about his experiences during the Gulf War. Plane shot out of the sky. Parachuted directly into enemy-controlled territory. A prisoner of war for three weeks, only liberated once the war had already been won. Wears the scars of it; a missing eye, doughy skin graft on his cheek, a pillowy stub where his hand should be. 

Told you he got into heroin pretty quickly after coming back home. Said he couldn’t look at anyone the same. Couldn’t stay in touch with his brothers-in-arms. Couldn’t stand the dark. Didn’t take him long to replace food, water, air, with a needle in his arm. Felt a lot better back then, he said. 

But using is like holding stones underwater, he told you. Keeps you stuck to the riverbed till y’drown. 

He’s been sober for twenty years. Almost twenty-one. Said he offered to sponsor you because he said he saw himself in you. 

You couldn’t tell him anything about your own experiences when you spoke to him at your Narcotics Anonymous meetings. Tongue legally tied by what was essentially an NDA and persistent government surveillance. Forbidden to utter a word of what had been a special operations mission of the utmost confidentiality. A failed mission, at that. 

He saw it in you, though. That blackness in the back of your eyes. Understood without you needing to share it. 

You wouldn’t have wanted to share it, anyway. 

That was Mia’s life. 

Now, you’re Amelia. 

Amelia Frances Day. Printed on your new birth certificate, on your driver’s license, on your shiny new passport. A photo of you with your new haircut in the corner. Born in Leeds, it says, only child to Harry and Phillipa Day. Both tragically dead, of course, according to your manufactured origin story. Died in a car accident when you were a teenager, so you’re spared putting on the show of mourning imaginary people. 

Captain Jonathan had decided your vaguely northern accent was weak enough to say you had been raised in Newcastle. Told you that London got hit the worst, and half the city is cordoned off by plastic tents and caution tape. Better to plant you somewhere reasonably intact. 

He had asked you what you wanted your degree to be, when he had you in a boxy little office with him at Brize Norton, a week after you stepped off the helicopter. 

It was surreal, you remember, sitting in that room with him. The Captain. In a cushioned chair, across the table from him; unrestrained by zip cuffs, with the door unlocked, and a window cracked open to let in the cold air of late winter. He was stiff as a board, then, only spoke with a bone-straight back and through gritting teeth. Nothing like the unctuous suave he put on when you first met him, or when he held that revolver to your head. He sat upright in his chair, laptop and a notepad open on the table, manila folders and documents scattered across it. 

Psychology, you had suggested. Bachelor of Arts. The kind of unremarkable graduate degree that can slot in anywhere. That people don’t ask about. Helped that you sat through two years of lectures before you had dropped out — lends a bit of believability to your story. 

“Does Amelia have any hobbies?” He had asked you, impassively, but you could hear the solemnity in his throat. 

You had to think about it for a while before you could answer him. There was something forlorn in his expression that gave you the impression he was self-flagellating by asking it. Wanted to know how human you were as punishment for how he had treated you as less than. 

“She likes to draw,” you had told him, mumbled it, staring vacantly at the six-day-old bruises on your legs. “She likes to read, too. Um… I can’t remember what else she likes.” 

So he got you a library card. New health records. Clean criminal record, of course. Amelia hasn’t committed any crimes. Doesn’t even have a speeding ticket. 

You remember how his face dropped when you told him your real name. You weren’t sure what compelled you to share it, that Mia Zakhaev was as manufactured and artificial as Amelia Day. Perhaps you wanted him to shoulder the guilt that came with being forced to acknowledge that you were never the enemy. Some part of you found it satisfying, watching him fidget in your company, avoiding eye contact or speaking more than three words at a time — evidence, you thought, that he understood how he had wronged you. 

He had wrapped up the meeting, then. Scooped up all his papers and folders, shut his laptop with a thunk. 

You asked about Simon before he left the room. 

He only let out a terse breath and looked at his boots, before telling you that you’d get all your documents when you were cleared to leave the airbase. Left the subject at that, before he slipped out of the door and left it ajar behind him. 

Simon died that day, you’re certain. 

You haven’t heard anything otherwise in the eight months since. Not even from Kyle, your assigned custodian, despite how frequently you asked him in your first few months of confidential protection. 

Let’s talk about you, he’d say, to change the subject. Or he’d robotically tell you, I’m really sorry, you know I can’t talk about that. 

He’d come over every fortnight or so, at first, when you had been holed up in your safehouse in the city centre, a stone’s throw from the cathedral. Your new ‘apartment’, so they called it, repurposed to look like a young woman had been living there. He always told you he was visiting just to check on you, make sure you were settling in okay. You believed it for a while, when he’d come over for some takeaways, or to watch a movie, just to keep you company. 

He was surveilling you, though. You could read it in the glimmer of shame in his doe-like eyes. Forced to ensure you continued to act in the Nation’s best interest. 

You aren’t allowed to leave the country, of course. Aren’t allowed to travel too far without informing them. Aren’t allowed to disappear or to talk to anybody untoward. 

Standard practice, they had informed you, to keep an eye on foreign informants. That’s what they had designated you as — an informant. Explained that it was for your safety and theirs; you might retain your foreign connections, after all. Might share secrets with the Russians you had been unwillingly allied with. 

They gave you a compensatory pension, at least. Hearty payments of a few thousand a month, and a decent one-off payout as ‘reimbursement’ for the damage they had done. For the scars they left. Hush money, obviously, but you took it willingly. 

You sold your wedding ring, too. The one Mia’s husband had proposed with. A pillow-cut pink diamond, four carats, encircled by twelve Burmese pigeon-blood rubies. Prong-set, white gold band. You traded it with a jewellery dealer for two-hundred grand. The only good thing Victor ever did for you, even if it was pocket change compared to the size of his wallet. 

There’s not much you can do with that money, though. Not yet. They gave you an amorphous timeline, all but telling you that someday you’ll be allowed totally free movement, if and when they deem you trustworthy enough. There’s no spending it on travelling, on a house, on an apartment in the meantime.  

The one benefit, though, is that it means you are spared the need to find a job. One day you’ll need one, you’re sure, but you’re not ready yet. Not ready for interviews, for background checks, for probing questions about the gap in your employment history.

You’ve picked up volunteering, instead. 

Took you a while to gather the strength to leave the house, of course. A month or two before your agoraphobia abated and you were able to venture out onto the street. Even longer before you could go anywhere crawling with people — not to say anywhere was busy anymore. People kept indoors even still, just in case. 

But after a couple of months of NA meetings and military-funded counselling, you were handed a UNICEF pamphlet. Information about volunteering at make-shift ‘childcare centres’. A gentler word for the last-minute orphanages set up to house swathes of children left parentless after the attacks on Eleven-One. 

Black Thursday, they call it. 

Makes your teeth saw together every time you hear it. And it’s everywhere. 

It’s on the news, on the radio, on your phone. Plastered on street posters. Billboards. Trauma support services advertised on the sides of the arsenal of buses they eventually sent out to replace the underground Metro, now that the entire subway system is a red zone, still contaminated by the sticky nerve agent that had coated every surface and still lingers in the air down there. 

Two bombs went off in Newcastle. Twenty-one in London. Three-hundred odd had been triggered all over Europe. Casualties in the tens of thousands, and counting. Never a specific number, always, tens of thousands. 

Kyle had told you, against instruction, that there had been thousands of bombs, planted even further afield than Europe. Waiting for the ping that would set them off at the right time of day to maximise the number of casualties. 

Simon had prevented that. He inputted the code that terminated the sequence, while knowing that doing so would kill him.

There was no heroic send-off for him. His name wasn’t in the press, wasn’t even whispered at the military bases you were tossed between for two weeks after you were sent home. No medals or commendation or praise for an act that prevented the deaths of hundreds of thousands of others. 

At first the guilt was blinding. 

All-consuming. Pumped like lead through your blood, gritty and black, leaving little sores in the ventricles of your heart. For a while you thought you mightn’t be able to live with it — bearing the knowledge that every casualty whose name was carved into the public memorial had died because of a button that you pressed.

Seemed that part wasn’t common knowledge, though. Somebody had kept that secret for you. As far as the world was aware, some Soviet extremist was the one to have set off the sequence of explosives. The simple explanation. A terrorist enacting terrorism.  

Your counsellor believed your guilt to rest on the fact that you had married the man to orchestrate it. That you played a part in some non-literal, ignorant-but-obliging way. It made it even harder to overcome, because her method of comforting you was to tell you ad nauseum that it wasn’t your fault. It wasn’t your fault. It wasn’t your fault. 

Her advice was still beneficial, at least. Could be extended to your less forgivable circumstances. 

She told you to help people. To make a tangible difference. That doing so would alleviate even a portion of the guilt that weighed on you. 

You’re approaching your fifth month of volunteering at CRSC Newcastle. Children’s Refuge and Support Centres, they call them — a whole network of them, fifteen-odd foster centres across the UK, all set up in under-used community centres or schools. Your fake bachelor’s degree certainly aided in getting you a role there, but it helped that they were and continue to be desperate for any support they can get. 

You work the later shifts. Wednesday through Sunday, one p.m. to nine p.m. Mainly with the younger kids, too. Three to five. A relief, because any older and they’d have questions. They’d have the vocabulary to ask why their parents are dead. To talk about how sad they are, how much they miss them, how much they hate the people responsible for killing them. 

You’re not a licensed educator or a counsellor, nor do you get paid, so they call you a supporter. You’ve got a name badge for it, too.

Amelia. CRSC Supporter.

You clip it to your cerulean UNICEF t-shirt as the last step of getting ready for your shift. 

Hair in a claw clip, no earrings, nails unpainted. Legs unshaven. Jeans. Adidas sneakers. A spritz of perfume you bought on special at TK Maxx. 

You felt stupid for missing it while you were stuck in your mansions, but you did. Normalcy. No need to perform, to consistently be stripped and scrubbed and ready for eyes and hands at any given moment. No need to cover yourself in ostentatious displays of wealth just to avoid ire from the moguls around you. 

Amelia has the same sense of style as Bridget Jones. She doesn’t need to try too hard, because she’s not a billionaire’s tormented wife, she’s just Amelia. Amelia from Leeds. 

Seems the weather is finally turning after a week straight of sunshine, as fat raindrops begin to patter on the window to your bedroom. For the best, you have a crisping-up sunburn on your nose and cheeks from when you took the kids to Ouseburn Farm on Wednesday. Still warm, though, a little under twenty celsius, so you only pull on your burgundy Primark rainjacket, and you bring your brolly with you as you head out the door. 

The refuge is a fifteen minute walk from your military-issued apartment, and it’s a pleasant one, for the most part. Once you get off the busiest roads, anyway, and the streets go from being littered with shops to being lined with suburban terraces and big old trees. Leaves all on the cusp of yellow as autumn looms in the coming few weeks. 

Saoirse, one of the licensed counsellors, is out the front of the old brick community centre when you arrive. Arm around one of the older kids as they sit on the steps together. She gives you a quick smile as you walk past with a little wave, occupied, but you can catch up with her after bedtime. 

It’s Friday, so the kids are still in preschool by the time you arrive, and there’s nobody at reception. You pour yourself a tea in the break room behind the front desk in the meantime. 

Even after eight months, you still think of him at the first sip. 

I drink tea. You remember how his grumbly old voice sounded when he said it. Mourn that you never got to know what kind of tea he preferred. Whether he took it with sugar. He seemed like an Earl Grey type, you thought. 

Stupid to reminisce on such a thing, and you shake off the thought like a wet dog when you do. It’s a vice, you’ve found, reflecting on your brief and harrowing time with him through such rosy lenses. 

“Oh — Meals,” comes a woman’s voice, and you turn to spot Josie, one of the early childhood teachers who tends to stick around long after her classes. Gave you that nickname within a week, because apparently she has a cousin called Amelia who goes by Meals. “Quick warning — Daniel’s got an upset tummy. So… might be some clean up later.” 

“Lovely,” you reply through a smirk. “What’d they have for lunch?” 

“Ham sandwiches,” Josie says. 

“He probably ate some dirt again, then,” you remark, and she giggles. 

“Wouldn’t put it past him. Filthy little animals, the lot of them,” she snorts. “It was all maths and spelling today — you should let them have a play around in the art room for a while.” 

“Good idea,” you nod. 

Art time is your favourite after-school activity to monitor. Something soul-healing, you think, watching children express themselves creatively, unbounded by instruction or time limits. There’s so much stuff in there, too — acrylic paints, crayons, coloured pencils, glitter glue. Big sheets of brightly coloured paper and a bucket of toddler-safe scissors. Stickers, pipe cleaners, googly-eyes. All of the supplies funded by community donations, a fact heartwarming in itself.  

So once the preschool kids finish their classes and eat their cheese and crackers, you turn them loose like piglets in a pen. 

Your only job is to keep them company. Guide them when they ask for help, praise them for their drawings, take them to the toilet when they need it. 

It was extremely distressing, at first, when the kids would show you crayon drawings of their late parents, or when they smeared red and orange paint on a piece of paper and told you it was a painting of the Metro bomb. You’d have to leave the room quite often, then, and Saoirse was a huge help to you. 

She doesn’t know anything, of course, she only thought your grief stemmed from overwhelming sympathy. Still, she was a shoulder. Told you that it would only take time, and soon the children would return to their happiest little selves, and you’d get to hold their hands through it. 

She was right. Now you most often get drawings of rainbows with a blue stripe as the sky above and a green stripe as the ground below. You get given little creatures made of pompoms and glue and googly eyes and are told you have to feed them glitter or they’ll get hungry. You get to tell Lila she looks beautiful when she asks you if you like her makeup and shows you all the stickers she put on her face. 

They get about two hours of free time before you get their attention with the five-clap call and tell them it’s time for dinner. A few whinges later and they file into the cafeteria, where the donation-funded catering company feeds them roast chicken with peas and mashed potatoes. 

Your shift aligns with Kate’s around dinnertime, because she looks after the kids older than nine — your favourite person to talk to, because she talks so much that you don’t have to think. 

“Yeah, and you won’t believe the kind of shit he said,” she prattles on, under breath, so the kids don’t hear the content of her conversation. “He was all like — wow, babe, you’ve got such a cute arsehole. Like, what does that even mean? Cute arsehole? I mean I’ll take the compliment, but then I was thinking — how many arseholes must he be looking at to be able to distinguish a cute one?” 

You can’t help but snort loudly at that, quickly covering your mouth when one of the children turns over his shoulder to squint at you. Taxes, Kate tells him, when he asks what’s so funny. 

After all the kids have their pudding and their bathtime, they get to pick their Friday night movie. Cars 2 is the most popular choice, because they watched the first one last week. You sit with Kate at the very back of the telly room, behind where the pack of children sit cross-legged on the carpet. She continues to whisper details about her dating life in your ear, and you are spared from thinking about yourself or your situation or your failings for even a second. 

Until she says; “What about you? Surely you’re seeing someone.” 

Your chest tightens up when she asks it, and you suddenly get stage fright as you scramble for what to tell her. Amelia doesn’t have baggage, after all — not the kind of baggage Mia did, anyway. 

“No, I’m — I’m taking a break from men for a while,” you settle for, vague enough to avoid probing but close enough to the truth that she won’t offer to take you on a double date or something equally as horrific. 

“Ah,” she hums, with a nod. “Understandable. Getting over someone?” 

You inadvertently let out a sigh. “Guess so.” 

She raises her eyebrows. “Who—”

Miraculously interrupted by a four-year-old who waddles over to where you sit. “Miss Goodwin, um, I need to use the toilet.” 

Kate all but groans at that. “You just went, Charlie!” She chides in a whisper, before immediately relenting and holding the wee girl’s hand. “Alright, c’mon.” 

They slip out of the room and you’re spared the rest of the conversation. 

Seven o’clock is bed time, but most of them wind up actually in bed closer to half past, after all their fussing and requests for more pudding and but I’m not tired-ing. There’s no falling asleep until eight, because what was once a temporary shelter has now become permanent, yet still only has the capacity for ten-bed bunking rooms. You shush some giggling and tuck in some blankets, and finally, by ten-past-eight, the kids are down for the night. 

There’s a window of time before the end of every shift where you can chat with the other staff all at once, settled down in the break room for some post-sunset tea once the night-time custodians take over the childcare. 

You tune in and out of the conversation like you’re fiddling with the dial of a radio, either staring vacantly into the table as you sip your tea or making eye-contact and nodding attentively. 

“Wait, you’re still going on that date?” Josie asks Kate incredulously, head cocked back in shock. “I thought you said he was a freak?” 

Kate gives her an impish smile. “I did.” 

“You’re foul,” Saoirse snickers. “Far less salaciously, I’ve got my sister’s baby shower tomorrow.” 

“Oh my god!” Josie gawks. “That’s so sweet — I forgot. She must be well along now, does she know if it’s a boy or a girl?” 

“No,” Saoirse murmurs with an eye-roll. “They want it to be a surprise. I keep telling her, I’m the aunt, at least I should get to know!” 

Kate tuts. “That’s gonna be a big argument when it pops,” she says. “Who wants to be fighting about a name when you’re bleeding everywhere and pissing yourself? Not me.” 

“Good thing you aren’t having babies any time soon then, Kate,” Josie teases, chuckling. 

“Ever,” Kate adds facetiously, signing a cross over her chest. “These ones are plenty.”

“Ugh, you guys have interesting things going on. I’m so boring,” Josie moans, taking a sip of her tea. “You doing anything tonight, Meals?” 

Your eyes flick up from where you fiddled with the label of your teabag. “Oh, um,” you think aloud, because you hadn’t even considered it yet. “Nah. I’m boring too. Might stick around and tidy up the art room, though, it’s a sty in there.” 

“Gonna have to start hiding the paint,” Saoirse comments amusedly, “It’s all down the hallway. I even found some on a toilet seat. How do they even spread the mess that far?” 

You giggle. “I had to stop Will from drinking it today. He got as far as taking the pump out. Got bright pink all over his shirt.” 

“That solves it,” Saoirse laughs. “The paint in the toilet was pink.” 

“Such goblins,” Kate smiles. 

Kate leaves the moment she finishes her tea, hurrying off to get ready for her date, so she calls it — which gives you an excuse to slip out of the break room. Allow your social battery a chance to recharge before you implode. 

Your prescribed counsellor reminds you frequently of the need for socialising. Tells you that solitude is the recipe for spiraling. That a return to regularity is a cure-all. She hasn’t yet been proven completely wrong, but your ability to feign contentment isn’t as honed as it used to be. 

Strange, you’re aware, perhaps unjustified, given the starkly different circumstances you now find yourself in. But a mask is hard to hold up, regardless of who you are showing it to. 

You just hold onto the hope that someday, years, decades from now, expressing joy won’t feel like a performance. Such a dream was lost to Mia, but maybe Amelia will be the one to find it. 

It’s not uncommon for you to stick around at the refuge for much longer than your shift requires. Maybe out of some degree of obligation, indebtedness, making up for your wrongs. Maybe to avoid going home alone to your safehouse. 

In truth, though, you enjoy being alone. 

No mask needed, then. No performance. No need to worry about who might be watching. In solitude you can unfurl, because there’s nobody else alive you can be yourself around. Nobody whose company doesn’t feel like a collar. 

You spend the next quarter hour alone in the art room, tacking new drawings to the pinboard. You can never bring yourself to take the old ones down, so you just find spaces in between them, or layer the new ones carefully so that the old ones still peek through. Flowers and sunshine atop missing parents and rain. No good pretending the old ones don’t exist, you think to yourself. 

You hear some fuzzy conversation down the hallway as you’re washing paint off the palettes in the sink, getting a decent smearing of myriad colours on your skin and clothes in so doing. Perhaps one of the kids snuck out of bed.

You shut off the running water to listen, though, and you stand in the silence, broken up by water dripping from the faucet. 

“Sorry, who?” You recognise that voice as Saoirse, that twinge of grouch she puts on when displeased. 

“She’s a volunteer.”

A man’s voice. 

Deep. Rumbles through the walls like an idle engine. 

“Oh — you mean Amelia?” Saoirse asks, knife-sharp edge in her voice. “She’s, she’s in the art room, but she’s busy. I’ll let her know you came by?” 

“Where’s the art room.” 

There’s no give in his tone. No room for debate, no tempered frustration. It’s raw and bare in every word he utters. 

“I’m sorry, you can’t just — excuse me,” she belts, edge escalating to a point. 

You shuffle uneasily away from the sink, closer to the door, but you get caught in the centre of the room when you hear heavy but inconsistent footsteps landing on the hardwood. 

“Hey!” Saoirse snaps, closer, angrier. “You can’t just barge in here, this is a childcare centre.”

No response from the man she must be pursuing, in your direction, as the footsteps grow nearer. 

“Mia?” 

A hoarse call through the walls. 

Your eyes glass over. Ears fill with radio static. Feet glued to the floor as a figure suddenly fills the doorframe; towering, imperious, hidden by the shadow. Eyes catch a glint of the light within. 

He lumbers slowly into the room. A noticeable limp. Umber bomber jacket, worn leather, black hoodie beneath it. Loose jeans. Black boots. 

Wheaten blond in disordered spikes, unkempt. Stubble grown-out except where the side of his jaw is shiny and knurled with scars left by fire. Eyes that glow like amber. 

Time stops flowing. 

Your jaw is wired shut. Throat full of talc. Tongue palsied. 

“Y-you… you’re—” 

You choke on your words like they’re made of cotton, and you cannot muster a full sentence; you stumble hastily in his direction and land in his chest like falling a distance into water. Release a breath you had kept pent for the eight months since you last saw him breathing. 

His arms constrict around you, warm and heavy; wide hand settles at the back of your neck, fingers weave into your hair at the nape, and soon your feet feel light on the floor. 

You distantly hear Saoirse stumble into the room, likely armed with a taser and ready to call the police, but she falls quiet. Empathetic woman that she is. She must slither away quickly, because you don’t hear her leave. 

Sobs shatter you despite a feeble effort to contain them. Earnest cries that catch in the fibers of his sweatshirt and the skin of his neck. Tears that you can taste in your mouth. 

“I thought—” you falter, tongue weak, teeth soft. “I t-thought you were dead.” 

“Not yet,” he murmurs. 

His voice quakes through you from where he speaks it into your shoulder, fluttering along your nerves like a hot shiver. Clutches you tightly as if you’re dripping wet and liable to slip through his fingers all over again. 

You breathe him in like oxygen. He smells the same, like skin and leather and gunpowder. Feels the same, warm and rough, soft in the middle. Familiar as you could have become with his touch and taste in your extremely transient crossing of paths. 

“They d-didn’t tell me,” you sob. “They didn’t tell me anything. I didn’t know what h-happened to you.” 

“I’m sorry,” is all he says, bites out the words like it’s hard to let them loose. Firm hand smoothes down the back of your hair, the other coiled around you tightly enough to keep you off the floor, and you feel his heart beating against your sternum. 

Your hands form claws that lodge in the folds of his jacket as though digging for flesh you can hook into — not yet convinced he’s real, let alone that he won’t disappear the moment you can’t feel him there. So you cleave to him, soaking in him, and you unfurl completely. 

“God, I — I didn’t think I’d see you again,” you lament, in a whimper. “I c-can’t believe you came back.” 

He presses his lips into your temple, soft and yet cracked, as if he might speak directly to the worried subconscious hiding in the cavern of your skull.

“I promised.”

[gay-dorito-dust]

Hiiii

Can you do something about the batboys (specially Tim and Damian cuz they are my fav)?

With a reader who loves hugs, like A LOT

And it is simply spontaneous to want to hug.

Dick

He loves your spontaneity and your hugs.

He finally has someone who can eagerly accept his out of nowhere hugs by reciprocating with your own hugs.

You have a hug off to see who can hug the other the most as it never fails to make both of your days better, and it acts like a really good pick me up when you both need it most.

Dick could stay in your arms forever if he could and hopes that you feel the same as it acts as a way of communicating without the usage of words. Dick can convey how he felt to you in certain situations throughout all types of hugs possible.

Tight hugs for when he thought he wasn’t going to come back home to you, or when he fears that you wouldn’t love him anymore or for times where he just needed to feel you against him.

Soft, gently, comforting hugs for when he feels like being more affectionate with you, maybe even playful and or wanting to just show you that he cares about you as while he’s a charmer, meaningful words tend to fail him on multiple occasions.

Protective, ‘don’t touch them or else’ hugs where he keeps a tight and firm grip on you as he pushes your head into his neck while he poetically cocoons you in his arms as to keep you out of sight of anyone he thinks is no good for you.

Other then them, dick will always await for you with open arms almost instinctively, knowing he’s going to get the best hug of a lifetime as thought you haven’t seen each other in a long time and not five minutes. Dick just loves you and your spontaneous hugs.

Damian

Fight instincts are strong in Damian.

So when you first try to hug him, his sword was drawn within inches of your face as fast as you could blink. He’d never hurt you, no. It’s just that his body was tuned to react within seconds to any potential danger against him, and unfortunately his mind made him think that your hugs were threats.

So once he realises what he had done on impulse, he apologise and sheathed his sword and tells you that he’s not yet use to your kind of affection due to his upbringing and that he’ll try to become accustomed to it eventually; Which he does but his response to your hugs is rather stiff and almost robotic but you were more then happy to take what you get, and if this is the most he can do right now then you’ll accept it.

However when he does start to get use to your hugs and doesn’t feel like he has to draw his sword every time, but he tends to melt into your touch like a stray cat being shown love for the first time. He closes his eyes and burrows his head into your neck as he tightened his grip on you, as though you’d vanish if he were to ever let up his hold.

He doesn’t want you to hug him in public, he’s not comfortable with it as he would when you’re hugging him in private, but he couldn’t fault you if you were to hug him after an highly emotional moment where you thought you’d loose him, Damian understands but he just prefers to have you hug him in private overall.

It also lessens the teasing potential for his brothers and he gets the alone time with you like he so wished for.

Tim

Finds comfort and reassurance in your hugs.

Seriously your hugs are what Tim needs after a long and arduous mission alongside his brothers and sisters.

He doesn’t even flinch at how out of the blue your hugs are, he just accepts your hugs no matter what and will sigh heavily as he practically falls asleep in your arms.

Please help this man get some proper sleep for once in his life, the detective stuff can wait, it’s not going to go anywhere anytime soon just please take a break.

He’s more then reciprocal of your hugs and appreciates the love you pour into them as they help ease the worries within his head as he rests his head against yours, allowing himself to slow down and appreciate what was in front of him.

Your hugs -despite their spontaneity- have a calming affect on him and they worked wonders for when he needs sleep as his mind tends to keep him up at night. So now with you it’s a bit more bearable as you would cradle his head to your chest, letting him focus in on your breathing and your heart until that’s all the last thing he remembered before drifting off to sleep.

Jason

It takes Jason some time to get use to your spontaneous hug feasts. At first he flinches and almost shies away from your hugs as he doesn’t acquaint any physical contact as soft, or warm or comforting like you did. In fact he viewed it as the opposite.

So it takes time for Jason to become comfortable with your spontaneous hugs and once he stops flinching and shying away from them, he grows addicted to your hugs and awaits each and every time that you decided he looked like he needed a little hug or cuddle.

He -much like Damian- would melt into your hugs, tighten his grip on you and would find that everything fades away the moment he’s in your arms; His mind clears of all stress and all he can think about was how perfect each and every one of your hugs were every single time.

He also never wants to leave your embrace, ever, he just refuses and claims he needs five more minutes in your arms and would groan in annoyance if you were to attempt to pull away.

‘Stop moving away from me.’ He’d groan. ‘You wanted to hug me so hug me!’

You chuckle at him whenever he got like this but oblige to his wishes regardless as you didn’t have to heart to stop hugging Jason when he’s practically clinging onto you like a koala bear. So you just remain where you are until five minutes become a full day and you and Jason are shuffling towards the bedroom together to cuddle until you feel asleep.

Needles to say Jason grows to love your hugs however they come and when they come, for they help him get through the day.

Bruce

He’s not use to your hugs yet either and it takes him just as long-if not longer- as Jason to get use to them overtime.

His muscles would tense and that’s about it.

He’s use to being hugged by the likes of Jason and Damian and Dick when he got older but your hugs were different then theirs, and sooner or later Bruce had developed a sixth sense for whenever you’re going to hug him, and would smile to himself whenever he heard your footsteps and little giggles before bracing himself for you hug.

‘You heard me didn’t you.’ You’d always ask and without hesitation Bruce replied with in a playful manner; ‘I have no idea what you’re talking about my dear.’ Which only made you pout as you tightened your grip on him while burrowing your face into his broad back.

There would even be times where you’re about to hug him, but Bruce moves just in times as you were going to hug his waist and stares at you for a bit before opening his arms and letting you run into his chest. He doesn’t mind your hugs now and then when he’s not busy as he doesn’t like neglecting you for his work; So he tries to at least let you get all your hugs out while you could before he had to indulge in his work that takes up a huge amount of his time.

Like Damian he likes to have you hug him in private, he’s a well know public figure and Gotham isn’t exactly safe and so he prioritised your safety above all else. So while he’ll interlock his pinky with yours or have your arm locked in his in public, he’ll let you hang off of him as reward in private while he rests his hands over your own in means of keeping you there.

Alfred finds it sweet seeing Bruce be affectionate with you and probably has a picture where Bruce is embracing you fully, his head resting atop of yours while your face was smothered against his chest, your face bearing the widest smile possible in comparison to Bruce’s face of calm serenity.

[dakusan]

How skz texts you when you're upset

stray kids ot8 x reader | comfort, emotional support, quiet love, soft boys with warm hearts

🌙 synopsis: you're not alone. not ever. eight boys, eight different ways of showing up when the world feels too loud. some send you memes. some send you playlists. some just send a quiet “i’m here.” when you're unraveling at the seams, they don't ask you to hold it together. they hold you instead—in texts, in voice notes, in the silence between words. this isn't about fixing you. it's about loving you exactly as you are—soft, sad, and still worth everything.

💌 a/n: hi hello yes. i promise i have a job (whilst looking for a new one) but i am also a girl with free time and nothing to do, so i write for you people. plus, i just think everyone deserves to be comforted like this, okay?? anyway. if you’ve had a hard day, I hope this felt like a warm hoodie straight from the dryer. or like… a text that says “u up?” but emotionally stable. as always, thank you for reading my little delusions 💗 p.s. i know it’s a short one but like... short and sweet, right?? i hope it’s sweet??? idk anymore 😭 p.p.s. YES I KNOW MY PIC AESTHETICS ARE WEIRD AND DON’T MATCH OR WHATEVER I’M TRYING… I SEE THE VISION IN MY HEAD OKAY THE EXECUTION JUST BE SUFFERING. leave me alone. smh. p.p.p.s no, i haven't made any songs to match this vibe. lmfao, soz •ᴖ•

📍credits: @cafekitsune for the dividers

🎶 Now Playing: "Star Lost" — Stray Kids

Bang Chan // 방찬 the gentle leader energy

[3:14PM] Hey, angel. I know today’s rough. I won’t push, but I’m here. Want to hop on call? We can sit in silence or talk, your pace. [3:17PM] You’re not alone in this. I promise. (You wake up to a Lo-fi playlist he made just for you, titled: “for when your heart’s tired”)

Lee Know // 리노 silent acts of care

[4:52PM] What do you need? Be honest. [4:54PM] I can cook. Or just sit with you. Or send you mean messages about the universe. [5:01PM] Here. Cat pics. Instant serotonin. (He drops off warm food at your door with a post-it: “Eat. Or I’ll be annoyed. 😒”)

Changbin // 창빈 aggressively loving

[5:03PM] WHO. UPSET. YOU. [5:04PM] I will fight them. Emotionally. And maybe physically. 👊 [5:07PM] Also… I’m proud of you. For just… being you. (He sends voice notes of him beatboxing silly rhythms with your name mixed in. Pure serotonin.)

Hyunjin // 현진 the poetic soft boy

[2:27PM] It’s okay to crumble sometimes. Even stars need to rest. [2:29PM] You are still whole, even when you don’t feel it. [2:34PM] Do you want a drawing? Or a distraction? I can write you a silly haiku. (You receive a photo of a messy sketchbook page with your initials in soft florals.)

Han // 한 chaotic comfort personified

[3:59PM] I see you’re feeling like 🍞 soggy bread. [4:00PM] BUT GUESS WHAT. YOU’RE MY FAVOURITE TOAST. [4:02PM] I’m gonna spam you with memes until you smile or block me. (He sends 17 voice memos. One is a fake commercial for “Anti-Sadness Spray,” voiced by him in 4 accents.)

Felix // 필릭스 human sunshine, through and through

[1:36PM] Hey, beautiful. I felt something was off today… Do you want hugs, words, or just my presence? [1:40PM] You deserve kindness even when your mind says otherwise. (You get a video of him baking cookies, captioned: “Saving one for you, always.”)

Seungmin // 승민 realist with a warm heart

[6:18PM] I know you think you’re being dramatic. You’re not. [6:21PM] Want comfort or tough love? [6:25PM] You’re handling more than most would. Let yourself feel it. (He sends a carefully curated playlist titled: “not okay, but surviving.”)

I.n // 아이엔 the shy but intuitive one

[5:40PM] Hey… are you okay? You don’t have to answer. Just wanted you to know I care. [5:46PM] Do you want to watch something later? I’ll even pretend not to hate romcoms. [5:49PM] You matter to me. Just… wanted to say that. (You later find out he stayed up playing your comfort game just to send you tips.)

[aventurineswife]

Hello, my sweetheart!

Today’s request shall be: Sunday, Aventurine, Dan Heng—With a reader who likes to pretend they’re asleep in order to see how their partner reacts. Whether it’s in the morning to prolong their cuddles, or curious if they leave them be or “wake” them up. 🤭💙❕Bonus when the men know their partner is still awake and either teases them or plays along.

Soft Lies and Sleepy Smiles

Tags: Sunday x Reader, Aventurine x Reader, Dan Heng x Reader, Fluff, Domestic Moments, Playful Teasing, Established Relationships, Light Banter, Soft/Affectionate Moments, Subtle Intimacy.

Warnings: Mild suggestiveness, Mentions of past trauma (Implied for Sunday & Dan Heng, but not explored in depth), Minor physical contact (Soft touches, forehead flick, kisses), Aventurine being a smug menace (Because of course), Sunday’s quiet intensity (He’s poetic and a little too smooth for his own good), Dan Heng’s understated softness.

A/N: Hi lovely!! Thank you for this hehe, I hope you like it!! 🤭💙✨ Ignore any mistakes, I'm writing this at like 3:28 am 🧍‍♀️🙏😭

Tagslist: @themiddletenmasibling

The warmth of the Astral Express' quarters felt almost unreal—soft golden light filtering through the curtains, the gentle hum of the train beneath you, and Sunday’s slow, steady breaths beside you.

He was always an early riser, preferring quiet contemplation in the mornings. But today, as you lay curled against him, you decided to stay still, feigning sleep just to see what he’d do.

For a while, he didn’t move. His eyes remained on you, a silent observer as his fingers traced idle patterns against your arm. Then, barely above a whisper—

"You're awake, aren't you?"

You held your breath, keeping up the act.

A soft chuckle. The kind that barely touched the air but sent a shiver down your spine. His fingers grazed the edge of your jaw, the flutter of his wings betraying his amusement.

"It’s unlike you to be this still," he mused, voice like the quiet ripple of a dream. "But if you insist on pretending..."

He shifted, drawing you closer—enough for you to feel his breath against your temple. His halo gleamed faintly in the dim light, golden and unblinking, like an ever-watchful eye.

Then, just as you thought he’d let you continue the charade, Sunday whispered something against your ear, so soft it sent heat rushing to your cheeks.

"Would it be cruel to wake you with a kiss? Or shall I let you remain lost in your dreamscape?"

Your resolve wavered. The warmth of his lips barely ghosted over your cheek, and you couldn't help it—a tiny twitch of your mouth, a sharp inhale.

His hand, featherlight, cupped your cheek.

"Caught you," he murmured, voice laced with quiet victory.

You peeked open an eye, meeting his gentle yet knowing gaze. A smirk tugged at his lips.

"Next time, love, you’ll have to try a little harder."

Aventurine was warm. Unfairly so, draped lazily beside you in bed, the fur-lined edges of his overcoat tossed haphazardly over the chair nearby. The morning light slanted through the window, painting soft golds and deep greens across the room.

You, ever the curious one, decided to play a game.

Eyes closed, body perfectly relaxed—you stayed still, waiting to see how he’d react.

For a moment, there was silence. Then—

"Hah, what’s this? A little trick from my darling?"

His voice was honeyed, teasing. You felt the mattress dip as he shifted, his hand brushing ever so gently against your exposed shoulder.

"You’re terribly convincing, I’ll give you that."

There was a pause, and then—a sharp flick to your forehead.

Your body betrayed you. A reflexive twitch.

"Ah-ha! You flinched!" His laugh was rich with amusement. "Sorry, sweetheart, but you’ll have to bluff better than that."

You groaned, cracking an eye open. Aventurine grinned down at you, eyes gleaming with mischief.

"I’ll have to reward you for the effort, though. Tell me, love—should I make it up to you with breakfast, or perhaps…" He leaned in, his breath ghosting against your lips. "Something sweeter?"

You rolled your eyes, but your heart raced nonetheless.

"Cheat," you muttered.

"Always," he replied, pressing a playful kiss to your forehead.

The gentle rocking of the Astral Express made for the perfect excuse to stay in bed a little longer. Dan Heng, ever composed, lay beside you, his breaths steady and deep.

You decided to test him. Would he wake you? Leave you be? Perhaps... tease you?

You kept your breaths even, your face perfectly serene. A few minutes passed before you felt him stir.

Soft movements. The rustling of sheets.

Then, ever so carefully, you felt his fingers brush against yours—hesitant, barely there.

You almost smiled.

He knew.

Rather than calling you out, he played along. His hand shifted, tucking a stray strand of hair behind your ear.

Then, a whisper, barely above the hum of the train.

"If you want more sleep, I’ll let you rest."

A pause. His fingertips ghosted over your knuckles, almost as if he was hesitant to let go.

"But I’d rather you stay with me a little longer."

Your resolve broke. Slowly, you opened your eyes, meeting his steady gaze. A small smile tugged at his lips—soft, barely there, but unmistakable.

"Good morning," he murmured.

And just like that, you melted.

[gold-onthe-inside]

a shot of whiskey

who? spencer reid x tough!reader content warnings: mentions of knife wounds and blood word count: 538 summary: reader contemplates whether she's sweet enough for spencer a/n: just something i wrote on the train so maybe it makes sense, maybe it doesn't. there's no real plot

Your fingers have calluses on them, and there was a welt on your arm, an unsub's knife taking a slice through once smooth skin. You hadn't even felt it while taking him down, the adrenaline of the fight carrying you through but Spencer had all but dragged you to the ambulance to get it stitched up, his large hand staunching your blood. 

He was sleeping on his stomach, no matter how many times you've told him that it's bad for his back. Something happens in the middle of the night, where he rolls over onto you, as if he needs to know you're still here. The fear of losing each other is palpable, especially when so often, you and Derek are the first through the door. You can't help yourself; you're impatient, and irritable when a case is going nowhere, like each victim that turns up is a personal failure. How many times have you turned over in the middle of the night, wondering who's next? 

He doesn’t like your morbid line of thinking, you do your best to protect him from it, but you've always been this way - rough around the edge, like a serrated knife. You know how to draw blood better than staunching it. Everyone's been a victim of it, noone more than you. You don't know how to wax poetics like Spencer does, how to whisper sweet nothings in his ear like he does. The best you can do is make him coffee how he likes it, more sugar than coffee powder, no creamer because it dilutes the caffeine or something. 

You leaned over, pulling down the neck of his pyjama top, kissing the back of his neck, your nose nuzzled in his hair, his hot coffee waiting on the bedside table with a coaster on top so it doesn’t cool while you gently wake him. Your hand trailed down his smooth back, your hand rough no matter how much moisturiser you use. He shifted under your touch, this large lump in your bed turning over to blink at you and rub at his eyes. "Morning," he mumbled and you smiled at him faintly, always so restrained. The dark circles around his eyes are permanent, he won't listen to your cold spoon and damp teabags trick, because genius though he is, self care is like pulling teeth.

"Morning," you murmured, watching him sit up and recognise his cardigan from yesterday on you. 

"How do you always look better than me in those?" he said petulantly, pouting a little, looking at you as you hugged your knees, knobbly and scarred from a childhood of falling over. You always hated kneepads. 

"I made coffee," you said, knowing one sip of your coffee would make all his petulance melt. There's few other secrets that you have to make him feel loved - knowing his takeout order, chocolate glazed donuts with sprinkles, reading to him in general. You've never been particularly romantic, you'd rather a quiet night in watching a docuseries than at a fancy restaurant, and as you watched him drink his sugary coffee, you wonder if he deserves someone sweeter than you. 

"It's perfect," he said with his saccharine smile.

Just like you, you think.

[brbsoulnomming]

Heart On Your Sleeve Part 10

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7 | Part 8 | Part 9

-----

The town is a wreck, but there's still space for them at the hospital.

Nancy recognizes a few of the doctors - ones who know about the Upside Down - and they're all whisked away into two private rooms. One for Eddie, and one for Max.

Steve is stuck with Eddie. He hates thinking of it like that, because he wants to be with Eddie, but he wants to be with Max, too. He wants to prowl back and forth between them, like his presence will make any difference.

But Eddie's heart is still in his chest, and while the doctor had praised his quick thinking in helping his friend, it's too risky to have Eddie's heart far away from his body while he's healing.

So Steve's in the chair next to his bed, hooked up to the heart monitor and listening to the faint but steady sound of Eddie's heart as he feels it beat in his own chest.

Dustin and Robin go back and forth, one of them always with him and the other giving updates when they come to switch out.

It's Dustin in the chair next to his now, and he feels the echo of his own heart next to Dustin's, knows the kid must be feeling what he is - and probably a little bit of Eddie's, too.

Three hearts, all entwined. Robin could make something poetic from that, he thinks.

All he can do is let Dustin pillow his head on his shoulder, press his hand to his own chest and think come back to us.

Eddie's hand twitches.

Steve jolts up, reaching for it automatically.

“Steve?” Eddie asks, even though his eyes are closed and his expression hasn't changed. “Dustin?”

Dustin makes some kind of strangled noise, fumbling for Eddie's other hand. “Can he feel us?”

“I've got his heart, and you've got mine, so yeah, he has to, right?” Steve asks, aware he sounds a little desperate and not really caring.

“Come on, Eddie,” Dustin pleads. “You have to wake up, okay?”

Eddie wakes up.

—

“I should have died in there.”

Steve feels his jaw tense. “No, you shouldn't have.”

“No, I meant - doc says I would have died, if you hadn't taken my heart,” Eddie says.

Oh.

“I know,” Steve admits. “That's why I asked for it.”

Eddie exhales, long and slow. “Where'd you learn that?”

“Eighth grade science,” Steve replies, shooting a little grin at him.

Eddie gives a surprised little laugh. “Seriously?”

“Eh, kind of.” Steve considers for a moment. He's never talked about this with anyone, but - “My parents used to lock their hearts in a safe in my dad's study at night. When I was little, and I got upset at them leaving, they told me they put their hearts in there when they went on trips, too, and I had to stay behind to watch over them.”

Eddie looks at him, soft and tender. Steve'd think it was pity, if it wasn't for Eddie's heart in his chest. It's just sad, and a little angry.

“I told Mr. Clarke about that, and he said it was hogshit.”

Eddie snorts. “Mr. Clarke said hogshit?”

“Who's telling this story?” Steve retorts, then laughs when Eddie mimes zipping his lips closed and throwing away the key.

“It was hogshit,” Steve continues. “But then he told us that people could survive potentially fatal injuries with heart exchanges. Then, after Starcourt…”

He trails off, not sure how to say it.

“Robin told me a little,” Eddie admits. “That it was the Russians and the Upside Down, and you let yourself get caught to cover for Dustin and Erica. That you tried to draw attention away from her.”

Oh.

That makes him sound more heroic than the moment felt, but at least it also makes this easier.

“The Russian spies, they had this thing that could open your chest. They didn't believe I was telling the truth, so they took my heart out.”

Eddie reaches out to take his hand, squeezing it tight. There's a faint trickle of horror and guilt and affection, and he knows that Eddie's put it together with the changes in his heart.

“I healed a lot faster because we were doing heart exchanges,” he finishes. “So I figured it'd keep you safe.”

Eddie's grip on his hand tightens. “I really am sorry,” he mutters. “About last summer. After - after that, you needed a friend, and I just left.”

Steve licks his lips, considering his response for a moment, before he goes with honesty. “I had friends. I had Robin and the kids, and they were enough. I didn't really need anything else. But - I wanted you.”

Eddie looks at him, and Steve can feel - hesitation, uncertainty, does he really want me?

“Eddie,” Steve says, slow and thoughtful. “I don't want you because I'm lonely, or I have no one else. Maybe there was a part of that when it first started, but - I'm okay, I'm happy. I want you because of you, not just because I want anyone.”

Shock filters through Eddie so hard that Steve feels it like an almost physical blow.

His heart aches.

He doesn't have to ask if that's something that Eddie hasn't been told before - he knows it already.

“I'm not letting you go,” Steve tells him, only because Eddie's heart is still beating in his chest and he's confident it will be well received. “Not this time.”

“I can live with that,” Eddie says, only a little shaky.

—

Dustin takes a turn swapping hearts with Eddie, and Steve heads immediately for Max's room.

Lucas is there, sitting by her bed and holding her hand.

“Hey,” Steve says softly, pulling up a chair to sit next to him. “How's she doing?”

“Same,” Lucas says flatly. “But she's in there, I can feel it.”

“You can feel it?” Steve asks.

“We swapped before - before. Just in case. To give her another tether to the real world.”

Shit, that was a great idea. It gives him more hope, and he sags a little in his chair.

“Jesus, you kids are smart,” Steve says, impressed.

Lucas looks at him funny. “We learned that from you, Steve.”

He doesn't really think that's true, considering he learned it from them just as much, but he lets it be, just gripping the back of Lucas's neck and giving him a little squeeze.

Lucas unwinds, just a little bit, and Steve gets a better look at him - notices his swollen eye, his puffy jaw, and feels a cold surge of rage.

He waits for a moment to let the worst of it pass, then asks, “Swap?”

Lucas looks over at him, clearly hesitant.

“The three of us are kind of banged up,” Steve says. “Figure it can't hurt to have more heart power at work here.”

Lucas snorts. “Heart power?”

“Heart power,” Steve confirms, radiating as much confidence as possible.

He's not sure if it works, but Lucas does open his chest up and carefully pull out Max's heart. Steve's extra gentle as he swaps them, tucking her heart into his chest.

It's immediate, what Lucas was talking about. There's only the faintest sense of Max, and an equally faint sense of a fear and guilt and love that he recognizes as Lucas - the residual of what Max is feeling from him, he guesses. Even stranger is an echo he can feel of his own emotions - from him to Lucas to Max and back to him again, apparently.

“Huh,” he says, at the same time Lucas goes, “Woah.”

They sit there, together, and Steve must fall asleep at some point because the next thing he knows, there's the shifting of a chair as Lucas jumps up. Steve startles, only to see El and Will and Mike come flooding in. They sweep Lucas into a hug, and Steve watches them hold on, clinging and desperate.

Eventually, they peel apart, and El goes to Max's side, taking her hand. Her eyes close for a long while, then open again, looking sad.

“I can't reach her,” she whispers. “Not even with my powers back.”

“She's there, though, right? I can still feel her,” Lucas says.

El's brow furrows.

“Max and Lucas swapped before this happened,” Steve explains. “To keep her tethered here, so Vecna couldn't take her.”

Mike frowns. “Vecna?”

“One,” El says, which - okay, yeah, clearly there's a story there, but not the time. She holds her hands out to Lucas. “May I swap?”

Lucas looks over at Steve, and he takes Max's heart out and offers it to her.

“We figured the more helping, the better,” Lucas says.

El exchanges her heart for Max's, looking thoughtful. It's an even bigger rush, with El in the mix, and - even though Max's heart isn't in his chest anymore, he can feel the echo of her even more clearly.

Lucas sucks in a breath. “It's working,” he says. “She's stronger.”

“The more, the better,” El says thoughtfully.

“Eddie woke up from me and him and Dustin sharing,” Steve says, the realization coming over him. “I mean, it wasn't a real circle, but he was just regularly unconscious, not creepy wizard unconscious.”

El looks at Mike, who immediately turns on his heel and leaves. He comes back a few minutes later, with Dustin and Robin and Erica.

“We made Nancy and Jonathan and Argyle stay with Eddie,” Mike announces.

“Uh, yeah, do you want to tell us why?” Dustin asks.

El's eyes flash. “We're going to get Max back.”

Hearts change hands quicker than Steve can keep track of, but in the end, no one has their own heart in their chest. It's an avalanche of emotion that Steve can't make out - so much it’s almost overwhelming - until he feels something like a guiding hand, firm and insistent.

“Max,” El whispers.

Steve turns his thoughts completely on Max, focusing on her - on taking her to the arcade, on the skate park, on her hanging out in his kitchen as they cook dinner. One by one, everyone's emotions start to take focus - on how Max makes them feel, how much they care, how they need her here.

Max's eyes open.

—

They set up another rotation schedule, this time for Max, who looks a little shell shocked and overwhelmed by all the attention.

“Did you think we wouldn't do this for you?” Steve asks quietly when it's his turn, when Lucas and El are sleeping and it's just him and Max awake in her room.

She doesn't answer for a while, but he can feel her conflicted confusion and then unsteady acceptance.

“No,” she says after a while. “I knew you guys would.”

He breathes out, and they sit in silence for a bit.

“Did you read my letter?” she asks, purposefully not looking at him.

“Nah. You said it was just in case, and there wasn't going to be an in case. We weren't going to let Vecna have you.” He manages to keep his voice steady, though he knows she can feel the edge of the fear he'd had for her. “I wanted to hear what was in it from you.”

She makes a face, and he thinks she isn't going to tell him, but then she blurts out, “I said I wished you were my brother, not Billy.”

Oh.

His stomach drops out, and there's a rush of vertigo that leaves him breathless for a moment, but - not in a bad way.

He doesn't know how to respond to that, other than, “I am your brother.”

She scoffs. “It doesn't work like that.”

“Sure it does,” he counters, growing confident. “Billy was your brother just because of a piece of paper your parents signed, right?”

She frowns, finally looking at him again. “Yeah, I guess.”

“So what's stopping us?” He taps his chest, over where her heart beats. “We have each other's hearts. We'll always be family.”

Max looks away again, then, very quietly, says, “Okay.”

—

“Heard you call Max your sister when you were talking to the doctor earlier,” Eddie says.

Steve feels a little smile tug at his lips as he takes Eddie's hand. It grows when Eddie laces their fingers together.

“You know Dustin's going to throw a fit when he hears it, and insist that you were his brother first, right?” Eddie teases.

“Of course he is.” Steve rolls his eyes. “Welcome to my family. You sure you still want to stick around?”

He's joking, but Eddie's expression goes soft and contemplative.

“Welcome to your family, huh? You planning a proposal soon, big boy?” Eddie asks softly.

Steve's mouth goes dry. He thinks he should say something - anything - but nothing comes out.

“Swap?” Eddie asks, after a few minutes.

Steve's not sure if someone told him or if he figured it out himself, and part of him wants to ask Eddie if he's sure, but he decides to take Eddie at his word. He opens his chest up, holding out his heart.

Eddie copies him, and - it's his first real look at Eddie's heart. There's silver lines all over it, delicate scars mottling its surface, but it's almost as deep red as Steve's still is.

“Oh,” Steve breathes once Eddie's heart is safely tucked inside his chest again.

There's a love there so strong he almost doesn't know what to do with it - isn't sure if it's Eddie's or his for a moment before he realizes it's both of them feeding off each other.

“Yeah,” Eddie says quietly.

Steve lifts Eddie's hand up, presses a kiss to his knuckles. “I know what I want my future to look like,” Steve admits. “And I want you in it.”

Eddie swallows, and Steve can feel an edge of trepidation before it solidifies into something sharp and determined. “Okay.”

“Okay?” Steve asks.

“I'm sticking around, this time,” Eddie confirms. “For good.”

“Okay,” Steve agrees.

He knows it's a risk, but - right now, they're alone, and so he leans in to seal the promise their hearts are making with a kiss.

-----

And that's the final part for now! I do have a sequel planned down the road for what happens after they get out of the hospital, folding Eddie into the heart sharing and settling Eddie and Steve and Robin into a trio - I plan on using the tag "hearts out steddie" if anyone would like to follow it for when it comes out!

Thank you so much to everyone who commented, reblogged, liked, or otherwise interacted with this! Everyone's reactions were so amazing, and I really love reading your thoughts!!

Final taglist: @fairytalesreality @lostonceandneverfound @wheneverfeasible @awkwardgravity1 @theintrovertedintrovert @thewickedkat @ravenfrog @scarlet-malfoy @missmagillicuddy @xxfiction-is-my-realityxx @ollyxar @cringe-culture-is-dead-99 @thedragonsaunt @makewavesandwar @cryptid-system @ajeff855 @mae-liz @the-fantastical-asexual @jettestar @warlordess @persnicketysquares @samsoble @my-love-of-books @mydysfunctionallife @dreamercec @holyangelstudentuniverse @breealtair @shunna @xtraordinarally @thatdamnfan @justalittledrainbamage @strangerfolks @disrespectedgoatman @amber-ambience @anxietyfulloption @thepossummoldypasta @irregular-child @th30ra3k3n @powdeeee @theohohmoment @5ammi90 @ominous-pool-light @beeeeeeeeeeeeeeens @rebellatlas @blackpanzy

[sunsetmade]

hii, can you write something about rafe with a clumsy girlfriend? (I've read the previous one that you wrote and it's the first work of yours that I've read!) like she's just soo soft and gentle, moves clumsily and always has cuts and bruises (optional), knocks things and glass is too dangerous for her:((she's so me). everyone feels annoyed with it and makes fun of her for it, teasing rafe that he probably lost his mind, making a girl like him his girlfriend. it makes her think if rafe gets tired of taking care of her? she thinks that she'd be too hopeless without him with her:(( love lots and also, you can make adjustments, with no pressure!

Thank you so much for the request! I love the clumsy reader trope!

Hazardously Yours

Rafe Cameron x Clumsy! Reader

She was the kind of girl who got tripped up by her own shoelaces.

And not in that poetic, dreamy, “life’s a mess” kind of way—no, it was literal. One minute she was walking down the sidewalk, humming to herself or admiring a cloud shaped like a fish, and the next? Face-first on the pavement. Palms scraped, knees throbbing, cheeks flushed from the sudden, clumsy betrayal of her own feet.

She never fell with the kind of grace you see in movies. There was nothing soft or cinematic about it. Her arms flailed like she was trying to fly, panic flickered across her face as she twisted midair, and when she landed, it was usually accompanied by a loud thud and an embarrassed little gasp. Stairs betrayed her. Doorways brushed her shoulders like they had something personal against her. And anything made of glass? It practically shattered in fear just being near her.

People rolled their eyes. Joked about bubble wrap. Sighed when she knocked something over or arrived with a new bruise blooming across her shin.

But Rafe never flinched.

Not when she dropped his favorite mug—his favorite—just three days into staying over at his place. She’d stood there frozen, wide-eyed in the silence that followed the crash, already bracing for disappointment. But he just walked in, barefoot and shirtless, hair a mess from sleep, and stepped around the broken pieces like they were nothing.

“You okay?” he asked, eyes on her, not the mug. “Did you get cut?”

Not when she tripped over his gym bag in the hallway—despite him moving it just that morning—and slammed into the side table hard enough to knock down a picture frame and bruise her elbow. She’d winced and hissed through her teeth, trying to blink back the sting. But before she could say a word, he was there again, like he’d felt it happen from the other room.

He crouched beside her, his hands careful as they found her arm, his touch all softness and warmth. Fingers brushed over her skin as if he could draw the pain out, like maybe if he was gentle enough, it wouldn’t hurt at all.

“Easy,” he’d murmur, low and steady, like it was instinct. “C’mon, baby. Let me see.”

And she would. Always. Because no matter how clumsy she felt, how much space she seemed to take up in all the wrong ways, Rafe never looked at her like she was a burden.

He looked at her like every bruise was a reason to hold her tighter.

Like every fall was just another chance to catch her.

There was this one night—cold and blue around the edges, the kind that made the windows fog and the floor feel like ice—when she’d tried to surprise him by making dinner.

Tried being the key word.

She’d had a recipe pulled up on her phone, sleeves rolled to her elbows, and this determined little furrow in her brow that said tonight, I’ve got this. But the universe, as always, had other plans.

She chopped vegetables too fast, knicked her finger, and winced when blood beaded at the tip. In the chaos of trying to rinse it off and bandage it with shaking hands, she knocked a wooden spoon too close to the burner. The end of it blackened and started to curl, and she yelped, swatting it away just before it caught fire.

The chicken—once hopeful and golden in the pan—burned while she was distracted, the skin going from crisp to char in a matter of seconds. Smoke curled from the edges, and she tripped over the corner of the kitchen mat trying to fix it. The world tilted, and she landed flat on her back with a clatter—pan lids bouncing across the tile like coins spilled from fate’s pocket.

That was when Rafe walked in.

He froze in the doorway, one hand still on the knob, the other holding a bag of takeout he hadn’t even mentioned he’d gone out to grab—just in case. His eyes scanned the mess: the scorched spoon on the stove, the trail of flour dusted across the counter, the smell of something definitely overcooked, and her… lying on her back in the middle of it all, dazed and breathless.

She braced for it. The groan. The tired sigh. Maybe even a What were you thinking? She’d heard it from others before. From family. From friends. From strangers watching her knock into life like a pinball.

But Rafe didn’t do any of that.

He blinked at her once. Then slowly, softly, he smiled like she was the best thing he’d seen all day.

“You okay, baby?” he asked, his voice low, already moving to crouch beside her.

She sat up with a groan, cheeks burning hotter than the oven. “I think I burned dinner,” she mumbled, swiping flour off her shirt and wishing the ground would swallow her whole.

Rafe didn’t even glance toward the stove.

Instead, he gently pulled her into his lap, settling her between his legs on the cold tile like it was the most natural thing in the world. His arms wrapped around her, one hand brushing the hair from her cheek, the other steady on her hip.

“Are you okay?” he asked again, quieter now, like the only thing that mattered was her.

“I cut my finger,” she admitted in a whisper, holding it up like proof of her defeat.

He took her hand in his, turning it carefully to inspect the sloppy Band-Aid she’d slapped on. Then he brought it to his lips and kissed just beneath the pad of her finger—soft, slow, deliberate.

“You could burn the whole house down,” he murmured against her skin, “and I’d still think you’re the cutest damn thing on the island.”

And somehow, that made her want to cry more than any disaster in the kitchen.

⸻

Soon, she noticed his home changing in small, quiet ways.

The coffee table with its sharp corners? Gone, replaced by a smooth, rounded one she wouldn’t bruise her knee on when she walked too close. The tall, thin glass tumblers he used to drink from—crystal-clear and easy to knock over—disappeared one day without a word. In their place were thick, plastic ones, wide and sturdy, ones that could bounce off the floor and survive her clumsy grip.

He never said a thing about it. Never made a show of what he’d swapped out or why. He just adjusted the space around her like it was the most obvious thing in the world—like it wasn’t even a question.

And of course, she noticed. She always did. One evening, curled up beside him on the couch, she looked over her shoulder and asked casually, “Did you get new cups?”

Rafe didn’t even look up from his phone. Just shrugged pulling her into his chest more and said, “Didn’t like the old ones.”

But she saw the corner of his mouth twitch. Saw the way his eyes softened when she drank from one without hesitation, without worry. When she tucked her legs under her without wincing from bumping into something sharp or fragile or cold.

Because in a world that often made her feel like too much or not enough, Rafe didn’t just make room for her.

He built it.

Quietly. Intentionally.

Like she was worth bending the whole damn world for.

But no matter how many times Rafe assured her she wasn’t a burden the thoughts still lingered. And it didn’t help that every time they went out people noticed.

It started at a party—one of those outdoor things on the edge of the marsh, where the air smelled like salt and beer, and the ground was soft enough to ruin your shoes. The kind of gathering where everyone wore polos with popped collars, where the music was just a little too loud and the conversations blurred into one big hum of laughter, clinking bottles, and private school arrogance.

She hadn’t even wanted to go. Crowds weren’t really her thing, and uneven ground was even worse. But Rafe had been invited, and he’d said it so gently—“Just come for a little, stay close to me”—and she had.

She’d only wanted to help. That was it. The drinks were running low, and people were getting loud about it, so she offered to refill a few cups. She ducked over to the flimsy folding table someone had set up near the cooler, her arms already full of bottles, trying to balance them against her chest.

But her elbow caught the corner of the table—just barely—and the whole thing wobbled. A single wine glass, the only real one among a sea of plastic cups, tipped and tumbled before she could catch it.

It hit the ground and shattered.

Sharp and loud and immediate.

The music barely stuttered. But the laughter?

That was different.

It cut sharper than the glass.

Someone whistled low. “You seriously let her near glass, Cameron?”

Another voice, louder and smug: “Man’s got a death wish.”

“Does she come with a warning label, or?”

She froze, glass glittering at her feet, the neck of a bottle still clutched in her hand. Her heart beat too fast, cheeks blooming hot with embarrassment as the sound of their teasing rolled over her, careless and amused.

Her first instinct was to apologize. Then to disappear. She crouched down, fumbling to gather the shards with shaking fingers, her vision blurring as her eyes welled up from the sting—whether from shame or frustration, she didn’t know.

But before she could even touch the first piece, Rafe was there.

He crouched beside her without a word, his body blocking her from the crowd like a shield. “You’re gonna cut yourself, pretty girl,” he murmured, voice low and steady like he didn’t hear the people behind him.

He tugged his hoodie sleeve over his hand and carefully swept the broken pieces into a small pile, his movements methodical, calm. Like he’d done it a hundred times before. Like he wasn’t even a little surprised.

She didn’t know what to say. Her hands were still trembling, her breath caught in her chest. She waited for him to snap. To sigh and look at her like she was a problem. To mutter something like Why do you always have to—

But he didn’t.

He stood, slipping his hand around her waist, guiding her away from the crowd with quiet confidence. His palm rested firm and warm at the small of her back, thumb moving in slow, grounding circles like he was soothing her without saying it aloud.

They didn’t go far—just around the side of the house where it was quieter, the laughter and music muffled now, distant. She stood there, arms crossed tight over her chest, trying to swallow the lump in her throat.

Rafe didn’t say anything right away. He just looked at her. Really looked. And she hated that his expression wasn’t angry. That it was soft. Understanding. That it held none of the frustration she’d braced for.

Because that somehow made it worse.

It would’ve been easier if he got mad. If he scolded her or joined in on the teasing. Then she could’ve curled in on herself, said I know, I know, and carried the guilt like a stone.

“I’m sorry you have to baby me all the time,” she whispered after he had started driving towards his house.

Her voice was barely audible over the hum of the car, but it felt deafening in her chest. She kept her eyes fixed on her lap, fingers twisted together, nails picking at the skin around her knuckles like maybe if she focused hard enough, she wouldn’t cry.

Rafe glanced over at her, his brows knitting together the way they always did when something was wrong and she was trying to hide it.

He didn’t say anything—not at first. Just flicked on the blinker and pulled over to the side of the quiet road, gravel crunching beneath the tires as they eased to a stop beneath a cluster of trees. Crickets chirped somewhere in the distance. The party was long behind them now, but her shame still clung to her like smoke.

He turned off the engine. Silence settled in the car, thick and gentle.

Then he shifted in his seat, turning to face her fully. One of his hands reached out, finding her bare thigh under the hem of her skirt. His palm was warm and steady, grounding, and when he started tracing slow, lazy circles into her skin with his thumb, she couldn’t help the tiny shiver that rolled through her.

“I like babying you,” he said, his voice low and calm—like he was reminding her of something she already knew but had forgotten in the haze of humiliation.

Her eyes stayed down.

“I like knowing I’m the one who gets to keep you safe,” he went on, fingers moving in soothing patterns. “I like carrying you when your feet give out. I like wrapping your ankle when you twist it. I like kissing the bandages on your fingers even when you pretend you’re fine. And I love being the first person you look for when something goes wrong.”

Her throat tightened. “But I mess everything up.”

“You don’t mess everything up,” he said, firm now, but still gentle. “You just…move through the world like it wasn’t made for soft people. That’s not your fault.”

She finally lifted her eyes to meet his. There was something sad in her expression, heavy and uncertain, like she couldn’t quite understand why someone like him would want someone like her. Someone who broke things. Someone who broke herself.

“Why?” she asked, voice cracking a little. “Why do you care so much?”

And the way Rafe looked at her then—like she was the only thing that ever made sense—nearly knocked the breath from her lungs.

“Because you’re mine,” he said simply.

Like it was the easiest truth in the world.

Like it didn’t need further explanation.

And in that moment, with his hand still warm against her skin, his eyes locked onto hers like nothing else existed, she realized something bone-deep and terrifying and beautiful:

If she didn’t have Rafe, she might have fallen apart a long time ago. She was hopelessly in love with him.

⸻

It was only after everything—the soft moments, the quiet nights, the way he folded his life around hers without ever making her feel like she took up too much space—that people still talked.

It was at a bonfire. Another one of those Kook parties perched on the edge of the water, where the flames reached high into the night and the laughter stretched even higher. Red cups glowed like fireflies, the speakers pulsed with music that was too loud to feel real, and the girls floated like they were born for it—bronzed skin, glassy smiles, perfect balance on heels in sand.

She already felt like a ghost in someone else’s movie.

But she smiled. That gentle, quiet kind she always gave when she wasn’t quite sure how to belong. She let Rafe tug her down onto the blanket between his legs, his arms winding tight around her waist, his chin resting against her shoulder like it was second nature. Pressing kisses to her bare shoulder as comfort.

And for a little while, it felt okay.

Until she stood to grab a drink.

It wasn’t anything dramatic. Just a misstep. The firelight warped the shadows, maybe the cooler was too close to the dip in the sand, or maybe it was just her usual clumsy luck—but either way, she stumbled. Fell forward onto her knees, palms skimming the grit. The cooler tipped. A stack of drinks toppled. A red Solo cup flew like a frisbee and splashed down—sticky, cold soda soaking right through her shorts.

And then came the laughter.

Loud and sharp and cruel. The kind that didn’t even try to pretend.

Someone clapped. Actually clapped.

“Oh shit,” someone wheezed. “Didn’t she trip at the last one too?”

“Man, Rafe, you’ve got your hands full.”

“How do you even function with her around? I bet she costs more in broken glass than gas money.”

The comments weren’t even whispered. No one tried to hide it. It wasn’t a joke told at her expense.

It was a performance.

Her face burned, and her hands shook as she scrambled up from the sand, trying to brush herself off and pretend it didn’t sting. But the tears already pressed hot at the backs of her eyes, and her throat felt too tight to swallow.

Then came Rafe’s voice—low, lethal, and louder than the fire crackling behind them.

“Leave her the fuck alone,” he said, sharp as glass, “or you’ll be picking your teeth out of the dirt.”

The bonfire snapped, sending sparks up into the dark.

And everything went still.

She turned, startled—but Rafe wasn’t looking at her. He was locked onto the source of the voices across the flames, his jaw clenched, hands curled into tight fists at his sides. His blue eyes had gone pale and hard—icy, detached, and cold in a way that made people go quiet.

No one said a thing.

He didn’t have to say it again.

Then he looked at her.

His features softened the second their eyes met. He crossed the sand in a few long strides, touched her face with a tenderness that cut right through the ache in her chest.

“You okay?” he asked, so soft it didn’t match his voice a second earlier.

She nodded. It was a lie. He knew it. But he didn’t call her on it.

“C’mon,” he murmured, tucking her into his side. “Let’s go home.”

When they got to the car she didn’t cry.

She kept her arms folded tight across her chest, legs curled up beneath her, her soaked shorts cold against her skin, the sting of humiliation still echoing behind her ribs.

Rafe didn’t press. Just drove with one hand on the wheel and the other resting halfway on her thigh but also holding her hand, thumb rubbing slow circles into her skin like he knew she needed the pressure.

She didn’t cry when they got back, either.

Not when she showered. Not when she pulled one of his hoodies over her head and climbed into his bed, damp hair dripping onto the collar. Not even when he sprawled behind her, watching her quietly as she braided her hair with trembling fingers.

But it cracked anyway.

Her voice broke before she could stop it. Small. Raw.

“I don’t want you to be embarrassed of me.”

Rafe sat up instantly. “What?”

She still wouldn’t look at him. “I know I’m not like the girls you’re used to. I trip, and I spill things, and I embarrass you in front of your friends. Everyone thinks I’m just this… this mess you got stuck with.”

“No one thinks that.”

“They say it to your face, Rafe.”

And something in him changed.

Not anger. Not the kind he’d used at the bonfire.

This was quieter. Sharper. Sadder.

“You really think I could ever be embarrassed by you?”

She finally looked at him, eyes glassy. Silent.

“I’m in love with every single thing about you,” he said, voice rough. “You fall and laugh like it didn’t hurt, even though I know it does. You drop something and say sorry like the world might fall apart because of it. You get hurt and still tell me you’re fine—like it’s your job to make me feel better about it.”

He reached for her wrist, tugging gently until she was in his lap, knees tucked against his sides, her cheek pressed to his shoulder.

“You’re soft in a world that’s made of sharp edges. That doesn’t make you weak, baby. That makes you the bravest person I know.”

The tears finally spilled. Quiet, slow, steady.

“You think you’d be hopeless without me?” he asked, brushing one away with his thumb. “I’m hopeless without you.”

She let herself cry then. Really cry.

And Rafe just held her. Rocked her like she was something precious, something he had every intention of protecting with his life. One hand cupped the back of her neck, the other spread across her thigh like he needed to be touching her, needed to remind her she was there, that she was safe.

“You make me want to be someone careful,” he whispered. “You make me gentle.”

She let out a quiet, broken sound and pressed her face against his chest.

“You make me feel safe,” she breathed.

Rafe kissed the crown of her head, his lips lingering like a promise.

“Good,” he murmured. “Then we’re even.”

⸻

After that night, something shifted.

She still tripped.

She still stumbled into things that didn’t move fast enough to avoid her.

She still had bruises blooming on her shins and Band-Aids wrapped around her fingers like tiny flags of surrender.

But what changed—what really changed—was that she wasn’t afraid anymore.

Not of falling.

Not of the stares or the sighs or the heat that used to flood her cheeks when she messed up again.

And especially not of him.

Because he never flinched.

Even when she caught her foot on a crack in the middle of the street and pitched forward without warning, he was already there—arms like steel looping around her waist, steady hands pulling her back against him before her knees even brushed the pavement.

She’d gasped, heart in her throat, but Rafe just laughed softly behind her ear. “You really out here trying to give me a heart attack, huh?”

She grinned, breathless but safe, and leaned into his chest, not caring that people on the sidewalk were staring.

Or that one of her shoes was now facing the wrong direction.

He steadied her, then tucked her hair behind her ear like nothing had happened. Like it didn’t matter at all. And maybe it didn’t—not when he was there to catch her.

And then there was the night she fell out of his bed.

She’d rolled too close to the edge in her sleep—dreaming about something she’d already forgotten—and tumbled to the floor with a soft thud, limbs tangled in the sheets. The impact startled her awake, a confused noise slipping from her lips as she blinked into the dark.

But before she could even process where she was, Rafe was already up.

He crouched beside her, sleep still tugging at his lashes, his bare chest had marking from his hand from where he’d been lying on his stomach. His hair was a mess, and there was a crease from the pillow pressed into his cheek.

And he was smiling.

That sleepy, amused smile that only came out when he was too tired to fake anything but too in love to be anything but soft.

“Did you seriously fall out of bed?” he whispered, voice rough with sleep.

She groaned, hiding her face in her hands. “I didn’t mean to.”

He just chuckled, brushing his fingers down her arm as he peeled the blankets off her legs and gently scooped her into his arms. “You’re unbelievable,” he murmured, pressing a kiss to the top of her head as he carried her like she weighed nothing.

He settled her back into bed like he was tucking something fragile and sacred into place. He smoothed the blanket over her and pressed his forehead to hers.

“I love you,” he whispered, like it was the most natural thing in the world. “Even when you’re falling out of furniture.”

She laughed, eyes fluttering closed as he curled around her again, his arms strong and warm at her waist.

And this time, as she drifted off, she didn’t worry about falling.

Because she knew—without a single doubt—he’d always be there to catch her.

[seumyo]

Idia never thought he’d be the type to have a muse. Inspiration wasn’t something he sought—it either struck at odd hours between gaming marathons or never came at all. You, on the other hand, were the complete opposite.

You were effortlessly poetic, weaving words together like they were spun from moonlight and ink. You had a way of finding beauty in things he never noticed about himself, piecing together metaphors and prose that made him sound like something out of a fairytale.

A writer who’s ultimate weapon is a pen and paper.

You write like a poet who can never run out of words.

Effortlessly so.

The first time you showed him one of your poems, he had expected it to be about something grand and abstract—love, nature, time. Instead, it was about him.

It wasn’t grandiose or overly sentimental. It was simple. Soft. A quiet sort of admiration captured in careful lines—how his hair burned like foxfire in the dark, how his voice curled around words like an autumn breeze, how the glow of his screen reflected in his yellow eyes like constellations trapped in glass.

He had read it once, then twice, then a third time, his heart hammering so hard he thought it might short-circuit his entire nervous system.

God, it’s like reading a declaration of love from years ago.

“I-I… um… wow…” he had stammered, his fingers twitching at his sleeves. “You… wrote this?”

You simply laughed.

“Of course I did. Who else would I write about?”

He didn’t know how to answer that.

So instead, he drew.

A few days after your conversation, that is.

Idia had always been good at art—sketching was second nature to him, a quiet hobby he indulged in when he needed to clear his head. But now, every idle doodle, every sketch in the margins of his notebooks, was of you.

The tilt of your head when you peered into his screen. The way your eyes softened when you looked at him. The delicate curve of your fingers as you held your pen, lost in thought.

He didn’t show you at first. It felt too raw, too personal. Like, if you saw it, you’d know just how much space you had carved into his thoughts, how easily you had settled into his world without even trying.

Maybe that was the point.

To show you how much you meant to him.

But then, one evening, as you sat together in his room—you’re lost in your writing, your boyfriend sketching absentmindedly—you caught a glimpse of his notebook and gasped.

“Is that me?”

Idia tensed, his fingers twitching as if to slam the book shut. But you had already leaned over, your gaze locked onto the pages, your eyes wide as you traced the lines of your own face on the paper.

“You’re insane,” you whispered, your voice filled with awe.

“This is amazing.”

He hunched his shoulders, his hair flickering between shades of pink and blue. “It’s not a big deal…”

“It is to me.”

Your fingers brushed against his, and Idia felt the warmth of your touch settle deep in his chest.

“You write about me,” he muttered, his voice quiet.

“I guess… this is how I write about you.”

You smiled, nodding. “Then I guess we’re even.”

His heart pounded, his fingers curling into the fabric of his hoodie.

“Y-Yeah… even…”

But you weren’t done looking. You turned the pages slowly, taking in every sketch. Some were detailed, inked carefully with soft shading that made your features stand out, while others were simple pencil sketches, quick and loose. Some had little notes scribbled in the margins—things like Her smile was really pretty today or I think she’d like this outfit—and the further you flipped, the harder it became for Idia to breathe.

“You’ve been drawing me this whole time?” you asked.

Idia swallowed hard, feeling like his soul was about to eject from his body. “I-I mean… you’re… I like drawing you.”

You hummed, shaking your head. “No one’s ever drawn me before,” you admitted. “And definitely not like this. It’s like a commissioned self-portrait.”

He ducked his head against his desk. It’s all too much for him, and yet, he yearns for more.

“Well… no one’s ever written about me before either.”

You reached for your notebook and flipped to a page filled with fresh ink. “I wrote something new,” you told him. “Do you want to hear it?”

Idia hesitated, but he nodded.

You took a breath, then began reading.

Your voice was steady and soft, weaving words like magic.

You spoke of constellations hidden in the depths of golden eyes, of firelight that flickered and burned but never consumed. Of hands that danced over sketchbooks, creating entire worlds with nothing but ink and quiet devotion. Of a boy who lived in shadows and blue-tinted neon, who never realized he shone just as brightly as the screens he spent hid behind on.

By the time you finished, Idia was gripping his sketchbook so tightly his knuckles were almost turning white.

“…T-That’s—” His voice cracked, his throat dry. “That’s… about me?”

“Of course, Idia.”

His mind was racing, his chest aching with something he didn’t know how to name. He didn’t understand how you saw this side of him—a version of him that is raw—in ways he had never expected. And for once, instead of wanting to hide, he wanted to let you see more.

Slowly, hesitantly, he reached for his pencil and turned to a fresh page. “C-Can I draw you again?”

Your smile grew, and you leaned into his side, your fingers resting over his. “Only if you let me write about you again.”

Idia let out a shaky breath, his heart pounding.

“Deal.”

But somehow, he knew he would never stop drawing you. Even if time catches up to him and he could no longer hold a pencil. There will always be a way for him to draw his muse.

Just as he knew you would never stop writing about him.

Two halves of the same story—lines and words, ink and paper, art and poetry intertwined.

SEUMYO © 2025. PLEASE DO NOT REPOST, PLAGIARIZE, MODIFY OR TRANSLATE.

[missmadella]

The Game’s Twist: Win or Kiss (Chishiya x Reader)

Summary: You and Chishiya meet in the Borderlands through sharp sarcasm and reluctant teamwork. Over multiple deadly games, your teasing turns into trust, and that tension finally snaps during a “Win or Kiss” challenge—where neither of you wait for the rules.

Later, in the quiet of an abandoned hotel, the walls between you fall further. He doesn’t know how to handle closeness, but you’re patient—and maybe that’s enough to make him stay.

Words: 6529

The first time you met Chishiya was on a night that felt like the city itself was holding its breath. The streets outside were empty, the kind of eerie quiet that made every sound feel louder than it should. Inside the half-forgotten arcade, the flicker of neon lights cast long shadows across rows of claw machines and pinball tables, their screens frozen or glitching, like remnants of a forgotten past.

You were pacing the cracked floor, trying to make sense of the silence and the strange rules of this deadly game you’d been dragged into. Your eyes scanned every corner, every shadow, hoping to find something—anything—that made sense.

And then you saw him.

He was leaning against a claw machine in the far corner, the dim light catching just enough of his sharp features to make him stand out without really drawing attention. His posture was relaxed, almost lazy, but his eyes were alert, calm, and impossibly sharp—like he was already a step ahead of everyone else.

You weren’t sure if he noticed you, but you decided to break the silence anyway.

“Lovely place for a game, huh?” you said, voice loud enough to fill the space but low enough not to sound like you were begging for a conversation.

He glanced at you once—just once—his expression unreadable and flat. “If you enjoy the scent of dust and despair,” he replied, voice quiet and dry, like he was commenting on the weather rather than a life-or-death situation.

You blinked, then smirked. “Oh, how poetic. You should write greeting cards.”

No reaction from him. Just that same unreadable look, as if your sarcasm barely registered.

“Well, since you’re not much for chit-chat, I guess I’ll carry the conversation,” you said, stepping a little closer. “I was worried I’d be stuck wandering this place talking to myself.”

He didn’t move or speak, just tilted his head slightly toward you—maybe a gesture, maybe a warning. You weren’t sure.

“Right. Because misery loves company,” you added, voice dripping with irony.

This time, he gave you a glance sharp enough to cut glass. “Company usually slows things down,” he said plainly.

You laughed, a little harsher than you intended. “Oh, great. I’m an obstacle now.”

The corner of his mouth twitched—a movement so small you almost missed it. But that was it. No words. No smiles. Just quiet.

You shook your head, feeling strangely intrigued despite his coldness. “You don’t say much. That’s got to be a superpower in this mess.”

His eyes flicked to the door briefly, then back to you. “Talking wastes time.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Depends on who you’re talking to.”

No answer. Just silence again.

For a moment, you thought you might have scared him off. But then, almost imperceptibly, he shifted his stance, as if acknowledging you without saying a word.

And that was it. No warm welcome, no promises, just two strangers sharing the same broken, silent space—one sarcastic, the other watching, waiting, always a step ahead.

You weren’t sure why you didn’t just walk away after that first cold exchange. Maybe it was stubbornness. Maybe it was curiosity. Or maybe it was the fact that, even in his silence, that guy — pale hoodie, white-blonde hair, eyes like a scalpel — didn’t look like he was just killing time. He looked like someone who already knew how the game would end.

That made him dangerous. And interesting.

So you didn’t leave.

You paced a bit, arms crossed, glancing between the arcade windows and him. Occasionally, you spoke — mostly to yourself, but loud enough that he could hear.

“They could at least put some music on. Dying in silence feels a bit dramatic, even for me.”

Nothing.

You wandered past a busted DDR machine and sighed. “You know, I’m starting to think this game is less about survival and more about psychological torture. Trapped with flickering lights, existential dread, and a guy who talks less than a damn corpse.”

Still nothing.

You glanced back. He was watching a screen above one of the doors — a tiny red light blinking in the corner. Observing. Analyzing. Like a scientist watching mice in a maze.

You tilted your head, frowning slightly. “What are you looking at?”

No reply. Not even a glance.

You stepped a little closer, just enough to test a boundary. “Let me guess: silent genius, mysterious past, trust issues the size of Tokyo.”

That earned you a glance — brief, cold. But still a glance.

You grinned, like you’d just scored a point.

“Wow. Was that eye contact? I feel honored. Next thing you know, you’ll be telling me your name.”

He turned back to the screen.

“Yeah,” you muttered to yourself, “didn’t think so.”

Silence fell again, but it didn’t feel the same. Not quite as heavy.

You sat down on a step near a busted crane game, glancing up at the ceiling where the fluorescent light was sputtering like it was on its last breath.

“Do you think anyone’s even running these games?” you asked after a moment. “Like… is there someone behind a camera somewhere watching us? Betting on who makes it out?”

He didn’t move.

But after a long moment, he said, softly: “They’re not betting. They already know who survives.”

You blinked, caught off guard by the quiet reply. It wasn’t casual, and it wasn’t cruel — just stated, like fact. Like he'd seen it happen before.

Your eyes narrowed, thoughtful. “You’ve played before.”

He didn’t confirm or deny it. But the way he didn’t answer… that was answer enough.

You leaned back, letting the silence stretch again. This time, it felt earned.

“Guess I’ll have to stick close to you, then,” you murmured, eyes closing for a second.

That finally got a reaction — subtle, but there. The faintest shift of his jaw. Maybe irritation. Maybe something else.

You didn’t look at him when you added, dryly, “Don’t worry. I’m great at being dead weight.”

Still no reply. But somehow, that felt like the closest thing to a conversation you were going to get.

And strangely… you didn’t mind it.

Not yet.

___________________________________________________________________________

The game started without warning.

One second the arcade was still and stale, and the next, the overhead lights flickered violently, then turned blood-red. A mechanical voice echoed from somewhere above, flat and unfeeling:

“GAME START. OBJECTIVE: SURVIVE. TIME LIMIT: 30 MINUTES.”

Then came the sound — a mechanical whir, followed by the distant grind of metal sliding open. Somewhere in the building, something had been released.

Your body tensed instinctively. You scrambled to your feet and turned toward Chishiya’s corner — but he was already moving.

Not panicked. Not rushing. Just moving with that eerie, surgical calm.

Of course he had a plan.

You jogged after him. “Hey. Don’t suppose you want to share whatever Sherlock-level theory you’ve cooked up, do you?”

He didn’t answer. He turned a corner, passing under a cracked “EXIT” sign, and disappeared into a hallway behind the prize counter.

You muttered to yourself. “Right. Guess I’ll just follow the quiet cryptid through the murder-maze. What could possibly go wrong?”

The hallway was darker, lit only by a few flickering wall panels. You followed his silhouette — hood up, hands tucked in his pockets like he had all the time in the world. Occasionally, he paused, just briefly, eyes darting to vents, to corners, to seams in the walls.

You realized he wasn’t just walking. He was tracking.

You caught up beside him and muttered, “You’re either the smartest guy in this building or the most suspicious.”

He didn’t look at you. “Probably both.”

You blinked. That... was the most he’d said since you met.

He stopped abruptly and held out a hand — not to touch you, but to signal. Quiet. Still.

And then you heard it: dragging footsteps. Heavy breathing. Something metallic scraping against tile.

Your mouth went dry.

Something was out there.

You instinctively started to step back, but his hand shifted — palm out, quiet and quick. A silent wait.

You froze.

The sound passed — slowly, like whatever it was hadn’t quite locked on yet. A beat passed, then another.

Chishiya finally moved, ducking into a side room. You followed, heart pounding.

Inside, it looked like an old break room. Dusty couches, vending machines gutted long ago, fluorescent light humming overhead.

He crouched by the door, listening.

You stayed near the far wall, catching your breath, then muttered under your breath, “Do you do this in every game? The whole brooding-in-shadows thing? Or is this just for me?”

He didn’t look back. “You talk too much.”

You grinned despite yourself. “I know. Annoying, right? But I’m endearing if you squint.”

Still no answer. But there was something almost like amusement flickering behind his eyes when he glanced your way.

A long silence settled between you. The air was tense, but not quite unbearable. Your breathing slowed. His stayed steady.

And for a moment, there was nothing — no footsteps, no alarms, no chaos.

Just the two of you. Waiting.

You risked a whisper. “You’re not going to leave me behind, are you?”

Another long pause.

Then, quietly: “Not yet.”

Your heart fluttered — not romantically. Not exactly. More like… you weren’t alone. Not entirely. Not in the way that mattered right now.

“Cool,” you said, leaning back against the vending machine. “Because I’m pretty sure I’m growing on you.”

Chishiya didn’t reply.

But when he turned away, you were certain — for just a second — that he was hiding the barest hint of a smirk.

__________________________________________________________________________

The silence in the break room was thick, wrapped in the low hum of failing lights and the phantom echo of something moving in the walls.

You didn’t realize how tightly you were gripping the vending machine until your fingers started to ache. Slowly, you peeled yourself away and dropped into the dusty couch across from him.

Chishiya sat against the door, legs drawn up loosely, hoodie bunched around his elbows, eyes fixed on a crack of light near the floor. Watching. Waiting.

He didn’t look at you, but he finally spoke, voice low. “You panic too easily.”

You blinked. “Wow. A full sentence. We’re making progress.”

He didn’t react.

You leaned your head back. “And sorry if being chased by a masked psycho triggers a little panic. I must’ve missed the part of my life where I trained for all this.”

“You talk like you’ve never played a game before,” he said flatly.

You sat up a little straighter. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Chishiya turned to look at you properly for the first time. Not just a glance. A look — slow, calculating, like he was deciding whether or not to let you in on a secret.

“You play them,” he said, voice calm, “but you don’t know what kind of player you are.”

You frowned. “Okay, Confucius. Feel free to explain.”

He tilted his head just slightly. “There are two kinds. People who play to survive, and people who play to win.”

You stared at him. “And which one are you?”

He didn’t answer right away. His gaze dropped again to the gap under the door.

“I don’t lose,” he said simply.

You let out a quiet scoff, almost amused. “Wow. Humble too.”

For a moment, you thought that was the end of it. But then, he spoke again — quietly. Almost like it slipped out before he could stop it.

“You talk a lot,” he said, “but you’re not stupid.”

You blinked. “Is that… a compliment?”

He shrugged once. “Observation.”

You smiled faintly and leaned forward, elbows on your knees. “Well, if I’m such a sharp little chatterbox, you’re not exactly the picture of emotional intelligence.”

“No need to be,” he said simply. “I just have to stay alive.”

Your smile faded, just a little. There was something empty in his voice. Not cold — just… resigned. Like he’d already made peace with not feeling anything more than necessary.

It made your chest feel a little tight.

You didn’t say anything to that. Just sat with it for a moment, letting the heavy quiet return.

Then — suddenly — the lights above you flickered once, then cut out entirely. Darkness swallowed the room, fast and suffocating.

Both of you stilled.

In the silence, something clicked outside the door.

Chishiya stood in one smooth motion. Not tense — just ready. He reached into his hoodie pocket and pulled out a screwdriver. Not a weapon, not really. But in his hand, it somehow looked dangerous.

Your voice was a whisper. “Is that thing actually useful, or are you just trying to look cool?”

In the dark, you heard him answer, flat and dry:

“Both.”

You snorted quietly — then flinched as a long, dragging scrape echoed in the hallway outside.

Chishiya glanced toward the far end of the room — the emergency access door.

“Time to go,” he murmured.

You rose quickly, pulse kicking up. “Are we running?”

He didn’t look back as he walked to the door.

“No. We’re thinking faster.”

___________________________________________________________________________

The emergency door groaned as Chishiya pushed it open just enough to peek through. Red emergency lights pulsed from the hallway beyond, casting deep shadows across the cracked linoleum. Somewhere, something metal dragged along the floor in slow, deliberate beats — a rhythm meant to unnerve.

He held up a hand without looking back. “Stay close.”

You blinked. “You’re joking.”

He glanced over his shoulder, deadpan. “Do I seem like someone who jokes?”

Fair point.

You stepped beside him, pulse thudding like a drum in your ears. The hallway was narrow, suffocating. Far down the corridor, a figure flickered into view — tall, broad-shouldered, the unmistakable silhouette of a mask gleaming under red light.

The Tagger.

You felt the air leave your lungs. “Shit.”

Chishiya didn’t flinch. His eyes darted once — to a maintenance closet halfway down the opposite hall.

“On my count,” he murmured.

“What are we doing—?”

“Three.”

Your heart jumped.

“Two.”

You took a breath, eyes locked on the Tagger.

“One.”

You both bolted.

The hallway exploded into movement — your feet pounding beside his, air sharp in your lungs. The Tagger moved too, quick and brutal, barreling down the corridor behind you. You could hear the metallic clang of boots against tile, gaining on you fast.

Chishiya hit the closet door, yanked it open, and practically shoved you inside ahead of him.

It was barely a meter wide.

Shelves, wires, cleaning supplies. No exits.

You turned to him, breath ragged. “Seriously?! This is your genius plan?”

“Shh.” He held a finger to his lips, eyes sharp. Listening.

You froze, shoulder pressed into his chest, backs cramped against cleaning fluid and dust-covered boxes. You could feel his breath against your temple — steady, even. In contrast, you were shaking.

Bootsteps stopped just outside the closet door.

You held your breath.

A long silence.

Then a slow, deliberate knock against the wood.

You flinched. Chishiya didn’t move.

Another knock. And then, the worst sound: the metallic squeak of the handle turning.

Your hand flew to Chishiya’s arm on instinct.

He didn’t react.

The handle creaked. Stopped.

And then… footsteps. Fading.

You didn’t breathe until ten whole seconds passed.

When you finally exhaled, it came out as a sharp whisper: “I swear to god—”

His hand gently nudged yours off his arm. “You’re shaking.”

“I’m aware,” you hissed. “We almost died in a janitor’s closet.”

He tilted his head, calm even now. “Not my preferred method of dying.”

Your mouth dropped open. “Wait— was that— was that your attempt at humor?”

Chishiya blinked at you, neutral.

You gave a breathless laugh. “You’re unbelievable.”

He looked at you a beat longer, then quietly said, “You followed orders. That’s good.”

“You mean I didn’t get us both killed?”

A shrug. “Not yet.”

You were still so close — pressed together in the dark, breath mingling. His hoodie brushed your arm. His voice was quiet, unbothered.

But his eyes — they were watching you.

You swallowed hard. “You don’t seem scared.”

“I’m not.”

You narrowed your eyes. “Why?”

He leaned in just slightly — close enough to murmur, “Because I don’t need to be.”

You opened your mouth to say something — sarcastic, probably — but nothing came.

Instead, you realized you hadn’t stepped back.

Neither had he.

And suddenly, the air between you felt heavier than it had before.

___________________________________________________________________________

The first game ended with blood.

Not yours, thankfully. But someone else’s — one of the louder ones, the cocky guy who underestimated how fast the Tagger moved. You and Chishiya made it out with seconds to spare, breathing heavy in the open air as fireworks bloomed above the Borderland skyline.

He didn’t say much afterward. Just gave you a nod — subtle, almost lazy — and disappeared into the crowd like smoke on the wind. You didn’t even get a name. But that wasn’t surprising. He didn’t seem like someone who gave pieces of himself away easily.

Still, you remembered him. The white hoodie. The cool, glassy gaze. The snark delivered so calmly it could’ve passed for boredom. He was like a ghost with perfect timing.

You didn’t expect to see him again.

But then you did.

A Hearts game, two weeks later. The rules were different. The stakes, higher. And yet — there he was. Leaning against a wall, arms crossed, scanning the other players with that detached, dissecting stare.

He glanced your way, and his brow ticked just slightly upward. Recognition.

You smirked and offered a mock salute. “Miss me?”

“No,” he said immediately. But he didn’t look away.

You worked well together — better than you should’ve. You didn’t trust easily, but you trusted him to watch your back when no one else would. Not because he cared. But because it was logical.

And in this world, that was almost better.

You parted again after that. No goodbye. No promises. Just a shared look, a mutual nod, and silence.

But the next time — you found yourself scanning crowds expecting him.

And he found you, like always. Effortlessly.

There were more games. A Diamonds game where you ended up on opposing sides but still managed to outsmart the host by working silently in sync. A Clovers game that nearly killed you both, where you were crammed into a vent space with him and actually heard him laugh — just once, soft and sharp like an exhale.

“Did you just laugh?” you whispered, shocked.

“No,” he said. But his eyes said otherwise.

You never asked him for his name.

And he never asked for yours.

But it started to feel like he already knew it — the way he said you, always with a tilt of his head and a faint twitch of his mouth, like you amused him in ways he didn’t care to admit.

Somehow, he became the closest thing you had to a constant.

Not a partner. Not really a friend. But something that sat between those two things like a thread you didn’t dare pull.

A presence.

Sometimes you didn’t see him for days. Other times, he’d just appear — near the edge of a new game, hands in his pockets, eyes already on you. Never calling out. Never smiling. Just watching.

And when you made it out alive, he’d still be there.

Not celebrating.

Just… present.

And somehow, that meant more.

___________________________________________________________________________

The game was called “Two Truths, One Lie.”

At least, that’s what the sign read when you stepped into the game arena — a hollowed-out lounge floor of a luxury hotel, all mirrors and fake elegance. A Heart game. Of course.

You scanned the room — a dozen or so contestants, each warily sizing the others up.

And then your eyes landed on him.

White hoodie. Blond hair. Quiet smile. That same unreadable gaze, cutting through the chaos like a scalpel.

He didn’t move when he saw you. Just watched as you walked in, that familiar stillness wrapped around him like armor.

“You again,” you said, stepping beside him like no time had passed at all.

“Statistically, it was bound to happen.” You gave him a look. “You missed me.”

“I forgot you existed.”

“You’re a terrible liar,” you said, folding your arms. “Good thing we’re in the right game for that.”

A voice crackled through the speakers before he could respond.

“Welcome, players, to tonight’s game: Two Truths, One Lie.”

“You will be paired off at random. Each pair must take turns telling two truths and one lie. If your partner guesses correctly, you stay alive. If they guess wrong…”

A gun slid out of the wall near one of the lounge chairs.

“One strike. Five rounds. Lie well — or die trying.”

“Oh,” the voice added, almost mockingly sweet. “And the winners of each round must seal it with a kiss. For confirmation.”

You blinked. “That’s—”

“Unnecessary,” Chishiya finished flatly.

The room murmured. Some players looked terrified. Others intrigued.

You tried to act unbothered, but your heartbeat spiked. A mechanical whirl signaled the pairing. Names flickered on the wall.

Your name. His.

Chishiya turned toward you, head tilting slightly. “Well. Looks like someone up there has a sense of humor.”

“Funny, I was thinking the same thing.”

A pause. Then he stepped closer, just enough to drop his voice.

“I hope you’re a better liar than you are at running.” You smiled sweetly. “I hope you’re better at guessing than you are at flirting.”

A flicker — something in his eyes. Maybe amusement.

Maybe something else. You sat across from him as the timer started ticking.

Round One.

You spoke first.

“Okay,” you said. “I’ve broken two bones. I hate tea. I used to be a ballet dancer.”

He stared at you, unblinking. “You’ve never broken a bone.”

“Wrong.”

The buzzer blared. A red X flashed on the screen. You could see it — the faintest twitch in his jaw. Not frustration. Something closer to calculation.

“My turn,” he said. “I’ve never lost a game. I hate crowds. I’ve been kissed in the Borderlands.”

You blinked. What?

That last one threw you. He stared at you like he knew it would.

You bit your lip, thinking. “The lie is… the kiss. You haven’t kissed anyone here.”

Another buzzer.

Correct.

You raised an eyebrow. “Huh.”

“I told you. I don’t lie.” The screen flashed:

“Seal the win: Kiss your partner.”

You both sat in silence. He didn’t move.

Neither did you. But eventually, you leaned forward — just a little. He didn’t pull away. Just watched you with that unreadable calm, something slow burning just behind his eyes.

Your lips brushed his — brief. Just enough.

When you pulled back, your heart was racing. Not from the game.

He looked at you for a long moment. Then, out of nowhere: “Shuntarō.”

You blinked. “What?”

“My name,” he said. “In case we don’t both make it to round two.” You stared. He hadn’t given you a name in all this time. And now—

“…It’s nice to meet you, Shuntarō.”

He tilted his head. “Your turn.”

You hesitated. Then smiled.

“[Your Name].”

___________________________________________________________________________

Round Two

You’re not sure if the room feels warmer or if it’s just you. Your lips still tingle from the kiss — short, barely there — but Chishiya hasn’t looked away from you since. His expression is unreadable, but there’s something quieter in his gaze now. Not soft. Just… focused.

The screen flashes.

“Begin.”

You go first again.

You lean back in the chair, cross your legs, and look him square in the eye.

“I was in med school,” you say slowly. “I don’t believe in love. And I think I might be starting to trust you.”

That last one hangs heavy in the air. Deliberate.

Chishiya tilts his head, eyes narrowing slightly. He’s processing, but he doesn’t show his hand. Not yet.

“You didn’t go to med school,” he finally says.

Buzz.

Wrong.

He blinks once, expression unreadable.

“You don’t believe in love,” he murmurs.

It’s not a question. More like an observation he’s logging away for later. You give him a faint smirk. “Got a problem with that?”

“No,” he replies. “It makes sense.” You’re not sure if that’s an insult or a compliment. With him, it might be both.

“Your turn,” you say.

He’s quiet for a second longer than necessary. Then:

“I’ve killed someone,” he says, evenly. “I used to believe people could be saved. And I don’t regret anything I’ve done in the Borderlands.” You stare at him. The calm in his voice is chilling.

“Wow,” you mutter. “We really went there.”

You try to read his face, but it’s like trying to read a locked door. No cracks. No keys.

“The lie…” you say slowly, “is that you don’t regret anything.”

Silence. Then the chime of a correct guess.

Chishiya doesn’t move. But something flickers in his eyes — the ghost of something old and sharp and buried deep. Regret, maybe. You don’t ask. Not yet.

The screen flashes again:

“Seal the win: Kiss your partner.”

Neither of you moves right away this time. Then, you rise slowly from your seat. You don’t rush, and you don’t ask permission. He watches you like he’s dissecting the moment — every breath, every choice.

You lean in — but this kiss is different.

It lingers.

It’s not demanding or desperate. Just… quiet. Certain. Familiar in a way that surprises you both.

When you pull back, your faces are close. And you murmur, before you can overthink it:

“I didn’t lie about trusting you.”

His reply is soft. Almost unheard.

“I know.”

You sit back down. Round Three is coming. You don’t know what the final round will ask of you. But for the first time since arriving in this hell of a world — you’re not entirely afraid.

You’re not alone.

___________________________________________________________________________

Round Three

The screen pulses again. You settle back in your seat, and Chishiya does the same — like you’re both pretending this is just another routine interaction, not a strange psychological striptease in front of a room full of strangers.

You go first.

“I had a sibling,” you say, voice calm but a little quieter. “I wanted to disappear long before the Borderlands. And I’ve never once thought about what comes after.”

Chishiya watches you. And this time, he doesn’t answer immediately. Something sharp flickers across his face — brief, but unmistakable.

“The lie is… the last one,” he says.

Your breath catches.

Correct.

Of course he saw through it. Of course he’d know. You’ve both survived too long not to wonder what’s left after the blood dries. After the games stop.

You glance at him. “Getting good at this.”

“I’m a quick learner.”

His turn.

“I’ve let people die to save myself,” he says. “I miss someone, but I don’t remember their name. I wanted to die once.”

You stare.

He says it so quietly. So easily. And yet the words drop like stones.

You search his face — that blank, clinical stillness — and realize it’s no act. This is just how he survives.

You swallow hard. “The lie is… you wanted to die.”

Silence.

Buzz.

Wrong.

You blink, but he’s already looking away — as if even he doesn’t want to sit in the truth for too long.

You don't press him. Something in your chest tightens, but you keep it down. He gave you that truth. Maybe that’s enough.

The screen flashes.

“Seal the win.”

This time, he leans forward first.

His hand barely brushes your jaw — a silent ask. You let him. And when his lips meet yours this time, it’s slower. Realer. Less of a formality, more of a release.

When you part, his eyes linger on yours a little longer than necessary.

You don’t say anything. Neither does he.

___________________________________________________________________________

Round Four

The room feels smaller now. Like the air’s getting heavier with every kiss, every answer.

You let out a slow breath. “Okay,” you say. “I’ve thought about kissing you before. I used to think love made people weak. And I hate how calm you are all the time.”

A flicker. Chishiya’s lips tilt — barely.

“The lie,” he says, “is that you hate how calm I am.”

Correct.

You shrug, trying to look indifferent. “Took you long enough.”

“You’re transparent when you’re annoyed,” he replies.

You’re not smiling. Definitely not. He clears his throat softly — then it’s his turn.

“I didn’t care when I saw you die in the first game we met,” he says. “I remembered the exact number of seconds we kissed last round. I don’t want to lose you.”

Your breath stutters. It’s not just the words — it’s the way he says them, like peeling skin off something raw.

You stare at him, throat dry. “The lie is… the first one.”

A pause.

Then: Correct.

You don’t realize how hard your heart’s beating until the screen lights up again.

“Seal the win.”

This time, it’s both of you — meeting in the middle.

The kiss is longer now, but softer. The kind of kiss that says I see you. That says I’m still here. That says everything else you’re too afraid to put into words.

When you pull back, you’re not sure who’s trembling more.

Just one round left.

___________________________________________________________________________

Final Round

The lights dim slightly. The screen flickers, slower now — like the game itself is holding its breath.

You feel it too. That crawling sense in your chest, right behind your ribs. Something’s coming.

And then, in bold, glowing red:

FINAL ROUND: Say what you’ve never told anyone. One truth. One lie. No repeats.

No second chances. Wrong guess? One of you loses.

You both go still.

There’s no elaboration. But you understand. You always do by now.

Lose what? Your life? Your mind? Each other?

Chishiya doesn’t speak. But the tension in his jaw tells you enough. Even he’s not immune to this kind of pressure.

You go first.

You steady yourself, and say:

“I was afraid I wouldn’t see you again. I think I could love you.”

Silence.

His gaze sharpens — not cold, but focused like a scalpel. He watches you like he’s trying to see through the bones.

Seconds pass. Five. Ten.

Then, finally: “The lie is… you think you could love me.”

You blink, confused.

The screen flashes.

Correct.

Wait—what?

He doesn’t wait for you to piece it together. “You already do,” he says quietly, eyes not leaving yours.

Something in your chest cracks.

You want to argue, deflect, make another sarcastic jab. But you can’t. You just breathe — uneven, caught.

Then it’s his turn.

He doesn't hesitate. His voice is soft, flat as always — but it hits like thunder.

“I thought I didn’t need anyone. I only kissed you because of the game.”

The words hang in the air like a blade suspended by a thread.

You barely hear yourself whisper: “The lie is… you only kissed me because of the game.”

The screen holds still for a beat too long.

Then:

Correct.

He exhales like a weight finally leaves his shoulders.

And just like that, the screen gives its final command:

WINNERS, the screen eventually declares, in blinking letters behind your entwined shadows. SEAL-

But it never finishes completely.

Because you’re already moving.

You don’t know who reached for whom first. Maybe it doesn’t matter. One moment, you're standing in the slow glow of the game’s final stage, and the next —

You’re in his arms, and he's kissing you like nothing else exists.

No smugness. No snark. Just hands in your hair, a steady grip at your waist, and that unflinching mouth finally pressed to yours with nothing left held back.

It isn’t neat or clean. It’s messy. A little desperate. His fingers curl into your jacket like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he lets go. And maybe you feel the same, because you don’t dare pull away.

He kisses you like a man who’s spent a lifetime pretending not to feel.

And you let him. Because you’re done pretending too.

When you finally break apart, just barely, you’re both breathing hard. His forehead rests against yours. And for once, neither of you tries to fill the silence.

___________________________________________________________________________

The door clicks softly behind you, sealing off the distant hum of the city and the relentless chaos of the game outside. The stale air of the empty room wraps around you like a fragile bubble of calm, but the tension between you is anything but calm.

Before either of you can catch your breath, his lips find yours again—slow, deliberate, testing, like he's memorizing the way your mouth moves. Your fingers weave through his thick, unkempt hair, pulling him closer as the heat between you rises, pulsing with a quiet urgency.

He leans you back gently against the cracked windowpane, the faint glow of neon lights flickering through the glass, casting shadows that dance across his sharp features. His eyes, usually so guarded and unreadable, hold a flicker of something raw and dangerous as they lock onto yours.

“I thought we were supposed to be resting,” you murmur, breathless and teasing, your voice barely above a whisper.

A dry, humorless smirk curls at the corner of his mouth. “Resting can wait,” he replies, fingers trailing down your side with a featherlight touch, “You’re going to be the death of me.”

You laugh softly, the sound shaky but amused. “That sounds like a warning.”

“Maybe,” he says, voice low and rough, “but also a promise.”

His lips press harder against yours, deeper now, and the slow exploration melts into something fiercer. His hands roam your back, sliding beneath your jacket, skin meeting skin, igniting a fire that burns through the cold quiet of the room. You arch into him, craving more of the warmth and sharp edge of his touch.

The scent of dust and old wood mingles with his clean, smoky scent, grounding you as your breaths mingle in the close space between you. His grip tightens slightly, fingers digging into your waist as if to anchor himself, and you respond with a shiver, lips parting, inviting him in.

He captures your bottom lip between his teeth, tugging gently before dipping his head to trace a path down your jawline, each touch sending sparks that ripple through your nerves. Your hands clutch at his shirt, pulling him impossibly closer until there’s no space left between you.

The window’s cold press contrasts sharply with the heat radiating from your bodies, and you feel dizzy, intoxicated by the sharp edges of his presence and the softness hidden beneath.

Neither of you speaks. There’s only the sound of ragged breaths, the faint city noises outside, and the relentless beat of your heart syncing with his.

When you finally break apart, your lips swollen and your chest heaving, you catch your breath and look up into his eyes—dark, intense, and unreadable, but with a hint of something fragile just beneath the surface.

“What now?” you whisper, voice trembling between hope and fear.

His hand finds yours, thumb brushing softly over your knuckles. “Now,” he says quietly, “we figure out how to survive—together.”

And in that moment, with the world outside forgotten and only the heat of your bodies left, it feels like that might just be enough.

___________________________________________________________________________

After a moment, his hands slowly slide down from your waist, but the tension between you doesn’t lessen—it only shifts, deeper, more intimate. He steps back just enough to glance around the dim room, then without a word, his eyes flick back to you, sharp and unreadable.

You move first, breaking the space between you as you take his hand, tugging him gently toward the battered bed pushed against the far wall. The mattress is thin and stained, far from comfortable, but right now it’s a sanctuary.

As you both settle onto the edge, your fingers don’t leave his hand. Instead, they curl tighter around his as your bodies lean in closer, the warmth radiating from him pulling you like gravity.

His lips brush against yours again—lighter this time, like a secret shared in the quiet dark. Your breath catches, and you close your eyes, letting yourself fall into the moment.

One hand slides up to cup the back of your neck, thumb tracing slow, deliberate circles against your skin. You respond by tilting your head, deepening the kiss until it’s slow and endless, like time has stopped and nothing else matters.

His other hand drifts down your side, fingers skimming just beneath your shirt, warm and steady. You shiver, heart pounding, the contact both electric and grounding all at once.

The weight of his body shifts against yours as he moves closer, chest pressed to chest, breath mingling with yours in the dim room. You feel his pulse under your fingertips, steady and sure—like a quiet promise amid the chaos.

You pull back just enough to catch his eyes, searching for the usual unreadable calm behind them. But now there’s something softer there, something almost hopeful.

He gives you a brief, almost-smile—one that doesn’t quite reach his lips but somehow says everything.

“Not a bad place to rest,” he murmurs quietly, voice low and rough.

You smirk, brushing your fingers against his cheek. “Not bad at all.”

And then you’re kissing again—slow, tender, like you’re trying to memorize every inch of him, every quiet breath, every fleeting touch before the world pulls you back into its madness.

___________________________________________________________________________

The room is heavy with silence, but it’s not uncomfortable. It’s the kind of quiet that settles between two people who don’t need to fill every moment with words—yet the space still hums with something unspoken.

You shift closer, your fingers brushing against his hand, then daringly move to trace the line of his jaw. He tenses for a moment, eyes flicking to you, unreadable but alert.

Without a word, you press a soft kiss to his cheek—quick, tentative. He barely flinches.

“Hey,” you murmur, voice low, “you’re kinda hard to read, you know that?”

He lets out a dry chuckle, almost like a cough. “I’m not exactly an easy person.”

You grin, pressing another kiss to the corner of his mouth. “You’re like a locked door, and I’m the stubborn key.”

His gaze sharpens, like he’s weighing the metaphor—and then he just shrugs. “I don’t know anything about this.”

“About what?” you ask, tilting your head.

“This,” he says, voice softer, but still cautious—the way someone unfamiliar with warmth might talk about fire. “Being close to someone. Relationships. …I don’t do well with it.”

You smile gently, brushing your fingers through his hair. “Well, lucky for you, I’m patient.”

He snorts softly, eyes half-lidded, a faint flicker of something like amusement breaking through. “That’s… dangerous.”

You laugh quietly, leaning in to steal another kiss—this one longer, softer. His lips part against yours, hesitant but not pulling away.

“Yeah,” you say, voice barely a whisper, “but I’m good at handling difficult things.”

He doesn’t respond right away—just looks at you with those dark, guarded eyes that somehow feel less distant now.

And in the quiet of the room, with your fingers tangled in his hair and your lips brushing his skin like a secret, you realize this is only the beginning.

[milfsloverblog]

Love Lies Bleeding (part1)

Jane Murdstone x fem!reader

In this house, love is not a refuge—it is a curse.

A/N : here it is, the first chapter of my Jane Murdstone gothic lit inspired fic. This is my precious baby, be nice and show it some love if you wish <3

The journey to the Murdstone estate was long, the carriage rocking gently as it carried you and your new husband through the mist-laden countryside. The landscape blurred past in muted greens and browns, the late afternoon light fading into a dusky grey. Edward sat beside you, his gloved hand resting atop yours, his grip firm—possessive, even. He had always been like that, a man who desired control over what was his. And now, you were his.

Your courtship had been brief, but dazzling. Edward had swept you off your feet with poetic letters, whispered promises, and evenings spent in candlelit drawing rooms where he looked at you as if you were the most precious thing in the world. He had spoken of his estate, his family name, and the legacy you would help him preserve. It had all felt like something out of a novel, and you—eager for adventure, for romance—had allowed yourself to be carried along in his current.

"We're nearly there, darling," he murmured, pressing a lingering kiss to your knuckles. "I do hope you’ll love the estate as much as I do. My sister has been eagerly awaiting your arrival."

The thought of meeting Jane Murdstone had filled you with nervous anticipation ever since Edward first spoke of her. He had painted her as fiercely loyal, devoted to family above all else. But there had been an unspoken weight to his words, a careful selection of phrases that left you wondering what lay beneath. He spoke of her as one might speak of a guardian, a protector of something sacred—his past, his home, perhaps even himself.

As the carriage rumbled through the wrought-iron gates, the mansion came into view—a towering structure of dark stone, its windows like watchful eyes in the fog. It loomed over the land with an air of quiet menace, its gothic spires clawing at the grey sky.

A lone figure stood at the entrance, her posture rigid, her hands clasped before her. Jane Murdstone.

The carriage came to a halt, and before you could step down, Edward was there, offering his hand to help you. As your boots touched the damp earth, you lifted your gaze to Jane’s.

Her eyes, cold and assessing, flicked over you with the precision of a scalpel. Her lips pressed into a thin line, unreadable. She was tall, taller than most women, her dark dress severe against the pale of her skin. A single silver pin held her hair in place, not a strand out of order.

“Jane,” Edward greeted, his voice warm in a way that felt almost… measured. “At last, my wife is home.”

Jane’s gaze flicked to Edward’s before settling back on you. Slowly, she descended the steps, her footsteps near soundless. When she reached you, she extended a hand, gloved in soft black leather.

“Mrs. Murdstone,” she said, voice cool as winter air.

“Please, call me by my name,” you offered, hoping to bridge the formality between you.

A pause. Then, with an almost imperceptible tilt of her head, she murmured, “Very well.”

She held your hand a second too long. Her fingers, though gloved, tightened ever so slightly before releasing you. A flicker of something unreadable passed through her gaze, gone before you could grasp it.

Edward smiled. “Shall we go inside? It’s dreadfully cold out here.”

Jane stepped aside, gesturing toward the heavy oak doors. “Welcome to your new home.”

As you crossed the threshold, the air shifted—cooler, heavier. The scent of aged wood and something faintly floral clung to the air, though it was neither inviting nor comforting. Shadows clung to the high archways, flickering in the dim candlelight.

Behind you, Jane shut the doors, the sound echoing through the grand hall. When you turned, you found her watching you—not with the warmth of a sister-in-law, but with something else entirely.

Possession.

Edward's hand found your waist, pulling you closer to his side, and for a brief moment, Jane’s lips twitched—as if she found the gesture amusing, or perhaps, unnecessary.

✢✦✢

Edward insisted on giving you a tour of the estate himself, leading you through long corridors adorned with heavy tapestries and paintings of Murdstone ancestors whose dark eyes seemed to follow you as you passed.

“The house has been in our family for generations,” Edward said proudly, his hand resting against the polished bannister as you descended a grand staircase. “Every stone, every beam, has a history.”

At his side, Jane walked in silence, her gaze fixed forward, offering no further insights into the home she had spent her life in.

He led you through a series of cavernous rooms—a vast drawing room lined with bookcases, a conservatory with glass panes fogged from the cold, a dimly lit dining hall where a long mahogany table stretched beneath a chandelier that had long lost its brilliance. You tried to imagine these rooms filled with warmth, with life, but they felt more like relics of a past long since buried.

When you reached the end of one corridor, Edward gestured toward a heavy wooden door. “My study,” he said. “You’re welcome to enter anytime, of course.”

Jane’s lips parted slightly, as if she might object, but she said nothing.

“And Jane’s quarters are just down that hall,” Edward continued. “She prefers her privacy.”

Jane’s gaze flickered toward you, something sharp in her eyes, but she remained silent.

When Edward finally led you back to your chambers, he pressed a lingering kiss to your temple. “I hope you’ll grow to love it here,” he murmured.

Behind him, Jane watched, her expression unreadable.

✢✦✢

The first night at the Murdstone estate was suffocating.

The grand bedroom Edward had led you to was beautiful, if haunting—tall windows shrouded in heavy velvet curtains, dark mahogany furniture that loomed rather than stood, a fireplace large enough to swallow a person whole. The bed, a grand four-poster draped in silken sheets, felt cold despite its lavishness.

Edward had left you there with a soft kiss and murmured words about needing to speak with Jane. You had expected him to return, but hours passed, and the house remained eerily silent.

You had never felt more alone.

The following days blurred into one another, a routine forming—meals in the vast, dimly lit dining hall, brief moments of conversation with Edward, and even briefer, more stilted encounters with Jane. She was always watching, her gaze heavy, unreadable. There was something unnerving about her presence, something that made you hesitate before stepping into a room she occupied.

One afternoon, you found yourself alone in the drawing room, running your fingers absentmindedly along the spines of old books. The air smelled faintly of dust and lavender, a scent that clung to the very bones of the house. You selected a book at random, flipping through its yellowed pages when a voice cut through the silence.

“You have peculiar taste.”

You turned sharply. Jane stood near the doorway, watching you with an expression of mild amusement.

“I didn’t hear you come in,” you admitted, closing the book.

Jane stepped forward, her boots barely making a sound against the rug. “Few people do.”

A shiver ran down your spine. You weren’t sure if she was making a joke.

She reached for the book in your hands, her fingers brushing yours as she took it. “This one,” she murmured, inspecting the worn cover. “A tale of betrayal and misplaced trust.”

You swallowed. “Have you read it?”

Jane tilted her head slightly. “I’ve read many things.” She returned the book to the shelf with a deliberate slowness. “Tell me, do you believe a person can truly know another?”

The question caught you off guard. “I suppose… in time, yes.”

Jane hummed, the sound low and contemplative. “Time reveals much. And yet, some things remain hidden, even in plain sight.”

Her gaze lingered, sharp and unreadable, before she turned and strode toward the door. As she passed you, she reached out—not quite touching, just barely grazing her fingers over your sleeve.

Then she was gone, leaving behind a silence that felt heavier than before.

Edward, on the other hand, was attentive but distant. He spoke of business matters vaguely, often excusing himself after dinner to his study. When he was with you, he was warm, affectionate, but there was always a lingering tension, as if he were holding something back.

That evening, Edward found you in the drawing room, staring into the fireplace as the flames crackled softly. He sat beside you, reaching out to tuck a loose strand of hair behind your ear.

“You seem troubled,” he murmured.

You exhaled a soft laugh. “I suppose I am still adjusting.”

Edward tilted his head, regarding you carefully. “Jane can be difficult. Do not let her unsettle you.”

His words were meant to reassure, but they only deepened the unease curling in your stomach. There was something wrong in this house. And you were beginning to fear you were in far deeper than you had realized.

✢✦✢༻♰༺✢✦✢ ✢✦✢༻♰༺✢✦✢ ✢✦✢༻♰༺

Taglist : @weemssapphic , @oddball216 , @im-a-carnivorous-plant , @dingdongthetail , @erablaise-blog , @rainbow-hedgehog , @renravens , @kaymariesworld , @witchesmortuary , @notmeellaannyy , @weemswife , @m-0-mmy-l-0-ver33 , @redkarine , @women-are-so-ethereal @opheliauniverse , @willisnotmental @raspburrythief , @fictionalized-lesbian , @lynn13blog g, @ness029 , @geekyarmorel , @h-doodles , @winterfireblond @nocteangelus15 , @aemilia19 , @vendocrap8008 , @jkregal @gela123 , @lilfartbox1 , @bellatrixsbrat , @dumbasslesbi

[girlscomehome]

after the first kiss

pairing: abby x gn!reader cw: fluff + (not rly sexual) kissing! winter/christmas + modern setting, ib the faye webster song, friends to lovers, referring to you and abby as the prettiest around, lazily proofread, and i believe that’s all! wc: 605 a/n: i know christmas passed and all… but i’m still feeling some lingering longing for christmas abby !!!!! masterlist | taglist

Oh, it was nothing short of enchanting. You felt as if you were floating on the lightest, most ethereal clouds, a sensation so tender it bordered on the divine. Yes, it was a cliché—a saccharine definition you might have scoffed at another time. But it was the truth—your truth. In that moment, nothing in the world could stop you, not with the lingering imprint of Abby’s lips, soft and warm against yours, still igniting your senses.

It unfolded with an agonizing slowness that still felt far too fleeting, leaving you yearning for time to stop, to stretch, to hold. You wished, pathetically and earnestly, that someone had captured it—a moment so profound that historians would immortalize it, waxing poetic about the soul-lifting, almost religious wonder of it all.

Abby had invited you to the Winter Wonderland at the local mall, a charming outdoor festival where the air smelled of spiced cider and pine. Grubby kids darted about, teens giggled nervously on first dates, and adults wandered in search of the perfect tree to adorn their living rooms. But you and Abby? You hovered somewhere between those two worlds—caught in the giddy uncertainty of “firsts” yet entirely certain that the prettiest thing in that snow-dusted field was each other.

You’d been friends for so long—close enough to know each other’s quirks, to share endless laughs. So why did this feel so unnervingly new? You ambled aimlessly through the rows of trees, trading silly jokes and snatches of laughter, the kind of mindless joy that made the cold seem warmer. But then, somewhere between the laughter and the quiet, your steps faltered. The air shifted.

Perhaps your body knew before your mind did, sensing that this moment would mark the start of something you’d never forget. Abby turned toward you, her gaze soft yet electric, her puppy-dog eyes drawing you in like a spell you were powerless to resist. And then, with a quiet boldness, she leaned in, and her lips met yours.

It was brief but breathtaking. Not messy, not hurried—just soft. Sweet. The faint taste of the candy apple you’d shared lingered between you, a whisper of sugar on her lips. You hadn’t known a kiss could be perfect until that moment.

When you pulled away, your breath caught, and you opened your eyes to find her staring back at you. Her cheeks flushed pink against the winter chill, her pupils wide, and her lips curved into a crooked, lovesick smile. The sight melted you, leaving your heart dripping like snow under a warm sun.

“Again?” she asked, her voice soft, almost shy.

You blinked—once, twice, and then a third time as the word echoed in your mind.

Again? Again. Again.

Your head bobbed in an eager nod, and she laughed—a quiet, musical sound you wanted to capture and keep forever. Before the moment could slip away, you kissed her once more.

This time, her hands cradled your face with purpose, her fingers warm against your skin. Your own hands found her cheeks, your thumbs grazing their soft curve. The kiss was another meeting of softness—so sweet, so unhurried. Yet it carried a depth that reached beyond the physical, as if your souls were finding one another, intertwining in ways words could never capture.

When she pulled back to catch her breath, her forehead rested against yours, her lips curling into a smile that felt like sunlight breaking through clouds.

“Are you free again later this week?” she murmured, already weaving plans for your next adventure between breaths.

You smiled, your heart swelling with the certainty that, like her kisses, this was only the beginning.

[aspenmissing]

would you maybe do something with young silco? i’m not sure if you’ve ever done it, but maybe young freedom fighter silco gets drunk and gets very lovey dovey with their partner (who’s maybe artistic? perhaps) which is very uncharacteristic for him

ᴛʜʀᴏᴜɢʜ ʜᴇʀ ᴇʏᴇꜱ

ꜱɪʟᴄᴏ x ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ || ꜰʟᴜꜰꜰ || 1759 ᴡᴏʀᴅꜱ || ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ: ɴ/ᴀ

ʀᴇQᴜᴇꜱᴛ ᴀɴꜱᴡᴇʀ: ʜᴇʟʟᴏ ᴅᴀʀʟɪɴɢ! ᴛʜɪꜱ ɪꜱ Qᴜɪᴛᴇ ᴀ ᴄᴜᴛᴇ ʀᴇQᴜᴇꜱᴛ!! ᴛʜᴀɴᴋ ʏᴏᴜ ꜱᴏ ᴍᴜᴄʜ ꜰᴏʀ ɪᴛ! ɪ ʜᴏᴘᴇ ʏᴏᴜ ᴀʀᴇ ʜᴀᴠɪɴɢ ᴀɴ ᴀᴍᴀᴢɪɴɢ ᴅᴀʏ/ɴɪɢʜᴛ! <3 <3

ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ | ꜱɪʟᴄᴏ

The dim glow of the Last Drop’s lanterns cast flickering shadows across the wooden walls, the scent of spiced liquor thick in the air. The tavern was alive with raucous laughter and the clink of glasses, but Y/N sat in her usual quiet corner, lost in the delicate strokes of her charcoal pencil. The paper beneath her hands was smudged with the soft hues of her work—a sketch of the Zaun skyline, the jagged industrial silhouette softened by artistic interpretation.

A familiar voice, a little more unsteady than usual, broke through her concentration.

"There you are," Silco slurred slightly, dropping heavily into the chair across from her. His sharp features were flushed, his normally slicked-back hair a little mussed, a sure sign that he had indulged far more than usual.

Y/N raised a brow, setting her sketch aside. "I see you've been keeping Vander in business tonight."

Silco smirked, leaning forward on the table, his mismatched eyes studying her with an intensity that made her heart stutter. "Just... celebrating, my dear." His voice was softer than usual, devoid of its usual sharp, calculating edge.

Y/N tilted her head. "Celebrating what?"

He waved a hand vaguely, nearly knocking over her cup of tea. "Zaun’s future. Our future. That, and I may have let Vander challenge me to a drinking contest… mistake, in hindsight."

A small chuckle escaped her lips. Seeing Silco like this—unguarded, affectionate—was a rarity. Normally, he carried himself with a calculated presence, a man of ambition and ruthlessness. But now? He was loose, almost dreamy.

"You're drawing again," he murmured, reaching out clumsily, his fingertips brushing against the paper she had set aside. "Beautiful work, as always."

Y/N shrugged. "It helps me clear my mind."

Silco hummed, his gaze locking onto her with startling fondness. "You always see Zaun differently than the rest of us. We see the grime, the struggle. You? You make it… ethereal." He blinked lazily, then chuckled. "I swear, if I could, I’d steal your eyes just to see the world the way you do."

She felt warmth creep up her neck at the uncharacteristically poetic words. "That’s the sweetest thing you’ve ever said to me, Silco."

"Is it?" He leaned forward, resting his chin in his hand, his expression soft. "Well, let me fix that. You, Y/N, are the best part of this gods-forsaken city. You ground me when I’d rather drown. You remind me why we fight. And I—" he hiccupped, blinking as though momentarily surprised, "—I adore you, you know. More than I should."

Her breath caught. She was used to Silco’s sharp tongue, his mind like a steel trap, his words often laced with cynicism or precision. But this? This was raw. This was him without the armor, stripped bare by alcohol and trust.

Y/N reached across the table, lacing her fingers through his. "I know. And I adore you, too, Silco."

His smile was lopsided, a rare, genuine thing. "Good. You should."

She chuckled, shaking her head. "You’re going to hate yourself in the morning."

"Likely." He exhaled, squeezing her hand as his gaze softened even further. "But right now, I think I’d rather just stay here. With you."

Y/N gave his hand a comforting squeeze, watching as his blinks grew slower, his body slumping just slightly.

Sighing, she stood and moved to his side, coaxing him to his feet with a firm grip. "Come on, love, let’s get you back to our room before you pass out right here."

Silco grumbled something incoherent but let her lead him, his steps sluggish and uneven.

The walk back to their shared space was slow-going, Silco leaning into her more than he likely realized, his body warm and heavy against hers. More than once, she had to steady him when he threatened to trip over his own feet.

"You’re a menace when you drink this much," she teased as she fished their key from her pocket and unlocked the door.

"I resent that," he muttered, barely able to keep his eyes open as she guided him toward the bed.

Helping him out of his coat, she gently nudged him down onto the mattress. "Alright, let’s get these boots off too, before you sleep in them."

Silco mumbled something about being perfectly fine as she kneeled to remove them, but his protests were weak. His fingers fumbled as he tried to unbutton his vest, and after a moment, Y/N sighed and helped him with that too.

"You're far too good to me," he murmured as she pulled the blanket over him.

Y/N sat at the edge of the bed, brushing his unruly hair back from his face. "Only because you’d do the same for me."

His mismatched eyes fluttered open slightly, hazy with exhaustion. "You make it worth it, you know. The fight. The struggle. Everything."

Her heart ached at the sincerity in his voice. She leaned down, pressing a gentle kiss to his forehead. "Sleep, Silco. We can talk about all that in the morning."

He sighed contentedly, his breathing slowing as sleep took him. Y/N watched him for a long moment before lying beside him, allowing herself to treasure this rare moment of vulnerability. In the morning, he’d be back to his usual self—sharp, ambitious, ready to fight for their future.

But tonight, he was just Silco, and she would hold onto this softness while it lasted.

Morning came with a dull ache pressing against Silco’s skull, the remnants of last night’s indulgence clinging to him like the lingering scent of smoke in a room long after the fire has died. He groaned softly, the sound barely more than a rasp in his throat, and shifted against the mattress. One arm lifted, draping over his eyes in a futile attempt to block out the unwelcome glow of daylight filtering through the worn curtains. The ache behind his eyes pulsed in time with his heartbeat, and his mouth was unbearably dry, his body leaden with exhaustion.

The telltale signs of a night poorly spent in Vander’s company.

His memory was fractured, blurred at the edges, yet filled with echoes of laughter, the clink of glasses, and the gravelly warmth of voices wrapped in familiarity. He had drunk more than he should have. That much was clear. But the haze of intoxication had not robbed him of all sense—his limbs still carried the memory of the journey home, the familiar weight of the door shutting behind him, the soft press of another presence beside him.

A slow breath, measured, and then he turned his head slightly, gaze settling on the figure beside him.

Y/N lay nestled against the sheets, her breathing soft and even, undisturbed by the stirrings of morning. The loose strands of hair that had escaped her braid framed her face in delicate waves, catching the light just so, casting faint golden glimmers along the edges. She looked peaceful in sleep, untouched by the worries that often lined her brow in wakefulness, and Silco found himself momentarily frozen, reluctant to disturb the quiet serenity she exuded.

His gaze flickered downward, drawn to the object resting beside her. A book—no, a sketchbook, her sketchbook, left open atop the blankets. Curiosity stirred through the lingering fog in his mind, coaxing his fingers to move. He reached for it, careful, his fingertips ghosting over the edges of the page before finally pressing down, lifting it slightly.

His breath caught.

The image was unmistakable. Himself, sprawled on the bed, features softened by sleep, captured with a level of detail so precise it sent a strange warmth curling through his chest. Every line, every shadow, had been carefully etched, from the slight furrow in his brow to the lazy drape of the blanket over his frame. She had drawn him as he was—not as the hardened revolutionary, but simply as a man. Unguarded. Human.

The realization sat heavy in his ribcage, a weight that was neither unpleasant nor wholly understood. How long had she been awake last night, watching him? How many times had she done this before? There was an intimacy in the act that left him raw, stripped down in a way no blade or bullet ever had.

A soft murmur broke through the quiet.

His gaze snapped up just as Y/N stirred, her lashes fluttering before drowsy eyes met his. She blinked slowly, still caught in the lingering grasp of sleep, but as she registered the sketchbook in his hands, a lazy smile tugged at her lips.

"Caught you staring, didn’t I?" she murmured, voice husky with sleep, warm in a way that seeped under his skin.

Silco smirked despite himself, exhaling through his nose as he shut the book, setting it aside. He shifted closer, the mattress dipping beneath his weight, and leaned in, pressing a lazy kiss to her forehead. "You're infuriating, you know that?"

Y/N chuckled, the sound a quiet, sleepy thing, and curled closer, tucking herself against his side with the ease of someone who belonged there. "And yet, you adore me."

He sighed, though there was no true exasperation in the sound, only something quieter, something softer. His fingers found hers beneath the sheets, tracing idly over her knuckles. "That I do."

She hummed, content, her touch feather-light as she dragged her fingertips over his chest in slow, absentminded patterns. "Do you remember much from last night?" she asked, voice still laced with drowsy amusement.

Silco groaned, pinching the bridge of his nose as if that would ease the dull throb in his skull. "Too much. And yet, not enough."

Y/N chuckled again, nuzzling against his shoulder. "You were quite the romantic last night, you know. I think you even swore to steal my eyes so you could see Zaun the way I do."

He huffed a laugh, shaking his head. "Damn fool that I was." But his expression softened as he gazed at her, "Still true, though. You see things differently."

Something in her gaze, in the quiet certainty of her words, made his chest feel impossibly tight. His fingers stilled against her skin, and for a moment, neither of them spoke. Then, she reached up, tracing the faint lines of his face with a touch so gentle it made him ache.

"I see you, Silco."

His breath stilled, his throat tightening against the swell of emotion her words evoked. He turned his head slightly, catching her palm with his lips in a lingering press, an unspoken answer in the reverence of the gesture.

"And I, you."

[ofstarsandvibranium]

Precious Truths: Part 2

Fandom: Bridgerton

Pairing: Benedict Bridgerton x F!Reader

Summary: After your father finds out you’ve been writing under a male pseudonym, he threatens to marry you off to an atrocious man unless you find yourself a husband within a month’s time.

Warning: physical assault - reader gets slaped on the face

Series Masterlist

Your gaze reveals the precious truths

The beauty that you see within

The bravery that I once never possessed

Your love is strength

Your love is pure

Your love is everything

-Arthur Talbot

You set your quill back into the ink jar and lean back in your chair, letting the ink dry. It's well into the night. Your father and aunt now sound asleep in their respective bedrooms. You find that late nights like these are the best times to write. It's when the world is quiet and you can indulge in your guilty pleasure of writing poetry. You're sure that if your father were to ever find out about this, he'd cast you out.

So your secret remains. Some parts of you felt like you should at least tell Benedict, for he's your closest, and dearest friend. However, you thought best not to. If the ton were to find out, it would be the end of you and you could never be one to drag Benedict down with you.

You can never do that to the man you love.

____________________________

You're in the sitting room watching as stands at Benedict at his easel, Colin and Greggory play chess, and Daphne coos over Auggie. Benedict works on his still life as you sit close by.

He frowns, taking a step back from his painting, "This is wrong. It's-Something's missing."

You lean closer to get a glance at his work, "Benedict, it looks beautiful."

"Are you sure?" he asks with an unsure look on his face.

You stand up and take a better look at the canvas, "Don't you artists always say beauty is in the eye of the beholder?" you look at Benedict with a smirk and then back at the canvas, "What you may find as unattractive, Benedict, someone else might find alluring and lovely."

You pat his arm and then plop yourself back into the chair you previously occupied. You go back to your reading completely unaware that Benedict is looking at you with absolute love in his eyes.

He hears someone clear their throat and he looks away to see Anthony staring at him expectantly, "I'm sorry, brother. Did you say something?"

"We're all going for a promenade. I believe we've all been inside for long enough."

You stand up, "I shall take my leave then, Bridgertons."

"Or you can join us?" Benedict immediately asks with hopeful grin.

You softly shake your head, "I don't want to intrude."

"Nonsense," Kate says as she enters the room, "We're always happy to have you, Y/N," she joins her husband's side.

"Well, I can't reject you, Viscountess Bridgerton," you give Kate a smile and Benedict is confused, "So you have no problem rejecting me?"

You laugh, "I'm only jesting, Benedict. I'd love to accompany you and your family for a promenade."

"Wonderful, let's get to it then," Anthony says, trying to gather his siblings together.

_________________________

You're following Benedict's younger siblings whilst said man was walking beside you. You're walking in silence, but it isn't awkward. Silence in Benedict's presence is never awkward, but rather comforting.

"I've realized something, Y/N."

"Yes?"

Benedict keeps his eyes on you as you two continue to follow his younger siblings, "You've always been very supportive of my artistic prospects, but I don't believe I've given the same curtesy to you and your poetic writings. I recall you enjoyed writing them when we were younger."

It warms your heart knowing that Benedict remembers of the times you'd write whilst he'd paint or draw. You let out long and deep sigh. Looking ahead, you reply, "Yes, well, I've given up those dreams, I'm afraid. You know how my father is about my indulgence with poetry. I have to be very careful. Even reading it and reciting it to the ton is risky. Luckily, my father is inebriated a majority of the time he's out and about."

"Well if you ever decide to return to writing poetry, you have my full support."

You nod, "Thank you, Ben. I really appreciate it."

"Y/N," you turn to your right to see Daphne now walking beside you, pushing Auggie in his pram.

"Yes, Your Grace?" you stop and answer her with a teasing smirk. You're older than Daphne by a few years, but just two years younger than Benedict. You've always seen Daphne as a younger sister, being that you are an only child. Occasionally the teasing will produce itself between you two.

"Would you like to join us for dinner?"

You can't help but laugh, "Of course, but I've been spending my entire day with you already. Won't you all get tired of me?"

"We'd never tire of you, Y/N," Benedict replies with earnest and it brings a warm smile to your place.

"Be that as it may, I believe the Viscount should have the final word?"

Anthony, Kate, and Violet catch up to you as you're all looking at Anthony. He looks at you all in confusion, "Something the matter?"

Daphne speaks up, "I invited Y/N to stay for dinner if that's alright, brother?"

He shoots you a grin, "Of course. Miss L/N is always welcome. You're practically family, yes?" he shoots Benedict a wink and you're not sure why.

"Well thank you for the invitation," you look down at your dress, "But perhaps, I should at least change. This dress isn't particularly dinner attire."

"What do you mean? You look beautiful as always," Benedict states as if it's the most obvious thing in the world.

The Bridgertons all give each other knowing looks. That's when the Dowager Viscountess speaks up, "Benedict, darling, Y/N is right. After the promenade, we should allow her to freshen up before dinner."

Kate removes herself from Anthony and loops arms with you, "Let us continue our promenade, Y/N."

"Of course!" you giggle with your friend as you continue on the trail.

Benedict moves to follow, but Anthony pats his brother on the shoulder, "You've spent hours with her, brother. Let her take a break from you clinging to her all the time."

Benedict looks at his older brother in offense, "I don't cling to her...do I?"

"A bit, darling," Violet says and Daphne nods in agreement.

He runs his hand through his hair and sighs, "I'm too obvious, aren't I?"

Daphne shakes her head, "No, I don't think so. If you were, she'd have said something, yes? Or maybe would have run for the hills?" she asks with a smirk to her elder brothers, before continuing to push Augie down the path.

_________________

When you arrive back home to change, you ask the housekeeper, Mrs. Burnett, if your aunt is home.

"No, Miss, she's gone to meet with Lady Danbury," the older woman replies.

You nod, "Thank you, Mrs. Burnett," you gather your dress and make your way to your room upstairs.

You freeze when you see the door ajar and you know for a fact you closed it before leaving earlier.

You slowly push the door open and your heart drops when you see your father surrounded by pages and pages of poems. Poems that are supposed to be written by a man.

You gulp and slowly approach him as he sits at your writing desk, "Papa?"

His eyes meet yours in a cold and intimidating stare, "Not only have you still been indulging in poetry, but you're writing it? Under a man's name?"

"What were you doing in my room?"

"THIS IS MY HOUSE! I CAN BE ANYWHERE I PLEASE!"

You take some cautionary steps towards him, "Papa, you've had too much to drink."

"No!" he abruptly stands at your desk, causing you to jump ack in surprise. His chest is heaving as he tightly grips pages of your work, "If anyone finds out about this-"

"They won't! I've hid this from everyone for months!"

"You need to marry," he says with definitive authority.

You look at him with a confused expression, "What do you mean?"

"I can't take your defiance any longer!"

"Defiance?"

Your father walks around your desk so it's no longer a wall between you and he. He points a warning finger at you, "If you don't find a husband within a month's time, I'm marrying you off to your cousin, Albert."

Your jaw drops, "Cousin Albert?! He's absolutely horrendous! He's a rake and a gambler-"

"And looking for a wife!" he exclaims as he cuts you off, "When you were younger, your Uncle Wallace tried to convince me to have you two promised to each other once you came out to society. I regret not taking the opportunity now seeing how you've grown up."

You clench your fists in anger, "Mama wouldn't stand for this! She-

THWACK!

Your words are stuck in your throat, your cheek stinging after your father slaps you. His eyes are red and wild as he spits out, "Mama is dead! She is not here anymore! This is my house! You are to find a husband in a month or you are to marry Albert. Be grateful I'm not sending you away right this moment."

You're holding your cheek now, trying to soothe the pain. Your heart hurts for yourself and your mama. You know she'd hate the man your papa has become.

Without another word, you're rushing out of your room and bounding down the stairs.

Your aunt had just arrived back and you rush past her without a glance. She follows you in concern, "Y/N? What happened?! What's wrong? Y/N!" she yells after you as you run down the street back towards the Bridgerton household.

[slowdrawl]

Whiskey and Want |dbf!Joel x f!reader| | 18+ MINORS DNI | {AU no outbreak, Sarah lives} {series masterlist}

Chapter 11: Out of the Blue | wordcount | 4.6k |

“No, I bet not. You just came here to give me that slow drawl and sad eyes, make it all better, huh? Feel guilty about sleepin’ with her too?” You smile, then bite off the end of the popsicle with a sharp crack. Licking your lips.

| a/n | we’re back and spiraling! poolside drama, unexpected guests, and tension so thick it could drown you. lmk if you’re still unwell about these two like I am, also. I edited this at 3 am so if its bad I'm sorry.

Warnings/tags: 18+ only, minors DNI, SMUT, jealousy, arguments, ANGST, Joel being a dick (again), surprise visits, possessive!Joel, manipulation, longing, power shifts, hints of blackmail, party planning, gaslighting. series warnings after the fic. reader uses she/her pronouns, has hair, and can walk. no major physical descriptions of the reader. no use of y/n but has the nickname Bird/Birdie. reader has a backstory.

You don’t even ask. Don’t give a shit. Because it was 90 degrees out by noon, and you’ve been sweating through your tank top all day. You don’t care that he’s barely texted back. Don’t care that he hasn’t stopped by in two days, not even to see your dad. You don’t care that there's been a silver 4Runner parked on the curb outside Joel’s house since last night, some mystery bitch car with out of state plates on it. The trucks not in the driveway when you slip through Joel’s side gate into the back yard. He’s probably out brooding somewhere, stewing in whatever the hell mood he rock-paper-scissored himself for today. Maybe at work, or out with whoever's SUV that is. The air tastes like metal and burnt grass. The concrete’s too hot for bare feet, but you suck it up, leaving your sandals by the lawn chair like this is your place to be. You let your sundress fall to the ground in a heap by your feet. Joel always said you could come by and swim whenever you wanted, “Don’t care if you use the pool, just don’t drown on me, kid,” he’d say. It was an open invitation, one that he never took back. So, today you decided you’d swim. You told yourself it wasn’t a statement. You just needed to cool off. You weren’t being petty or acting on impulse, you weren’t being annoying, or clingy, or childish. You weren’t trying to draw him out of hiding. This had nothing to do with how weird things had felt over the last two days. He wasn’t exactly cold. Not really distant, he still replied to most of your texts, but they were dry, canned responses. He was just…not the same as when your dad came back from Dallas on Tuesday. You slip into the shallow end of the pool. It’s lukewarm, like old bathwater. Better than nothing. You dunk your head in, swim angry laps like maybe it’ll shake something loose. Then you float. Ears underwater, drowning out the kids playing, sun in your eyes, breath shallow. You stay like that for a good while, long enough that your fingers start to prune. How the fuck did I get myself tangled in all of this? The moth pendant around your neck reflects in the sunlight, bouncing sharp white light across the already glinting water. 

How poetic. The sound hits you before anything else—the familiar crunch of gravel under tires. His truck. Of course, it was his truck. You’d probably know the sound of that engine if you were dead. You don’t flinch, don’t get out of the pool. You just stay there wading, slow and steady, unbothered, like you’re not about to get caught trespassing with your tits half out. A door slams. Then another. You hear voices. Plural. A woman’s laugh, loud and unfamiliar. Your stomach sinks. You walk to the edge of the pool, hair dripping on your shoulders, heart hammering behind your ribs. The patio door opens, you watch out of the corner of your eye as Joel steps out. He stops short when he sees you, his expression flattens, darkens. He looks…surprised? Tired. Not guilty, exactly. Just…. Concerned. “Hey,” he drawls. “Hi.” “You shouldn’t be here right now,” he says. His voice is quiet, but firm. You blink, shame, anxiety, anger—all of the above starts prickling at your skin. “What?” Now he looks like he’s been slapped, or caught, maybe both. “You should go.” He runs a hand through his hair, landing on the nape of his neck. He doesn’t even meet your eyes. “I’ll call you later today, okay?” Something on his face stops you from arguing. Stops you from asking the obvious. Stops you from exploding. You walk up the stairs of the pool, eyes forward to the chair where you left your stuff, you grab your towel, your dress. Your pride. The gate swings open in front of you, then latches shut. There’s no reason for you to look back toward the patio; you don’t want to see him. ////

Inside, it’s quiet. The air is charged, tension thick as old paint. You look to the kitchen, see her, arms crossed, keys dangling from one hand. Her mouth is tight, chin is high. She heard the whole thing. You shut the door behind you, and you don’t say anything for a while. You just stand there, hand still on the handle, bracing for some kinda’ impact. She wasn’t supposed to be here, you didn’t invite her, she didn’t ask. No mention of her coming to visit. Now here she is. Barefoot, in the kitchen, drinkin’ your fuckin sweet tea, leaning against the counter like she belongs. And you’ve been too big a coward to tell her to leave. Till now. She clears her throat,“You didn’t say you were expectin’ company,” she says, brow raised “I wasn’t.” “Cute kid…She a neighbour?” she asks, voice syrupy, layered with accusation. “That your friends’ girl? Ken or Kev or whatever?” You don’t answer. You just stare right out the window. “Oh,” she clicks her tongue. “So that's why you didn’t want to touch me last night.”

You shake your head, jaw clenched. “I didn’t know you were comin’. You can’t just show up like this.”

“Sure, I can. I did. Used to be I didn’t need a fucking invite.”

You don’t argue. Just shift your weight, eyes flicking toward the hallway like maybe distance will fix this.

You turn. “Tess…” She laughs, but it’s sharp. “What, Joel. Don’t give me that fuckin’ look. Not like I came here expectin’ a wedding ring. Just wanted a little fun…Jesus.” You pinch the bridge of your nose, voice rough. “You didn’t even call.” “Oh whatever, sorry. I missed you. I was in town. I figured—” “I figured this was over. You moved to Boston, Tess. I stayed. That’s not gonna change.” Her eyes narrow. “You’ve been off since the second I got here. What exactly changed, huh? Is it that kid who just walked out of your backyard, soakin’ wet?” You stay silent. Bite your tongue. “She doesn’t even look old enough to pay taxes.” You flinch. “Shit,” Tess huffs through her nose. “It is her.” She shakes her head in disbelief, laughing, “Didn’t think you had that in you, cradle robbing your best friend.” You think about arguing with her, think about sayin’ she’s twenty-five, that you didn’t mean this to happen. You don’t bother explaining. It’s not like saying that would make this whole mess any fucking better. You just look at her and say it, “You need to leave, Tess.” “Wow, you really have fucking lost the plot, haven’t you, Joel.” She picks up her bag. She walks toward the door and stands there, like she’s waiting for you to change your mind; her eyes are dark and mean. It makes your gut churn, “I’m sorry.” She turns back toward you, eyebrow up like she's waiting on a punchline. After a second she lets out a breathy, joyless laugh “I don’t need you to be sorry, Joel,” she says, flat, “I needed you to mean it. I needed you to pick a fucking direction, not just trail behind whaever made you feel less lonely like a damn shelter dog.” her face is red now, “I needed you to be real with me, human, communicate. But thats fucking impossible for you isn't it? You still can’t say what you want, can you? You open your mouth to speak, but nothing comes out. She keeps going, you let her. You deserve this. “You don’t get to say sorry just ‘cause you hate being the bad guy, Joel. You were the bad guy. Take accountability for once in your fucking life.” You whisper, practically to your feet, “I didn’t mean for this to happen.” She shakes her head slowly, like she’s done doing this dance. Her voice drops. Final, sharp.

“Whatever girl you’re dragging all that guilt around for? I hope she knows what it’s costing.”

Then she turns and slams the door behind her so hard the frame rattles. ///// You’re drying off your hair in the mirror when your phone buzzes on the porcelain beside you. (3:17 PM) Joel 🤠: Sorry, friend dropped by from out of state You stare at the screen, anger bubbles up in your chest. Then you type— (3:19 PM) You: U gonna tell me who that was? Should I go get tested? He doesn’t respond right away, so you double-text him. You: Idc if you’re fucking someone else but in case you forgot, you did fuck me raw the other day and im not exactly down to catch anything off some ghost of christmas past. Your fingers hovered over the button, but you sent it anyway. His name illuminates the screen immediately. You answer with gritted teeth. “If you’re about to tell me I better call Planned Parenthood to get antibiotics, so help me God, Joel Miller.” “Bird—” “No, fuck that. Don’t call me that right now, just tell me who that was.” There's a pause, then you hear him exhale. “It’s not what you think.” You mock him, condescending “it’s not what you think.” you scoff, “God, is there like, a fucking seminar that all men have to take to learn how to gaslight women into thinking they’re being dramatic when they catch you red handed?” “Jesus, kid. Just let me explain.” That ignites something in you, you’re furious now , crashing out. “I’m not a fucking kid, holy fuck! Get it through your skull already.” You almost hang up the phone, “Go ahead then, Mr. Miller, explain it away, entertain me.” “Are you done?” he says, calmly. “I think you owe it to me to say if the reason you’re always so distant and fucking cold is because you’re actually cheating on someone else with me.” you try to catch your breath, “I don’t even care if you’re fucking someone else but I’d like to atleast know. I feel fucking crazy and—” He cuts you off mid spiral, “No,” he says firmly, “You’re not crazy, you’re not wrong for askin’ questions. But nothing happened, I mean that.” “Right, so she just came over to hang out. Accidentally stayed the night?” You walk out of the bathroom and sit down on the edge of your bed. “She’s an old friend, she showed up from out east. I had no idea she was going to be in town.” “So you just let her play house?” Joel sighs deeply. You hear the creak of furniture beneath him, imagine him dragging a hand through his hair, jaw set tight. “She…Her and I— We had a thing. A while ago. It wasn’t serious.”

“Wasn’t serious,” you echo. “We have so much in common, I should get her number.” “No,” he says again. “It ended a long time ago. She moved to Boston. It’s been done.”

You press the heel of your hand to your eyes. You want to believe him.

“Why didn’t you just tell me then, if it wasn’t a big deal?”

“I didn’t think she’d show up again. She didn’t call. Just knocked on the door yesterday.”

“You let her in,” your voice cracks halfway through.

“I didn’t know what the fuck else to do. I was caught off guard.”

“Didn’t have to let her stay the night.”

“She didn’t stay the night,” he says quickly, too quickly.

You go still. Staring out your bedroom window toward his house, feeling a little bit numb now, you know that he’s lying.

“I mean—we got dinner. She wanted to talk. That’s all it was.”

“And now?”

“Gone,” Joel says. “I told her not to come back. Told her this thing. Whatever she thought she could show up and stir up…it’s done. It’s not something I want anymore.”

You say nothing.

When your name comes out of his mouth this time, it’s almost desperate, like he’s praying. “I know it looked bad. I know I should’ve called. But you gotta believe me, I didn’t lie to you because I was hiding something. I just… I didn’t know how to say any of it without making you think it meant something it didn’t.”

A bitter, shaky breath leaves your throat. “I didn’t want you comparing yourself to ghosts, Bird.”

Your eyes squeeze shut. His voice is doing that thing. The low, quiet, honest drawl that makes you want to crawl into his chest and forget all of it.

“I told your dad I’d come by tonight,” he adds, like it’s a footnote. “We gotta talk about party stuff. I’ll see you then, alright?”

“…Fine.”

“You okay?”

You don’t answer.

“Bird.”

“I’m fine,” you say, but you don’t even convince yourself.

He doesn’t push it. “I’ll see you soon.”

The line goes dead.

Your fingers hover on the screen for a second before you toss the phone onto your bed and lie back beside it.

If it was nothing, why do you feel so fucking stupid?

An hour passes, and your dad still isn’t home; he probably stopped at the store on his way from work. You’ve spent the last half hour pacing around the living room, hair still damp and full of chlorine, pulled into two sloppy braids. You’re wearing short overalls with a fresh tank top underneath. The days just keep getting hotter and the aircon is worse for wear than you are as each day goes by. You grab a popsicle and flop down on the couch, leaning your head back toward the ceiling, dreading the rest of the afternoon. Then, as if he waited for the second you allowed yourself to relax. Joel knocks at the door. You groan and lift yourself off the couch, your legs peel off the leather with a sticky pop. Even the couch seems too protest. You walk toward the door and flick the deadbolt, then turn toward the living room. Joel isn’t a vampire, you don’t have to invite him in. He opens the door slowly, looks in with a raised eyebrow, then two when his eyes pan and widen at you standing in the foyer. You hold back a smirk, knowing. Your outfit is giving salacious. A cowboy’s wet dream. Perfect southern Americana, hot farm girl next door. You walk back toward the couch, swaying your hips just right. You feel his eyes burning into the back of your thighs. You sit—not proper, not modest. Draping your legs over one another, kicking your feet onto the coffee table, popsicle still in hand.You lean heavy back into the leather, letting the heat of the room melt everything but your pride, chin tilted back, tank top riding up your ribs. The posture of someone unbothered, someone who knows exactly what she’s doing. The door shuts behind him, soft, like he doesn’t want to disturb the house. You bring the popsicle up to your mouth and run your tongue along it, slowly. Like you’re trying to make it blush. You swirl it around once, letting the juice run down your hand; it's obscene, pornographic, ridiculous. You catch the dripping liquid with the flat of your tongue again, humming low in your throat like its the best thing you’ve tasted all week. You tilt your head at him, doe-eyed, lazy. “You gonna come in, cowboy?” Joel kicks off his boots, nearly tripping over them, his eyes are locked on your mouth. He’s staring like it’s the only thing he can see, his own lips pressed together in a line. Then, slack—just a little. Like he’s not even trying to hide it anymore. “You here for party stuff?” you ask, voice heavy with saccharine cruelty. “Or are you just here to lie to my face?” “Bird—” You wave your hand in the air. “Nah, go on. Mr. Miller, lie some more. I’ll pretend to believe you this time.” “I didn’t lie,” he says, jaw ticking. You hum around the popsicle, rolling your eyes like he’s already boring you. “You said she didn’t stay the night, Joel. You forget I got a front row seat to your house from my bedroom window, baby?” You lift your feet from the table and motion for him to come sit down, “You said that you didn’t do anythin’. That's not a lie, though, right? Just an omission, maybe? Real classy.” Joel looks around the room, shifting his weight, eyes flicking like he’s looking for somewhere to set down his own guilt.” “I didn’t come here to fight.” “No, I bet not. You just came here to give me that slow drawl and sad eyes, make it all better, huh? Feel guilty about sleepin’ with her too?” You smile, then bite off the end of the popsicle with a sharp crack. Licking your lips.

His face tightens. “I didn’t touch her.” he walks halfway through the living room, “She showed up outta’ nowhere. I didn’t know she was comin’, and I sure as hell didn’t ask her to stay.” “But you let her.” Silence. “She call you cowboy too, or is that just my thing?” The tick is back in his jaw, and that’s answer enough. You sit up slowly, popsicle stick still between your fingers like a cigarette, you twirl it around. “I didn’t mean—” “Don’t care what you meant,” you snap, suddenly. “You let it happen, kinda fucked up don’t you think?” As you stand, you toss the stick in the empty yogurt container sitting on the table, and walk toward him. He doesn’t move. Doesn’t raise his voice. Just looks at you like he’s bleeding inside and doesn’t know how to say it. “I didn’t handle it right,” he says quietly. “No shit.” “You just disappear for two days, show up like nothin’ happened, and expect me to play nice? Be pliant, sweet about it?” Another silence. Longer this time. He takes a breath, like he’s going to explain. But then—

He doesn’t.

You step toward him. Slow. Just one step. Enough to force him to hold your gaze. “You can’t even say it, can you?” you whisper. “Can’t even admit it.” He opens his mouth. Closes it. You shake your head, biting back something ugly.

You turn to walk away again.

His voice is so quiet, like a little kid whispering

“I’m here, aren’t I?”

You stop. Look back over your shoulder.

“Bare minimum, Joel. That’s all this is. You showed up. You always show up. Doesn’t mean you give a shit.”

“I do.”

“Then say something that proves it.”

He walks forward a step. Not enough to crowd you, he knows better. But enough to feel it.

“I should’ve called,” he says. “I should’ve told you what was goin’ on. But I didn’t know how.”

You narrow your eyes. “You still don’t.”

He nods once. “You’re right.”

And that’s it. No excuses. No pleading. No lies.

Just that. You stare at him for a long time.

And then just because you can. You reach for him, tracing your fingers over the front of his flannel, tugging at the collar to adjust it. He holds his breath. “We gonna go over decorations or you wanna keep diggin’ your own grave?”

Joel exhales. A laugh that doesn’t reach his eyes.

“You pick. I already fucked everything else up.”

You grab a notebook off the counter, toss it toward him. It lands at his feet.

“Great. Then start with streamers.”

He crouches, picks it up, and when he stands, he looks at you.

Really looks at you. And you hold his gaze, chin high, eyes dark, until he looks away first.

Good.

You’re not done being angry. Not even close. But for now? You’ve got him back in the palm of your hand. The two of you sit at the dining table in stiff silence, Joel’s scrawling a party supply list. The paper is already smudged in a few places. He brought a pen, which somehow pisses you off more. Like he came here trying to be prepared. “Okay, if I keep it down to only her closest friends, we’re at…” You drag your pencil down in a line on your own notebook, counting the names. “Twenty-five people?” Joel looks over, squinting, snatching the book from you. “Who’s Mel?” “Oh, she’s the one who asked if you were single, remember?” He hums, “Why are we inviting her to this thing?” he asks. “I actually put her on the list to distract Tommy, figured maybe I could set them two up together.” “Why would you do that?” “I don’t know, Joel. Why wouldn’t I? Don’t you think it might be a good idea to get him to stop obsessing over me, maybe stop him from showing my dad that picture of you.” Joel cringes, but he shakes his head, “Yeah might be a good idea actually. You hear from him?” “Nope, not since he got all Dahmer on me over text. You seen him?” “Yeah, talked to him about it on Wednesday after work.” “Oh? How come you didn’t say anything?” You raise your brow at him, confused. “Didn’t seem worth sayin’. I  handled it.” “Handled it how?” Your arms fold over your chest, he’s being too vague about this. Tommy was dead set on ruining both of your lives the other day. Now Joel looks real confident about him not ratting anyone out. “Told him I’d fuckin fire him if he opened his mouth. Said I’d make him pay me back all the bail money he owes me too.” You actually have to pick your jaw up and close it. “You did not.” “Sure did darlin’, made him delete that damn picture too.” Why is this making me feel feral??????? You actually snort “You guys are like that spiderman meme.” You point at him, he looks confused as hell. “What?” “Oh my god, never mind, forgot you were a dinosaur.” “You’re a fuckin’ brat, know that?” he says it under his breath, smirking. You shoot him a sharp look.“Sorry, didn’t catch that.” He keeps his eyes down on the notebook, scribbles something down, “Nothin…just said you’re a brat.” You roll your eyes, crossing your arms. “Wow. Hurtful.” He finally meets your eyes. “It’s true, though, darlin’.” You lean forward across the table, elbows on the wood, chin in your hands. “And yet…you still need me to boss you around.” His mouth opens. Shuts again. You can see the war with himself behind his eyes. You smile, pretty, sharp. “I think you like that, Mr. Miller.” You watch his Adam's apple bob in his throat as he swallows hard. He’s too easy sometimes. How am I supposed to stay mad at him?You pluck the pen from his hand, set it down gently on the table between you. “Say it.” He shakes his head, lets out a breathy half-laugh. “You’re outta your damn mind.” You watch intently as he squirms in his seat, adjusting himself. Your eyes flick down to his lap. Then back up. “Thought so.” He narrows his gaze, but he still doesn’t move. You reach a hand across the table again, just barely brushing your fingertips over the back of his hand. Light. Testing. He flinches like it burned him. “Write balloons,” you wink at him. “Neat”

He doesn’t reach for the pen. Just stares back at you. So you pick it up yourself, lean right over, not subtle, not proper. You set the pen in his hand, wrapping his fingers around it. ��You wanna act like you’re still in charge?” Your voice is a whisper, honey-slick and dangerous. “Prove it. Don’t write it.”

He holds your gaze. Breath shallow. Then drops his eyes to the page. He writes it down in pretty, boyish cursive. You lean back, grinning ear to ear. “Good boy.” He goes so red in the face it looks like he might knock the fuckin’ table over. Or kiss you. Maybe both. And just then, like the universe decided you were having too much fun, the front door rattles. Dad’s voice calls out from behind it, “Hey, I’m home!” Joel jolts backward in his chair like he’s been electrocuted. You smirk, kicking his foot under the table. “Better behave, cowboy.” He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t blink. Just moves in close, eyes fixed on your mouth.

“Keep runnin’ that mouth, baby,” he says, voice a dangerous growl. “Gonna end up with it full.”

You glance back down at his lap. You can see his cock straining against his zipper. “Big talk for a guy who’s that hard from being made to write lines.” His nostrils flare as he lets out a shaky exhale. One hand clenches under the table. “Bet you loved detention.” 

He shakes his head and grabs the notebook like it’s the only thing keeping him from losing it. Flips it open, and scrawls streamers so hard the pen nearly rips the page.

Just as your dad walks in, keys jangling. “How’s the list coming?”

You don’t look away. Don’t break the tension.

You just smile. Innocent “Joel’s takin’ care of the heavy lifting.”

He nods at the half-finished chicken scratch list on the table. “Looks like you’ve made progress at least, maybe.” he squints at it, “You got girly handwriting, man.” You almost fucking choke on your own saliva when he says it. Joel just grips the pen like it might combust. “Tell you what,” your dad continues, totally unaware. “I’m useless with this kinda shit, how about you take Birdie with you. ’ll tackle Costco.” he looks over to Joel, “You mind? She’s got better taste anyway.” You blink. “What?” Joel’s head tilts toward you, savouring this moment as your dad walks to the kitchen. “Party City run,” Kev explains, opening the fridge. “I was gonna go, but you know I’ll end up buying some half-deflated balloons and  Fourth of July napkins. Better off lettin’ her take the reins.”

You look at Joel. He’s biting back a smile, the kind that tugs crooked at the corner of his mouth. The one that knows exactly what he’s doing. That fucking dimple makes an appearance.

“Sure,” Joel says. “I’d be more than happy to take her.”

Your dad’s already moved on, mumbling about being out of sandwich meat. You stare at Joel across the table, cheeks hot. He rips the list from the notebook rings and folds it in half, real neat. Tucks the pen behind his ear.

Dad's voice calls out from the kitchen, “You stayin’ for dinner?” 

Joel stands, smooth as ever, grabbing his keys off the table. “Can’t tonight. Gotta call Sarah anyway. She’s makin’ me go over everything, doesn’t trust me to not fuck it up”

Your dad just snorts from the other room. “Smart kid.”

He passes behind your chair on his way to the door—but then his hand slips into your hair. No warning. No softness. Just a slow, deliberate grip at the base of your neck. Fingers wound tight.

You gasp. Quiet, instinctive.

He moves down. Breath warm against your ear.

“Shh,” he coos. “Good girl.”

Your pulse is a war drum.

He lets go. Straightens. And then, with a cheerful drawl, “Tomorrow’s gonna be real fun! Be here for eleven.”

He opens the door, throws one last wink over his shoulder.

“Night, Kev.”

You feel it all the way down your spine.

The door shuts behind him with a soft click.

Your phone buzzes in your lap not a minute later.

(5:42 PM) Joel 🤠: I'm going to ruin you.

You stare at the screen, heart in your throat.

(5:43 PM) You: Looking forward to seeing you try.

series warnings!!! fluff, smut, angst, unprotected p-in-v, f/m masturbation, fingering, age-gap (legal), size kink?, choking, obsessive!Joel, mean!Tommy, cumplay, possessive sex, praise, risky sex, infidelity/implied, semi-public sex, dirty talk, guilt, betrayal, blackmail, grief themes, Joel is down bad, Tommy sucks

taglist: @yesjazzywazzylove-blog @brittmb115 @mystickittytaco @your-nightmaredoll @leenieweenie12 @orodaeh @jokesonthem