#i have to remind myself every night to do this or i forget

[polar534]

With TGWDLM's reprise on the horizon, I've been seeing a couple of posts about the Guy timeloop theory. Which is great! Especially with the Reprise trailer there's a lot more evidence and fun to be had with it. (I personally subscribe to the in-universe Pokey sponsored musical myself though.)

But I did want to check in with the fandom to make sure people are aware that there is a timeloop musical in the Hatchetfield Trilogy. One that I feel a lot of people might miss because you're designed to forget the biggest piece of evidence unless you're paying attention. Unless you rewatch it.

If you don't already know where I'm going with this, do me a favor. Right now. Open up Black Friday on youtube, or even pull up the cast album and click the very very first song (Prologue). You only have to play it for a few seconds at most. Now, tell me what you hear.

Because the answer should be ticking.

The musical starts, with ticking.

Which, ok, the countdown for renowned American holiday, Black Friday, is something that we do (unfortunately) see in the real world. People wait outside for doors to open, for sales to drop etc.

The thing is, this ticking and the musical accompaniment that eventually starts up is meant to parallel the exact same ticking and theme we hear again at the end of the night. At the end of the musical. If it was just supposed to be a thematic opening title sequence made for the pro-shot release, then why is it included on the cast album? The other two musicals in the trilogy don't include their title card sequence in their cast album. Prologue's inclusion tells me that parallel is purposeful. This is supposed to tell us something.

But ok. Musicals are meant to carry musical themes throughout them. That could reasonably explain the theme being played at the beginning and at the end. Just a thematic nod. The ticking itself could be explained by it referencing the count down to the sale of Wiggly (and the resulting chaos) in the beginning and the countdown to flip the day at the end. Both are reasonable and would fit within the story Black Friday tells.

So if I want to seal this theory, I should probably be bringing something else to the table. If only I had a song... with lyrics that loop. With lyrics that literally ask the question: Will tomorrow come today?

Oh. Huh. Would you look at that...

Well since you already either have the cast album up, or the musical itself up, go ahead and do yourself a favor and listen to What if Tomorrow Comes again. Besides the fact that Kendall absolutely kills it (the whole cast does actually), really listen to the lyrics. Because you'll probably notice little gems such as:

Do you all see the memories, tomorrow, reminds me.

What if tomorrow comes and takes the night away?

And of course:

Will tomorrow come today?

If you still want more, trust me, I got it. Take a look at this:

The choreography in this moment specifically has almost everyone on stage look down at their hands, almost as if 'waking up', almost as if realizing something. Remembering something. (God I wish I could get my hands on a copy of the digital ticket and see the full number. Kendall gets her deserved spotlight in this moment for the pro-shot but I just love this musical so much and would love to see the full stage and every little detail they put into the show.)

So. If you're now on board with where I'm going with this, then I suppose we need a reason for the loop to be occurring in the first place. Something or someone needs to have triggered it.

Black Friday is specifically and unapologetically Wiggly's musical. The Lang brothers have confirmed and reinforced that fact on various livestreams. Also, I mean, we see him so much. So while The Bastard of Time and Space would be a fitting culprit for trapping a bunch of people into repeating the same horrible day over and over, I don't think that's what we're meant to be inferring.

So if it's not Tinky, then who else would even fit as a suspect?

Gosh, if only there was one other character who every time their powers have been described by the Lang brother's, either in livestreams or narrated in released media, as having the ability to 'reach through space and time' and oh...

Oh.

Oh pookie. You really are the biggest walking tragedy Hatchetfield has ever seen.

Now. To be clear. I don't think Lex triggers the loop on purpose or even fully by herself. I mean, she really wouldn't know how nor do I believe she would even want to. But through existing lore we already know that Lex's powers will end up triggering on their own when Hannah's life is in danger. (Read about said lore and the trivia question it stems from in this wonderful post here.) And I don't know about you, but I can't think of a more dangerous and lethal situation than the possibility of nuclear retaliation.

Let's combine that knowledge with the fact that Hannah's powers have been confirmed by Willy boy himself to be alike to a nuclear power plant in terms of potential. Throw in two absolutely terrified magical sisters whose goal is not to be separated, and I think there's a very reasonable case to be made that Lex's powers to bend space and time probably activated the moment they heard that whirring noise at the end of the night.

That they not only activated, but were actually heightened to such a degree by Hannah's own powers that it kick-started a timeloop, resetting everyone back to the start of the day without any memory of the tragedy that awaits them in the mall. Every time they do reach the end of the night, Hannah realizes the loop and helps everyone else to see it too. That the real reason the survivors all huddle around and wait for the night to flip over together is because it hasn't yet.

[voiceshearingyouloud]

Felt gross as hell but then I cried about it and prayed and went for a walk and now I feel better 👍

#selfcare

[radiotorn]

The perusing thru photo gallery strikes again. ! Bad

[poisonousivy616]

I Manifested My Dream Apartment FOR FREE In 3 Days!!! (Law of Assumption Success Story)

  ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ♡ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ.       🐍🖤     ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ♡ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ

⋆༺𓆩⚔️𓆪༻⋆ Backstory ⋆༺𓆩⚔️𓆪༻⋆

Hi babes!!!

A few months ago, I was literally homeless, no sugarcoating it. I was crashing at different people's places just to have somewhere to sleep. No stability. No peace. Constantly anxious. Constantly in survival mode. I was sick of it - of feeling like I had no control over my own life.

So one day, I made the decision. I'm done living like this. I deserve to feel safe, to have a home. And I'm not going to wait on the 3D to catch up. I decided I have my dream apartment already. I didn't know how. I didn't care how. I just knew it was done.

⋆༺𓆩⚔️𓆪༻⋆ Method ⋆༺𓆩⚔️𓆪༻⋆

The first thing I did was make a Pinterest board filled with dreamy apartment aesthetics. Think: floor-to ceiling windows, soft lightning, cozy corners, neutral tones, minimalist but luxurious vibes. I soaked in those images like it was already mine.

Then I tackled my self concept. Because let's be real: the world mirrors YOU.

I started robotically affirming the same core truths over and over:

༺♰༻I am a master at manifesting.

༺♰༻I'm GOD of my reality.

༺♰༻The world revolves around me.

༺♰༻I always get what I want exactly when I want it.

I also started listening to the "program your mind to think like GOD" affirmation tape by High Frequency Guru (literally obsessed with her. She is that girl) I played it every morning and night - when my subconscious was wide open.

I also let it loop in the background while I was cleaning, walking, scrolling, watching TV, passive, non-stop affirming like it was my job

Here's the twist tho:

I still felt delusional. I still felt like a fraud. My 3D said "you barely have a place to sleep"

But I didn't care.

I ignored the 3D. I reminded myself that my assumptions create my reality - not the other way around. I kept affirming. I refused to spiral. I refused to doubt. I made it law in my mind.

⋆༺𓆩⚔️𓆪༻⋆ Results ⋆༺𓆩⚔️𓆪༻⋆

3. Days. Later.

Within 72 hours, I was literally handed my dream apartment.

I'm not exaggerating. The EXACT apartment from my Pinterest board - same vibe, layout, same color scheme, fully furnished, even down to the little aesthetic decor touches I had on my vision board.

But wait! It gets better!!!!

I didn't have to pay anything.

Not for the move-in, not for the furniture, not for rent.

The rent is already paid for the ENTIRE year!!!

And it wasn't mommy or daddy's money. It wasn't even some long-lost rich relative. It came from a source I never even imagined.

Someone I didn't even know. Someone who just wanted to help.

The "how" didn't matter - it unfolded perfectly. And all I did was shift my mind.

⋆༺𓆩⚔️𓆪༻⋆ Final words ⋆༺𓆩⚔️𓆪༻⋆

If you're reading this - know that you can do this too.

You don't need to take physical action.

You don't need to stress over the how.

You don't need to be perfect or feel high vibe all the time.

You just need to do the one thing that actually matters:

༺♰༻Decide it's yours

༺♰༻Assume it's done

༺♰༻Persist in the new story, no matter what your 3D says

Your reality is your mirror: your thoughts are the script. Your mind is the only power. There's no one outside of you calling the shots.

You are God of your reality. The main character. The writer. The director. The producer.

And don't ever let this world make you forget that.

Love, Ivy 💚🖤

[surielstea]

Spelling it Out

Based on a request.

Pairing: Cassian x Fem!Reader

Summary: Reader is a bit oblivious to Cassian’s flirtations, so Cassian has to go the extra mile to prove he truly wants her.

Warnings: Cassian probably makes some suggestive jokes somewhere in here, but it’s all fluff! :)

4.6k words.

"I brought coffee," I announce as I step into the studio's warm embrace, the door swinging shut behind me to keep the morning chill at bay. I balance the two cups in one hand, the other cradling the new set of paints Feyre had asked me to pick up this morning.

"Back here!" Feyre's voice carries from the storage room, muffled slightly by the rustling of cardboard.

I follow the sound, stepping into the small back area where she's surrounded by half-unpacked boxes. She exhales in relief as she rushes up to me, taking her coffee with eager hands.

"You're a lifesaver," she groans, lifting the steaming cup to her lips. "Thank you."

I set the paints down, glancing at the boxes. "I thought the shipments were too heavy to unload?"

Feyre hums around her coffee, eyes twinkling. "Oh, I had help—"

Before she can finish, a figure stalks through the doorway, his presence effortlessly filling the space. A box—one that Feyre and I together had struggled to move—rests in his arms like it weighs nothing.

"This should be the last one," the male says, setting it down with casual ease.

His voice is deep, rough-edged in a way that demands attention. I take in the broad cut of his shoulders, the way his wings shift behind him, arching slightly as he straightens. And then I see his face—hazel eyes rich as molten gold, a scar cutting through his dark brow, and a mouth curled into an easy, knowing smile. He's ruggedly handsome, but not in that delicate, ethereal way most High Fae are. No, he's something else entirely—something solid, real.

"Help from Cassian," Feyre finishes, amusement lacing her tone.

The name stiles me immediately, and I was a fool for not immediately putting it together the second I saw him. Cassian. Lord of Bloodshed.

He turns his gaze to me, openly assessing, and I take the opportunity to do the same. There's something about the way he looks at me, like he's mapping every detail—filing it away for later.

"I didn't know we'd have company," I say, forcing my focus back to the present. "I would've brought another coffee."

Cassian huffs a soft laugh. "Oh, no need. I've been up for hours." His voice carries the same warmth as his grin, rough yet inviting. "But that's a kind gesture."

I nod, offering a small smile in return.

"I don't believe you two have officially met," Feyre chimes in, shifting her attention between us. "Cass, this is my very talented friend. She keeps this place running."

"She gives me too much credit," I say, shaking my head.

Cassian, however, tilts his head, his expression unreadable. "I doubt that." The certainty in his tone knocks something loose in my chest.

"This is Cassian," Feyre continues, grinning. "Rhys' brother and the best guy to call for lifting heavy things."

Cassian makes a sound of protest. "Don't forget hilarious, intelligent, devastatingly handsome—I mean, the list goes on."

I huff a quiet laugh as he extends his hand.

"Well, it's nice to meet you, Cassian." I smile as I take his hand.

His fingers close around mine, warm and calloused, his grip firm but not overwhelming.

"Likewise, sweetheart." His smirk deepens, and before I can pull away, his thumb brushes ever so slightly over the back of my hand—a touch so fleeting, so deliberate, that I almost convince myself I imagined it. Then he winks, a quick, knowing thing, before finally releasing me.

I swallow, ignoring the odd flutter in my stomach. I've heard the stories from Feyre, how when she originally arrived in the night court she may as well have ended up with Cassian with his relentless flirting. He's joking, I remind myself. That's just how he is.

Cassian dusts his hands off on his leathers before flashing me an easy grin. "You must be the one keeping Feyre sane around here."

I huff a quiet laugh, setting down the paints. "I do my best. But she keeps me busy."

"She does that," he muses, glancing at Feyre. "Though I didn't realize she had such a beautiful assistant."

I blink at him, caught off guard. "Oh—I'm not really her assistant. More like a glorified errand runner."

Feyre scoffs. "That is not true."

Cassian's gaze flicks back to me, assessing. "You're an artist too, then?"

I nod while shucking off my winter coat and hanging it on the back of a chair. "That's the idea."

His grin widens. "Now I'm definitely going to start hanging around more. I could use a few painting tips."

Feyre snorts. "You paint?"

"Not yet," he says, unbothered. "But I'm a fast learner. And I've always appreciated a good work of art."

Something about the way he says it, about the way his hazel eyes flick over me like he's taking his time, makes my stomach flutter.

But before I can respond, he flashes me a smirk, turning back to Feyre. "Anyway, mission accomplished. Boxes are in, and I fully expect my reward."

"Which is?" Feyre asks dryly.

Cassian smirks. "Your eternal gratitude. And maybe a good bottle of whiskey, if Rhys is feeling generous."

Feyre rolls her eyes, but I can't help my smile.

"How about next time we need your help, you'll be the first one we call?" I suggest, noticing Feyre's playful disinterest in rewarding him for being a good friend.

Cassian grins like I've just made his day. "Oh, sweetheart. You can call me anytime."

His voice drops just enough to send an odd warmth curling through my stomach. But before I can overthink it, he turns toward the door.

Cassian turns slightly, glancing at me and Feyre. "I'll be seeing you around, hopefully." He directs at me. "See you for dinner, Feyre."

And just like that, he's gone, leaving only the scent of wind and cracking embers in his wake.

I shake my head, amused, as I turn back to Feyre—only to find her already watching me over the rim of her coffee cup.

"What?"

She only smirks, taking a slow sip. "Nothing."

I frown but brush it off, reaching for the new paints.

Cassian was just being friendly. That's all.

Right?

—

From that moment on, Cassian made every excuse to come to the studio. Half the time, he didn't even bother with a valid reason—just threw out a casual "I was in town" when, in reality, he always was. Velaris wasn't nearly as big as he made it out to be.

The bell above the door rang, and I didn't need to look up to know whose footsteps were approaching behind me.

"Is that supposed to be a bird?" Cassian mused, leaning over my shoulder.

I scoffed, shoving his face away. "It's a dog, and you know it."

He chuckled, easily dodging my half-hearted push and settling right back beside me. "Mmm. If you say so." His wings rustled as he peered at my work again, this time with something softer in his expression. "It's amazing, sweetheart. You're so damn talented."

The sincerity in his voice made my stomach flutter. I tilted my head back to look up at him, caught off guard by the rare note of awe in his tone.

That awe melted into something else—something warm and teasing—as he placed both hands on my shoulders and started kneading gently.

I nearly groaned on the spot. "Gods, you're perfect at that." I exhaled, practically melting under his touch.

Cassian hummed, his thumbs working expertly over the knots in my shoulders.

I sighed blissfully, rolling my shoulders into his hands. "You should've been a healer."

He chuckled, his breath fanning against my ear. "I'd rather just take care of you, sweetheart."

I smiled, tilting my head further into his touch, completely missing the way his fingers stilled for a beat before continuing their slow, deliberate strokes.

"You really are tense," he murmured, pressing into the tight muscles just beneath my neck. "Is this what happens when you spend all day hunched over, painting little dogs that look like birds?"

I smacked his arm lightly. "If you're going to insult my work, at least pretend to be subtle about it."

"Who said anything about insulting?" His thumbs dug in a little deeper, his voice dropping just enough to make my skin heat. "I love watching you work. All focused, biting your lip, completely lost in it."

I wrinkled my nose. "That makes me sound like some kind of absent-minded hermit."

Cassian grinned. "A very cute absent-minded hermit."

I rolled my eyes. "Flattery will get you nowhere, Cassian."

"That's funny because I feel like it's getting me everywhere," he mused, his hands still kneading at my shoulders. "You're practically purring."

"I am not purring," I argued, though I made no move to stop him.

"Cassian, stop distracting my employees!" Feyre's voice rang from the back room, laced with exasperation.

Cassian smirked, straightening up from where he'd been massaging my shoulders. "Employee," he corrected with a lazy grin. "And I'm motivating her."

I rolled my eyes, but the warmth of his hands still lingered on my skin, a phantom pressure I refused to dwell on.

He chuckled, stepping back, stretching in that way that made every muscle in his absurdly broad body flex just enough to be noticed. His wings flared slightly, shifting behind him like an afterthought before he shot me another smirk. "I'll let you get back to it, sweetheart." Then, with a slow tilt of his head—"Unless you'd rather take a break and let me keep working these magic hands?"

My breath caught for half a second before I forced myself to scoff. "No," I said, ignoring the small blush creeping up my neck. "But... could I ask you a favor?"

Cassian perked up instantly, arms folding over his chest. "Anything, gorgeous."

I hesitated, suddenly second-guessing myself, but forged ahead. "I need to paint an anatomical feature I've been studying. I have a few reference images, but..." I swallowed, glancing at his wings. "I was hoping I could use you as a live model?"

His brows lifted, hazel eyes gleaming with intrigue. "My wings?"

I nodded. "Your wings are far more magnificent than the sketches in my book."

The moment the words left my mouth, I realized how they sounded—how appreciative they were—and my face went hot.

Cassian, of course, took full advantage. His wings stretched slightly as if preening under the attention. "You just trying to get me shirtless, sweetheart?"

A very unhelpful image flashed in my head—of him, shirtless, all sculpted muscle and golden skin, wings fanned out behind him in the studio's soft light.

"No!" I blurted, before catching myself. "I mean—it's just for the wings."

Cassian barked a laugh, shaking his head. "Only teasing, sweetheart. I'd love to."

I exhaled in relief. "Good. Are you free tomorrow?"

He tilted his head, grinning. "I'm here whenever you want me."

Something about the way he said it made my stomach flip.

I bit my lower lip slightly, nodding. "Thank you."

"I wouldn't thank me so fast," he mused, gaze flicking to me with unmistakable mischief. "You owe me after this."

I narrowed my eyes. "Owe you what?"

Cassian made a show of looking away, tapping his chin as though deep in thought. "Haven't decided yet," he hummed, lips twitching. "But don't worry, sweetheart. I'll think of something."

I huffed, waving him off. "Go bother someone else, Cassian."

He gave a dramatic bow, smirk firmly in place. "As you wish."

And with that, he sauntered off, wings twitching ever so slightly as he disappeared into the back of the studio—leaving Feyre standing there, watching me, amusement dancing in her eyes.

I turned back to my canvas, heat still prickling my skin.

—

I wasn't nervous.

There was no reason to be nervous.

It was just a painting. Just a model session. Nothing different from the dozens I'd done before.

Except, of course, this time the model was Cassian. And he was currently standing in the doorway of the studio, a lazy, devastatingly handsome grin on his face as he crossed his arms over his chest.

"Told you I'd be here whenever you wanted me."

I cleared my throat, turning away quickly to gather my supplies. "Yes, well, I'd rather not have students knocking over easels trying to get a look at you, so we're setting up in the back."

He let out a low chuckle as he followed me. "What, afraid they'll get distracted?"

I rolled my eyes. "No, but I know you will."

"Fair point."

Once we stepped into the back room—where there were no prying eyes or interruptions—I pointed to the stool in the center of the space. "Sit there, facing away from me."

Cassian obeyed, but not before flashing me a smirk. "Getting bossy already?"

I ignored him, busying myself with setting up my canvas. "You can take off your shirt now."

"Damn, sweetheart—at least buy me dinner first."

I froze mid-motion, whipping my head around. "That's not—I didn't—"

Cassian just laughed, reaching over his shoulder to grab the back of his collar. In one smooth motion, he pulled his shirt over his head and tossed it onto a nearby table.

I regretted looking.

Because Mother above.

Cassian was made of solid muscle—thick, powerful shoulders, his back broad and sculpted as if the Cauldron had taken extra care in crafting every ridge, every dip, every inch of him. His wings, folded neatly against his back, only added to the sheer size of him.

I swallowed hard, thankful beyond belief that he was facing away.

"You good back there?" Cassian teased.

"I'm fine," I said, maybe a little too quickly.

I turned my attention to his wings. The pose needed to be just right—relaxed but natural, something that would emphasize their power without looking stiff or unnatural. I stepped forward, lifting my hands, then hesitated.

"Can I touch?" I asked softly, if there was one thing I learned from studying Illyrian anatomy it's that their wings were sensitive, sacred.

Cassian went still.

For a moment, there was silence. Then—so quiet I almost missed it—his breath hitched.

When he spoke again, his voice was different. Lower. "Yeah, sweetheart. Go ahead.

I exhaled slowly before pressing my fingertips to the strong, leathery membrane of his wing. Warmth radiated from him, the muscle beneath my touch twitching slightly as I carefully adjusted his positioning.

It was... exhilarating, in a way. To be granted access to something so personal.

I stepped back to assess the placement. "Are they too heavy to hold like that?"

Cassian laughed. "That's adorable."

I frowned. "What?"

"Sweetheart, these wings have carried me through battle, through storms, through the Illyrian mountains at full speed. I think I can manage to hold them still for a few hours."

I huffed. "Fine. But will you be able to sit still?"

That earned me another chuckle, this one softer. "Guess we'll find out, won't we?"

I shook my head and finally picked up my pencil, settling in front of my canvas.

"Alright," I murmured to myself, letting my nerves melt away as I focused on the work ahead. "Let's begin."

The soft scratch of pencil against canvas filled the room, steady, rhythmic—an anchor keeping me grounded as I worked.

I started with the shape of his wings, mapping out their vast expanse, the way they framed his body like an extension of his very presence. The leather stretched taut over powerful muscle, lined with delicate veins and faint, nearly imperceptible scars.

I shouldn't have been staring so intently.

I shouldn't have been so utterly captivated by every detail of him.

And yet, as I let my pencil glide over the page, shaping the curve of his shoulder blades, the slope of his spine, the corded muscles of his back... I couldn't stop.

He's just a model. Just another subject.

Then why did my fingers tremble slightly when I shaded the deep ridges of his scars? Why did my chest tighten at the thought of what he must have endured to earn them?

Cassian shifted slightly, flexing his shoulders, his wings twitching.

I snapped out of my daze, scowling. "Sit still."

He huffed a laugh. "I don't think I've ever sat this still in my entire life."

I hummed in response, refocusing. Carefully, I traced the lines of his back, the contours of muscle that spoke of centuries of battle, of training, of dedication. My gaze flicked up to his wings again, and a quiet sigh escaped me.

"What's that sound for?" he asked, the amusement clear in his voice.

I hesitated, then admitted, "They really are beautiful, you know."

Cassian stilled for a fraction of a second before letting out a soft chuckle. "Careful, sweetheart. Keep saying things like that and I might start thinking you actually like having me here."

I rolled my eyes. "You act like I don't."

Silence.

A pause, just long enough to make my stomach flutter with uncertainty.

Then, "Good. I like being here."

I pressed my lips together, pretending that warmth hadn't bloomed in my chest at his words. Pretending that I wasn't getting lost in the strong, elegant lines of his body.

I dipped my brush into the paint, moving on from the sketch to the first careful strokes of color.

Cassian's voice broke through the quiet. "You know, if you wanted a full anatomy study, you could've just asked."

I blinked, pulling back slightly. "...What?"

He turned his head just enough to smirk at me over his shoulder. "You're painting my back, too, aren't you?"

My cheeks heated. "Well—yes, but—"

"Seems unfair to only get half the view."

I huffed. "I don't need the full view, Cassian."

His smirk deepened. "That's a shame. I'd be a very cooperative model."

I nearly choked on air. "Just—shut up and sit still."

He laughed, the sound warm and rich, settling in my bones.

I shouldn't have been enjoying this so much.

I shouldn't have been admiring the golden-brown glow of his skin, the way the light cast soft shadows over the planes of his back. I shouldn't have let my eyes linger on the scars that marred him—proof of all he had endured, of everything he had survived.

And I certainly shouldn't have wished that all his teasing, all his flirtation, was anything more than just casual banter.

Cassian was like this with everyone.

Wasn't he?

I was not going to let Cassian distract me.

Even if he was currently sprawled in front of me, shirtless, his wings stretched just so, his body the most stunning thing I'd ever painted.

Even if his words curled around me like smoke, warm and teasing, making my thoughts race in ways they shouldn't.

I swallowed hard and turned my attention back to the canvas, forcing myself to focus.

I just had to finish the painting.

And ignore the way my heart had begun to beat just a little too fast.

The rhythmic strokes of my brush filled the quiet space, punctuated only by the occasional scrape of bristles against canvas and the steady sound of Cassian's breathing.

Nearly an hour has passed, and to his credit, he'd been holding still remarkably well. Mostly.

"You're awfully quiet back there, sweetheart," Cassian mused, his voice carrying just the hint of a smirk. "Not getting bored, are you?"

I huffed, dipping my brush into a deeper shade of pigment. "I'm working, Cassian."

"I am your work right now."

I rolled my eyes. "And you're a very high-maintenance subject."

Cassian chuckled. "I prefer engaging. You should be thanking me, really. Keeps things from getting dull."

I let out a soft laugh despite myself. "You're half-naked in front of me, Cassian. Things aren't exactly dull."

Silence.

A beat too long.

I froze as I realized what I'd just said.

Cassian's wings twitched. Then, "Well, well."

I groaned. "Forget I said that."

"Oh, absolutely not." He turned his head slightly, just enough for me to catch the smug curve of his lips. "You just admitted to being entertained by me. I'm savoring this moment."

"I said forget it."

"Nope. It's mine now."

I sighed, glaring at the canvas like it had personally wronged me.

Cassian chuckled again but thankfully let it drop, settling back into his position.

A few minutes passed in something almost resembling peace. I worked on layering in the first washes of color, the warm tones of his skin against the deeper hues of his wings.

Then—"So, do I get a say in how I'm portrayed?"

I lifted a brow. "Are you worried about artistic liberties?"

"A little."

I fought back a smile. "I could make you look very dramatic, if that's what you're asking. Add some storm clouds in the background. Maybe a tragic tear rolling down your face."

Cassian snorted. "As tempting as that sounds, I'd rather not be mistaken for some brooding, tortured soul."

I hummed. "That is Azriel's aesthetic."

"Exactly. We can't both have it."

"I don't know," I mused. "I think it could work. Maybe a single candle for dramatic lighting—"

"Absolutely not."

I grinned, but before I could make another remark, Cassian stretched, his wings flexing slightly before tucking back into place. The movement was so fluid, so casual—so utterly him.

I quickly went in with another light sketch, wanting to capture the way his muscles moved, the effortless strength in his frame.

"You still with me back there?" he teased, amusement lacing his voice.

"Yes, Cassian. Some of us are capable of focusing."

"Some of us just don't need to focus that hard to admire what's in front of us."

I frowned slightly, not quite catching his meaning. "What?"

He chuckled. "Nothing, sweetheart."

I shook my head, deciding not to press it.

"Alright," I finally said, leaning back to study my work. "I have the basics down. You can put your shirt back on now."

Cassian made a low, exaggerated noise of disappointment. "Damn. And here I was hoping you'd need me to pose for a few more hours."

I rolled my eyes. "Don't sound too heartbroken. I will be making you sit for another session later."

His grin was wicked. "You just can't get enough of me, can you?"

"Shut up and put your shirt on, Cassian."

He laughed, grabbing his discarded shirt—but the knowing look in his eyes told me that he'd be holding onto this moment for a long time.

And for some reason, I didn't mind one bit.

—

Cassian came in for many sessions after that.

I probably could've finished the painting on my own after the first few sittings, but he insisted I get all the colors right, all the details perfect. And, well... I wasn't exactly going to complain about having him shirtless in front of me for hours on end.

So, day after day, he showed up, sauntering into the studio with that insufferable smirk, stretching his wings like he owned the place. And I let him, indulged him—indulged myself—until the painting was finally finished, until there was no reason for him to sit for me anymore.

The thought left a strange hollowness in my chest, but I ignored it, focusing instead on adding the final highlights to his wings.

Cassian shifted in his seat, rolling his shoulders.

I glanced up. "Getting restless?"

He grinned. "You gonna keep me trapped here all day, sweetheart?"

I smirked. "You're free to go anytime." I glanced at the painting. "But you'd be leaving unfinished art behind, and that would just be tragic."

Even though all I had left to add was a small, near-invisible highlight, I liked the idea of keeping him there just a little longer.

Cassian chuckled, shaking his head. "Fine, fine. I'll sit still for you a little longer."

Something in the way he said it—for you—sent a ripple of warmth through me, but I shoved it aside. I exhaled, finally setting my brush down.

"Alright," I said, stretching my arms. "You're officially free."

Cassian groaned dramatically, standing and rolling his neck. "Finally." He grabbed his shirt, but instead of putting it on, he slung it over his shoulder, turning toward me with that insufferable smirk. "Is it done?"

I turned the easel slightly toward him.

It was hard to admire my own work. After staring at it for so long in every unfinished form, I wasn't sure if I loved it or if I just loved the image I had painted. But I could say I was proud of it. That was enough.

Cassian stepped closer, blinking at the still-wet canvas. His brows lifted, his mouth parted slightly. He didn't speak, didn't crack a joke, didn't smirk like he usually did.

I shifted under his gaze. "Well?"

He inhaled, slow. "Sweetheart..." He sounded almost reverent. "It's... it's beautiful."

A laugh bubbled from my lips. "You're only saying that because it's you I painted."

"No—I mean, I am beautiful, but this is... magnificent." His voice was softer than usual, quieter.

Something flickered in his eyes as he turned toward me, something warm and fond. It was enough to make my stomach flip.

I swallowed. "Thanks, Cass."

His grin returned. "Proud of yourself?"

I nodded, offering a small smile. "Yeah. I am."

His wings twitched. "Good. You should be."

A comfortable silence settled between us for a moment, the weight of his words pressing into me in a way I wasn't sure how to handle.

Then Cassian cleared his throat, stretching his arms over his head. "Now that it's finished..."

Something about the way he said it sent a prickle of anticipation down my spine.

He grinned. "...About my favor?"

I groaned. "You actually kept track of that?"

Cassian scoffed. "Sweetheart, I'd never forget a promise like that." He crossed his arms over his broad chest, eyeing me like he was scheming. "And I know exactly what I want."

A slow, lazy smirk curled his lips.

And for some reason, my stomach flipped all over again.

I raised a brow, waiting.

Cassian took a step forward. Then another.

My stomach flipped. "Okay?"

"I want you to go out with me."

I blinked. "What?"

His smirk deepened. "That's my favor. You and me. A date."

I stared at him, sure I'd misheard. "You're joking."

"Nope."

My heart did something strange, something uneven, and I let out a short, breathy laugh. "Cassian, you flirt with everyone."

"Not like this." His voice was quieter now. Steady.

I swallowed. "But—you're just messing with me. You've been messing with me this whole time."

Cassian sighed, running a hand down his face. "Gods, you're impossible." Before I could react, he stepped closer, hands coming up to cup my face, thumbs brushing my cheeks.

My breath hitched.

"Sweetheart," he murmured, tilting my chin up slightly. "Listen to me. I have not spent weeks finding every excuse under the sun to come here, sitting shirtless for hours just so you'd look at me, calling in a whole-ass favor just to take you out—just to mess with you."

I opened my mouth, but no words came out.

Cassian's thumbs brushed against my skin again, his hazel eyes locked on mine. "I like you. I want you. And I swear to the Gods, if I have to spell it out anymore, I'm going to start carving it into the damn walls."

I let out a breathless laugh, my face burning. "You're serious."

His lips curled. "Took you long enough."

I exhaled, shaking my head slightly. "I—"

"Just say yes, sweetheart," he murmured, voice teasing, but there was something else in his gaze—something warm, something steady. Something real.

I swallowed hard. Yes."

Cassian grinned. "Good choice."

His hands lingered on my face for just a second longer before he pulled back, grabbing his shirt off his shoulder and throwing it on. He shot me one last smirk as he backed toward the door.

"I'll pick you up tomorrow after your class."

And with that, he was gone, leaving me standing there—heart racing, mind spinning, trying to process the fact that Cassian had actually just asked me out.

That all this time, he hadn't been messing with me at all.

Feyre was going to laugh at me for not catching on sooner when I tell her.

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[gghostwriter]

How Three Became One

Spencer Reid x Fem!Reader

Part 1 || Part 3 Summary: In the aftermath of your failed make-up anniversary dinner, the third person in the relationship reaches out to you Trope: Angst w.c: 1.6k a/n: There is JJ slander in this (doing it for the plot and to hurt you all, like how I hurt myself in writing this.) I’m mostly writing follow ups now of my one shots and this is part of a part three series, i swear once i get all these follow ups done I’m going to hibernate for a bit to focus on my crime series. Not proofread. Comments and reblogs are highly appreciated! 💗 masterlist

The somber air inside the coffee shop threatens to stifle your already critical heart. Its’ clear window clouded from the cold. Dull shades of gray creeping from every corner of the room, draining life as it went, no matter the strain of each lighted lamp on the tables.

Your fingers pulled the sleeves lower, wanting to cover any sliver of skin, trying to fight off the chill, as if it doesn’t come from within. Why did you agree to this, you wondered for the nth time, what good would confronting your nemesis, the root of the problem—Spencer’s Achilles heel, bring?

Comfort? 

Not at all.

The truth? 

Maybe.

Closure?

Closure from what exactly?

The failed relationship still stuck in limbo, dreadfully waiting for its free fall or flight from the precipice it’s balancing on?

Spencer had given you space, an act you weren’t sure to be grateful for. Yes, it spoke about his gentleman sensibilities and respect to not hound you to talk but on the other hand, his presence in reminding you how much he cared was sorely missed. Couldn’t he have at least left you one voicemail, voice pleading and coated with sadness, to repeat over and over again? Or a singular flower tucked to your doorstep, wilting slowly each day for your eyes to lay on?

You wanted nothing but you wanted something.

It was a conundrum.

Late into the night, when the phone rang and when your steps hastened against the wooden floor, you almost wished it was him. Eyes unfocused, the name unregistered, you surely wished it was him, instead of Her. 

Her voice, blended with a slight static, was hesitant and soft as if she had encountered a wounded animal in need of her saving, tore through the paper-thin shield you’ve built around your bleeding, bruised heart. 

You wanted to lash out, to be quiet, and to agree to anything she asked for—anything to end the call immediately, but when she suggested to meet in this quaint hidden coffee shop, describing it’s freshly brewed coffee and tasteful pastries, a sob rose and lodged itself in your throat.

It was your spot.

A secret place in your neighborhood you discovered and happily shared with Spencer.

This once vibrant store, the backdrop of so many rose-tinted memories, turned ordinary—tainted with the truth that it was no longer just yours and his. It was also Hers. 

“Hi,” JJ softly greeted, occupying the seat in front of you. “Thank you for seeing me.”

Clearing your throat, the shred of what little courage you mustered leaving your body. “Yeah, uh, hi.”

Her blue eyes documented the lemon ginger tea in front of you, cooled and untouched. “I haven’t seen you in a while, how are you?”

“Fine, been doing good,” the darkness under your dull eyes painted a different picture, something that registered as her feminine shoulders drooped.

Lips pressed tightly together, she shifted in her leather worn bench, allowing the silence to further the divide between you both—the two female protagonists featured in Spencer Reid’s story.

“You don’t have to lie—”

“Right. A profiler, as if I could ever forget.”

“—Spence also isn’t doing well—”

You flinched, the sound of his name uttered out loud feeling like a thousand pounds dropping on your chest.

“—and just know that I’m here for the both of you, to clear up any misunderstandings. Let me help, ask me anything.”

“Yeah, yeah. That’s why we’re here after all.”

Your eyes examined how her golden hair fell perfectly around her, creating a halo of perfection you have never felt once before. You were always the kid who worked hard to seem put together—a stack of paper stick achievements built to hide how ordinary you turned out to be. A woman made of dismantled almosts. 

“Can you tell me—” clearing your throat “—about you and him. Anything, as team members, friends, your first date—just anything I need to know. He’d always quickly summarize the context of you as his best friend, defender, confidant. Never letting anything beyond that.”

She nodded with a slight smile on her lips. “He’s always been a little brother. I, like everyone else in the team, wanted to protect and guide him. Joining the BAU at such a young age and enduring hardships that come with it—the kidnapping, the Dilaudid, his parent’s involvement in a cold case, losing Maeve, and prison—is too much for anybody to bear all on their own. We’ve always been close, being exposed to the darkness that comes with our job will do that for you but I’ve never seen him like that with you. He was so light and happy, almost as if the younger version of Spence came back to life—” she laughed before the brightness wiped away from her face. “—and now, like this with you, he looks afraid, like he might lose it all, lose you. I’ve seen him sad when we weren’t able to save Maeve but this time, this sadness that comes from the thought of you leaving, seems too deep to come out from. I’m afraid that he won’t make it and for that, I feel responsible.” 

The deep red nail polish on your fingers were leaving chipped specks all over the white table, like blood on a pure white snow. The cage around your devotion and love threatens to topple down, releasing you from indecision. It seemed unfair to persecute a man of Spencer’s caliber for his past and for your fear of never being enough. 

A shadow of a smile peeked from behind your curtain of self-preservation. Maybe all could be salvaged with a deep talk between one another and a schedule to a therapist—solo and couple. You loved him strongly enough to tackle those doubts and reverently wish to see the relationship through, forever if time allowed it to.

But the small voice in the back of your head echoed above the chimes of change and courage, it’s deep tone trying to pull you back to stagnancy and reality. What did she mean by that? Why would she feel that way?

“Responsible?” you whispered, heart beating loudly against your chest. Its’ sound parroting on your ear. “Why would you feel responsible?” 

“During the last case, being held at gun point—” the bewilderment in your eyes causing her to gasp. “—he never told you, did he?” 

The anticipation, anger, and dread enveloped you, as if you were about to combust at the drop off a hat. If you looked down to any piece of you, you’d think you were doused with gasoline and a small flicker of fire started at the tips of your shoes. “Tell me what? JJ, tell me what?”

She took a deep breath, trying to delay the inevitable truth. “During that time, the unsub wanted us to admit, confess a secret no one knew and wanted nobody to know and I—”

You raised your hands, trembling from realization, to unsuccessfully block the truth from spilling into the world. You didn’t want to hear it—needed to never hear it. “Stop. Please, stop.” 

Droplets of sadness mixed with the specs of chipped nail polish on the table, your tears creating tracks on your ashen cheeks. This was enough to break you—the shaky mirage of your strong self was nowhere to be found as sobs freely escaped from the depths of your ribs. 

You came here, filled with indecision which turned into hope before rapidly decaying to death.

The final nail in the coffin.

“You’re married, JJ. You have kids, how could—” you pressed your fingers tightly to your lips, nails digging into the soft flesh. “—I guess I always knew, huh. I may not be a profiler but my woman intuition has never steered me wrong. Not even once.”

She hung her head, the locks of halo you once considered pure and perfect shrouded around her like a thick veil of shame.

“So what now? What about Will and I? Does he even know?”

Her watery blue eyes, pleading with yours. “No, nothing changes. I love Will and my kids and it’s just a secret I want to take to my grave.”

A vicious hollow laugh bled out of you. “Are you even inlove with him? Your husband?” 

The lack of response was very telling. Her love for her chosen partner was shallow compared to the other. You briefly wondered if there was no kids in the picture, would she have even stayed? 

The thought was dashed repeatedly in your head. It wasn’t your problem to speculate. Mind made up, you refuse to be part of this convoluted love story any longer.

“That’s cruel of you. I wouldn’t even wish that on my worst enemy,” you slowly gathered your things and any strength that could take you home. The only place you’d allow yourself to unravel. “I think, I should go.”

“But—”

You mustered a small smile. “Thank you for being honest, JJ. I wish you the best with all of this. Tell Spencer, I’m sorry and please take care of him for me, will you?”

Quickly turning away from the mess that shredded your love life into bits no longer salvageable, the dull shades of gray once crawling from every corner of the store followed your trail. 

Another dismantled almost to add to your ever growing collection.

The colorful world you and Spencer built with the thought of forever turned to ash. 

Burnt from the truth.

The remains charred to multitudes of gray that signified the end. 

Comments and reblogs are highly appreciated!

[silkentrigger]

♡ — caleb, zayne, sylus, rafayel, xavier. ♡ — 'i miss you' voicemails. this is not post break up or death. they're just dramatic. ♡ — no warnings.

— 𝐜𝐚𝐥𝐞𝐛。[ 2:45 am. ]

hey. it's me.

i, uh… i know you're sleeping. that's good. i hope it's good. i hope it's peaceful, like you deserve..like the world doesn't have it's claws in someone for once.

i'm still awake. been pacing a little. thought if i sat still long enough it would go away, this feeling in my chest like something's breaking loose, like i left a part of me somewhere and i can't seem to figure out how to get it back. it's stupid. you're not even far. but gods, it feels like miles.. like you're on the other side of the world and i'm talking into a void.

i don't know why it scares me this much. missing you. maybe because it's the first thing that's felt real in a long time. i keep thinking.. what if you don't come back? not because you wouldn't, just… what if something happens? what if i don't get to see you smile again.. or hear you tell me i'm being ridiculous, or fall asleep with your fingers brushing mine like it's nothing?

it's not nothing. you're not nothing. you're everything i was too scared to want until now. and i.. i can't lose you. not even the idea of you. please come back. please be okay. please let me have one more day of this. of you.

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

— 𝐳𝐚𝐲𝐧𝐞。[ 5:15 am. ]

you're not gonna hear this. you're gonna delete it. or worse, you might listen to it. you always listen, don't you?

i keep checking the door like an idiot. like you're gonna walk through it and say some sarcastic shit to keep me from falling apart.

i miss you. it's pathetic. i miss the way you shove me when i'm being dramatic. the way you look at me like i'm not someone you chose by mistake. like i could be worth staying for.

i didn't think i could miss someone this bad without losing parts of myself. i feel like i'm unraveling. my skin doesn't fit without your hands on me to remind me i'm still here. you keep me here. do you even know that? you breathe and i believe in tomorrow will still arrive.

you make it safe to hope and that terrifies me. if something happens.. if you don't come back.. just… remember i meant it. every word. every touch. i don't say things i don't mean, and you.. you're the one thing i meant more than anything. don't make me learn how to breathe without you. please.

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

— 𝐬𝐲𝐥𝐮𝐬。[ 1:24 am. ]

you didn't answer…good. just listen.

i'm pacing. again. third night in a row. thought i'd break the habit, but no, still here. still in the same goddamn chair, staring at the same cracks in the wall and wondering if you're warm enough. if you remembered to eat, if you thought of me. how often do you think of me..?

i miss you in ways i can't say out loud when the lights are on. i miss you like hunger, like pain, like fucking worship. you ruined me. do you get that? you came into my life and ripped it open and now nothing fits without you. i sleep on your side of the bed. i drink from your mug.

i still fold your laundry like you'll walk in and roll your eyes at me for doing it wrong, because i always do. you know i do that on purpose, right?

i keep hearing your voice. not in the way people say, like 'oh, i miss the sound'. i mean i hear you. in the emptiness. in my head, narrating my thoughts. in the spaces between songs where silence should be. you echo in me.

if i lose you, i don't come back from it. don't make me live like that. please. come home.

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

— 𝐫𝐚𝐟𝐚𝐲𝐞𝐥。[ 3:52 am. ]

it's late.

i tried to write. i tried to paint. i tried to drink tea and read the book you left on the nightstand, the one with the folded corner and your ugly sticky notes.. but none of it worked. because none of it has you.

i miss you like a tide misses the moon. how a heart misses rhythm. i ache with it. the world is too still without your laughter, too sharp without your softness.. and i'm scared, love.

i'm scared i'll forget the exact way you feel under my hands or the pattern of your breath in sleep.. the way you say my name like you mean it.

i would tear open the sky to find you again. i would burn down every beautiful thing if it meant hearing you hum off key in the morning.

i don't care if it's selfish. i want you. i need you. come back. please.

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

— 𝐱𝐚𝐯𝐢𝐞𝐫。[ 10:03 pm. ]

hey.

you ever notice how empty a place is when the person you love isn't in it? i didn't. not until tonight. not until i walked into the apartment and didn't hear you muttering about something.

i didn't see your shoes kicked somewhere on the floor.. or feel your arms wrap around me before i could even hang my coat.

it's quiet. too quiet. like the world's trying to teach me what it would be like if i lost you. and i can't.. i don't want to live in a world where your laugh is past tense. where the warmth in your pillowcase fades and never comes back.

i can't kiss your forehead and tell you you're enough.. even when you don't believe it. especially when you don't believe it.

i miss you so much it's making me shake. i miss you like there's something missing in me. please… don't stay gone too long. i'm not built for this kind of silence.

[long-live-aelin]

Unrequited Love

Quick background summary.

Reader is new to inner circle and is secretly in love with Azriel. Azriel is courting Elain and reader is jealous.

This is just something I couldn't get out of my head. It's not a fully fleshed out idea but thought I would post anyway. Enjoy!

----

I was leaning against one of the uppermost railings in the house of wind breathing the crisp air. The laughter and chatter of the people below echoed up to me and it reminded me of this time last year. My first Starfall would be a memory I would never forget.

I had spent the start of the night in exhilaration and excitement to the build-up to the stars falling, hoping that the view looked as stunning as everyone described. My breath left me when I saw those beautiful souls in the sky and it was unlike anything I had ever seen. I remember thinking that I was born to see those skies lit up in the most magical way.

I remember dancing with my friends who were steadfast becoming a new family. I had never had friends that I could call such a thing. I spent the night dancing upbeat songs with Mor and Feyre, songs that’s wild beat felt like it was echoing in my heart. Laughing at Cassian’s dancing, his booming laugh making me laugh. Slow dancing with Azriel at the end of the night my heart beating so loud in my chest I thought he could hear it. Ending the night with my feet so sore I thought I would never walk again, a wild smile on my face. Brightness bubbling in my chest how lucky I was to find Velaris, these people around me.

Tonight felt very different than that. The wild opposite. My chest felt hollow, longing haunting my every step. I didn’t know how long I could live with that hollowness in my chest reaching for something I would never get, it was madness. The moment I had arrived here I had avoided Azriel at any cost. I knew tonight would be tricky, so I convinced myself I wouldn’t have to see him. See him looking at Elain with his own longing showing on his face, so similar to how I knew mine would look looking at him. And I knew I couldn’t bear it, so I escaped up here after saying enough pleasantries to my friends that they wouldn’t suspect a thing. Mor had given me a brief sad look when she saw me, but I quickly looked away looking for the next person to say hello to so I could get away from the pity in her face. I was starting to regret telling her I was secretly in love with Azriel.

The longer I had stayed up here the more my worries seemed distant. The breeze singing its sweet song to me, the cold wind calming my frayed nerves and soothing my aching heart.

“I had a feeling I would find you here.” I started out of my thoughts, twisting around to the sound of Azriel’s voice at the door to the balcony, only a few steps from me. This balcony felt far too small for the distance I had been trying to keep from him the past few weeks. The closest I had been to him in a while. And god did he look good I could hardly stand it. He was wearing his usual black, but it was more tight fitting and smoother than the Illyrian leathers or the thick armored fighting clothes he wore so often. His shadows swirled haphazardly at his shoulders which I knew meant he was unsure.

He studied me, a serious look on his face. “You’ve been avoiding me.”

I shook my head not knowing what to say. I leaned against the railing subtly as much as I could trying to get distance.

His sharp eyes detected it. He looked back up at me his eyes narrowing even more.

He took a step toward me, a pleading look on his face.  “Y/N I just want to talk. If there’s something I have done tell me because I can’t take this anymore. We’ve been close for so long and every time I try to talk to you or even get close you, you back away like you can’t stand me.” He took another tentative step forward like I was a scared cat he was afraid would bolt at any second and he wasn’t wrong.

I shook my head once more. “You didn’t do anything.” I forced a smile onto my face and even its feeling felt too forceful for me. “Everything’s fine Az.”

He arched a brow smoothly. “I’m sorry but I find that hard to believe with how much you have been avoiding me the past few weeks. And then I find you up here hiding.”

“It’s just-“ my words failing me again. What could I say? I found it so hard to lie to him. How could I say the truth? Ever since you and Elain have been spending time together these past few weeks I can't stand to be around you because of my angry hateful jealousy?

“It’s just me Az, you didn’t do anything.”

“What’s just you?”

I made a frustrated noise, looking away from him toward's Velaris below. I was afraid the emotions on my face would reveal all. He was always so good at reading me.

“Please Azriel I can’t. Just not know.” I whispered.

“Than when y/n.” he said softly but sternly, “Because I know how good you are at keeping things bottled up and I’m not going to let it go on for any longer.”

“Oh what and your any better?”

He took an annoyed breath in, his chest expanding before letting it out in a rush. “No I’m not, we’re both great at holding things in. But I can’t walk away without knowing a reason why. Did I do something to hurt you? Say something I shouldn’t have? It’s been driving me mad the past few weeks and I can’t let it go. And don’t say it’s nothing, because I know you and somethings happened between us that I can’t understand. Somethings changed the way you look at me and all I can’t chalk it up too, is that you loathe me.”

My heart broke at his words knowing that I had hurt him. I couldn’t stand to know it. Even though it’s what I had preferred in the beginning when I was avoiding him. I had wanted him to think I was angry at him to hide my feelings. Had been happy to hide behind it. But now the shame of that, the cowardice and shame of everything washed over me. All the emotions I had kept bottled up started to raise to the surface and a cry broke from me. I looked away trying to stop it because I couldn’t stand to look at that pleading look on his face.

“I can’t tell you Az because I don’t want to loose you.”

He crossed the distance between us and turned my chin with one hand so I was looking at him again. And didn't let go so I couldn’t look away from those piercing eyes.

“You could never loose me." And I knew he meant it by the stern look on his face. He truly thought there was nothing that could ruin our friendship, but I wasn’t so sure. Even if he did mean it, things would change when I told him and never go back to the way they were. And I knew he meant what he said but I couldn’t hold it to him. Even when you don’t want it to feelings change and I knew that better than anyone.

“Why do you choose Elain?” I blurted.

His brows furrowed, confusion dancing on his features. “What?” 

“Why do you want to be with someone who doesn’t know what she wants?”

He leaned against the railing letting go of my face in shock.

“Love is tricky sometimes, it’s not always perfect.”

“No Az, love is when someone chooses you completely and doesn’t have thoughts of someone else in their head.  You know she is interested in Lucien. Why do that too yourself when there’s someone out there who will choose you? Want you.”

Az’s face turns angry like I’ve never seen before at least not directed at me. His amber eyes near glowing, his jaw set tight.

 “Oh and I suppose you know this from your experience? You have never experienced what it’s like to be in a real relationship how complicated it can be.”

I laugh hatefully. “I never want to experience love if that’s what it is. Pining after someone who doesn’t even respect you to let you go. Driving you mad to the point that you run to your friend every time she hurts you.”

He stood upright again off the railing and took a step toward me until he was looking down at me with those beautiful eyes so close I had to look up. His chest was rising up and down in angry puffs and as he got so close to me I could see the amber hues in his eyes near glowing. His anger was near radiating from him.

His sharp eyes studied me intently, too intently I wanted to look away.  “Where is this coming from, why are you so concerned by Elain’s intentions toward me?”

“I think I have a right as a friend to be concerned.”

“Answer the question.” He growled.   

"I'm in love with you!" I pushed him and he took a step back. I wasn't sure if it was from the shock or the force of my push. "And your in love with Elain and I can't stand it Az. I can't stand to see you two together because I've been in love with you since we met."

I took a big breath in realizing what I was saying. But I couldn't stop the words that I so desperately needed to get out. "and I know you'll never feel the same. And that's ok." My voice broke at the honestly in those last words, but it was like a weight off my shoulders saying it.

The shock on his face was all I saw before I turned away from him heading to the balcony door. I couldn't bare to hear the rejection from him so I ran away like the coward I was.

[lovkitti]

“GO OUT WITH ME”

KARASUNO BOYS + ASKING YOU OUT. featuring ⋮ kageyama tobio, hinata shoyo, tsukishima kei & yamaguchi tadashi x fem!reader ⸝⸝ the haikyuu boys realize the assistant manager might mean a little more to them than they thought. 3.2k words.

KAGEYAMA TOBIO..

Is one of those guys who takes forever to realize that they like you. It’s not that he’s dense, but more that he just doesn’t get it at first. He spends so much time focused on volleyball that he doesn’t even question why he notices you more than everyone else. You hand him a water bottle before he asks, and he just thinks, ‘Oh, that’s convenient’. You remind him to stretch after practice, and he nods without realizing that he listens to you way more than he listens to anyone else. But it doesn’t click that it means anything. Until one day, he overhears Tanaka and Noya hyping you up, talking about how cool you are, and how maybe they should try asking you out. Earning a small smile from you and an eye roll as you shrug off the boys and tell them to get back to practice—and suddenly, he hates the idea.

That’s when it hits him. Hard. He stands there, frozen, volleyball under his arm, his mind completely blank because—oh.. he likes you. Like, likes you.

And once he realizes, it’s all over for him. Now, he notices everything. The way you push your sleeves when you’re focused, the way you tie your hair back as you pick up volleyballs and clean the court after a practice, the way you always make sure he has an extra towel after practice because he always forgets. And it bothers him. Why does it matter that you smile at him a certain way? Why does his stomach do weird flips when you say his name?

But Kageyama isn’t exactly the best when it comes to emotions, especially love. So instead of dealing with it like a normal person he just… avoids you. Well, sort of. He gets all stiff when you talk to him, and when you hand him his water bottle, he mutters, “I can get it myself.” Which just makes you blink at him, leaving you confused.

The team figures it out before you do. Hinata straight up says, “You’re acting weird around her, what’s your deal?” and Kageyama freaks out. He denies everything, turns red and storms off. But it doesn’t matter—Noya and Tanaka got the memo. They start teasing the hell out of him, wiggling their eyebrows and nudging him whenever you’re around, and he's practically dying inside.

Eventually, he just snaps. Not at them—at himself. He’s tired of overthinking, tired of being weird, and tired of that fluttery feeling in his chest every time you so much as glance at him. So one day, when it’s just the two of you after practice, he just says it,

“Go out with me.”

No lead-up. No context. You were just putting volleyballs back in the cart when he blurts it out, and you freeze, turning to stare at him. “Wait.. what?”

And Kageyama, realizing how bad that sounded, immediately scrambles to fix it. “I—I mean. If you want to, you don’t have to. I just thought—maybe. Because. You’re good at stuff, and I like that. And I like you. So.. yeah.” He looks like he wants to run away, ears red, shoulders tense. And of course—you laugh, because what else are you supposed to do?

His face twists in horror, and he groans, throwing the last volleyball into the cart. “Forget it. That was stupid.” He whispers. But you grab his wrist before he can leave, “No, no, I just— Kageyama, yes. I'd love to go out with you.” You say shyly, looking up at the back of his head. When he hears that you said yes, he freezes. Just stands there, blinking, processing what you just said before turning around to face you, a soft flush dusting his cheeks. And then—just for a second—he smiles, all shy and relieved, before clearing his throat and muttering, “Okay, good. Um, so.. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

He spends the entire night lying in bed, staring at the ceiling, replaying the moment over and over, smiling into his pillow like a little kid hoping that tomorrow comes soon.

HINATA SHOYO..

Is the type who knows he likes you immediately. There’s no confusion, no slow realization, none of that. The second he catches himself grinning because you cheered a little louder when he scored a point during practice is the moment he knows that he has feelings for you. He doesn’t try to hide it either. Subtlety? Never heard of her. He’s always bouncing over to you during breaks, showing off, asking if you saw that spike—and then turning red when you smile and say. “Of course I did.”

He’d ask Kiyoko if you’re free this weekend just so he has a reason to hover near the manager’s table and hope you’ll overhear. And when you glance up at him with a curious smile, he practically short-circuits—waving his hands and blurting something like, “N-not that I was asking you out or anything! I mean—not yet! Wait—I mean—!” before Kiyoko kindly saved him with a sigh and a “Shoyo, breathe.” and he does, face red as he walks away from the table—nearly tripping over a mop bucket in the process.

He keeps trying to wait for the perfect moment. After a win, after you compliment his serve, maybe after you laugh extra hard at one of his dumb jokes. But nothing ever feels quite right. Every time he thinks he’s finally ready he sees you holding a clipboard and squinting at the practice schedule, and suddenly his brain just goes quiet except for a loud, looping she’s so cute, she’s so cute, she’s so cute…

Eventually, he gives up on planning it and decides to go with the flow. So after a regular day of practice—while you’re helping clean up gathering stray cones—he jogs over, his heart pounding. He doesn’t even think. He just blurts it out with every ounce of courage he has:

“Go out with me!”

You freeze mid-step, turning toward him slowly. “..Wait, what?”

And now he’s panicking. “I-I mean—only if you want to! You don’t have to! I just—I really like you and I think you’re awesome and you’re always so nice and you smell really—wait no! That’s not what I meant—I mean it is what I meant, but not in a weird way! Just like—like flowers? Or like laundry? Or just—clean? I don’t know..”

You start laughing—fully laughing—and he’s just staring at you, blush covering his cheeks and ears in horror, gripping on the edge of his shirt as he winces. “..This is going so bad..” You gently place your hand on top of his. “Hinata… I’d love to.” you say softly, locking eyes with the orange-haired boy.

His eyes go wide. Like he can’t believe it. Like he just won the national championship in his heart. “Wait—seriously?!” You nod, and he lets out the most adorable, relieved noise—kind of like a breathy “Yes..!”—before immediately turning on his heel and sprinting down the gym shouting, “SHE SAID YES! SHE SAID YES!” while the others look up mid-cleanup, confused looks on their faces.

He spends the whole walk home grinning like a fool. He couldn’t wait to see you tomorrow.

TSUKISHIMA KEI..

Is the type of guy that doesn’t do crushes. He always thought that dating in general was a waste of time. The way guys would cling to their girlfriends during lunch breaks, walking them to class like lost puppies. And then a week later, those same guys would be moping around the gym, complaining about how “complicated” things got. It was all so.. embarrassing. Pathetic. He swore he’d never get caught up in something that meaningless.

But that was before you.

Because suddenly, something inside of him shifts. It’s subtle. Annoying, even. Like a slow itch under his skin that won’t go away. One moment he’s watching Hinata trip over a ball, the next he’s watching you laughing at it—really laughing—and something about the way your eyes crinkle and your voice rises just slightly makes his chest feel… off. And it keeps happening. Over and over.

And it’s annoying.

You’re annoying. The way you wave at him when you pass, even though he doesn’t wave back. The way you talk to him during water breaks, teasing him for never smiling, and he rolls his eyes—but his ears turn slightly red. The way you’re always so kind, so effortlessly charming, even when you’re just doing your own thing. It’s all so very.. distracting. And he hates it. Hates how you’ve started living rent-free in the back of his mind. How your laugh plays on a loop whenever the gym gets too quiet. How his heart does this stupid little skip every time you smile at him like you know something he doesn’t. He tells himself it doesn’t mean anything.

But the worst part?

He’s starting to wish it did.

Which is infuriating because now he’s stuck in this weird limbo where he’s trying not to care, but also noticing everything. Like how you always tie your jacket around your waist halfway through practice. Or how you hum to yourself when you’re organizing the uniforms. Or how you always offer him the last sports drink without thinking twice. And the worst part is—he thinks you know. You have to. No one’s that kind for no reason. You’re always teasing him, leaning in a little too close, tossing casual compliments like it’s no big deal. And every time he acts like it doesn’t affect him, he’ll just turn away, ears red, and suddenly his whole afternoon is ruined because now he has to think about that stupid little smile you gave him for the next two hours.

Eventually, it starts messing with his routine. He zones out during blocking drills. Forgets to do simple tasks like packing his lunch. Even forgets his headphones once, which hasn’t happened since middle school. And of course, Yamaguchi notices first, but doesn’t say anything—just watches him with this quiet smirk like he’s waiting for Tsukishima to crack. And then one day, when they’re both sitting outside, Tsukishima mumbles something so out of character, it barely sounds like him. “What do you even say to someone when they make your heart do that annoying skip thing?”

Yamaguchi nearly chokes on his water, looking at him wide-eyed. “I think that means you should tell them how you feel.” And Tsukishima immediately regrets asking.

He doesn’t do anything right away. Obviously. That’d be stupid. He tries to act normal again—goes back to ignoring you, brushing you off with dry remarks, avoiding eye contact. But it doesn’t work. It never works. Because now, everything reminds him of you. And it’s driving him insane. And the teasing from the team doesn’t help. Yamaguchi keeps nudging him every time you walk by. Tanaka and Noya catch on eventually and won’t shut up about how “Tsukki’s finally growing a heart.” But really, he’s not mad at them. He’s mad at himself because he doesn’t want this to be real—doesn’t want to be one of those guys. And yet here he is, getting butterflies over the way you said “thanks” when he handed you a water bottle.

So eventually, he decides to just get it over with. Not because he’s ready or anything but because he’s tired of feeling this way every time you so much as glance in his direction. So after practice when the gym is quiet, he walks up to you—kind of slowly, kind of like he might turn around and leave at any second—and stands next to you, awkwardly shifting his weight. You're stacking cones in the corner, earbuds in, humming under your breath. Noticing someone beside you, you pull out one earbud and greet him.

He doesn’t look at you. Just keeps staring straight ahead. “I like you,” he says, voice flat—almost monotone. But his ears are red.

You blink. “Sorry—what?”

He sighs, forces himself to meet your gaze even though his stomach is twisting. “I said I like you. Like—like you like you. And I didn’t know how to say it without sounding stupid, so… that’s it. I like you. You’re annoying and I like you.” There’s a pause. His heart is beating so loud he swears you can hear it. Then you smile—slow and sweet—and it hits him like a train. “Tsukki,” you say softly, and he almost melts on the spot. “You don’t sound stupid.”

He exhales, tension slowly leaving his shoulders. “Oh. Cool. Uh… good.” You’re still smiling at him, and it’s honestly too much. He clears his throat, looking off to the side. “So, uh. Do you wanna go out sometime? You don’t have to. Just… figured I should ask.”

Your grin grows. “Yeah. I’d love to.”

He freezes for a second, like he can’t believe it. Then nods—super stiff, super awkward. “Okay. Cool. Yeah. I’ll text you..” He turns to leave before you can see the way his lips twitch up into the tiniest smile.

YAMAGUCHI TADASHI..

Isn't the smooth type. He’s the kind of guy who fumbles his water bottle if you say hi too suddenly. The type who accidentally stares too long and then panics when you catch him. Who gets flustered when you’re nice to him and even more flustered when you tease him. He’s always been like that—soft-spoken, a little awkward, forever stuck somewhere between trying to disappear and wanting to say something. And that was fine. That was his comfort zone.

Until you.

Because now, every time you laugh or look at him a certain way or call him “Tadashi” with that soft little smile, his brain completely goes blank. It’s like his heart can’t decide whether it wants to melt or explode, and he ends up just standing there, staring like a deer in headlights before looking away and pretending to be so busy tying his shoes for the fifth time that day. He doesn’t know when it started exactly. Maybe it was the time you stayed behind after practice to help him pick up the stray volleyballs, even though no one asked you to. Or maybe it was when you cheered for him after he landed a solid float serve—hands cupped around your mouth, smile wide, voice cutting through the noise like it was meant just for him. Maybe it was all of that. Or maybe it was because you saw him. Saw that he wasn’t just someone standing next to Tsukishima. Not just “that guy who serves.” But him.

And he’s starting to think that maybe—just maybe—you’ve always noticed him. He’s noticed that you always bring an extra towel on days when practice runs long, and without fail, you offer it to him first. That you remember his favorite sports drink from the vending machine. That you laugh at his awkward jokes, even the ones that came out all muttered and crooked. You ask him how his test went, or how his elbow’s doing after he banged it against the floor during drills. You even asked him once if he liked cats or dogs better—just because you said you wanted to know what kind of animal sticker to put on his water bottle. And he didn’t know what to do with all of that. All the ways you see him. Listen to him. Remember him.

So, naturally, he does nothing. Well—nothing helpful, anyway. He smiles back in that wobbly way of his, cheeks already turning pink before he could stop them. Says something safe, something simple, then replays that conversation in his head for the next three hours, groaning into his pillow as he thinks about how he should’ve said something cooler or smarter or better. Of course, Tsukishima noticed. Especially when Yamaguchi started stuttering just because you waved at him from across the courtyard. The way his hands got all shaky, or how he smiled down at his food like it just told him a joke—yeah. Tsukishima saw all of it. And he was so over it.

One day during lunch, after you walked by and Yamaguchi nearly choked on his rice because you said, “See you at practice, Tadashi,” Tsukishima just said it. Plain as day.

“You should just tell her,” he muttered, casually pushing a piece of tempura around his chopsticks. Yamaguchi froze mid-chew. Blinking once. Twice.

“W-What!?” He sputtered, nearly dropping his lunch on the floor. “What do you mean!? What are you talking about? Who!? I—I don’t—what?!” His voice cracked halfway through that panic spiral, and his whole face flushed a deep shade of red as he gawked at Tsukishima like the boy had just committed a federal crime. Tsukishima gave him a long side-eye and popped a piece of sausage into his mouth. Yamaguchi looked away, embarrassed. “I—I can’t.. what if she doesn’t even like me back?”

Tsukishima shrugged. “Then she doesn’t. You’ll survive. Probably.”

“You’re not being helpful at all, Tsukki..”

But as time passed, it was getting harder and harder not to say anything. Because every time you smiled at him like that—or touched his arm when you were laughing too hard—or looked at him during practice like you actually believed in him—it made him want to try. Just a little. So one day after practice, he stayed behind. Told himself it was to help clean up, but really, he was waiting for you. Hoping you’d stay back like you usually did.

And you did.

You were by the benches, writing something in your notebook, the light catching on your lashes as you hummed under your breath. He stood a few feet away, trying to psych himself up, his hands clammy and his heart going absolutely feral. Taking in a deep breath, and then forcing his feet to move. “Hey,” he said, voice a little shaky.

You looked up immediately, smiling. “Hey, Tadashi. What’s up?” He swallowed. “Um… C-Can I talk to you? Just—really quick?” You blinked, curious. “Sure.” And then he just—blurted it.

“I like you.”

Your pen stopped moving. His face burned, but for once, he didn’t backpedal. Didn’t stumble over the words. Just kept going.

“I like you,” he repeated, quieter this time. “I like you because when I’m around you, I feel… different. Better. Like I don’t have to be nervous all the time, even if I still am,” he added, with a nervous little laugh. He glanced at you, then away, fidgeting with the hem of his sleeve. “I just… needed you to know. Even if it’s not mutual. Even if it messes things up. I didn’t want to keep pretending.”

For a second, everything was still. And then you stood up, slowly. You looked at him with something soft in your eyes—something that made his breath catch.“I’m really glad you told me,” you said, voice just as quiet.

“Because I like you too, Tadashi.”

His eyes widened. “Y-You do?! Wait—really?!” You laughed. “Yes. Really.” He looked like he was buffering—lips parted, blinking rapidly. “I—I thought I was imagining it. You possibly liking me back. I mean—you’re you and I’m—”

“You’re Tadashi,” you interrupted, stepping just a little closer. “And that’s exactly who I like.” He made a small noise—somewhere between a gasp and a squeak—covering his mouth with one of his hands.

“I—I can’t believe it. I feel like about to pass out,” he muttered. You laughed again, reaching out to tug his sleeve. “Don’t. I still want you to walk me home.” And despite everything—the nerves, the panic, the butterflies rioting in his stomach—he smiled.

“Okay,” he said. “Yeah. I can do that.”

a.n — guess who’s back after disappearing for so long.. me ! ٩(^ᗜ^ )و ´- im sorry for suddenly going mia after just starting to post. life just got a whole lot busier, but whenever i have free time ill still try to write for all of you. i know this isn’t my usual MHA writings, but im not just a fan of one fandom ! (˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶) anyways, i hope you still enjoyed it nonetheless! until next time, XOXO 💕

[camille-aurelie-deveraux]

Hi honey. Could I please request a Carlos story. Maybe the reader is working for the strategy team and is part of Carlos crew. Carlos is absolutely in love with her but reader is very obvious

Thank you ♥️

Head over heels on love

The Williams garage was a well-oiled machine, every team member moving with precision and purpose. Yn had been a part of this world since 2024, first as an eager intern, and now, a crucial member of the strategy team. She was good at her job—so good, in fact, that when Carlos joined the team at the start of the 2025 season, she was immediately assigned to his side.

At first, Carlos hadn’t thought much of it. She was bright, diligent, and clearly talented, but as time went on, he found himself watching her more and more. The way she smiled when Alex or Lily made a joke, the way her brows furrowed in concentration as she pored over strategy notes, the way she always had time to check in on the engineers even after long nights at the factory.

And then there was her laugh. That beautiful, musical laugh that had become his favorite sound in the entire paddock.

Carlos was a goner.

Yn walked into the paddock, balancing a laptop bag on one shoulder and a few notebooks in her arms. She barely made it two steps before Carlos appeared out of nowhere, plucking the books from her hands with ease.

“I’ve got these,” he said smoothly, giving her a warm smile.

Yn blinked. “Carlos, you don’t have to do that.”

“I want to,” he replied simply, adjusting the strap of her bag over his shoulder. “Where to?”

“My office,” she said, still a little surprised. “You really don’t have to carry everything, you know.”

He just smirked. “I like taking care of you.”

Yn huffed, shaking her head, but she didn’t argue. It wasn’t the first time he had done something like this. Over the past few months, he had developed a habit of showing up just when she needed help, whether it was carrying her things, bringing her coffee, or sneaking in snacks when she was too busy to eat.

She figured he was just being nice.

She was wrong.

Carlos made himself comfortable in her office while she worked on the next race’s strategy, going over tire degradation data and potential weather conditions. He placed a container of food on her desk, opened it, and took out a fork, spearing a piece of chicken before holding it up to her lips.

Yn blinked at him. “Carlos.”

“Eat,” he said, unwavering.

She sighed, knowing he wouldn’t let it go, and took the bite. He grinned, looking entirely too pleased with himself.

“You know, you don’t have to babysit me,” she said, swallowing. “I can feed myself.”

“But you don’t,” he pointed out, offering her another bite. “You get too caught up in work and forget. So, I remind you.”

She took the bite begrudgingly, but inside, her heart fluttered. Carlos was always like this with her—kind, attentive, affectionate. She just assumed it was his way of looking out for his team.

Carlos, meanwhile, was trying very hard not to be too obvious, though he suspected he was failing miserably. Every time she leaned in to take a bite from his fork, he had to resist the urge to kiss her. He wanted to—desperately—but he also wanted her to realize on her own how much he cared.

“Do you have everything you need for the race weekend?” he asked casually, watching her type out a few notes on her laptop.

“Yeah, I think so. Just need to finalize a few strategies and—”

Carlos reached over and shut her laptop. She turned to him with an incredulous look.

“Yn, it’s late,” he said, voice softer. “Go home. Sleep.”

She hesitated. “I just have a few more—”

Carlos shook his head, standing up and offering her his hand. “Come on. I’m walking you out.”

With a sigh, she relented, taking his hand as he pulled her to her feet. The moment she was standing, he pulled her into a tight hug, pressing a kiss to her temple before resting his chin on her head.

Yn laughed softly, used to his hugs by now, but still, every time he kissed her temple or cheek, she felt a warmth spread through her chest.

She just didn’t think too hard about why.

The night before race day, the Williams team was gathered in the motorhome, going over final preparations. Yn sat at her usual seat, scribbling notes as Carlos, his engineer, and the rest of the strategists discussed potential scenarios.

When the meeting ended, Carlos lingered behind as everyone else filtered out. He leaned against the table, watching Yn as she absentmindedly tapped her pen against her notebook.

“You always work too hard,” he murmured.

She smiled, glancing up at him. “You always tell me that.”

“Because it’s true.”

Before she could respond, he reached out and gently cupped her cheek, his thumb grazing her skin. Her breath hitched slightly, and Carlos felt his heart hammer in his chest. He had been patient, waiting for her to see what was right in front of her, but he was reaching his limit.

“Yn,” he said softly.

She tilted her head slightly, looking at him curiously. “Yeah?”

His gaze flickered to her lips before meeting her eyes again. He wanted to kiss her. God, he wanted to kiss her so badly.

But he held back. Just a little longer.

Instead, he leaned in, pressing a lingering kiss to her cheek before pulling away. “Get some rest,” he whispered before walking out of the room, leaving Yn standing there, utterly clueless to the fact that she had completely stolen his heart.

🪼🦋🐳🪼🦋🐳🪼🦋🐳🪼🦋🐳🪼🦋🐳🪼🦋

Hello lovely people! Please enjoy this little piece. I would be very happy if you would send me some requests. See ya till next time!

-Cami🪼🦋🐳

[goldenstring6123]

HIIIYAAAYAYA I LOVE YOUR WRITING SO MUCH AND I LOOK FORWARD TO EVERY SINGLE PIECE YOU RELEASE!!! YOU HAVE ME CHECKING YOUR PAGE 24/7 IM OBSESSEDDD 🫦🫦 ANYWHO ignore my fawning but how do you think the lads boys would react to a suuuuper clingy gf??? idk but if i were mc i would NOT be leaving their side and would literally be glued onto their body like mc is a strong soldier for resisting (especially rafayel my HUSBAND 😩) literally wanna just curl up in their lap and carve myself into their ribcage so they can never escape from me tehe. ALSOOO U DON’T GOTTA RESPOND IF UR BUSY OR UNCOMFY!!!! JUST KNOW I LOVE YOU AND YOUR DELICIOUS WRITING 🫶🫶

Lnds: Sticky little lover

Warning: vaguely suggestive, mentions of hickeys, fem!reader, clingy!reader, reader may or may not be the mc, there might be spelling mistakes, I haven't proofread yet.

Author's note: Awieee thank u sm pookie! I understand the feeling of wanting to latch onto the LIs~

Zayne:

Zayne wakes up with you on his chest, your leg over his crotch, and your arm across his stomach. To him, you were like a weighted stuffed toy and a weighted blanket, all at the same time. He wasn't complaining; maybe it was an excuse to stay in bed for another half an hour.

The bathroom is big enough for the two of you, with two wash basins, a separate shower, and a bathtub. There are three bathrooms in the house, but you always choose the one he uses. He's complained once, but you said you didn't like the interior design of the others. Side by side, you brush your teeth and comb your hair while he shaves and flosses. If you wake up earlier than usual, maybe he'll let you moisturize and exfoliate his face. It's no surprise Zayne leaves the bathroom door open for you. It's just normal for both of you to cross paths in the large bathroom.

When he leaves for work, you never miss a day to kiss his nose and give him a quick peck. You embrace him with two arms, but he hugs you back with one, the other hand holding his bag. You don't mind.

Your message gallery is filled with pictures of your mundane life: a snapshot of a book you're reading, the new coffee you tried, the little teacup Maltese that reminded you of him. Even though he's busy, he always finds time to react, and if he doesn't, he brings up the picture when you pick him up at the end of the day. He never forgets.

Calm days are spent in each other's presence. You always cling to him in one way or another. While he's reading a book, your feet are on his lap, and his fingers unknowingly knead your ankles. While watching a movie, your shoulders touch, and your hands are intertwined. When you react to the film, his hand, still holding yours, follows your movements.

Dates are always fun. It doesn't matter where you go or what you do as long as Zayne's in your company. Cafe dates are cute, but Zayne always calls you out for staring at him with a weird look in your eyes—you were admiring him. Whenever you walk, you cling to him, wrapping yourself around his forearm while playfully weighing him down. He stumbles for a second but smiles.

You love leaving hickeys on him, even bite marks if he allows, but the rule is never above the collar of his shirt. You oblige 97% of the time. The other 3%, you sneak in a light hickey that passes off as a mosquito bite, just peeking through the collar of his dress shirt. Sometimes, there's one behind his ear, barely visible. He never knows, but the doctors and patients at the hospital do.

When you're apart, you always call him and go about your day. At night, you video call and try to stay awake, only to snooze off. Zayne chuckles at your attempts to wash the tiredness away, but sometimes, he falls asleep with you. In the morning, both of your phones end up overheating and out of battery.

Zayne loves your company, to others it may seem trouble some but with you, it was adorable. It's through your clingyness that he experiences feelings he never once did before, and those little things always brighten his day. You actions with him makes him feel more loved and he knows he has a hard time expressing them but with you around, it had become more and more easier.

Rafayel:

They say opposites attract, but you and Rafayel are the universal exception.

Rafayel doesn't like it when you're late. Even for a home-date, he fusses about being left alone too long and feeling abandoned. You laugh at his whining over text and enter his door. When he sees you, he jumps off the couch and pouts, "Finally, it took you long enough."

You're like magnets to each other. Wherever one goes, the other follows. If you're cooking ramen in the kitchen, Rafayel sneaks behind you, hugging your back and sniffing your hair. If he's watering flowers in the greenhouse, you sit nearby and watch a ladybug on a leaf. If he's painting, you're reading on a nearby couch. Rafayel's residence is too big for one person but just enough for two.

Rafayel whines when you do something without him, especially if it's something he wants to do. You once took a flower arrangement class without him, and he sulked, "Wow, you didn't even think to tell me? I wanted to do that with you." Even watching movies is hard because you need to pause and wait for him whenever he leaves the room. One time, you finished a mystery series without him, and he ate the tiramisu you were saving for dessert in revenge.

Matching clothes is a thing. He avoids tacky prints but opts for complementary outfits. Because of this, Rafayel buys clothes with you in mind, often choosing items with a feminine counterpart. His shoe closet and yours are practically the same, and you don't complain because Rafayel has good fashion taste.

You love cute matching items. You once bought a two-piece mug set with a heart design, and he took the other one without you knowing. He also took a keychain from your collection, matching the one you have in your wallet.

"Are you tired of me now?" he asks when you keep your distance, avoiding a hug. It's the middle of summer, and the AC is broken. You reek of sweat, and the last thing you want is to be touched. You sigh and pat his back, "After I take a bath, I'll give you all the hugs you want."

He asks about your plans every morning, almost as a ritual. You've gotten used to replying while getting ready. If both schedules permit, he joins you for grocery runs, laundry, or whatever mundane tasks you have. You make good use of him, letting him carry the bags even if you could do it yourself.

When Rafayel is at an exhibit, you bombard him with texts: jokes, articles, or random thoughts. He replies quickly, hiding from the audience, bored out of his mind. In return, he sends you pictures of his artwork, which you threaten to sell online as digital files. He blocks you for a good five minutes.

You're each other's wallpaper. Surprisingly, Rafayel asked to do it. You spent hours finding the perfect pose and recreating trending ones. Rafayel insisted on multiple retakes.

You were rafayel's missing piece. To him, you were the only thing that he has ever wanted in his life. He loved you dearly and a part of him was terrified that you don't reciprocate the same level of love as he does to you; but lo and behold, fate has given him a blessing after all those years of loneliness. His heart swoons at the very sight of your actions. You were clingy, that was factually true but the same goes for him. Nothing makes him more fulfilled than seeing you both think and love in the same wavelength.

Sylus:

His base has become your home. On days off, you often find yourself in one of three rooms: his bedroom, where you lie on his bed, tapping away on your phone or laptop; his kitchen, where the chef cooks whatever you want in exchange for listening to his stories from his little village; or the lobby, where Luke and Kieran update you on the most boring things in the building. Sylus doesn't mind at all; it's less work for Mephisto, and he can keep an eye on you.

Sylus's sleep schedule is the same as that of those in Linkon City. His days begin in the evenings, often leaving you lying in the big bed alone. Sylus is nearby or at his desk if he's not out on the streets. You like hugging his pillow because it smells like his 3-in-1 shampoo. If he's out on late-night trips, you selfishly steal his shirt from the closet, wear it on the pillow, and hug that to sleep, forcing yourself to be satisfied with what you got.

His lap is your chair. It doesn't matter where he's sitting; you always find yourself on him. Sylus sometimes complains about his thighs going numb, but when you leave, he yanks you back, positioning you between his legs, with your butt on the chair instead of his thigh. He goes back to his work as if nothing happened, occasionally sparing you a kiss on the forehead or rubbing his face against yours. If not, you shower his chest and neck with light pecks before snuggling into the crook of his neck.

His biceps are nice to the touch. On dates to the city, while waiting in line, you squeeze his muscles for entertainment, even through his thick leather jacket. He flexes for a minute before relaxing, amused at how easily you entertain yourself.

The boyfriend shirt phenomenon is common. You don't leave the base wearing his clothes, but you certainly walk around the area in them. Whether a turtleneck, a black blouse, or just a plain shirt, you're always wearing his clothes, even in his company.

You're an eccentric one, thats for sure. Sylus never truly got ahold of how you managed to change from being so distant to practically being glued to him. It was like he partnered up with a whole new different person. He wasn't complaining at all if anything, he found it admirable and a part of him was quietly relieved that time did all the adjusting between you and him. Despite being a bit too fussy at times, he'd be more than willing to compromise if that's what makes you happy.

Xavier:

You always steal his hoodies. They're big, soft, and smell like him, so you have two or three at home. Xavier scratches his head when he notices bare hangers in his closet. When you visit, he finally sees what's missing. No matter how many hoodies and jackets he buys for you, you always get your hands on his, almost becoming a problem. Now, he rotates his jackets, giving them to you on schedule.

Xavier's hair is too soft to be human. When he's on your lap, you massage his scalp and fidget with the ends of his silver hair. If you have hair elastics and a cute clip nearby, he ends up with his hair tied up or braided. He needs your help to take it off because it's too painful for him to do alone. Oops?

You prefer sitting beside him rather than across from him at a table. He didn't understand at first because he wanted to face you when eating. But when he's beside you, he slowly gets it. You like touching him one way or another. You enjoy your elbows touching or your thighs grazing each other. It's also convenient to lean slightly and rest your head on his shoulder.

Xavier loves bathing with you. The bathtub in his apartment is big enough for both. He likes the smell of your bath bombs and is sometimes fascinated by the toys or mini jewelry inside. Your back always presses against him, and he willingly holds you. On more stressful days, you light candles and open some cheap wine to enjoy in rose-covered water.

He's riddled with bite marks, even when not having sex. He's dozing off when you suddenly find his arm or leg appetizing. He jolts awake and tries to shake your grip, but it's too tight. When you've had enough, he stares at your work of art and wipes his saliva-coated limb. You grin, watching him wipe your fluids. Because of the frequency, he rarely lets his consciousness drift away when his bare arms and legs are around you.

When bathing alone, you use his shampoo instead of yours. It's surprising he doesn't use all-in-one shampoo and body wash; he uses baby shampoo. When confronted, he shrugs, saying it does the job, and recalls you like playing with his hair. His perfume and powder are also for babies.

In the eyes of Xavier, you were adorable even if your actions were questionable. You were cute, and he never once thought that your actions were a burden or suffocating. The things you do, the way you speak they were all precious in his eyes and Xavier understands that this was you way of showing your love for him. Because of that, he tolerates you every time you bite him.

Your gallery is full of his pictures. Candid photos you secretly take daily. Your favorite is when his cheeks are full of food, resembling a hamster. You take pictures when he's asleep, using you as a pillow. Sometimes, you're both looking at the camera, making random faces.

Author footnotes: I'm sorry if these were pretty general. I'm not the clingy type so I don't know how these type of people act but I wrote it with the things I observed from films and tiktok lol

Layout by me, using Canva premium | Do not repost |

[bcksbarnes]

snipped

pairing: bucky barnes x reader

summary: bucky is feeling plagued by his past so he asks you to cut his hair.

word count: 1.2K

genre: fluff, sad!bucky

Bucky wasn’t entirely sure that he wanted to do this, unfortunately his hair had been apart of him for so long that it was like an extension of himself. It was both a mask that represented a time that he wished to forget, and a reminder of the better human he needed to become. But, the thoughts of the tragedies he caused while looking the way did weighed heavy on his mind. He already spent most of his nights woke up with nightmares from his time as the winter solider, he couldn’t continue looking in the mirror and feeling the same way as well. 

“Hey,” he says as he walks into your bedroom, leaning against the doorframe while he watches you lay in bed. When you don’t respond right away he calls your name, causing you to look up from your phone with a small blush on your cheeks. 

“Sorry, Nat’s on a date and I wanted to see how it was going.” You respond, placing the phone next to you on the bed. 

“Did she answer?” He asks, a small smile on his face as he watches you. 

“Yeah, she said he’s boring. What else is new.” You tease, your eyes raking over his face. It only takes you a second to realize he’s uneasy. “What’s wrong?” 

You two had been together long enough that it didn’t take much for you to know when Bucky was upset or thinking about something. His usual quiet and brooding behavior was always met with small quirks like tapping his foot or biting his top lip when there was something on his mind. This time it was the former. 

He sighs as he kicks off the door frame, moving to the edge of the bed and sitting down, still an arms length away from you as he tries to think of how best to approach the topic. 

“Can you cut my hair?” He lays it out, his fingers picking at a piece of lint at the bedspread, feeling sheepish as he doesn’t meet your eyes. He’s embarrassed by this for some reason. He’s cut his own hair before, usually when he was on the run and was able to find a rusty pair of scissors, but that was usually just a trim and now there’s something about the meaning behind this that makes it hard for him. 

Your gaze softens as you hear his request, sitting up further on the bed as you wait to see if there was anything else he was going to say. When you were met with silence you speak up. 

“Of course I can.”  

Bucky looks over at you, his smile had faded a few moments ago and now all he could think about was how this was going to feel. Liberated? Angry? Happy? He wasn’t too sure, and maybe that’s what scared him the most. 

He had done horrible things as the winter solider, things that he could never forgive himself for, but life was different now. He was deprogrammed, he was helping people, he met you and he was starting to feel like he was allowed a life of not always having his demons follow him around. He was ready to move forward. 

“Hey.” You move off the bed to stand in front of him, your hand moving to gently grab his chin and tilt his head up towards you. “We don’t have to do this if you’re not ready, Bucky.” 

He sighs softly at your touch, his hands moving to rest at your hips as he pulls you a bit closer, your legs slotted between his. It’s intimate and full of affection, you two always know how to keep your touches light but meaningul. 

“I am ready.” Though he sounds like he’s trying to convince himself by saying it out loud. “I think ... I’m ready to stop torturing myself every day with the reminder of my past. I want to move forward. I want to show myself that I’m capable of moving forward.” 

Your heart aches at his words because you will never understand the pain he goes through everyday, but there was nothing that was going to stop you from supporting him. Your hand moves from his chin to cup both of his cheeks, leaning in to press a soft kiss to his forehead. His grip on your hips tighten a bit as you hear him let out a shuttering breath that he had been holding in. 

His hands move up to press against yours, keeping your touch on his face close for a moment as he relishes in the comfort. And despite popular belief, Bucky Barnes needed comfort. 

It’s a few minutes later that the two of you are in the bathroom, Bucky is sitting on a folding chair he managed to find and you had both the scissors and clippers ready to go.  

“Are you sure?” You stand behind him as he sits, your hands on his shoulders as your gazes meet in the mirror in front of you. He nods his head softly, saying everything that he’s incapable of verbalizing in that moment. “Okay, i’ve only cut hair like once so if it comes out bad don’t hate me for it.”  

Bucky cracks a small smile before he closes his eyes, letting out one last deep breath before you get to work. A comb works through his long hair one last time, getting all the knots out as you place it in a short ponytail.  

The metal scissors are in your hand and you whisper a soft you got this to him before you begin to cut. It takes a second to cut through it all but before you knew it you were holding onto most of it in the ponytail. It was shorter, shaggier, needed to be buzzed down and given a little height – but he looked good. Different, but good. 

You can feel the way he shifts anxiously while you use the clippers, having to tell him to stop moving on a few occasions so you didn’t accidentally cut him, but it’s over almost as soon as it starts, his eyes still closed tightly not wanting to look until the finish product. 

Your hands find their way back to his shoulders once you put your tools down, taking a moment to admire your work and how different he looks. You bring your lips down near his ear. 

“You can open your eyes, buck.” 

A beat passes and you can tell he’s nervous to but he has to face it at some point. One last deep breath leaves his lips before his eyes flutter open, landing on the mirror in front of him. 

He doesn’t speak for a minute, his eyes taking in his features and his new defined haircut. It looks great, if you say so yourself, but in that moment he’s hard to read and you’re not sure what he’s going to say. 

Bucky rests his elbows on his knees and his head drops forward, your hand soothingly rubbing his back. When he looks up again his eyes are red and teary, the moment obviously catching him off guard with how much it would mean to him. 

“How do you feel?” Your voice is soft, keeping the both of you grounded in this moment which you know he appreciates.  

A tear slips from his eyes and he runs a hand through his freshly cut hair. One word slips through his lips. 

“Free.” 

[synnamonroll666]

You Are Still Human

𖤐⭒𖤐⭒𖤐⭒𖤐⭒𖤐⭒𖤐⭒𖤐⭒𖤐⭒𖤐⭒𖤐⭒𖤐⭒𖤐⭒𖤐⭒𖤐⭒𖤐⭒𖤐⭒𖤐⭒𖤐⭒𖤐

𖤐⭒𖤐⭒𖤐⭒𖤐⭒𖤐⭒𖤐⭒𖤐⭒𖤐⭒𖤐⭒𖤐⭒𖤐⭒𖤐⭒𖤐⭒𖤐⭒𖤐⭒𖤐⭒𖤐⭒𖤐⭒𖤐

Pairing: Wendigo!Josh Washington x Fem!Reader Description: Josh breaks down over the fact that he cannot live a normal life since his possession and no longer believes that he is truly human. So you find a special way to remind him of his humanity... Warnings: 18+, Smut, Fluff, Angst, Mental Breakdown, Insecurities, P In V, Creampie, Slight Choking, Rough Smut, Animalistic Smut, Mention Of Breeding, No Foreplay Or Prep, Pain Kink-ish??? (Let me know if I missed any!) Word Count: 3.2k A/N: So I finally got this done! I didn't expect it to end up this long but as you can see, things got out of hand FAST. 😂 I hope you guys enjoy it! 🖤 Josh Washington Masterlist: 🖤 Taglist: @nuggetsandmoose, @maquillagebookmark, @wheeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee28374728, @bee-who-isnt-french

𖤐⭒𖤐⭒𖤐⭒𖤐⭒𖤐⭒𖤐⭒𖤐⭒𖤐⭒𖤐⭒𖤐⭒𖤐⭒𖤐⭒𖤐⭒𖤐⭒𖤐⭒𖤐⭒𖤐⭒𖤐⭒𖤐

My tired feet slowly shuffle across the hardwood floor as I push myself through the front door of our shared home. I am exhausted after several errands that I had to run today, to say the least. But that's the price I have to pay for pushing them off until right at last minute. Though it wasn't exactly the extra work I had to do that pushed my mind and body to feel so worn out. My loving boyfriend decided to join me, which was a rare occurrence for him.

Ever since the... Incident... He hasn't wanted to go out into the world much. I understand his anxiety of being seen in public with his condition so I never push, but today he insisted on joining me on my mission to finish my to-do list. Perhaps he felt bad that all these burdens were placed on my shoulders with his lack of want to leave the house.

But unfortunately, a face mask to cover up his ripped cheek and sharpened canines was just not enough to cover what he has become. Recovery for Josh was long and hard and we had only just began talking about the possibility of cosmetic surgery. It was a long process before we could even begin worrying about such things.

After leaving the mountain, the spirit of the wendigo left him, not being able to leave where it is bound. But still, traces of an animal-like presence lingered in his behaviors and personality. We didn't know if restoring his humanity was possible, but the doctors were able to recover just enough to get him to a point of leaving the hospital to live a normal life. Though even then, I had to beg to convince them to let me take him home with me.

His parents were hesitant on letting me take care of him, but after some negotiating, they bought a secluded cabin in a swallow forest, just deep enough to give us privacy but not too deep that I would be trapped if I needed to get away. Josh's humanity was indeed resorted, but the primal animal was still within.

And that's where we are now. Josh has an odd habit of forgetting how to act "human" sometimes. Every once in awhile he will stare at someone random and growl lowly, or even nip at the air as though his need to feed was getting too intense. It was worrisome, to say the least. Sometimes I would stay up at night, fearing the one thing that I always worried was inevitable—that Josh would lose control once more.

Though time and time again, he would prove me wrong with a loving and warm cuddle at the end of the day. But sadly, tonight will not be so sweet. I can tell by the way Josh trudges into the living room, his head hung low and shoulders slumped. He wants to be left alone.

Though I understand this, I don't want to leave him with his thoughts again. Bad things happen when Josh is left alone with his thoughts. So I approach the doorway of the living room, leaning against the frame as I watch his tired form from afar. He seems defeated by the way he sat slouched against the soft cushions of our couch.

Slowly, I make my way to him step by step and sit on the couch, my eyes watching him to read his body language. He does not react to my presence, instead staring out into a void of nothingness like his mind is elsewhere. I reach over to the small end table by my side and pull its drawer open, only to retrieve a small, red bag.

I set it on my lap and then turn back to Josh, carefully taking on of his large hands in my own. They have grown a tiny bit since his possession, by an inch for each finger at least. Every part of his body has grown a bit since then. Sometimes it could feel a little intimidating. I run my thumb over the fragile, pale skin on the back of his hand before releasing a tired sigh.

"Your nails are getting long again, sweetheart. Shall I trim them for you?" I ask while reaching for the bag in my lap with my free hand, pulling the zipper to the side to reveal a bunch of nail care tools.

He does not respond verbally, but let's out a huff to let me know that he is fine with it. So with that, I begin my work, trimming and filing away at the sharp and jagged claws. It takes what feels like an hour to get them finished and looking nearly human again. In this time, Josh doesn't move a bit. He is so still, it's hard to tell he is even breathing. But once I finish and go to move my hands away from his, his boney fingers clasp my own.

"Thank... You..." He whispers faintly, his voice coarse and almost ghostly. Life glimmers in his eyes for a brief moment as his light irises study his hands.

But then, after a minute of admiring my work, he stands from his spot on the couch. He begins to pace around the coffee table in the center of the room, as if his mind is wandering, pondering something intense. I watch him for a few moments as he silently walks, feet shuffling along the carpet. But then, he mutters something...

"It's not enough..."

I almost do not catch it, until he repeats the words in a volume just slightly higher than before. But before I know it, Josh is pacing more frantically, whispering the sentence over and over. An eerie dread falls over my body as I watch him, his movements growing more panicked. He seems frightened and enraged, and those feelings seem to grow until he finally snaps, flipping over the coffee table in one swoop of his arms.

"I'm sick of this fucking shit!" He screams in a voice that sounds more like a howl from a wounded animal than anything else. "I'm so sick of being a fucking monster! I'm so fucking sick of people looking at me like one—like I shouldn't be with you or like I'm going to hurt you! I just want to be human again!"

I am stunned, sitting still as ever as if I'm afraid to move. That is until he breaks down, falling to his knees as he let's out a mournful sob. It's as if his spirit has been beaten down to the point of no return by this curse, every day stares, and the pressure of trying to be what he once was. Within a second, I am by his side on the floor, pulling him close to me and embracing him tightly.

"You're not a monster." I whisper sweetly as I caress his thinned out hair, just one more thing he has had to be insecure about since becoming human again. But it never lost its silky texture, which was what I had always loved the most about it.

He shakes his head and whimpers faintly, "I'm just a monster..."

I think for a moment. Usually it's pretty hard to break someone out of this mindset, especially Josh. He has a stubborn way of thinking, which makes it hard to convince him otherwise on a lot of subjects. I continue to pet his hair and think of back when he was human, how much he loved to show me just how much he loved me every day. Of course, a lot of times it would be through physical acts— And finally, it hits me. I know what will break him out of these self-abusive thoughts.

"I want you to prove to me that you're not a monster." I order firmly, which is enough for him to finally raise his head from where it is tucked in my shoulder and look up at me.

"W-What?" He queries just barely above a whisper—just barely enough for me to hear his quivering voice.

I gently caress his cheek, brushing my fingers over his deep scars as I clarify. "Prove to me that you aren't a monster. I know you can. Prove to me that you can feel all the emotions that a normal person can feel, and make me feel them as well in return."

He stares at me for a moment, eyes clearly uncertain about my rather intimate proposition. I can practically see the internal battle going on inside his mind through those glazed over pupils in the center of his white irises. Then, he let's out a shaky breath before biting his lip subtly—a risky habit he still carries from being human, but has to be more cautious doing now with his sharpened teeth.

"I... I don't want to hurt you..." He whimpers like a hurt puppy, glancing back down at his fidgeting fingers.

"You won't," I say as I place my hands on his cheeks, forcing his gaze back to me so he can see my sincerity. "I know you..."

He adverts his eyes once more, only this time looking down at the growing bulge under the rough fabric of his jeans—something I had failed to notice before. Josh had grown so backwards since his turning—so backwards that we haven't had sex since prior to it. I know it is killing him, especially since he was always the horniest guy I knew before this happened.

To make things easier for him, I place my hand on his thigh, resting right beside his needy member. He swallows thickly as he visibly shivers, a thin layer of sweat already coating his skin as his temperature rises. It is a subtle action to test the waters and when I'm sure he is comfortable, my hand goes right to the spot I know he desires so much.

But as soon as my hand cups the twitching length through his pants, something changes. A soft growl is heard rumbling at the back of his throat, and when my eyes flick back up, I am met with a hungry and what looks to be primal gaze. His eyes are no longer soft and sorrowful, but hold something almost animalistic within them.

Before I can say anything, Josh scoops me up and throws me down on the couch, knocking a startled gasp to fly out from me that seems to fall on deaf ears. He is quick to cage me between his arms, and lower his body weight down over top of me to encase me in his grasp, like a predator sealing his prey's fate.

No words are spoken, just the sounds of his ragged breaths and rabid growls fill the air. His body temperature has risen even higher than I have ever felt from him, and as he presses his chest against mine to keep me locked in place, I can feel his racing heartbeat vibrating through his chest as well. It amazes me that he hasn't had a heart attack yet.

But still, it seems as if something is stopping him in place. A lost, uncertain, question glimmers in his orbs as though he is waiting for an answer. Though he is silent, I know what he is asking—the final thing he needs to take things to the next level.

"Go ahead, Josh. I'm ready." I breath faintly, giving him the permission he seeks.

As if from a movie, he tears our clothes off at a supernatural speed. I lay there, naked and dumbfounded as I look at the shreds of clothing that fell all around us, surrounding us like some sort of makeshift nest. I can't help but wonder how in the hell he managed to do that after I just clipped and filed his claws down, but I don't have much time to answer.

A shriek of shock, pain, and pleasure tears from my throat as I feel the familiar sting of something long and hard entering my canal, though this time in a more rough and fast way. Josh was always one for foreplay, but I guess there isn't time for that now, as he is already buried deep within me to the brim within just a split second.

His eyes hold a bit of remorse for only a mere moment, until that hunger returns. I barely have time to breathe as he retracts and enters at a pace I have never seen from him before. His hips pound furiously into mine, a subtle ache setting into my joints almost in an instant as he does his work.  His grip on my waist is enough to burst my organs, while his dull nails cut into my flesh, crimson liquid forming under them more and more with each flex of his fingers. If I hadn't have cut his nails before this, I'd be done for. But I feel like Josh would know to be more careful if there was an actual hazard.

The intensity of his tip hitting my g-spot over and over at a brutal force feels to be enough to actually bruise it. Josh was always so good at finding it but this is a whole new level. I push my head back against the cushions as a cry of painful ecstasy parts my lips. Gripping the edges of the cushions and ripped strands of clothing in my fists, I begin to squirm out of pure instinct. Of course, Josh doesn't like this very much. Before I know it, a tight hand is wrapped firmly around my neck, but not enough to actually hurt me. This shows me that deep down, Josh still has some control.

He pounds into me in a sloppy and rough rhythm, determined like an animal desperate to breed. Grunts, groans, and growls that sound less than human are all that are heard from him. I would be concerned if my mind was clear enough to pay attention. No, right now, all my senses were overwhelmed by Josh, cutting off my awareness of the world around us like a sweet death. I am out of my own body now, my soul flying high in the clouds of heaven.

To my surprise, he pulls out. A soft exhale escapes me has he let's go of my throat, but that's only to quickly flip me over so he can now get in from the back. As soon as he shoves his length back inside, he's moving at a pace yet again unimaginable while his claws grip my hips firmly. He is almost pulling me back onto his cock at times, so my hips can meet his own has he thrusts into me. It's so animalistic and natural and it feels so right. And by the feeling of it, it's just enough to satisfy Josh completely.

With a roaring howl, Josh finally finds the release he has been chasing for so long. His speed and strength increases as he comes undone within me, and he fills me to the brim as if he wants to claim me... Or maybe even breed me. It is all too much for me to bear. The sensation of his heavy load spraying into my sweet spot is enough to send me flying over the edge. I bury my face into the cushion as a shuddering moan falls from my lips, before my voice strains away to nothing. My whole body trembles as I practically melt beneath him, and my walls squeeze and quiver around his cock as though I'm practically begging for more.

Though soon that psychical need gives away into exhaustion as soon as my tense muscles relax once my high subsides, my body falling limp like I no longer can control it. I'm just a doll now, all at the mercy of the man who gives me life. He may think that because I help him to heal, I am his savior. But he couldn't be more wrong. Without Joshua, I would be in a darker place, drowning in my trauma of that night. But now, I have him. And in this moment of silence where nothingness hangs in the air, that thought enters my brain. A small smile curls the corners of my lips while I close my eyes, feeling peace as I soak up his warmth while his hot breath fans my shoulder.

He removes himself from me, both of us letting out a trembling whimper, the overestimation stinging our most sensitive areas momentarily. He does not waste a single breath on words, instead leaning down to capture my lips with his. He is careful—careful to not cut me with his long canines, but also holding a tenderness he used to show before all of this. He knows that I am at my most vulnerable at this time, and will take the most caution to not break me at my fine glass-like state. When he pulls away, he gazes upon me with tear-filled and passionate eyes, his orbs reflecting what seems to be gratefulness and love.

"That wasn't the wendigo in me..." He breathes faintly while raising a hand to caress my cheek in a way so tender that I feel as if I could cry. Though I raise a questioning brow at that statement, not knowing what he means. So he elaborates after taking another second to breathe, still worn out by our recent activities. "I just needed you that badly... So I guess that was the human in me, huh?"

I smile at that and nod, admiring how he blushes at what he admits. For someone who used to be so ballsy and open with his dirty thoughts, Josh could be pretty backwards at times. It was something I always adored so much about him. I run my fingers through his raven, disheveled hair while taking in his stunning features, a soft sigh leaving me before I whisper. "You can have me whenever you like, Josh."

Josh smiles and presses his lips to mine once more, and then lays his head on my chest. I watch him intently, taking note of how he smiles when he hears my heartbeat quicken ever so slightly at the sight of him on top of me. He gently rubs my sides, soon stopping to snuggle into my breasts, seemingly deciding that this nest of our torn clothing would be our bed for the night.

Josh always reminded me of a Great Dane in a way. Despite being a lot bigger than me, there was always enough space on top of me for cuddles in his eyes. It was always quite amusing to me each time his large form would envelope my own. I continue to pet his hair, soft strands threading through my fingers with each touch. He let's out a huff in contentment and kisses my left breast, the sensation of his lips on my skin being absorbed through my flesh and meeting my heart to caress it with the love he feels for me.

"Thank you..." He murmurs, his voice dropping an octave lower and coming out more like a purr due to his exhaustion. My eyes focus on him as he closes his eyes, taking one more deep breath and then continuing his sentence a mere second before he falls into a peaceful slumber on top of me. "For everything..."

𖤐⭒𖤐⭒𖤐⭒𖤐⭒𖤐⭒𖤐⭒𖤐⭒𖤐⭒𖤐⭒𖤐⭒𖤐⭒𖤐⭒𖤐⭒𖤐⭒𖤐⭒𖤐⭒𖤐⭒𖤐⭒𖤐

[pankowcrumbs]

More Than Just a Date X Max Verstappen (Requested)

Request: Max Verstappen x Reader He forgets their anniversary because he always thinks about racing, with a happy ending.

MasterList

F1 Masterlist

I never expected a five-star dinner or a hot air balloon ride though, in truth, I wouldn’t say no to either. I just wanted him to remember. A simple “happy anniversary” would have been enough.

But as I watched Max pacing the flat, phone glued to his ear, mid-conversation with his race engineer about corner exits in sector two, the silence on his end said everything I needed to know.

He’d forgotten.

Again.

To Max’s credit, Formula 1 was his whole world. It was in his blood, his bones, probably in his bloody DNA. I’d always admired his focus, the unrelenting drive that made him a four-time world champion. But sometimes, that very focus meant everything else blurred into the background… including me.

I sat quietly on the couch, dressed up in the outfit I’d planned a week in advance. Hair curled, perfume dabbed just so. There was a cake in the fridge, dinner reservations I’d made under his name, and a tiny velvet box in my coat pocket containing the bracelet I’d saved up for all year engraved with the coordinates of where we first met.

He didn’t see any of it.

“Yeah, no, I agree,” Max nodded into the phone, shooting me a distracted glance and mouthing, ‘Five minutes’ with a guilty smile.

I smiled back. Tightly.

He vanished into the bedroom, still deep in conversation, and I sat there, the weight in my chest heavier than the bracelet I no longer wanted to give.

I grabbed my coat and quietly slipped out the door.

The park around the corner was quiet this time of night. I sat on the bench we always used to stop at when we first moved in together. Back then, it was all takeaway dinners, racing sims, and trying to make our schedules fit like puzzle pieces. Life was simpler then. Or maybe I was just more hopeful.

I felt my phone buzz.

Max Where are you?

I didn’t reply.

It buzzed again.

Max Y/N, I’m so sorry. Please come back.

I sighed, slipping the phone into my pocket. The night air was crisp, laced with the scent of jasmine from the hedge nearby. I leaned back and let my eyes drift up toward the stars, trying to remind myself that I wasn’t being unreasonable. I just wanted to be seen. Not as Max Verstappen’s girlfriend. Just as Y/N someone who loved him enough to celebrate their love even when it felt one-sided.

I heard hurried footsteps before I saw him.

“Y/N!” Max’s voice cracked as he rounded the path, slightly breathless. His hoodie was thrown over his racing shirt and his trainers were half-tied. “There you are.”

I looked at him, unsure what to say. So, I stayed quiet.

He sat beside me, hands resting on his knees. “I forgot.”

“No kidding.”

“I’m not going to make excuses,” he said, eyes forward. “I forgot, and I saw the look on your face as soon as I walked into the kitchen and saw the cake. I’m... I’m an idiot.”

I bit my lip. “You are.”

He let out a low laugh, one that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “I can memorise every lap time from the last three seasons but can’t remember the date I got the best thing that ever happened to me. What does that say about me?”

“That you’re a man obsessed with corners and apexes,” I muttered.

He turned then, properly facing me. “I don’t want you to think I don’t care. Because I do. I care so much that it terrifies me sometimes. This racing world is mad, and you’re the calm I don’t deserve.”

I met his gaze. “Then show me. Not with podiums or apologies. With attention. With intention.”

He nodded slowly. “I will. Starting now.”

From his hoodie pocket, he pulled out a folded napkin with something crumpled inside. He handed it to me sheepishly.

“I didn’t have time to wrap it,” he admitted.

I opened it to find a tiny charm a silver race helmet with a red heart etched on the back.

“I bought it last week,” he said. “Meant to give it to you today, but… well. You know the rest.”

I turned it over in my hand, the warmth of his palm still lingering on the metal.

“I got you a bracelet” I said softly.

He blinked. “You got me a bracelet?”

I nodded, pulling the box from my coat pocket and offering it to him.

He opened it, eyes widening. “The beach in Monaco?”

“Where we met,” I said. “Where this all started.”

He took the bracelet and fastened it around his wrist without hesitation.

“Perfect fit,” he murmured. “Like us.”

We sat there for a moment in silence, his fingers brushing over mine.

“Next year,” he said, “I’m not just remembering our anniversary. I’m booking the day off. Full stop. No calls, no meetings. Just you and me.”

I raised a brow. “Even if it’s race week?”

“Especially if it’s race week,” he said. “Because you’re the reason I can do any of this.”

I leaned my head on his shoulder, the anger melting into something softer. He smelled like rain and aftershave, and home.

“Come on,” he whispered. “Let’s go eat that cake.”

We walked back hand-in-hand, and when we reached the flat, he lit the candles I’d set out hours earlier. We shared the cake on the kitchen floor, laughing between bites. He even put on our song the cheesy one we both claimed to hate but secretly loved.

And as he twirled me around the kitchen in socked feet and soft apologies, I realised that while Max Verstappen might forget a date on a calendar, he never forgot what truly mattered.

Me.

Us.

[jburrgf]

Champagne Coast, JOE BURROW.

“Finishing 8 or 9, tell me what’s the perfect time. I told you i’ll be waiting hiding from the rainfall.”

◦pairing: ¡long hair!joe x ¡college student!reader

◦summary: fwb, no attachment relationship, attachment problems, forbidden type of love. +18 readers only!

◦description: academic pleasure is your thing, and that means that you put nothing over your education. literally nothing. but when a long-haired football player that just got transferred from the north just pops in front of you, it’s too hard to say no to him.

◦n/a: i’m doing this for my latina girlies (like me! <3). she has curly hair and slightly tanned skin.

Mornings were always the hardest.

Not because I wasn’t a morning person—I was, to some extent—but because they reminded me of how much I had to do and how little time I had to waste.

My alarm went off at 6:30 a.m. sharp, vibrating against the nightstand with a persistence I could never ignore. I didn’t allow myself to hit snooze. I couldn’t afford to. Instead, I threw the covers off, stretched until my spine cracked, and made my way to the tiny bathroom in my apartment, eyes barely open as I turned on the sink.

The mirror reflected my exhaustion back at me. Dark circles had made a home under my eyes, the evidence of another night spent hunched over my laptop, working through notes, assignments, and emails.

I brushed my teeth, washed my face, and tied my hair back into a loose ponytail before heading to the kitchen. Breakfast was always a rushed affair—black coffee, a piece of toast if I wasn’t running late. Today, I had just enough time to spread some butter over it and let the warmth seep into my fingertips before taking a bite.

As I stood there, leaning against the counter, I flipped open my planner, its pages filled with neatly written notes, deadlines, and reminders. Between classes, assignments, and shifts at my internship, every minute of my day was accounted for.

But today felt different.

Excitement buzzed under my skin as my eyes skimmed over a note I had scribbled down the night before: New project meeting – 2 PM.

My internship had been one of the best things about this year. It was demanding, sure, but it gave me a sense of purpose. The chance to work on something real, something tangible. And today, I was finally getting assigned to a project I had been hoping for.

I double-checked the details, making a mental note to grab an extra coffee before the meeting. If I was going to impress them, I needed to be on my A-game.

After slipping into a pair of jeans and pulling on a navy-blue sweater, I slung my bag over my shoulder and stepped outside. The crisp morning air bit at my cheeks, the sky a soft, muted blue, but I barely had time to appreciate it. My days ran on a tight schedule, and I had no room to fall behind.

The walk to campus was second nature by now. I moved on autopilot, weaving through streets and past coffee shops, my earbuds in, music humming softly as I mentally prepared myself for the day ahead.

By the time I made it to the library, my coffee was already half gone, but the caffeine was finally kicking in. I settled into a seat by the window, pulling out my laptop and opening the file I had started last night. I had about an hour before my first class—plenty of time to go over my notes, make sure I hadn’t missed anything.

This was my routine.

And I liked it this way, but today, my friends had another plan. Rachel and Nathan have been keeping me busy about every single gossip on this campus, and the new one was The transferred quarterback from Ohio State. And of course, the whole campus needed to celebrate.

I wasn’t planning on going to the party that night. It was the kind of LSU house party that smelled like cheap beer and desperation, packed with sweaty, screaming students all trying to forget their midterms or bad decisions. But my roommate, Rachel, had another plan.

A few hours earlier, I had been sitting in my psychology class, half-listening as the professor droned on about the power of love in humanity. It was some philosophical tangent about how emotions, particularly love, played a crucial role in human development and scientific progress. I struggled not to roll my eyes. Love, to me, had always been a concept romanticized beyond its worth. Sure, it made for great literature, but I had never been convinced that it held any real power beyond that.

When class finally ended, I packed up my things and headed to the campus diner, where Rachel and a few other friends were already gathered in a booth, their laughter rising above the chatter of the busy place. Jess, my best guy friend Nate, and his roommate Lucas were already deep in conversation when I slid into the seat beside Rachel, who immediately pushed a menu toward me.

"Are you actually eating or just here to mope about your long, miserable week?" she teased.

"Neither," I replied, scanning the menu without interest. "I just need a drink."

"That’s the spirit!" Jess cheered, raising her iced coffee like it was something stronger.

"So, you’re coming to the party tonight?" Lucas asked, drumming his fingers against the table.

I sighed. "Yeah, but I’m not really in the mood for it. I just need to blow off some steam."

"That’s what parties are for," Rachel said. "Besides, have you heard about the new transfer? Joe Burrow?"

Jess wiggled her eyebrows. "Apparently, he’s not just good. He’s supposed to be the guy. Like, NFL material."

Nate scoffed, leaning back against the booth. "Everyone’s acting like he’s a god or something. He’s just another quarterback."

I shrugged, uninterested. "I’m sure he’s good at what he does, but that doesn’t mean he’s obnoxious."

Rachel smirked. "So, you’re saying he’s just a great professional player who happens to be really good?"

"Pretty much. I don’t get why everyone acts like he’s the second coming or something."

"Because he might actually be," Jess said with a dramatic sigh. "And you, my dear, are going to meet him tonight."

Nate chuckled. "Yeah, maybe you two can talk about quantum physics and see if he can keep up."

I rolled my eyes, but I knew there was no escaping it now. The party was happening, and whether I liked it or not, Joe Burrow was about to become part of my night.

[…]

I got to the party slightly late. My friends were already over there, bouncing over songs that we used to listen to together and talking louder above the speakers. To me, that was irritating. I love parties, but after a long week of work, the last thing I wanted to do is partying all night on a friday.

The music thumped through the walls, a steady, pulsing beat that rattled through my ribs as I wove through the crowd, my plastic cup clutched loosely in my fingers. I wasn’t even sure what was in it anymore—some neon-colored mix of whatever they had at the bar—but I had taken exactly two sips and decided I didn’t need more.

I was about to turn around when a voice cut through the noise.

“You’ve been standing there for a while.”

I looked up.

I turned, expecting one of my friends, but instead, I was met with someone unfamiliar. He was tall—really tall—with messy blond hair that fell over his forehead, and sharp features that the dim lighting only made more defined. His sweatshirt hung loose on his frame, sleeves pushed to his elbows like he had just come from somewhere else, and the cup in his hand was barely touched.

“I was just—” I hesitated, glancing at the dance floor. “People-watching.”

A slow smirk tugged at the corner of his lips. “Yeah? Anything interesting?”

“Not really,” I admitted. “Just the usual: drunk freshmen, a couple making out in the corner, a guy who’s definitely going to regret that keg stand tomorrow.”

"You don’t look like you’re having fun," he said, his voice cutting through the noise of the party.

I raised a brow. “And you’ve been watching me?”

He let out a soft laugh, shaking his head. “I just noticed. Everyone else is either dancing, drinking, or trying to do both at the same time. You, though? You’re just… here.”

I huffed, half amused. “I guess I’m not very good at parties.”

He lifted a shoulder in a shrug. “Nothing wrong with that.”

I turned my head, surprised he was talking to me. "That’s because I’m not."

He smirked. "Then why are you here?"

"Peer pressure."

"Same."

I looked at him, doubtful. "I find that hard to believe. Isn’t this your crowd?"

He shook his head. "Not really. I’m still figuring out who my crowd is here."

I hummed in response, not sure I believed him. He was too comfortable, too effortless in the way he carried himself.

"What’s your major?" he asked.

"Psychology," I replied. "And you?"

"Consumer and family financial services.”

I raised a brow. "That’s oddly specific."

He chuckled. "Yeah. I like numbers."

"So, you’re actually smart?" The words slipped out before I could stop them.

“But I’m here cause of football.”

I raised a brow. “Of course, you do.”

He chuckled. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

I shrugged. “You have that whole… football player look.”

He looked vaguely amused. “Is that a bad thing?”

“Not necessarily.” I took a sip of my drink. “I just feel like I already know your whole deal.”

Joe leaned in slightly, curiosity flickering in his eyes. “Yeah? And what’s my deal?”

I pretended to think. “Cocky, thinks he’s smarter than he is, probably way too competitive.”

“You don’t know me at all. He laughed, a deep, genuine sound that made something flicker in my chest. He stepped closer, but at a safe distance "I like to think I'm smart. Want to test me?"

I leaned against the counter, intrigued. "Alright, what’s the capital of Lithuania?"

"Vilnius."

I blinked, impressed but unwilling to show it. "Okay, what’s the powerhouse of the cell?"

"Mitochondria. Come on, give me a hard one."

I bit my lip, thinking. "Fine. Who wrote ‘Pride and Prejudice’?"

He didn’t even hesitate. "Jane Austen."

My mouth parted slightly. "Huh."

He grinned. "Not what you expected?"

"Not even close."

He tilted his head, studying me. His blue eyes went all over me, starting at my face and getting down all over my body. "What about me gave you the impression I wasn’t smart?"

I hesitated, but he was looking at me with genuine curiosity. "The hoodie, the wristbands, the fact that this house is a frat-football house. And, no offense, but most guys like you care more about throwing balls than reading books."

He let out a breathy laugh. "Fair enough. But I promise you, I’m more than that."

I found myself wanting to believe him.

“Oh, I bet.”

The night stretched on, and we kept talking. The party faded into the background. He told me about growing up in Ohio, about transferring to LSU for a fresh start. I told him about my dream of being a psychologist, working with kids was my whole goal.

At some point, we ended up outside on the porch, sitting on the steps as the humid Louisiana night wrapped around us. I hadn’t realized how much time had passed until my phone buzzed with a text from Rachel: "Where r u???"

I looked at him, his hair messy from the night, his blue eyes watching me like I was the most interesting thing in the world.

"I should go," I said reluctantly.

He nodded, but there was something in his expression that made my pulse skip. "I’ll see you around?

I hesitated, then smiled. "Yeah. See you around."

As I walked away, I felt his gaze linger. And for the first time in a long time, I wondered if maybe, just maybe, I had been wrong about people like him.

[…]

The city buzzed with the hum of conversation and the scent of freshly brewed coffee as we walked the familiar route to our usual spot. The sun had begun its slow descent, painting the sky in warm hues of orange and pink. It was the kind of late afternoon that felt like a soft exhale after a long day, the air thick with the scent of summer and distant laughter from students scattered across the campus.

Rachel, Jess, Nate, Lucas, and I had just wrapped up another draining day—classes, internships, and the slow crawl toward graduation looming over us like a deadline we weren’t ready to meet.

"I swear, if I have to listen to one more professor drone on about case studies, I might actually drop out," Rachel groaned as she linked her arm with Jess’s.

"You say that every semester," Nate teased, shoving his hands into the pockets of his hoodie.

"And yet, here I am. A survivor," Rachel shot back, flipping her hair dramatically.

I trailed slightly behind, exhaustion weighing on my shoulders. My internship at the counseling center had been particularly draining today. A few tough sessions had left me with more questions than answers, the complexities of the human mind unraveling in ways I hadn't yet learned how to piece back together.

"I don't know how you do it, Y/N," Lucas said, as if reading my mind. "Listening to people’s problems all day would drive me insane."

I smirked. "That’s kind of the point. Psychology is about understanding people, not just fixing them."

"Yeah, yeah," he waved. "Just remind me never to tell you my problems."

We finally reached the café, a cozy little corner of campus life where we had spent countless hours avoiding responsibilities. The scent of espresso and fresh pastries welcomed us as we pushed through the doors, greeted by the comforting hum of low conversation and the occasional clatter of dishes.

Sliding into our usual booth by the window, we settled in, each of us instinctively knowing our roles in the ordering process. Rachel and Jess debated over which overpriced latte to get, while Nate and Lucas argued about football stats neither of them would remember in an hour. I, meanwhile, busied myself scrolling through my phone, half-listening to their conversation.

That’s when the notification popped up.

A follow request.

Joe Burrow.

I frowned slightly, the name unfamiliar for only a second before my memory caught up. Joe Burrow, the new player. Why was he texting me like that?

And then, a message.

“Finally found you. Do you know how hard it was to track you down?"

I blinked, confused.

Then another message appeared.

"It’s Joe—the guy you thought was dumb. We met at the party last Saturday."

The guy I met at the party.

Joe Burrow, the quarterback.

The transferred dude and the new quarterback were the same person.

My stomach did a weird little flip. I had spent the entire night talking to him, intrigued by the way he had effortlessly thrown back every challenge I gave him. I had walked away thinking I’d never see him again.

And yet, here he was.

I stared at the screen, my mind racing with possibilities.

"Earth to Y/N?" Jess’s voice broke through my thoughts.

I looked up, realizing they were all staring at me.

"Who’s got you looking like you just saw a ghost?" Rachel asked, sipping her drink.

I hesitated, my fingers hovering over my phone.

"No one," I said, too quickly.

But the smirk on Rachel’s face told me she wasn’t buying it.

And truthfully? Neither was I.

I stared at my screen, my heart pounding for reasons I couldn’t explain.

And he texted me again.

"So, did I pass your intelligence test?"

[nemo-writes]

𝗮𝗯𝘀𝗼𝗹𝘂𝘁𝗲𝗹𝘆 𝘀𝗺𝗶𝘁𝘁𝗲𝗻 I chapter fourteen

(dr. jack abbot x nurse!reader)

⤿ chapter summary: in the quiet that follows disaster, the days stitch themselves forward. jack holds the line beside you, while the people you love build scaffolding around your sleep. recovery isn’t swift, but it’s real—felt in laughter, in small rebellions, and in breath.

⤿ warning(s): medical talk + procedures

⟡ story masterlist ; previous I next

✦ word count: 2k

Jack jolts awake in the ICU family lounge, neck kinked, mouth sour. 

The wall clock reads 09:48; he must have dozed twenty minutes tops—long enough for caffeine to burn off and hunger to gnaw in. Beside him stands Margot, hair half-escaped her bun, night-shift badge still clipped though daylight streams through the blinds.

“That’s all the sleep you’re getting, soldier,” she murmurs, pressing a protein bar and a cup of lukewarm tea into his hands. “I’m finally going home before Ben files a missing-person report. But heads-up—your girl’s sister just texted the front desk. They’re on their way up.”

Jack scrubs his face. “You pulled a double.”

“Triple, technically,” Margot says, attempting a smile. “But she’d do it for me. Go meet the family—try not to look like a ghost.” She squeezes his shoulder, then forces herself down the corridor, coat over scrubs, exhaustion dragging at every step.

Jack first makes a beeline to the scrub-machine—the hospital’s weary confessional booth. He scans his badge; the carousel inside whirs like a tired roulette wheel and spits out a fresh packet. 

In the staff bathroom he unpacks the crisp set, changes, and then leans over the sink. Cool water sluices over puffy eyes; he scrubs until the copper scent of dried blood yields to antiseptic soap and stale peppermint. A quick brush of teeth, damp fingers through unruly curls. The mirror still shows a scruffy hollow-cheeked man, but at least he’s wrapped in clean fabric and the tremor in his hands has eased. 

One deep breath later he heads for the lobby—ready, as much as anyone can be, to meet your family at the doors. He doesn’t forget to shove his blood-stiffened top and pants down the machine’s return chute on his way, hears them thunk into the bin, and stands a second with palm flat to the metal. He swallows the ache that rises—hold the line, he reminds himself—and heads for the elevators.

The doors part to reveal who can only be your sister and her husband. Her face is unmistakably yours—same determined brow, same worry etched deep. “Dr. Abbot?” Her voice quavers.

He nods and steps forward, catching her hands before she can wobble. “Jack. I’m glad you made it.”

They introduce themselves as Laura and Paul—him clutching their carry-ons, eyes wide from sleepless travel. 

“You saved her,” Laura whispers.

Jack’s voice comes rough. “Surgery saved her. She’s fighting hard.” He draws back enough to see her face. “Come on—I’ll explain everything as we go.”

He steers them toward a quiet alcove off the lobby. As they sit, he outlines the fall, the injuries, the long night of surgery—stripping jargon until only truth remains. He then explains Moylan in measured strokes: a pathology tech who slipped past security, obsessed with you for months, and waiting for one vulnerable window. One which he eventually got and seized. 

Laura pales but listens, knuckles tight around a travel-size tissue pack. “She never told us how bad it was,” she murmurs.

“She didn’t want the worry to cross state lines,” Jack says, voice gentle—then falters. The guilt he’s held at bay all night steals through the crack. “I kept telling myself I’d be there, I should have—” 

The words shatter in his throat.

Laura lays a hand over his. Her grip is firm, eyes bright with the same grief—and strength—you carry. It hurts, it really hurts.

“You saved her life down on that scaffold,” she says. “If you hadn’t been there, we’d be planning a funeral, not a recovery. Hold on to that.” She squeezes once more, anchoring him. Even Paul nods, silent reinforcement.

Jack draws a solid breath and collects himself. “She’s on medications to keep her still,” he explains, guiding them toward ICU. “It lets her body heal without fighting every tube. She can’t wake up until we dial them back, but hearing can slip through. Talk to her.”

They gown, sanitize, and step into the subdued hush of intensive care. Laura’s breath catches at the sight of so many lines feeding into you—the ventilator’s slow hiss, the rhythmic click of IV pumps. But she masters the fear and moves to your bedside.

“Hey, trouble,” she murmurs, voice trembling yet steady. “Lily’s third volcano erupted glitter everywhere. I have pictures for when you wake up—you’re going to roll your eyes so hard.”

Paul circles to the opposite side, finds your uninjured hand, and folds it into his own. “Just rest. We’ve got everything else covered.”

Jack steps back, watches the pulse on your monitor climb half a beat—as if your heart recognizes home when it hears it. When visiting minutes dwindle, Laura turns to him.

“Thank you,” she says. “For staying.”

He shakes his head. “I’m not going anywhere.”

And so, the next two weeks unspool in slow, deliberate stitches—every day a thread that keeps you tethered while the rest of the unit and your family hold Jack steady so he doesn’t rust in place.

Day 3

Margot slips in before dawn with contraband Earl Grey and a small Bluetooth speaker. She sets it on your table and queues the lo-fi playlist you once used to tame a jittery med-student. “White-noise with a pulse,” she tells Jack, then corners him outside the glass: “Drink some of the tea, take a shower, and write your op-notes. She’d roast you alive if you missed work rounds.” He returns three hours later, hair damp, charting tablet in hand—tired, but moving.

Day 4

Dana and Robby arrive together on their post-shift shuffle. Dana reads you the day’s memes from the nurse group chat, her laughter deliberately oversized to vibrate through the mattress rails. Robby brings a ridiculous stuffed fox wearing a helmet visor. He props it by your good arm, then drags Jack to the vending machines (“Protein, brother—stat”). Jack swallows a turkey sandwich he swears tastes like cardboard salvation.

Day 5

Garcia appears in crisp clothes—official day off, hair actually down. She spends exactly five minutes at your bedside, whispering numbers you used to throw at each other like darts: “Clamped in three minutes, thirty-two seconds… sponge discrepancy zero.” When she exits she pins Jack with a flinty stare: “If you skip tomorrow’s trauma board, we’ll discuss your liver with the interns.” Jack shows up to the meeting, presents Moylan’s case in objective detail, and feels the weight lessen a gram.

Day 7

Fin tiptoes in after night shift, balancing a Bento of his own making—rice bricks and lumpy tamago. He sets it beside you, clears his throat, then counts the IV pump beeps under his breath to match your heart rate. When Jack arrives, Fin startles and blurts, “I practiced a drain label six times.” Jack claps his shoulder. “She’d be proud.”

Day 9

Jules brings a stack of ridiculous romance novels and places them on your cabinet. “Studies say read-aloud boosts neural recovery,” she claims, opening one sharply. She reads a dramatic kiss scene until Jack’s ears redden and your pulse ticks up two points—visible proof, maybe, that somewhere inside the sedation fog you find the melodrama hilarious.

Day 10

Ellis barges in muttering about missing retractors. She plants a cartoon “NO KNOCK” sign on your door, then informs Jack of every supply-room scandal just to keep him irritated enough to stay sharp. He snorts, retorts, and for ten minutes forgets to track the seconds between breaths.

Day 12

Laura and Paul learnt the ICU rhythm. Laura shows you photos of Lily, some silly, some cute. Paul sets up a video call so your parents—too frail to travel—can see you, even if you can’t answer. Jack hovers in the background, translating every beep for your mother until she finally nods, comforted by the numbers. Neither of the three ever answer fully when they ask about the details of the incident. That's one place where they won't go.

Day 14

Shen drops off a thumb drive of blues classics labeled “Auditory PT.” A speech therapist confirms it’s time to start reducing sedation, test your brain’s response to sound. The first afternoon Jack plays a slow B.B. King track, your eyelashes flutter. The second song earns a faint grimace at a sour note—tiny but seismic. Jack’s knees nearly give out.

Some nights, when the pumps are calm and the monitors steady, he leans close to your ear and recounts the smallest details: Ellis finally labeled forceps right; Fin’s drain counts perfect; the sunrise looked like mango pulp over the river. He tells you he misses arguing over music, misses the way you line up syringes by height. He tells you the rooftop is still waiting.

And though you give no verbal answer, the trending numbers say your body is inching toward the surface—liver stable, chest tube output dwindling, neuro checks a touch sharper each shift. Odds are still a steep incline, but every visitor, every enforced meal, every stubborn return to the ER keeps Jack from freezing on one spot of tile. Together they form the scaffolding—a safer one—holding him steady until the day his voice alone will coax your eyes open to the light.

It happens in slow, uneven increments—nothing cinematic, just the body deciding it’s tired of obeying the drip.

First, your eyelids twitch. Heavy, gummy, like someone swapped them for sandbags. You drift again, surface, drift. Margot is the first to note the flicker and nudges the respiratory therapist with her. Sedation’s already tapering; they’ve been waiting for this.

Hours later your lashes sift open to a strip of ceiling tile. Light blurs at the edges. Something huge anchors your throat, hisses warm air into your lungs. You fight a gag reflex that feels a century old; hands try to rise but soft restraints remind you why they’re there.

Margot leans into view, eyes tired but bright. “Hey, there. If you can hear me, blink twice.” You manage the signal—slow, deliberate.

Then, they run the protocol: neuro checks with a penlight, squeeze tests, a pressure support trial to prove the lungs can solo without the machine. When your numbers hold, the RT deflates the cuff, tilts your chin, and the tube slides free in a hot rush that tastes of plastic and old air.

Your first breath alone rasps like tearing paper; your throat feels flayed. Someone pats saline across cracked lips. You try to ask the time, but it comes out a croak—no vowel, just static.

Margot smiles anyway, then hits the call bell. “She’s awake.”

Footsteps scramble in the hall—orders barked, shoes squeaking—but you slip sideways, exhausted by the effort, eyelids shuttering on the world again.

You wake next to silence and dim daylight. No visitors yet, just the ventilator cart pushed back in the corner and the soft beep of a minimal monitor load. Hair greasy, gown damp, arm stiff in a bulky brace—you feel like a scarecrow after a storm. Still, you’re breathing on your own, chest aching with each expansion but gloriously alive.

Then, the door bursts open.

Jack stumbles to a halt at the threshold, beard now grown and crescent, eyes wide and disbelieving. He hesitates as if the room might vanish.

Your voice scrapes the bottom of a well. “Nice… beard.”

The words are barely there—husky, cracked—but they’re enough. Jack’s face crumples; he crosses the room in two strides and drops to one knee beside the bed. Tears spill unchecked, beard catching the shine.

“You came back,” he whispers, voice breaking on every syllable.

You lift a hand—trembling, IV tugging—and find his cheek, coarse stubble prickling your palm. It hurts to smile, but you do. In that unremarkable, throat-raw moment—no trumpets, no miracle soundtrack—life simply restarts: one ragged breath, one relieved sob, one brief laugh from Margot hitting the monitor silence button.

Outside, alarms continue in other rooms, lunch carts rattle down corridors, the city churns beyond the windows. But inside this modest square of ICU tile, beard scratches skin, tears salt the sheets, and the odds finally lean in your favor.

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