#followed by skipping to the next thing…

[king-of-men]

I agree that what's going on in these samples is not really reading and understanding, but I'm going to very slightly defend the "problematic readers" anyway. Here's one of the Dickens sentences:

Fog up the river, where it flows among green aits and meadows; fog down the river, where it rolls defiled among the tiers of shipping, and the waterside pollutions of a great (and dirty) city.

and here is the summary thereof that the authors let stand in for all the problematic ones:

There’s just fog everywhere.

That's, like... a perfectly sensible summary? It's not a *super* long sentence, and even so the fact that Dickens is being paid by the word does rather shine through; in terms of the actual information it contains, "fog everywhere" is basically what there is. (Fine, fine, "fog on the river" if you like.) Ok, there's some ambiguity in the study between "summarize" and "translate", it's not entirely clear what the subjects were told their task is, but to the extent it's to summarize then, like, what do you want here? You can't well include all the details of where the fog is going, without making the summary as long as the original and presumably defeating the purpose. I'll admit that the next bit is more problematic:

Fog creeping into the cabooses of collier brigs; fog lying out on the yards, and hovering in the rigging of great ships; fog drooping on the gunwales of barges and small boats.

(Subject is asked what's in the sentence other than fog)

I know there’s train, and there’s like, like the industrial part of the city?

Looks like they free-associated from 'caboose' to 'train' without noticing all the other words that would indicate 'ships' instead, and then from "transport infrastructure" to "industrial" which is not actually unreasonable but we're specifically in the harbor. This is, like, 2018-LLM levels of fixating on one keyword. But the authors go on to editorialize:

By reducing all these details in the passage to vague, generic language, the subject does not read closely enough to follow the fog as it moves throughout the shipyards. And, as she continues to skip over almost all the concrete details in the following sentences, she never recognizes that this literal fog, as it expands throughout London, becomes a symbol for the confusion, disarray, and blindness of the Court of Chancery.

Well, yeah. She was asked to "translate into plain English", according to the abstract. No word was said about extracting the symbolism. Sometimes the fog is just blue; or at any rate, if you're literally asked to give the color of the fog in plain language, then "blue" is a much better translation of "cerulean" than "the color of the heavens", which includes the symbolism, would be.

Which brings me to another thing: What's in this for the subjects? Like, are they being paid for performance, or graded, or something? If they're paid just to show up, or worse still if they're doing these professors a favor, then... why should they bother to check in their brains? It's just one more makework reading task in a life presumably full of them, and this one doesn't even have the extremely vague connection of induction-into-the-middle-class-and-prosperity that a classroom test does. By all means argue that it's bad that these English-majoring students are so beaten down that they apparently don't care enough about English to enjoy extracting the meaning of a difficult text, and discussing it, for its own sake. But before critiquing their reading skills I would put them in a situation where their ability to extract meaning from a text mattered to them.

All that said, yeah, the dinosaur thing is just really very bad. And the whiskers are if possible even worse.

i appreciated this study: "They Can't Read Very Well: A Study of the Reading Comprehension Skills Of English Majors At Two Midwestern Universities"

essentially, a pair of professors set out to test their intuitive sense that students at the college level were struggling with complex text. they recruited 85 students, a mix of english majors and english education majors - so, theoretically, people focusing on literature, and people preparing to teach adolescents how to read literature - and had them read-while-summarizing the first seven paragraphs of dickens's bleak house (or as much as they made it through in the 20 minute session). they provided dictionaries and also said students could use their phones to look up whatever they wanted, including any unfamiliar words or references. they found that the majority of the students - 58%, or 49 out of the 85 students - functionally could not understand dickens at all, and only 5% - a mere 4 out of the 85 students - proved themselves proficient readers (leaving the remaining 38%, or 32 students, as what the study authors deemed "competent" students, most of whom could understand about half the literal meaning - pretty low bar for competence - although a few of whom, they note, did much better than the rest in this group if not quite well enough to be considered proficient).

what i really appreciated about this study was its qualitative descriptions of the challenges and reading behaviors of what the authors call "problematic readers" (that bottom 58%), which resonated strongly with my own experiences of students who struggle with reading. here's their blunt big picture overview of these 49 students:

The majority of these subjects could understand very little of Bleak House and did not have effective reading tactics. All had so much trouble comprehending concrete detail in consecutive clauses and phrases that they could not link the meaning of one sentence to the next. Although it was clear that these subjects did try to use various tactics while they read the passage, they were not able to use those tactics successfully. For example, 43 percent of the problematic readers tried to look up words they did not understand, but only five percent were able to look up the meaning of a word and place it back correctly into a sentence. The subjects frequently looked up a word they did not know, realized that they did not understand the sentence the word had come from, and skipped translating the sentence altogether.

the idea that they had so many trouble with every small piece of a text that they could not connect ideas on a sentence by sentence basis is very familiar to me from teaching and tutoring, as was the habit of thought seen in the example of the student who gloms on to the word "whiskers" in a sea of confusion and guesses incorrectly that a cat is present - struggling readers, in my experience, seem to use familiar nouns as stepping stones in a flood of overwhelm, hopping as best they can from one seemingly familiar image to the next. so was this observation, building off the example of a student who misses the fact that dickens is being figurative when he imagines a megalodon stalking the streets of london:

She first guesses that the dinosaur is just “bones” and then is stuck stating that the bones are “waddling, um, all up the hill” because she can see that Dickens has the dinosaur moving. Because she cannot logically tie the ideas together, she just leaves her interpretation as is and goes on to the next sentence. Like this subject, most of the problematic readers were not concerned if their literal translations of Bleak House were not coherent, so obvious logical errors never seemed to affect them. In fact, none of the readers in this category ever questioned their own interpretations of figures of speech, no matter how irrational the results. Worse, their inability to understand figurative language was constant, even though most of the subjects had spent at least two years in literature classes that discussed figures of speech. Some could correctly identify a figure of speech, and even explain its use in a sentence, but correct responses were inconsistent and haphazard. None of the problematic readers showed any evidence that they could read recursively or fix previous errors in comprehension. They would stick to their reading tactics even if they were unhappy with the results.

i have seen this repeatedly, too - actually i was particularly taken with how similar this is to the behavior of struggling readers at much younger ages - and would summarize the hypothesis i have forged over time as: struggling readers do not expect what they read to make sense. my hypothesis for why this is the case is that their reading deficits were not attended to or remediated adequately early enough, and so, in their formative years - the early to mid elementary grades - they spent a lot of time "reading" things that did not make sense to them - in fact they spent much more time doing this than they ever did reading things that did make sense to them - and so they did not internalize a meaningful subjective sense of what it feels like to actually read things.

like, i've said this before, but the year i taught third grade i had multiple students who told me they loved reading and then when i asked them about a book they were reading revealed that they had absolutely no idea what was going on - on a really basic literal level like "didn't know who said which lines of dialogue" and "couldn't identify which things or characters given pronouns referred to" - and were as best as i could tell sort of constructing their own story along the way using these little bits of things they thought they understood. that's what "reading" was, in their heads. and they were, in the curriculum/model that we used at the private school where i taught, receiving basically no support to clarify that that was not what reading was, nor any instruction that would actually help them with what they needed to do to improve (understand sentences) - and i realized over the course of that year that the master's program that had certified me in teaching elementary school had provided me with very little understanding of how to help these kids (with perhaps the sole exception of the class i took on communications disorders, not because these kids had communications disorders but because that was the only class where we ever talked, even briefly, about things like sentence structures that students may need instruction in and practice with to comprehend independently). when it comes to the literal, basic understanding of a text, the model of reading pedagogy i was taught has about 6 million little "tools" that all boil down to telling kids who functionally can't read to try harder to read. this is not productive, in my experience and opinion, for kids whose maximum effort persistently yields confusion. but things are so dysfunctional all the way up and down the ladder that you can be a senior in college majoring in english without anyone but a pair of professors with a strong work ethic noticing that you can't actually read.

couple other notes:

obviously it's a small study but i'm not sure i see a reason to believe these are particularly outlierish results (ACT scores - an imperfect metric but not a meritless one IMO for reading specifically, where the task mostly really is to read a set of texts written for the educated layperson and answer factual questions about them - were a little bit above the national average)

the study was published last year, but the research was conducted january to april 2015. so there's no pandemic influence, no AI issue - these are millennials who now would span roughly ages 28-32 (i guess it's possible one of the four first-year students was one of the very first members of gen z lol). if you're in your late 20s or early 30s, we are talking about people your age, and whatever the culprit is here, it was happening when you were in school.

i think some people might want to blame this on NCLB but i find this unconvincing for a variety of reasons. first of all, NCLB did not pass because everyone in 2001 agreed that education was super hunky-dory; in fact, the sold a story podcast outlines how an explicit goal of NCLB was to train teachers in systematic phonics instruction, because that was not the norm when NCLB was passed, and an unfortunate outcome was that phonics became politicized in ed world. second, anyone who understands anything about reading should need about ten minutes max to spend some time on standardized test prep and recognize that if your goal is truly to maximize scores... then the vast majority of your instructional time should be spent on improving actual reading skills because you actually can't meaningfully game these tests by "practicing main idea questions" (timothy shanahan addresses this briefly near the top of this post). so i find it very difficult to believe that any school that pivoted to multiple choice drill time in an attempt to boost reading scores was teaching reading effectively pre-NCLB, because no set of competent literacy professionals would think that would work even for the goal of raising test scores. third, NCLB mandated yearly testing in grades 3-8 but only one test year in high school; kansas set its reading and math test year in high school as tenth grade. so theoretically these kids all had two years of sweet sweet freedom from NCLB in which their teachers could have done whatever the fuck they wanted to teach these kids to actually read. the fact that they didn't suggests perhaps there were other problems afoot. fourth, and maybe most saliently for this particular study, the sample text was the first seven paragraphs of a novel - in other words, the exact kind of short incomplete text that NCLB allegedly demanded excessive time spent on. i'm not really sure what universe it makes sense in that students who can't read the first seven paragraphs of a novel would have become much better reader if everything else had been the same but they had been making completely wack associations based on nonsense guesses for all 300 pages instead. (if you read the study it's really clear that for problematic readers, things go off the rails immediately, in a way that a good program targeted at teaching mastery of text of 500 words or less would have done something about.)

all but 3 of the students reported A's and B's in their english classes and, again, 69% of them are juniors and seniors, so like... i mean idk kudos to these professors for being like "hold up can these kids actually read?" but clearly something is wack at the college level too [in 2015] if you can make your way through nearly an entire english major without being able to read the first seven paragraphs of a dickens novel. (once again i really do encourage you to look at the qualitative samples in the study, lest you think i am being uncharitable by summarizing understandable misunderstandings or areas of confusion that may resolve themselves with further exposure to the text as "can't read.") not to mention the fact that most students could not what they had learned in previous or current english classes and when asked to name british and american authors and/or works of the nineteenth century, roughly half the sample at each college could name at most one.

the authors of the study are struck by the fact that students who cannot parse the first 3 sentences of bleak house feel very confident about their ability to read the entire novel, and discover that this seeming disconnect is resolved by the fact that these students seem to conceptualize "reading" as "skimming and then reading sparknotes." i think it's really tempting to Kids These Days this phenomenon (although again these are people who in some cases have now been in the workforce for a decade) and categorize it as laziness or a lack of effort, but i think that there is, as i described above, a real and sincere confusion over what "reading" is in which this makes a certain logical sense because it's not like they have some store of actual reading experiences to compare it to. i also think it's pretty obvious looking at just how wildly severed from actual textual comprehension their readings are that these are not - or at least not entirely - students who could just work harder and master the entirety of bleak house all on their own. like i don't think you get from "charles dickens is describing a bunch of dinosaur bones actually walking the streets of london" to comfortably reading nineteenth century literature by just trying harder. i really just don't (and i say that acknowledging i personally have had students who like... were good readers if i was forcing them to work at it constantly... but i have also had students, including ones getting ready to enter college, who were clearly giving me everything they had and what they had was at the present moment insufficient). i think that speaks to a missing skillset that they don't know are missing, because they don't have any other experience of "reading" to compare it to.

just wanna highlight again that although they don't give the breakdown some of these students are not just english majors but english education majors a.k.a. the high school english teachers of tomorrow. some of them may be teaching high school english right now, in case anyone wishes to consider whether "maybe some high school english teachers can't read the first seven paragraphs of bleak house?" should be kept in mind when we discuss present-day educational ills.

[sknyuz]

cheers to youth | na baekjin

synopsis — seventeen begins to feel less like a number and more like a fleeting chance at youth for baekjin, and you're determined to help him reclaim it. now playing — cheers to youth - seventeen pairing — na baekjin x reader genre — a prequel to before the storm, fluff, hurt/comfort, f2l cw — mentions of violence (bruised knuckles, blood), implied gang activity, hints of trauma, light angst wc — ~3k

masterlist | join the taglist | 400 follower event

⤷ read before the storm here

note: i am soooo excited to bring them back <3 thank u sm bubble anon and i hope to hear ur thoughts about this. ur request was a great way to circle back to their story. so, here’s a bit more of a softer side to our before the storm couple, before before the storm.

baekjin has been tutoring you for a few months.

months of sharp pencil taps and hushed explanations about algebra formulas, chemical equations, and the difference between mitosis and meiosis. three months of neatly organized notes, and surprisingly, moving from the library to quiet cafes after school, and the faint scent of worn-out textbooks. and somewhere between “you’re solving this backwards again” and “just memorize the codes by category,” you started to notice it.

it being: baekjin is different from you—not in the way most teenage boys are. he doesn’t tease, doesn’t zone out mid-sentence or start humming the latest pop song stuck in his head, baekjin is the kind of different that feels… heavier.

he doesn’t skip class or doodles in the margins of his notebook. and he definitely doesn’t take mirror selfies or kick vending machines when their drink gets stuck. baekjin doesn’t scream when teachers announce a pop quiz—just flips the page like he’s been expecting it all along.

you notice it especially in the way he walks—like he’s older than the rest of you. like seventeen is just a number he has to wear, not a year he gets to live in.

for you, seventeen is messy. it’s loud and full of mistakes, it’s glittery pens and bad decisions and crushes you won’t remember in two years.

but for baekjin, seventeen looks like duty, like pressure. like everything could fall apart if he dares to slow down.

and then the bell rings—that sharp, metallic echo that usually means freedom.

but baekjin doesn’t flinch with relief, he flinches like he’s bracing for something.

when the bells ring, i become fearful / these days, my heart gets scared first

you’re walking out of the building together, the sky bleeding into early evening. his backpack’s weighed down with papers—union notes, scribbled with surveillance details and plate numbers, things no seventeen-year-old should have to memorize.

he doesn’t bother hiding them from you anymore.

maybe he tried, once—keeping his bruised knuckles in his sleeves during tutoring, glancing at his phone under the table like it wasn’t burning a hole in his pocket. but now, he knows there’s no point, you’ve always noticed more than you let on. maybe you’re not as oblivious as your homeroom teacher thinks you are.

and maybe that’s why he lets the notes spill out so easily now—right next to your math textbook, like they belong there. he doesn’t flinch when your eyes catch the names or the red circles. he doesn’t apologize when he’s late, when his jaw is tense, when there’s dried blood on his collar.

you don’t push, you never ask about it.

and somehow, that quiet understanding—your decision to let him keep his secrets without making him feel like a secret—is more comforting than anything.

it’s not subtle, nor is it normal. but for baekjin, it’s something that feels oddly peaceful.

“do you even like being in high school?” you ask suddenly. your voice is light, but your heart’s not.

he doesn’t look up, just keeps writing something in his notebook as he walks. “…that’s not the point.”

i want to be alone, but i don’t want to be alone / i don’t get myself either…

“what is the point, then?” you lean closer, not letting him off that easily, “if you’re not having fun now, when will you? when you’re dead or dying?” you snort, but baekjin tenses up.

his pen stalls, the tip presses too long into the page, leaving behind a blot of ink. you watch it bloom like something bruising.

he lifts his eyes to you, just for a second, and there’s a flicker of something there—something soft, almost unsure, like a door left ajar. like he wants to say something, but doesn’t have the words for it yet.

so you smile at him, and that’s when you decide: if baekjin can’t find the fun in seventeen, then maybe you’ll just have to bring it to him yourself.

you take him to a photo booth after school.

you pile silly props onto his head—mismatched glasses and floppy bunny ears while he tries to duck out of the frame.

“baekjin,” you say, tugging his sleeve. “just one picture. c’mon.”

he hesitates, so you squint into the lens and say, “if you don’t smile, i’m writing ‘DNA is my myers-briggs personality type’ on our next biology exam.”

his head jerks toward you, scandalized—and that’s when the camera flashes, catching the sound of his startled laugh mid-escape.

in this suffocating world / i smiled for a moment at something small…

you wait for it to print and tuck it into your pocket.

baekjin doesn’t ask for a copy, but you catch him glancing over your shoulder as you look at it again later. just once. like he wants to remember what that felt like. maybe he wouldn’t mind seeing himself like that again.

the next monday at school, baekjin finds the photo booth strip tucked inside his notebook.

the following week after tutoring, you drag a grumbling baekjin to the ice cream shop next to your academy. you hand him a cone that’s too bright, too blue, too artificial-looking. he stares at it like you handed him a grenade.

“just try it,” you say, already halfway through your own.

he takes a bite, flinching with a subtle grimace, eyes narrowing at the cone.

“this tastes like melted bubblegum,” he says flatly.

you laugh, “good! you’re supposed to taste your childhood.”

he opens his mouth—maybe to say childhood?, like it’s a foreign word. baekjin doesn’t remember much sweetness in his. only the kind of silence that swallows whole, the kind of pain that you outgrow only in size. there were no ice creams or photobooths, only cracked knuckles, bitten lips, too many nights where the only thing he tasted was copper and fear.

but now, he’s still in his youth, isn’t he? he’s still got time. maybe this—this ridiculous, artificial bubblegum flavor—can be the new taste of it, maybe it can fill in the blank spaces where laughter should’ve been, maybe it can be the one thing that finally overtakes the taste of blood in his mouth and ache in his chest.

so he doesn’t complain again. just finishes the whole thing, sticky fingers and all.

it just so happens we’re facing today for the first time / even if you hate yourself more from the deeply hurtful remarks you said / let’s not worry about it…

a few weeks later, something shifts in baekjin.

he shows up to tutoring with a split lip and silence clinging to his shoulders like a second jacket. he doesn’t offer an explanation, and you don’t ask—not yet. but you notice the way his eyes stay fixed on his notes like he’s trying to disappear into the margins. how the pen in his hand presses too hard, like he’s holding back something that wants to claw out.

you don’t like the way he flinches when someone laughs too loud outside the café window. or how he doesn’t touch his drink, just lets the ice melt.

so you slam your notebook shut and say, “we’re going out.”

baekjin blinks. “…what?”

“noraebang.”

“no.”

“yes.” your voice is firm, but you smile. “you can sit in the corner and sulk if you want. but you’re not going home like this.”

he sighs like he hates that you notice things, but he follows you out the door anyway.

the karaoke room is smaller than you expected, the mic a little too echoey, the screen slightly lagging behind the beat. still, you’re already queuing up songs while baekjin stands awkwardly by the couch like he’s considering making a run for it.

“i don’t sing,” he mutters, eyes scanning the laminated songbook like it might bite.

“good thing i do,” you grin, clicking on a familiar intro—the kind of upbeat, fluttery track you know he’d never pick.

you toss him the tambourine, and he catches it without thinking. “what am i supposed to do with this?” he asks, gaze flicking up to you—quizzical, unimpressed.

“participate in your youth!” you say, already grabbing the mic as the first verse starts.

he rolls his eyes, but he doesn’t leave. a minute later, he’s still there—half-heartedly tapping the tambourine against his palm as you belt out the chorus, your voice cracking with enthusiasm more than skill.

we should be solving quadratic formulas right now, he thinks. and you probably will flunk your next test at this rate. he sighs with the thought—but that also means he’ll have to tutor you again next week.

his eyes drift toward you—they don’t leave.

with our voices, wherever we are, let’s sing—cheers to youth…

baekjin doesn’t sing, that part was true. he doesn’t even hum. but there’s a ghost of a smirk tugging at his mouth, barely there. his eyes stay on you like the rest of the world has gone quiet.

and for once, the union feels a little less close. like in this cramped, echoey karaoke room—with you laughing off-key under dim lights—it’s somewhere far away, out of reach.

it’s raining when you step out of the karaoke room. not a drizzle—a full, angry downpour, bouncing off the pavement and pooling along the curb.

“perfect,” you mutter, tugging your bag over your shoulder. you forgot your umbrella—again—but baekjin didn’t.  he sighs, pulling out a small umbrella from his backpack. “you always forget yours.” this wasn’t the first time you forgot your umbrella.

“i like to live on the edge,” you grin, ducking under his. he stiffens a little as your shoulder brushes his.

your place is only two blocks away. you insist it’s faster than waiting, and baekjin, though visibly reluctant, walks beside you in the downpour. the umbrella doesn’t quite cover both of you. but he doesn’t complain when your shoulder brushes his, or when his other one gets soaked in the rain.

he should be with the union right now, there’s a meeting and he knows it, feels the weight of it tugging at the edges of his mind like a leash. but your warmth is close, and the rain is loud, and somehow… baekjin’s legs move before he thinks.

a few minutes later, you pause at your doorstep, rainwater slipping from your sleeves as you fumble with the key.

“your parents… probably wouldn’t want me staying,” he says, clearing his throat. his voice is steady, but his eyes flick to the street like he’s searching for a way out. he shifts back a step, fingers tightening on the umbrella still dripping at his side. “i should head out.”

but he knows it’s just an excuse. he noticed it earlier—how he softened without meaning to, how stepping inside your world felt like crossing a line he wasn’t sure he deserved to.

“i live alone,” you say, quiet but certain.

not many things surprise him, but that piece of information might have made him feel it. maybe because you always seemed like someone who’d come home to a warm meal and soft smiles, the kind of person whose energy felt… loved. lived in. he never imagined you turning the lights on to silence—never pictured you being alone in the same ways he is.

a flicker of concern bubbles in his chest—unfamiliar, uninvited, but not unwelcome.

it settles beside the rest of the feelings he hasn’t named yet.

he hesitates… then steps inside.

your apartment is small, a little cluttered, but warm. the kind of place with mismatched socks drying on the heater and cereal boxes stacked on top of the fridge. baekjin’s eyes scan the room like he’s trying to memorize it, but he doesn’t say much. just sets his shoes neatly by the door and follows you inside.

you hand him a towel. he takes it with a quiet nod, his gaze flicking toward the small, but comfortable mess of your space before he looks away.

later, he lies beside you on the floor under a ceiling of glow-in-the-dark stars you stuck up last summer. they’re uneven, a few peeling at the corners, but still glowing faintly above your heads like they’re trying their best. baekjin doesn’t ask why you put them up. but he thinks about how you probably put them up alone—no one else around to help. and for a moment, he almost can’t stop a faint grin from tugging at his lips as he imagined how clumsy you would’ve been, but it’s swallowed by the dim light and his unsaid thoughts.

the rain hasn’t let up, tapping soft against the windows like it’s afraid to interrupt. you’re both wrapped in different ends of the same blanket, quiet now. your breathing steady, his a little more uneven.

in this trivial warmth of the cozy blanket that wrapped around me / i fall asleep waiting for tomorrow again

baekjin doesn’t talk about himself, not at all. he’s the kind of boy who folds in on silence, who carries things so quietly you forget they weigh anything at all. but tonight, something in that boy shifts.

he turns toward you, eyes catching the stars for a second too long.

then, his voice comes out softly, the quietest and most hesitant you’d ever hear him speak: “i don’t think i ever let myself feel like this.”

you blink. “like what?”

he shifts his weight, a small, frustrated sigh escaping his lips. “like it’s okay to just… live like this.” he doesn’t say it outright, but you understand. his voice cracks, just barely.

you roll over to face him and your eyes meet in the dim, “it is okay, baekjin.”

he stares at you for a long moment, like he’s not sure if he’s allowed to believe you.

then he exhales. “i want to hate myself a little less than yesterday.”

the loud alarm that rings every morning / i want to hate a little less than yesterday…

he doesn’t say much when he leaves in the morning. just a short nod and a glance that lingers at your door a moment longer than it should. but later, at school, you notice something new.

after a big test, maybe—one that baekjin had crushed, as usual, without breaking a sweat.

a photo strip—creased from being carried around, tucked into the clear back pocket of his phone case. you in heart-shaped sunglasses and his startled smile, next to his test marked 100.

he doesn’t hide it when you see, doesn’t pretend it’s not there.

“you worked hard,” you say softly, voice quieter than usual.

and you’re not just talking about the test score, not really. it’s the way he’s finally letting himself live—if only for a few moments here and there. letting himself be a kid, even if it’s just with you. that’s the secret you hold dearly.

his gaze shifts, and his chest lifts a little at your words. he knows exactly what you mean. it’s not about the paper, not at all.

“it wasn’t easy,” he echoes, voice low, as if the weight of it hasn’t quite settled in yet. “but it wasn’t so bad.”

as i’m heading home, ‘you worked hard’ / that it wasn’t easy, but it wasn’t so bad…

and maybe that’s how it starts—an ice cream cone, a bad karaoke duet, and a quiet night under plastic stars.

baekjin doesn’t let people in easily. but after your tutoring sessions, it slowly becomes routine. a few steps slower on the way home, maybe a shared drink at the corner store with his hand brushing yours once, then not pulling away the next time.

he starts showing up without being asked, and starts staying a little longer each time. and eventually, you stop counting how many times he lets himself be part of your world.

and then one afternoon—weeks later, a sky still pale from winter light—you pull out a paper you’ve been hiding all day: a perfect score. red ink, circled on the 100. you hold it out to him sheepishly while he lounges on the floor of your apartment, flipping through a children’s comic book like it’s riveting literature.

“what’s this?” he asks, taking it. his eyes scan the paper, and for the first time since you’ve known him, his eyes that usually held such a stoic, piercing gaze widens, genuinely stunned.

“you—” his voice breaks off, and then suddenly he’s up, paper still in hand, arms wrapping tight around your waist. you let out a startled laugh as your feet lift off the ground.

“you actually did it,” he says, half in disbelief, half in something that sounds suspiciously like pride. “you—god. you did it.”

you blink down at him, never before seeing him so animted. “was that… enthusiasm? from na baekjin?”

he doesn’t let you go, just presses his forehead to your shoulder with a quiet laugh.

“shut up.” but his smile doesn’t fade—not for a long time.

everything will be good, because it’s me…

and from that moment on, na baekjin finally, fully lets you in.

not just as the person who makes him laugh at photo booths or forces him into glittery karaoke rooms, or as a distraction from the union, from the weight he always carries so carefully on his own.

but as something more.

you become his outlet not just for stolen youth, but for something completely new to him—affection.

the kind he never knew how to ask for. the kind that’s soft and lingering, tucked into things like packed snacks on long study days, or the way he shrugs off his jacket and drapes it over your shoulders before you even ask.

na baekjin doesn’t say much, he was never the one for long explanations or complicated conversations.

but when he starts reaching for your hand without thinking, when he leans in a little closer on the bus station as you wait for your bus home, when he lets his gaze linger just a beat longer than it should—you know.

you’re not just something he’s letting himself want, you’re something he’s letting himself have. in the midst of re-discovering his youth, na baekjin discovers you.

cheers to youth

note: i had wayyy too much fun writing this, and creating the gifs !! do you notice how the spark gets stronger? i hope everyone appreciates this little glimpse into what life was like for our before the storm couple. hopefully this healed something in the readers of before the storm, lol. consider this my apology for the pain that bts caused >~<

𐔌 . ⋮ taglist .ᐟ weak hero class ֹ ₊ ꒱ @kstrucknet | @loserlvrss @nanamiswifesatorusgf @hateateez @slytherinshua @winnie-bunnie @rexxiiia @mrgzzarella @ilyhachii @youmeshii @actuallynarii @midnight--raine @d4ily-s-nsh1ne @trasshy-artist @crowneve @juicyjam @xh01bri @onyourlisa345 @triciawritesstuff @prettywhenicry4 @dripoftheseus @rosieparkk @gacktsa @sopitadearvejas @satorustorm @mirwors @sqacewalkr @l5byrinth @sarcastic-cookie @v3n0m35 @vitaminbtob @armani78 @bbangbies @snowflakemoon3 @kibtsuji @yuuuumii @slovesyouuu @f1-lh44 @hajunz  @snowflakemoon3 @hoe4wonwoo @pluslandminun @bleedingwhiteroses222 @dahlia-blossom @reiofsuns2001 @yuuuumii @feralmaneater @fandomout @ilovethe141 @coffee-ii @vind1cta @brianafyz (ask to be tagged or removed)

[tateypots]

Body and Soul

18+ MDNI

Pairing: Dark!Joel Miller x f!reader, Dark!Tommy Miller x f!reader

Word count: 3.3k

A/N: Part 10 of Collared. Same as before, it's dark so please heed the warnings and skip if it's not for you.

I promised an anon I would put Tommy in a ponytail but I had to split the chapter because it was getting too big. So ponytail Tommy will fall in the next chapter, sorry anon!

Moodboard is for aesthetics only, reader is not described beyond having boobs and a vagina and hair (very brief mention and it is not described). Please refer to this post for more info on the series mooboards.

Summary: You take a step forward in your relationship with Joel.

Warnings: Non-Con, dark Joel, dark Tommy, kidnapping, daddy kink, uncle kink, restraints, stockhom syndrome, praise kink, unprotected piv, manipulation. Let me know if I missed anything.

You heave a massive sigh and bury your head in your hands. What a mess. Your brain is on overdrive following Joel telling you about their bet. And the worst of it is that it’s not outrage at them using you as a pawn in their games. It’s the thought of letting one of them down.

A few hours ago you had been drowning in pride at how well you were doing in your training, how pleased Tommy was with you. How much faith he had in you. The thought of disappointing him makes you sick to your stomach. Because of course it would be him. You had genuinely come to care for Tommy. But you needed Joel. Going 24 hours without him would be an unthinkable torture.

You felt like you should hate yourself for how little thought you actually gave it. Because as soon as the secret slipped from Joel’s mouth, the outcome was inevitable. And to make things worse again, you knew that had been his intention in telling you. A manipulation dressed up in praise and feigned sadness over a loss he knew would never come. And yet you couldn’t bring yourself to be mad at him, because weren’t you just as bad?

Joel had told you because he couldn’t bear the thought of going without you for that long. And you would risk your relationship with Tommy because you felt the same way about him. That pull you felt towards him was inescapable. It defied all logic. You knew Tommy was objectively the better choice for you. He was younger for a start. More open, fun, where Joel was closed off and manipulative. But Tommy didn’t make your body sing or your heart flutter the way Joel did. So no matter how much you hated letting him down, Tommy never really stood a chance.

Now you just had to figure out a way to do it that would limit the damage. You couldn’t just put no effort in. Tommy would know something was off if you did. And that sent your brain spiralling in another direction. What would happen if Tommy found out that Joel had told you?

You’d often considered what would happen if the brothers turned on you. But it had never crossed your mind to wonder what would happen if they turned on each other. It was clear to you how close they were so it had never really seemed like it would be a problem. But now the secrets between them were starting to mount up. Because of you… You grabbed a pillow off the bed and stuffed it over your face, screaming your frustration into it.

You tried so hard over the next few hours to shut off your brain but it was no good. Your mind ran in circles, searching for a solution that wouldn’t materialise. When Joel and Tommy came in for the day you were amped up, pacing and fidgety.

“Whoa sugar, what’s got you all riled up?” Tommy asks, coming over to still your pacing, grabbing you by each bicep.

You couldn’t look at him, too filled with guilt so instead you leant forward and buried your head in his shoulder.

“Hey now, what’s goin’ on?” He tries to push you back so he can look at you but you resist, wrapping your arms around him and clinging on like your life depends on it. He admits defeat and wraps his arms around you and pulls you in close.

“It’s ok princess, just tell us what’s wrong hmm?”

You turn your head to the side and mumble, “I’m ok Uncle Tommy, just got in my head and couldn’t switch it off.” You lift your head slightly to peer over his shoulder at Joel. He’s looking back at you, studying the scene in front of him, frowning. You see how this must look to him, you diving straight into Tommy’s arms while upset, knowing what it must be about.

The panic wells in your chest. Your breath comes in frantic little pants and you start to feel lightheaded. You reach one arm out to him while keeping one locked around Tommy’s back and whimper out a soft, “Daddy!”

He softens immediately and rushes to you, grabbing your hand and leaning over Tommy’s shoulder to give you a kiss on the crown of your head. His thumb rubs back and forth gently on the back of your hand as tears start to leak from your eyes.

“It’s ok baby, we got you, you’re alright,” Joel murmurs into your hair.

You sniffle and nod into Tommy’s shoulder, feeling so safe, so cared for it almost makes you forget what you were upset about in the first place. Almost.

“M’sorry,” you mumble, finally getting a grip of yourself and stopping the tears.

“Nothin’ to be sorry about princess, some days are just like that. Happens to me and your Daddy too, ‘cept he gets a lot grumpier than I do.”

You huff a laugh and Tommy snickers into the side of your head when Joel gives him a playful clip around the back of the head.

“There she is. Happy to hear you laughin’ sugar,” Tommy tells you as he finally succeeds in peeling you off him so he can look at your face. You take a deep breath and meet his gaze with a little smile, still holding tight to Joel’s hand.

“Right, I know just the thing to properly cheer you up. How bout some of Uncle Tommy’s famous hot chocolate?”

You smile and nod at him. He is achingly sweet and its making you feel terrible for the way you know you’re going to betray him. But it’s somewhat easier to face with Joel by your side, your hand held securely in his.

“Ok, good girl. Why don’ you snuggle up with Daddy while I work my magic,” he winks at you and moves over to the small kitchen to get started.

Joel looks at you for a beat before sweeping you up in his arms and depositing you both on the sofa, you sitting in his lap with both legs off to the side. The raging jealousy he felt when he saw you latch onto Tommy just now is ebbing slowly as he runs his hands over your soft skin. He’d momentarily worried that he’d pushed you too far. That he’d lost you to Tommy completely through his scheming. But as you lift your little hand to cup his face and lean up to give him a kiss on the cheek he knows his worries were baseless. You’re his. You choose him. He kisses your forehead in a soft apology for what he’s putting you through. You just sigh and sink into him. His sweet, tender-hearted girl. He’ll think of a way to make it up to you.

///

By the time you finish your hot chocolate you’re feeling much better. Snuggling with Joel has quieted your mind and reaffirmed your conviction that you cannot spend 24 hours apart from him. And his tenderness has reassured you that, no matter what, he will take care of you. And you know that maybe you’re being naïve. Maybe he’s just playing with your mind to pass the time. But something deep within tells you that’s not it. That he wouldn’t risk his relationship with his brother if he didn’t reciprocate your need for him. And you decide that if you need to have faith in something, it may as well be Joel. After all, you’ve never felt as safe as you do with his arms wrapped around you.

So when Tommy pulls you out of Joel’s lap and guides you towards the bed, you don’t resist. You don’t even think twice. You can give Tommy this at least. Make him feel good as recompense. You lay on your back and spread your legs for him.

For once you don’t fight the uncomfortable feeling that overcomes you every time Tommy touches you like this. You let it wash over you, bathe yourself in it even as he sinks inside you. This is your penance. You’re just grateful he decided to fuck you tonight rather than have you blow him. This feels less intimate somehow. Maybe it’s because there’s no thought involved for you. You can lie back and let your body take over.

He lies on top of you and buries his head in the crook of your neck. He pumps into you steadily, moaning into your ear, his breath hot against your skin. You turn your head and lock eyes with Joel, even as your hands latch onto Tommy, one burying itself in his loose curls and the other grabbing a handful of his butt cheek, encouraging him to beat into you. Tommy groans as he feels you, enjoying you finally reciprocating his advances.

Joel leans forward on the old sofa, leaning his forearms on his knees, his hands clasped tightly together. His eyes never leave yours, it feels as though they brand you with their intensity. 

You mewl softly as Tommy starts to move faster, the curls at the base of his dick catching on your clit with every thrust. You let out a broken moan when Tommy’s cock brushes over that spongy spot inside of you and you see Joel’s jaw clench and his hands ball tightly into fists. You wrap your legs around Tommy, pulling him even further into you.

“That’s it princess, bein’ so good for Uncle Tommy, lettin’ him make you feel good.”

He continues to aim for that spot, pounding into with determination, making you cry out. You see something flash in Joel’s eyes as he pushes to his feet. Anger, jealousy? It’s gone too quickly for you to fully identify as his jaw clenches again and he scrunches his nose, but seeing him getting worked up while Tommy fucks you is what pushes you over the edge.

You come with a wail, your pussy clamping down on Tommy hard.

“Jesus, fuck!” he curses as he slams into you a final time before pulsing deep inside. He slumps on top of you, sweaty and breathless. You gently caress his back and press a kiss into his shoulder. A silent sorry that he will never understand. 

“Mmmmm, so good f’me princess. Such a good girl.”

He pulls out of you and disappears into the bathroom, returning quickly with a damp cloth. He cleans you up and announces, “I’m off for a shower,” before disappearing into the bathroom, not noticing the prickling tension between you and Joel, who has resumed his position on the sofa like nothing has happened.  

As soon as the door locks you climb off the bed and make your way over to Joel. He reaches for you before you fully get to him, pulling you forward with his hands on your hips, desperate to have you near. The rough callouses feel heavenly against your skin and you moan out a breathy, “oh Daddy,” before straddling his lap.

You lean your forehead against his and whisper, “thank you Daddy.” Because you know what that was. Him letting you see how affected he was by Tommy fucking you. Letting you see how little he liked it. It was an apology. And a promise. Dropping his mask to let you know how much he cares for you. How little he wants to share you.

He clutches you to him tighter, nuzzling his nose against yours. “Say it. Tell me.” There’s no authority in it. He’s not demanding. He’s begging.

“M’yours Daddy. Only yours.”

He lets out a sigh of relief and his eyes slip closed. You smile and gently cup his face in your hands, waiting for his eyes to be on you again. When he opens them you give him a smile and lean in and press your lips gently to his.

He doesn’t react at first so you pull back, afraid you’ve misread this entire thing but you barely manage to get any distance from his face before he’s pulling you back in with a groan, his lips pressing against yours, gentle but insistent. It makes your breath hitch and you gasp. He takes the opportunity to suck your bottom lip between his before releasing it with a small smacking sound.

“My. Perfect. Sweet. Girl,” he tells you, punctuating each word with a kiss, each one getting firmer. Your hands fall to his shoulders to brace yourself against falling completely into him with the way he is tugging at you.

His tongue swipes against your lips and you moan. As soon as your lips part his tongue is shoving its way into your mouth. It slides against yours and you hesitantly try to match his movements, uncoordinated and sloppy. It feels divine. You pull away every now and again to gasp for air but Joel pulls you right back into him, drowning in his desire for you. You never expected kissing to feel this good. Your pussy throbs and drools as you get more and more aroused, soaking Joel’s crotch with your slick and Tommy’s cum.

Joel’s hands come up to cradle your face and he slides his tongue out of your mouth to growl against your lips, “he doesn’t get to have you like this.” His gruff, possessive tone has you about to lose your mind and you simply whimper as you crush your lips against his once more. He meets your kiss gladly but then abruptly pulls away again and you chase his mouth.

“Say it,” he demands, and you open your eyes to find his boring into yours, expression laced with desperation. “Kisses are only for Daddy,” you mewl at him and he crashes his mouth against you once more, pulling away to growl a “good girl,” at you before claiming you once more.

You can’t take it any more, you drop your hands to fumble with his belt, made harder by the fact that you can’t see with the way Joel is invading your mouth. You finally get it loose and somehow manage to get the button and zipper of his jeans open. He lifts his hips to help you push down his jeans and underwear, just enough to allow his cock to spring free, all whilst joined at the mouth.

He moans when you wrap your hand around his cock and the vibrations rumble pleasantly against your tongue and around your mouth. You break from his lips, head falling back as you sink down onto him, the tight stretch of him stealing any remaining breath you had. You choke and gasp as he slides further and further inside of you, you think you may pass out from lack of oxygen.

His lips are now attached to your neck, the thought of them not being on you unbearable to him. His arms are looped under your arm pits with his hands grabbing at your shoulders as he eases you down to his base. He groans as he finally bottoms out, your head is still tipped back, you can’t think, can’t move as you pant and gulp for air.

He gently guides you forward until your head falls to his shoulder, air coming more easily in the more natural position.

“Tha’s it baby, just breath for me, good girl, big deep breaths,” he coos at you while he strokes your back and lets you settle into him. He doesn’t move, just sits and lets you recover, enjoying the way his balls nestle against the soft skin of your ass.

“My good girl got all worked up from Daddy’s kisses, didn’t she?”

You hum out a dreamy “uh huh,” before latching your fingers in his curls and planting your lips against his once more. He chuckles against you, sucking and nipping at your lower lip and starting to rock you back and forth.

You reluctantly pull away as he encourages you to start bouncing on his cock.

“Fuck yeah you did. Been waitin’ so long for those kisses baby, even better than I imagined. Shoulda’ known. Always fuckin’ perfect for me ain’t ya?”

You whine and your pussy clenches at his words. You already feel that tightening in your core, your whole body lighting up with the pleasure he’s giving you. You’re almost certain he could have made you come just with his kisses.

He groans as you tug on his hair and ride him with fury. You’ve never felt so feral. It’s savage in the way it grips you, your whole existence stripped back to one fundamental truth. You are his. Body and soul.

It’s dangerous you know, to be lured by these feelings in the throes of lust. That it could just be your body fooling your mind into believing this is more than just raw, primal attraction. That this could be his greatest manipulation of all. But the way he pulls you back in to place soft kisses against your lips as you pound each other tells you different. You are his. But he is also yours.

He sticks his thumb into your mouth alongside his tongue, startling you slightly before he retracts it, slippery with your mixed saliva and brings it to your clit. You wail as he rubs it fast and hard, in time with your movements on him.

The pressure releases abruptly and you feel a gush of liquid pour out of you as you scream for him, the world around you seems to explode in light. You feel as though it must be bursting through your skin, the power behind your high is so extreme. Far too intense to be contained in your body.

You’re fairly sure you black out because the next thing you know, you’re limp in Joel’s lap, he’s holding you still with a massive hand each grabbing one of your ass cheeks hard as he punches into you from below, babbling in your ear.

“Fuckin’ made for me, best little girl I could ever ask for, always so fuckin’ good f’me. Kissin’ and ridin’ and squirtin’ all over me. Always takin’ my cock and my cum so good. Oh fuck! Here it comes baby, FUCK!”

He explodes, pouring into you in several warm bursts. He continues to buck up into you, milking himself dry and making sure every drop is in you. He slumps beneath you and pulls you in for another kiss, slow and languid and so fucking delicious it makes your pussy pulsate around him, making him whimper with overstimulation.

You pull back and smirk at him, biting your lower lip to stop yourself from giggling. He rolls his eyes and smacks your ass with a grumbled, “watch it,” but you see his eyes crinkle with the smile he’s trying to hold in. You don’t say anything but you make a mental note that you definitely want to hear him make that noise again.

You sneak another quick kiss when you hear the lock to the bathroom click and Joel pulls you into his chest to cover the evidence of your squirting. You go happily, listening to the beat of his heart through his soft flannel. Strong and steady and comforting.

Tommy chuckles at the pair of you as he walks through the living area to his room, still damp from his shower and a towel wrapped round his waist, completely oblivious to the potentially life altering events that just happened.

Everything is laid bare now, you’ve surrendered yourself completely. To Joel. You wonder if you should feel ashamed. You don’t. You feel content. Happy even. You luxuriate in it as you soak in Joel’s scent and heat, snuggling in as close as you can get. To the man that you love.

///

@aurorawritestoescape @milla-frenchy @old-logan-and-old-joels-slut @mani-pedro @axshadows @justajoelsreader @ahintofkiwistrawberry @guelyury @rosebuds-and-moonlight @koshkaj-blog @shivispunk @ivoryandflame @tammythr @magpiepills @deviscave @megjohnston23 @pedrosgrogu @pedge-page @guelyury @lamartell @thejoywillburnoutthepain @xoxabs88xox @teapartydreams @baronessvonglitter @a-loneywolf @staley83 @joelmillerswife9 @bunnnyreads-tlou @mushgloomz @gorygladiators @megangovier @lilac-boo @nala2811 @catnip987

[nhmkhnh]

I HAVE SOMETHING CRAZY IN YOUR OWN, GET READY...the idea is this. How about introducing intensive care physician!Vi/patient!User. I saw such a bot, only there was a doctor user, and I really want to see Vi as a doctor, please...😭😭😭

physcian!vi x patient!fem!reader

preface: sometimes, the silence between two people speaks louder than words ever could.

author's note: BABE THIS IDEA IS SO SO GOOD!! *chef kiss* and alright here we go!

wrn: lowercase, kind of explicit content at the end (?)

masterlist / janitor ai / c.ai / carrd

the clinic’s too quiet for a monday morning. cold fluorescent lights buzz overhead as vi leans against the counter, sipping her second coffee and waiting for her next patient. the front desk hums with keyboard clicks and distant footsteps. she checks the clipboard again.

name: [your name] new patient. referral: lower back + right knee post-injury rehab. note: “shy but sweet.”

vi squints at that last line and snorts. shy but sweet? sounds like hr had a crush.

the door opens.

her coffee nearly slips out of her hand.

you step in, awkward on your feet, one arm hugging a file to your chest. eyes wide. hesitant. hair tucked behind your ear like you’re trying not to take up space, but the second you look at her, something in vi’s chest goes a little stupid.

you're soft. that’s the first thing she registers. soft voice when you greet the receptionist. soft gaze when your eyes scan the room and land—unfortunately for vi—on her.

vi clears her throat and puts down the cup. straightens up. professional mode.

"hey. you must be my 10 am."

you nod, your voice quiet. "y-yeah. that’s me."

she offers her hand. “vi. i’ll be your physical therapist. we’re gonna be spending a lot of time together, so i figured we should skip the formal stuff.”

you hesitate. then reach out slowly, your hand slipping into hers.

warm. small. careful.

vi holds it a second longer than she should before releasing. your fingertips are cold.

“first time doing pt?” she asks as she gestures for you to follow her into the room.

you limp slightly. she notices everything.

you nod. “yeah. i… i’m kind of nervous.”

vi smiles. “don’t be. i got you.”

she means it. even if it surprises her how badly she wants that to be true.

inside the room, vi gestures to the table. “sit up here for me.”

you move slowly, and she watches the way you wince when your knee bends. her voice softens. “that hurts more than a six outta ten?”

“…seven,” you admit.

she lets out a low whistle, gently placing her hand on your leg to adjust it. your breath catches.

vi pauses.

“sorry,” she murmurs. “my hands are cold.”

“no, it’s okay,” you say quickly. too quickly.

she smiles to herself as she writes something down in your chart.

“you’re polite,” she teases.

you flush. “is that… bad?”

vi leans against the table beside you, crossing her arms.

“nope. just not used to it. most of my patients yell at me once i make ‘em stretch.”

“i wouldn’t yell at you,” you say, quietly but firmly.

vi’s eyes lift to yours.

you’re staring at her like you mean it. like you already trust her. she looks away before that warmth does something dangerous to her chest.

“good,” she says, voice rougher than she means it to be. “let’s keep it that way.”

she doesn’t flirt. not with patients. not here.

but when she helps you lie back and your fingers brush hers—slow, nervous, trusting—vi feels something shift.

this is gonna be a long recovery.

and she’s already looking forward to every second of it.

you’re here early.

vi notices the second she steps out of the breakroom, still towel-drying her hair from her midday run. you're sitting on the edge of the therapy table, hoodie sleeves pulled over your hands, legs swinging gently like you’re trying to distract yourself.

you look up the moment you sense her, and your smile—small, shy, devastating—slices through her like a punch to the gut.

“hey,” you murmur.

vi runs a hand through her damp hair, heartbeat hitching.

“hey, trouble. you alright? you’re twenty minutes early.”

you nod, gaze lowering. “just… didn’t want to be late.”

something about the way you say it—so careful, so eager to do things right—makes her throat tighten.

she walks over and sets her file down. “no rush. i’m glad you’re here.”

you meet her eyes again, soft and open. “really?”

vi smirks, folding her arms. “yeah. don’t tell the others, but you’re my favorite patient.”

you flush instantly, ducking your head. “you probably say that to all your patients.”

“i don’t,” she says, quietly.

you glance at her. something in her voice pins you in place. the air between you hums.

vi clears her throat and moves to grab the resistance bands. professional. stay professional.

“alright, ready to see if we can level you up today?” she asks, playfully nudging your knee.

you nod again. “i’ve been doing the stretches you gave me. every night.”

of course you have. of course you’re that kind of person—disciplined, sweet, determined even when it hurts.

vi exhales through her nose. “good girl.”

the words slip out before she can stop them.

silence.

your lips part slightly. not in offense—more like you don’t know what to do with the warmth that just bloomed in your cheeks.

vi goes still. realizes too late what she just said.

“shit—sorry,” she mutters quickly. “didn’t mean—just a… reflex.”

you shake your head fast. “no—it’s okay. i didn’t mind.”

that’s worse. way worse.

vi keeps her face neutral, but her brain is screaming.

you lie back for the leg lifts. vi steadies your knee with one hand, supporting the joint. her fingers are firm but careful. you tense.

“relax,” she says gently. “i’ve got you.”

you nod, but your breathing hitches. she notices. she always does.

the next rep, your thigh starts to shake. pain creeping in.

“hey, look at me,” she says softly.

you do. eyes glassy. your lower lip trembles like you want to quit but don’t want to disappoint her.

vi’s chest aches.

“you’re doing good,” she murmurs. “don’t worry about how it looks. don’t worry about me. just focus on you, yeah?”

you nod again. barely.

vi lets go of your leg, leans down closer, voice dropping. “you’ve been through hell. you’re still showing up. you’ve already won, sweetheart.”

your eyes shine.

and vi knows—she knows—she’s past the point of no return.

she wants to be more than the person who counts your reps. she wants to see that look in your eyes somewhere that isn’t under fluorescent lights and laminated charts. she wants to be the one you lean on when the world feels too much.

but she can’t.

not yet.

session ends. you’re flushed and tired, but you still smile at her like she’s made your whole week better just by being in it.

vi watches you leave, heart pounding, jaw tight.

you turn at the door and say, “thanks, vi. see you soon.”

she watches your hoodie swish around your knees as you disappear down the hallway.

and when the door finally closes, vi leans back against the table and exhales like she just walked out of a fight she lost willingly.

she knows the sound of your footsteps by now.

they’re always soft. hesitant. like you’re asking permission just to exist in the hallway. and usually, you peek your head in with that little smile, shy but warm, like the room doesn’t light up just because you walked in.

but today?

nothing.

vi hears the door open—but you don’t say anything. no knock. no “hey.” just the shuffle of your shoes and then silence.

she frowns, looks up from her notes.

you’re facing the wall. hoodie drawn over your head. shoulders tense. like you’re trying to make yourself invisible.

and vi freezes when she sees the way your hand curls against your side.

you’re shaking.

“…hey,” she says, voice low. “what’s going on?”

you flinch. turn away further.

but she’s already up and crossing the room.

“sweetheart,” she murmurs—quiet, instinctual. her hand hovers just over your back. she doesn’t touch you. not yet. “talk to me.”

you don’t look at her. you sniff, shoulders rising like you’re holding in an earthquake.

“i’m sorry,” you whisper. “i didn’t want to cancel but i—i shouldn’t have come in—”

“don’t say that.”

vi steps in front of you. your eyes are red, lashes damp. you look like you haven’t slept. like the world sat on your chest and didn’t get up.

she feels something old and deep awaken in her. not just protectiveness. not pity. devotion.

“sit down,” she says gently.

you shake your head. “i can’t—if i start crying again i won’t stop—”

“then don’t stop.”

that surprises you. your breath catches.

vi crouches in front of you, one knee on the ground, and looks up into your eyes.

“no one’s gonna judge you here. especially not me.”

you’re trembling. she can see your hands trying to hide it in your sleeves.

still, you manage a whisper: “it’s just been a really… hard week.”

vi nods. “wanna tell me about it?”

your lip wobbles.

and then the dam breaks.

you cry without noise. the tears fall like rain—quiet, persistent, unrelenting. you press your hands over your face like you’re ashamed of the way you’re breaking down.

vi gently pulls one hand away and holds it in both of hers. warm, solid, safe.

you don’t resist.

“i know it sucks,” she says softly. “i know how heavy it gets. but you don’t have to carry it alone, alright?”

you nod like you want to believe her but can’t.

so she shifts, sits beside you on the therapy table, and—very slowly—wraps an arm around your shoulder.

you go rigid for one second.

then collapse into her.

vi holds you against her chest. you’re warm. fragile. your fingers fist into her shirt like she’s the only thing keeping you from falling off the edge.

“i’m so tired,” you whisper into her.

vi’s throat tightens.

“i know,” she murmurs, pressing her cheek to the top of your head. “i got you. i’m not going anywhere.”

the room stays quiet after that. you cry until the tears stop coming, and when they do, you just sit in vi’s arms, breathing slow and steady against her.

and vi—she doesn’t want to let go.

not now. maybe not ever.

she’s not supposed to feel like this. not supposed to wrap herself around the person she’s supposed to help. but you make it impossible not to.

you make her want to be your safe place.

when you finally pull back, wiping your eyes, you whisper, “sorry for ruining our session.”

vi gives you a soft smile. “this was the session.”

you laugh—just a little—and it’s the most beautiful sound vi’s heard all week.

she doesn’t say the thing sitting in her chest. not yet. but she wants to.

let me take care of you. for real. not just here. everywhere.

she’s not even halfway through her notes when she smells it.

coffee.

fresh. warm. with a faint vanilla hint and—

she looks up.

you’re standing in the doorway, two cups in hand, hoodie sleeves still too long for your fingers, and your smile is—

soft. brighter than yesterday. a little shy, like you’re not sure if this was a good idea.

“um,” you say, stepping inside, “i didn’t know if you like it sweet, but i remembered you said something last week about vanilla, so…”

vi stares.

you’re rambling. you’re nervous. you’re glowing.

and you brought her coffee.

“you—” she blinks. “you remembered that?”

you shrug, setting the cup down beside her clipboard. “i just… wanted to say thanks. for yesterday.”

vi picks up the cup. still warm. your fingers must’ve just let go of it.

you shouldn’t know what kind of coffee she likes. you shouldn’t care. she shouldn’t want to reach out and pull you in like some storybook happy ending, but—

“sweetheart,” she says, voice hoarse. “you didn’t have to do that.”

you look away. “i wanted to.”

that’s worse. that’s so much worse.

vi clears her throat, sipping to distract herself. it’s perfect. of course it is.

you’re watching her now, cheeks a little pink. “is it okay?”

“yeah,” she says too fast. “it’s great.”

you smile again. that small, precious thing that makes her feel like she’s standing in sunlight.

the session’s easier today. you’re looser, calmer. you laugh more. your hands aren’t shaking. vi watches you closely—she always does—but there’s something different in your energy.

you’re still you. still sweet, still gentle.

but you’re looking at her longer.

and when she steadies your arm during a stretch, your breath catches—not in pain. in something else.

vi notices. her thumb brushes your wrist a little longer than necessary.

and you don’t pull away.

afterward, you linger near the door, cup still in hand. you glance back like you don’t want to leave yet.

vi leans in the doorway beside you, arms crossed, coffee cup dangling from her fingers. “you feeling better today?”

you nod, softly. “yeah. thanks to you.”

vi shrugs, smirking. “must’ve been the vanilla.”

you laugh. and it’s real.

her chest aches.

because she could get used to this. your voice. your stupid oversized hoodie. that nervous little smile you give her when you think she’s not looking.

she wants to see you like this every day.

she wants you.

“hey,” you say, shifting shyly, “if you ever need a pick-me-up too, i… i owe you a coffee run.”

you glance up at her from under your lashes.

and vi—vi is a fighter. a survivor. she’s stood in front of gods and monsters.

but nothing has ever hit her like the sound of your voice offering her something so gentle. so normal. so kind.

she gives you a slow grin. “you tryna bribe your way to extra therapy minutes?”

you snort. “maybe.”

“dangerous game,” she says, leaning closer, voice dropping. “i bite.”

you flush hard, eyes widening.

and there it is—that little spark of tension between you again.

something unsaid. unnamed. growing.

you step back, laughing nervously. “noted.”

“see you next week, trouble,” she says, watching you go.

and when the door swings shut behind you, vi exhales through her teeth and mutters, “shit.”

because she’s in it now.

deep.

it’s just a normal tuesday.

the clinic’s busy—voices echo down the hall, charts are a mess, and vi’s barely had time to breathe between sessions. she’s half-living off caffeine and instinct.

but then—

she hears your laugh.

and everything else goes quiet.

she turns. you’re standing down the hall, smiling at someone—not her. it’s jace. one of the new pts. all charm, clean white coat, and that dumb, easy smile he flashes at everyone.

you’re laughing at something he said.

and then—

he touches your arm. light, casual, like it’s nothing. his hand lingers as he explains something about posture, and your gaze drops shyly.

vi’s heart drops with it.

she doesn’t know why she’s staring. she doesn’t know why her jaw clenches or why her chest tightens like someone just sucked the air out of her lungs. but she’s frozen in place, coffee halfway to her mouth, blood pounding in her ears.

you’re supposed to laugh like that with her. you’re supposed to look down and blush when she’s talking. not him. not some clipboard-holding moron who doesn’t even remember which knee you injured last month.

vi doesn’t realize she’s moving until she’s already crossed the hallway.

“hey,” she says—casual, low, but a little too tight.

you and jace look up.

“vi!” you say, eyes lighting up.

vi swallows that down like it doesn’t make her whole goddamn week just hearing her name in your voice.

jace grins. “oh, hey. i was just giving y/n a quick tip on their shoulder rotation. thought i’d—”

“i’ve got it,” vi cuts in.

jace pauses. “right, just—”

“i said,” she says, with that cool smile that means you’re done here, “i’ve got it.”

he raises his hands. “sure, no problem.”

vi doesn’t watch him leave. her focus is entirely on you now.

you blink up at her, cheeks a little pink. “sorry—i didn’t mean to cheat on you with another therapist.”

vi stares.

and then laughs, low and soft. “you better not,” she mutters.

you smile at the joke. but she means it.

don’t. don’t let anyone else touch you. don’t let them be the one to make you smile.

back in the therapy room, vi’s quieter than usual.

but her hands?

more deliberate. slower. firmer.

she’s not even pretending she isn’t touching you more than necessary—adjusting your posture with both hands, letting her fingers slide just a little longer down your spine when she helps you stretch.

you’re blushing. she can feel the way your muscles react, the way your breath stutters when she gets too close.

“you good?” she asks lowly, close to your ear.

you nod, biting your lip.

she sees it. she feels it. you’re not just here for recovery anymore. you want her hands on you. you want her.

and god, she wants to ruin the way you smiled at jace.

but she pulls back.

because this is still your safe space. she won’t cross that line—not yet.

but when the session ends and you thank her, voice quiet and warm, vi can’t help it.

she steps a little closer.

“you ever need anything,” she says, “you come to me. got it?”

you meet her eyes.

“…got it,” you whisper.

vi watches you leave again, hands clenched in her pockets.

that’s right.

you’re hers. even if you don’t know it yet.

rain hits the windows like it’s personal.

vi watches it come down in sheets, standing near the front desk, arms crossed, jaw tight. the parking lot is a blur of streetlight glare and soaking pavement.

and then she sees you. hoodie pulled over your head, standing by the glass door, frowning down at your phone.

“where’s your ride?” vi asks, already moving.

you glance up. “got canceled. something came up, i guess…”

vi doesn’t even hesitate. “i’ll drive you.”

you blink. “what? no, it’s okay—”

“you think i’m letting you limp three blocks in that?” she jerks her chin toward the storm. “get in.”

you hesitate. barely. then nod.

and just like that, vi’s soaked to the bone unlocking her truck for you, tossing your bag in the back, silently praying you don’t hear the way her heart’s pounding the moment you slide into the passenger seat.

the drive is quiet.

not awkward. just tense.

like there’s something humming in the silence between you two. a beat neither of you wants to name.

vi’s knuckles are white on the wheel.

you’re curled into your seat, hands tucked in your sleeves, rain-damp hair falling over your cheek. you glance at her sometimes. you think she doesn’t notice.

she does.

god, she does.

you’re soft and tired and so fucking close, the scent of you lingering under the smell of rain and leather and the faint vanilla from your earlier coffee.

“thanks again,” you say quietly.

she shrugs. “i don’t mind.”

and she means it. she’d drive you home in a blizzard if it meant you looked at her like that.

she pulls up outside your place. the rain hasn’t let up. it’s worse now—sideways, cold, unforgiving.

vi kills the engine.

you don’t move to get out.

“…you okay?” she asks.

you nod, fiddling with your sleeve. “yeah. just… don’t wanna get soaked, i guess.”

vi leans over, grabs your bag from the back seat. “i’ll walk you.”

“vi, you don’t have to—”

“i want to.”

you freeze.

for half a second, the air shifts. heavy. like you heard something you weren’t supposed to.

vi doesn’t back down.

just opens her door and lets the rain slam into her shoulders.

by the time you both reach your door, you’re drenched and breathless, laughing despite it.

vi stands half-under your porch light, hair plastered to her neck, jaw tight. you unlock your door, but don’t step inside.

neither does she.

she stays.

right there. just looking at you.

you shiver a little, from the cold or something else, and her eyes flick down. she swallows hard.

“i should…” you murmur.

“yeah,” vi says, not moving.

but she doesn’t say goodbye.

she’s waiting.

and you’re standing there, hand still on the doorknob, watching her under the rain. you look like you’re about to say something—then stop. then smile, tiny and unsure.

vi shifts closer. not touching. just close enough that your breath hitches.

“…get inside before you freeze,” she finally says, voice hoarse.

you nod.

but still don’t move.

her fingers twitch at her side. she wants to tuck your hair back. wants to cup your face and just—

instead she says, “next time… tell me if you don’t have a ride.”

your lips part. “why?”

vi’s voice is low. quiet. unshakable.

“because i’ll come for you. every time.”

you just stare at her.

then step inside.

and look back one more time before the door closes.

vi doesn’t move until she hears the lock click.

then she exhales.

fuck.

she’s falling. and this time, there’s no coming back.

vi’s already in the room when you walk in—clipboard in hand, hoodie sleeves rolled, looking like she hasn’t slept more than four hours. but when she sees you?

she straightens up.

god, you’re cute. always have been—but lately?

you’ve started looking at her different.

you used to flinch when she adjusted your shoulder. now you lean in.

you used to avoid eye contact. now your gaze lingers.

you used to whisper "thank you" and leave in a rush.

now you stay. sit close. smile a little too long.

and vi’s falling apart inside every time.

today, she’s guiding you through stretches. gentle. focused. professional.

or at least—she’s trying to be.

but you?

you’re on the mat, lying on your side, and she’s kneeling beside you, one hand on your knee, the other bracing your lower back. her voice is low—“just relax. let your hip drop, that’s it…”

and you sigh. not from pain. from something else.

soft. deliberate.

and then your eyes flick open.

right up at her.

“…you always this gentle?” you murmur.

vi freezes.

your voice is playful. but your eyes are serious.

and fuck, that look—like you want her to do something about it—like you’re inviting her to cross the line you both pretend isn’t there��

her hands twitch.

she pulls back.

"you're flirting," she says, voice tighter than it should be.

you blink. “what?”

she tilts her head. “you know what you’re doing.”

you sit up slowly, face flushed—but you don’t deny it.

instead, you hold her gaze.

"maybe," you whisper, "i just like the way you look at me."

silence.

vi’s heartbeat punches through her ribs.

you’re closer now. still sitting on the mat. eyes soft. breath a little fast. and she’s towering over you, fists clenched at her sides, trying to stay still when every part of her wants to grab you by the waist and press you against the floor.

she doesn’t.

but she leans down.

so close her breath brushes your cheek.

“careful,” she murmurs, voice low and cracked. “i’m not the type you flirt with unless you mean it.”

you swallow.

but your hand lifts—and gently, slowly, you touch her wrist.

“i mean it.”

vi’s body locks. like she’s about to break in half.

and then—your phone rings.

the moment shatters. you gasp, pulling back to fumble for it. vi stands like she’s been yanked out of a dream.

the call’s short. you hang up, avoiding her eyes.

“…sorry,” you say, voice small. “i should go.”

vi doesn’t stop you.

she doesn’t say a word until you’re gone.

then she exhales a sharp breath and punches her own thigh.

fucking hell.

you’re not just a patient anymore. you’re the one person she wants and can’t have. and now she knows you want her too.

this is bad.

but she can’t stop.

vi didn’t ask you to help.

you volunteered. sweet little smile and all. said she looked tired. said she shouldn’t carry all those storage crates alone.

she should’ve said no.

she wanted to say no.

but then you touched her arm and said, “let me take care of you for once,” and her brain short-circuited.

so here you are.

cramped in the back supply room, surrounded by boxes and rubber bands and unopened therapy equipment. the air’s thick. the light’s flickering. and you’re standing a little too close.

again.

“can you hand me that?” you ask innocently, pointing at a box half-hidden behind her.

she steps aside.

you don’t.

instead, you slide right between her and the shelf—chest brushing hers—shoulder grazing her jaw. and then you lean over, slowly, dragging your body past hers like you don’t even notice what you’re doing.

vi stiffens.

“careful,” she mutters, voice tight. “you’re gonna start something you can’t finish.”

you glance back at her.

and smile.

“i never said i couldn’t finish it.”

silence.

the words detonate in her skull.

she watches you turn, holding the box against your chest like you didn’t just challenge everything she’s been fighting to ignore. your lips are slightly parted. there’s a flush across your cheeks.

and then—you drop it.

“oh no,” you say, mock-guilty. “oops.”

vi stares at the scattered contents.

you crouch down.

vi doesn’t move.

because your ass is right there. your shirt’s ridden up. you’re biting your lip as you reach for a fallen bottle of massage oil and make a little noise when you do.

and it’s not even fair anymore.

this isn’t innocent. this isn’t clumsy.

this is cruel.

vi exhales like she’s been shot.

you look back over your shoulder.

she’s still staring.

and then you say it.

“…you okay, vi?”

and that’s it.

that’s the breaking point.

she drops into a crouch behind you—one hand braced on your lower back, the other gripping your wrist before you can reach the last bottle.

you freeze.

“close the door behind you,” she says, low and calm and dangerous.

you swallow hard.

“…it’s already closed.”

vi’s grip tightens.

you’re trembling now. not from fear. from something hotter, deeper. your breath’s shaky and your lashes flutter.

she pulls you up—slowly—until your back hits the wall.

and then she steps in.

crowding you. one palm against the wall beside your head. the other still holding your wrist.

your lips part—but she speaks first.

“i can’t treat you after this,” she growls, voice rasping at the edges. “you know that, right?”

you nod.

barely.

“say it.”

“i… i know.”

vi leans closer, forehead nearly brushing yours.

“you keep playing with fire like that, and one day i’m not gonna stop.”

your voice comes out shaky. “then don’t stop.”

silence.

then?

she kisses you.

hard.

hungry.

desperate.

she pins your wrist above your head and kisses you like she’s trying to erase the months of tension in one go. you melt into her with a gasp, fingers tangling in her hoodie, tugging her closer, closer, closer—

until she finally breaks away, breathing hard, eyes wild.

“…tell me to stop,” she says, chest rising fast.

you don’t.

you reach up. thumb brushing the corner of her mouth.

“i dared you to lose control,” you whisper.

vi growls. and this time when she kisses you?

you don’t come up for air.

it’s the little things that get her.

not the memory of your lips, not the taste of your breath or the low, broken sound you made when you kissed her back. not the way your hand trembled against her hoodie like you were scared of how much you wanted her. no—it’s none of that.

it’s the way you’re acting like it never happened.

you walked into the clinic this morning wearing that soft cardigan she always liked, holding your bag in both hands, smiling too politely. you looked at her and said “morning, doc” like you hadn’t kissed her so deep she forgot her own name.

she didn’t even sleep last night. couldn’t. not with your scent on her hands. not with the feel of your back under her palms, the warmth of your mouth, the hitch in your breath when she pulled you close and you gasped, like you’d been waiting for her to lose control.

she thought you’d say something today. thought you’d come in shy, flustered. thought maybe—maybe—you’d pull her aside and whisper, “about yesterday…”

but no.

you just sat down on the rehab bench, crossed your legs, and asked her, all casual, “do we start with the wrist or the shoulder today?”

and now she’s sitting across from you, holding your arm in her lap, watching your fingers flex gently in her grip, and every second she doesn’t speak is killing her.

she wants to grab you again. slam the door. press you back against the wall and force you to say what you’re feeling—make you admit what you both already know.

instead, she tightens her grip slightly, feeling your pulse flutter beneath her thumb.

you don’t flinch.

you don’t even look up.

just that same polite little smile. that sweet voice.

so she snaps.

soft. controlled. but deadly.

“you’re pretending it didn’t happen.”

you blink.

and then you go still.

vi looks up at you slowly, her voice low and cracked like gravel soaked in honey. “you really gonna sit there and act like i didn’t have you up against that wall yesterday?”

your lips part—but you say nothing.

so she keeps going.

“i kissed you. you kissed me back. you wanted it. you needed it. and now you’re sitting here smiling like we’re strangers again.”

you swallow. she watches the movement in your throat. watches the flush crawl back into your cheeks.

but you still don’t speak.

and that? that breaks her.

she drops your hand like it burned her, stands too fast, pacing across the clinic floor with her jaw clenched and her fists flexing like she wants to hit something—or kiss you again so hard you stop playing games.

“i don’t know what this is to you,” she mutters, not facing you. “but to me? it’s not just heat. it’s not just some accident in a supply room.”

her voice tightens.

“i feel something when i look at you. something i shouldn’t. and i told myself i could keep it together. that i could keep it professional. but then you kept smiling at me like that. you kept brushing my hands. staying late. leaning in. laughing at my dumb jokes like i’m worth something.”

she finally turns, eyes shining, jaw hard.

“you made me fall for you. and now you’re pretending like it never happened.”

silence.

then—

you rise from the bench.

slow. steady.

you walk toward her with calm, quiet steps.

and when you reach her, you look up and say—

“i’m not pretending, vi.”

you place her hand over your chest.

“i just didn’t know if you regretted it.”

vi’s breath leaves her like a punch.

her fingers twitch against your sternum.

and then she says it—raw, honest, shaking—

“i regret not doing it sooner.”

vi hasn’t been able to stop thinking about you.

every minute of every day, you’re there. flickering in her peripheral vision. your soft smile. the sound of your laugh. the way you still move too close to her when you think she’s not watching. every glance, every touch. every damn thing you’ve done since the first kiss is still playing on a loop in her mind.

and now? she’s done waiting.

you’re not playing around anymore. you walked into the clinic late tonight, your usual soft cardigan draped over your shoulders, hair pulled back in that messy bun she secretly finds adorable. you walked in like nothing was going on—like you hadn’t been setting fire to her brain for the past week.

she can barely focus on her work. her fingers tremble as she adjusts your therapy equipment, mind racing with everything she’s been dying to do to you since that damn kiss.

she’s tried to push it down. tried to keep it together. but all that’s left now is the way her body craves you.

she snaps.

“you shouldn’t be here,” she growls, voice low and dangerous, stepping closer to you in the dim light of the clinic. “not tonight.”

you look up, eyes soft, but there’s something else in them now—something she’s been waiting to see.

“you think i shouldn’t be here?” you whisper, voice teasing, but her sharp eyes catch the way your chest rises a little faster. the way your breath catches. you’re just as bad as she is.

“i think you’ve been playing me for a fool, all this time,” vi growls, stepping even closer, closing the space between you. your pulse flutters as you take a half step back. but she’s there. so close now, you can feel her heat, her body only inches away from yours. you can hear her breath, soft and labored, as her chest brushes against yours.

“no,” you whisper, finally, eyes never leaving hers. “i’m not playing you. i’m here because i want this. i want you.”

and that’s all it takes.

vi doesn’t give you the chance to backpedal. she grabs you by the wrist, pulling you to her, her lips crashing into yours with a hunger so intense it steals your breath. she’s everything now. everything you’ve wanted. everything you’ve needed. the kiss isn’t gentle. it’s raw, urgent, desperate.

she pulls back, her breathing ragged. she looks at you, eyes wild. “you’ve been teasing me, haven’t you? you’ve been playing with me. and i’m done being patient.”

she doesn’t wait for a response. she forces your back against the nearest wall, the cool concrete biting into your skin as she presses against you. she’s relentless, lips dragging across your throat, your jaw, finding the sweet spot that makes your knees weak.

“vi…” you gasp, breathless, but she only tightens her grip on your waist, pushing herself closer. her body is a furnace against yours. “you’ve been mine since the moment you walked in here,” she whispers darkly against your ear. “and i’ve been waiting for you to realize it.”

you can barely breathe as she presses her knee between your legs, the heat from her touch sparking like electricity through your body. her hands roam, desperate to touch every inch of you, to claim you fully.

“vi…” you whisper again, voice shaking. “i need you.”

she growls in response, her lips meeting yours again in a bruising kiss. her hands move swiftly, pulling your cardigan off your shoulders, exposing the soft curve of your neck. you let her. let her take control. let her consume you, because you know she’s been holding back just as much as you have.

she doesn’t waste a single second.

with one swift motion, she lifts you, her hands gripping your thighs as she presses you harder against the wall. you gasp at the sudden sensation, your fingers tangled in her hoodie, pulling her closer, needing her.

she presses her forehead to yours, her breath ragged. “this is it,” she says, voice hoarse with desire. “no more games.”

and then she kisses you again, deeper this time, her tongue sliding into your mouth with a possessiveness that makes your head spin.

you’ve made it past the breaking point. this isn’t the shy, hesitant moment anymore. it’s raw. it’s uncontrollable.

vi’s hands are everywhere now. her lips are everywhere. she’s claiming every inch of you like she’s starving for you. she’s kissing you like it’s the only thing that makes sense anymore. she’s not stopping. she can’t stop.

you’re hers.

she pulls away just enough to look at you, to catch her breath, her fingers gently brushing over your swollen lips. “you’re mine now,” she murmurs, her voice low and possessive, her eyes dark with lust. “and i’m not letting you go.”

you nod, breathless, because you don’t need to say a word. you’ve already made your choice. you’re hers, and she’s yours.

and nothing in the world will ever stop that.

[justchillgurl]

Chapter 2: Smoking Mirrors.

Summary: Geum Seong-je isn’t one to care about school politics, but something about her—the girl with the chessboard smile and debt-tracked hands—gets under his skin. From hallway glimpses to quiet observation, he begins to unthread her method. Not to expose her. Just to see if she ever slips.

He doesn’t think she will. That’s what makes it interesting.

Warnings: none (not yet at least.) just seongje smoking.

Author's note: I'm not really confident about those chapters, feel free to give your feedback. English is not my first language, please don't hesitate to point out any mistakes. Thank you🫶🏼

The lighter clicked once. Twice. Flame hissed, flickered, and died against the afternoon wind.

Seong-je exhaled through his teeth, dug the lighter deeper into his palm, and tried again. On the third attempt, it caught. The tip of the cigarette burned soft orange as he leaned back against the cracked brick wall outside the east stairwell, smoke curling lazily around his face.

He wasn’t supposed to be out here. Not technically.

But that was the whole point.

Classes were still in session. The school felt hollow in this part of the building—too far from the teachers’ offices, too quiet for anyone to bother checking. A graveyard for rusted lockers and long-forgotten announcements. Seong-je liked it here. It was predictable in its neglect.

His phone buzzed.

Seong-Mok: u gonna show up today or what?

He locked the screen without answering.

Seong-je didn’t skip class because he had better things to do. He skipped because nothing in that building made him feel awake. He’d already figured out which teachers didn’t bother calling names, which students kept their heads down, and which staff gave up trying to correct him.

He existed at the edge of Kanghak High’s awareness. Not low enough to worry about. Not loud enough to deal with.

Except now there was her.

He’d been watching her longer than he liked to admit.

It started in the convenience store. The way she measured every action, every word, like she was scoring a game only she understood. She didn’t seek attention, but it followed her anyway—hovering around her sharp shoulders and immovable stare.

He didn’t care about rumors, but even he’d heard things.

She was the one with the notes. The blog. The connections. She never raised her voice. Never smiled for no reason. And never helped without a trade.

A few days after their non-meeting, he saw her again.

She was sitting in the back corner of the library, laptop open, typing fast and without pause. Her phone buzzed three times—she ignored it. Her bag sat on the floor, half unzipped, with a folder of printed sheets sticking out like pressed wings.

He didn’t move. Didn’t interrupt.

He just watched.

The next day, she was walking across the courtyard, head tilted as someone tried desperately to gain her approval. Seong-je could tell. The body language was all there—hands fidgeting, voice too eager, laugh a little too loud. She listened with that same neutral expression, nodding only once before slipping a folded note into the person’s hand.

Transaction complete.

He lit another cigarette.

He didn’t want to interact. Not yet. That wasn’t how you watched people like her. You didn’t start by talking. You started by observing—finding the cracks. The inconsistencies. The rules she followed and when she bent them.

He already knew some of them.

She refused requests that weren’t worth her time. She wore earbuds in crowded spaces—not because she liked music, but because it gave her an excuse not to engage.

She smiled differently depending on who was talking.

To teachers: soft, respectful.

To classmates: polite, measured.

To those beneath her ranking system: almost invisible.

There was a system. He was sure of it.

And it intrigued the hell out of him.

One afternoon, he caught a sliver of her voice near the back staircase. Someone was begging—literally—for help on a scholarship essay. She didn’t yell. She didn’t even sound annoyed.

“Do you really think my notes are free?” she said calmly.

“No, no—I’ll pay. I’ll do anything, I swear.”

“I don’t want desperation. I want results. I want return.”

There was a long pause. Then:

“Make me a deal that makes sense. Otherwise, don’t waste my time.”

She walked off. Her steps echoed sharp and fast.

She didn’t glance at Seong-je as she passed.

But he noticed her thumb flick across her phone screen the moment she turned the corner. Probably logging the encounter. Updating a name. Moving pieces.

He tossed the cigarette butt into a gutter and kicked the edge of a bench.

The weird thing was, he didn’t want anything from her. Not really. He wasn’t looking for help, or notes, or connections. He wasn’t even looking for a fight.

He just wanted to know if she ever messed up.

If the game she was playing was as perfect as she made it look.

Because people like her didn’t run without cracks. No matter how polished. No matter how precise.

And Geum Seong-je had time. He had silence. And he had an unsettling talent for noticing what others ignored.

He could wait.

This is gonna be fucking fun.

So I decided to drop the chapter tonight, felt like it.

Hope you enjoy reading it🫂.

[twlgholts]

always kind of was, j.b

chapter one, second nature

— jacob black x f. reader

a/n: written from a washingtonian i am tired of the misrepresentation so it is my goal to accurately portray my state… but first chapter a lil nervy havent written in a year but!! had fun writing

series masterlist! next.

The road to Forks is a familiar one, even after two years. Evergreen trees blur past your window, their towering forms casting long shadows over the asphalt as your car hums along the highway. You didn’t realize how much you missed this stretch of Highway 101 till now–how the trees leaned in like close friends, how the air smelled like rain (because of course it does), how the damp air curled in through the cracked window and made everything smell like pine needles and rain. Your fingers tap against the steering wheel following the beat of the radio, restless.

Your phone buzzes in the passenger seat.

Jake: You close yet?

A smile tugs on your lips. You can practically hear the impatience in his text.

You: Like 20 min out. Chill

Jake: Chill?? I’m literally pacing right now

You roll your eyes but a smile tugs on your lips. Jacob Black has always been like this��all energy, no patience. Some things never change.

Jacob Black. Your best friend since before you could spell your own name. You had shared everything with him growing up–scraped knees, projects in his garage, secret forts built from moss and driftwood down by First Beach. And as you drive past The City of Forks Welcomes You sign, your chest warms.

The last time you were here, you were fourteen, saying goodbye with a promise of a visit. Your dad’s job pulled your family to the buzz of Kirkland, where everything was cleaner, faster, and more modern. But life got in the way, as it does–school, your dad’s new job, the four-hour distance between Kirkland and Forks. Still, you and Jake kept in touch. Late-night calls, stupid texts, the occasional letters (because Jake thought it was funny to mail you doodles of his terrible car sketches and self-portraits). Still, Forks was yours in the way it mattered and now, thanks to your parents’ sudden, nostalgic purchase of a cozy summer house on the edge of town, it could be again.

You weren’t the same girl who had left, and from his photos, he wasn’t the same Jacob, either. He’d grown taller, broader. His baby face and chubby cheeks you used to pinch sharpened into somethin old, something you didn’t quite know how to name. And still–he was Jacob. Your best friend.

But now, you’re back.

Your parents arrived yesterday to get the house ready and you had stayed behind to finish packing, insisting on driving yourself. You needed the time to think and to tame your nerves.

Because Jake is…Jake.

When you were kids, it was simple. He was the little boy who taught you how to skip rocks, who let you steal bites of his fry bread at the rez cookouts he would invite you to, who tried to feign annoyance but eventually grin when you called him Jakey just to annoy him.

But now? You’re not sure who he is. What you guys are.

Your phone buzzes again.

Jake: I’m at your house btw

Jake: Tick-tock you better not be bailing on me

You scoff.

You: ?????

Jake: Your mom said I could wait for you so hurry up

Of course he was. You groan, but your pulse kicks up anyway.

You could see your parents were already inside the house by the time you pulled up–a modest, moss-draped place tucked between pines, just off a gravel road. Your parents’ car is parked out front. Right next to it is a black motorcycle.

Your stomach flips.

Slowly, you pull into the driveway right behind the already car park, take a deep breath, and step out. The air is thick with the scent of damp earth and pine needles. The front door is slightly ajar and you push it open.

“Mom? Dad?” No answer. You drop your bags in the foyer and head up the stairs, looking for your room at the end of the hall–

And then you see him.

Jake is leaning against your bedroom door frame, arms crossed, impatiently tapping his foot. He’s taller. A lot taller. His shoulders are broader, his frame more solid than the lanky boy you remember, and his hair was shorter now, shaggier, like he hadn’t bothered with it much. And when you made eye contact, his face looked at you like he’d forgotten how to breathe and something passed between you in the silence.

“Hey,” you said. Your voice came out softer than you meant it to.

“Took you long enough,” his face twitches slightly and he snaps out of whatever trance he was in, now grinning like he’s just won something.

“Shut up,” you reply, but you’re smiling.

He pushes off the doorframe and closes the distance between you in two strides. He pulled you into a hug that wrapped around your whole body. His warmth is immediate and almost startling, like standing in front of a bonfire. His hand lingered at your back a moment longer than necessary, but you don’t mind. You missed him. A lot.

“I missed you,” he murmured into your hair.

You smile against his chest. “Missed you too, Jakey.”

He exhales sharply and chuckles, like the words punched the air out of him. Then, slowly, his arms tighten around you.

“You still gonna call me that?” his voice is low, but there’s that familiar teasing lilt in it.

You pull away from him and look up to meet his eyes, smirking. “Mhm. Deal with it.”

He snorts. “You’re lucky I like you.”

“Please,” you say, stepping back with a grin. “You’d cry if I stopped, just like how you always did.”

“Only a little,” he shoots back, and there’s a spark in his eyes now, brighter than you remember. You’re not sure what it is–relief, maybe, or him just being awkward and shy.

Before you can reply, the sound of the front door creaking wider makes both of you glance down the stairs.

“Sweetie?” your mom calls up. “Is Jake still here?”

He winces slightly, already backing toward the stairs. “I should probably–”

“You’re staying for dinner!” she shouts before he can finish.

You blink. “Wow, ambushed.”

“I’ve been here ten minutes, she’s already planning the menu,” Jake mutters under his breath, then louder: “Uh–I mean, I don’t want to intrude–”

“Nonsense! You’re basically family.” your mom responds brightly.

He glances back at you, eyebrows raised, lips twitching like he’s holding back a smile. “You set me up.”

“I did not. She just knows you too well. Besides, you’re the one that came her before I even got to Forks.” Jake just shakes his head and shoots you a glare, muttering something under his breath as he follows you down the stairs. You can feel the energy buzzing off him–slightly nervous, but trying not to show it. He’s still smirking like an idiot, but it’s more to himself now, like he can’t quite believe he’s here again either. With you, in person, not over text or call.

The house smells like Mrs. Meyers lemon cleaner and whatever your mom is preparing in the kitchen. Jake hesitates in the foyer, glancing toward the kitchen like he's debating a quick escape, but your mom appears before he can make a move. She wraps him in a hug like no time has passed and Jake stiffens for just a second before relaxing into it, careful and gentle in a way that makes you smile softly.

“You grew up on us,” she says, pulling back to look him over. “Look at you!”

Jake rubs the back of his neck, cheeks flushed but smiling. “Still the same guy. Just a bit taller.”

“A bit? You always did shoot up like a weed,” she laughs, already turning back toward the kitchen. “Hope you’re hungry. We’ve got enough to feed a whole pack.”

He blinks at her words and nods. “Yeah. Starving.”

And then your dad strolls in from the backyard, wiping his hands on a rag, the scent of grass and sprinkler water trailing behind him. “Well, well, well. If it isn’t the only kid in this town I trust near a sprinkler system. Bet you could fix ours without even looking at it.”

“I’m your guy.” he smiles, rubbing the back of his neck again. It was always a small habit you noticed he did when he felt awkward, shy, or nervous.

Your dad claps him on the shoulders as he passes. “Glad to see you again, kid.”

And just like that, he is. Wrapped into the space like he’s always belonged, fitting in the rhythm of it, even if the walls are different. Even if everything is different.

You watch him as he sinks into the chair next to yours, still buzzing a little like he doesn’t know where to put all the energy. He’s quiet now, but not in a bad way–more like he’s soaking it in, anchoring himself to something familiar. You slide a glass of water toward him and he takes it without looking, but his fingers brush yours for half a second too long.

And while he’s still Jake, it’s not exactly the same. But neither are you.

[sad-girl-poetry-hours]

Belong Together

Luke Castellan x Fem!Reader

Warnings: Use of Y/N and “Sweet Girl” :)

𓇼 ⋆.˚ 𓆉 𓆝 𓆡⋆.˚ 𓇼

You and Luke decided to skip counselor activities back at camp for the day to spend time together at the beach. He immediately ran off to the water after you applied sunscreen to his skin and left you to finish setting up your little spot for the day. You packed a few sandwiches, some watermelon, and strawberries from the fields.

You laid out the picnic blanket you brought and set up your little cooler and personal items, including your current read. Since Luke was probably looking for shells to bring you, you had to struggle to put on your tanning oil by yourself. You didn’t mind it because he was too damn cute when he came over with a handful of “treasures.”

By the time he came back with his collection and soaking wet hair, you were already lying out on your stomach with your book and a handful of strawberries.

“Hey, Sweet Girl. I got you more shells for your collection!” Luke proudly dumped the small pile in front of you with a goofy grin as he waited for your inspection.

There were various shapes and colors of shells. Some had a few holes that made them perfect for necklaces, and others were going on your shelf full of trinkets that Luke had brought you throughout your relationship.

You grinned up at him, shading your eyes from the sun with your hand, “They’re perfect, Baby! I love them!”

He grins widely, clearly proud of his work, and settles next to you as you mark your spot and put your book away. Unfortunately, as soon as he knew your book was safe, he decided to lean in close and shake his head, getting the saltwater in his hair all over you. You squealed and tried to push him away, but the damage was done.

“You’re evil, Castellan!”

He just chuckles and lies down next to you, resting his chin in his hand. “You know you love me, Sweet Girl.”

You couldn’t deny it, so you just gave him a quick peck on the lips before feeding him one of your strawberries. He happily ate it, carefully examining your face. You could see the gears turning in his head as his eyes scanned over your cheeks, and a soft frown took over his features.

“Your cheeks are pink. Did you put on sunscreen?”

You couldn’t help the snort that escaped you as he gently poked your cheek. “No, I’m tanning.”

That was clearly an inadequate response because his frown deepened. “But you’re going to burn. You need sunscreen.”

It really was cute how much he worried about your skincare, especially since the last time you got a sunburn, he couldn’t hug you for three days.

“Baby, I’ll be fine. I have tanning oil on, and I've already burned this summer.”

He cocked his head to the side and raised an eyebrow. “Burning once doesn’t mean you’re suddenly impervious to a sunburn, Y/N.”

In an attempt to put this disagreement to bed, you leaned in to kiss him. Only to be met with a strawberry in your mouth instead. You chewed the strawberry and frowned, looking up at him with pleading eyes.

“I just wanted a kiss!”

Luke just chuckled softly and shook his head. “Not until you put sunscreen on, Sweet Girl.”

“But it’ll ruin my tan!” You groaned as you dropped your head to his shoulder.

Once again, he snorted and shook his head, pressing a kiss to the top of yours. “Sorry, babe. Head Counselor's rules. You gotta follow them.”

You bring your head up and raise an eyebrow at him. “Since when were you ‘Head Counselor’?”

Luke shrugs, and you roll your eyes, playfully flicking the bridge of his nose. He dramatically gasps and clutches his chest, pretending to be fatally wounded. You just giggle and kiss him tenderly.

When you pull away, Luke feigns disappointment. “I said no kisses until you put on sunscreen!”

“Yeah? And what are you going to do about it?”

The next thing you knew, Luke was tossing you over his shoulder and making his way towards the water as you squirmed and squealed.

“Luke! Put me down! I don’t wanna get wet!”

“Too bad, Sweet Girl. You did this to yourself.”

“I hate you!”

“No you don’t.”

[fvcking-moon]

⋆⭒˚.⋆ - Just Stay -

⋆ 𐙚 ̊. | Genre: Soft Romance

⋆ 𐙚 ̊. | Si-eun x F! Reader

───────────୨ৎ──────────

I have a part-time job at a small café-library near Eunjang High. I usually work after school and sometimes on weekends. It’s not the most exciting place—quiet, slow, a little lonely—but I need the money to help my mom, so I don’t complain.

Every now and then, a few students from Eunjang come in to study. One of them is always the same: Yoo Si-eun.

He comes in quietly, usually after school, orders a tea, and takes the same seat by the window. Head down, books open, silent.

I stand behind the counter, waiting for someone to order cake or coffee, when I hear the familiar voice.

“The usual, please,” he says, his tone low, eyes tired.

“Sure—just a second,” I reply with a small smile, already starting the water for his tea.

Once it’s ready, I place the cup gently on the counter.

“Here you go,” I say.

He pays without another word and walks to his seat. My eyes follow him without meaning to. He’s… interesting. There’s something quiet about him, something that pulls me in.

His presence is calming, even from across the room—and for some reason, that makes my cheeks warm.

As I watch him, I notice bruises on his neck and arms. Faint, but visible. I want to ask about them—but I don’t.

He seems like the kind of person who doesn’t like questions.

The next day, he comes again. Same seat. Same book.

I know that book. It’s dense and complex—probably not the easiest to understand. Since I work here, I know there’s another version that explains everything much more clearly.

Without thinking too much, I grab the simpler book and walk over to him. I place it gently on his table.

“Here… this one’s easier to follow,” I say softly.

He looks up at me. His eyes meet mine—dark, tired, unreadable.

He stares for a moment, as if trying to figure out what I want from him.

A small, nervous laugh slips from me.

Then he nods. “Thanks.”

I walk back to the counter, my face heating up again.

Why do I feel this way around him?

Later that day, it starts to rain. Si-eun is just about to leave when he opens the door.

“Wait,” I call out and walk over to him, holding out an umbrella.

“Here… I don’t need it.”

He pauses. Looks at me, then the umbrella. For a second, it feels like he’s debating whether or not to accept it.

Then, slowly, he reaches out and takes it.

He doesn’t smile—but he nods once.

“Thank you.”

And then he’s gone.

Days pass. We talk a little more now. He listens when I ramble about random things, and even though he doesn’t say much, I can tell he’s really listening.

One day, he finally tells me his name: Si-eun.

He starts staying longer, sometimes glancing up from his book to look at me when he thinks I’m not watching.

I bring him a cookie now and then, or a tea—on the house.

Then, one afternoon, I find a small folded note on the counter. No name. No handwriting I recognize.

I open it.

“You’re my only sense of peace.”

My heart skips. My cheeks burn.

I glance over to his usual seat—but it’s empty.

Is it from him?

The rest of the day, I can’t stop thinking about Si-eun. And that one, quiet sentence that now echoes louder than anything else.

The next day, I waited the whole afternoon for Si-eun to walk through the café doors, to sit in his usual spot like always… but he didn’t come.

Maybe the letter wasn’t from him after all.

I kept glancing at the door every few minutes, my heart quietly hoping—but nothing. The hours dragged on, and by the time my evening shift ended, I was exhausted from waiting and thinking.

I locked up the café, wrapped in silence, and started walking toward the bus station. The sky was already dark.

That’s when I saw it.

Down a narrow alley, barely lit, blood smeared across a brick wall—and him.

Si-eun.

He stood there, bruised, pale, barely steady on his feet. In front of him, three boys lay unconscious on the ground.

“Si-eun…?” I called, my voice barely above a whisper.

He turned slowly, his eyes wide for a moment in shock. Then he looked down, avoiding my gaze.

“I’m sorry you had to see this…” he murmured, almost too quietly to hear.

I didn’t know what to say. My chest tightened with worry, but I didn’t ask what had happened.

Instead, I took my bag, pulled out a water bottle, and handed it to him.

“Sit down,” I said softly.

He obeyed, his body giving in. He took a few sips of water while I crouched beside him. I carefully cleaned the blood from his skin, gently placing band-aids over the worst parts. My hands were trembling, but I didn’t let it show.

No words. Just silence.

And somehow, that silence said everything.

Once he could stand again, I helped him to his feet and walked him home. Still no questions. Still no answers. Just… presence.

When we reached his apartment building, he looked at me for a long moment, something unreadable in his expression. I only gave him a small smile, then turned and walked home.

The next day: Saturday

Si-eun never came on weekends, so I kept my expectations low and focused on work.

Until I heard it.

“The usual, please.”

I looked up—and there he was.

My heart lifted. “Hey… sure!” I smiled, quickly getting started on his tea.

As I prepared it, he spoke—his voice softer than usual.

“About yesterday…”

And then, for the first time, he told me everything.

About the fights. The bullying. Why he does what he does.

I listened—no interruptions, no judgment.

“Hey,” I said gently once he finished, “Saturdays are always quiet around here… we could sit and keep talking, if you want.”

For a moment, he didn’t say anything. Then, to my surprise, a small smile formed on his lips.

“I’d like that,” he said.

So we sat down—no counter between us, no silence this time.

We talked.

About him. About me. About things that hurt and things that made us laugh.

Time faded around us. The café, the world—it all felt far away.

By the time we noticed the clock, it was already 7:30 PM.

He looked into my eyes—serious, a little unsure.

“Can I stay… even if I’m not good with… closeness?”

I smiled softly, my voice warm and steady.

“You don’t have to be perfect… just stay.”

───────────୨ৎ──────────

Hi everyone!

This is my first time writing a story, and I really hope you enjoy it. I’ve always loved Weak Hero, so I wrote a soft Si-eun x reader story that’s close to my heart.

Thank you for reading and supporting! >⩊<

Masterlist: here

[k-nayee]

Like Father, Like Hellspawn Deadpool ii

wc: 5.7k a/n: got carried away and was writing too much🤭

Traveler M.List

Previous |

ˏ⸉ˋ‿̩͙‿̩̩̥͙̽‿̩͙ˏ⸉ˋ‿̩͙‿̩̩̥͙̽‿̩͙ˏ⸉ˋ‿̩͙‿̩̩̥͙̽‿̩͙.·͙*̩̩͙˚̩̥̩̥*̩̩̥͙　✩　*̩̩̥͙˚̩̥̩̥*̩̩͙‧͙ .‿̩̥̩‿̩̩̥͙̽‿̩͙ˊ⸊ˎ‿̩̥̩‿̩̩̥͙̽‿̩͙ˊ⸊ˎ‿̩̥̩‿̩̩̥͙̽‿̩͙ˊ⸊ˎ

recap

Finally holstering your weapons, you turned to Deadpool with a grin beneath your mask. A mask that was a perfect mirror image of his.

You practically bounced over to him as casual as someone greeting an old friend.

Then, in the most cheerful, sing-song voice imaginable, you threw your hands up like a child and chirped—

"HI DADDY!!"

|

|

BANG!!

Your body jolted violently, the kinetic force of the bullet slamming through your forehead with such deadly precision your head snapped backward and knees buckled.

Time seemed to slow as your limp frame crumpled to the concrete with a thud, limbs folding awkwardly beneath you like a marionette with its strings cut.

The hole between your eyes smoked faintly as a spreading pool of blood bloomed thickly beneath your head into the grime-streaked ground.

The silence that followed was suffocating.

No one moved.

Negasonic Teenage Warhead stared in disbelief, mouth parted slightly, eyes wide behind her dark eyeliner.

Yukio gasped, delicate hands flying to cover her lips.

Colossus stumbled back a step, silver frame somehow pale with horror. His deep voice fractured into a rasped accusation. “Wade...what have you done?”

Even Logan looked momentarily frozen, steel-gray eyes narrowing into a dangerous glare as his drawl cut through like a jagged blade. “Jesus Christ.”

And Deadpool himself?

Well he just stood at the center of the chaos, one arm still outstretched holding the raised pistol. The barrel smoked faintly as his entire stance radiated the universal body language of uh-oh.

His masked gaze dropped to your lifeless form, then up to the stunned team.

Back at you.

Then them.

You. 

Them.

He even tilted his head further as if maybe—just maybe—the scene would make more sense from a different angle. (It didn’t.)

“Okay—” Wade finally blurted, both hands raised like a kid caught red-handed next to the empty cookie jar. “You all saw that right? She jumped at me. She said the D-word! Who says that unironically?”

He basically barks out, somewhere between hysterical panic and righteous indignation as he points a shaky finger at the blood-streaked heap that was your body.

“That’s terrifying! You don’t just vaporize a whole warehouse of criminals and then skip over like Mary Poppins and say, ‘Hi, Daddy!’ like this is a goddamn trauma-themed tea party! That’s not normal!”

Negasonic slowly crossed her arms tightly across her chest, jaw tight. “You shot her in the face Wade.”

Colossus loomed closer with a solemn nod, eyes still locked on the corpse. “You shot your daughter. Right between the eyes. Very clean.”

“Allegedly and thank you,” Wade proudly answered automatically, then caught himself. “NO! Not thank you! The shot was a reflex! A panic shot! It happens! You guys remember the pancake incident of ’23!”

No one laughed.

Yukio cautiously knelt a few feet from you, caught somewhere between concern and disbelief. “I think...I think she was actually trying to hug you...”

Wade rounded on her, flailing both arms like a malfunctioning windmill. “Hugs kill too Yukio! Emotional vulnerability is a weapon!”

From behind Logan sighed heavily, massaging the bridge of his nose with the weariness of a man who had seen things. “She's wearing your mask Wade.”

Wade spun to face him in retaliation. “Lots of people wear my mask! Ever heard of merch? I’m iconic! There’s literally a bobblehead of me somewhere in Topeka—”

A low and wet revolting crack interrupted causing every head to whipped toward the source....you.

Your back spasmed once—then twice—as vertebrae realigned with an audible pop. A shudder rippled through your lifeless frame.

Head lolling grotesquely from side to side, your fractured and pulped skull began knitting itself back together with sickening crunches of bone and cartilage; shrinking slowly under the fabric of your ruined mask as the surrounding blood retracted unnaturally back into your veins.

Then, with a deep guttural gasp of a diver breaking the surface of water, your body arched violently off the ground as if pulled by an invisible force and sat up.

“OH GOD IT’S ALIVE!” Wade shrieked like someone had shoved an ice cube down his suit.

Groaning, you lifted one gloved hand to your forehead, rubbing absently at the nearly closed bullet wound.

"Ugh... that tickled my frontal lobe," you muttered under the battered mask. It hurt to move your mouth, muscles stiff with the lingering echo of death, but you grinned anyway.

Because he shot you.

Of course Deadpool—your father in any universe—responded to overwhelming emotional vulnerability by putting a bullet in your face.

God. You missed him.

The others, however, did not seem as charmed by your resurrection. They stood frozen in a semi-circle around you like statues, their expressions a medley of disbelief, horror, and (in Logan’s case) thinly veiled annoyance.

You rolled your neck slowly, vertebrae popping and crackling with each careful tilt of your head. It sounded like a bonfire chewing through dry kindling.

Finally, you turned your gaze on Wade.

"That really hurt ya know," your voice was sweet and syrupy with mock hurt. "Right in the ‘daddy issues.’"

The noise Deadpool made was somewhere between a dying blender and a cat choking on a hairball.

Logan could only give a single slow nod. Voice flat and unimpressed as he turns to Wade. “You still think it’s alleged now dumbass?”

The last syllable barely left Logan’s mouth when a ripple of horrified realization swept through the group.

Because he was right. The bullet had gone clean through your brain. You should be dead.

You could almost hear the mental gears grinding inside Wade’s head as he processed the undeniable truth staring him in the face: the truth that only he and a select handful of freaks could survive a bullet through the brain like it was an inconvenient paper cut.

The truth that somehow... impossibly... undeniably—

You were his daughter.

For a single glorious heartbeat the carefully built walls around Wade seemed to crumble.

His posture softened, shoulders drooping like a deflated balloon as his eyes flicked between your eerily calm form and the shredded corpses of the gangsters strewn across the warehouse floor.

And then—

Wade suddenly drops his weapons entirely, spreading his arms wide in mock-tragic overexuberance. “MY BABY GIRL!”

You didn’t hesitate.

In fact you doubled down.

With all the dramatic flair of a star-crossed heroine reuniting with a long-lost parent on the fields of battle, you got to your feet and staggered toward him with a theatrical limp.

“Oh Father!” you cried in perfect melodramatic agony. “How I have longed to see you again!”

The impact sent Wade staggering back a step but he caught you easily. He squeezed you tight like a kid gripping a teddy bear mid-nightmare, practically vibrating with pent-up emotion and chaotic joy.

Behind you the rest of Wade’s ragtag team watched in varying states of horror, discomfort, and mild nausea.

Negasonic brows raised in trademark disdain, scowling at the display. “As much as I hate this sickening-ass Lifetime Original reunion,” she interrupted dryly, “that still doesn’t explain who the hell you are or the absolute shitstorm of chaos you’ve been causing all over the city.”

You were about to reply in feigned offense when Wade beat you to it. He whirled around dramatically, shielding you behind his frame like an overprotective bulldog. His voice dropped into an offended snarl.

“How dare you?” he barked, pointing a gloved finger at her. “That’s my daughter! She knows exactly what she’s doing. Don’t question her methods. It’s rude.”

Then, under his breath, his voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper only you could hear. “You do know what you’re doing right?”

You tilted your head toward him, replying softly and sweetly, “Most definitely.”

Wade straightened up with renewed bravado and announced to the room, “See?! She knows what she’s doing!”

Logan exhaled loudly through his nose, utterly unconvinced and clearly desperate to distance himself from the nonsense.

Colossus (bless him) stepped forward, steel armored skin glinting under the flickering warehouse lights. His booming Russian-accented voice was warm and brimmed with sincerity.

“Oh how wonderful! A family reunited is always a beautiful sight...” he rumbled, massive hands clasping together in front of his chest. “To witness such joy is a blessing.”

Logan waved a hand at the carnage that surrounded them—the bullet-riddled bodies, the wrecked vehicles, the shattered crates. "We're literally standing in a puddle of dead gangsters that she was a part of. This ain't no Hallmark moment, bub."

"Hey!" You pulled back slightly from Wade and wagged a matter-of-factly finger at Logan. "There are over eight billion people on this rock. I couldn’t exactly go door-to-door asking: ‘Hi, are you Wade Wilson? Do you have regenerative abilities? Did you ever father a child and abandon them to the winds of fate?’”

You gesture vaguely at Logan’s massive frame. “And here I thought even you, Mr. Wolverine, with your brooding scowl and criminally hot muscle-bound body, would appreciate that logic. Tch.”

Logan stared. Blinked once. Twice. Without a word, he takes a full step away from you, almost as if proximity alone might trigger further chaos. “Yeah...you’re his kid all right.”

You laughed lightly at that and sauntered toward him. “Oh don't be so uptight wolvie!” You slowly drag a single finger down his chest, tracing the seam of his muscle as if admiring a marble sculpture. “Wanna massage to help? I'll even give ya a happy ending—free of charge~”

Before you could trace any higher Logan’s claws shot out violently. He slashed downward in a warning swipe, severing your hand clean at the wrist.

The gloved appendage fell to the ground with a soft wet slap, fingers curling slightly in postmortem spasm as blood immediately gushed from the wound in hot crimson spurts.

You stared at the severed hand lying on the concrete floor, blinking once...then twice.

Wade stared.

Logan stared.

Negasonic stared.

Everyone stared.

Then calmly, you bend down and scoop up the limp hand and rotate it in your remaining grip. With an exaggerated flourish, you twisted and shaped until it forms a clumsy but unmistakable finger heart with the thumb and index finger.

“Here you go!” You shoved it toward Logan with a bright and chirpy voice. “Not my real heart, but it’ll do.”

A tiny spray of blood splattered across Logan’s scowl as he glanced at the dismembered hand and your cheesing smile. 

Behind you Wade was practically vibrating with glee, clapping his hands like a proud dad at a kindergarten recital. "That's my girl!" he cooed.

The bleeding slowed to sluggish drips as your body’s regenerative magic kicked in with gory efficiency. Thick sinew and bone began the grisly process of reconstructing itself beneath the torn sleeve.

Still...you didn’t have a hand nor wrist. (Minor details.)

You dusted your hand(s) off, turning back toward the group

—just as the wail of sirens rose sharply in the distance, growing louder with every second.

Wade’s whole body sagged with a loud groan. "Ah shit. I forgot we made that deal with the cops to take out the DeLuca gang. They’re on their way.”

You glanced around at the sea of corpses. "...I mean...they’re dead but go off I guess."

Negasonic rolled her eyes. “That includes you too dipshit.”

You gasped dramatically, placing a blood-smeared stub over your chest. “Moi?! Well then she" You accusingly jab the stump at Yukio "She’s going in too. She was just as much in cahoots!”

The team was taken aback by the revelation. 

Wade turned to you, eyes wide behind his mask. "Wait, you knew she was a mole?"

You opened your arms in mock defiance. "Hell yeah I ran this place! Well..." you kicked over a crate, sending a head rolling out. "Not much left to run now."

You shot Yukio a smug look. "And by the way...you might wanna be more careful with your phone settings. Wasn't too hard to bug it. And oooh! All the spicy text messages between you and your girlfriend over there."

You waggled your eyebrows suggestively as Yukio’s face flushed a deep furious red.

“I mean that embarrassing thing you did at the pier? Oh c—”

A sudden surge of blinding firepower cuts your words off, bursting through your chest as a scowling Negasonic's extended hand still pulsed with a violent atomic energy.

She shook her head and turned to the others. “We’re gonna let her get arrested.”

Wade threw his hands in the air as your convulsed steaming body collapsed. “And let them take away my perfect and indestructible sassy-as-fuck child? Hell no!”

The rest of the team groaned in unison at his predictability. But none of them moved to stop him.

As the sirens grew ever nearer, Wade cheerfully hoisted your limp and semi-charred frame over his shoulder with surprising tenderness.

Straightening, he adjusts you like a sack of potatoes before casually strolling toward the exit with a whistle.

"We’ll just say she died in the massacre," he called over his shoulder lightly. "And we burned the body out of spite. Everybody cool? Cool."

.*.·:·.☽✧✧☾.·:·.*

The first thing you felt was softness.

A warm worn couch cradled your aching body, the cushions sinking beneath your weight as though trying to swallow you whole.

Limbs heavy and muscles sore, skin was tender where the atomic energy blast had danced through you. You groaned softly, shifting just enough to pull your legs up and curl your stiff fingers against your chest.

Your healing factor worked fast. The worst of the pain was already fading. But the exhaustion? That was bone-deep.

You peeled open your eyes.

The first thing you registered was the familiar grandiose design: sweeping staircase, polished hardwood floors, stained glass windows filtering soft morning light across expensive-looking antique furniture.

A giant oil painting of some dead white guy stared down at you from the far wall, his expression permanently locked in judgment.

Your brows knit beneath your still-cracked mask.

"...What the actual hell?"

You sat up slowly, eyes scanning the oversized lounge with growing suspicion. The room was eerily familiar. It had the air of old money meets superhero boarding school.

A sharp inhale escaped you. 'No way.'

Your heart gave an odd little flip of excitement. "Oh shit....Am I in Xavier’s Mansion?" Like...the actual X-Mansion!?

You’d only ever heard about it in rumors and messy side mission reports. Were you really about to meet the real Professor X, Storm, Jean Grey, maybe even Nightcrawler? Gosh you’d always wanted to pet his tail—

Joy deflated in record time the moment your eyes landed on the cheap Ikea lamp duct-taped to a corner table. The peeling leather recliner patched with bright pink Hello Kitty duct tape. An half-eaten burger left abandoned on the expensive Persian rug.

You sighed heavily, flopping dramatically back into the cushions. "Of course."

Of course you weren’t in the X-Mansion. This wasn’t the prestigious, state-of-the-art mutant sanctuary. You’d been brought to the Wish.com version.

The knockoff team base.

The Dollar Store X-Men.

"Figures," you muttered bitterly, throwing your arm over your eyes. Before you could spiral deeper into self-pity a familiar voice broke through the silence.

"Heads up!"

Instincts kicked in. You snapped your hand out just in time to snatch an object sailing toward your face.

A warm chimichanga, still wrapped snugly in foil, rested in your palm.

You stared at it blankly as a shaky huff of laughter escaped your throat. 'Same as always...' “Thanks...” you breathed weakly.

Across the room, Wade Wilson stood framed in the doorway. Gone was the red and black suit; instead he wore threadbare gray sweatpants and a dingy stretched-out white t-shirt that had seen better decades.

With the mask off his scarred hairless head caught the warm light. Sunken eyes and a twisted mouth...a deep roadmap of burns and lumpy scar tissue that resembled a melted candle with attitude.

"Don’t mention it kiddo," he said through a full mouth of his own chimichanga, flopping bonelessly into a sagging recliner across from you.

He spread his legs wide, one arm draped lazily over the armrest, the other lifting for another obnoxious bite, sauce and crumbs falling freely.

"For god’s sake Wade! Stop eating like a damn pig."

You craned your neck to see a woman standing in the hallway struggling to balance several overfilled bags, narrowed exasperated eyes that softened only slightly when they locked on Wade.

Predictably, the animated mercenary ignored her plight entirely with a lazy finger wave of his free hand.

"Hey babe! This is who I’ve been telling you about." He jerked the foil-wrapped food in your direction like it was an extension of his arm. Sauce and shredded meat flung violently onto the rug. "Child, meet the love of my life, my light in the darkness, my ride-or-die..." he lowered his voice dramatically, "Vanessa."

The woman—Vanessa—paused mid-step. Her eyes flickered toward you as if only now realizing you existed. You froze, holding the chimichanga awkwardly in both hands, still curled on your side like some startled raccoon.

Vanessa's expression softened and her lips quirked into a quick polite smile. "I'd give you a proper hello, but..." she tilted her head toward the bags, "...I’m a little full."

Dark eyes sharply flicked back to Wade. "Someone decided to go ahead and inhale the takeout instead of helping me carry anything."

Wade stuffed the rest of the meal in his mouth and spoke around it. “Now you know I’d never stand in the way of your independence babe. Besides, gotta make sure my seed is fed after all.” He jerked a scarred thumb toward you proudly.

You stared, blinking at the surreal sight, the still-warm chimichanga resting heavily in your hand.

Before Vanessa could skewer him with her glare—

"Let him keep eating. Maybe the bastard’ll choke."

Logan.

The man appeared in the doorway, bags slung effortlessly in both arms, his massive shoulders filling the frame. His grizzled features twisted into the permanent scowl of someone forced to tolerate Wade’s existence for far too long.

Without ceremony, he snatched two of the heavier bags from Vanessa’s grip. She gave him a grateful look.

“Okay...” Wade finished his meal with a loud swallow and suddenly popped up from his seat with forced enthusiasm. “Now I’ll help!”

Logan and Vanessa both immediately shifted out of his way, scowling in perfect unison as they dodged his flailing hands.

“Too late for that,” Vanessa muttered under her breath as she dropped the bags on the coffee table in the center of the room.

Logan followed, brushing past Wade deliberately with a shoulder-check so hard it sends the mercenary stumbling sideways.

Wade, true to form, spun and collapsed onto the floor with a drawn-out wail. "ASSAULT!" he cries. "I’VE BEEN ASSAULTED BY A HAIRY CANADIAN!"

The chaos only escalated as more familiar faces walked in.

"Shut the hell up you whiner!" Negasonic barked as she stomped into the room, Yukio and Colossus trailing close behind, arms also loaded with bags as well.

Without missing a beat, she sends a sharp kick directly into Wade’s side. The vigilante groaned and rocked gently on the floor.

"My child...avenge me!" He whimpers weakly.

“Nah.” You waved him off, casually taking a massive bite of the chimichanga as you stretched luxuriously across the long armchair, your mask fully off and tossed onto the couch beside you revealing the sweat-slick hair clung to your temples.

The room froze once they realize this; all eyes turning to you in varying degrees of surprise, confusion, and curiosity.

You blinked, chewing slowing down. "What?" you asked flatly, lowering the half-eaten food. "Do I have something on my face?"

That snapped Wade out of his daze. He lurched to his feet with a gasp, hand slapping across his mouth in shock as his eyes bulged cartoonishly wide. "...Oh my god."

"...well damn." Your stomach sank slightly at the reaction. "I must be hideous or something."

You reached calmly for your mask, fingers brushing over the familiar texture. "Welp. There goes a major blow to my ego. Lemme just put this back o—"

"W-wait! Don’t!" Wade blurted out.

You froze.

"You’re not ugly," he insisted. His voice was softer this time, almost panicked. "You’re just....not what I expected." He turned to his teammates, eyes narrowing threateningly. "Back me up. Now."

The group shifted uncomfortably. Logan scowled deeper. Negasonic crossed her arms tighter. They all knew better than to poke the Wade Wilson bear when he got like this.

Colossus spoke first, earnest and sincere as ever. “You are very striking,” he said kindly.

Yukio nodded enthusiastically. “Very cute!”

Even Logan, jaw clenched, forced out through gritted teeth, “You look... fine.”

Negasonic gave a long suffering sigh. “Yeah sure. You’re pretty. Whatever.”

You beamed, preening at the half-hearted praise as you dramatically tossed the mask back onto the couch and took another satisfied bite of chimichanga. "Mmm. Thank you Ellie~"

Ellie's eyes narrowed into razor-thin slits. “You don’t have permission to use my civilian name,” she snapped. “It’s Negasonic to you.”

You pretend to consider it, licking a stray glob of sour cream from your thumb as you tapped your chin thoughtfully. “Yeah...no. Prefer to call people by their actual government names. Sowwy.”

Colossus chuckled warmly as he continued unpacking and arranging boxes and containers across the low table with delicate care despite his massive steel hands. "I do not mind. Names bring companions closer together."

You smiled, turning your attention to him. "Exactly Piotr." You paused and added warmly in perfect Russian, "Спасибо тебе, мой стальной брат." (Thank you, my brother of steel)

Piotr blinked, visibly surprised. His metal brow lifted slightly, mouth parting for a half second before softening into the faintest smile. His entire body seemed to relax with pleased astonishment.

He replied with matching warmth, "Не за что, маленькая звезда смерти." (your welcome, little death star)

Your grin widened. It was hard to catch the team’s stoic tank off-guard, and you considered that a small victory.

As the others busied themselves, Vanessa, who had been uncharacteristically quiet for most of the exchange, continued to watch you from across the room. Finally, as if coming to a decision, she stepped forward.

You froze as she approached. The room felt suddenly smaller, the soft buzzing of a nearby lamp growing louder in your ears.

Closing the space between you with slow deliberate movements, Vanessa leaned down, slender fingers reaching out to gently tilt your chin up, brushing lightly against your jaw as her thumb rested against the curve of your cheekbone.

Your breath hitched faintly as you stared up at her wide-eyed, caught somewhere between confusion and fascination.

Brows furrowed deeply, she studied your face in absolute silence for what felt like an eternity. Her dark lashes cast long shadows beneath her eyes as she scrutinized every angle.

Once satiated, she leans back and nod. “I can see some resemblance to Wade in there.” she says at last.

You let out an groan as you dramatically tossed your head toward Wade. “Goddamn...” you muttered dryly. A slow smirk spread across your lips, eyes narrowing with wicked intent. “Would you be mad if I tried to fuck your woman old man?”

The room came to an immediate crashing halt.

Vanessa sputtered, mouth falling open as she reared back with a choked half-laugh half-gasp as Logan groaned audibly and turned away with a grimace.

Wade didn’t even flinch. He swallowed a bite of another chimichanga and waved a dismissive hand, still chewing as he spoke. “As much as I would give you everything kiddo...you can’t have Vanessa. Them’s the rules.”

You held up your hands in mock defeat. “Understandable. Have a nice day.”

Logan let out a guttural bark of disbelief. “How low-down can you be?!” His heavy boots thudded as his face twisted somewhere between irritation and mild disgust. “Isn’t Vanessa basically like your mom or something?”

You nearly doubled over laughing, slapping your thigh as you wiped a stray tear from the corner of your eye. “Shawty? Hell no,” you snorted. “Vanessa’s most definitely not my mom. Doesn’t look a damn thing like her.”

You stood and motioned dramatically at yourself, fingers running theatrically along the outline of your features; from your fluffy hair down to the gloved hand against your toned skin. “Look at me! You really think this woman popped me out?”

Logan’s mouth snapped shut. He grimaced and narrowed his eyes, clearly trying to find the words and failing miserably. He finally pressed his lips into a thin line and muttered, “...Whatever. Still weird though.”

Wade, never one to pass up an opportunity, immediately swung a heavy arm over your shoulder and pulled you into his side like a proud dad showing off his kid at a science fair.

“Can’t help it Wolverine,” he stated smugly. “It’s in our DNA to have impeccable taste.”

You nod along solemnly .“Agreed. No discrimination over here. If you’re hot? Game over for me. It’s a wrap: Man, woman, non-binary badass, alien demigod, vampire dominatrix, whatever.” You paused thoughtfully and let your lips curl into a smile. “Even heroes. Like... I don’t know...”

You drew it out intentionally and syrupy-sweet, watching as Wade narrowed his eyes suspiciously at your tone like a hound catching scent until you finally said it:

“...Spider-Man?”

The reaction was immediate.

Wade’s head snapped toward you so fast you half-expected a cracking sound. His eyes widened comically. “Shut up!” he gasped, between disbelief and something dangerously close to excitement.

Before you could even blink, he yanked you to sit down beside him on the couch, scarred hands framing your face firmly, holding your cheeks in place like a gossip-starved aunt who had just cornered you at a family wedding.

“Tell me every-fucking-thing!” he demanded, shaking you lightly with each word.

You slap at his arms as you wheezed, “Okay okay, stop! Jesus Wade!”

He finally let go but didn’t move far; sitting cross-legged and hunched forward, his hands clasped tightly on his lap, rocking slightly like a kid awaiting storytime.

You settled comfortably into the cushions as you took another chomp of chimichanga, savoring the center of attention.

“It was freshman year of college when we ran into each other,” you started wistfully, like a storyteller remembering the beginning of an epic legend. “Literally. Stormed into the lecture hall chest-first into this scrawny nerd with coffee and a backpack twice his size. Dumped his drink all over my brand-new hoodie.”

You paused for dramatic effect, watching Yukio and Vanessa lean in ever so slightly. Even Logan had subtly shifted his weight toward you, arms crossed, jaw tight but listening.

“Of course we argued. I told him off. He babbled apologies. Classic meet-cute disaster.” You sighed dramatically. “It should’ve ended there but fate had other ideas. Because a week later? We crossed paths again. Only this time he was in full spandex swinging across rooftops. Turns out both of us had been operating under masks the entire time. Him, Spider-Man. Me, Deadpool.”

 “Um actually,” Wade immediately raise a finger up at that. “You can't be Deadpool because I—”

“Yeah, yeah.” You waved him off with a grin. “But it got really interesting when I found out his secret identity.” You wiggled your eyebrows. “Crime-fighting date nights. Web-swinging across Manhattan at 2 AM. Dude has stamina like you wouldn’t believe.”

Wade was practically vibrating next to you, his hands squeezing your shoulders hard enough to almost pop a joint. “You fucked Spider-Man?!”

You gave wistful sigh and popped the last bite of your chimichanga into your mouth. “Oh most definitely. Many times in fact! Did you know that man likes going at it on rooftops? Bridges too. Apparently it’s the thrill of heights and getting seen.” You snorted. “The freak.”

There was a stunned silence, then the room practically tilted toward you.

But you weren’t finished.

“And...I may or may not have taken Captain America’s V-card during one of me and Spidey's little ‘off-again’ phases.”

The bomb dropped like a thunderclap.

Wade sputtered violently like a broken espresso machine, eyes bulging as he choked on absolutely nothing.

“EXCUSE ME?” he shrieked. “No. No, absolutely not. Steve Rogers is America’s ass, not yours. There’s no way. You’re full of it.”

You nodded enthusiastically, head lifted with an indignant sniff. “Oh hell yes. I tapped that. Turns out he only told people he lost it during the 1943 USO tour to keep Stark and Thor from bullying him. And let me tell ya: guy’s built like a Greek statue but soft as a marshmallow inside. Total sub. Puppy man all day.”

The team erupted again, everyone talking over each other in disbelief. Yukio had collapsed into Vanessa’s lap, giggling hysterically at this point while the brunette doubled over in laughter. Ellie on the other hand simply groaned loudly with a slap to her forehead, ignoring the way Piotr made a strangled metal noise and looked away awkwardly.

Wade, all the while, was still flailing. “No. No. No. No! Steve Rogers does not bottom. I refuse to believe this. My soul rejects this!”

Unfortunately, Logan had to be the one to end the fun. “Not possible anyway. They don’t exist.”

You froze.

For just a moment, your teasing bravado faded. Your lips parted slightly, breath catching faintly as the weight of reality slip back into your chest.

“Right...” You rubbed the back of your neck. “They’re not here because they're just in my universe.” You looked back up and offered a weak grin. “From Earth-617.”

The collective silence was deafening.

Wade, halfway through unwrapping his third chimichanga, froze completely. His jaw hung slack as the tortilla slipped limply from his fingers and plopped onto the table. “...you what?”

You bit back a grin. Straightening up a little to throw your arms open with an exaggerated shrug, the worn leather of your suit creaking slightly with the motion.

“C’mon!” you teased. “You really think I’d take over an entire crime syndicate, impersonate the city’s most wanted antihero and fight your team—” you pointed at the group with a lazy spin of your wrist “—all because I was bored? If I were local?”

You watched as realization slowly dawned across each face.

But it was Wade who sat back against the couch like he’d been sucker-punched, shoulders sagging as he dramatically wiped a nonexistent bead of sweat from his grotesquely scarred forehead. “Holy shit...” he whispered faintly. “You're serious.”

You nodded. “Yup. I’m from another Earth. Earth-617 to be exact.”

Casually unzipping the pocket on your tactical belt, you pull out a sleek black phone and unlock it with a flick of your thumb. The cracked screen glowed softly as you swiped through a series of photos.

There he was.

Your Wade.

Your father.

The ache that wrapped around your heart was bittersweet and unrelenting the longer you glanced at each image: you on rooftops at sunset with your Wade during a stakeout. Another of him ruffling your hair as you scowled playfully and tried to bat his hand away. Another of him carrying you piggyback during a gang shootout.

You paused on a particular image. It wasn’t as polished. It was slightly blurry, a selfie your Wade had taken on some random Tuesday before a job with your stolen phone. He stood in front of the bathroom mirror, making a stupid kissy face with a peace sign raised.

You smiled softly.

Without looking up, you spun the phone around to face the others.

They all leaned in to get a closer look.

“Almost forgot….he had the most luscious blonde hair back in the day,” you murmured with a fond grin, swiping to an even older photo of your Wade before Weapon X ravaged him, probably no older than you were now. Rugged and handsome, his golden hair spilled messily over his forehead as he smiled effortlessly at the camera. “Total heartthrob. I mean look at this.”

The room couldn’t help themselves.

Logan let out a low grunt of reluctant approval as Vanessa's eyes widened. “Damn,” she murmured. “He’s fine as hell.”

You turned your head just in time to see Wade physically recoil backward as though he’d been shot point-blank. His scarred face twisted into an almost cartoonishly wounded grimace as his hand flew to his chest.

“Vanessa?!” he nearly wailed. “Are you seriously thirsting over alternate me?!”

You hid your smirk behind your hand. “Relax old man.”

Wade was in full pout-mode, his arms folding tightly across his chest as he mutter under his breath. “He’s not even that different…” he grumbles. “I'm sure there’s some resemblance between us.”

Dragging your gaze slowly and deliberately over Wade’s scarred face, you squint before shaking your head. “Nah. My dad and you look nothing alike.” You tapped your chin thoughtfully. “If anything...you kinda look like Ryan Reynolds.”

Wade pointed an accusatory finger at you with offended indignation. “You shut your filthy mouth!”

You shrugged with a wide grin. “I just call it like I see it.”

Wade let out a long suffering groan and slumped deeper into the couch, throwing his scarred arms dramatically over his face.

“I hate the multiverse,” he muttered. “First I get dragged into timeline shenanigans. Now I’m related to a sassier version of myself? What fresh cosmic bullshit is this?”

You smirked, leaning back into the cushions beside him, warm and weirdly comfortable for the first time in what felt like years. “You love it,” you said quietly.

Wade peeked at you from under his arm. His voice softened just a little. “...Yeah. I kinda do.”

You let your playful grin fade just a fraction as you stare down at the photo of your father still glowing faintly in your hand. The edges of the screen flickered softly. You thumbed it off and slipped the phone back into your belt with a soft click.

You didn’t say it aloud. You didn’t have to.

Different Earth. Different Wade. Different world.

“Hey kid,” Wade’s voice broke the quiet, back to full dramatic chaos. “Just so we’re clear... if any more alternate versions of you show up, I am not paying child support.”

You shook your head as you reached over to slug him lightly on the arm. “No promises old man.”

Off in the distance, sirens wailed faintly once again. Another mess waiting for you both. Another day, another ridiculous chapter about to begin.

You stood and stretched lazily with a grin. “C’mon Dad. Let’s go cause some responsible mayhem.”

Wade jumped up like an overexcited kid. “BEST. DAY. EVER.”

The two of you strode out together, the dysfunctional team trailing behind, bickering already. A new world. A second chance.

And maybe... just maybe... this was exactly where you were meant to be.

[touchtheinvisiblestars]

Close To Home Part Eleven

Part 10

***

The bell rang, signaling the end of the school day, and you were gathering your things when Sarah approached your desk. You hadn’t had much one-on-one time with her yet, and you noticed she was a little more serious than usual.

"Hey, can I ask you something?" she said, shifting from one foot to the other, her voice slightly unsure.

You looked up from your papers and smiled. "Of course, Sarah. What’s on your mind?"

She hesitated for a moment before speaking again, clearly weighing her words. "I’ve been struggling a bit with some of the material for the upcoming exams, and I was wondering if you could help me prep? I know you’re busy, but I’d really appreciate it."

You gave a nod, offering her a reassuring smile. "I’d be happy to help, Sarah. It’s no trouble at all. How about we meet tomorrow after school in the library?"

She looked visibly relieved, a small smile forming on her face. "That sounds great. I’ll be there."

As Sarah turned to leave, you watched her go, your thoughts briefly wandering. She seemed like such a good kid—smart, but maybe a little stressed recently. You’d seen her in class, always kept up. Gave brilliant answers and never turned an essay in late.

***

The next day, as the afternoon sun was starting to dip, casting a warm glow over the school grounds as you and Sarah walked out of the library. You’d spent the past hour helping her go over her notes for the upcoming exam. Despite the stress, Sarah had seemed more at ease, and you could tell she was grateful for the extra help.

“Thanks again,” Sarah said with a soft smile, her voice light. “I feel a lot better about it now.”

“No problem at all. You’ve got a good grasp on the material,” you replied, smiling back. “Just keep reviewing, and you’ll be set. I'm not worried about you in the slightest. Just trust your brain a bit more. You know the answers.”

You both made your way across the school’s courtyard, chatting casually as you headed toward the parking lot. Sarah’s step seemed a little lighter.

“I really appreciate you staying after school,” Sarah added as you reached the edge of the parking lot. “My dad usually tries to help when he can, but he's always busy with work.”

“Oh? Well, I’m glad I could step in,” you said with a smile, not thinking much of it. “Sounds like he's a busy guy.”

Before Sarah could respond, a truck pulled into the lot, and she turned her head with excitement.

“That’s him!” she said, practically bouncing on her feet. “My dad’s here.”

Your eyes followed Sarah’s gaze, and your breath hitched in your chest. The truck pulling into the lot wasn’t just any truck—it was his truck. Joel’s truck.

A sinking feeling hit your stomach as everything clicked into place. You watched as Joel parked the truck, and your heart skipped a beat when you saw him step out, looking toward Sarah with that familiar, comforting expression.

Your feet felt rooted to the ground. You knew it was him, but it was still a shock to see him in this context. Sarah walked quickly over to him, a broad smile lighting up her face as she climbed into the passenger side of the truck.

Joel’s eyes briefly flickered in your direction as Sarah got into the truck, and it was in that moment that the realisation hit him too. His gaze locked onto you for a moment—his expression frozen in confusion, recognition dawning on his face just like it had for you.

For a brief second, neither of you moved. You both stood there, staring at each other in shock, the realization that you were both connected through Sarah settling heavily between you.

Joel’s mouth opened as if he was about to say something, but he seemed at a loss for words. His expression was a mix of surprise and something else—maybe a bit of wariness, maybe confusion. You could see that he hadn’t anticipated this moment either.

Sarah, unaware of the stunned silence between the two of you, laughed and waved as she got settled in the truck. “See you tomorrow!” she called over to you, oblivious to the shift in the air.

Joel hesitated, looking from Sarah back to you. There was a long pause before he gave you a tight, almost uncomfortable nod, like he was trying to process what had just happened. You mirrored the gesture, still feeling the weight of the revelation settle heavily between you.

“Take care, Sarah,” you said with a smile, though your voice felt distant, as if the words had come from someone else. You tried to sound casual, but inside, everything was spinning.

Joel climbed into the driver’s side of the truck, still giving you a sidelong glance as he started the engine. Neither of you said anything more, and the silence was deafening as he pulled out of the lot and drove away with Sarah.

You stood there for a long moment, trying to absorb what had just happened. The shock of seeing Joel as Sarah’s father, someone you hadn’t connected to this part of your life, had knocked you off balance. You hadn’t expected this at all.

With your heart still racing, you took a deep breath, trying to steady yourself. Things were about to get a lot more complicated, and you weren’t sure where this would go, but one thing was certain—this was no longer just about you and Joel.

***

You didn’t even remember the drive home.

Everything was a blur after you watched Joel’s truck disappear down the road, your thoughts spiraling faster than you could catch them. It wasn’t until you were standing in your kitchen, keys still in hand, that the full weight of what happened finally slammed into you.

Sarah. Sarah was his daughter.

Joel wasn’t just the man who held your hand in the early morning light, who looked at you like you were the first peace he’d known in a long time. He wasn’t just the person who’d made you feel seen again, after everything. He was also the father of one of your students.

You dropped your keys on the counter and leaned heavily against the edge of the sink, gripping the cool metal to ground yourself. How had neither of you known? How had it not come up? He’d mentioned having a daughter—but never her name. And you’d never thought to ask. You respected that he wanted to protect his daughter.

You squeezed your eyes shut, letting out a quiet, frustrated breath. This wasn’t some minor oversight. This was a huge, gaping conflict of interest. A line that had been crossed without either of you realizing it.

Your phone buzzed on the counter beside you. You looked down to see a message from your sister:

How was your day, Miss Educator of the Year? Want me to bring wine?

You didn’t respond right away. Instead, you picked up your phone and stared at the screen, waiting for a message from Joel that never came.

And that hurt in a way you hadn’t expected.

You told yourself he probably needed time. You did too. It was a shock to both of you. Maybe he was still figuring out what to say, how to handle it. You tried to give him that grace.

But still… something inside you ached.

You thought back to Sarah’s face—bright, trusting, so clearly happy to see her dad. You thought about her confiding in you, asking for help, how open and sweet she’d been. You’d already liked her. But now, knowing she was Joel’s little girl?

Everything felt heavier.

You finally texted your sister back, fingers trembling slightly:

You: Yeah. Wine sounds good. You won’t believe the day I’ve had

Then you set your phone down and braced your hands against the counter, letting the silence of your home wrap around you like a cold blanket.

How were you supposed to go back to work tomorrow like nothing had changed?

And worse… how were you supposed to look Joel in the eye now that everything had?

***

You barely heard the knock on the door before it creaked open.

“I brought reinforcements,” Emma’s voice rang out, followed by the unmistakable sound of two wine bottles clinking in a paper bag. “One’s red, one’s rosé. I figured one of them would match the emotional crisis vibe.”

You gave a half-hearted laugh as she walked in, kicking the door shut behind her with her foot. She paused when she got a good look at your face—eyes a little too tired, posture a little too slumped.

“Oh,” she said, her voice softening immediately. “It’s one of those days.”

You didn’t even respond. You just turned, walked to the couch, and collapsed into it with a groan. She followed you, setting the bottles down on the coffee table and plopping beside you, folding one leg underneath her.

“What happened?” she asked, handing you a glass once she’d poured the rosé. “Did the kids go feral again?”

You shook your head, staring down into the pink-tinged wine.

“I met Sarah’s dad.”

She raised a brow.

You nodded slowly.

“And?” she prompted. “Was he awful? Weird? One of those helicopter types who wants to observe every lesson and micromanage the way you pass out pencils?”

You snorted. “No. It's Joel.”

She blinked at you, blindsided by the revalation. “Wait… your Joel?”

You nodded again, this time with a tired sort of disbelief. “Yeah. That Joel.”

Her eyes widened and she sat upright, clearly trying to piece it together. “Hold on. Joel is Sarah’s dad?”

“Yep.”

“Holy shit.”

“Yep.”

Sitting back, eyes wide and stunned into silence for a few beats. “Did you know he had a daughter?”

“Yeah. But never said her name. And I never connected the dots because… why would I?” You buried your face in your hands. “He picked her up today. After school. I stayed later to help her study for the test we've got coming up.”

She winced like she could feel the secondhand awkwardness. “So… he knows now too?”

“Oh, yeah. We both just… stood there. Staring at each other. Like idiots.”

She exhaled a long, low breath. “That’s… I can't believe it.”

You groaned. “I know.”

“But,” she added gently, “it’s not like you did anything wrong. You didn’t know. Neither of you did. It’s not like you were hiding it from each other.”

You shrugged, feeling the guilt anyway. “Still. It’s complicated now. I’m her teacher. And he’s her dad. I don’t even know what the rules are for something like this.”

She tilted her head. “Do you even like him that much?”

You looked at her, the hesitation clear in your silence.

“Oh no,” she whispered. “You do.”

You sighed again and rubbed your hands over your face. “He’s not like Adam. He’s patient. And kind. And he looks at me like I’m not just a mess who’s still trying to pull her life together. Like I’m… enough.”

Her expression softened. She leaned into your side, resting her head on your shoulder.

“I wish I could tell you this’ll be simple,” she murmured. “But honestly? I think you’re both gonna have to figure it out together. And maybe—if he’s the guy you think he is—he’ll reach out soon.”

You didn’t answer, just took a slow sip of wine and stared out the window into the early evening light.

Complicated or not, this wasn’t over.

Not by a long shot.

[bright-and-burning]

everybody reblogging that “can’t write out of order” post… brother if i didn’t write out of order i’d have an aneurysm 😭

[kenmaiii]

after two years i finally draw the favorite

[beggars-opera]

Just recounted and realized I'm still one payment behind for student loan forgiveness fuck FUCK fuck fuck

[flowerakatsuka]

either i've gotta watch the ososan movie or play fields of mistria tonight, i need a freaking distraction rn.

[nereb-and-dungalef]

I keep drinking coffee thinking it's gonna make me Productive and then instead of doing the work I actually have to do I just compulsively make spreadsheets :(

[captainhysunstuff]

A reactionary comic about rereading a fic that I recently recommended that was way darker than I remembered, lol. I still love it for how they pretty much drive each other crazy, but that word choice and the consent issues... *cringes* At least there are valid warnings beforehand, and the first fic was pretty PG. Sorry. *laughs sheepishly*